The Infernal King | 1 ✓

CHAPTER XIV | PUDDLES OF CRIMSON

       EVERY DAY WAS the same: filled with numb limbs and an aching back, burning hunger and irate stares into nothingness. The layer of grime upon Maarit's bronze skin became thicker, her hair became more knotted and the tear in her dressing grown grew larger.

She waited for an opportunity to be able to escape, such as a mistake made by Picard before he locked her up—but the thing about the warlock was that he never seemed to make mistakes.

So she continued to wait with her thoughts, daydreaming the majority of the time away with illusive imaginings and reminiscences. She was tired of waiting, but there was nothing else that she could do.

During the endless hours in between the two meals that she received each day, she attempted to chip away at the walls in the hope that she might pull away a piece of stone sharp enough to cut flesh. She was grasping at straws and working her fingers raw until they bled. Deep down, she knew it would never work—and it was only on one particular day, after Picard had locked the door behind him, that she realized there was an easier way.

Every time he conjured food platters, he would do the same with utensils. Sometimes, it was only a soup spoon or a fork. However, every once in a while, he would place a silver platter with a generous slab of meat in front of her, complete with a knife sharp enough to cut through it.

The mere thought of using it to slice her own hand off made her feel sick to her stomach, but there was a cardinal truth that she had to remember: pain for a moment would lead to freedom forever.

Freedom and vengeance against the wretched king.

At the clicking sound of the lock for the twelfth time since she had heard of Keion's death—she had been counting—Maarit glanced upwards eagerly. As per usual, Picard stepped into the dungeon first, followed by the two guardsmen. The bulky guards were, essentially, completely useless, for their physical strength could not even come close to what Picard could do with sorcery.

"Hello, beautiful," the first guard sneered, his clunky boots echoing against the floor as he neared her in a predatory way.

Maarit scoffed in disgust and turned her body away from him, crossing her arms over her chest. With the bars separating them, she felt safe to insult him all she wanted. "Don't call me that, you filthy pig."

"Bu' she don' smell too good, do she?" the second guard added, approaching her cell with a saccharine smile on his face. "You was much better lookin' when we firs' picked you up. Now, yer beginnin' to look like a peasant."

"Well, she's not too far from that, is she?" the first guard said to the second. "She's not a peasant, she's a prisoner. In reality, it's much worse."

Maarit clenched her fists at her sides, thinking about how she just might add them to her list of prey, after King Theodoracius.

Picard never spoke. He did not converse with the guardsmen—in fact, he did not so much as cast a glance in their direction. He either kept his head bowed or stared at the ceiling, but it was all in complete silence. The only time Maarit had ever heard him speak was to mutter spells under his breath, so she was not even entirely sure how his voice sounded.

His smooth, long strides made him appear to be gliding towards the dungeon cell. He reached his hand out and conjured a platter of food and some utensils, before sliding it underneath the bars. The sight of the food evoked within her not only hunger, but a seraphic optimism.

The silver platter held an assortment of vegetables and roast mutton, and there were two utensils—a fork and a knife. Maarit's breath hitched in her throat as she lowered herself to the ground and picked them up with trembling hands. The knife cut through the mutton like butter. The meat was soft, so the knife was not incredibly sharp as a dagger would have been, but it would do. All she had to do was hide it from Picard so he did not take it back.

Maarit cleared the plate of every last bit of food. At last, when neither the guards nor the warlock were looking, she discreetly slipped the silver knife underneath her dressing gown. She shoved the platter back through the bars towards Picard, whose gaze turned to her.

"I have finished," she said gruffly, taking care to keep any trace of hope out of her eyes or voice.

Her heart was beating in her throats and she was trying with all of her might to keep her breathing from becoming irregularly quick. Picard could not notice that she had taken it. This was her only chance. He could absolutely not notice.

She held her breath.

With a wave of Picard's hand, the empty platter and the fork disappeared.

He swept out of the room as quickly as possible, with the guardsmen in tow. Maarit did not breathe again until she saw the door shut and heard the lock click.

She exhaled in relief.

Reaching underneath her dressing gown, her fingers met the knife's blade, greasy from the mutton. She instead grabbed the handle and picked it up gingerly to examine it in the faint light (Picard never extinguished the candles anymore, which she was grateful for). The blade had grime now stuck to it, clinging to the grease.

She had been so determined to get the knife, but having it in her hand made a lump appear in her throat. It would take a few blows for her to actually be able to cut her hand off—and even so, it would be very messy and painful.

The blade glinted dangerously in the candlelight, reminding her of the guillotine that had been used to execute the innocent servant a few mornings prior.

Maarit began shivering uncontrollably. Her teeth chattered and she dropped the knife to her side. She would wait a moment, just to give herself some time to relax and breath.

But she needed to do this.

"Come on, Maarit," she scolded herself, snatching the knife back up. She gritted her teeth and closed her eyes as they began to tear up. "Stop it, don't be a coward. Be brave. Just do it. Just..."

She positioned the knife so that it was pointed directly downwards and aimed for her left wrist. As she held it, it quivered violently due to her shaking hands—it was as though it too was afraid of the harm it was capable of causing.

"Three," she whispered in a small voice, "two, one—"

With that, she plunged the knife into her wrist and screamed in pain. The room seemed to flash before her eyes; once again, she saw stars that did not exist. She had never felt physical pain as horrible as this; no amount of pain had ever caused her to shriek in such distress. It was excruciating and was only made worse when she looked down and saw the knife protruding from her arm malevolently.

For a moment, she wished the candles were out so that she would not have been able to see her mutilated wrist.

Hysterically, she grasped the handle and pulled the knife out, sending a painful jolt up her arm. Then she made a second attempt. Tears streamed down her face and she gripped the knife tighter, screaming profanities through her clenched teeth.

She tried again, with sweat clinging to her forehead and her entire body quaking.

She had cut some of the veins in her wrist, making her own blood spatter onto the dungeon ground, form vermilion puddles and stain the floors red. She simply could not do this. Her plan seemed foolish: a dull knife could not cut through bones.

She would bleed out until she died, but perhaps death would not end up being quite so terrible.

Her vision seemed to go crimson at the edges until it filled her sight entirely—until red was all she saw.

Then red turned to black.