Chapter Text
e air was stale, it felt used in the cramped space Mischa lay in, his small body squished into the tiny cage. Barely-there light streamed in through the tiny holes scattered across the constricting box, illuminating small speckles of his pale skin.
He couldn’t do much more than shiver from the frigid temperature, feeling oh so cold. When was he last this cold? He couldn't remember. The boy's throat was tight and his eyes sore, cheeks streamed with salty tears. He couldn’t manage more than a pathetic whimper, his voice long gone from all the crying he’d done hours previously.
His whole body ached, limbs cramped and tight from their awkward positions in this sad excuse of a cage, much too small for the four-year-old. His throat felt tight with every shaky breath he took, constricted by the thick collar there. He’d begged and pleaded to not have it, promised to be good, but they put it on anyway. The leather rubbed his skin raw. He wished he could make pretty scales like Moma to help.
He missed Moma. Missed her tight hugs, her warm smell. Missed her delicious food.. But they said he’d never see Moma again. He didn’t understand, couldn’t understand. Why wouldn’t he see her again? Moma loved Mischa, she told him that all the time. Called him her sweet misch and scooped the boy up for a big hug.
Tears welled up in the boy's eyes as he sniffled, wanting so badly for his Moma to come to rescue him. She was his hero, she’d come for him.
It was a long time before he heard anything besides the idle beat of his own heart thrumming in his ears, lulled into a doze, hoping it was all just a nightmare. He was so wrong.
Footsteps echoed from outside the cage, the sound making the boy stir with hope in his chest. Was it Moma?
No, This person smelt like..smoke, sickly smoke that made his nose scrunch. Moma always smelt like Trees, the tall ones that stayed green all year long, even in the cold. His favorite trees.
TWAP
Something smacking against the cage wall had Mischa yelping in surprise, jolting away from the noise with wide eyes. He couldn’t see what was happening, couldn’t see who was there. Tears welled up in the boy's eyes as the faint outline of heavy boots stepped in front of the barred door.
Pressed up against the back of the cage, Mischa whimpered as the figure crouched down and peered between the bars. A sickly grin decorated the man's lips, the sight making the boy's stomach drop with dread.
“Welcome to hell, Drogo.”