The Last Philosopher

Like a lizard to the slaughter

It was seven months since Weetie told the warden that one of Zig-Zig's prisoners had escaped. At the time, her lizard superiority felt certain they would catch Herschel without breaking a sweat. Biologically speaking she was correct since Akri perspiration was different from mammals. But the runaway remained free.

The captain had been waiting all morning. The warden's austere office covered a quarter of the libraries second floor. At the far was a desk and a chair, in front of the only windows. She had, in no uncertain terms, been directed to sit on one of the low children's benches. Even so, she was still a soldier, and she sat motionless with back and arms straight and claws on her knees.

"I wonder how old he iss?" Weetie whispered to herself moving only her eyes to look around at the empty white walls.

Nowhere was there even a trace of a past, no memorabilia, no trophies, no nothing. Even the guards knew almost nothing about him, not even a proper name. Still, in her time here, she'd learnt to fear the unknown.

Weetie wasn't the first captain of Zig-Zig, and wouldn't be the last. But she was no coward; she'd been trained for combat since the day after she was hatched. An Akri nest was neither safe nor comfortable for a young warrior lizard. Especially one who was anything less than a perfect physical specimen. Weetie's lisp had meant that the ultra humbling experience of growing up in a warrior brood had been far worse than normal. She'd had to fight twice as hard at everything to avoid being rejected by the warrior class.

Perhaps that was why she volunteered to go to Zenon? Both to prove herself by taking the harrowing duty of leaving the nest, but also for a chance to see something different. Unless war were declared, most Akri never went further than a days travel from their nest. And right now she would have given her right claws to be back in Sakond's fighting pits. Fighting for her life so as to not be rejected.

Her reason being that over the years guards had gone missing. Also, her patrols had found strange things in the area surrounding Zig-Zig. Zenon was far from safe, and she had nothing to indicate that the warden was behind those gnawed remains. Yet, it made her wonder what'd happened to the missing guards sent on solitary patrols. She wouldn't admit it, but in her cold lizard heart she knew the truth. And the warden scared her in a way no other lizard ever had, not even the Akri matriarchs.

She wished that if she was to be his next victim he would hurry up and get it over with. The worst part was the waiting. But the warden had told her to wait, so she waited. She couldn't understand what he was doing in the empty library — or even why his office was in this building at all — she'd never seen him reading. When she came in, he was wandering aimlessly among the shelves, talking to himself. But sounded like he was talking to someone else, even someone he feared. If such a thing was possible? Weetie had been in the sparring room in the warden's mansion enough times to know; that if he wanted, he could slaughter this whole prison single handed.

With a whoosh and a gust of wind, the office door opened. But as a born soldier Weetie hadn't startled. She only sat up a bit straighter.

"Captain Weetie!"

The warden came in and sat down next to her on the bench in one smooth motion. Bringing his face uncomfortably close to hers.

"Ssschir!" She was nervous, her lisp was always worse when she was nervous.

"Schir, you schent for me, schir?"

"Yesweetie, I did!" She was sure the contraction of words making her name sound like sweetie was deliberate. "There seems to be something going on with prisoners?"

"Yess, they've sstarted what they're calling a quilt protesst."

"Don't you mean quill protest? We did took away their quills, not their quilts."

"Yess ssir, but they are calling it quilt because they're wearing the quiltss out of their bedss instead of their usual gowns."

"How is that even a protest? They always look like they're wearing a quilt!"

"I think it's ssupposed to be ssymbolic, ssir."

"Of course, a symbolic riot, and I assume they think it's the perfect picture of moderation?"

"If you say so ssir." She drew a breath and hoped, "was that all ssir?"

There was a long sinister pause during which Weetie could hear her pulse in her practically non-existent ears.

"Not all, I may have a special mission for you, but first some questions." If she'd been able, she would've broken out in a cold sweet.

Updated: 04.02.2024