Mid of February, peak in the spring, the season when all lives rejuvenated from hibernation in the cold. Crystals of icy diamonds thawed into streams of velour thumping on the calcareous soil as the majestic flame throned over the azure blue skies with puffs of clouds moseying around like specks of white paints gently dabbed onto cerulean canvas. All was in the utmost perfection. Up in the attic of the imposing, secluded stone tower touching the edge of the county, outlining a stark silhouette against the vast terrain, a man let out a low whimper as he peek through the crevices in the boulders. Vistas of exuberance seared his eyes with a flash of vengeance risen up behind the guise of infirmity.
It was time to end this perennial 'game' after all these tolerated years.
Removing layers of clothing on top of his bunk to reveal the forged key underneath, the man unleashed himself from the hefty chains shackled to the bricks. Ignoring the reverberation of the clanging of metal bars against steel grate, he rammed his giant frame into a tight space behind the rack through a hole he scooped out using spoons consistently for three years. The sound created was quickly perceived by the patrolling vigils. Footsteps were more distinct with each second passed. Almost at the same moment when he moved the rack back to its position, snib was unlatched as corpulent sentries crossed the threshold into the smothering chamber. The man was nowhere to be seen.
Alarms were immediately pulled. The man, crawling swiftly inside the cramped tunnel with sweats trickling down and lips parched; still, he did not dare to stop. Those pair of eyes of his were never more resolved in his entire valorous life. A man, as sinewy as he was with appalling scars covering the chest (doubtless due to gunshots) was not uncommon in a place where the most menacing men gathered. But he was uncommon. His unusual strengths, atypical hazy-green pupils, mysterious background...all signified none but one: he was not an ordinary criminal. And that conclusion was not wrong. James Caver, a loyal militant veteran of the royal navy, badged with a plethora of lofty emblems and paramount reputation, served millions of missions under the direct jurisdiction of the government. His presence in a cell was questionable, though not at all peculiar. It was not recondite that men like him who had too much knowledge of the dark politics could never live at ease.
The vault of heaven had dim perceptibly, it had been two hours since James left. Armed forces were sent out but had failed to recapture him. It was not that these elites of the armed forces were slacking or that James was able to avoid detection (he did avoid successfully), the hidden motive of the fiasco was lurid: the soldiers still and would be forever, respected James as their paragon. Instead of straining him back into the darkness, they would want him to be free, the figure in the long, black coat who always lighted up their hope amid despair. Having James supporting their backs, they would never be shrouded in fear as they believed every feat was sure to be conquered.
No one knew where James went after the escape. Many suspected that he hid in seclusion or set out plans for revolt against the powerful perpetrator of his encounters. After the incident, soldiers incapable of the arrest were dismissed of status; yet, no one regretted their choice. Regardless of the challenges awaiting them, all they hankered was to bring light upon the black-coated hero that once shone them.
