The Prison of Tartarus.
They said this prison-fortress was built for one sole purpose: to hold monsters, heinous criminals, and other vermin hidden by the world. For centuries, it remained impenetrable, both as a fortress in times of war and as a prison from which no one had ever escaped.
Erected atop a massive stone mountain, at the summit of a sheer cliff, Tartarus dominated the surrounding landscape with a cold, unshakable presence. The structure seemed carved directly from the bowels of the mountain, its towers and walls nearly indistinguishable from the natural rock that surrounded it, a result of long and arduous work.
For more than four hundred years, Tartarus had never been taken by enemy forces. Surrounded by a tempestuous sea on one side and treacherous cliffs on the other, its location made any attempt at rescue or invasion practically impossible.
To the daring pirates or the bravest and most pretentious enemies, the fortress offered no strategic value, nor did it contain any treasure within. It was merely a gigantic block of sculpted stone—a tomb for the living, where those whom the world had forgotten disappeared.
As soon as we disembarked from the ship, I was transferred to a small boat. Six men rowed while four guards closely watched me. My wrists and ankles were shackled, and I could feel the cold metal corroding any hope of escape.
Why so much caution with someone like me? The reason, I still didn't know, but the chains seemed to grow heavier with each stroke that brought us closer to the entrance.
The boat finally reached the mouth of a dark cave, located just below the cliffs. The cave was the only known entrance and exit to Tartarus, a natural tunnel that snaked through the rock to the deepest and highest levels of the prison.
When we set foot on solid ground, the guards shoved me, forcing me to follow the path that stretched into the dimness. Only a single torch lit the narrow corridor, its damp stone walls reflecting the heavy sound of our boots. The silence was absolute, broken only by the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks outside.
As we climbed the stairs carved into the rock, each step echoed menacingly, as if the walls themselves were witnessing my march toward whatever fate awaited me.
I would probably die in this place.
The guard ahead frequently pushed me, irritated that I kept glancing at the abandoned cells lining the path.
The doors of these cells were solid; when they weren't thick wooden doors reinforced with iron, they were merely blocks of stone sealed with a single entrance, with rusted iron bars that told the story of centuries of abandonment and neglect.
The air was thick with the smell of salt, mold, and... death. The sense of claustrophobia intensified with every twist of the tunnel.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, we crossed a long hallway and arrived in a spacious, dimly lit room.
At the center of the room, a man sat behind a massive wooden desk, surrounded by mountains of books and stacks of yellowed documents.
The faint torchlight cast grotesque shadows over the pile of papers, making the man's figure almost unrecognizable. He slowly raised his head, his eyes tired and expressionless, as if I were just another among the thousands who had passed through there.
This was Tartarus. This place was more than a mere prison-fortress. It was a place where hopes came to die, for no help had come for those imprisoned here before me, and no help had come since.
— So, this is our monster.
The man's voice was cold, devoid of any compassion. He gestured slightly with his chin as he remained seated in his worn leather armchair, in a poorly lit office, filled with piles of documents and dusty books.
The only light came from a few scattered candles, casting long, distorted shadows on the stone walls. The man, with a pompous appearance, must have been in his forties, perhaps older. Judging by his looks, there were a few wrinkles on his forehead and dark circles under his eyes.
His haughty gaze was impenetrable, and his eyes studied me as if he were observing an exotic creature behind a cage.
He was probably writing something, for as soon as I arrived at the cell, he immediately put the brush away. Now, with me and the guards in the cell, he finally stood up from the armchair.
— I am Anor D'leark, — he said, in an elegant tone with a slight hint of emotion, as if the name meant something grand and unquestionable. Perhaps it did, perhaps not. It didn't matter.
— Mr. Anor, I know you must hear this often, but I want you to know that I am not a monster — I responded, my voice hesitant.
Every word I uttered seemed useless, but no matter how futile it felt, I had to try. I didn't know why I was here. My memories were a blur since the moment I was thrown onto the ship.
The men had beaten me, calling me a "monster," but I didn't understand. I was just like them, wasn't I? What made me different? Why me?
Anor sneered, his voice now mocking, as if he were speaking to a child.
— I know perfectly well that you're innocent, my boy.
He chuckled softly, as if sharing a joke only he understood.
— If you were a real monster, why do you think you would be here?
His words hung in the air, carrying a meaning I couldn't quite grasp. Something in the way he spoke made everything seem darker, more... torturous.
— If you were truly a monster,
Anor continued, leaning forward on his desk.
— We wouldn't be having this... discussion. You would already be rotting in the ground. Here, in the Prison of Tartarus, we only lock up those we consider... harmless.
Harmless. The word felt like a sentence. Something was deeply wrong with this place, something I still couldn't understand. Anor D'leark stood up from his chair and walked around the desk, approaching me.
He placed his hand on my shoulder almost affectionately, a gesture meant to calm me, but it only deepened my discomfort.
— Let's see your cell, boy, — he said, as if he were leading a guest on a tour.
We descended a long spiral staircase that seemed to sink into the depths of the earth. The air grew thicker and damper, and the smell of mold clung to the stone walls.
The sound of footsteps echoed ominously as we descended deeper. The silence was unnerving, as if the prison itself wanted my soul.
Upon reaching the lowest level, I was led to a cold, desolate cell. The space was small, with a crude bed carved directly from the rock in the corner. Scratches covered the walls, some resembling ancient writings, but I couldn't read, so they meant little to me.
"What did people use to write on the walls?"
I whispered to myself, my voice barely audible, as I looked at the inscriptions with curiosity.
Anor followed my gaze, and a mocking smile appeared on his face as he pointed to one of the phrases carved into the stone.
— "God will save me," they say. — He laughed cruelly. — People always try to cling to something, don't they? A dream, a hope, something to keep them alive for just one more day.
He walked slowly around the cell, inspecting the scratches like an inspector, before turning to face me.
— Some make calendars, counting down the days of their sentences, hoping one day they'll get out. But don't worry...
He paused, the smile fading from his face.
— ...Because none of them ever lived long enough to see the end of their sentence.
A chill ran down my spine. Before I could process what he said, Anor began removing the heavy overcoat he wore. He folded it calmly, as if preparing for a routine task.
— But don't be too sad. Every year, on the anniversary of your imprisonment, we'll visit you. It's just a beating... for us. But for you... well, today, I'll make it a special occasion. After all, it's not every day an "Æther" ends up in my cell.
"Æther?"
What was that? I didn't know...
Before I could react, he motioned to the guards standing nearby. In a matter of seconds, my hands were shackled to the chains on the wall, and I was forced to turn my back to him. They tore the back of my clothes, exposing my skin.
— If you're wondering why your god left you to rot here, don't fool yourself into thinking the gods care about people like us, — Anor said, his voice relaxed.
I mumbled, my voice weak:
— If the gods don't care, why did they send us here?
Why I said that, I don't know. It was something that came from the depths of my soul, and I just blurted it out. I'm truly a wretch for thinking that way, aren't I?
Anor paused for a moment, surprised, but soon his look of surprise turned into a cruel smile.
— Ha ha ha... That's the spirit. I think I like you. Let's make a deal, then. I whip you, and you call for him. When he shows up, I'll stop. How about that? Sounds fair, doesn't it?
With a wicked look, he delivered the first lash. Pain exploded across my back.
— ...Grrr*
I held back the first scream, not because I couldn't scream, but because the pain was so intense that I simply couldn't.
— Ghaaa!!!... — I screamed, unable to contain the sound.
Blow after blow, my screams echoed throughout the prison, until my voice was extinguished in the cold air of that night.
It was in that moment that I began to think that, maybe, death wasn't as bad as it seemed.