"As the days went by, the number of things we could do inside the cell diminished. Our monotonous routines became even more restricted, and as if that wasn't enough, the food, which was already scarce, began to dwindle alarmingly.
Working in the heavy labor of the tunnel on an empty stomach was torture, the kind of sacrifice that only left us weaker and slower. Even the poor old Nathan was starting to feel its effects.
Once, while two guards passed through the corridor, I overheard something that explained our situation. One of them mentioned that the savages had burned a large part of the crops during this year's raids.
This meant that even inside the prison, where our lives were worth little, we were being affected by the chaos outside. The food shortage was not just our problem; it seemed to impact the entire region.
"No matter what happens, they don't want us to die… yet," I thought, trying to understand their motives. Maybe they were keeping us to use as test subjects for some mad scientist; after all, there weren't many reasons for them to keep us imprisoned here. They kill troublesome people, and capture and detain the peaceful ones. Why? Is there a limited number of people like me in this world? I don't know; it doesn't matter—at least not now.
— Grrrrrrrr * My stomach growled irritably.
But this "life" was becoming painfully unbearable.
It was then that we found an unusual solution. Walking through the corridors, we could see small balls of fur with tails. Yes, that's right—rats!
Yes, the rats were our only hope of survival.
— Today we're going to hunt one!
Said Nathan, the old prisoner, as we set up our makeshift trap.
— They're fast, but we're smarter.
— Are we?
I asked playfully. The old man raised the corners of his lips and shook his head, wanting to laugh but saying nothing.
The tactic was simple but required patience. First, we left the small door through which our meager meals came slightly ajar. With a stone, we set a trap, tying a string we had taken from our clothes. After all, where else could we get something like a hair?
When the rat passed through the door, we pulled the stone, closing the passage and trapping it inside the cell.
— Come on, come on, little one… I whispered, watching the rat's movements. — And… got it!
As soon as the trap worked, old Nathan gave a satisfied smile. But our task was far from over. Now we needed to prepare the animal to become our meal. With a sharp stone, we began to skin the rat. It was an unpleasant process, but hunger made us insensitive to it.
— Don't make that disgusted face — Nathan said as we cleaned the carcass. — Just roast it well so the meat doesn't stay raw. If done right, it even looks like chicken.
I forced a smile. Maybe he was right. Or maybe hunger was driving us mad. But, to my surprise, preparing the rat was only half the challenge.
We didn't have firewood or any other flammable material, so we improvised by burning some strands of hair and old letters that had been sent to Nathan; most of them were letters asking about treasure. Nathan was burning them without a second thought.
The smell was awful, filling the cell in a suffocating manner; there was no problem with the guards since most of them were sleeping. The only downside was the stench.
The flame rose slowly, just enough to heat the little body of the rat skewered on the spit we had made. Nathan handed me a skewer with the roasted meat while he began to eat his, chewing with surprising calmness. I looked at the skewer in my hand, feeling a mix of revulsion and resignation. I blinked a few times, imagining myself eating that.
Never in my life had I imagined I would be in such a situation. Years ago, if someone had told me I would be eating a roasted rat in a foul cell, I would have laughed in their face.
— Who would have thought… — I murmured, still staring at the skewer, unable to take the first bite.
Nathan noticed my discomfort and raised an eyebrow.
— What's wrong? Don't you like rat?
— It depends — I replied, trying to ease the tension with a joke. — Are you going to tell me it tastes like chicken?
The old man smiled, but his gaze suddenly became stoic. It was strange to see that abrupt change in his expression, as if, for a moment, he were pondering something much deeper.
— No…
He said, in a deep voice and a stoic tone that surprised me.
— It's rat! It has to taste like rat!
"For some reason, this raw simplicity made me laugh. I couldn't hold it back. I turned my gaze to the ceiling, trying to stifle my laughter, but when I looked back at Nathan, he had a mischievous grin from ear to ear. That was enough to make me burst into laughter.
— Pffft… Hahahahaha! You… you are impossible! — I exclaimed between laughs.
Nathan started laughing too, and there we were, two desolate prisoners, laughing like fools in the middle of the prison. Of course, we kept our laughter muffled to avoid attracting the guards' attention, but for a brief moment, we forgot where we were. In that instant, the dark, cold cell felt less suffocating, and the weight of our miseries felt lighter.
As the laughter subsided, I looked again at the skewer in my hand. Nathan had already devoured his, as if it were a feast. I sighed and took my first bite. The taste? Well, it was exactly as he had said: it was a rat, it tasted like rat.
That morning, when it was my turn to continue digging the tunnel, I noticed that old Nathan had hurt his back. But of course, that didn't stop him from trying to teach me while I was digging.
— Twenty-five cubic centimeters of rock per day — he began, his voice slow and patient, as if we were in a classroom. — Three and a half meters a year, maybe four, if we're not slow.
He calculated with precision. Even imprisoned, his mind wasn't rusty. Every little piece of stone removed had to be imperceptible to the guards. They were brutes, yes, but we couldn't tempt fate.
— Thirty-two centimeters a month, eight a week...
I answered the calculation, and he nodded his head.
He continued, his eyes tired but sharp.
— Now say that in Elvish!
I rolled my eyes. Elvish. Nathan insisted that I learn that strange language, full of symbols and sounds that looked more like scribbles. Who, in their right mind, would create something so complicated? But in that place, time was the one thing we had plenty of.
— {Three more years...} — I mumbled, already in Elvish, while Anor did what he did best.
No one around us understood that language, and it was better that way. The guards shot me suspicious glances, as if I were a madman.
But what were three more years, compared to the time I had already endured? Each day brought me closer to freedom, and the pain from Anor's whip didn't bother me as much anymore. My focus was on something greater.
At night, when we couldn't dig for fear of attracting attention, what was left for us was to read. I savored every second of the little light that seeped through the cracks, knowing that soon the darkness would take over the cell.
— Enjoy it while you still have light — Nathan murmured before lying on the hard, cold floor, using the rags of his shirt as a pillow.
It was then that I noticed the scars marking his arms and chest, visible in the dim light. They were battle scars, not prison scars. An idea occurred to me.
— You said once that you were in the army, right?
I asked, trying not to sound too curious.
Nathan gave me a weary look, as if he already knew where I was going with that question, but I ignored it.
— You understand weapons. Could you teach me to fight?
I knew how to throw a punch; I had taken and dealt a few good hits in my life, but this was different. Swinging a knife in a drunken brawl didn't make me a warrior. And deep down, I knew that if I ever got out of that prison, I would need to be prepared. But Nathan hesitated. His face showed fatigue, as if teaching me something so simple were a burden.
— Damn it, kid, someone my age needs to rest once in a while — he grumbled, a mix of resignation and disdain in his voice.
But I couldn't accept a "no." The old man was stalling, and we both knew it. So I decided to take a risk.
— Teach me, or I'll stop digging.
The silence that followed was thick with tension. Nathan looked at me with an expression that clearly said: "You wouldn't do that, would you?"
I simply responded with a determined look. "I would."
He sighed heavily, shaking his head as if he were giving up on arguing.
— Haaa... these kids today — he murmured, exasperated. — They don't respect their elders anymore.
Despite his resistance, Nathan slowly stood up, and with a weary movement, he positioned himself upright and looked towards the dripping wall.
That morning, Nathan seemed pensive. His wrinkles deepened as he watched the water droplets fall rhythmically in the cell. Finally, he stood up with a resolute expression, as if he had come to an unlikely conclusion.
— Is this some kind of joke? I asked, incredulous.
We were facing each other, staring at the water droplets hitting the damp floor of the cell. I could hardly believe what I was about to do. When I asked to learn to fight, I never imagined we'd end up here, trying to turn water drops into a lesson in combat. After all, what could be used as a real weapon in this place?
— Listen…
Nathan began, in that serious tone of his.
— You have strength, despite the malnutrition and your atrophied muscles. But, boy, strength alone won't win a fight.
— Then what does? — I retorted, frustrated.
— Who strikes first. Speed and precision. Sometimes, that's all that's needed. It's not the force of the blow that matters, but the quickness and accuracy with which it is delivered. The swift hand and sharp mind decide everything.
I tried to process his words. He was right, to some extent. But how would that help me take down someone bigger and stronger?
— Now—
he said, with a slight smile of challenge—
— Try to pass your hand between the water droplets without getting wet.
I looked at him, perplexed. This couldn't be serious. My eyes followed the constant rhythm of the drops, as if they were mocking my hesitation.
— You want me to put my hand between the droplets? — I asked, disbelieving.
Nathan nodded, his eyes sparkling with amusement.
I tried once, twice, three times, but each movement ended in the same failure: my hands got wet. With each failed attempt, my patience wore thin.
— This is impossible! —
I declared, making a face of defeat.
— They're too fast!
Nathan started to laugh. And it wasn't a contained laugh. It was genuine laughter, as if he were enjoying my struggle.
— Try this — he said, still laughing.
Nathan then brought his right fist close to his chin, his eyes focused on the falling water. In a quick motion, he passed his fist by my face, a swift movement that came and went without getting wet.
I blinked, surprised. The movement was agile, precise, but… after seeing it a few times, it seemed more like a trick than an actual strike.
— Is this a joke? — I asked, incredulous.
— No —
he replied, serious for a brief moment, before letting out a weary sigh.
— Haa... kids. You have so much energy but so little patience. I'm going back to digging. Have fun with the droplets.
— What?
Before I could protest, Nathan walked away toward the tunnel, leaving me alone to face the drops of water that continued to fall, mocking my frustration.
And there I was. Alone. Dodging water droplets and punching the air. For some reason, that felt humiliating.