Page 126 of Somno Slave

“Do not cry, my boy.” He says, almost gently. “You’re doing so well.”

The softness is the worst part.

He reaches out and tilts Deogal’s chin with two fingers. He angles his head upward, forcing his face into the spill of warm light overhead, and it slides across Deogal’s skin without kindness—the tension locked in his jaw, the fear he cannot quite swallow, the way his mouth tightens like he’s trying to hold himself together by force alone.

There’s a silence that feels thick enough to choke, before he turns his attention to the other men.

“Brother Cillian,” he says over his shoulder. “the cloth.”

The Friar with the cloth moves.

“Brother Eamon,” he continues. “the water.”

The bucket-bearer shifts.

The lead Friar rises, dusting invisible dirt from his hands as though touching Deogal alone could dirty him.

“Violence is for the wicked,” he says, his voice calm. “We are men of mercy. Break him gently.”

Gently.

The word lands wrong. It settles in the space like rot dressed in perfume, soft on the surface and foul underneath. My stomach turns at the sound of it.

He turns then, his gaze shifting to the final man.

“Brother Jude,” he says, “read. Keep his soul clean.”

Clean.

My skin prickles.

The two Friars move as one, taking Deogal’s shoulders, hauling him down to the stone floor. He thrashes twice, but his body is weak and fatigued. They overpower him easily, lowering his head down as though it was made of glass, but letting his body flop against concrete with a thud.

I can’t stand to watch the fear in his eyes, sharp and terrified. He screams, and it rips out of him more like a frightened child than something from my nightmare. It tears right through the cell.

They do not flinch.

They do not relent.

The cloth is pressed over his face and water follows, not even a second later, slowly, with an awful amount of control, poured from a bucket.

He does not thrash this time. That’s the worst part.

He groans. The sounds dragging through his body. I resist the urge to throw my hands over my ears. I want to scream. My face is hot. Bile scratches at the back of my throat.

The water pools against the fabric. His chest rises once and then twice. Bubbles leap from the fabric violently. Then falters.

Brother Jude begins to speak. His voice is steady, rehearsed: “Truth is found in surrender. Grace in obedience. The flesh may resist but the soul—"

“Must be purified,” the lead Friar finishes.

The water continues.

“This was a daily occurrence,” Deogal says softly beside me. I jerk my gaze to him. His fingers fall loosely by his sides, eyes soft but not unfocused. He watches his torture as if he’s devoid of all emotion, like it’s happening to someone other than him.

“They called it baptism,” he breathes. “Purging me from sin.”

I drag my eyes back to the boy on the floor. It’s like watching someone drown in slow motion, like watching the moment a person realises they are not in control of their own breath.