Inked

37

"It's not him, it's not him, it's not him," Meggie repeated to herself, shutting her eyes tight against the images of Farid - her Farid - peering through the bars of her cell with contempt. His face, his beautiful face, cast in malicious shadow, his dark eyes full of a new, cruel light. "It's not. him." Unfortunately, her words only seemed to have that kind of power when they were written.

The hoarse remnants of a scream bounced off the black stone walls outside Meggie's cell, and she tried, in vain, to shut out the raw pain of the familiar voice, whose name she refused to let cross her lips, as if her mind's acknowledgement of the truth was only justified by her voice.

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The world was black. Dustfinger's eyes served no purpose wherever he was, as there was not a flicker of light to be found. The fire ignored his summons again and again.

He no longer dared to move. When Dustfinger had stumbled blindly around the room upon arrival, arms outstretched, his foot had discovered a warm, slimy substance that quashed his curiosity entirely.

The clinking of metal came at his door. Keys. They had come for him, whether with intentions of good or evil he could only guess -- but he was sure he was correct. The heavy black door swung open, and he squinted at the sudden firelight. Weak though it was, he had been staring into blackness for hours and could only make out shadows and spots until his eyes readjusted themselves.

It was the girl again: Soleil, with a sturdy mass of a brute hovering behind her. His belt was laden with instruments that Dustfinger's eyes merely flicked over. So it was this point in the war, it seemed. So be it. The scars all over his face and body were proof enough of his resilience and loyalty.

"Good evening, Dustfinger. Join us, won't you?" Soleil's white teeth gleamed cruelly in the flickering flames she held in her palms. Dustfinger remained where he was.

The girl sighed. "Ever the hero," she said, her voice lilting into a singsong tone. "Heroes are so boring. Grab him." She turned to the guard, who approached his victim with the hunger of a wolf in his eyes. Dustfinger didn't resist as the man forced Dustfinger's arms above his head, securing his wrists in the rusty chains that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the room. Upon further inspection, Dustfinger realized the brown splotches on the shackles were not in fact rust spots, but rather the remnants of previous prisoners.

"Good. See, now, that was not so difficult. You lot always make everything so difficult." Her voice carried a tone of light-hearted jesting, but her eyes betrayed her annoyance. "Where is the Bluejay, Dustfinger?" He flinched at the name, unprepared for the suddenness of it.

And then he thought about it, and he said, truthfully, "I haven't the faintest idea."

Then the world disappeared.