He had stopped feeling any sense of touch in his hands long ago. Now and again, a sharp, fiery cold would slither down his fingers, assuring him they were still attached to his wrists.
He wished they weren’t. Then his arms could slip free of the manacles binding him and give his shoulders some relief. They were twisted up vertically, his own body weight the instrument of this torture.
He had stood as long as he could, but his right leg felt broken and he finally fell to his knees in exhaustion. The pain in his shoulders had slowly evolved from a dull ache to a ferocity that spoke of tearing muscles.
His tears had stopped hours ago - or maybe days - he had no way of telling how long the agony had been building. There was no window to see the passage of time in this awful place.
He recognized the prison by the sounds and the stench. He had been here before, but not as a prisoner. The bloody tatters of his uniform were stiff with sweat and mud, once the same as the men now sneering through the grate at him.
He had done the same. Snarling at those who dared to betray their king. Laughing cruelly as their cries of pain, the pleas for relief, for death, echoed from the damp, black stone. He had been just like them.
He couldn’t understand their mutters, a low rumble of hate. His fevered mind called up visions of dogs, wolves, snapping and snarling at the iron bars. Or faceless spirits, hissing as they groped for him, grasping at his clothes, claws scratching at his face, his eyes.
He struggled, pitiful as it was. There was nothing he could do, the iron chain rattling, its own cruel laugh at his futile rebellion.
The hands gripped his face.
“Hush! You will bring the guards!”
He blinked. The darkness creeping over him writhed, angry as he fought back against its smothering nothingness.
Was it one of the spirits? Or Death, the Lady Herself, come to claim him?
“Who-?” He coughed, mouth too dry to utter more.
“Hush!” the apparition said again. A cool hand touched his face. “Hold still.”
He had no strength to do anything else. There was a metallic rattle, a jerk, and the pressure on his arms released.
He collapsed forward, retching. The figure caught him and gently eased him to the cold ground.
His pain was nothing to this new torture. His muscles screamed. He would have screamed, but his voice had long since died to a whimper.
The hands were urgent, pushing at him, trying to lift him.
“Please, please, get up. You must get up!”
He drew a rattling breath. His ribs popped with the effort. He managed to push himself up on an elbow, cradling his hands against his chest. They were still numb and he considered chopping them off before they had a chance to recover.
The fervent prayer pulled his wondering attention. Habisa was the Lady of maidens.
“You’re a girl?” he croaked.
“Never mind that now!” the voice insisted. “The guards will be back any moment.”
With her help he got to his feet. His foot. his right leg faltered as glassy pain shot down through his boot. She ducked under his shoulder and braced his weight.
He tried, but the best he could manage was a lurching stumble. He couldn’t see where she was tugging him, just followed blindly.
She was shaking. From fear or cold or effort or all three combined?
He clenched his teeth as he lowered himself down. The bones grating in his calf drew him further away from that welcome darkness, back to the reek of the prison and the chill of the autumn night.
It was a girl, he could see now. She struggled under the weight of his arm, taking sharp, gasping breaths.
The air changed. It grew clearer, fresh with the tang of frost.
“In here!” She pulled him into a dark room. It had the close feel of a small chamber or store room, dusty and muffled.
He groped until he found a crate and sank to sit. New sweat stood icy on his face. His fingers were stating to feel fuzzy.
She muttered prayers. He imagined she paced; her shoes scuffled against the stones.
“…should be here,” she was saying. “Half bell past midnight…”
He wanted to demand her name, her intentions. Instead he leaned back and waited for their discovery. His brief surge of energy was gone. It was only a matter of time. The guards would kill him outright. He’d make sure of it. Force them to end this.
There they were now. A rumble and a sharp scrape against stone. Someone moving outside the door.
The girl froze, listening.
She sighed and gasped and sobbed all at once. “Here, we’re here.”
The light of the lantern was blinding. Its bearer brought it close. He winced and squinted against it.
“I am sure of it,” this Erith said.
The figure with the lantern seemed to hesitate, before saying in a scowling voice. “Hurry, then. Get him inside.”
He was led to a cart, maybe, or a wagon. He couldn’t tell in the wavering light. And he didn’t care. He was hefted inside. The girl climbed in after him.
He lay half senseless on the rough hewn planks of the cart bed. She drew something over them that muffled the sounds of the prison. He closed his eyes and let the swaying of the cart carry him the rest of the way into oblivion.
