Islana's Story
"Islana. Is there a point to this?" Jereh demanded.
"You wanted to know everything," Islana spat. "This is everything."
"This sounds like the same report you gave the Voice. Stop playing for time, and answer me!"
"This sounds like the same report because it is—neither one of us knew what was going to happen until we were looking back on it." Islana snapped.
"And neither one of you is leaving this room until I'm satisfied."
"Somehow, I doubt anything is going to satisfy you," Islana muttered.
"The truth will. Then I'll decide what to do with you."
"Is that... Is that your decision?" Cleran hazarded. He wasn't all that familiar with the Knights' system of rank and even less familiar with their forms of punishment, but something seemed a little off.
"It is unless you want me to take this to the Voice," Jereh said. "Islana is working under me at the moment, so—"
"Actually, Jereh, I'm not working under you. I'm on vacation. If you recall."
"I recall the vacation was forced, and you were supposed to see your... Family." She spat the word.
"I have no family," Islana said coolly.
"You're just like him."
"I have no family," she repeated, her fist clenched. She wouldn't be stupid enough to try and attack another Knight, particularly not one who had Jereh's abilities and not given her current situation, but she definitely wanted to.
There was a very tense moment of silence, until Cleran cleared his throat slightly. "We should get this over with..." he said, and started back into the story.
[OPENING CREDITS]
Episode 2: The First Attempt
Cleran stretched a bit and glanced at the Knight in her cell. Islana was sitting on her mattress, with her back to the stone wall and her knees pulled up to her chest. Her eyes were shut gently; she was either dozing or meditating. Either way, Cleran thought she looked far too comfortable, and he was bored enough to do something about it.
"So I can't help but wonder," he started, satisfied to see her open her eyes and glare at him, "what you've got to be thinking. I mean, a Knight sitting in a very well-guarded dungeon, knowing how hated she is for all of the trouble she's caused. Good people having died, the High Priest among them. Knowing large portions of the rest of her life—a very short amount of time—are going to be spent inside a torture chamber. And then there'll be the public humiliation and, well, the end of that very short amount of time."
She didn't dignify him with a reply, just shut her eyes again and rested her head against the wall.
"You know, his Holiness still hasn't decided how you're going to be executed yet. There are so many options; I mean, he wants the crowd to be satisfied. A typical hanging might do it, but that's over fairly quickly and besides, it's how one would deal with a common criminal. You are not common."
"I'm not a criminal, either. I'm a Knight." She didn't even bother to open her eyes when she answered.
"Same thing." He was irrationally glad she'd answered him.
"A damn good Knight."
"Not that good. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here right now," he pointed out.
"Really. Because if I wasn't that good, how did I destroy the whole fleet and kill your precious High Priest? You seem awfully fixated on that."
Cleran glared back at her for a minute, then continued, "I think the debate is really between flogging and having you burnt at the stake. Flogging is usually what we do to slaves who've been particularly rebellious, so there's some rather interesting symbolism there, Dysis—his Holiness—says."
Islana didn't give any sign that she'd been paying attention, but she was surprised to hear Cleran call the priest by name. She knew the significance of his black wardrobe, and knew how much the Warriors respected their High Priest and that pretty much none of them were so familiar with him. It left her wondering how Cleran could have known the High Priest... Dysis, apparently... Well enough to refer to him by name automatically.
"On the other hand, burning seems awfully appropriate. I mean, the Sun and fire seem to have a lot in common, and fire is traditionally how Ocando strikes down people. So the religious association is almost too perfect for his Holiness to pass up."
Islana was back to ignoring him. He narrowed his eyes and decided to try another tactic. "So if I was you, I'd be thinking about how I was going to escape."
That got her attention. He smiled. "Of course, I'm not you, but I can only see one way you could get out of here." She didn't say anything, but was definitely interested; she let her feet slide down so her legs were in front of her, and crossed her ankles. "You'd have to seduce me."
No emotion registered on her face for a moment. Islana was offended and disgusted, and wanted to find an equally offensive and insulting response. It only took her a second to formulate her answer: she laughed at him.
He gave her a dirty look. She grinned back. "Trust me, I would rather go through any number of violent executions," she said.
"I didn't think it was funny." He was on the verge of sulking.
"Were you serious?" she asked incredulously. She'd been insulted, but had thought he'd only been trying to make her angry.
"Sure," he said flatly; his plan had backfired, and now he was the one who was angry. "Fuck me, and I'll let you go."
She smiled. "I'll take my chances in the torture chamber." She slouched against the wall and closed her eyes again; things were fairly hopeless for her, but she was exhausted.
"I outrank him," Ocan spat bitterly.
Arot shrugged. "I know. It's a slap I the face to all of us, but His Holiness doesn't seem to care—or even notice. So until he says otherwise, you want to do something to her, you go through him. Got it?"
"Yeah." Ocan understood, but didn't look too happy about it.
"Unless you'd rather I spoke to His Holiness?" Arot suggested. Ocan considered for a moment, then shook his head.
"I'll handle it myself. Might as well have a word with the bastard, remind him who he is."
Arot grinned. "Try not to hurt him too badly, all right? His Holiness would be... upset."
"I'll keep that in mind." Ocan nodded and swept out of the room, heading towards the dungeon where he was certain Cleran would still be sitting. He was in the process of lighting a torch when a slave made his way into the room, carrying a tray that held several plates and glasses.
"Where are you headed with that?" Ocan demanded, brandishing the torch a little. The slave looked nervous and backed up a few steps. "Slaves aren't permitted in this area."
"I-I was told to... To deliver this to... To a Warrior in the dungeon. My Lord. I was just doing what I was told! I swear!"
Ocan narrowed his eyes. "Who gave you those orders?"
"A-another Warrior, my Lord, he was... He said his name was Cleran, my Lord. He... He was wearing all black..."
"I see." Ocan nodded slowly, and the slave let out a visible breath. "I'll deliver it." As the slave brought him the tray Ocan continued, "And next time, remind Cleran of the boundaries."
The slave bit his lip, wanting to point out that it wasn't his place to remind a Warrior of anything, but decided not to argue with Ocan. The older Warrior had a reputation for dealing harshly with slaves who annoyed him; that was a list of people that the slave didn't want to be on.
He handed him the tray and bowed. "Of course. My Lord," he managed to say.
"Get out of here," Ocan commanded, and the slave was more than happy to do as told. Ocan gave the slave's back a dark look and made his way down to the dungeon, where, as expected, Cleran was still sitting outside Islana's cell.
"Ocan?" Cleran asked, surprised.
"Slaves aren't supposed to be in any proximity to the dungeon," Ocan spat, thrusting the platter at Cleran, who set it down gently and rose to speak with his colleague.
"I was right here. He wasn't going to speak to her or contact her in anyway, and I didn't want any of the other Warriors to be bothered with it." Ocan started to cut him off, but Cleran continued, "âunless you'd rather I asked you, in the future."
Ocan balled a fist. "You think you can give me orders?" he demanded.
"That's why I had the slave fetch it," Cleran pointed out, tensing. He had a good idea what was coming; Ocan had always hated him and this wouldn't be the first time they fought. And thus far, Cleran had never won.
"Idiot." Ocan gave Cleran a nasty glare. Cleran tried to glare back but it didn't have quite the same menace as Ocan's did. Eventually he half-nodded and dropped his gaze to the floor.
"Sorry. Sir," he said. Ocan gave him a nasty smile but let his fist drop.
"Speaking of the Knight, I have a few ideas on how to deal with her." He let the sentence hang in the air.
"Er..." Cleran said eventually.
"I'm not supposed to destroy her, but I'm going to punish her. Harshly. I'll be using the healer-slave so that I can do... Damage."
Cleran nodded, still not sure why he was being told this. "Good." Ocan paused. "You're feeding her?"
"Well... Yeah."
And now Ocan grinned spitefully at Islana. "I have an idea for that, too. How long has it been since she's eaten?"
"A long time. I don't know exactly," Cleran said, still confused but trying to hide it a bit.
Ocan nodded, his attention now on Islana. She was still sitting on her mattress, leaning back against the wall and watching the two men attentively. She could tell which one of them was in charge, as Cleran was obviously intimidated and Ocan carried himself like a man who was used to giving orders and having them be obeyed.
"You," he said, now speaking in Islana's language. His voice was deep and harsh sounding; he spoke with an accent much thicker than Cleran's. "You are hungry?"
She nodded slowly, wishing he was wrong, but starving beyond any denial. "Stand up. Come here," he ordered, leaning down to pick up the platter. Hesitantly, Islana did as bade, the ropes around her ankles rubbing her skin painfully. She stood across from him behind the bars, and they sized her up.
Islana was taller, and she was standing as straight as she could in an attempt to show dignity and maybe even intimidate Ocan—but it didn't work; he looked her over and saw her white hair, the ropes, her prisoner's clothing, and the rest was unimportant. His grin never wavered as he uncovered the platter and revealed two plates of food, presumably one for her and one for Cleran.
"It smells good," he added, and waited for her to reply. She nodded carefully, slowly. He passed one of the plates back to Cleran and carefully picked at some of the rice on hers. "It is good," he agreed. "And you are hungry."
"Yes," she answered, trying not to sound as anxious as she felt. She could sense that Ocan had something nasty in mind and was suspicious of him. She cast a glance back at Cleran, who had settled back into his chair and was watching with interest.
"Good." Ocan stared her in the eye for a long beat. "You will beg for this now."
She stared at him in shock for a moment, and again glanced back at Cleran, who was grinning widely. "No," she said finally, then repeated it.
"Then you will not eat," Ocan stated, sampling some more of her meal. Her stomach rumbled as the scent reached her and a wave of intense hunger hit her and left her reeling. Ocan smiled. "And it is very good. Better than a Knight should eat. Better than you..." He trailed off, trying to think of the word.
"Deserve?" Cleran suggested. Ocan shot him a nasty glare, and he looked guiltily down at his meal.
"...Deserve. Yes. Far better than you deserve. But if you are not willing to beg for it..." He shrugged, and turned to leave, silently counting steps, waiting for Islana to speak up. He collected his torch in four steps, and took another three—all the way to the base of the stair case—when she finally called after him.
"Wait," was all she said. He turned back around, clearly amused.
"Yes?"
"I... I'll do it," she said, and her voice conveyed utter misery, but was vaguely heartened by the fact that her sudden decision to give in seemed to surprise Cleran. He looked startled for a second, then shrugged the feeling off; this was all part of Ocan's job and something he had probably done before.
"Go ahead now," Ocan told her.
She opened her mouth, but didn't say anything, then shut it again for a second. After a deep breath, she leaned forward, grabbed the bars with her tied hands, and whispered, "Please, I... I need something to eat... I'm very hungry."
She and Cleran both waited for a long second, to see Ocan's reaction. He watched her critically for another long moment, then, "When I think of a person begging, I think of a person kneeling." He paused, then added, "Ask Ocando, provider of all things—including your food."
Islana's expression changed now, from utter misery and a bit of horror to one of hatred.
"No," she said again.
"Then starve," Ocan replied, again heading for the stairs until she called after him. "This will be your last chance," he said as he started back towards her. "You will kneel, you will ask Ocando for your meal."
Islana's glare faded back to the same misery, as she slowly knelt, her hands sliding down the smooth bars. "Please," she said again, barely audible. "Please, Ocando, I need something to eat..."
Ocan considered her again. "This is a start. I will see you again tomorrow," he declared, nodding to Cleran to unlock the cell door. She started to stand and he shook his head, and stood inside the door way. "Here," he spat, and now all the venom that had been missing from his voice before was present.
He dropped the plate, which broke as it hit the floor and sent the meal spilling onto the stone ground, then turned and swept away, not even bothering to stay and see if she would eat off the ground.
"Who was he?" she demanded once Ocan was gone and Cleran had reseated himself.
"His name is Lord Ocan Candisson," Cleran said, not trying very hard to mask the disgust in his voice. "He's... Well, you'll find out."
"He said I'd see him tomorrow."
"You will," Cleran promised, then mused, "But you'll probably wish you hadn't."
[EYECATCH]
Islana settled where the plate had shattered and made herself as comfortable as possible, carefully trying to salvage what food she could. Most of it was all right, she found, if somewhat dusty.
Cleran looked all together too amused at the site of her eating off the floor. She narrowed her eyes at him.
"So how's your meal?" he asked, sensing her annoyance. "Mine is just wonderful, really."
"Fuck off."
"You should show a little more respect," he admonished. "You think this is bad, but I didn't have to get you a meal at all."
"I should respect you?" she scoffed. "You think I don't know what the black clothes mean?" He stared at her and she smiled back viscously.
"I..." he started. "At least I'm a man—and I'm not a Knight. I'm a bastard, sure, but the only girls who join the Knights are ones who wish they were men."
"Believe me when I tell you that I have never wanted to be a man."
"Really? Because as women go—well, no man would want you."
"But if they did, at least it would be legal, bastard."
Cleran winced. That was another law; the illegitimate weren't supposed to have children, and that meant... Well, it meant Cleran was an extremely frustrated man.
"So how blue is your blood?" he demanded after a pause that was long enough to show that her remarks had hit a sore spot. "'Cause somehow I doubt you're as far above me as you pretend to be."
"Warrior, I'm farther above you than you could possibly imagine," she smirked.
"So what, you're a princess?" he muttered.
"Sure." She half-spat it. "Why shouldn't I be?"
"For one, princesses don't eat off the floor," he noted.
"And you know because Princesses spend a lot of time talking to bastards?" she shot back, glancing down at what remained of her meal and the shattered plate. She brushed a finger over a shard of the plate; it was cold to the touch and the jagged edge was nearly sharp enough to draw blood.
An idea began to form as one of her hands closed over it, carefully palming it to keep it out of Cleran's sight, then continued eating. He didn't notice, and she had a hard time keeping her smirk out of control. It didn't take too long to finish, and she carefully made her way back to her mattress and settled in. "So what, are you going to sleep in that chair?" she demanded after a minute.
"Yeah," he said. "I was."
"Are you really that worried that I'm going to escape?"
"Not really." He shrugged, set his own plate on the floor, and settled back into his chair. "But extra security can't hurt."
"I see." She shrugged. "But when I do escape, you will hurt."
"You're tied up inside a jail cell while I'm out here, armed, and there are at least five Warriors between here and the outside—not to mention there's no way for you to get home. I don't think you're going to escape, Islana."
"Maybe I'll settle for just hurting you, then," she answered coldly. "But for now, I'm going to sleep."
"You're going to sleep?" he asked, vaguely incredulous. "You're going to be executed painfully and publicly humiliated, not to mention thrown in the torture chamber for awhile, and you're just going to go to sleep?"
"Yes." She smiled. "I'm tired." And with that, she slipped down the mattress until she was lying, staring at the ceiling, and closed her eyes gently. She was careful not to fall asleep, though she did her best to convince her captor she had drifted off. She kept her breathing low and even, and only shifted slightly to get comfortable. Islana allowed herself to dwell on everything Cleran had said—it really was enough to keep her awake at night, and she was exhausted, but she also realized that if she fell asleep, she might lose her only chance to get away unscathed.
She waited until she could hear Cleran's breathing deepen, and he stopped fidgeting in his chair. She risked sitting up and glancing at him; he didn't respond, and was clearly asleep. She smiled and produced her shard of ceramic plate, carefully held it between her thumb and fingers, and began swiping it across the rope near her other wrist. It wasn't sharp enough to cut quickly or cleanly, but it slowly cut fiber after fiber, until it was most of the way through. As quietly as she could, Islana wrapped the slack of the rope around her wrist until she could pull it tight, set her jaw, and pulled.
The rope snapped. She smiled and began picking at the knots around her ankles, carefully and quietly. Cleran seemed to stir once and she froze, afraid her efforts were going to be found out, but he drifted back off immediately. She managed not to let out a sigh of relief, afraid it would wake him.
It didn't take too long to get her ankles free, though the knots had been done very carefully. She took a second to reflect and debate how best to go about the next step in her plan, then artfully positioned the ropes around her ankles—in the dim light, someone in a hurry wouldn't notice they were untied. And Islana could make sure Cleran was in a hurry.
She pulled a similar trick with the rope that had been tying her wrists; she'd wanted to take it off completely, but it was a lot easier to fool someone into thinking her wrists were still tied if there was rope around them.
Adrenaline began to pump through Islana as she lay back down and shut her eyes, pretending to sleep, but only for a moment. She took a final deep breath, then began to shriek and didn't stop. She screamed half-formed words from her own language, some nonsense, and some was just noise. She thrashed as much as she could without making it obvious that the ropes had been untied and tried to avoid pausing for something else. Cleran's eyes jerked open and grew wider as he saw Islana going through what looked like some sort of convulsions, then spat a swear word. "Islana!" he, but it didn't do any good. Still cursing, he made his way to the door of her cell and yelled again, but with the same results.
He reached for the key and fit it to the lock, then paused. What's going on? Why... Why would she just start screaming in her sleep? he wondered, then, And why do I care?
He almost turned and went back to his seat, but was finally able to make out a few of the words she was yelling. "NO! ... please... Away from me! ... Someone STOP IT STOP IT STOP IT!" The blood drained from his face; he couldn't be sure quite what she was yelling about, but between that and the thrashing around... It seemed like something a lot worse than an average nightmare.
He turned the key and stepped into her cell, then carefully knelt next to her and shook her shoulder, and tried calling her name again. Her eyes snapped open and the screaming stopped, but before Cleran had a chance to think, she had reached out and grabbed for the hilt of his sword and was nearly standing.
She pulled the sword, and Cleran did the only thing he could think of; he closed his hand over the exposed metal and grabbed, trying to keep it from being fully drawn or pulled into her grasp. He screamed as the blade cut his hand, and kicked out towards her. He caught one of her knees and she tripped, as she hadn't been fully balanced yet, but as she fell, the blade came loose from the hilt and his hand, the blade already slick with his blood.
He reached for his knife, as she tried to stand, and he tried to kick her same knee again. She dodged, but just barely; he must have connected harder than he'd thought the first time. She twisted and caught his side with the edge of his own blade. He yelled in pain, managed to grab the rope that was still attached to her wrist, yanked it towards him and kicked out again.
Cleran connected thanks to sheer luck; Islana stumbled forward and he dropped the rope to grab her arm with his bloody hand. She spat a curse word and tried to pull free, hoping the blood would make it easier, but it didn't help and he held firm and raised his knife to her throat.
"That was very stupid of you," he snarled.
"So kill me," she spat back.
"Trust me, I'd like to. But I've got orders." He twisted her arm and she screamed. "Drop the sword." She didn't. "Drop it!" he ordered, yanking her arm sharper. She scraped her foot down the inside of his leg and landed on his instep; he bit off a yell, flipped the knife around in his hand and slammed the hilt into her skull. She went limp in his arm and he let her hit the floor, not caring enough to support her wait.
Now that she wasn't a threat, he let himself feel the throbbing pain in his hand and he let out an agonized yell that mutated into swear words from both languages. He stooped to pick up his sword, stepped out of the cell, closed and locked it.
"Shit," he muttered, looking back at Islana, unconscious in her cell, and shaking some of the blood off his hand. He started for the stairs, wondering how to explain her escape attempt without getting himself in too much trouble. He wasn't very hopeful about it; Dysis was going to be upset, and Ocan would probably find some way to punish him.
Unless they don't find out, he thought to himself. But... How to explain my hand? How do I get a Healer to keep quiet about it? He stopped and leaned against the corridor's wall, black spots in front of his eyes. Shit. How much blood have I lost? I don't think I've been hurt so badly since...
And then an idea came to him. Cleran shoved his hand into a pocket, hoping none of the blood would be too obvious, and began to hurry. He passed the only other Warrior standing duty—no one really wanted to at night, and he hadn't wanted to order anyone he didn't have to—without much problem.
"Stepping out?" the Warrior asked. Cleran noted with relief that the Warrior wasn't one of the ones who was particularly nasty to him.
"Gotta piss." Cleran gave him a guilty look. "And I'm gonna pick up some shackles. Right now she's just got ropes."
"Want me to go keep an eye on her?"
"Nah, she's not going anywhere. I'll be back in a few." He hurried off, glad the other Warrior hadn't noticed the blood pooling in his pocket, and practically ran the rest of the way to the slaves' quarters, a small wing off of the main church.
He pushed his way into the healer slave's room; the boy was important enough that he had a room to himself. "Wake up!" he demanded, shaking the boy with his good hand.
"I'm awake, I'm—Sir. I'm up." The kid sat up. "What's wrong?"
This wasn't all that unusual for him. Every now and then, the Healers wouldn't be able to take care of someone, and they'd need pure power for it. They always ran to him. Cleran pulled his hand from his pocket and the Healer winced at the bloody mess.
"What happened?"
"I can't say." The Healer sat up.
"Why come to me? Sir?"
"Call me Cleran," Cleran said. "I trust you. You saved my life."
"Er... All right...." the Healer agreed. He stood and motioned for Cleran to sit on the bed. Cleran complied, and the slave carefully reached out for his hand. "I... I don't know how to..." He stopped, as his hand began to glow. He wasn't trained, but it was instinctive for him; when someone hurt was right in front of him, he couldn't help himself. The pale blue light grew stronger, and extended to cover Cleran's hand.
Cleran winced; Healing was a painful process unless pain blocks were set up, and the slave didn't know how to do that. He bit back a yell, but the pain went away in less than a minute. The Healer dropped his hand, walked to another corner in his room, and rummaged around for a moment. He returned with some discarded rags, and carefully cleaned the blood from Cleran's hand. "I can probably bandage it, if you'd like," he offered.
"No. No, that's all right." Cleran opened and closed his fist a few times. His hand was tingling slightly, but the wound had closed and the pain had ceased. "Thank you. I... Listen, people can't know about this. It's... It's important. I can pay you."
"Sir, you don't have to—"
"Not 'sir.' I'm Cleran." He smiled. "Just a bastard. But look, it is really important that no one knows about this. Just tell me how much you want."
"I... Sir—Cleran—I won't say anything."
"What can I..."
"Nothing." The Healer paused, then, "unless you can get me some Healing supplies. Real bandages. Real salves." He sighed. "I know... I know I can't be a real Healer, but..."
"Of course. I'll see what I can get you." Cleran sounded incredibly relieved. "Thank you. I... Well, you saved my life, and you just saved my job. Thank you."
The Healer shrugged and mumbled a disclaimer. Cleran threw him a last grateful smile and made his way out.
[CLOSING CREDITS]