Rage and Rebellion (Histories of Havenhearth)

6.0 Gwinael

The prisoners were left in total darkness without food or water for what Gwinael felt was ages, which combined with all that had happened, left her dazed and overwhelmed. She was regretful that Andri was stuck in this mess with her, and thankful because he had had the sense to ascertain who was there with them, and any injuries that had been sustained by the eight captives. Gwinael, like most of the others, was bruised, and maybe slightly concussed, but nothing serious. It seemed one of the others, a combattant by the name of Brownwarren might have broken her arm, but that did not stop her unleashing a raging rant against her captors, which Andri shut down. Gwinael was thankful that for Brownwarren too, since she and Andri brought a feeling of normalcy to the situation- their bickering could have happened anywhere in the world.
"Snowberry, could you please indicate your whereabouts?" Andri asked.
"Over here Sandshield," she called back, and shortly became aware of Andri feeling his way around, and then slumping down on the ground next to her. They literally could see nothing. "What a mess!" He said, sighing.
"And it' all my fault,"
"That's not true Gwin, we did what we were told,"
"But you wondered if it was a good idea or not, and you were right,"
"Best not to think or worry about that now though," she felt his arm reach around her shoulders. "I guess you've already been figuring out how to get us out of here," she was far too shaken up about everything to look beyond their current situation. Without realizing it though, Gwinael had just positioned Andri as their unofficial leader-
"Sure have," he lied, realising what she had inadvertently done, and feeling just how underprepared they all were for this entire debacle. Combat they had been trained for, but not captivity. "And it'll be no time at all until we rejoin the others."
"But not too quickly perhaps," Gwinael added, "by waiting, we not only can develop a better plan, but we also might be able to get some information that would help." She dropped her voice, "I wish I knew what my mother would do."
"Same," Andri whispered back, "do you think she'd send out a rescue for us?"
"If she even knows we are here, it's hard to say, it depends on what else is happening. But I don't think we'd get any favourable treatment because I'm her daughter," Eight captives would never be rescued if doing so would interfere with the overall mission, unless the mission was a full success and the rebels taken down. "That's what I thought you'd say." Andri said, "so we'll assume we're on our own." Gwinael nodded, not that anyone could see her, and she laid her head onto Andri's shoulder and sighed. After a few moments, Andri moved away and spoke to the others, to try and keep up morale. Brownwarren tried another rage rant, but was again silenced. Gwinael wondered for how long she would listen to Andri. None of them were prepared for captivity, and she had no doubt that very soon hope, discipline and good sense would start to die out. And if Andri was going to keep the discipline up, Gwinael would help him on the hope, and do her best on the good sense as well, but she was not sure how she would be able to face this whole situation. The waiting, the unknown, the lack of awareness of time.

After awhile, they heard some muffled noise behind the wooden door. Some shouting, and footsteps, and horses, Gwinael thought. Later there were sounds of horns and perhaps even sword clash. It was impossible to tell from below what was happening, but Andri hypothesized that the Tainish achieved their objectives. Gwinael didn't not say out loud that she didn't think he was correct, but she hoped nonetheless.

Finally, the sounds of a key in a lock jolted them all out of their daze. This was followed by the scraping of iron bolts being drawn from their closures. Light flooded in down the steps, and the prisoners squinted into daylight, and felt fresh air on their faces. Gwinael inhaled deeply, keeping one eye closed while the other adjusted to the brightness. A silhouette appeared in the doorway, calling down in Cassioni.
Gwinael put her language lessons from school to work and translated: "I think she says to go up, one at a time." Slowly, the prisoners struggled to their feet, their bodies stiff, their minds slow, dulled from the lack of sensory input. The light revealed tired, worried, dirty faces, but it was a dimmed light, not the daylight sun they  had marched under a few days prior. Gwinael climbed the steps, emerging into the courtyard and smelled burning. Smoke from fires and an overcast sky over dark, heavy clouds kept sunbeams away, but she blinked into the day nonetheless, feeling the weight of humidity settle down onto her. At least it was cool in their dungeon.
The woman who had opened the door stood waiting, a large woman with a yellow tunic and trousers, a whip in her hand. As each of the prisoners came up, a rebel, Gwinael assumed, since they were not uniformed Imperial combattants that she had seen on the Herb Hills March, with a long knife, stood behind them, the blade pressed into their backs. All of them wore scarves of a deep yellow tied around their waists.