Collaterals

Out of the Cold Darkness

Torches lined the walls to the dungeon, spaced every few meters so that Leila walked through pockets of darkness. The stone floor was bare of carpets, here, Leila's leather slipper doing little to stop the cold from biting at the bones of her feet. And then, far behind the bars of each cell, were the prisoners. The windows here were small, few, and far between. That was likely why the smells here were so...The Princess shuddered, mouth hanging open enough so she could breath through it. Leila couldn't imagine much natural light could dwindle inside, even in the height of morning. Perhaps that was why so many of the prisoners were awake. She could not so much see them— the darkness at times so thick that she could scarcely make out the outline of her own hand held ahead of her—as she could feel their eyes, their moving bodies inhabiting space that had grown restless. The feeling was...well, it was enough for her to cross her arms across her chest, and enough to her to wonder if she truly should have made the Diviner return to her dwellings. 

It did not matter. Haitham would be here, soon. 

Leila paused in front of the 15th cell. The guard said they'd be here, and yet...Leila squinted through the darkness, taking enough steps forward so that she could put her hand atop the bars of the cell. They'd only been here a week. Perhaps that was not enough time for them to have lost their bearings, like some of the other prisoner's seam to have—

"Princess." His face appeared suddenly, the faint glow of the torch light kissing but a side of his face.

Leila gasped, staggering back as her hand flew to the side of her hip, where her sword usually was. Of course, her sword was in her room, and she was here. Unarmed. Leila sighed, taking a step forward. There were bars between them. To have been so easily frightened, honestly. 

The man seemed to think something similar, watching her silently as he rested his head atop the bars. 

"How...did you know who I was?" It was unlikely he'd ever seen her. Not when he was so high up the day she arrived, shooting arrows at her. At most he'd seen her outline, the color of her dress. 

The man looked her over. Leila held back the urge to straighten invisible creases, pick at absent lint. There was something about him— perhaps the sneer on his face, the way his eyes did not settle into her gaze— that made her want to be...more. He sounded disappointed when he said,  "You look like a princess."

Leila frowned.

"The Hand, then?"

Leila only gave a small nod. She looked past him, trying to get a glimpse at the others. "Do they sleep?"

He grabbed the bar, "I can't imagine they do. It is a hard thing to do when one knows his breaths are numbered."

Now that she was here, now that he was so close...she did not know what to say. Where was Haitham?

"Do tell me, Princess. How numbered are my days?"

Her eyes snapped to his. Were they not read their sentence? Were they not told this was their final night? Leila straightened. It would not do well to waver when giving such news, "You die come noon."

His hand fisted tight enough against the bar that for a moment it seamed it was the only thing holding him upright. Still his voice was calm when he asked, "Noon?"

"Yes."

"How?"

She gulped, "By my hand."

"A sword?"

"Fire."

He stayed quiet. Quiet enough that the silence stretched into long ropes, wrapped around itself till it'd formed a noose around Leila's throat and tightened. Leila cleared her throat. "I have come to—"