Islana's Story
"Did you think it would work?"
Islana slowly looked up. She had been lying, curled into as small a ball as she could manage, on the mattress in her cell. She'd cried for a long time—she couldn't stop, no matter how hard she tried. They'd left her alone, after hurting her, without even Cleran outside her cell. She'd been too busy trying to regain control of herself, to feel something other than pain, to hear someone approaching.
Slowly, painfully, she looked up, then mustered as much dignity as she could and sat up. It was hard and she had to bite back a yell of pain as she did so, but she eventually managed to. Standing under the torch were two figures, both slight, skinny frames. One she saw was Dysis, which startled her more than a little. He had apparently stopped shaking, and looked mostly fine—he was angry, and there was a ring of bruises around his neck. The other figure was the healer slave; Dysis had spoken, and he'd translated.
For some reason, Islana had thought he didn't speak her language. He'd never given any signs of understanding her and Cleran.
"Answer me, Knight. Did you think it would work?" Dysis demanded, and the slave translated. He didn't speak her language very well, it seemed that he clearly knew what he was supposed to say, but couldn't quite form the words right.
"...what?..." she managed to say. Her throat was sore from screaming.
"Your suicide attempt," Dysis snapped. "Or didn't you think I knew what you were doing?"
She didn't answer him. He waited for a minute, then continued. "I wouldn't have cared, though. Not for myself&151;not even for Erra Kelanister. But Cleran." His eyes flashed with anger. "I told you I would not tolerate any slights towards him and I was serious."
"I noticed."
He seemed to look at the state she was in for the first time, and for a very short second looked ill. He recovered quickly and masked it with a look of utter disgust. "This was not my doing," he said. "I have yet to issue any orders dealing with this incident."
"You thought they would wait for orders?" She found the idea almost laughable, but laughter would hurt too much. "I nearly killed you, and you thought they would wait for you to tell them to deal with me?"
"They should know me well enough to wait," he answered, then picked the torch out of its holder. He approached her cell and leant forward, examining her. "This was not my doing," he repeated, almost shuddering to see the state she was in. "You will know my reaction from theirsˆëI am going to destroy you, not merely hurt you."
"You think this is 'merely' hurting me?" she spat.
"I think you were hoping for that reaction from them—from me. You didn't want to kill me, Islana. If you had wanted that, I'd be dead. You wanted to die, quickly. And you thought that attacking me would accomplish it for you.
"Sound reasoning, if I hadn't realized it. But I did realize what you wanted."
She cursed mentally. She'd been counting on bringing out Dysis' and the Warriors' anger, on someone losing control. It would be a very painful way to die, but at least it would end things now and not leave her in suspended agony. It had never occurred to her that Dysis would think it was anything other than an attempt on his life.
"Then what will you do?"
He smiled grimly. "You humiliated my brother, Islana. Wait and see."
[OPENING CREDITS]
Episode 5: An Offer Renewed
"His Holiness is far too lenient," Cleran spat. "He should have you fucking skinned alive."
"He's not going to?" Islana asked, sounding more surprised than she was. Dysis had told her he was going to do something, but so far—it seemed to have been nearly a day, now—nothing had happened.
"On your feet," Cleran snapped at her, rather than answering her question. "It's finally time."
"For?" she asked, not moving.
"I said get on your fucking feet," he outright snarled.
She smiled. It was almost nice to see Cleran so outraged on his brother's behalf, after knowing how his brother had reacted for his sake. Islana was certain that Cleran wasn't any angrier for himself than Dysis had been. So ironic it's almost stupid. Neither would act if I didn't insult the other.
Islana stood slowly, every muscle in her body protesting. Cleran unlocked her cell and grabbed one of her arms as soon as she was within his reach. "One more mistake and I'll kill you myself," he snarled, shoving her backwards against the wall. He grabbed a knife and pressed it to her throat for emphasis. "Do you understand me? So much as breath wrong, and I'll kill you."
He moved the blade enough for her to answer. "I understand," she said evenly. There was no reason to press her luck here. She actually almost felt bad for Cleran; his whole view of the world centered around his brother's perfection, and she'd shown how mortal Dysis really was...
He was even willing to bargain to save his own life. I wonder if Cleran realizes that? She debated pointing it out, but didn't really want to set herself up for worse than... Than whatever Dysis had planned.
Cleran didn't sheath his knife or release her arm, merely forced her to march, the point resting in the small of her back. "I do regret it, you know," she said softly.
"You're going to regret it more."
"That's what he told me." She wondered how he'd react.
"He who?" Cleran demanded.
"Dysis. Sorry—" she amended quickly, "I mean, his Holiness."
"What are you talking about?" he asked coldly, stopping and forcing her to stop as well. She turned to face him.
"Not long after your... Your friends left me in my cell, he showed up with that healer slave to translate. And told me just how much I was going to regret having been born."
Cleran smiled nastily. "When you lie, you should at least try and get your facts right," he told her, shoving her forward and back to walking. "The slave doesn't speak your language."
Odd, Islana thought. She had wondered about that in the past day. "Ask your brother, then," she said. "If you think he'd tell the truth. I gather the Warriors wouldn't have been thrilled with his showing up at my cell without a guard. Not given that I'd just tried to kill him."
"His Holiness is incapable of lying," Cleran said.
He believes that, doesn't he? Islana thought. "Good," she answered. "Then it was worth not murdering him."
Cleran stopped her again, twisting her arm until it was practically about to snap. He wrapped his knife-arm around her neck, resting the blade against her cheek, giving her a shallow cut. "He's too far above you. You could never hurt him."
"Funny. Those looked like painful bruises on his neck," she spat back.
He yanked her arm farther, until they both heard a snap. She started to yell, but barely got out a noise before she bit it off. "Son of a bitch!" she snarled instead.
He sliced her face again. "I should kill you," he said grimly.
"Then why don't you?" she demanded.
"Because I was ordered not to. I promise you I would otherwise."
"But if I'm so dangerous," she said, wishing she could turn around to face him, "shouldn't you break your orders? I could hurt him again. If I get a chance, I will. You're not letting me live because you were ordered to. You won't kill me because you're scared to. You're not man enough to."
There was a long, tense silence. "Walk," he snapped, shoving her forward as he released her. She fell into a careful march, ignoring the shooting pains up her arm. She recognized where they were heading.
The door to the torture chamber was thick and wooden. Cleran opened it for her, and she paused a long moment before stepping inside. Ocan was waiting, standing behind his table, resting his hands on it with the palms down. The table had been cleared of most of it's clutter, with only a few items remaining. Two chairs sat behind it.
Ocan's face was stony. He very carefully pulled out one of the two chairs and motioned to it, while Cleran regripped her arm and forced her over to it. He and Ocan exchanged a few words, and when Ocan started to speak in his own language, Cleran translated. "Have a seat," Ocan said.
She bit her lip and sat. Cleran reached onto the table and found a rope, then carefully—slowly—secured her body. Ocan produced a key and unchained her wrists, making her suspicious, and Cleran pinned one of her arms to the chair as well. Her other arm, the right arm, Ocan placed on the table.
More fishing for items on the table; Cleran found a clamp and fastened her to the table by her wrist. She gasped a little from the pressure, but it wasn't too bad. She watched both men darkly, quietly.
Ocan sat in the other chair, half facing her, while Cleran stood behind. They'd obviously spoken beforehand about what was going to happen. "Make yourself comfortable, if you can," Ocan said, via Cleran's translation. "We're going to have a nice chat."
He reached into a pocket and produced the two necklaces that she'd seen the day before. He laid them on the table, draping the chains over her hand. "His Holiness liked the notion of you as Galiera Kelanister. He found it poetic.
"I could have told him you weren't her, that she was murdered. I saw it happen, actually. My very first mission as a Warrior—far younger than I am now, of course—was the sacking of Kal'Hara. I was there when she was murdered. It would almost be sad to see a child so young so brutally killed. Do you know what was done to her?"
Islana said nothing. Cleran placed a hand on her shoulder, on the side of her neck, and hissed "Answer him," in her ear.
She looked up at Ocan and looked him in the eye. "No."
"Do you want to know?"
"No," she repeated.
Ocan smiled. He proceeded to tell her in great, incredibly brutal detail, what he remembered about the destruction of Kal'Hara. Galiera's throat was slit in front of her parents; Galiera's mother was raped while her husband watched, helpless. They were both killed brutally and their bodies were left where it was certain King Erra would find them. The rest of the city was torched, everything that could catch fire. Most of it was stone and survived, if it was somewhat charred, but a lot of damage was done. Warriors rode through the streets, killing everyone they found. They didn't even take slaves; there was no pretending this was a simple raid. It was an act of terrorism.
Islana listened while Ocan described it all. She was sick to her stomach from all of the detail he provided, particularly his account of the royal family's fate. His voice, and Cleran's as it translated, remained strictly calm—if anything, he seemed slightly nostalgic.
"Well, Islana? What do you think?"
"I think you're a sick son of a bitch," she answered. He backhanded her. She spat out a little blood and continued, "I think you're sick, and I think that Dysis is, too."
Another blow. More blood. "You will refer to him only as His Holiness," Cleran snarled without prompting.
"Fine. I think His Holiness is sick. And not very subtle—he still thinks I'm Galiera Kelanister, and that I'll break down because you talked about Ilyan and Alira's deaths. But he's wrong—and if he was right, he'd have misjudged me. I won't break." She locked eyes with Ocan. "Do whatever it is you're going to. I won't break."
Ocan smiled. He stood and picked what looked like a small hammer off the table. "His Holiness gave me a few very specific instructions. He assumes you're going to try and escape again, and wants to prevent it. I don't have to break you for that."
"You think anything you do is going to stop me?"
"Yes." He swung the hammer suddenly and landed on her thumb, and she screamed before she had a chance to control his reaction. "If you can't use your hand, you won't be able to escape. I'm going to make sure you won't be able to hold so much as a key, let alone a sword. And even if you somehow do manage to escape, well, there has never been a one handed Knight, and you won't be using this hand ever again."
She bit back her reply.
"But you won't have to worry about that—your execution is next week."
He picked up the hammer again. She clenched her jaw and waited.
Ocan set down the hammer.
Islana's hand hurt. There was no other word to describe it, really, her mind had turned off and she was on the brink of unconsciousness from the pain. She bit her lip (which was already bloody from having been bitten too hard as she tried to keep from screaming) and forced herself to try to move her fingers, but couldn't. She'd expected more pain, but couldn't feel any more. She whimpered slightly from the effort and slumped in the chair as much as the ropes would allow.
He smiled. "You are nothing."
"You think you've stopped me?" she asked, still slumped. "You think that this will stop me, that anything will?" Islana looked up. "It doesn't matter what you do to me. Until I'm dead, nothing is final." She looked back down at her bloodied hand and shook her head. "You have a weakness, Ocan. So does he." She glanced backwards to Cleran. "You have one you can't hide, and you can't do anything about it. You have Dysis. I know who he is and when I come for him, he won't be able to hide."
She coughed, and again there was blood in it. "I am going to escape. The only way to stop me is to kill me first."
"No," Ocan said calmly, though his brow was a little furrowed. "His Holiness warned me that you were going to try and get yourself killed. You won't be able to so much as touch him."
"Remember those words when he's dead by my hand." She smiled. "Unless that's what you're trying for. Some sort of power play. So you're going to push me until I have to kill him. And since you've just been following orders, you are blameless. But I'm sure you'll benefit somehow—maybe you have an arrangement with whoever it is who'll replace Dysis."
Ocan stared at her for a long moment, as his emotionless mask cracked, showing a little anger. He lashed out with his foot, hooked the one of the chair's legs, and yanked. Islana's chair went crashing forward, taking her with it. There was a smashing sound as her knees hit the floor with her weight and the weight of the chair behind them, and her arm was twisted at an unnatural angle because of her hand still clamped to the table.
Cleran's eyes widened as he snapped out of his translation trance. "Ocan..." he started.
Ocan waved him to silence and began, now speaking Islana's language, "You stupid bitch," he said, kicking her sharply in the side. "I was only going to follow orders, but you..."
He kicked her again. She groaned. "Ocan, we shouldn't... His Holiness said... We were only supposed to take her hand."
"No one has to know," Ocan snarled.
"Ocan..."
Ocan looked up at him, his eyes smoldering in anger. "Keep your mouth shut, bastard."
Cleran started to answer, but decided it was wisest not to. He watched in horror as Ocan proceeded to let his anger out—all of it. The past few days, he'd been carefully keeping his temper under control, schooling his expression and following orders to the letter. But now that he'd let it out, it all came out.
He stopped when he felt relieved, dripping with sweat and Islana's blood. She was unconscious and had been for several minutes. He turned to Cleran as he wiped his hands on a rag.
"Sundancer," Cleran muttered. "She's practically dead!"
"Go get the Healer slave."
"Ocan, she's..."
"Go now, bastard!"
Cleran hesitated for a second, then took off to do as told. He returned scant minutes later with the healer slave in tow, to find that Ocan had righted the chair, cut Islana loose and laid her across the table. It was obvious now how bad her condition was, she was barely breathing and it was easy to hear how strained her lungs were. She was bleeding in at least a dozen places. Clearly, one of her knees was broken, and one of her arms was at an unnatural angle.
The slave stared in shock for a moment. "Listen carefully," Ocan hissed at him. "You will Heal her, but not her hand. You will not give her pain blocks. You will tell no one of this. Or you will die."
"I..."
"Do not disobey me."
"I can't control it, Sir," he said, wincing. He really didn't want to have to argue with Ocan. "I-I-I'll try, but... I can't control anything... I can't control what I Heal..."
Ocan grabbed one of his arms, and the slave froze and stared at him in terror. "You will do exactly as I said," he snarled. "Or else."
The slave was too petrified to talk, he merely stood and quaked, his mouth slightly open. Ocan squeezed his arm a little bit, then shoved him away and stalked out of the room. There was a long moment, before the slave sucked in a deep breath and looked over at Cleran.
"I think if you don't Heal her soon, she'll die," he said, and just glancing at Islana showed that he was probably right. "Try to do what Ocan said, and I'll try to explain to him that you can't control it."
He slipped out of the room, dreading that conversation with Ocan. He knew the older Warrior was going to be very unhappy with him for defending the slave, but the slave had saved his life, and kept his mouth shut about Islana's first escape attempt.
[EYECATCH]
Islana woke up to see the Healer hovering above her, nervous. "What is going on?" she demanded. He didn't answer. She tried to move and found she wasn't tied down. "What is going on?" she asked again. "I know you understand me."
"I..." The slave looked around nervously. She saw she was still in Ocan's torture chamber and there was no one else there. "I wasn't supposed to..."
"Supposed to what?" she snapped, pushing herself into a sitting position.
"P-painblocks..." he stammered, clearly scared of her. "And your hand..."
She flexed her hand; a tremor ran through it for a moment, but then it was fine. Her last memories were quite brutal and violent, and she was in far too good of shape to be recovering from that. Ocan had gone out of his way to destroy her hand...
"Thank you."
"It wasn't on purpose," he said. "I... I... Sir Ocan will..." The slave shuddered. "H-he'll kill me..."
"What?"
"H-he told me n-not to give you any painblocks or to help your hand b-but I can't control it a-and I did and he said he'd kill me!"
"Hmmm." Islana knew about how much the actual act of Healing hurt, and so she knew how Cleran would expect her to be feeling when he showed up. And he wasn't supposed to have Healed her hand, they wouldn't be expecting that. "But you Healed me completely."
"N-no, I didn't," the slave stammered. "At least, I don't think I did. I think..." he paused, trying to collect his thoughts. The language seemed to be coming easier to him now, as if just speaking helped him learn more. "I think I made it so that you can function, but didn't Heal you much... I think it's the very beginning of Healing, but not all the way there. So you can use your hand, but it's not really Healed, and if you do use it too much, it'll get worse."
"But how can I use it, if it's still broken? It doesn't hurt."
"I d-don't know... But I think that's what happened with everything else, too... I don't think I really Healed you much at all." He watched her nervously to see how she'd react. "Maybe that'll keep Ocan from killing me..."
"No, it won't," she answered. "But I can."
"Wh-what?"
"Ocan will think that I'm Healing, and that it hurts. And he'll think my hand is broken."
"He... He will?"
Islana nodded. "He will, and so will Cleran. I can act the part."
"Why?"
She paused. "How long will those painblocks let me function before I start to feel the effects?"
"I don't know. I think at least a day. Maybe two or three."
"More than enough," she said. "Listen carefully: I am not going to let them kill me. I can escape, I am going to. You're going to want to run away too, when then see that I'm gone, they'll realize you were involved and you won't want them to find you."
"I can't do that!" the slave objected.
"Why not?"
"I... Where would I go?"
She was taken aback for a moment, then shrugged. "Anywhere. Away."
"Y-you could run away if you were a slave," he stuttered. "But I can't... I'm not..." He paused. "His Holiness has never hurt me. And Sir Cleran..." He shifted uncomfortably. "I can't."
"Would it help if I said I'm going to kill both of them?" she asked. The slave's eyes widened.
"No!" he finally managed.
"Yes, I am. And please, don't try and stop me. The only way you could would be to tell someone what happened here, and then Ocan would kill you."
The slave stared at her, then nodded. "I can't run away..."
"Then I hope things work out for you. I am going to escape." She lay back down, and curled up a little bit. "Go find Cleran, tell him you did what you were told. I won't let him guess you didn't."
"Islana..." the slave started, then shook his head. "Never mind. Just... Cleran hasn't had a good life. But he's not bad."
Islana was sitting in her cell, for a change not on the mattress, but closer to the door. She was doing her best to fake pain, which wasn't hard; she'd been through so much since her capture that it felt natural now. That was a thought that was even scarier.
The silence was all encompassing, hard to break through. She knew she needed to get Cleran to talk for her plan to work, but that was potentially difficult. "H-how long?" she finally asked, purposely stuttering.
"How long until what, bitch?"
"Until they kill me." She looked like she was about to sob and sounded equally pathetic.
"Five days."
"Five days like... like today?" she asked, letting her voice break. It wasn't hard to let all of the misery and the hopelessness she'd felt for so long out, even though she didn't feel them any more.
"Probably."
She looked up and gave him an almost wistful smile. "I misjudged His Holiness, then," she sighed. "I thought..." she trailed off.
"Thought what?"
"Nothing. Nevermind... Nothing."
"Tell me," he insisted.
She shrugged a little. "I didn't see how strong he was... I never would have..." She shook her head. "Goddess, I'm pathetic."
"Yes, you are." He gave her a measuring look and came up with that as his conclusion.
She lapsed back into silence for awhile, then offered, "I'm sorry."
He gave her a skeptical look. "For anything in particular?"
"In general. I... Goddess. I'm going to die, and... No one will even miss me."
"Probably not." He saw the look on her face, and sighed. "Well, someone will, probably. Your grandfather."
"Yeah." There was another long silence. "No."
"No?"
"You think you're the only one who thinks I'm a bitch? I... I am. And everyone knows it. Even my grandfather."
"Then it's your own damn fault."
"I know," she said miserably. "It is, this is... Shit." She found that she was actually crying now, and was almost amazed at herself for being able to pull it off so well. She made a very vocal effort to stop and moved to wipe the tears off her face, gasping as if in pain as she did so.
Cleran watched objectively. "You know," he said after a minute, "there was a time when I'd have felt sorry for you."
"B-before I hurt his Holiness..." she reasoned.
He nodded.
"I remember... Goddess, I was stupid."
"To hurt him? Yes, you were."
"That too. But... Before that. When I had a chance, when you offered..." She stopped, as if biting off the thought.
"When I offered what?" he asked, then remembered and started to laugh. "Oh yes. I remember. 'Fuck me, and I'll let you go.'" He smiled. "Wishing you'd taken me up on it?"
"Yes."
That certainly caught him off guard. "What?"
"I wish I had," she said quietly. "I wish... I'd do anything to get out of here."
"Anything?"
She looked up at him and nodded a little. He examined her and saw a picture of hopelessness: a woman who was obviously in pain, who'd been in pain for a long time. She was willing to do things she'd never have believed she was capable of, not very long ago. But now... Anything. He smirked.
And she wasn't really bad looking, either. Well, she was now, but that was due to the steady abuse she'd been receiving. Before hand, she'd been whipcord thin, but made entirely of muscle. Not beautiful, not even pretty, but... Exotic was the only word he could think of. Confident, too, that was part of it. She knew—or rather, had known—what she wanted and would settle for nothing else. That had held true, right up until that afternoon.
And now she was worse for wear, but more importantly, she was desperate and he was frustrated.
"What if I told you the offer still stands?" he said. He wasn't sure why he was doing this. He knew it was a bad idea, but when he looked at her tear-stained face something inside him snapped. He had one memory of a girl, looking at him like that... This isn't the time to think of Eliz, he told himself, trying to banish the memories of her from his mind.
It was amazing that Islana even reminded him of Eliz; they were exact opposites. Eliz had been gentile and dainty, where Islana was... Incredibly not. Eliz would never have fought with anyone and avoided politics, or so he'd thought. She was supposedly sweet and innocent—As if the sweet and innocent would want me, Cleran thought against his will.
Eliz was Islana's opposite. She was subtle and schemed in private, where Islana had no hidden agenda. She wanted to escape; Eliz had wanted to control Dysis and had realized the best way to do it was through Cleran...
Sundancer, those memories hurt...
"What?" she whispered, snapping him out of the sudden onslaught of unpleasant memories.
"What if I told you the offer still stands?" he repeated.
"I... Don't," she said. "Don't, because if you told me that, I'd..." She took a deep breath. "I'd say yes, and you can't afford to let me go. You... Just don't."
He smiled a little. "You've never seemed so damn pathetic before," he said.
"Not pathetic... Desperate," she whispered.
"Oh?"
"You don't understand... I can't take any more... I thought... I thought I could, but... Goddess, I can't do this, I have to get out of here, I have to..." She took a deep breath. "Ocan was right. I'm completely fucking useless now. I couldn't even go back to the Knights."
"They wouldn't help you?"
"What could they do?" She sighed. "Not that I'll ever see them again..."
"You might," he said, damning himself in his mind. "Islana, the offer... If you're willing. If you can make it worth it for me."
She stared at him for a long moment. "What... What do you mean, worth it?"
When did I become such a sick son of a bitch? And Sundancer... Dysis will never forgive me... he thought, almost taking it back. But then he looked at Islana, at the sudden ray of hope that appeared in her face, and kept speaking. "Worth my while. I don't want to let you go for just nothing, not when you consider how much trouble it would cause me."
"Then... Why would you...?" She gave him a scared look. "No one else asked. Why are you even bothering?"
It took him a minute to realize what she meant, and he shuddered inwardly. "I can't help what the rest of my... colleagues... did. But I don't go in for rape. Otherwise you're right, and I would have by now."
"Cleran, you... Thank you."
"Don't misunderstand. I think you're a total bitch and you're not worth my getting in trouble for. But..."
"But you're desperate, too?" she guessed, half-smiling. She didn't even say it as an insult.
"I could do better than you," he muttered.
"I know." She looked him in the eye. "I know how much you'd be risking. It's... I would have the better end of the deal. But I promise you, it would be worth it for you."
"You're.... experienced?" he smirked.
"Yes," she said flatly. "I am, actually."
"Prove it," he said.
She gave him a long, vaguely sad look and struggled to her feet. Her wrists and ankles had been re-chained, but she managed to walk the last few steps over to the barred front wall of her cell, and he stood in front of her on the other side. Islana took a deep breath, smiled, leaned forward and kissed him through the bars.
For a second, Cleran was shocked, then he gradually relaxed into the kiss. It felt good, better than anything he'd felt in a long time, and he found himself reaching through the bars for her, pulling her as close as he could manage. He knew in that kiss that it would be worth all of the trouble. Dysis will hate me, I'll be a traitor unless I can come up with a good story, but... He decided not to second guess this. It felt perfect, as if they'd be perfect together.
Islana pulled away for a second. "Well?" she breathed, still close enough that her breath tickled his cheek. He smiled and kissed her again. She let him, kissed back, and for just a moment was lost in it.
Then she remembered who he was, who she was, and what she had been planning. For a scant second she thought about abandoning her idea and giving herself to Cleran; she'd been through so much that sleeping with him would be the least of her worries. But she couldn't do that, not when she had another option. She wasn't that desperate yet.
The kiss continued and she slid her arms between two of the bars, on his chest, down his chest. He would have smiled at the feeling if his mouth hadn't been otherwise occupied, and he was so preoccupied he didn't even realize she had grabbed one of the knives he kept on his belt, until she'd stabbed him.
She didn't even break off the kiss until his eyes suddenly opened a little too wide and he staggered back a step, releasing her. "What..." he managed to say, as the pain caught up with him. She'd realized the only chance her escape had was to kill him and do it quickly, on the first try. Acting with that in mind, she'd stabbed him between two ribs and had aimed for his heart, but the blade on his knife wasn't quite deep enough or sharp enough.
Still, she'd done enough. He blinked a few times as he started to fall, threw his arms out as if trying to catch his balance, and toppled backwards anyway. Islana couldn't bring herself to look at him as she carefully used the bloodied knife to pick the lock on her shackles and the lock on the cell.
She couldn't really look at him until she was busy undoing his sword belt, since she knew she'd need the blade. Islana looked at him and felt a sudden sense of guilt, almost overwhelming for a moment, but forced it to the back of her mind as she detangled the sword belt from his waist and strapped around her own.
Islana stood and looked down at him for a long second. "You poor idiot," she said, realizing she felt pity more than anything else. "He hasn't had a good life," the slave had said, and she was certain he was right. But... Some things were more important. "You poor, sad idiot."
She turned away from the body, hoping that the dungeon was as sparsely guarded as she suspected.
Dysis was finally almost done for the day. He usually only got a few hours of sleep a night, but had been exhausted lately and actually managed to arrange his schedule to let him turn in early. It's amazing how little miracles are the best kind, he thought cheerfully, putting away a few papers, as someone knocked on his door.
"It's open," he called cheerfully.
The door opened, and one of the robed priests stepped in. No, not one of the robed priests, someone wearing a priest's robes. He frowned. "Who...?" he started to ask, but the man—woman—pulled the hood down and revealed her face.
It was Islana. She smiled and held a finger to her lips, as she drew a sword from behind the robs with her other, theoretically lame, hand.
Dysis never even got to scream.
[CLOSING CREDITS]