The events here were taken from Blackmaw Prison. Names have been changed to protect the... uh, never mind.
Breathe in.
Martel braced his wrists against the heavy shackles and flexed his powerful arms, pulling them apart until needles of pain came and went in tides through his shoulders and back, pulling them apart until his muscles finally gave out in exhaustion.
Breathe out.
Predictably, the chains held. This daily ritual rarely changed.
Breathe in.
Blood flowing through his arms, sensation returning in a dull ache, he was ready to defy exhaustion and start again when his sharp ears told him someone was coming downstairs.
Martel had been in the sweltering heat of Blackmaw's solitary confinement for six years. He knew every pulse of the prison now, and he knew the habits of those others in solitary that he could hear or smell.
This was not routine.
Either someone was going up, or someone was getting put down.
He sat perfectly still, tuned to listen, not noticing the sweat rolling down his face. The heat of the nearby Hellbore permeated this part of the prison, and it was meant to keep the dangerous creatures in solitary tired and subdued.
Martel remembered when he'd first arrived, that he had thought this was the warden's attempt to introduce the Hells to the prisoner, and he remembered a light smile at the inadequacy of it.
Whoever it was had a light step. The monks did, also, of course, but he knew their tread quite well these days. She snarled at them, told them they were idiots, but they naturally ignored her, and the door to the left of his tiny cell opened.
Then, it shut, and the monks left.
"Dammit," muttered the new prisoner.
Martel took a half-step towards the wall, the heavy shackles on his ankles sliding across the warm stone floor.
"Good day," he offered, cordially.
There was a long pause.
"Yeah, whatever," came the reply. "Is it always this hot down here?"
"Quite," Martel responded.
"So," said the other. "I guess I should ask what you are in for?"
"You could," said Martel, now a bit amused at the matter. "And what about you?"
There was a short chuff of laughter. More pacing. "I started a fight upstairs."
"Ah, a temporary stay here, then."
"It's a temporary stay in this prison."
The woman's attitude suited Martel. He decided this warranted mentioning.
"Well said," he offered. "My apologies for not introducing myself earlier; my name is Martel."
There was another pause, albeit brief.
Either jaded or very controlled or simply stupid, he thought. Naturally she would know who he was; everyone at Blackmaw did, and everyone in the region did. He doubted anyone knew everything he'd done, however.
"I'm Angharad," came the reply.
"Pleased to make your acquaintance. I regret we could not meet under better circumstances."
Indeed, he thought, here, even with the most ardent permission, I can do nothing to her.
"....likewise," came the reply. "So, has anybody ever escaped from here?"
Right to the point, this one. Martel smiled to himself.
"No. But it is possible. I've attempted three times, and each time has been a little further."
"Not bad," came the slightly skeptical response. "How did it go?"
"Clearly, not successfully," he sighed in return. "Naturally they keep a very close watch on me now. But patience is the key."
There was another long pause. He imagined she was assessing the stone box she was in, looking for any weakness in the heavy door, any possibility in the tiny ventilation shafts.
He entertained himself with red thoughts of what he'd done to a monk the last time he'd broken free. There was a certain joy in the giving out of bone under extreme pressure.
This memory chimed in quite nicely with the approach of more monks.
"Well," he announced to the new neighbor. "It is time for my daily breath of fresh air. I'm sure we'll talk later."
"Have fun," came the bland reply.
He smiled again at her bravado, and he was still smiling when the monks opened his cell. They all stepped back involuntarily.
"Shall we?" he asked them.
Solitary confinement didn't bother Martel any more than the heat did. At night, he sat and remembered in the darkness, letting the boiling wrath fill him and dissipate, leaving behind only his diamond-hard resolution. His neighbors often had fitful dreams, likely brought on by the constant, feverish heat of the cells.
The new one, Angharad, slept soundly.
Ah, the sleep of conviction, he considered. I know it well.
For himself, he rarely slept. Everything was a matter of discipline to him; he would not permit sleep from exhaustion until he consciously chose to allow it. When he did, it was a surrender to the tumult of nightmares that he reveled in these days. Once they'd been a torment, but he'd long since learned to take pleasure in the horrors he'd witnessed.
Indeed, in the horrors he'd become.
Guilt has lost its weight for me, he thought, and a faint spark of regret faded in and out of his mind.
Without guilt, some things simply are not as poignant as they once were, and Martel regretted any loss of opportunity for indulgence in his life.
He consoled himself with the thought of the wonderfully rebellious and ambitious Angharad, who would be back in with the general population the next day. He was often herded out for his fresh air when the other prisoners were on the lot, and he knew that she would look at him, and he would know her then. He wanted to look her in the eye and see, see if he saw her covered in gore and gasping, her own eyes broken mirrors of shock and terror and pain. It had been a long time since he'd enjoyed something so personal.
A faint rustling caught his attention, and he looked up at the ceiling. Carefully squirming through the ventilation shaft, something dark fell through, caught itself on silent wings and landed before him. Between dark fangs was a folded scrap of parchment.
This made Martel smile very warmly indeed. He was not a prisoner here, only temporarily confined. And soon, very soon, he would be free again, and then he would hammer every single one of those who thought to be his jailers into gorgeous red-spattered ruin.
And perhaps, then, it wouldn't be much longer at all that enjoyed something personal. Very personal.
Angharad had mentioned that she had friends with her, also.
Martel liked making friends.
