ONE
I did not know how long it was that I had been a prisoner.
The darkness was tireless, constant and discomforting. Although my eyes had already adapted to the near blackness, I saw very little of my actual prison. From what little light was secreted by a torch or two within the main vestibule, I deduced that my space was not very large. As to the rest of me, my hands were weighted down by chains and bound behind me. Whenever I shifted my body, my fingers scraped against the brick and mortared walls, stinging my raw skin.
The heavy air was sticky, and a foul odor contaminated it. I could not tell whether the incessant putrescence was actually the air, or whether I was inhaling the scent of my own sweat and dirt. I supposed it did not really matter, either way.
During my confinement, I heard very little, save the creaking of the door signaling the comings and goings of those who brought me food and water … But that was not the sound that made my stomach turn. No, that honor was reserved for the muted echoes of leather slicing flesh and the subsequent yelps of pain coming from the cell next to mine. The cries were coming from my mostly unpleasant companion, the angel, Bill.
Our imprisonment, it seemed, was vastly different. Mine was more a mental torture rather than physical; the guilt of knowing how terribly I had failed Lily. The chains that bound me mattered not as I was well acquainted with torture. Aye, torture and I were old bedfellows and had been for longer than I could remember. But as for the immortal angel who could not be killed? His crass mouth had managed to finally catch up with him. It seemed our keepers refused to tolerate his loose and oftentimes inflammatory speech. Their patience, I assumed, paled when compared to mine.
All that Bill and I could look forward to now was eternal darkness. To the untrained eye, it might have appeared as if I had given up and resigned my body to an eternity of nothingness inside my cell. But I was not defeated. No! On the contrary, I made the decision to win by managing to survive. I disallowed my captors to take amusement in my imprisonment because I simply stopped responding.
“Conan!” the insipid angel rasped from his cell. I did not bother to answer. “Bladesmith!” he cried out again in a voice parched for water. “If you’re still alive, answer me!”
“Aye, Ah’m still alive,” I responded, contemplating whether the alternative might be better. “O’ course Ah’m still alive,” I muttered. At that moment, there was nothing more despicable to me than my own immortality.
“When ya gonna get us the hellz outta here?” my jail mate prattled on. His abrasive tone caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. “I’m not meant for this drafty dungeon shit. I’m so hungry, I think my stomach started eatin’ itself; an’ my throat’s so dry, it feels like swallowing glass every time I try to talk.”
“Mayhap ye should listen tae yer body then, an’ shut yer geggie,” I interrupted. I was in no mood to indulge his carrying on. The ugliness of my own twisted thoughts were plenty enough to keep me company. I certainly did not need his.
“I think I’ve got the flu,” he persisted as if he had not heard me. It was probably more fitting to say he just did not care. He was quiet for a moment or two before starting up again. “Du-u-u-ude! Ya gotta do something! Ya gotta get us outta here, man! I can’t take no more o’ this gloomy shit! An’ my whole body’s hurtin’! I’m like, I’m like losin’ my mind, Conan! Ya gotta help a brother out!”
“An’ jist whit dae ye propose Ah dae?” I ground out, feeling as helpless as a newborn foal. Frustration had become my only companion, at least since my arrival here.
“Fuck, I dunno! You’re the one with the crazy Druid magic shit, not me! If I knew how to bust my fat ass outta here, d’ya think we’d be havin’ this conversation right now?”
“Ah ’spose not,” I
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