Til We Fall

Their Beginning

For making this gorgeous cover :)

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Cayden

Screams echoed throughout the prison, bloodcurdling screams that made their way into your dreams and transformed them into visions of terror. The bars, window frames and hinges of the doors all rattled with the power of the sound. And it wasn’t just one; it was millions upon millions of terrified voices pleading for mercy, men and women.

The young man slowly woke up, sitting up from the cold stones which he had been lying upon. He had grown used to the screams over the weeks he had been in the prison. The pitiful cries didn’t affect him anymore, though it made his sick to think of it. He scrubbed a hand through his tangled blonde-brown hair. It had been almost two months since it was last cut and now it reached a little past his shoulders. It was covered in dust, dirt and grime, making the once shiny strands seem dull and tired. He looked tired all over now. That was what being here did to someone.  He was painfully thin, a direct contrast to how he had once been. Long and lean with hard muscle covered with soft golden skin. Now he more resembled a skeleton than a human Adonis. The only thing that showed outsiders that he was still alive and fighting were his eyes. They were green, but not just one shade. They changed according to his mood and emotions. One minute they were a deep jade, and the next that had become a bright emerald.

He leaned back against the wall behind him and let his head rest on it. He tried to remember how he had gotten here, but it was impossible. He had the faintest idea of who he had been, but that was all. He could not remember his mother’s name, not sure if he had even had one. Whenever he thought of life before pitiful screams and iron bars, all he got was the faintest scent of lavender. He somehow knew it had been important to him, though he couldn’t fathom why.

He tried to stretch his arm over his head, forgetting the deep gash in his abdomen for a second. He almost screamed as the sudden pain ripped through his body. He immediately leaned forward covering his stomach protectively with his arms, trying to stop the agony. He was light-headed, and spots danced in front of his eyes. He took a deep breath, then another and found himself slowly calming down. He let out a groan as he slouched back, his arm now held lightly.

His entire body was like this, covered in bruises and blood. Every day they had come with a new method of torture for his battered and broken body. Their latest fetish had been for knives, cutting sigils into his arms and drawing patterns on his bare back. He had learnt over time that biting back your screams of pain only made them give it to you harder. His throat was permanently hoarse, and he had a coughing fit every five minutes. He didn’t know who they were, or why they had chosen him. Maybe it was punishment for some sin he had committed, though it must have been a terrible deed to deserve this. He never saw their faces, not once. They wore long black cloaks with a red symbol on the back. The cloak had a hood which was pulled low over their faces. Under the hood was darkness, their faces covered as if by a mask of shadow. They made no sound as they tore screams from the prisoners’ throats, though you could feel the glee emanating from their bodies at the sound.

Suddenly the screams stopped, and his head jerked up. The silence was eerie, and soon he heard its source. The footsteps echoed down the corridor, making him flinch back with tap. He prayed that they were not coming for him, but of course, he had no luck. They stopped outside the cell, and he couldn’t help but let out a whimper at the sound of the old rusty bolt moving backwards. They stepped in, three of them, standing tall and imposing in the doorway over his crouched figure.

And for the first time in almost a month and a half of silent torture, they spoke, “He is ready.”

Their voices were archaic, raspy as if they were not used often. It was obviously the voice of a man. The two that flanked the speaker moved forward to grab him. He didn’t struggle; he knew it only made them more vicious in the end. The speaker turned and led them out of the cell and down the corridor. The screams had been replaced by whispers, scared eyes watching as he was walked to the end of the prison where the torture block was. But he was taken past them to the huge door at the end of the hall.