"— Alright... alright, let's get started,"
said the old Nathan with a jovial smile.
Nathan nodded, his tired eyes filled with determination. He walked with a limp—not because he was injured, but because he had twisted something while crawling through the tunnels, making his way to the corner of the cell, his footsteps dragging on the stone floor.
"— The guards' window opens twice a day,"
Nathan explained, watching intently the small opening through which the bucket of waste would be passed.
"— First, for the waste... where we can hide the rubble. Then, at night, for the food."
The plan was simple but required a certain level of patience. We dug secretly, removing the waste little by little, hiding it in the waste buckets. Each day, we progressed a bit further, but never fast enough, as that could attract the guards' attention.
Even so, the new scheme of "two cells and two buckets" promised to double our speed.
"— Hurry up, old man, put that bowl here!"
shouted one of the guards bringing food to the cell.
Nathan, with his usual calmness, obeyed without haste since he couldn't be seen because of the door. The sound of the guard's footsteps echoed against the stone walls.
"— Fortunately, he hasn't changed his route in years,"
he whispered.
The guard always passed by at the same rhythm, the metallic sound of his boots alerting us in time to hide whatever was necessary. It was like a dance, and we had learned the choreography perfectly.
A small door at the base of the cell opened, narrow enough for only a shallow bowl of food to pass through. When the bowl came in, Nathan grabbed it, thanking as usual.
"— Thank you," he murmured, as if it were a routine habit.
I never understood why he thanked for the miserable food we received. When I asked, he said something about the sacred value of all food.
My thoughts were quick and bitter: "Should I thank for being trapped all this time, too?" But I held back. Old Nathan didn't deserve my sarcasm. No matter how grumpy I was, I still wasn't a wretch who took out my frustrations on others.
Nathan spent hours etching symbols on the walls of the cell. It was a rough, primitive job, but effective. He didn't dare draw anything elaborate for fear of raising suspicions. His marks looked like meaningless scribbles to anyone who saw them, but for us, they were maps, calculations, and words.
Just like me, Anor also visited Nathan once a year for his ritual; that man was really a wretch, wasn't he?
"— These are the only times the guards check our cells,"
Nathan explained while keeping his finger pointed at the walls and his gaze focused on his work.
"— This means we can work in peace the rest of the time."
The guards' negligence was our greatest advantage.
"— So, negligence has become our main ally."
I read what Nathan had written on the walls.
"— Perfect."
Nathan replied, nodding in agreement; I was starting to get the hang of the words.
We worked late, uninterrupted except by the rhythmic sound of our improvised tools. When we reached a point where digging further would be risky, Nathan taught me to read.
At first, it seemed difficult, and I finally realized that it wasn't just difficult; it was incredibly hard. Seriously, how the hell did people come up with each word? Take this one, for example: "adstricto"—what the hell kind of word is that? It makes no sense!
At night, without light, we burned pieces of hair to illuminate the cell. It was a small sacrifice, but enough to keep us from being in total darkness; after all, there were no candles for that.
"Is that why Nathan is half bald?" I thought, watching the bright patch on the top of his head. The image made me chuckle quietly for no reason, but the sound echoed through the cell anyway.
Nathan shot me a confused look as if to ask, "What the hell is this kid thinking?" but he didn't say anything. I quickly disguised my laughter.
"I'm definitely doomed to hell," I thought, still laughing internally.
Over time, I began to notice something about Nathan. He had a rigid posture, a way of moving that reminded me of old soldiers or retired fighters. He wasn't a bag of bones about to crumble, but he also wasn't a muscle colossus. There was something in him, something suggesting strength beneath his weary surface.
One day, while we were digging, my curiosity got the better of me.
"— Nathan, were you a soldier?" I asked, straightforwardly.
He paused for a moment, his hands still on the stone he was hammering. For a brief second, his gaze drifted, as if he were reliving a distant memory.
The sound of stones being scraped and hammered filled the silence as we worked to dig our way to freedom. I barely knew Nathan when I met him, but he always carried an air of mystery. Something about that cell and his stories made time feel denser.
"— Yes, when I was young, I fought in two wars and dozens of battlefields that came with them,"
Nathan suddenly said, his voice rough and deep.
"— We had so many dreams back then... dreams of being heroes."
"'We?'" I thought for a moment, but still continued listening to the story.
He kept digging, listening in silence, feeling the weight of his history, as if each word were a stone falling upon me. He seemed lost in his memories, his trembling hand gripping the improvised tool.
"— One day, my men and I were sent to hunt the savages of the West,"
he continued.
"— They took refuge in a church. Our lord, furious, ordered us to burn the place... with all of them inside."
I paused, sweat trickling down my face; the tunnel was quite hot and poorly ventilated, so I was sweating bullets at that moment. I looked at him, although the darkness of the cell made it hard to see one another well.
"— You... you didn't do that, did you?"
I asked, my voice quieter than I intended, almost a whisper. I didn't expect a comforting answer; in fact, I hoped he hadn't heard me, but the silence that followed was suffocating.
"— To the greatest disgrace of my life, yes..."
Nathan's voice trembled.
"— ...And I still hear the screams, even after forty years."
But there was another question in my mind, something I needed to understand.
"— How did you end up here?"
I asked, breaking the silence.
Nathan let out a deep sigh and continued hammering the stones.
"— I broke my oath to the kingdom and abandoned the imperial army. I could no longer live with it... with the blood I shed. I swore never to take another life and became a priest. I left my lands, my titles, and my family to live a humble life in the church."
He paused, as if the memories tormented him.
"— But the world, as you know, is not a just place. My younger brother, who was the 'Lord' of our family, died shortly after taking control... but before he left, he hid the family treasure."
"— Treasure?"
I whispered, intrigued.
Nathan nodded, striking the wall once more. The stones seemed to resist, as if they, too, wanted to hear more of the story.
"— They wanted the gold. There were stories about our family saying that a glorious ancestor of ours had stolen the treasure from a dragon, and that my brother hid the treasure and, before he died, rumors said he entrusted the secret to me. But I had already abandoned everything, and yet they came after me."
He paused for a moment, asking me to change the candles, and as I did, Nathan continued:
"— Shortly after, I was captured by the Hand of the King."
"— The Hand of the King?"
I asked, confused.
"— A cruel and greedy man, thirsty for power and wealth. He wanted my family's treasure to finance his wars. He didn't believe me when I said I didn't know where the treasure was. He imprisoned me here, hoping that pain or time would make me remember... what absurdity."
His tone changed, becoming rougher, darker. He began hitting the stones harder, as if trying to exorcise the demons of the past.
"— Since then, my God has been my only companion... until the day you showed up."
I rolled my eyes, unable to contain my skepticism. I didn't believe that gods cared about people like us. From what I had seen before being brought to this land, the gods were, at most, indifferent and cruel figures; I would deny calling anything like that a god. I wouldn't bend or serve their whims and caprices, as I had read many times in Nathan's various books.
"— God is as real as your treasure, Nathan,"
I murmured, not intending to be heard.
But he heard. And to my surprise, he laughed.
"— Hahaha! Maybe,"
he said, the light laughter contrasting with the weight of his previous words.
I remained quiet, looking at the small beam of light coming through the crack in the cell. This conversation had raised more questions than answers. Perhaps Nathan's redemption was real, or perhaps he was just clinging to anything to bear his guilt. I, on the other hand, would continue to doubt, to question; perhaps this was my destiny in the end.