Evening Tales: Dark Academia Short Stories

A Match in the Rain

The dark cell enclosed her, smothering her, locking her in a suffocating embrace. Its hold grew tighter, watching, coaxing, but the girl would not weep.

The lullaby that set her to sleep had long become the clanging of chain on stone, the skin on her ankles and wrists rubbed raw. Yet, the sting of it could not entice a tear to fall. 

But when he entered the room, the man dressed in black, the man who held the key to her dark cage, something within her stirred: a tempest ready to break, destroy, shatter. 

The groan of rusted iron broke the deadly silence, bringing the girl's eye to meet her captor's: he was smiling. 

"Enjoying your accommodations?" he purred. 

She lifted her eyes to traverse the small cell. "I've seen better." Her voice was rough, hollow even. She could have sworn he winced at the sound of it. 

The man's eyes narrowed to slits. "Have they given you water today?"

She merely rested her head against the cool stone of the wall. They had not, she wanted to say. For two days now, they had not. But her pride was not yet wounded enough to stoop to a response. 

He cursed, and she listened as he turned down the hall, his receding footsteps growing distant. She counted the minutes until he arrived again. 

Hurrying through the dimness of her cell, he knelt beside her, bringing a bucket sloshing with water. 

She scoffed, "I'm no farm animal."

"Quiet," he ordered. The water rippled as he dipped a ladle inside, bringing it to her lips. 

At first, she drank cautiously, and then greedily. He urged her to slow, refilling the ladle in a second swoop to the bucket, and then again. When she had had her fill, she slumped against the stone.

He continued kneeling by her side, his gaze raking her face, now dirtied and bruised. "They didn't even bother to clean you up," he muttered. 

"What did you expect?" she rasped. "Prisoners of war don't get the treatment of kings."

He flinched at her words, aimed to wound as well as any sword: she was his prisoner. His caged animal. His play thing. 

He brought his hand to her temple, where a gash had not yet begun to heal. She attempted to move away, groaning out in pain at the manacles. His fingers traveled there next, softly circling the reddened area. 

"I'll have them treat you," he said. 

"Is that a promise?" she choked. 

"Yes."

"Your word means nothing to me," she barked back. 

He gazed at her, questioning why he truly came to this damp cell cloaked in darkness. He had tried to convince himself that it was his duty, that she was his obligation. But she was so much more than that. 

She focused on his hand, lingering at her wrist. Somehow, it soothed the pain there more than anything medicinal could. And in the end, the truest ache of all, was that in her chest. 

Bringing his eyes to his fingers, he pulled back, stood, and made for the rusted cell door. "I'll send someone down to tend to you." 

"Wait," she called. It was hardly loud enough to be more than a whisper passing through the dank room, but he still heard. He would always hear her. 

He did not turn, but stopped, cocking his head to show she entertained his attention. 

With a narrow breath, she asked for the thing she wanted most. 

"Lie to me," she begged. "One more time."

Perhaps, the hitch in his breath was because of her. Or maybe it was the chill of the room. 

"I love you," he said. 

And when he was gone, the tears finally fell. 

She knew that this is how it would be, for it had never changed from the start: it was like trying to light a match in the rain.