I stare at the floor.
I shiver. I cough.
Something that makes my breath smell like mold ravages my throat, makes my hacking and wheezing saturate in diseased blood. My left arm is numb, only my pinky and thumb can move. My right arm is riddled with bruises and abrasions, damp strands where the shirt tore stick to my lower shoulder. My legs splayed out in front of me, they twitch from random spasms. An empty stomach grinds against my shallow thoughts, a beating headache dashes away my sense of composure. My body has gone into overdrive to keep me alive, but it's fighting a losing battle.
I'm freezing, fluids of all colors leak from the infected wound along my back. I yearn for water, but I know they will give me none.
My lacerated back is propped up against the cobblestone walls of my joke of a prison, giving me a view of everything this moldy room provides. I'm not chained up, not kept under watch, I don't even think the door is locked. Those soldiers know I'm not going anywhere. If I left, they would surely cut me down. If I snuck out, those wolves I can hear howling occasionally would surely sniff me out.
This is the end, the last stop for me.
I've been here for what feels like weeks, but I know it's only been a couple of days at most. When I awoke, the pain was unbearable. They came in and beat me until I stopped screaming. They did it again when I woke up the second time. When I awoke the third time, I felt what seemed to be dried spit which clinged to the side of my face. I blame my throat infection on that spit, it's either that or there's too many spores floating about here. By my fourth awakening, my nerves surrounding the wound seemed to be shot, and I was left with an icy cold sensation instead of searing pain.
I've stayed awake since then, and despite the fatigue that clings to my eyelids, I'm not tired. I'm numb. No true thoughts, no care for what's around me or what comes for me. I barely notice that the door to my cell rises with a bang, and three figures enter the cramped space. They stand there for a moment, before the middle one scoffs. I merely stare at their boots, face void of emotion.
"Look at you, wasting away in the bowls of my camp, and not a peep?"
My eyes twitches, the only reaction the man in the middle will get.
"Well, besides screaming like a demi-human, that is." He adds on.
The soldiers flanking him snort in amusement. I slowly raise my eyes to look at the man, not even bothering to raise my head. Up and up my vision goes. Leaving behind heavily armored boots and greaves, rising past an armored chest plate and gloves, one of the gloves clutching the man's eccentric helmet like a basketball in the hands of a relaxed pro: stuck between his forearm and side abdomen.
"I heard Tarnished were supposed to be great warriors, usurpers that invade our lands in the hopes of becoming a 'King of Thieves' of sorts,"
Two peculiar pieces decorate the man's breastplate near the armpits, a cone and small shield. I've seen jousters wear them before. But the real eye catcher is the man's face. Unlike his fellow soldiers, his features are like mine, devoid of the ashen skin and deep wrinkles. He has a grin fueled by bravado, vibrant emerald eyes and jet black hair that curls about his head. His voice is deep, like the other soldiers, yet his armor would suggest he's the leader. He insults me as I look over his features, his eyes switch between humor and hostility faster than I thought possible.
"If all Tarnished are like you, skinny and loud as you are, then I think the rats have a better chance of becoming Elden Lord."
I feel something under the numbness, a burning sensation of anger. It doesn't go anywhere, and merely makes me scowl weakly at the man. He raises an eyebrow to my baring teeth; his eyes tell me exactly what he thinks. He turns to one of the soldiers to his right, brushing me off.
"When will the caravan pass through?"
The soldier, a more broadly built one than most, grunts.
"They should arrive by early morning, if all things go as planned."
The man in the middle nods.
"Good, prepare a mobile cell, we wouldn't want our little friend here scampering off now would we?"
The soldier leaves, and the man turns his attention back to me. He walks forward, those boots of his draw closer. I can't help but flinch, to cower away as he approaches. I feel insulted, disgusted with myself. I've never been exposed to so much violence and brutality, it's not something people experience in the suburbs of Missouri.
I've heard of bad groups kidnapping and beating people for ransom or simply because they felt crossed. I've even heard of terrorist groups taking people and threatening to execute them if certain conditions aren't met. Hostages in a robbery, prisoners of war. I thought I would be brave if I ever found myself in a situation like this, my imagination of being like a main character, making a mockery of my captors and even defeating them somehow. I'm a blackbelt in karate, I'm a track runner, a fencer, I've even dabbled in actual swordplay. I thought, with my skills, I would be able to defeat anyone; what self-centered teenager wouldn't?
But this isn't martial arts training, where your opponent lets you take them down. It's not fencing, your opponent won't stop if you're tagged or get hurt. It's certainly not my imagination, where the opponents are too busy being frozen in awe at my moves. It's reality, these opponents are trained men, and they hold no compassion for me. The approaching man takes delight in my attempts to cover myself, and he drops to a hunch. His plated armor clicks and grinds with his movements, yet he seems perfectly flexible in it. He sets his tall helmet on the wet ground between us, tapping it's top thoughtfully. I keep an eye on him between my splayed fingers; not because I can face him, but because I want to know if he'll strike me.
"You know, Tarnished, our land has laws, and despite the degradation of things, those laws will be upheld."
He draws his face in closer, I think I just wet myself.
"This is how the story will go, okay? You raided a peaceful encampment in the woods with more of your Tarnished friends, mercilessly killing the residents and ravaging their cart and tents before attempting to flee."
He gestures to the remaining soldier behind him, who looks bored more than anything else.
"My scouts captured you, while the remaining Tarnished left you to die. You are guilty of murder, theft, and the Capital Punishment of being Tarnished, of being an invader in our lands."
He puts on a grin that's much too wide for the situation.
"Think you can play along for me?"
I say nothing, but I notice the soldier placing his hand on his sword's hilt. I begrudgingly nod. The man stands up, taking his helmet with him.
"Wonderful, now be a good prisoner until then, okay?"
He slips the helmet on, it makes him look a foot taller. His voice is muffled as he speaks to the remaining soldier.
"Guard him. And if he resists, hit him until he doesn't."
The soldier grins. And with that, the man in plated armor takes one last look at me from the doorway, where the noises of night can be heard trickling in.
"Farewell, Tarnished, I'd be lying if I said it's been a pleasure."
I can't see his eyes in the darkness of his "t" shaped visor, but I can tell enough by his voice. He's telling the truth. With that he leaves, giving me nothing but fear, and the knowledge that by morning, I will be as good as dead.
A few hours pass by from what I can guess. Each second feels longer than the last, I would be hyperventilating if I wasn't only partially conscious. Something like a knot in my neck gives me a splitting headache, I give in trying to keep my head up. I cough, and almost immediately the soldier in the corner speaks up.
"Shut up."
I slightly wince at the voice.
The soldier has been berating me since the man in the armor left, speaking insults or threats occasionally. What's scaring me is how his voice has been rising, like my simple existence is shortening his temper. I try to stay quiet, but a few minutes later, my body can't take it, and I hack violently.
"Shut up."
I get into a coughing fit, the force of which causes my head to bob up and down. The taste of iron is in my mouth, my breath is moist and warm. The soldier rises to his feet, and the unmistakable noise of a blade being drawn sends a shiver down my back.
But I can't stop.
The soldier stalks forward, closing in on my convulsing form.
"Do you want to die!?" The soldier yells. "Do you want to lose your arm? Your leg?"
I'm seized by what's left of my collar and dragged up, much to the pain of my wounds. He brings my face close to his, and once I cough again, and blood splatters on the soldier's ashen cheek, I realize it's what he wanted.
With an enraged voice, the soldier gave me one word.
"Filth."
A strong and hard knee drives into my stomach, and my vision flashes red. I let out an inhuman noise, before the soldier throws me. My world spins, maybe once or twice, before I slam at an awkward angle on the adjacent wall. I spill to the floor, it feels like something broke in my chest. I gasp for breath, the desire to vomit makes everything tingle. Before I even have the time to recover, the soldier is on me again. I'm kicked, maybe once or twice, maybe even more. My consciousness fades, senses dulling until the constant beating sounds nothing more than a heartbeat. My vision fades, my muscles slacken.
I'm overcome with a sort of encompassing chill… This must be what dying feels like.
…
…I don't care.
… … . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . _
The soldier takes a moment to catch his breath, staring at my seemingly lifeless body. His pent-up frustration is satisfied, He broke my nose, caused my skin to split and bleed. Fractured more bones than he could count with his fingers. He stands there for a while, before realizing what he did. He'd be in trouble if he killed me, and he bites the inside of his lip.
"Oi."
He pokes my battered face with his boot.
"Wake up."
I don't respond. He kneels down and grabs me by the collar again, panic rising in his voice.
"Oi!" He shakes me, eyes widening, teeth gritting. "Wake up!"
_ . . . . . . . . . . . . ... ... ... .. .. .. .. ...!
Something jolts me. My eyes snap open. I don't quite understand it, I was prepared to die. I made peace with it, not like I had a choice. I was ready and was content to just drift off into the void, let that enwrapping chill take me away. But something made me wake up, and it wasn't coming from this hideous face that is a mere few inches from mine. It was something else, a voice if I could describe it. I'm sure I've heard that voice before, somewhere in the recent past. I can't place it, but it sounded familiar. It spoke simple words, and despite having little real power, it made me seemingly come back from the dead.
Live. It said. Fight and live. Live to fight another day.
My head snaps forward, maw open wide. I bite down on the soldier's nose in an act of mania, exerting enough force to draw blood.
"Gyaaargh!" He roars.
My spindly arms latch onto the sides of his head, feet pressing into his chest like I'm some sort of rabid wolf. I don't know why I do this, maybe some form of instinct. Or maybe it's a charge. An idea how to save myself and escape here alive.
I push off with a violent jerk, sending the soldier stumbling back, dropping his sword as he reaches for his face. The long blade clatters across the cobblestone, skidding to a halt next to my mud caked feet.
He clutches where his nose should be, I spit out something near the size of my thumb. Without breaking eye contact, I grab his sword, caring not for the weight that makes me stand hunkered and lobsided. My eyes are wide, face contorted in a dark scowl. The fury that has existed as nothing but embers comes to life once more, my meekness and fear burned away by a desire to survive, and a desire for revenge.
"You. You bastard!" The soldier roars.
He charges me, I return the favor. I let out a scream, not of pain, though it covers me. Not of fear, it's left me. It's of frustration, anger, and adrenaline. I level the sword, holding it out like a spear. In three steps from both sides we meet in the middle of the room, and a blade is buried into flesh. The soldier didn't try to dodge, for whatever reason, I don't know. But his own blade pierces deep into his bowel, just as his fist strikes me in the side of the skull. I lose my grip of the handle and I fall, but I'm up again, moving in a seemingly alien fashion as I wince all over from broken bones and deep bruises. My back wound gushes septic warmth, one eyes completely closed and swelling. I look like a demon, or an imp that just crawled out of the sewers. Like an imp, I pounce at the soldier, who is losing his balance fast. On the human body, there's three spots that hurt the most to get shot at. The ankles, the neck, and the stomach. I plunged that sword in right above where the soldier's belly button is, the pain is enough to make even the strongest men convulse. I tackle him, jamming the sword in deeper until it peeks out the other side. He falls, and I go with him. He's screaming, twitching with such a ferocity that it's like a seizure.
Despite it all, I rip the sword out, before plunging it in again.