Dreams of a prisoner
It's a rare dream that makes a complete story, a finished chapter that lets you wake when it is closed. This is poorly written down but it hasn't been through any editing and it's past two in the morning now.
It was an honour to be moved to the position of guarding this particular prisoner during his transport. What he was accused of, or his previous convictions were, remained a mystery to the newer of the guards assigned. It was not their duty to ask, only to take the assignment and make certain nothing unusual happened. From the talk of the more experienced guards it was hinted at that he was a man of not only numerous old convictions but also many escapes. His people were a reclusive lot, with their own ideas about morality and legality, primitive and permissive regarding acts against people not their own kind.
He stood proud and very tall, surrounded by guards, as they assembled to move him from the temporary cell to the transport. The clothes he wore were obviously his own rather than prison garb, slightly ragged from wear. His shirt sleeves flapped loose, and some sort of necklace clung close, the pendant against the pit of his throat and the whole ornament a dark shade that blended with his skin. There were chains at his wrists and ankles, hindering his movement, but the grizzled head was held high. This man was not a prisoner, but a regal, aged sovereign with a personal retinue. Even the experienced guards seemed put on edge by his attitude, which clearly conveyed that he went where he did because he chose to, rather than because of the guards close behind him with weapons trained. His gaze did not even touch them, as if they were beneath notice, but when he was safely within the cell on the transport wagon his gaze sliced out through the barred window and briefly met hers.
For that brief span of time all the powers of her position were stripped away, and she was no guard at all, merely a girl naked of her training, in the presence of some mighty lord. When the moment passed she was left feeling off-balance; his gaze had already swept away to the distant horizon and his expression showed no sign of having noticed her.
She was not the only guard among those in the convoy to have only recently completed her full training. It seemed they felt that mixing newer officers in with the older ones would be to the benefit of both, and as they traveled together some of her nervousness eased. Their evening encampments welcomed conversation and the trading of stories, and she found herself falling into their company easily. The talk was less of their current prisoner than of various experiences, both during training and in the field. During the evenings she was at home with her compatriots.
Her day shift was a different matter entirely. The prisoner rode in his windowed box like an emperor being borne in some enclosed litter to an exotic destination, rather than a repeat prisoner on his way to what would probably be a final trial. It was inevitable that the horizon would lose his interest eventually and he would watch his escort, studying them with a piercing gaze, silent and straight-backed. There was, after many days, the occasional jeer. It seemed a guard’s right to mock the prisoner, although his sharp gaze tended to make such taunts wither and die on the lips. There was little to criticize at any rate, as he behaved very much the model prisoner. Their journey was a long one and a week and a half in there remained no escape attempts. He took his food and water civilly, although he gave no word of thanks. The long dusty hours of walking beside the wagon encouraged the mind to wander, and she wondered if he ever spoke at all. It seemed unlikely at his age and level of prior criminal acts that their language was unfamiliar to him; It seemed to her that he simply had no reason to speak to them. At last she ventured a few words in his direction, barely daring to glance away from the road before her for fear of meeting that powerful gaze. “It really is the role of a guard to serve the prisoner, in many ways. We only pretend otherwise for our own dignity.”
She was met only with silence for a very long moment, although those around her seemed to be listening in with great curiosity, waiting and watching the interaction before deciding how to judge her for it. When at last a quiet, deep voice gave an answer she nearly jumped. “There’s a price for everything. You cannot imprison a man without creating some tie to him.” No further response came, and she was struck too numb by the response to come up with anything further, but it seemed the act had won her some respect, from both her fellow guards and the prisoner.
The men in charge of the transport seldom exchanged words with the prisoner, but they did give orders. Most directions were simple, the sort of movements required on a daily basis to keep the journey going smoothly. He obeyed them without answer, although there were flashes of resentment in his expression at times. The travel was wearing on all of them, and it began to show in little ways. The initial severe precision of their flanking guard began to relax, and talk came more often along the road. There was little threat from any outside source, and truly such a great entourage of guards for a single man who seemed to have no intent to escape seemed excessive. They talked freely among themselves while on duty, and some of the other new guards grew bold enough to speak to the prisoner as well, although his communication was always brief. She thought that quite probably he was glad for some form of distraction, although simply listening to their conversations likely provided that. Her own exchanges with him were of little import, but he clearly approved of philosophical ponderings best. He listened far more than he spoke, but what he said tended to leave her thoughtful.
In time, of course, she began to feel sorry for him. He seemed bitter, but not without good reason, and refrained from taking that out on those around him. He was clearly not a young man, and although he rode rather than walked, the confinement seemed to wear on him. There was generally a mid-day break, and this was his only chance at exercise, walking slow and stiff within a small area, constantly flanked by alert guards. His bearing was no less regal than on that first day, but it showed a weariness that they were all beginning to feel.
Halfway into the journey the weather turned very hot, where before it had merely been warm. Their mid-day break grew much longer, and was usually held when they reached some area with thicker trees for shade at roughly the right time. After only a few days of the oppressive heat it became necessary to allow the prisoner to walk part time or ride outside his cell on the wagon, lest he suffer severe heat stroke. The air shimmered and came out in waves whenever the windowed box was opened to let him out, usually mid-morning when it became clear that they were in for yet another boiling day. The prison guard in charge of the transport seemed greatly displeased with this arrangement, but the prisoner kept pace and made no suspicious moves. While he was still far from sociable, the new arrangement lent them all a feeling of camaraderie and he spoke marginally more often, occasionally putting forth some opinion on a conversation without needing invitation. Their talks were listless and stretched out, however, sparing their throats from the dust and parched air as much as possible. A slow division grew, largely unnoticed, between the small group of younger guards who willingly conversed with him and the others. She tried to think nothing of it, as the more she knew of his thoughts the more her respect for him grew.
One day they came to an abandoned building, some remnant of a little outpost of civilization. The head prison guard consulted with the drivers, marking the remaining length of the journey on their maps. Nearly two-thirds there but still at least a week’s travel. The guard grumbled over the weather extending their travel time, while a mid-day makeshift camp was established. The prisoner was taken into the building, where they found damaged but somewhat serviceable furniture. Sprawled awkwardly on a chair with his hands cuffed behind his back, he was allowed a rest under guard while some of the officers explored the mostly gutted building. It seemed to have been a store at some point, a combination rest stop, general goods shop, and post office, with some living quarters above for the owners. Destructive weather or possibly a drying up of business seemed to have prompted the place being vacated several seasons ago and the wind and wild animals had run through the place since.
The quiet coolness of the place invited relaxation and relief, and the guards chatted lazily as if on holiday, enjoying the break in the usual monotony of their travels. Uncomfortably seated but worn out from the morning’s march in the heat, the prisoner dozed with his chin on his chest. There were exclamations on some find in another room, and the two left to attend with the prisoner moved quietly to join the others for just a moment, curious. There were other guards all around outside making camp, and the prisoner had nodded off anyhow.
When they returned only moments later, he was nowhere in sight.
So many captures and escapes, it all tended to blur together over the long years, but he had learned how to bide his time and watch for the moment of opportunity. He had nearly dozed for real, but through slitted eyes had watched his captors chat gaily and slip away, their attentions elsewhere. Shifting his cuffed hands from his back to his front was an old trick, hard on stiff joints but still manageable and necessary to move with any speed. He had glimpsed the maps and imprinted them to his mind, noting the village across a narrow band of woods. His only avenue of escape lay that way, but they were not likely to be aware of this caravan and its purpose. He managed to move with stealth out of the building and through the briefly unguarded open ground behind it, entering the woods before they could discover his absence. Travel through the underbrush without stirring up anything that might draw attention was difficult with his hands bound, but he managed to move quickly and in minutes the sounds of the camp had faded behind him. The heat was growing oppressive and the air felt thicker among the greenery, but even that could not explain why ten minutes into his flight his breath came in wheezing gasps and his entire chest pulsed with pain. There was no chance he could make the village ahead of them, and once his escape was noticed they would not be long in fanning out to search the area for him. His only chance lay in hiding somewhere so that they might overlook him in the search, leaving him to travel at an easier pace when they had gone on elsewhere looking for him. Climbing a tree was out of the question, not only for a lack of low limbs to catch and his shackled wrists, but because his arms seemed unlikely to support him at the moment. Time seemed to rush, the chance of escape narrowing with each second. There were no caves or burrows or other clear hiding spots, and a concavity under a bush had to serve. Pulling the fallen leaves and brush over himself was very awkward and he could only hope that the bush itself would aid his cover. He positioned himself stomach down in the narrow pit he had clawed out, a position that more readily lent itself to leaping up in defense if it became necessary. Controlling his ragged breath into a slow and quiet one was the most difficult of all.
He had not lain covered long before the sweep came through, the guards moving in formations as well as they could among the trees. A front line moved past and away into the distance, but scattered guards remained behind, widely spaced but scouring the area more thoroughly. He focused on his breath, and the relief of the ache in his chest fading again with his stillness. There were no cries of discovery, no sounds of readied weaponry aimed his way. In time another sound approached, a slowly growing crashing thrashing rhythmic beating as of the trees in a terrible gale. A few men from the front line returned, leading the rest, and consulted with the head prison guard close by. Not many of the nearby villagers had been willing to help, and those only for a fee, but they had formed a line to beat through the underbrush with makeshift clubs and farming implements, the only weapons they had. He listened to the slow and steady approach, schooling himself to stillness. He did not flinch when the blow came, and in a moment the footsteps and thrashing rake were past. Other footsteps came nearer but without intent, as the previous searchers milled about to be out of the way. Someone stood quite close, the brief crunch of leaves inches from his head, but the moments passed as someone stood there, unseeing.
The cry of discovery came from further away, from one of the villagers. The words were clear to him, although one of the officers had to translate for the head guard. ‘There, the leaves bleed, there.’
He meant to rise up fighting, but there were arms and weapons at every limb before he could cause injury to any of those around him. The guard that had stood near his head actually stepped back in alarm, but he was too distracted with lashing out to notice her standing there with her arms at her sides until he was pinioned by strong grips on his arms, shoulders, neck, and legs. He hung from his captors panting and glowering, powerless. He was all but carried back to camp.
She had stood so close to him, and not even known. His back bled freely as he half-walked and was half-carried back through the woods to camp. Once there, the head guard had him laid on his front on the ground, his hands unshackled only to be refastened behind him. His chin lay on the ground, head stretched out straight to look at the head guard’s boots before him, and she couldn’t help but find it ironic he was forced into nearly the same pose he’d taken in hiding. How could she have been so close, and not even aware? The officers holding him were instructed to pat him down thoroughly for weapons, or possibly keys stolen off one of the guards, although this struck her as unlikely. His shirt was removed, in part for the search but also because the one medic was being brought over to make certain he would not become infected from the scrape down his back. When they came to the necklace at his throat, it was discovered to be a small oilskin bag, and he managed to snap at the guard reaching for it even from his awkward position. His voice came as a quiet growl, more menacing than anything they had heard from him before. “If you take that, I will kill you. One way or another.”
The head guard looked skeptical, and had the prisoner’s head held, a feat which took several tries. Even as he pried the bag open he asked, “What’s in it?”
“Ashes.”
Frowning, the man pulled out a small knife and wiggled it gently around inside, then pulled it out again and pulled the string to shut the bag again. The necklace was never removed, and she saw that the knife blade was now coated in a pale grey. The head guard wiped it casually off on his pants. “Why would you be carrying a bag of ashes?”
He was met only with glaring silence.
The rest of the mid-day break was brief, spent with the prisoner stationary and heavily shackled under a shade tree under guard. When the guards themselves were slightly rested, he was tied to the back of the wagon and made to march with them again, but this time nothing was said. The ointment on his bare back glistened, but the scrapes seemed to have stopped bleeding and had been declared by the medic to be shallow. The uneven patter of feet and wagon tires hung on the hot, still air. Everyone’s breathing was harsh with the dry air and the short rest, but before long the prisoner’s wheezing rose above the other sounds. His head hung and his pace grew uneven. A drink of water seemed to do little to revive him, and the head guard was alerted but voiced suspicion that it was an act, a trick designed for sympathy and another chance to break free. From his position up front with the wagon driver, looking back over the wagon and it’s empty cage, all he could see were the tops of heads. After ten minutes more the prisoner staggered like a drunken man, then fell to be dragged by his bound wrists for a short distance before the wagon could be brought to a full stop on the cries of the soldiers.
The medic was hurried to the spot and the prisoner quickly untied to be examined. The other guards stood back while medic and head guard conferred. The medic’s expression was deeply concerned and the order was given to make a space where the guards took turns riding in the back of the wagon, and the prisoner was laid out there. After further consultation it was quietly announced they would be taking a detour at the next crossroads. A hospital was half a day’s travel away, and their original destination reachable by a few day’s travel from there. Guards were set in a rotating duty to watch the prisoner, and the medic checked on him every few hours. He revived enough to groggily note where he was, but dozed without bothering to change position, wheezing still. She spoke to him when her turn came to watch over his sleep, but he gave no sign of hearing.
In the hospital he was placed unbound in a bed. Nothing was explained to the guards, who continued to take a revolving duty watching him around the clock, but his condition was heavily monitored by the hospital staff. The ever-present soldiers made them nervous, and the shift was reduced to a single guard at any given time, save when changing over.
She watched him open his eyes, and quietly take in his surroundings. His movements seemed lethargic, though whether from illness or being drugged she did not know. He seemed to observe her presence there, but said nothing. Left alone with him, she began carefully to apologize. “I’m sorry this happened. I’m not sure I would have given you away if I had known you were there. Part of me wishes you had escaped.”
He watched her through half-open eyes, his thoughts inscrutable.
“I don’t know what you’ve done, and it’s possible you don’t deserve any of this, but then I’m not sure who is and isn’t in a position to judge that anyway.”
He watched her silently for a while before his eyes slid closed and he seemed to doze off, but a short while later he woke again, and after a hazy look around his gaze settled on her again. When she met his eyes, the intensity was no less than the first time. He struggled with a deeper breath but his eyes never left hers. “Would you do something for me? Take the bag of ash.” The speech seemed to come with difficulty, halting with the effort of breathing.
The words took a moment to register fully, and left her wary and confused. “Take it-why?”
“They’ll take it from me at the courthouse, if I get there, and if I don’t…” He left the rest unsaid, letting his eyes close a moment as he continued to fight for a steady breathing pattern.
“What’s… why are you carrying it?” She checked the doorway, but found no one else in sight. The thought that setting her weapon aside for this was very foolish indeed was pushed to the back of her mind.
“They were someone. I was charged with bringing his ashes to a sacred burial ground, not far from the city the courthouse is in. It was further from your cities, once.”
The story made her head buzz and as she set her weapons on the chair, she felt as if she were floating in a dream. She approached him cautiously but apart from the slow wheezing breaths, he did not move at all. “Are you asking me to take them there?”
“Maybe. Otherwise I’ll fetch them from you when I escape again and do it myself.”
“…When you escape again?” He seemed too weak to so much as stand, although as she drew closer he slowly lifted his head to give her access to remove the necklace.
“I went along with the transport as long as I did because it took me close to there. Now I’d need to cut it closer still. I can hardly get there on my own.” His raised head trembled slightly, and came to rest on her arms as she undid the clasp. Carefully she pulled the necklace away and watched his head slide back to the pillow. It seemed to take him several minutes to recover from the effort of holding it up. Quietly she resumed her seat and her weapons, tucking the necklace away. “I can give it to another of your people, if…” She hesitated to finish the thought aloud.
Eyes closed, focusing on breathing, he murmured softly, “He was the second to last.”
The floating sensation continued in the relative silence that followed. She struggled for words. “You must have known him well…”
“No. No, I didn’t. But it was his last wish to have some part of him taken there.”
“And… if you… who will take yours.” She forced the question and winced inwardly once it escaped her.
He smirked weakly. “I wasn’t raised with my own kind, I’ve always lived in your world. It wouldn’t mean to me what it… did to him.”
It took her a while to think of anything else to say, and then she realized he was asleep again. The thought revolved in her mind, him growing up in a world where people of his kind were looked down upon. Could he have helped becoming a criminal, somewhere along the way?
A few days later it was announced they would be going on to the courthouse, and in the time between she had gotten no further words from him. He seemed to be asleep the few times more she watched over him. She was not in a position to see him when he was brought to the wagon again, but they had broken down and rebuilt the cell, to give him accommodations to lay down comfortably. The weather had cooled again and he was checked on often. She was relieved to see him sitting at the edge of the cell taking food and water the first night of travel, leaning against the frame of the hinged door. He seemed very weak, but no longer on the verge of death. During the walk alongside the wagon the next day she ventured to speak, hoping he was awake to hear. “I’m… glad you’re recovering.”
The voice from within was raspy and laboured. “Am I? It’s urgent they hurry me to the trial and execution so I don’t die first and rob them of the opportunity.” His tone was bitter but mildly amused.
The night before the day there were to reach the courthouse, she awoke in her tent with a start. In the darkness there was a figure, crouched, among her folded clothes. She sat there watching the indistinct shape, which held still for a long moment and watched back. At last she broke the moment with a quiet murmur. “Left front pocket. Are you…? Will you be…? I so wanted you to escape. I won’t raise the alarm…”
He moved, pulling the necklace out and refastening it on his own neck. “Won’t you? That’s kind.” It was only a whisper, but he sounded angry.
“Ever since I first saw you, I wanted you to be free.”
“Your compassion is useless. It is a thought and kind words given when you have let all chances for helpful action pass you by. I don’t need your compassion.” He sounded bitter, but also very tired.
She was hurt by it, wounded by the sudden anger directed at her. She struggled to form a reply but then he was beside her, suddenly very close. When she woke from the blow to her head, the camp was in disarray, but she pretended to be as confused as the rest of them. It was the only helpful action there was a chance left for. It may have helped, because he was not found and she never saw him again.
I have also, obviously, finally paid for the bloody journal and gotten the layout I was so desperately fond of, only there's no way to change the width of the main section that holds the entries. It seems a waste of space laid out as it is, and it's slightly hard on those of us with already strained eyesight.
It was an honour to be moved to the position of guarding this particular prisoner during his transport. What he was accused of, or his previous convictions were, remained a mystery to the newer of the guards assigned. It was not their duty to ask, only to take the assignment and make certain nothing unusual happened. From the talk of the more experienced guards it was hinted at that he was a man of not only numerous old convictions but also many escapes. His people were a reclusive lot, with their own ideas about morality and legality, primitive and permissive regarding acts against people not their own kind.
He stood proud and very tall, surrounded by guards, as they assembled to move him from the temporary cell to the transport. The clothes he wore were obviously his own rather than prison garb, slightly ragged from wear. His shirt sleeves flapped loose, and some sort of necklace clung close, the pendant against the pit of his throat and the whole ornament a dark shade that blended with his skin. There were chains at his wrists and ankles, hindering his movement, but the grizzled head was held high. This man was not a prisoner, but a regal, aged sovereign with a personal retinue. Even the experienced guards seemed put on edge by his attitude, which clearly conveyed that he went where he did because he chose to, rather than because of the guards close behind him with weapons trained. His gaze did not even touch them, as if they were beneath notice, but when he was safely within the cell on the transport wagon his gaze sliced out through the barred window and briefly met hers.
For that brief span of time all the powers of her position were stripped away, and she was no guard at all, merely a girl naked of her training, in the presence of some mighty lord. When the moment passed she was left feeling off-balance; his gaze had already swept away to the distant horizon and his expression showed no sign of having noticed her.
She was not the only guard among those in the convoy to have only recently completed her full training. It seemed they felt that mixing newer officers in with the older ones would be to the benefit of both, and as they traveled together some of her nervousness eased. Their evening encampments welcomed conversation and the trading of stories, and she found herself falling into their company easily. The talk was less of their current prisoner than of various experiences, both during training and in the field. During the evenings she was at home with her compatriots.
Her day shift was a different matter entirely. The prisoner rode in his windowed box like an emperor being borne in some enclosed litter to an exotic destination, rather than a repeat prisoner on his way to what would probably be a final trial. It was inevitable that the horizon would lose his interest eventually and he would watch his escort, studying them with a piercing gaze, silent and straight-backed. There was, after many days, the occasional jeer. It seemed a guard’s right to mock the prisoner, although his sharp gaze tended to make such taunts wither and die on the lips. There was little to criticize at any rate, as he behaved very much the model prisoner. Their journey was a long one and a week and a half in there remained no escape attempts. He took his food and water civilly, although he gave no word of thanks. The long dusty hours of walking beside the wagon encouraged the mind to wander, and she wondered if he ever spoke at all. It seemed unlikely at his age and level of prior criminal acts that their language was unfamiliar to him; It seemed to her that he simply had no reason to speak to them. At last she ventured a few words in his direction, barely daring to glance away from the road before her for fear of meeting that powerful gaze. “It really is the role of a guard to serve the prisoner, in many ways. We only pretend otherwise for our own dignity.”
She was met only with silence for a very long moment, although those around her seemed to be listening in with great curiosity, waiting and watching the interaction before deciding how to judge her for it. When at last a quiet, deep voice gave an answer she nearly jumped. “There’s a price for everything. You cannot imprison a man without creating some tie to him.” No further response came, and she was struck too numb by the response to come up with anything further, but it seemed the act had won her some respect, from both her fellow guards and the prisoner.
The men in charge of the transport seldom exchanged words with the prisoner, but they did give orders. Most directions were simple, the sort of movements required on a daily basis to keep the journey going smoothly. He obeyed them without answer, although there were flashes of resentment in his expression at times. The travel was wearing on all of them, and it began to show in little ways. The initial severe precision of their flanking guard began to relax, and talk came more often along the road. There was little threat from any outside source, and truly such a great entourage of guards for a single man who seemed to have no intent to escape seemed excessive. They talked freely among themselves while on duty, and some of the other new guards grew bold enough to speak to the prisoner as well, although his communication was always brief. She thought that quite probably he was glad for some form of distraction, although simply listening to their conversations likely provided that. Her own exchanges with him were of little import, but he clearly approved of philosophical ponderings best. He listened far more than he spoke, but what he said tended to leave her thoughtful.
In time, of course, she began to feel sorry for him. He seemed bitter, but not without good reason, and refrained from taking that out on those around him. He was clearly not a young man, and although he rode rather than walked, the confinement seemed to wear on him. There was generally a mid-day break, and this was his only chance at exercise, walking slow and stiff within a small area, constantly flanked by alert guards. His bearing was no less regal than on that first day, but it showed a weariness that they were all beginning to feel.
Halfway into the journey the weather turned very hot, where before it had merely been warm. Their mid-day break grew much longer, and was usually held when they reached some area with thicker trees for shade at roughly the right time. After only a few days of the oppressive heat it became necessary to allow the prisoner to walk part time or ride outside his cell on the wagon, lest he suffer severe heat stroke. The air shimmered and came out in waves whenever the windowed box was opened to let him out, usually mid-morning when it became clear that they were in for yet another boiling day. The prison guard in charge of the transport seemed greatly displeased with this arrangement, but the prisoner kept pace and made no suspicious moves. While he was still far from sociable, the new arrangement lent them all a feeling of camaraderie and he spoke marginally more often, occasionally putting forth some opinion on a conversation without needing invitation. Their talks were listless and stretched out, however, sparing their throats from the dust and parched air as much as possible. A slow division grew, largely unnoticed, between the small group of younger guards who willingly conversed with him and the others. She tried to think nothing of it, as the more she knew of his thoughts the more her respect for him grew.
One day they came to an abandoned building, some remnant of a little outpost of civilization. The head prison guard consulted with the drivers, marking the remaining length of the journey on their maps. Nearly two-thirds there but still at least a week’s travel. The guard grumbled over the weather extending their travel time, while a mid-day makeshift camp was established. The prisoner was taken into the building, where they found damaged but somewhat serviceable furniture. Sprawled awkwardly on a chair with his hands cuffed behind his back, he was allowed a rest under guard while some of the officers explored the mostly gutted building. It seemed to have been a store at some point, a combination rest stop, general goods shop, and post office, with some living quarters above for the owners. Destructive weather or possibly a drying up of business seemed to have prompted the place being vacated several seasons ago and the wind and wild animals had run through the place since.
The quiet coolness of the place invited relaxation and relief, and the guards chatted lazily as if on holiday, enjoying the break in the usual monotony of their travels. Uncomfortably seated but worn out from the morning’s march in the heat, the prisoner dozed with his chin on his chest. There were exclamations on some find in another room, and the two left to attend with the prisoner moved quietly to join the others for just a moment, curious. There were other guards all around outside making camp, and the prisoner had nodded off anyhow.
When they returned only moments later, he was nowhere in sight.
So many captures and escapes, it all tended to blur together over the long years, but he had learned how to bide his time and watch for the moment of opportunity. He had nearly dozed for real, but through slitted eyes had watched his captors chat gaily and slip away, their attentions elsewhere. Shifting his cuffed hands from his back to his front was an old trick, hard on stiff joints but still manageable and necessary to move with any speed. He had glimpsed the maps and imprinted them to his mind, noting the village across a narrow band of woods. His only avenue of escape lay that way, but they were not likely to be aware of this caravan and its purpose. He managed to move with stealth out of the building and through the briefly unguarded open ground behind it, entering the woods before they could discover his absence. Travel through the underbrush without stirring up anything that might draw attention was difficult with his hands bound, but he managed to move quickly and in minutes the sounds of the camp had faded behind him. The heat was growing oppressive and the air felt thicker among the greenery, but even that could not explain why ten minutes into his flight his breath came in wheezing gasps and his entire chest pulsed with pain. There was no chance he could make the village ahead of them, and once his escape was noticed they would not be long in fanning out to search the area for him. His only chance lay in hiding somewhere so that they might overlook him in the search, leaving him to travel at an easier pace when they had gone on elsewhere looking for him. Climbing a tree was out of the question, not only for a lack of low limbs to catch and his shackled wrists, but because his arms seemed unlikely to support him at the moment. Time seemed to rush, the chance of escape narrowing with each second. There were no caves or burrows or other clear hiding spots, and a concavity under a bush had to serve. Pulling the fallen leaves and brush over himself was very awkward and he could only hope that the bush itself would aid his cover. He positioned himself stomach down in the narrow pit he had clawed out, a position that more readily lent itself to leaping up in defense if it became necessary. Controlling his ragged breath into a slow and quiet one was the most difficult of all.
He had not lain covered long before the sweep came through, the guards moving in formations as well as they could among the trees. A front line moved past and away into the distance, but scattered guards remained behind, widely spaced but scouring the area more thoroughly. He focused on his breath, and the relief of the ache in his chest fading again with his stillness. There were no cries of discovery, no sounds of readied weaponry aimed his way. In time another sound approached, a slowly growing crashing thrashing rhythmic beating as of the trees in a terrible gale. A few men from the front line returned, leading the rest, and consulted with the head prison guard close by. Not many of the nearby villagers had been willing to help, and those only for a fee, but they had formed a line to beat through the underbrush with makeshift clubs and farming implements, the only weapons they had. He listened to the slow and steady approach, schooling himself to stillness. He did not flinch when the blow came, and in a moment the footsteps and thrashing rake were past. Other footsteps came nearer but without intent, as the previous searchers milled about to be out of the way. Someone stood quite close, the brief crunch of leaves inches from his head, but the moments passed as someone stood there, unseeing.
The cry of discovery came from further away, from one of the villagers. The words were clear to him, although one of the officers had to translate for the head guard. ‘There, the leaves bleed, there.’
He meant to rise up fighting, but there were arms and weapons at every limb before he could cause injury to any of those around him. The guard that had stood near his head actually stepped back in alarm, but he was too distracted with lashing out to notice her standing there with her arms at her sides until he was pinioned by strong grips on his arms, shoulders, neck, and legs. He hung from his captors panting and glowering, powerless. He was all but carried back to camp.
She had stood so close to him, and not even known. His back bled freely as he half-walked and was half-carried back through the woods to camp. Once there, the head guard had him laid on his front on the ground, his hands unshackled only to be refastened behind him. His chin lay on the ground, head stretched out straight to look at the head guard’s boots before him, and she couldn’t help but find it ironic he was forced into nearly the same pose he’d taken in hiding. How could she have been so close, and not even aware? The officers holding him were instructed to pat him down thoroughly for weapons, or possibly keys stolen off one of the guards, although this struck her as unlikely. His shirt was removed, in part for the search but also because the one medic was being brought over to make certain he would not become infected from the scrape down his back. When they came to the necklace at his throat, it was discovered to be a small oilskin bag, and he managed to snap at the guard reaching for it even from his awkward position. His voice came as a quiet growl, more menacing than anything they had heard from him before. “If you take that, I will kill you. One way or another.”
The head guard looked skeptical, and had the prisoner’s head held, a feat which took several tries. Even as he pried the bag open he asked, “What’s in it?”
“Ashes.”
Frowning, the man pulled out a small knife and wiggled it gently around inside, then pulled it out again and pulled the string to shut the bag again. The necklace was never removed, and she saw that the knife blade was now coated in a pale grey. The head guard wiped it casually off on his pants. “Why would you be carrying a bag of ashes?”
He was met only with glaring silence.
The rest of the mid-day break was brief, spent with the prisoner stationary and heavily shackled under a shade tree under guard. When the guards themselves were slightly rested, he was tied to the back of the wagon and made to march with them again, but this time nothing was said. The ointment on his bare back glistened, but the scrapes seemed to have stopped bleeding and had been declared by the medic to be shallow. The uneven patter of feet and wagon tires hung on the hot, still air. Everyone’s breathing was harsh with the dry air and the short rest, but before long the prisoner’s wheezing rose above the other sounds. His head hung and his pace grew uneven. A drink of water seemed to do little to revive him, and the head guard was alerted but voiced suspicion that it was an act, a trick designed for sympathy and another chance to break free. From his position up front with the wagon driver, looking back over the wagon and it’s empty cage, all he could see were the tops of heads. After ten minutes more the prisoner staggered like a drunken man, then fell to be dragged by his bound wrists for a short distance before the wagon could be brought to a full stop on the cries of the soldiers.
The medic was hurried to the spot and the prisoner quickly untied to be examined. The other guards stood back while medic and head guard conferred. The medic’s expression was deeply concerned and the order was given to make a space where the guards took turns riding in the back of the wagon, and the prisoner was laid out there. After further consultation it was quietly announced they would be taking a detour at the next crossroads. A hospital was half a day’s travel away, and their original destination reachable by a few day’s travel from there. Guards were set in a rotating duty to watch the prisoner, and the medic checked on him every few hours. He revived enough to groggily note where he was, but dozed without bothering to change position, wheezing still. She spoke to him when her turn came to watch over his sleep, but he gave no sign of hearing.
In the hospital he was placed unbound in a bed. Nothing was explained to the guards, who continued to take a revolving duty watching him around the clock, but his condition was heavily monitored by the hospital staff. The ever-present soldiers made them nervous, and the shift was reduced to a single guard at any given time, save when changing over.
She watched him open his eyes, and quietly take in his surroundings. His movements seemed lethargic, though whether from illness or being drugged she did not know. He seemed to observe her presence there, but said nothing. Left alone with him, she began carefully to apologize. “I’m sorry this happened. I’m not sure I would have given you away if I had known you were there. Part of me wishes you had escaped.”
He watched her through half-open eyes, his thoughts inscrutable.
“I don’t know what you’ve done, and it’s possible you don’t deserve any of this, but then I’m not sure who is and isn’t in a position to judge that anyway.”
He watched her silently for a while before his eyes slid closed and he seemed to doze off, but a short while later he woke again, and after a hazy look around his gaze settled on her again. When she met his eyes, the intensity was no less than the first time. He struggled with a deeper breath but his eyes never left hers. “Would you do something for me? Take the bag of ash.” The speech seemed to come with difficulty, halting with the effort of breathing.
The words took a moment to register fully, and left her wary and confused. “Take it-why?”
“They’ll take it from me at the courthouse, if I get there, and if I don’t…” He left the rest unsaid, letting his eyes close a moment as he continued to fight for a steady breathing pattern.
“What’s… why are you carrying it?” She checked the doorway, but found no one else in sight. The thought that setting her weapon aside for this was very foolish indeed was pushed to the back of her mind.
“They were someone. I was charged with bringing his ashes to a sacred burial ground, not far from the city the courthouse is in. It was further from your cities, once.”
The story made her head buzz and as she set her weapons on the chair, she felt as if she were floating in a dream. She approached him cautiously but apart from the slow wheezing breaths, he did not move at all. “Are you asking me to take them there?”
“Maybe. Otherwise I’ll fetch them from you when I escape again and do it myself.”
“…When you escape again?” He seemed too weak to so much as stand, although as she drew closer he slowly lifted his head to give her access to remove the necklace.
“I went along with the transport as long as I did because it took me close to there. Now I’d need to cut it closer still. I can hardly get there on my own.” His raised head trembled slightly, and came to rest on her arms as she undid the clasp. Carefully she pulled the necklace away and watched his head slide back to the pillow. It seemed to take him several minutes to recover from the effort of holding it up. Quietly she resumed her seat and her weapons, tucking the necklace away. “I can give it to another of your people, if…” She hesitated to finish the thought aloud.
Eyes closed, focusing on breathing, he murmured softly, “He was the second to last.”
The floating sensation continued in the relative silence that followed. She struggled for words. “You must have known him well…”
“No. No, I didn’t. But it was his last wish to have some part of him taken there.”
“And… if you… who will take yours.” She forced the question and winced inwardly once it escaped her.
He smirked weakly. “I wasn’t raised with my own kind, I’ve always lived in your world. It wouldn’t mean to me what it… did to him.”
It took her a while to think of anything else to say, and then she realized he was asleep again. The thought revolved in her mind, him growing up in a world where people of his kind were looked down upon. Could he have helped becoming a criminal, somewhere along the way?
A few days later it was announced they would be going on to the courthouse, and in the time between she had gotten no further words from him. He seemed to be asleep the few times more she watched over him. She was not in a position to see him when he was brought to the wagon again, but they had broken down and rebuilt the cell, to give him accommodations to lay down comfortably. The weather had cooled again and he was checked on often. She was relieved to see him sitting at the edge of the cell taking food and water the first night of travel, leaning against the frame of the hinged door. He seemed very weak, but no longer on the verge of death. During the walk alongside the wagon the next day she ventured to speak, hoping he was awake to hear. “I’m… glad you’re recovering.”
The voice from within was raspy and laboured. “Am I? It’s urgent they hurry me to the trial and execution so I don’t die first and rob them of the opportunity.” His tone was bitter but mildly amused.
The night before the day there were to reach the courthouse, she awoke in her tent with a start. In the darkness there was a figure, crouched, among her folded clothes. She sat there watching the indistinct shape, which held still for a long moment and watched back. At last she broke the moment with a quiet murmur. “Left front pocket. Are you…? Will you be…? I so wanted you to escape. I won’t raise the alarm…”
He moved, pulling the necklace out and refastening it on his own neck. “Won’t you? That’s kind.” It was only a whisper, but he sounded angry.
“Ever since I first saw you, I wanted you to be free.”
“Your compassion is useless. It is a thought and kind words given when you have let all chances for helpful action pass you by. I don’t need your compassion.” He sounded bitter, but also very tired.
She was hurt by it, wounded by the sudden anger directed at her. She struggled to form a reply but then he was beside her, suddenly very close. When she woke from the blow to her head, the camp was in disarray, but she pretended to be as confused as the rest of them. It was the only helpful action there was a chance left for. It may have helped, because he was not found and she never saw him again.
I have also, obviously, finally paid for the bloody journal and gotten the layout I was so desperately fond of, only there's no way to change the width of the main section that holds the entries. It seems a waste of space laid out as it is, and it's slightly hard on those of us with already strained eyesight.