For the Prisoner

Prologue

O God, let the sighing of the prisoner come before Thee, and mercifully grant unto us that we may be delivered by Thine almighty power from all bonds and chains of sin, whether in our bodies or in our souls, through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

-

A putrid scent wafted from the nearing bog. A scent so repulsive to any mortal nose that the animals of the forest wisely kept far from it. A scent that made a person's stomach churn.

A scent of decay and mould, foul enough to rob one's breath and sweet enough to announce that plants weren't the only organisms the swamp had swallowed. It gnawed and digested all life in and around it, like a monster whose hunger was never stilled. It craved any sustenance it could get and gulped it down whole.

The little group of travellers that traversed its borders would strike any watchful eye as odd. What in the world could bring them to such a forsaken place? To a place people didn't return from and whose squelching sounds were a telltale warning not to tread too close? Which madness had befallen those travellers?

There was no random bystander to question their intentions, for even birds avoided this place. Apart from the occasional crow and its caws that made one human in the wooden cart flinch horribly, no one witnessed their hopeless voyage.

Down on the rattling cart pulled by an anxious donkey, the priest, who was disguised in the clothes of a commoner if not for the cross that dangled from a necklace from his neck, rubbed his hands. Winter lurked in the long shadows of the night and not even the swamp and its impenetrable walls of poisonous vegetation and green slick could store the warmth. The priest shivered, though his body wasn't as frail to the temperatures anymore as it had been until a short while ago.

For a sacrifice had been made. A sacrifice so uncanny and ambiguous that even the crows had tilted their heads at it.

The group of travellers comprising the priest, a lutin who was a highwayman by profession, a forsaken crusader, and a frightened adventurer with little skill in picking closed locks, sought to find the witch that lived in these woods. She was rumoured to be a powerful being. Her magic was black as a demon's heart, and no one was said to escape her claws. Yet, her magic wasn't meant to do good. They needed her to heal the cursed heart of the priest, to draw the vile jinx a White Lady had cast on him from it.

Only that they came travelling without said heart. It had been the sacrifice. The malevolent gargoyle's last gift to the naïve priest. The holy man carried the heart of the demon, as the gargoyle sat frozen in the woods, unmoving, for if he did, the fragile heart in his chest would reap his life.

In every passing hour, since they had left the clearing and Hongjoong behind, Seonghwa had been mulling his decision in his head. No doubt could turn his feet around and no hesitation struck across the line of his tense shoulders.

Yet he spent every waking second thinking about Hongjoong and about what his gift meant. He hadn't done it simply to buy them time to restore the broken heart, as was his duty.

He had done it to protect Seonghwa.

The call of a crow made San flinch. He huddled close to Jongho's side so the crusader could protect him in case the mocking bird would surge from the skies. His antics drew a chuckle from Wooyoung, who sat opposite of him with his arms crossed in a gesture of toughness when, truly, his fingers drummed on his upper arm in as nervous jitters as much as San's.

Seonghwa was also scared. But no dread in this world would keep him from keeping to his morals. The Lord did not gaze kindly upon those who wasted a life without looking back. Even if Seonghwa's plan - in case it failed - would reverse the tables and put him into his grave for sure this time.