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The wall was coming back to him. It began with the cold, wet sensation on the side of his face, followed by the all-too-familiar feeling of pain. It was mostly his face that was aching, but shooting pain also crept up and down his arms and gathered around his wrists, burning like fire. A searing pain made itself known across the left side of his torso—broken ribs, he recognized the feeling. His mouth was dry, and he caught himself trying to lick the dampness off the stone wall. His eyesight slowly returned as did his hearing. They had avoided his eyes, which among the rest of his pain he now appreciated. He moved away from the wall and noticed that they had moved him to another cell. It was very similar to his old one but without the chains hanging from the ceiling. This one also had bars on three sides where two were barred openings into other cells and the third the door leading out. The only furnishing was a hard wooden bench—on to which they had discarded him—and a well-like hole that would act as his waste storage. His movement was halted with a jerk. His hands were still shackled, only this time to the wall. He tugged a couple of times, but he only aggravated his burning wrists. They had only left him with a foot of chain from his black iron wrist bands to the ring protruding from the wall, making it impossible for him to lie down, get up, or use the well. He pulled at the ring with tired and cold fingers, but it was to no avail. It was firmly embedded in the stones. He moaned and let his head once again rest on the cold and wetness that was the wall.
His moans and rattling must have awoken someone because he caught the sounds of scuffling, dragging, and moving of chains close by. He tried to speak, but he only managed a cough that caused him to spit blood.
“Who are you, stranger?” A face appeared on the other side of the bars of the cell to his right.
The face pushed itself closer to the bars so that most of it was visible, but the rest of the person remained hidden in dark recesses of the cell. The face was male, which was easily deduced from the large red beard. This also proved that the man had been in his cell for quite some time. The face was very unkempt with dirt covering most of the skin and a greasy shine to the long red hair that hung down like an old splintered frame around it. The beard was equally as greasy, and a dark discoloration surrounded the mouth. Yet the eyes that peered through the filth and grease were surprisingly bright and awake. Green eyes, so light that they could almost have been mistaken for white.
“You have met with the torturers,” the face continued after it was clear that Prolur could not reply. “I do not miss those days. They do visit with me every so often, but it seems like years since last they did.” The man spoke Haugarian but with a strong Sauranian accent, which made Prolur wonder why he had chosen to approach him in something other than his native tongue.
“You are new to imprisonment, I can see. You have the confused countenance of a man trying to understand the emotions involved, but you are no stranger to pain I think. You are dressed in the clothes of a monk, yet you are no monk at heart—a soldier I believe. The battlefield is your temple, no matter how much you try to deny it, and the cries of dying men, no matter how much they pain you now, are your prayers.” The man’s face disappeared in the shadows, and the rattling of his chains was heard.
Prolur was shaken; the man’s voice was soft and tender, but it cut right to his very core. The man soon appeared out from the dark again, but this time his hands grabbed the bars so that he could pull himself closer. His hands were as dirty as his face and his nails were a mess of long ones, chipped ones, and in some cases, they were missing entirely. His torso was now also visible. A torn and dirty rag was all that covered him; it might have been a tunic at one point. It was green with a hint of silver here and there. It rang a bell inside Prolur. It was a Sauranian army uniform–it might even have belonged to an officer.
“You and I are here for the same reason, I think. You maybe even more than I. We are both believed to be a threat to the kingdom. They have put me here to forget about me. You, on the other hand, they are genuinely afraid of you. Why else would the chain you to the wall if it was not because they think you can hurt them otherwise. Me, I carry an iron ball around my ankle. It has been there for such a length of time that the skin has grown over the shackle, and it is now always part of my body.”
The man grunted and kicked his leg forward so that a large iron ball went flying after it and hit the bars with a deafening sound.
Prolur tried to speak again, but it was no use. The dryness in his mouth was too much and only caused him to cough up more blood.
The man just was just about to speak again when the sound of a door opening, then closing, and the sound of feet walking on the stone floor interrupted them. He slowly sank back and let the darkness envelop him. Prolur’s heart was beating harder and harder for every step coming closer. In his present state, he would not survive another round of torture. This would be the end of him. He closed his eyes and waited for the door to his cell to swing open.
“Prolur?” Taura’s voice said.
He opened his eyes, and there she was, standing on the other side of the bars. She was not alone; Elden Haugén stood next to her, and one step behind stood a guard. Taura was still and watched him with sadness in her eyes, while Elden clutched the bars in disbelief at what must have been a horrible sight before him.
Prolur once again tried to speak. He wanted to shout for joy at seeing Taura again, but he couldn’t muster anything but a loud cough.
“Open this cell!” Taura demanded, and the guard quickly fumbled for the keys and opened it.
Taura ran inside and sat down next to Prolur, taking him in her arms and slowly cradling his head as tears flowed down her cheeks. Prolur also began to weep quietly; this was not how he would have her remember him. Elden and the guard came after, and Elden motioned to the guard to remove the shackles. To finally be able to have the use of his arms felt like the greatest relief to Prolur as the weight was taken off his wrists.
“Fetch me a bowl of cold water and one of warm water and a rag, now!” Taura ordered the guard, who dared not argue. He quickly vanished and returned within the span of five minutes with the desired objects.
Gently, Taura put the bowl of cold water against Prolur’s dry lips, it was cool to the touch, and she began pouring it down his throat. It was so cold that an icy chill ran down his spine and made his hair stand on end. When the water was gone, Taura turned to the guard and asked him to bring some more before she began dipping the rag in the warm water and proceeded to wash Prolur’s face. It felt good as if some of the pain was washed away with the stale blood.
“Look at the state of you,” Taura said. “What have they done?”
“The usual,” Prolur managed to say, testing his voice. “The soldiers do their duty; it is the one who leads them who does the true torturing.” He had to smile, but it was too painful.
Elden stood there dumbfounded, holding the bowl of warm water for Taura.
“I never thought I would see you again,” Taura said. “Especially after the reports of the ambush.”
“It was planned,” Prolur replied. “They purposefully sent us through those woods, knowing we would be attacked. di Sauria sent those young soldiers to die, just so that I could die with them.”
“di Sauria is not the master behind this plan I fear,” Elden chimed in. “He was nothing but a pawn moving at the whim of our king.”
“My dear.” Taura sighed. “I fear this has been my fault. Without my involvement, this might not have happened.”
“Do not put the blame on yourself,” Prolur said as he reached for the bowl of water. “They only have suspicions of treason—the same suspicions that brought me here. They have wanted me gone since Crauco took to the throne and I refused to join him. The only proof they have is that I was with the Myan, not that I conspired with anyone.”
“The Myan?” Elden inquired. “The ones who held you captive?”
“Yes,” Prolur answered after he had emptied the second bowl.
“Why was it that they spared you?”
“They not only spared me—a code among them does not allow the slaying of holy men—but they also cared and healed me when I lay with fever. They are good-natured beings who are fighting for their land. Great warriors with a strong moral code.”
“Well, I shall not let these treacherous villains who rule this kingdom get away with their heinous act.” Taura rose, anger flashing in her eyes.
“Do not act foolishly, Taura,” Prolur pleaded. “They will come to their senses, and I may not ever be free again, but I will most likely avoid the gallows.”
Lady Arman laid her hand upon his cheek and caressed it. “My dear Prolur,” she said. “You may be wise in many instances, but when it comes to politics you are naïve still. We must away before the guard changes. Hold out, you will be free.”
She gave him a tender kiss on the lips and hurried out from the cell with Elden close behind her. She whispered to the guard who left his chains off and then locked the door.
Prolur listened to their footsteps fade in the distant blackness.
“She cares a great deal for you.” The prisoner in the adjacent cell appeared again.
Prolur nodded.
“And you return the affection. Beware. It might just seal your fate.”