Bars

tw: child death

Bars

For the first time in three months, the Deiren sun strips its way through clouds and fog and casts its rays on the capital. Carts of humble fishermen roll and bump across the gravel path, sea-bound, hope in their hearts. Hunters scatter to the trees, not wasting the opportunity to pike their nimble prey in lightweight garb. The market comes to life with stall owners tentatively placing bread, potatoes, vegetables and more in the open– not quite trusting the weather and its sudden sparkle.

Yes, a rare blaze of sunlight has found its way to Deire. Not that you can see that in the dungeon. Dragged by a guard in heavy clanging armour, his footsteps quick and loud – much like his breathing. Fingers and thumb buried in a mass of your hair, your toenails hiss as they scrape the stone floor, weaving through tight corridors, poorly lit by sparse candlelight. Deep sobs and shouts echo. Scowling faces squeezed between metal bars greet your passing. The clanging stops and you are tossed with ease into a shadowy space. Rusted metal grinds along stone, slamming with a thud. Prison.

Stood in front of iron bars, chipped with flecks of weathered metal, and peeled like rotted flesh from a bone you feel it. The squish and slosh of wet mess under your bare feet is indiscernible in the darkness. A flick of your wrist fixes that. The hanging torch, ready to dive from its hinges, erupts to life with small licks of flame.

           Flame brings sight – you wish it hadn’t. The four walls were almost close enough to kiss. Not that they would want to, sprayed in crusty yellows and browns, lashed with moss and mould. The floor, and your feet, are soiled with copper sludge. Sludge that gently ripples with each movement. The crown has kindly provided you with a pot to piss in, though the sour stained rims indicate that someone has beaten you to it.

           “Wa? Why’d they light yer torch?” came a croak from the neighbouring cell. A croak you ignored.

           “Oi!” another croak.

           “I lit it myself.”

           “Mhmmmm. A woman, aye?”

           “Aye.” You approach the bars, hands in pockets, feeling a scrap of paper wrapped around a small metal object. The barely visible beast, thick with hair (and likely in the head), was leaning on the bars, tapping them with brown talons. His eyes travel from your toes to yours eyes, pausing at parts he liked. He moistens the burst scabs on his bottom lip with a lick, before speaking again.

           “How’d a wee gurl like you end up in here?”

           “I murdered someone.”

           “Hah! Who did you murder?”

           “I…” You pause and meet his gaze. Dark half-moons peek through heavy brows and plump cheeks.

           “Ah’ve killed – murdered – ya can tell me.”

           “Oh? And who have you killed?”

Grimy teeth flicked into a grim smile.

           “Some wee gurl.” he said with a snort.

           “Indeed? Sounds like a tale I would like to hear.”

           “Aye? Well if I tell my tale, you have to tell yer one.”

           “Fine.”

           “Eh… where to begin?” he croaks, claws digging into his beard for the answer. “Ye familiar with The Grey?”

           “Yes.” you hiss.

           “Good. That’ll make this easier… As you know, about a hundred years ago the crown decided to outlaw witchcraft – realised that their connection to the spirts was dark, not holy like they assumed for hundreds of years. Not fucking soon enough if ya ask me. Didn’t stop the mad bitches from wreaking havoc for decades. Murdering, taking land, continuing to practice their dark arts. The problem was that the guard had to investigate suspected witches, gave them time to disappear. So, The Grey was formed. A group given absolute power – the power to kill any woman who shows signs of witchcraft. Again, not fucking soon enough… I’m a member of The Grey, have been for, fuck, thirteen years. And I’ve had a good run, we live in secret, work swiftly and string the bitches up as a warning to others. Lately, my men have been turning up dead.”

           “Dead? How?” you ask.

           “Yes… burned.”

           “Why is a member of The Grey in the crown’s dungeon? Who was this girl you killed?”

           “Witch. I reckon she was five, maybe six. Who fuckin’ care. Scared her wee friends with fire. Hid in the church. The church called me. And… well, you know the rest. Torched and hanged.”

           “… thought you had absolute power?”

           “Hah – well, got called a liar, didn’t I? Village turned against me. The kids said the wee girl never used fire. Even the fuckin’ church lied. Bastards.”

He pushed off the bars and slid into the shadows for a few moments then returned to the same lean.

           “Your turn” he croaked. “Who did you murder?”

           “Some big man.”

           “Heh-heh, well done! How? And who was he, eh?”

           “With fire. I set him alight, watched him writhe and scream while his flesh melted. Who was he? I am not sure… but he looked a little… grey.” An easy smile raises your cheeks.

           “…It’ll be the fuckin’ wall for you. Ya know that? They’ll burn ye. Hang ye up.”

           “Maybe.” you reply, producing the small metal item from your pocket.

           “What have you got there?”

           “Pay it no mind.” You pop the key into the barred door. Two arms and an arched back shift it open, grinding until it is ajar.

           “Hah! Yiv got the key! C’mere and get me the fuck outta here. Promise I won’t bite. I can help ya get past the guards.”

           “Of course…” You slide a leather glove on that tugs tightly at your skin until it touches your elbow. The orange crystal in the iron-plated palm rattles and hums as you curl your fingers. Flame fills your grasp, spilling just beyond the tips of your fingers. You lock eyes with him once again. Your prey. You watch as his shadowy space alights with fire, highlighting wet eyes and a quivering lip briefly. Did he mutter sorry? Maybe. But your easy smile refuses to budge.