The staircase, such as it was, brought the prisoner and all impetus thenafter, all too fast unto his unimpressed escort. And as the man picked himself up from the heap they had hurtled into, he aimed an instinctive cuff about the child’s head.
“What did you think you were you going to do ?” The bellow was enough to have the boy wince, visibly. “Think you could simply hold on there until for always ?”
A sharp snort hinted at amusement, and disgust. But most of all exasperation. The man wiped his mouth with the back of his free hand. It was inevitable, this; it was routine. But that did not mean it became any easier to endure. Eager then, to have it over with, the man took up the child and threw it’s meagre weight, folded at the waist, over one practiced shoulder.
There was kicking, screaming, the beating of tiny fists against his back and yowling like a beast which far belied the size of it. The noise was enough to vanquish the monotony of groans and wailing that chased their progress down into the depths. The halls, sensing a greater evil about to be done, held their breath, the shadows creeping closer like a trained crowd. Hands wrapped about bars, so sunken eyes could rise, on shaking strands of strength and recognise their own despair in the scene that played out. This was not the first time the dread tower had known such a heart-dropping sight. It would not be the last. But most of those unfortunates kept in their place would not be kept alive for long enough to see the next performance. Children were a rarity.
At the feet of the stairs, at the end of a winding corridor, the guard threw down his burden as though it were a fall of bricks. He held still on the child with a tight clutch around one ear. Twisting in a rush for sudden liberty welcomed a new octave of pain, until the man pressed down upon that tiny head, forcing it down to a slump, limbs collapsing beneath him to the floor. Suddenly silence. Sullen. Wild dark eyes scattered about the dark corridor, eager to find something . anything .. though he could not think of what and there was no time afforded him to ponder. A ring of rusted iron keys was retrieved from a string belt, and the creak of ancient hinges foreshadowed the dark room beyond. One foot kicked at the forlorn little mess on the floor, and the ear-filled hand gave little option but to follow suit.
They entered the cell together, but the man made certain to quickly distinguish between them. They had an audience after all. A scarecrow of a man was crumpled, like dirty laundry, forced to watch as the guard did his utmost to chain the child to the contralateral wall. But the shackles slid with room to spare, around both wrist and ankle, and the boy danced out of them as though it were a game. In the end, a shove, against the wall, saw an end to his caper, and as the dazed young thing stumbled down to his knees, the guard took his leave of the two of them. Without ever a parting shot or glance behind him.
An hour felt as like a year, the child picking amongst the sparse scratches of straw and cracked cobbles. But there was no entertainment here. None but the other.
“You may call me Hollin,” the older prisoner shared, haltingly, as though he had to carve the words out of his very throat, “if you wish to speak with me.” There was nothing he supposed to be lost from the admission. Perhaps though some resurrection might be gained. For conversation. Curiosity. These were gifts the Belfalasian had believed he would never experience again. And his captors would not contort him into a soul who could not usher forth friendship, perhaps comfort, to a child, of all things. They could not make him afraid of what he knew ought pose no threat. He would retain what semblance he could of himself. “But what should I call you ?” he asked, as though they were stood elsewhere. As though they were elseways.
The boy paused in his scratching, as though noting the weakness of a finger nail which might come away with no great force. He did not glance with any immediacy at the man across. Slowly he traced out the outline of a cobble with another blunted finger, before glancing at the introduction. He turned, he pulled in his limbs to sit crosslegged. He stared. He shook his head. Balled one hand into a fist and jammed it into one eye, to fight the forming of weakness that was wet there.
The man wanted to be known. The fool had offered up his name, as though there were unwritten rules that meant etiquette would be rewarded. Here ? Well .. He had thought it would take longer than that. But maybe this one would be more forthcoming than previous efforts. He hoped so. He was hungry. And the guards did not pay for nothing managed.
Arkadhur Halsad
with Sorrela Korsey and Ilisys Azrubêl
In Minas Tirith/a rather different Dungeon.
Many years later. On the eve of the second day, after Erulaitalë
He had given them no trouble. The lady and the guard had not dared exchange even a glance of confusion. They were expecting some panic, some outcry, something. But there was nothing until the point of stepping into the cell.
There it was that the Umbarian halted, unable to make himself take that small step forward, backward, whatever it might mean. He hung on an unseen barrier as though he had forgotten how to walk. As though he was awaiting .. something. This might be the end of something, the beginning of something else. The irony of the fact struck him, like a blow to the head. He took a breath. So did his escort, finally exchanging that inevitable concern. It had been too easy. It should not be so easy. If everything that had been said … was true ..
“How it works is, you step in. I’ll close the door. And then, if you extend your wrists through the bars, I will remove the shackles.” Sorrel explained, taking command as she had seen her superiors do before now.
The man turned to her, surprise evident about his face, even in the dim light. He was considering the meaning of the barred cell, when he certainly had noted solid doors to more private accommodation along their passage. At least there were not the walls, here. In the Iron House, in Umbar, they had had cells walled up, with just a gap enough to pass in food and water, or not, and to see if what had been walled in was dead yet ..
But here ? They wanted to see what he was doing, he assumed. What he would do. Was that why they were waiting ?
“There will not be another meal until tomorrow. So you will have to wait for that,” the recruit shared what she knew of the routine. Recognising this would be anything but routine for the man. For any of them in fact. But there was a first time for everything.
This was not his first time. And at the same time, it was. All of his experience, it amounted to no help whatsoever.
“Lord ... Hollin ?” Sorrel hesitated at using the name which the lady had used to introduce him. So many aliases had been flung around the interrogation room that it was hard to believe in any of them. “There is .. a blanket,” she added, in what she thought might be helpful, pointing it out. It was not hard to miss, given that a bucket was the only other item in the entire assigned space.
"You realise of course, that once this is all straightened out, I will have your full and most sincere apology,” the ‘nobleman’ returned, complying with a brief close of dark eyes that saw him pass into the threshold. He turned to find the eyes of Isys even as Sorrela locked the door behind him. As promised, she liberated his wrists of their weight and humility, as soon as it was safe to. It helped, she had been taught, to cement the new resident to their situation if they can feel the weight of the cold metal upon their skin. They needed to register their change of circumstances, for however long the sentence might call for. The lesson would be learned.
He rubbed each wrist within the fingers of his other hand, once he was able.
“And now you will leave,” he supposed, almost as though he could convince himself he was the one ordering their departure. When they did, he released his breath. For certain, there was nothing he desired less than to endure their awkward company a moment longer.
He had to think.
