When The Throne Bleeds

42. Notes of Nostalgia

REMI

Remi blinked profusely, extremely bewildered by his actions. Why was he striding towards the servants' quarters in the dead of the night? But even as a part of him began to beg him to use his common sense and turn back, he kept walking. Qural's words had upturned his beliefs, making him realize the one thing he should've done years ago. His ocean blue eyes turned regretful, all those years wasted in mourning, all that time, he could've done something else, something more fruitful.

He was a bard, a storyteller, an entertainer, and he was done with entertaining arrogant and haughty nobles. He wanted to sing for people who really needed love, who really needed a distraction from the hell they had been living in. Qural's chamber was three storeys above. He had been accomodated in a lavish compound meant for rich traders and merchants by the supreme masters of Volantis. And beneath the compound, there was a large hall, no less than a prison cell for all it housed was caged slaves.

Remi finally turned to the last corridor meant for the free Volantenes, spotting an old staircase that led into the darkness beneath the stone floor. He gulped, a voice in his mind screaming at him to not take those stairs. A resolute expression slid onto his face as he tightened his grip on his mandolin, promptly stepping down the old staircase.

Remi couldn't see a thing in the short corridor that appeared after he had descended the steps. It was black. Silent. Panic started creeping in his veins as his feet took him further, almost adamantly.
This is a mistake. This is a mistake. Remi, go back. Go back right now.

His pace slowed in the complete darkness and he gulped, his breath quickening.

"Oh shit!" He screamed loudly, jumping back. The stone floor had suddenly dipped below and his boot had splashed right into a puddle of something watery. Remi gasped repeatedly, trying to calm himself down as he slowly extended his boot along the surface of the floor. After about a foot in length, his boot hit something hard.

Remi squared his shoulders, taking a short leap towards it and landed safely on dry land, much to his relief. He didn't have time to investigate the secrets of random puddles appearing in old corridors, for he had seen a flicker of golden light ahead. There was no other way he could go now.

As Remi neared the source of the light, which turned out to be a torch attached to a wall, he saw that he was approaching a large open courtyard. Several stone pillars rose from it's perimeter, supporting the several storeys of the building before ending at the open roof. A few torchlights came into view, dimly illuminating the poignant scene before him.

A hundred slaves lay sprawled in the courtyard, some of them overlapping each other's bodies as they stole a few hours of oblivion from their pathetic lives. There wasn't even enough space for them to turn in their sleep, nor was there a roof over their heads. A hundred slaves lay cramped up in a courtyard built to withstand half their number. Remi could faintly see long scars on some of their backs, a line that traced their backbones, threatening to carve it out if whiplashed any further.

A few slaves had stirred in their sleep upon Remi's arrival, waking up to see an unknown free man stumble upon their quarters. They stood up, pointing it at him and whispering to each other in alarm. Some more agitated slaves had surrounded him, panic clear in their features.  There was no telling what wounded men like them could do then.

"Qilōni issi ao?" (Who are you?)

"Skoros gaomagon jaelā hen īlva, intruder?" (What do you want, intruder?)

Remi rounded his eyes, raising his hands in the air to show he meant no harm.

"I'm not here to hurt anyone. Don't kill me, please." He replied back in High Valyrian.