Crimson Blade {inspired by Our Flag Means Death}

What We See When the Sun Sets

Boots scuffling and stomping above brings Luka back to the present, to this hopeless moment. If Conrad knew this was how his heart would cease to beat, Luka knows he'd have cut it out of his chest long ago, and this thought lights a fire of shame in his chest so hot, smoke billows in his mouth and threatens to choke him.

He rises and stumbles forward, the dark surroundings of this prison cell familiar now after endless nights locked down here. His hands find the wall and trace along its mildew-covered surface, looking for a support beam - finding it quickly. He slides down to the floor and dances his fingertips along the plank, locating the loose edge and lifting. Beneath the wood is a stash of contraband collected over weeks and hidden here, his knowledge that a moment such as this would come sooner rather than later.

Luka's thumb brushes the small bag of rice, something that has been crucial in keeping him alive when his captor was determined to let him starve, his pinky taps a small stack of parchment and piece of charcoal, essential tools for clinging to his sanity when his solitary confinement went on for days at a time.

A flash of a memory: his thumb hooked under Bellows' jaw, the light scratching sound of charcoal on paper, trying and failing to replicate the shape of his lips. He could never get them quite right - their fullness driving him mad in more ways than one. Countless hours spent in electrified silence, the air around them thick with what would remain unspoken until their final moment together. Bellows' chin on his shoulder, eager to see his likeness committed to paper, a blush creeping up Luka's ears.

Luka's hand wraps around the handle of a buttering knife and lifts it out, wedging the blade between his wrists, the barely sharp edge flush against his rope restraints. The sounds above become more frantic, and he quickens his movements. He knows cutting the rope would take too long, so he twists, and twists, and twists; the rope now so tight against his flesh, it draws blood.

His hands begin to lose all color, and they feel as though they may just fall off entirely, but he knows he has to release himself, has to keep going. So he twists and twists, the pain unbearable, his screams aching to be released from his chest.

Just as Luka reaches the point where his vision blurs at the edges and passing out feels inevitable, the rope pops and gives way, uncoiling and dropping the knife at his feet. He sighs, the relief brief, before all the blood rushes back to his hands and they throb something fierce. He tries to contain it, but a loud groan rips through his chest and bubbles out of his throat, concealed only by the screams of terror and clashing swords above.

"Keep moving," he hisses at himself, "This is not how we die."

His hand plunges back into the hidey-hole, searching for something very specific. His only means of protection from the, what sounds like, ten men pillaging and murdering on the deck above. His fingertips graze the piece of glass just as he hears the padlock that's keeping him in, and them out, being smashed. Two more heavy hits and it'll give, he knows. His movements are swift, slinking across the narrow space and crouching near the foot of the steps.

The lock bursts and the chain is yanked free, and then, silence.

One set of heavy boots waltzes across the deck, stopping just above his head, "Open it."

The voice is low and calm, commanding respect without shouting. Luka listens intently  as the iron grate is thrown open, watches as a patch of moonlight beams down near his bare feet. His gaze is fixed on the steps, anticipating a flood of boots descending upon him. But nothing comes.

"Do you plan to grace us with your presence?"

Luka knows the question is aimed at him, but he doesn't move or speak.