He thought perhaps that a refusal to eat would be rebellion enough. He thought that spitting at his jailors would make his feelings clear. He thought that his ever forceful manner of handling things, backed by his ego and pride, would be enough to get him out of this prison, too.
He was wrong.
Water cold as death flooded his senses; it felt like ice cut up his nose and his throat, seeping into his lungs and freezing him to his very core. His chances to gasp for breath were few and far between and did little to ease the stinging sensations in his chest. Just when he thought he could not take anymore, one of the yrch kicked away the bucket of water with a laugh even colder than the torture had been.
As he coughed and heaved, trying to clear his body of the water like knives, he felt something cold against his the back of his neck. Something sharp. Before he even had the awareness to identify what it was, it moved suddenly in a quick slice.
Fear seeped into him as first he thought that he had surely been killed.
He saw something red fall to the ground.
Another slice.
His head felt much lighter now; hair - they were cutting his hair.
