Chapter Text
I know but two things. Torture and darkness. Once, there must have been more to my narrow existence—I feel it in my bones—but that’s all there is now, and out of the two, I much prefer the latter.
Wasting away within the dark confines of my cold cell—so small my wings can’t stretch as they crave—is preferable to the horrors my captors might conjure; be it Brannagh’s cunning cruelty, or Dagdan’s crude blades.
Luckily—over the years—the King has grown to accept that I’ve nothing of value to offer—that I won’t break—leaving me forgotten; left to rot in this welcomed darkness.
Ironic, knowing he made this cell to break me; if torture could not. This cramped, suffocating box draped in endless nothing; intended to drain my sanity into the very stones upon which I lay. In theory, he should’ve been right, but the one flaw in his design is the fact that the dark has always been my salvation; my one solace. It weakens me—cuts me off from my true source of power—but I’d take the whispering comforts of the dark over any drifting of the mind; or conjured illusion.
I can’t look beyond the confines of the castle anyway, the King’s wards prohibiting any form of magical passage; even mine.
It’s all that stands between me and escape.
These days, that is.
Before, I wasn’t strong enough; couldn’t bend out of this cell, deprived of light as I was. However, after years spent biding my time—hoarding whatever scraps of light my blood might house—my well of power has grown vaster. Because, before the King realised I was useless, he need to keep me alive, and in order to do so, one must feed their prisoner.
Each time the hatch at the foot of my door’s been opened to force food and water within, I’ve clawed and scraped at the flutter of torchlight pooling in from the hall beyond; faint as it may be. Lately however, the frequency of these feedings has dwindled—and my hope with it—as if the King has well and truly forgotten about me, but someone with hands as bright as the torchlight stops by now and then; giving me water and broth.
I wonder who they are; this Lightbringer of mine.
I wonder if they know what manner of creature they’re feeding each time that hatch groans opened; hinges rusty and worn.
It doesn’t matter. Few things do down here; say carrying on to the next day. I never know when that is—I’ve no concept of night and day anymore—but I know it’s been a long time. Once, I used my hair to count—measured its length from time to time to gauge an estimate—but Brannagh realised, and cut it off the same day. Wasn’t much of a fan of my sliver of hope, I imagine; or sense of continuity.
From what I remember, I’d estimated around five years by then. Now—matted as it may be—I suspect it’s been another five since.
Ten years of darkness.
Ten years of torture.
Ten years of nothing.
The fact that I hardly care should be concerning; that I feel no longing for whatever life I left behind, coming here.
Perhaps I didn’t leave much.
Sighing, the sound echoes against the harsh rock; dry and rasping and ragged. Closing my eyes, I hope for sleep—my only true occupation—the one way I might pass time; and escape the pains of existence.
I don’t dream. I’ve nothing to dream about say the horrors I once endured in this castle; before I was forgotten. Only nightmares plague me, or endless nothing; filled with a consistent something.
It’s like a distant thumping, solid and strong; like the pound of a fist against rock, but gentler; kinder. Whispers I can't decipher—in a language I can't understand—accompanying this beat, and I swear they beckon; urge me to follow that drum. I never can, and at times I feel they know as much; feel a sense of comfort in their lulling murmurs.
Sometimes, I feel them; like a phantom touch curling up my forearm. I can’t see what it is, but I know they’re good. They’re the one good thing about this place; and the reason I love the darkness so.
It never fails to soothe.
When sleep finds me, it whisks me into oblivion; to that steady rhythm beckoning me to go. To go see. See something beyond this darkness and dread. It’s stronger tonight—closer—but no matter now I reach, I never arrive.
Jolted awake by a sudden stutter—a sudden change in rhythm—I find the pounding lingering even in the waking world; a weakened but present thing. At first, I think I yet dream, but the pains littered across my body are real. This is real.
Wherever the beat comes from is near, and something is terribly wrong with it.
For a time, it’s all I can listen to—all my mind can focus on—until wave after wave of unearthly power rattles the earth; small pebbles and dust raining from the low ceiling.
I hardly feel them past the quaking of my body and ringing in my ears; left behind by those waves. Only once a brilliant, bright power rips through the castle do I snap out of it—find my bearings—the flare tearing through the castle wards as if they were mere tapestries; the power a knife.
Sharp and insistent, the whispering darkness urges me to go—to bend and leave and taste freedom—but I’m left stunned by the mere thought and hesitate; until another power spears through the folds of the earth, leaving the palace.
A power laced in starlight.
A power I will myself to follow.
Summoning the light I’ve gathered, I bend myself into energy, seeping through the inevitable cracks around my food hatch and carry on, letting the torchlight fuel me further as I barrel towards freedom.
Entering the open air beyond the castle walls, I am nothing but a ray of white; a star shooting across the sky. Following the call of the drums, I traverse vast expanses of crashing waves; the unforgiving darkness of night draining my light one beat at a time.
By the time I see what must be land on the horizon—grand spears of rock clawing their way skyward, dusted in white—my reserves run out; the moon and stars not bright enough past the blanket of clouds to let me maintain this incorporeal form. Thus, I tumble out of the sky, the wind tearing at my unused wings as I attempt to fly—attempt to soften my plummet—and though I manage to slow enough as to not die on impact, I do hit the water; and sink into the deep, shrill darkness.
The shock of the cold leaves me paralysed, an instinctual gasp forcing the icy water down my lungs; rather than holding my breath as I should. The waves—thrashing and tumultuous—further disorient, the water soaking into my feathers; weighing me down towards the deep.
I sink, yet I fight, refusing to give in when freedom looms on the horizon; so close I can taste it; feel it. So I thrash and struggle and reject this cold, uninviting darkness.
Death will not claim me yet.
I haven’t cheated it for a decade only to fall prey to it now.
Reaching the surface—coughing and sputtering—lungs burning with the need for air, I spot a cluster of dark rocks just off the shore of this barren coastline. Using what little strength I yet possess, I swim to them, cling to them as waves crash over me; drenching me in freezing water time and time again.
I cough and heave and hold on to what I pray is salvation, but the chilling claws of death leave my body numb and unresponsive; fading by the second.
In a last-ditch effort to perhaps not save myself, but find help, I send out a flare of golden power—another power—letting it spear skyward like a beacon; one I pray might save me.
A drop of it—what speck of it becomes true light—soaks into my blood, but it isn’t enough, nor do I get the chance to wield it before both mind and body gives in to the will of unconsciousness.