He wondered how his hands had become so calloused—his fingers rough and taut, thin. Fingernails chewed and torn so they wouldn't be in the way or cause more pain.
Pain.
Once, there was a time when he felt it rarely, and usually with a hint of adrenaline—just enough not to ruin the day. He remembered those days when the worst of it was tumbling off his horse—painful, yes, but always quickly forgotten, almost as fast as comfort was offered.
Now it was a daily affair—no, more frequent. His tolerance had grown, but not quickly enough for his tastes.
Those memories of home… On one hand he wanted to forget, and on the other his heart froze at the thought. It would never be the same again—the days learning the horse with his father and brothers. His mother and sisters always watching; they always used the chance to get out of the house and set up a picnic.
He tried to change the direction his mind was taking, focusing on the flames of the torch set outside his cell door. It was one of the few comforts given. Once, it had helped pass the time—watching the flame or its shadows dance. He lost days to that flame, and he was ever grateful for it. But as he focused now, he began to picture the changing of the foliage and the family hearth where he used to stand to warm himself when he was young. Tears stung at his eyes. His memories took control; he let the leash on them go slack. Now they pulled him along.
It was the fall, and his family estate would have great celebrations for the harvest festival. We would go to the villages and sample local goods, and my father would show me the reins of proper rule.
Son, you must remember: happy peasants, happy lord. Unhappy peasants, unheaded lord.
His father always liked that joke, but he never treated it as one.
A small, fragile smile formed as tears met his lips.
Was he still alive?
He tried to focus on the cold biting his bare feet on the rough stone floor. He even started to play a game—one he'd learned not long ago. He would wedge his big toe into a crack in the stone and position his nail along the edge, and with just a bit of pressure widen the gap between toe and nail. He would do this until the pain became too much, but every day for the past few weeks he returned to that game. It was like an itch he couldn't stop himself from scratching. It was a pain he could control But even as engrossing as the practice was, he still felt the chill seep deeper into his bones. If not for the torch, he would see his breath, and at that thought winter came to mind.
Winter was a time of remembrance in his home. His emotions pulled him back with a firm hand, and he remembered the traditions. They were filled with the teachings of their ancestors—their ways, their knowledge, their life, their death. At the apex of winter's grasp the family—all of them, from his brother to his great-great-aunt twice removed—came together.
My grandfather… I'm not sure whether to be happy he passed years ago or not. He would always say, "If the spring never came, at least we would face it together."
But it always did, and the family would be stronger for it.
He wept. His family was shattered, and he did not know whether the dead should be envied. Compared to the lives of his now-living family, death was enticing.
Looking at his hands now, wet callus hinted at the hands he once had. The room grew cold from his presence. He had no rage to warm him—only cold hate settling deep into the bones.
Two possibilities presented themselves for this man's outcome. And fate, as cruel as it seemed, always stayed impartial. In one moment you could be a beggar loose on the streets, and in another a king. It all depended on the intertwining of fate's strings.
A small thud came from the door down the hall.
Alaric had once jumped at every such sound. After years, his thoughts of being rescued had diminished. But he allowed himself to feel hope's warmth one last time. He would be executed soon. He wasn't sure when, but by some overheard talk, within the month.
More noise came from beyond the door. It sounded like a fight. Alaric stood. He tried to keep hope subdued, within limits, but it was as slippery as any devil.
The door popped open. Gently.
A man came through—old, but strong, and loyal to House Black by blood.
Alaric's mouth opened slightly and his breath became short and rapid. "Roderic… Uncle, yo—"
"Not now, boy. Later, when I get us out of this."
While saying this, he hugged the boy—man now. Two years in chains. He had walked in no older than sixteen trips around the sun, and he had been in chains for the transition of boyhood to manhood.
"You wipe those tears. There won't be enough water for tears when those bastards see me come."
Alaric wiped his face while following his uncle out of the dungeons. He's right. No more tears from me. I'll never let anyone take anything from me again.
"Us."
Roderic blinked. "What? Oh. Sure, boy."
Looking back, Roderic smirked, expecting to see the young man filled with rage. Let's get some meat on your bones first, killer.
But what he saw instead was a cool head in deep thought—eyes razor sharp and icily cold.
Well, at least he's not as hot-headed as my boy Hadrian. Looks like instead of charging in to topple those at the peak, he's thinking how to weaken the foundation.
Roderic didn't get all this from a stare—no, it also came from the fact that Alaric opened a cell next to his and told the man inside that he needed to open as many cell doors as he could within an hour, and if he did that, freedom would be his.
After getting some distance, Roderic asked why he did that.
Alaric, with a blank face: "It will cause chaos and pain, and I want and need them to experience as much of it as possible. When the guard changes over, we will be long gone, and he will be killed by the prisoners. Then they'll spread out—some killing or thieving while the rest hide and scheme. They'll have more to worry about than just us—not to mention tracing us will become that much more difficult."
"Okay, then why do you think they'll wait for the next shift to leave? And why trust that guy? Who's to say he won't rat you out for leniency?"
"First, because of this."
Alaric showed the main key for the dungeon. "They won't be getting out, and I made sure it was locked when we left that floor."
He stopped talking as some sentries passed, not even seeing them in the darkness. They were almost to the shoreline.
"And that man won't seek leniency. He knows it won't matter—he will still face the hangman. And he trusts me. His name was Peter, and he was the main reason I kept my sanity these last two years—I had someone to talk to."
Roderic was taken aback. "If he did so much for you, why did we not take him with us? There is room on the boat for at least one more."
Alaric smiled hard; he wanted to laugh but knew better. "That man is a serial killer."
Letting that hang while they scoped the coastline for more sentries, he continued:
"He kept me sane by telling me his stories—how he would kill his victims. He started with poison, watched the aftermath, but said it got boring. So he started killing more personally—strangling, stabbing, beating to death. Eventually, he said even that bored him… until he killed his first child. After that, he started to hunt children—said their reactions were more pure. The authorities finally caught him after he had flayed a child alive."
"At first, I just wanted to talk to another human being—and he was always pestering for conversation. Then I wanted to kill the man and cursed God that I would be placed in a place with such people. But then I realized something…"
"I wasn't talking to a human. No—that thing is a monster. A thing to be hunted and put down. And that realization opened my mind. Those who have targeted my family—who have sentenced me, the heir of House Black, to death—are nothing but monsters, and they too should be put down."
"I don't weep for the cod at the end of my line nor the deer pierced by my arrow. The same applies to the wolves who, in poor villages during cold winters, take man and child alike who wander too far from their homes. Should I pity the wolf when my knife is at its throat?"
"No. It is life. And man rules all under him."
They were far offshore when Alaric finished.
Roderic didn't know what to say. The bo—man had lost so much, and was liable to lose more. I can only hope those fools who put my young nephew in there didn't create a monster.
He had a question he needed answered, but he feared the answer. The more I know now, the less caught off guard I'll be in the future.
"Alaric… I understand your feelings for those against us. I can't think of a punishment you could dole out that I would try to stay your hand from. But what of the civilians—the peasants?"
Alaric was staring up at the moon over the lake. It was full and so beautiful. Tears fell, and he let them. He had not seen any beauty—let alone a full moon—in his dark, damp underground cell.
"R… Roderic…" His throat had gone tight and raspy at the sight before him.
"Where did we just escape from?"
"The dungeons of House Dreadmoor."
"Yes. House Dreadmoor's private dungeons—tucked away in the center of their domain near the Dreadmoor estate. Protected not only by those hired by the estate, but also the various village and city militia. Not to mention the taxes collected for the Dreadmoor, who use it to shore up their defenses, both domestic and abroad."
Alaric let his fingers drift across and plunge into the icy water of the lake. The cold bit, but it was invigorating. He had not seen more than a cup's worth of water at a time in two years. Now, with so much in front of him, he just wanted to dive in and scrub.
"Alaric?"
"Those who harbor monsters should mind stray arrows."
A smile rose across his face as he lifted the fresh water to his mouth and drank until he was full.
This is life.