Liar's Shadow

I

Authority has its purpose. Intentions aside, seats of power were once for those held high, in all things; especially respect, admiration, wisdom, and trust. Authority is now the seat for those willing to sink low enough take it by force. Honesty, that which is true, is a myth. We all believe and tell those very lies which we believe.

Could I have settled? Lived an "honest life"? I'm not sure that what I would be doing would have been considered living. I could have climbed out of the mud at any time. But I was born to roll in it. I knew my place and its cost.

___

Vorstag awoke, sweat beading on his brow. The smell of filth that filled his nostrils never seemed to fade. The cool stone floor was his only relief. The sun shone through the iron bars in the low-ceilinged room that was his cell. It was both a comfort and a torture to him. When the water rose at times, it flooded the small room, leaving him damp for days. The once-gray stone was now black as a result. He was jolted by the echoes of footsteps approaching down the dark cobblestone tunnel.

What was left of a man was escorted in, dropped into place ten feet away in the adjacent corner of the cell that they now shared. His face was too distorted to define his features. There was no fight left in him, his battered body hung as they carried him. In silence, the guard left after locking the irons onto his lifeless wrists. His hands sunk as though weighed down by anchors as they shackled what was left of his dignity. After a time, the man gathered enough strength to adjust himself to look at his cellmate. The two prisoners gazed at each other in shared sympathy. Time told Vorstag's tale, the distinctiveness of his bones was visible through his skin. 

"How long?" the newcomer inquired.

"Five," Vorstag croaked, before trying to swallow and clear his throat. He restated with a clearer voice, "Five hundred and thirty-eight days." He spoke with a strong accent of those from the southern regions.

The new prisoner shook his head between his knees, cradling his legs with dread, shuddering at Vorstag's frail figure.  Vorstag did not ask him why he was here. Time knew no mercy. It was unbiased and unchanged, unlike his frigid limbs. Ever increasing was the misery that his thirst brought him.

Hours passed, or so it seemed as the sun changed its approach. No longer seared by the sun's beam, Vorstag felt comfortable enough to doze off with his head resting against the wall when the man asked, "Do they bring food?"

"No," Vorstag explained, "But it looks like it might rain soon." The dry blood on the man's face cracked as his eyebrows lifted quizzically. Pointing at the window, Vorstag elaborated, "Rain comes in through there a bit, and when the tides get high it floods in. It is cold and wet for days, but it washes out the filth. We get water to drink, and the occasional fish to eat."

The man laid his head on the cobblestone floor and looked at Vorstag, absorbing the realities of his new life.

"Why didn't you just tell them?" asked the man. Vorstag held his breath until the man added, "I would tell them whatever they wanted, not suffer your fate!" He swallowed hard, "But I don't know the things they think I do!" His voice cracked, "Is that it then? Did you not have the answers either?" The man had sat up and was shouting now. Tears flowed down his cheeks exposing his light brown skin creating a river through the dry blood. It was then that Vorstag noticed that the tops of his ears were cut away by the torturers. He was elvish.

Vorstag thought a moment before replying. "Aye, I have the answers they seek. What I don't have is their attention. They believe too many lies to recognize the truth, even when I tell it to them." The man let out a prolonged breath, and after a while said,