Screams rose from the sides of the cliffs like a melody, strange and lyrical over the pulsing roar of the water fall. The current's swoosh and the clatter of chains were the drumbeat, as regular as the army's pounding footsteps.
It was a song Storm knew well. He'd sung that song. He'd lived with that song in his ears, as familiar as his heartbeat. But he hadn't screamed in fear. He hadn't begged for release. He hadn't wished for death.
Storm paced the cliff, his footsteps lost in the screams. Black pillars of rock rose above him. At the end of the cavernous hall, the waterfall's shimmering smoke thundered in torrents of grey.
He remembered what it was like down there. The piles of jagged rock, slick and sharp and shining. The limp forms of bodies, hanging lifelessly from handcuffs. The unceasing roar of the waters, and the spray that slapped his skin and soaked his clothes.The rub of manacles against his wrists, and the cold stone against his back.
They'd put him high up, at first. Pushed him onto a slippery ledge, chained him to the rock. And then he was alone with the prisoners. The spray had stuck to his skin; the river's faint music filled his head. The moans and whimpers of the prisoners echoed off the damp, black walls, up to the cliffs, and the silent guards pacing above.
So slowly did the waters rise that he's barely noticed. But then the waves had come crashing in, pushing through the cracks and chasms in the lower wall. They pounded against the stone, roared and screamed louder than the prisoners, the waterfall, the river. Those chained toward the bottom of the walls and pillars began to struggle, calling up to the solders in raw, desperate voices, pleading with them.
The waters rose in swirling torrents. They pushed prisoners against razor-sharp rocks, pelted them with small stones, stung their cuts and bruises.
Blood mixed with the waves' foam.
Only his feet had gotten wet. But most weren't so lucky. Limp corpses littered the hall.
Minutes after the tide's fall, the soldiers arrived, slogging through the sea's debris and calf-high water. They unchained the dead and piled their bodies, ignoring the prisoners. Two climbed his ledge.
"Well, what have we here?" The first smirked at him.
He didn't answer.
"I wager it's the scum that tried to kill a duke," The soldier laughed nastily. "Only an idiot would even think of that, knowing he'd end up here." The soldier watched his face for a reaction. When there was none, he continued. "So, what do you think this one is? Scum, or idiot?"
"Idiot scum," The other replied in a bored voice. The first one grinned.
"Idiot scum. I like it, Lyle. From now on-" This was directed at the pale figure in chains- "Your name is Idiot Scum." He paused. "What's your name?"
"Amon."
The soldier slapped him. "No, it's Idiot Scum. Say it."
"Amon."
Another slap. "Say, my name is-"
"Bren," The other cut in, "We have a job to do."
Bren shrugged, then punched Amon in the stomach. He doubled over, gasping for breath, and the manacles bit into his wrists. And then he was unchained, still gasping, dragged to a lower spot, shoved against the rock and re-chained.
"See ya tomorrow, Idiot Scum!"
Everyday they moved him. Lower and lower, until the waves rushed against his knees, his stomach, his chest. Bruises darkened his skin like rain clouds, cuts trailed blood on his clothes, coughs hacked at his body from the endless damp and cold.
