Chapter 2 - The Calm Before the Storm
Your head hurts like hell. That's the first thing you notice when you come to. The second is the shackles on your wrists, and the third is the ringing in your ears.
You force yourself onto your rear with a grunt, blinking rapidly as your vision flashes black. The ground beneath you is damp and traced with cracks. You shift your eyes, scanning the dark room around you. The walls are the same stone, and no natural light penetrates the tight space.
The front is made from solid iron bars, reminding you of a jail cell.
A jail cell… you think drowsily. And then it all comes back to you.
You tug at your metal shackles, feeling the burn in your wrists. Your short bangs, sticky and crusted with dried blood, fall across your forehead.
Before you can resign yourself to this fate, you hear a familiar laugh from just beyond the cell door. You strain your neck to look and see a familiar sight. One you haven't seen in… years. He speaks, his voice a steady baritone, "Well Marshal, looks like ya've gotten rusty since I's last saw ya."
You follow the voice to its owner and find it to be a man around forty-five years of age. "Darin!" you cry. Or at least try to. It catches in your throat and comes out as a pained groan.
"In the flesh, lad."
Darin looks almost exactly how you remember. Except for his hair. His short hair has taken on a dark-gray color, in contrast to the deep black it was when you saw him last, all those years ago.
His skin still has the same deep, dark-brown tone, calloused and rough as it always was, and his steel-gray eyes still hold the same friendly energy they always had. He's dressed casually in a simple drab tunic and pants, a sword hanging off his belt.
But of all his features, you most recognize his limp. He's clearly shifted most of his weight off his right leg and onto his left. Old war wounds. The two of you served together during The War and shared many a glass together.
"It's been a helluva while, gov'nor," you say.
He lets out a hearty laugh. "That it has, Marshal. Seems ye haven't changed one bit."
You cough and clear your throat before replying. "But you have. You've gone gray, old man."
Darin cringes at your rough cough and says, "Ay, easy there. Ye're hurt. Lemme get'cha out of there."
He chuckles. "Yeah, that you do."
He moves to open the cell door. You hear a metallic rattling sound, followed by the shrill sound of metal scraping metal. Darin takes hold of the metal bars and tugs them open, rusty hinges groaning all the while.
He hobbles forward, key in hand, and you hold your shackles out in front of yourself for him to unlock. The key slides in easily, and you have the shackles off in seconds.
"That'll do it," Darin says, sliding the key into a pocket and patting the dust off his hands. "You's best follow me. Belos and Vedran told me to come fetch ya. But first, I's think ya need a good bath and a change of clothes, aye?"
You nod in eager agreement.
Next
The water feels heavenly. It may be lukewarm, but to your aching skull and body, it doesn't matter. You cup water in your hands and drop it over your face and short hair.
Sweat, grime, and blood are worn away by the water. I should do this more often.
Then the thought hits you. When was the last time I had a bath?
Rather than ponder the question, you make a silent promise to bathe more and pull yourself out of the wooden tub. Water trickles down your scarred, dark-brown skin and onto the stone tile below. You briefly wonder why the floors must always be stone but quickly put the thought out of your head.
You take hold of the linen towel on a wooden peg against the wall and begin to dry yourself off. You were given the offer of having a maid help clean, dry, and clothe you, but summarily turned it down. Darin seemed disappointed in you.
You then wrap it around your waist to protect your modesty. Your short hair has turned a shade darker from the water and rests flat against your scalp, occasionally dripping water into your eyes.
Seconds later, you hear a knock at the door.
You hear Darin's voice call back through the door, "I's 'ere to remedy that!"
"Did you go through my shite?"
"Of course, you idiot. How the hells else was I supposed to get yer clothes?"
You roll your eyes and tell him to come in.
Darin opens the door and slips inside, depositing a handful of clothes on the floor as he shuts the door behind him. "I hadn't any idea what clothes you's want, so I got ya some pants…" He holds up a pair of plain linen trousers. "A tunic…" He holds up an equally drab tunic. "And some breeches."
"Must you throw it all on the floor?"
He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. "A thank-you would suffice."
"Thank you, old man."
"Fuck you, asshole."
You chuckle lightly. Changing the subject, you say, "So how do I look?"
Darin gives his own chuckle. "Your face is bruised on the sides. Got a nasty gash on yer forehead. Another bad one on your shoulder." He shrugs. "Nothin' permanent, mind."
He adds, almost as an afterthought, "We've both had worse." He subtly gestures toward his bad leg.
You nod and reply, "We have."
The conversation comes to a lull as you move to retrieve your clothes. You sling them over your shoulder and say, "I gotta get changed."
"Yeah, yeah. I's wait outside for ya, aye?"
"Aye."
With that, Darin opens the door and slips out, leaving you alone with your clothes.
You drop your towel and put on the fresh garments.
Next
Traveling through the halls once more feels… wrong. Maybe it's the fact that another war is bearing down upon you. Maybe it's the fact Darin is with you. Maybe it's a combination of both.
The most memorable times you've had him at your side were full of blood and horror. Such were the conditions you fought through. Such are the conditions in which your bond was solidified.
But it brings back memories. Memories you've had lodged away deep inside your skull.
Memories that come back when Darin is with you.
They creep back into your consciousness.
Next