a king's game

chapter seven

It must have been the twentieth day in the dungeons that he heard footsteps echoing in the damp stone walls, footsteps that could by no means be those of the guard peaking through the bars every day to check on him.

The coming and going of the guard was the only way to determine the time that had passed. There were no windows, no minuscule glow of natural light reached the dungeon.

Once the guard arrived, he used to lit two torches on the wall, and the flickering fire would bathe the dark vault in a dull yellow glow. Its light startled the rats, which squeaked and fled into dark shadows, merging into nothingness.

After the third or fourth day, Payton found he was now one of them. He was a rat, for he ate the crumbs of moulded bread they ate. He drank from the moist wall after it rained they drank from and avoided the light as they avoided it, for his eyes had grown accustomed to being blind. And when the guard came and the light blinded him, it urged him to snarl like one of them and crawl on all fours after them into the sheltering darkness. Only he remained sitting where he was and watched this creature that walked so strangely on two legs. Did it resemble him? Did it resemble him more than the rats?

The rats thirsted like he did, they starved like he did, they screamed in pain when they bit each other, they curled up tightly when they froze. And on bitterly cold nights they came to him and lay on and beside the boy, for he was warm, and he was one of them. The guards, on the other hand, did they feel thirst and hunger? Warmth and cold? Payton would not know. All he knew was that there were bars between them. On one side the creatures on two legs. Payton banished the word human from his thoughts. On the other side, the rats and him. No, just rats. There was no him, just rats.

The one ascending the narrow staircase just at this moment was no guard - the footsteps too soft and cautious but strangely uneven. Curious, Payton lifts his head from the ground, wincing as his temples throb excruciatingly. There is the flickering light of a torch, but he can not make out more than blurred forms beside that, his eyes fluttering shut because of exhaustion after so much as a glimpse.

Defeated, he rests his head against the cool stone again, curling into a foetal position in front of the unknown stranger. He might have found it humiliating if he were in his right mind, but three weeks without water and food had stripped him of his pride and sanity. A Burdened could not die of dehydration or famishment and Payton had come to resent that.

There is a soft rustling sound, linen cloth crumpling, and then suddenly, the boy feels the person kneeling down beside him from the way the air shifts around him. They smell faintly like fresh grass and cider, surreal in the depths of the dungeons, making the youth inhale the air frantically.

"You don't look like a monster", the words waver through the air, more a soft humming sound than a voice.

A girl. It sounds like a girl.

Payton wants to speak to her, beg for mercy, cry for help, but his throat is dry and nothing but a hoarse cough leaves his parched and bloody lips.

"I don't think you are one."

No. No, he is no monster. Please, please help. Water, a sword. Anything to make it stop. If there was just a drop of water left, he would shed a tear as his lips form words without a single sound escaping his tormented mind.

"It is wrong to torture you like that. You are just a boy after all." Her voice is airy and thin, as if she is used to not being heard.

I hear you, angel, Payton wants to say.

Then, she reaches for him. Her hand, surprisingly rough and calloused, holds up his head gently and something cold and smooth presses against his lips.