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The Loyal Angel

By Nathan Crocker

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Darkness.
Deep. Cold. Complete.
The blackness of the cell was total. Tentatively, the prisoner reached out a trembling hand, fingers waggling about in empty space. Nothing. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead despite the chill, and his heart began to race. Forcing down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him, he swung his arm out to the side and stretched. The hand waved back and forth, up and down, seeking. Still, nothing. Swallowing hard, he dropped that hand and reached out with the other.
Finally! His fingers contacted something solid. Releasing a breath that he now realized he had been holding, the prisoner flattened his hand against the unseen object and pressed. He drew his fingertips inward, feeling the texture of the stone.
Hard. Rough. Wet.
The prisoner ran his hand down to the edge of the large stone block, then traced the tip of a finger along a line of mortar that connected the block to another below. He had found the near wall. As he took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, the pounding in his chest began to relent. The ability to touch something, to catalog the unseen object as a known thing, something familiar, soothed the prisoner's mind.
He may not be able to see in the blackness, but he could explore his surroundings with his other senses. Each one reassured him, anchoring him to reality. He could touch the stone wall and floor. He could hear the drip drop of water somewhere off in the distance. He could smell the stagnant air of the cell; heavy, musty, and stale. Still, he found the odor of mold and decay oddly comforting in its pungent strength. It was real, and it reminded him that he was real.
The pain was also real. The welts on his back where he had been beaten screamed in outrage at the movement of his limbs. He yearned to lie down and rest his battered body, but that would not do. If he succumbed to the temptation, he might sink into a torpor that would swallow him whole, dragging his consciousness down into a pit of depression. That, he could not allow.
The prisoner took a deep breath and held it, bracing himself. Then calling upon all his strength, he defied the pain by deliberately moving his arms. He welcomed the agony. It assured him he was still strong, still alive.
The prisoner ran a hand across the stone floor, his fingertips brushing lightly over what felt like a loose carpeting of straw, damp and grimy. As he dragged his hand back toward him, pieces bunched and collected at the tips of his fingers. Grasping the straw, he brought the bundle up to his nose for inspection—
And instantly regretted the decision. Reflexively, his head jerked away, and he dropped the straw, which smelled strongly of stale urine and rotten feces. He gagged involuntarily, barely resisting the urge to retch. The prisoner’s shoulders slumped, and he sighed with resigned understanding. No one would be coming to take him to the latrine. Like all the previous occupants of this cell, he would be forced to soil himself where he sat.
The prisoner wiped his hands on the cloth of his robe, then reached forward to rub his ankles which were pinioned and locked within stocks. He examined the unseen contraption with his hands, inspecting the thick rough wood. Spasms radiated up his legs which were stiff from lack of movement. He rubbed his thighs, running the heels of his palms over the trembling muscles.
Perhaps he should lie down. That would relieve the pressure on his legs. But no. If he succumbed to the temptation, he might sink into a torpor that would swallow him whole, dragging his consciousness down...
Wait. Hadn't he already had that thought? How long had he been here?
The prisoner set his jaw and took a steadying breath. He must remain clearheaded. With effort, he focused his mind, running back through the timeline of events that led up to his incarceration.
It had begun earlier that day, in the morning by the river.

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