The Prisoner

In the center of Arcadia sat the newly-reconstructed palace. Although by far the most elegant structure in the city of Solelia, it contained a certain humility. There were larger mansions, ones that glittered with gold to display the wealth of their inhabitants. The king, however, had seen the consequences of such apparent power. He lived through and fought a war against them. 

Though many descriptions could be made—of the tall, stone towers with pointed roofs; of the throne room containing many columns; of the multitude of palace servants—none mattered so much as the dungeons below. When you paused in the middle of the throne room and turned to the right, ignoring, of course, the two thrones—one, well worn; the other, not occupied for a year—you came across an archway. It opened into a guards’ quarters, a type of strategy room the king prayed would see little use in the coming years. 

Beyond the tables and racks of swords and mounted shields, a trap door opened into the cool, dimly lit maze of cells. Very few occupied the dungeon of five corridors. Most crimes were petty thefts that required a short stay and community service to rebuild the rest of the postwar kingdom. Some criminals, however, did deeds dastardly enough to deserve a more permanent residence in the Stone Basement (so-called by polite society). 

Murderers, rapists, and child predators were kept in the dungeon, separated from the rest of the world by simple metal bars. Each cell was small enough only to contain a bed, a chamber pot, and a water basin (“Odor control,” explained the king when he explained his building plans to his council of workers). These criminals would live as the scum they were in corridors one through four. 

Worst of all, at the end of the maze, in the fifth corridor, was an assassin. A former assassin, at least. This prisoner was responsible for the war against Arcadia, the harbinger for the evils to come. Even in his confession, he claimed to be only “a messenger for your true foes.” 

The kingdom’s “true foes” faced and defeated, the assassin was captured and locked away in his cell. It was much the same as the cells in the first four corridors, with one primary difference. The fifth corridor was crafted from a kind of black stone, crushed and mixed with shards of quartz before it became cement blocks. It warded against magic and evil—each of which the assassin classified. 

Unlike any other prisoner, Judas Malachi had his range of motion entirely limited by chains. He could lay uncomfortably on his cot, barely splash his face with murky water, and risk spilling the contents of his chamber pot each time it was used. Of course, he was almost accustomed to his living conditions. He had earned this treatment, after all—even he knew that. Anyone in his clan could have killed the former king, queen, and princess, though few could egg on the subsequent massacre’s survivors so well that they fought back and won. No one could have left quite the mark he had. 

Every war cost those fighting something dear—his cost him everything. Not that the war could be blamed. No, no, no. He killed his lover, his father, and his brother himself. 

Judas very rarely saw people outside of the guards that brought his meals. So, his surprise over nearby footsteps and familiar voices was apt. 

“—you’re sure, Your Majesty?” 

“You’re right. Let’s turn around now and further ignore him.” The king sighed. “Yes, I am certain.”

“Was the sarcasm necessary?” 

“Always, my friend.” 

Judas straightened his posture and met his visitors with as much dignity as he could muster, with chains on his ankles and wrists. It was a wonder they left his neck free. As they rounded the corner into the corridor, the two men seemed wary. Then, the king approached gracefully. 

He was taller than Judas, even if he were able to stand fully. His eyes were violet, and his hair strawberry blond. He stood with his shoulders back and arms at his sides. 

His faithful friend, and Head Guard, followed uncertainly. He glared at Judas. “Are you going to pay his due respect?” 

The king’s eyebrows quirked. “Leon, you are aware we’re responsible for his capture and degrading position, yes?” 

“Of course,” scoffed Leon, rolling his amber eyes. He glared. “I put those chains on him. You were there, Claude.” 

Judas, with narrowed eyes, gave his best impression of a bow. “Your Majesty.” 

The king waved his hand. “You needn’t respect this title; it means very little to you.” 

“Very well,” said the prisoner despite Leon’s shock. “Should I address you as ‘Enigma,’ then?” 

“That—it holds no real value anymore.” 

“The queen is still missing?” 

“She’s presumed dead.” Claude stared wistfully at a particularly shiny brick. “The kingdom is preparing a ceremony to honor her memory today.” 

Judas examined the king and his friend closely. “What brings you to my humble accommodations?” 

“We’ve decided the date of your execution,” Head Guard Leon told him when the king remained silent. “This afternoon, directly before the memorial.” 

Judas’s blood turned to ice. It melted quickly.

“You look less terrified than I hoped,” murmured a new man, resembling Claude slightly. His hair, however, was violently red, and his eyes lilac. 

“I have been tortured and locked away in this cell for who-knows-how-long,” said Judas gravely. “Death feels like a kindness to me.” 

“Or we could torture you more,” suggested a woman helpfully. She had long white hair and icy eyes. 

“That won’t be necessary,” the king assured them. “Look at his eyes. He’s got nothing left in him. He hasn’t the entire time he’s been held captive. He is empty, lost. I-I understand the feeling.”

“He killed our family, and his own, and Kian, and countless others,” growled his brother angrily. “How could you have any sympathy for him?” 

Claude met Judas’s apparently empty grey eyes. Neither harbored any bitterness or resentment. There was an understanding between the two. “Juniper wouldn’t want this for him.” 

“Juniper hated him worst of all,” Leon said. “You know that.” 

“She was also the most forgiving of us,” countered Claude, looking between his brother and the woman. “Joseph, Esther—I urge you to reconsider.” 

“He killed Zeke,” said Joseph while Esther muttered, “He’s the reason Kian died.” 

“If this is what you want…” the king sighed deeply. “I should like to speak with him privately. Please.” 

His friends exchanged glances but did not argue. They walked away; their footsteps and whispers echoed through the corridors. 

“I blame you for her disappearance.” 

“That, my king, is something I can truly say I had no part in. She left for Trayus on her own accord to face evils there.” Judas paused. “Do you believe her to be dead?” 

“There is an emptiness in me that does, and yet a small fragment of my soul disagrees.” 

Judas hummed. “She did hate me greater than you all. Without more than a few words, she managed to plunge me into guilt so deep I might have drowned. Then, by her own mercy, she pulled me from it and told me instead to grieve. I wanted a quick death; she told me to live with the weight of my sins.” 

“Juniper had nightmares about Zeke’s death often. She would wake up crying and calling his name—she loved him in a way I doubt she could ever love another. He was closer to her than I was, in many ways. They understood each other naturally, not through some magical connection. I was jealous of that, but his death still crushed me.” Claude leaned against the stone wall, equally as incapacitated as Judas in regards to his arcane abilities. “She once looked at me and said, ‘We shouldn’t blame Judas for Zeke. It was an arrow meant for me that killed him. He died crying for his older brother and me.’”

The prisoner felt a warm tear falling down his cheek. “Kian died defending the kingdom from the war I brought it. I wish every day I had never involved him or Ez. But that doesn’t exactly bring them back, does it?” 

“I’m afraid not.” The king rose to his full height and took a single silver key from the wall. “I’ll he be escorting you personally to the pavilion.” 

“To my death, you mean?” 

Soon enough, his cell was open, his chains were off, and he was unbound from his stone hell. He felt ironically free. He was to be dead within the hour—his sentence was finally met. 

The guards, the other four of his visitors, and the palace workers paused when Judas Malachi emerged from the dungeon at the king’s side. 

“Claude, what are you—“ 

He hushed his brother. “No one deserves to die alone.” 

He ordered the doors open and led the way to the pavilion, where a crowd gathered around a stage-like platform. The public glanced anxiously their way. 

“How would you like it done?” 

Judas glanced at the king strangely for his grotesque question. “With magic. Can you—will you do it?” 

“As you wish,” said Claude somberly. “Come on.” 

Judas took a deep breath and stepped into the light of the sun. It felt harsh on his deathly pale skin and eyes so accustomed to the darkness. 

He closed his eyes almost reverently as he stepped onto the platform. He knelt before the king. When his eyes opened, he stared straight at the sun to avoid seeing the crackling spell so near his head.