Author's Note: Hi Guys! This is my first time ever posting something! I'll try to update it at least every week. Anyways...Enjoy!
Yours Truly,
Ichlgox
Hours pass, or perhaps it's days-time is an elusive concept in this lightless dungeon. Iseno's bells, once a distant reminder of the life outside, are nothing more than a distant memory. Their joyous chimes can't penetrate the suffocating depths of these stone walls, and the rhythmic beat of the drums is but a distant echo, a faint pulse from a world I can no longer touch.
My windowless cell is a testament to the prison's cruel design. The granite walls, cool to the touch, loom around me, their oppressive presence like a vice around my soul. They are a foot thick, and no amount of strength or desperation can hope too breach them. The iron bars, mere two-inch clits, provide a callous illusion of a connection to the outside world-a world I am denied.
The air in the dungeon hangs heavy and damp, carrying with it the musty scent of old stone and decaying wood. The only source of light is a feeble, flickering torch ensconced in a sconce on the far wall. Its feeble glow barely manages to cast long, dancing shadows that seem to mock the very notion of escape.
The cold, unforgiving floor beneath me is rough and uneven, pressing into my weary body, a constant reminder of my captivity. The sound of dripping water echoes through the chamber, a relentless metronome that marks the passage of time in bitter increments.
My senses have become heightened in this oppressive darkness. Every distant sound, every subtle shift in the air, sends shivers down my spine, leaving me perpetually on edge. I strain to discern any hint of movement beyond my cell, but the silence is deafening, broken only by the occasional scuffle of unseen creatures in the hidden recesses of this place.
My own breath, ragged and uneven, is the only companion in this desolate world. Each exhale is a visible cloud in the frigid air, a tangible testament to my isolation. I wrap my arms around myself, seeking solace in the feeble warmth they provide, a futile attempt to stave off the encroaching chill.
There are no guards, no stern faces to mete out their judgment or indifference. Here, in this forsaken abyss, the need for their presence has evaporated, replaced by the very nature of this inescapable confinement. It is a place of perpetual isolation, a torment of solitude that gnaws at the fringes of my sanity.
In this lightless void, I rely on my own sense of time, though my grasp like grains of sand. I count the beats of my own heart as a makeshift clock, and I mark the passage of days by the ache in my empty stomach.
The silence is a living entity, a spectral wraith that wraps itself around my thoughts. It whispers dark secrets and taunts me with memories of the life I once led. It is a silence that knows no mercy, a silence that amplifies the solitude to a deafening roar.
My fingers, once nimble and sure, now clench and unclench, as if grasping at the intangible threads of my past. The memory of the lives I've extinguished lingers in the recesses of my mind, their faces appearing as ghostly apparitions within the flickering torchlight. Their eyes, filled with fear, pain, and regret, are etched in the shadows that twist and writhe before me, like a macabre dance of the condemned.
The weight of my sins bears down on my soul, a relentless burden that I can never fully escape. I remember the faces of those I've taken, the innocent and the guilty, the young and the old. Each life I snuffed out was a choice, a step deeper into the abyss, driven by a twisted sense of duty that once seemed so righteous. The darkness I embraced, the path I willingly tread, has left an indelible mark on my conscience.
As I sit in this oppressive silence, the memories of my past life as a remorseless instrument of death haunt me. They are not mere phantoms; they are my own reflection, my alter ego forged in the crucible of darkness. The voices of those I've silenced still echo in my ears, their final pleas and screams reverberating within the caverns of my mind.
Despite my descent into this abyss of guilt and despair, I cannot deny that a part of me remains loyal to the sinister skills I once possessed. I was a weapon, honed and sharpened to perfection, a wraith of the night. In the shadows, I moved with deadly grace, a master of stealth and subterfuge, striking terror into the hearts of my enemies. I was a shard of darkness, a harbinger of fear, a force to be reckoned with.
The struggle between the person I used to be and the one I've become rages on within the confines of my cell, the internal battle as intense as any I've ever faced. The past and the present are intertwined, and the whispered secrets of my former life continue to beckon, urging me to remember the person I once was, and perhaps, to find a glimmer of redemption in this lightless dungeon.
It is a cruel irony-that in this place of captivity, I find myself longing for the very darkness that defined me.
And so, I sit in this dim cell, my only companions the shadows that dance along the edges of my mind. I'm left to ponder the depths of my own thoughts, to wrestle with the regret and longing that has become my constant struggle. The world outside may have moved on, but in the retched place, time stands still, and I am left to grapple with the haunting echoes of my own existence.
As days blend into a seamless tapestry of solitude, I begin to lose track of myself. My own reflection, when a catch glimpses of it in the dim light flittering through the iron bars, seems like a stranger's. The hunger gnaws at my belly, a relentless reminder of the passage of time, and my strength wanes with each breath.
My mind, starving for stimulation, begins to play tricks on me. Shadows morph into phantoms, and the echoes in this abyss whisper secrets I dare not confront. It's during one of these moments, as I lie curled on the frigid cot, that I hear it-a faint scraping sound, so subtle I question whether it's real or another cruel trick of my mind.
But it persists, growing louder with each pressing sound. The scraping becomes rhythmic, a deliberate, methodical sound that inches closer, as if some unseen force is working to free me from my torment. My heart hammers in my chest as I dare to hope, the spark of a desperate possibility igniting in me.
With a renewed energy, I crawl towards the source of the sound. The bars of my cell, cold and unyielding for so long, are now my salvation. I grip them with trembling hands, my knuckles white with exertion, and peer through the narrow opening. There, in the gloom beyond, I see a figure-a stranger with furtive eyes, wielding a makeshift tool.
Hope surges through me, a potent elixir that drowns out the oppressive silence of my cell. My voice, a raspy whisper after months of disuse, quivers with excitement as I call out to my mysterious savior.
"Who are you? What are you doing?"
The figure pauses, their gaze locking onto mine through the narrow slit. Their voice, barely more than a murmur, reaches my ears.
"A friend, seeking freedom."
With a final, determined motion, the stranger continues to work on the bars, their effort growing more frantic as they near completion. I watch in breathless anticipation, my hear pounding like a drumbeat.
And then, just as the last iron shard falls to the ground, and my path to escape stands open, a terrible realization dawns upon me-the stranger's face, when illuminated by a shard of feeble light, is one I recognize, but one I never expected to see in this dreadful space.
The figure looks up, and our eyes lock in a moment of agonizing recognition. A shiver runs down my spine, and my voice catches in my throat as I utter the name I had long thought lost to the annals of time.
"Rhys?"