Chapter 45
The sharp clang of metal against metal shattered the darkness that had held me in its grasp. The echo vibrated through my bones, wrenching me back to a reality I would have rather remained unconscious to. My eyes cracked open, struggling to focus on the figure standing just beyond the iron bars. A soldier strike the bars once more with his sword.
"Eat," he ordered roughly. He sheathed his sword and placed a small, pitiful bowl just beyond my reach.
I could not move. My body was unresponsive to my will. My abdomen burned, my cheek pulsed, and my left knee throbbed so viciously that the mere act of breathing sent tremors through my frame.
The soldier let out a sigh, yet he did not leave. Instead, he stepped into the cell. He crouched beside me and slipped his large calloused hands beneath my shoulders. A sharp hiss of pain left my lips as he hoisted me upright, propping me against the wall. The moment his support left me, my body slumped sideways, too weak to bear its own weight.
I barely registered his muttered curse before he adjusted me again, shifting me to the corner of the cell. My head lolled as I tried to steady my breathing, tried to suppress the involuntary shudders wracking my frame.
Then, his gaze flickered downward.
It took me a moment to realize what had drawn his attention. The neckline of my gown had slipped, the loose fabric barely covering what little modesty I had left. His jaw tightened, and without a word, he reached out, grasping the fabric. I flinched, my breath hitching in fear, but he did not loosen his hold. With almost mechanical movements, he twisted the fabric and knotted it securely at my chest.
It was then that I noticed the hem of my skirt. It torn, and dried blood crusted into the fabric.
The soldier's gaze swept the cell, searching for something. Finding nothing, his hands moved over me with brisk efficiency. Fear sank its claws into me. My body shivered uncontrollably as each touch sent sharp bolts of pain through my battered form.
His hand reached my left knee.
A gasp tore from my throat as agony lanced through me. My vision blurred, and in that instant, I realized something I had not before. Someone had taken a strip of fabric, torn from what must have been my own gown, and wrapped it around my knee.
The soldier lifted the bowl, scooping a meager portion of rice and broth. He brought the spoon to my cracked lips. My mouth parted instinctively, though the mere act of swallowing felt insurmountable. The lukewarm mixture slid down my throat, the feeling was foreign in my stomach after days of emptiness. My insides twisted violently, as though rejecting the very thing they had longed for, but I willed myself to endure it.
His gaze remained fixed upon me. "A few more bites, Lady Florence," he murmured. "You must regain your strength."
I lacked the strength to argue. Another spoonful followed, then another. The warmth should have been comforting, yet it only worsened the churning sickness within me. My body lurched in protest. I turned my head away, lips pressing together in silent refusal.
The soldier exhaled, watching me for a lingering moment. At last, he withdrew the spoon and rose, gathered the bowl and stepped out of the cell. The iron gate groaned as it shut, the lock clicking into place.
The days blurred into one another, a relentless cycle of silence, suffering, and survival. The soldier returned with mechanical regularity, pressing spoonfuls of rice and broth to my lips.
In one foul corner was a wretched hole gaped into the floor, the sole means of relief afforded to prisoners.
But I was not strong.
My body could not carry me even the short distance to that pitiful excuse for privacy. My left knee refused to support me. Each attempt to move was met with failure. And so, humiliation became my companion. I soiled myself. The stench of my own disgrace cling to me like a shroud. When my monthly cycle arrived, it only added another layer of misery to my degradation.
The soldier who brought my food did not acknowledge the state I was in. He did not wrinkle his nose, did not avert his gaze, did not offer even a flicker of recognition that I had been reduced to something less than human. Perhaps he had seen worse. Perhaps this was nothing new. Perhaps, to him, I had already ceased to be a person at all.
Time dragged on slowly. Eventually, the pain dulled to a persistent throb rather than a constant torment. My strength did returned.
The first time I managed to sit up unaided, the soldier abandoned the ritual of feeding me himself, instead placing the bowl on the floor and leaving me to retrieve it on my own. I could no longer tell if this was a sign of progress or merely another cruelty.
The meals grew more generous. The broth thickened, the rice plentiful. I could feel the unspoken intention then. They did not mean for me to die. They were rebuilding me, piece by piece.
A month. By my count based on two bowls per day, a month had passed in this pit. The wound on my knee was healing, but not yet closed.
One day, as I sat in the suffocating stillness of my cell, two soldiers emerged and they unlatched the iron gate. They stepped inside, seized my arms and pulled me to my feet. The motion sent a jolt of pain through my body, my limbs trembling beneath me.
They dragged me down the dimly lit corridors. And then, the door loomed before me. A suffocating dread coiled in my stomach as the door creaked open, revealing the room beyond. The interrogation chamber.
Panic clawing at my chest. They hauled me forward, my feet dragging against the stone as I fought the terror threatening to consume me whole.
The door closed behind us with a finality that sent ice through my veins.