Chapter Text
She’s been so cold, and finally she’s getting warmer. She knows this is how it ends. She knows she has to keep her clothes on no matter how warm she feels. But it’s nice not to feel cold anymore. She wants to sleep.
She sleeps.
She is warm.
A smooth baritone hums an unfamiliar melody, quietly cheerful. A hand cups her neck, raises her head slightly. A spoon is put to her lips and she sips from it automatically: Warm broth. Meaty, salty, pungent; it tastes like life. Another spoonful, then another.
She is warm. She sleeps.
Glimpses of consciousness.
Firelight, warmth, furs and blankets, warm water thick with honey and lemon, broth, a rough hand feeling her brow, warmth, more broth, a wet cloth sponging fever sweat from her face. A couple of times, she’s made to move. It’s uncomfortable, cool air making her sluggish body quake with chills. Then warmth.
There are dreams in between, and she’s grateful that she doesn’t remember them.
Eventually she surfaces long enough for her eyes to focus, for the fog in her mind to clear and make sense of her surroundings. She is in a cave, she thinks, a cave that has been converted into a dwelling. From her vantage on a large, thick pallet tucked into the deepest niche of the cave, she can’t make out much other than that there is a hearth. The firelight blinds her to all else.
A man is sitting on a stool, tending the fire. He’s wearing good winter clothes, jacket thrown open. A thick scarf bundled around his neck all the way up over his nose. Above it, slanted eyes, weathered brow, a short crop of black hair. The description fits pretty much any man in Kyrat.
“Where—” she tries, but it comes out a weak croak.
His eyes snap to her face. They narrow somewhat, crow’s feet crinkling at the corners. She thinks he’s smiling. “Ah! So you’ve decided to live, after all,” he says in English, straightening and clapping his hands on his thighs. “Splendid!”
She clears her throat and tries again, “Where am I?”
The man’s chuckle is muffled by his scarf. “Middle of fucking nowhere, Kyrat.” He bends over to the side, reaches for something — a log, which he pokes into the fire.
She realises she’s on edge, expecting an enemy. But if this were one of Sabal’s, surely she’d already be dead. He might not know who she is, then. Or — hope flares in her chest — perhaps he’s one of the last few loyal to her? She reins in her hope. Can’t risk exposure, if he’s not.
“Who are you?” she asks. Perhaps she ought to be more circumspect, but it’s a fairly reasonable question to ask of someone who has rescued you from certain death, if only so that you can thank them properly.
The man just looks at her for a moment, eyes once again narrowing. “Amita—” He drawls her name, makes the final syllable a syrupy caress. “I know we’ve never been formally introduced, but you can’t tell me you don’t recognise me?”
He leans forward into the light, pulling the scarf away from his face. Mouth drawn wide in a dagger-slash smirk, firelight playing over sharp cheekbones, a mad gleam in his eyes.
Amita no longer feels warm. She jerks upright when understanding hits her. Or, she tries. In the attempt, she learns two more things:
The first is that she’s tied down. Something is looped around her wrists, ankles and neck — plastic coated wire rope, she realises later — and anchored to the head and foot of the pallet (bed?), in such a way that her attempts to draw her knees up and sit upright are both cut short. The cord around her neck tightens like a noose when she strains against it, and she thumps back into the bedding, coughing, desperately fighting down the panic surging in her chest.
The second thing she’s learned is that she’s naked. The blankets covering her have slipped down from her shoulders, not quite exposing her heaving chest, and a chilly draft sweeps along her collarbones.
And Pagan Min sits on his stool, somehow managing to make it look like he’s lounging, watching her like a cat. He has propped his elbows on his knees and is leaning his chin on one fist. “Sorry about that,” he says amiably. He doesn’t look sorry at all. “Had to take some precautions. I’m sure you understand.”
She’s staring wildly at him, panting, teeth chattering. She would like to curse him out, but she’s mute with terror and fury. Some cold, detached part of her thinks it’s probably for the better.
When she doesn’t say anything, Pagan straightens with a shrug and goes back to poking at the fire.
Amita watches him, a strange feeling of unreality settling over her. Pagan Min — the duplicitous snake who stole the throne, the cruel tyrant who has occupied the royal palace for as long as Amita has been alive — almost looks like a regular man like this. A native, even. No more bleached bangs and fancy suits. Just proper winter gear, chapped lips and soot-stained hands.
“You’re alive,” she says after a while. Her voice feels rusty. “How? I heard—”
“Yes, Ajay blasted my helicopter out of the air,” Pagan says, like he’s reciting something incredibly tedious. Then he gives an amused huff. “Funny, I guess that’s one thing we have in common. We’ve both been royally screwed over by Ajay Ghale.”
She doesn’t find it funny at all.
“Anyway, as you can see, I survived. And for my part — hm! — I admit I was quite surprised to find you still alive. If only barely.”
“What— What are you doing here? What are you going to do to me?”
“For now, nothing,” he says, glancing at her. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “To both questions. This little bolthole of mine is quite cut off during winter, and we got here just in time. Plan is to hunker down and survive until spring.”
“So you’re just— Just going to keep me here like some— Some bed slave?!” Her voice rises and cracks towards the end. She is already feeling too humiliated to care. She knows exactly how his army treated the women they stole, and now she’s— She’s—
Pagan raises his eyebrows. “Bed slave? Really?” He shakes his head, chuckling derisively. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. Sharing the bed is just good sense. Saves fuel.” Then he stretches, yawning, and unwinds the scarf from his neck. “Speaking of bed, it’s getting late. I’ll be joining you shortly.”
“At least give me clothes.” She hates the pleading note that creeps into her voice. “Underwear. Thermals. Something.”
He purses his lips, appearing to give this some thought. “Mm, no. I think not.”
And with that, he dismisses her, rising from his stool to get ready for bed.
Tendrils of despair curl in her chest, seeping through her spine and spreading until her bones feel full of lead. Wearily she turns away from the light, burrowing under the blankets.
It seems impossible that she could go to sleep like this, but she does. The moment she’s warm again, consciousness falls away from her, as though her hold on it had been tenuous at best.
Oblivion is a blessing.