Alone

[Maladan]

62nd of Frost

He woke from a dream only to find that he was right where he’d been.

Floor made of cold stone, air stinking of mold, clothes soaked with sweat and blood. Just by looking at own hands, he felt that he was turning into something inhuman. He'd never admit it, but he'd welcome being startled awake by a bucket of cold water. It would at least provide minimal hygiene. Slowly, his body was forgetting how it felt to be clean, or warm. First signs of transformation into shadows that lived here never to see the light of gloomy day again: murderers, thieves, evil men and outlaws, everyone who did not fit into the society up there by their nature, rotted by pain.

Just… just like him.

How long had it been? Two weeks? Two and a half? Three? He couldn't tell. His sleep cycle was no longer a reliable source of information. Everything was becoming an endless loop, a routine of torture, healing, rest, food, and waiting to start all over again . It was the alpha and omega of life there, an eternal boredom that could last for years.

The power of this place slipped into his thoughts and mood, like a great night turning life into a living nightmare by its darkness. The more he tried to resist those feelings, the harder it was.
The dark and dirt were like a sickness here. It was in the walls, the people, the food, the water, and even the air. He was breathing it in and out and it was growing inside of him. Day by day, it was slowly building until one day it would fill him wholly. A sickness he could not heal, nor escape.

After all that time, he still didn’t get it: he saw people doing and saying terrible things, but this was something different. This was all the bad he had ever experienced, all the pain, cold and loneliness, despair, turned into an art. A clever device a technique, that sickness weaponized against those who were trapped here.
At first, he thought he could convince these grim looking people, that the things they accused him of were wrong and false accusations: he never killed, or hurt anybody. He’d saved lives actually, dozens of them! Hell, he would help these cruel people, if they were hurt and he was able to… even after all they did to him.. and all they were going to do. He wasn’t sure how they could sleep at night.

Why didn’t nightmares haunt their minds each dusk? Why did they seem to enjoy the moments of his suffering, as if they fed off his misery. Using at least a minimal, basic, above-animal level of empathy, this wasn't supposed to be possible. But it was. No bad dream, no hallucinations, no scary story, this was hard reality. And these men didn’t care. They didn't care at all. They just make everyone trapped here feel properly miserable, ensure no one escapes… and then go home. Home, to their warm beds, clean clothes and lovely families. Maladan was sure they behaved like normal people there.
Carl, for example. He was the kind of man that allows the shopkeeper at the vendor stalls to keep the change for anything he bought at the market, kiss his children good night and make love to his wife.

If they were just doing their jobs, before coming back to their children and families, being fathers, brothers and husbands, were they to be blamed?

Human nature is pretty simple and complicated at the same time, Maladan thought.

Until yesterday, he thought the point was to make him confess to what he stood accused of, but no: this was a war with the goal of breaking his will. Their aim was total loyalty and submission to the man who feared death so much he sent his puppets to inflict unspeakable horrors upon others. Those were possible because they knew - Maladan was already doomed. And now, he knew too.

What a fool he’d been.

The doors opened with the cracking sound of old metal.
Maladan got on his feet – he had been through all this before: Denial, in which he thought that he just woke up in the tavern basement one day. Anger that pushed him into deepest thoughts of vengeance and even… fighting back. Only once he dared to hit a guard. Never again.Bargaining led him nowhere, as he only found out the truth mentioned above.
And depression? He; welcomed its heavy embrace made of sloppy sadness. Or is it acceptance? Did this mean they won?
No! Not quite.
Not… just yet.

[Thomas]

It wasn't the worst prison Thomas had ever been in, but it wasn't exactly comfortable and cozy, either. Furniture was minimal and tended toward stone, or just straw on the floor for beds. Judging by the smell, straw on the floor may also have been for a makeshift absorbent latrine, at least in some cells.

Still, at least he was alive. It had been touch and go for a bit there. The Argent who'd hunted him down seemed pretty content with getting him to kneel in the street for a quick above-the-neck haircut before he'd said the magic words: "I'm an esteemed guest of Lords Latham and Wendell Kastrige Venger von Retzen, and am staying on their estate! Should you harm me, you'll have them to answer to."

The Argent rolled his eyes, but sheathed his blade, and instead hauled Thomas to this awful place. So while it wasn't exactly the Venger estate, it hadn't been lights out, either. Thomas could handle prison. Latham would come for him, eventually, if only to see why Thomas had dragged him into this mess. If that meant Latham finally realized they were no good for each other, so much the better. Thomas would request a pardon and leave Lorien; he was certain Latham would be unable to resist being gallant and romantic one last time.

"Put him in with the Freak," one guard sniggered to the other. "Maybe his Lordship here can break him by prattling at him nonstop."

Thomas opened his mouth to complain about how they were treating him, and then closed it. He didn't want to give them any additional ammunition. Bored guards who wanted to be mean for the sake of it did not make good opponents in a battle of wits. If he won, he'd be rewarded with a truncheon to the face, and if he lost, he'd be rewarded with a truncheon to the face. A better move, then, not to play at all.

The freak, who or whatever that was, was housed in the back of the prison, as though they were afraid it could escape, or somehow harm them. Thomas passed by surprisingly crowded cells. He hadn't thought Lorien had much use for a criminal justice system. In his experience Argents just killed people who acted up, which made the populace docile, and, if you were dressed in the right way and said the right words, quite trusting. Until, it seemed, one's luck ran out.

The guards wasted no time shoving him roughly into the cell and locking it. The temptation to yell after them that they'd be sorry or that he'd see them reprimanded was immense, but he made it a policy not to threaten guards for the same reasons he didn't try to reason with them: the sort of person who signed up to put their boots on the necks of the desperate and the wretched didn't enjoy having their authority challenged. The cell was darker than the rest, with the nearest source of illumination being quite far indeed. He couldn't immediately discern who or what The Freak was.

Still, there was little harm in saying hello. "Ah -- hello? My eyes are still adjusting, but if you'd like to make my acquaintance, my name is Thomas Worth. It's a pleasure to meet you, though I wish it were under happier circumstances." He gave a little bow of his head, wondering if there was even anyone in here. Maybe the guards had just played a mean-spirited trick to see if he'd be frightened of a dark, empty cell.

[Maladan]

The cell was not empty indeed and Maladan’s worry quickly turned into curiosity.

The newcomer introduced himself as Thomas Worth and he did so with quite eloquence. The amount of openness in the act was a pleasurable change and so Mal decided that this man was more of a friend than a danger.

No matter how happy he was for the new face to socialize with, he knew this may be a trick. Thomas could have been an imposter; someone to lure his trust, so they could crush it with one final blow. Nevertheless, the last thing he would do is give up to paranoia and bitterness; especially with the first person who behaves actually nice.

“It’s… a pleasure to meet you, Thomas.” he finally answered, but still didn’t dare to leave his shadowy corner of the cell. It’s dark comfortably masked his poor appearance and that was a state he’d love to maintain as long as he could. Besides, better not to scare Thomas by his nasty looks; showing the possible outcome of prolonged stay there. Healers made sure he didn't die from the wounds, but they cared little for aesthetics or hygiene. He hoped for death by infection, it almost sounded merciful.

Judging him by the gaze of his weakly glowing golden eyes, he noticed that the newcomer himself was looking pretty healthy and well maintained. He had strong posture, fair skin, soulful brown eyes and clothes fitting into higher circles of society. This man apparently knew how to cultivate himself, as far as Mal could tell.

But above all, he liked Thomas’ clothes. He dreamed of wearing something similarly fancy, tightly fitting, made of delicate silk that gently touches the skin. It was silly, and he didn’t really care that much before he got into dungeons, but now even the look at rough, biting cloth texture was making him sick. Like many other elements and items there.

Thoughts about comfort were naive daydreaming, but Maladan was thankful for it. Thomas reminded him of the world outside again, just by the fact he could look at him. For Mal, that was something to be grateful for.

“You may call me Maladan.” He was well aware about the nickname he got here. He hated it.

“I am sorry for the poor conditions of my… place. I’d encourage you to enjoy hospitality anyway, but there isn’t much to enjoy.” he pointed towards the straw stacks, a gentle sad smile on his face.

“So, Thomas, who are you?” He asked, still looking at the man curiously.

[Thomas]

His eyes were beginning to adjust, but he still struggled to make his cellmate out in the shadows. Maladan had a pleasant enough voice, though he -- Thomas was reasonably certain Maladan was a he -- sounded rather drawn. Given the guards' familiarity with him, he'd been here for quite some time. Still, he hadn't immediately rushed in to assault Thomas, or rape him, so this was going better than he'd feared from how the guards had acted about this man.

Thomas gingerly chose a catacomb-like shelf carved into the stone to sit on before grimacing. It was damp, and slick with something that he suspected was mold. The cell they were in seemed a bit more humid than the entrance to the prison where the Guards had rudely searched him for valuables that they swore would be safely kept until his release or execution, whichever happened first. They hadn't gotten much, though. He'd cheeked his rings on the way to the prison, for all the good they'd do him in this place, and the guards had mostly seemed interested in weapons or hand tools. He put them in his inner waistcoat pocket; they were unlikely to search him again and maybe they'd serve some kind of use as a bribe if he had to stay here for longer than expected.

He pondered what to say in answer to Maladan. On the one hand, telling prisoners that he was functionally defenseless was rarely a wise course of action. On the other, to puff himself up too much would be unlikely to work. Bluffs were best for short term engagements or drunken nights playing cards, not a situation where he could be trapped with someone for quite some time.

At last, he decided on just telling the truth, or at least a version of it. "Ah, well -- I'm a Nameless here in Lorien, which perhaps you are too, Sir. I'm a traveling apothecary by trade, though I do a bit of everything, I suppose. I'm here because of a big misunderstanding, really. I have little doubt that my lover shall put things right as soon as he returns to his estate from his jaunt out of Retzen." Most of these were facts, if viewed in a certain light, so it was no effort whatsoever to speak about them as though they were the truth.

"Of course, I'd like to hear about you, as well. What brings you to enjoy our Lord host's fine hospitality, Maladan?"

[Maladan]

Pretty explaining his looks despite being Nameless too.

“Although I am happy for the company… I am sure your lover will be as quick as the wind. You’ll be free again in no time.” he smiled. Maladan may not have had hope to get out of here unchanged… but Thomas, Thomas had.

He should have invested more of his time in people, not only healing them, but to care about their life’s too. Their souls and minds, personalities. He should have created bonds, found himself a lover too, someone to… care. He always feared he mayget too harsh, but now… he just regretted he never tried actually.

And the relationships he had? Mother’s mentality was rather naturalistic - if he was stupid enough to get caught, he deserved the troubles, even death. Maladan was pretty sure that Mother knew how to defend herself, probably by raising a small army of husks and disappearing into thin air. She would never come willingly. And the innkeeper and his family? They risked enough already. He didn’t even know what happened to them!
He sighed. Better to change the topic.

“So, you are an apothecary? What kind? What is your specialization?” Enthusiasm of shared interest was clear in his voice, but he was no actor; still, there were nuances of grief.

“You are right, I am Nameless too. Physician… Necrodoctor to be precise. That’s my crime.” He didn’t know if he wanted to bother Thomas with the current procedure of will breaking, but what harm would it do to tell him? It’s not like it could be any worse than it is.

“They are trying to… push me into using my abilities in a way I don’t believe they should be used. I think that’s the real reason why they put me here in the first place.” As Maladan mentioned the use of magic, he realized that he could make Thomas feel pretty uncomfortable - they were in Lorien after all - and so he quickly added with hasty tone of voice:
“Don’t be afraid, necromancy is a craft, I am not able to perform any supernatural feats without my tools, as far as I know. And even if, trust me that I have no intentions to hurt you… or anyone else. I never used my skills to inflict harm or wake up the dead.”

[Thomas]

Lots to take in from Maladan, and Thomas could see enough now to make out a shape, hunkered into the corner of deepest shadow. Long arms and long legs were folded into a compact bundle, but Thomas could tell that when the man stood up he'd be very tall, which was starting to be a bit annoying. Everyone he talked to these days was taller than him: Latham, Wendall, the other Argent who had arrested him. Even the guards here. Clearly, there was something in the water in Lorien.

He hadn't expected the man to care about medicine, or healing. He'd figured with Maladan being in prison, and to be regarded with such fear, to boot, it would be for something more to do with taking life rather than giving it. It could be awkward to explain that his skills as a medicine maker were rather rudimentary, so he opted to be vague: "I sell what sells, my friend. Cold and ague cures in winter, hay fever cures in spring, heat stroke in summer, and a bit of all three in fall. Alongside the normal tonics for hair loss, infertility, and standard aches and pains in all seasons, of course. I wouldn't say any of my preparations are all that unusual, but it sustains me on my trip to the next village."

The thought of necromancy made his skin crawl, but so did the thought of the semi-sentient blob attached to his thigh that allegedly gave him the ability to move objects with his mind, so Thomas figured this one was a draw.

"I'm a mage, too, apparently. I just found out the other day that I have been for years, but it's kind of a boring story so I'll skip it for now if you don't mind. I was raised to believe that all mages are sad, backward primitivists who prey on others using their powers for their own ends, but in the last few weeks I've concluded that mages are no different from the rest of us. Everyone is just trying to get what they want using what they have. I think people who don't have magic are jealous of those that do have it, same as people can be jealous of others for being rich or titled or skilled at something lucrative. I would guess that this has much to do with why you are here, by the way. You're in jail because you're a Nameless and they can get away with doing it to you. Same as me, I suppose."

Privately, Thomas doubted it was exactly the same. Maladan was telling the truth, or at least he believed himself to be telling the truth: he didn't raise the dead, he didn't hurt people. He only wanted to help others. He also seemed to have a gentle spirit to him. In short, he didn't seem sadistic or malicious or violent. He would of course keep a weather eye on the man for his own safety, since prison turned good men bad even if they hadn't come in that way, but he felt safer than he'd expected to.

"So, ah. What's the schedule here? Do we just stay in our cell forever with occasional bad food, or do they have a yard for exercising and the like?"

[Maladan]

“I see,” Maladan didn’t know entirely what to make of it, but he decided that Thomas is probably just a very flexible healer, answering to the common needs of common people; that was sympathetic.
“Why did you move from place to place like this?”

“You are a mage?” he gasped, but then got silent again to hear out everything Thomas had to say. Although he didn't want to share details, Maladan could made a picture of it and it wasn't nice one. One does not simply have magic and consider it evil. It must have been nonconsensual.

“I am sorry Thomas, that must have been hard for you. But even if I am happy you changed your mind about magic a little there is a difference between having an estate or skill of trade... and having the power to burn a whole city down. Maybe, some powers are not for mortal hands to handle freely as we'd wish, more less the Nameless hands. But that's a rather grim conversation and we have a gloomy environment already. I just… sometimes I regret having the power, you know? I could have healed people anyway, but I just… wanted to get better. Have more power, more abilities to deny death it's princes when circumstances seem unjust or cruel. It seemed natural to me at the time. I was offered the power and I took it. And now, I am here; because of necromancy.” he sighted, shaking his head. Why is he even talking like this?

“No. You're right. It's not right that they're keeping us like this just because they can. Because we're Nameless.I don't know what I'm babbling about. Part of me doubts you're real anyway.”

"I don't know. They won't let me out." he shrugged: "Sometimes they come for me to... take me away. Bring me back, give me food... and so on. I don't even know how long it's been. What time is it? Is it day or night? Is still Frost?" These were questions whose answers he feared.

Then, again, he heard footsteps. A pair of guards appeared at the door. Carl probably shaved today.
"Let's go, Freak."

He felt faint, but scrambled to his feet and walked hesitantly to the door. He looked back at Thomas...
"Keep moving." The guard shoved him out the door and... they walked down the hallway.

[Thomas]

Maladan had the conversational style of someone who had not talked with anyone in quite some time, but he knew the season, at least, which meant it had likely only been weeks or months since his imprisonment, not years. So either he had not been mentally all there to begin with, or his harsh treatment was starting to break him. Thomas rather hoped it was the latter, because maybe that was more reversible than arriving at a place like this already warped by life.

"It's currently the middle of the afternoon, 76th Frost, Sir."

When the guards came in to grab Maladan, Thomas finally got a good look at the man. Thomas had expected him to resist, but he stood up before they could reach out to haul him to his feet. He was indeed very tall and slender like Thomas had projected based on the length of his limbs. He was a lean, lanky fellow, and Thomas didn't miss the pointed ears of a Sil'Elaine.

He also looked like shit. His hair was dirty and matted, he had several visible wounds on his arms, neck, and face that were the angry red of injuries that needed a dip in sterilizing alcohol, and his clothes were torn and heavily soiled. Thomas could tell they had originally been black, which was just as well, since dark colors were better for hiding stains. He wondered gloomily how long it would take his clothes to reach a similar state. He was rather fond of his waistcoat, for instance; Latham had bought this for him when they'd met. Thomas worried the hem of the sleeve between his two fingers as thoughts of the waistcoat's origin made him think of the man he loved.

Latham would come for him. Thomas was sure of it because the alternatives did not bear thinking about. He would come. When he did, maybe he could be persuaded to return home with two criminals instead of one. In the meantime, if there was anything he could for the other man, he would. Even if it meant engaging with his disgusting ... thigh-blob... thing. His Mark. No one was around, so he went to the front of the cell where the light was a bit better and pulled his trousers down, trying to look at it directly without flinching. He wondered if it was looking back at him, or if it had any thoughts about being in prison, or on how to escape. If it did, it was keeping them to itself.

With nothing else to do, he took off his waistcoat as a likely ineffectual barrier between himself and the damp chill of the stone that was to be his bed until Latham decided to intervene.

[Maladan]

It took two hours. He was dragged back to the cell where he collapsed on the ground. He couldn’t control his legs, feeling somewhat heavy. It was like trying to build a house on a jelly.

There were new injuries on his arms, burned skin and long cuts. Maladan’s skin on neck was red and bloodied.

“Twenty one days…” he whispered into stone and felt… tired.

Twenty one. It felt like months. Maladan was slowly becoming used to pain; more was needed to push him to the edge of bareable. More indeed they did.

And again he felt like such a fool.
He silenced sobs that were coming through his throat. Or at least he tried. He didn’t have energy to care about impressions. Judging by the fact Thomas was still here… he at least was real. And he was indeed beautiful, that Maladan knew for certain; he won’t stay that way for long, if his man don't make it in time.

“Sorry, Thomas. I am so sorry… you… are here.” Speaking was surprisingly painful. Mal closed his eyes. He didn’t care staying in the light, or in the dirt. There was no point in sterilization. Mud was everywhere. That sickness was everywhere. In times like these, he just wanted it to end.

He wasn’t even sure if his words were meant to Thomas, or himself.
No, he was lost, Thomas was not. His man will come for him. And maybe, he’ll remember someday about the elf he met in prison. Light a candle, or something. It sounded rather romantic. Not a bad way to pass; deny lord Weissen his price and ensure he doesn’t get what he wants ~ what he didn’t deserve ~ and having someone to remember him.
That was all he hoped for; to want more would be daring… dangerous.

[Thomas]

Thomas was awake long before Maladan returned to the cell. The thuds of the guards' boots on the stone floor was obnoxiously loud, and he had a feeling that they would keep him up all night when they patrolled the corridors. He was a light sleeper even when he was somewhere safe, so here in prison, he was more or less on a hair trigger. Once he'd ascertained that Maladan was not somehow transformed by this torture into someone who meant him harm, he rolled off of the stone bench and went over to his fellow prisoner.

"You're hurt," he said, and then felt stupid. They'd taken the man away for torture, not tea time and tiddlywinks.

After a bit of internal wrestling, though, Thomas concluded he couldn't sit there and watch while Maladan bled. He grabbed the small blade sewn into the lining of his waist coat, pulling the handle out of his coat. It wasn't big enough for self-defense, but that wasn't its intended purpose. Small and damnably sharp, it was helpful in situations like these. He also pulled the flask from his coat pocket. The guards had gleefully emptied it in front of him, too busy snickering to notice it had a false bottom. Sure, the top contained perfumed water in the warmer months and spiced wine when it was cold enough that the liquid could freeze, but more importantly, the bottom compartment had medicinal alcohol in it. Once he used the utility knife to cut some strips off of the lining of his coat, he had rags he could soak in alcohol and strips of cloth for bandages. It was a shame to use good silk brocade like this, but he'd rather Maladan not get gangrene while he sat here like a rich dummy in his fancy jacket.

"Come here, Mal," he entreated the other man, beckoning him into the shadowy portion of the cell where the guards wouldn't be able to see his clumsy attempt at doctoring. He wasn't sure if they'd care enough to open the cell and put a stop to it, but he did not care to find out.