Cavalcade of the Iniquitous

Redemption

XXX, XXXX hours, XX of July(?), 1915

Time held little meaning within the bleak concrete walls and heavy iron bars of the holding cells. The cells weren't filthy by any means, it was clear they were attended to at least semi-regularly, but there was a sense of neglect to the place, a quiet but pervasive misery.

At first, I had tried to keep track of the days through the nurse's regular visits to clean and dress my wounds, but I quickly gave up. What was the point of counting days? They would continue to pass, with or without my knowledge. Time, too, became meaningless. Without windows, there was no day or night here. My only schedule came in the form of the meals delivered to my cell. A small cup of weak, unsweetened coffee. A bowl of tasteless and watery potato soup. A slice of bread and piece of cheese.

At first, the meals were delivered by nameless soldiers, but several days into my incarceration, I awoke to see a familiar face through the bars of my cell.

"Elias?"

He smiled a small, sad smile. "Good morning, Lien." He unlocked the door and held out the cup of coffee in his hand. "I volunteered for prisoner duty." The smile faded a little. "I'm sorry about all of this."

I took the cup from him. "I should be the one apologising. It's my fault. I should have told you all earlier."

He shrugged. "Perhaps. Perhaps not."

I took a sip of the coffee. It tasted disgusting, but I knew I wasn't in any position to refuse sustenance. "Thank you, by the way. For standing up for me in the interrogation room." I shuddered to think what might have happened if he hadn't have been there.

"You're welcome."

That first visit had been brief, but as I listened to Elias' retreating footsteps, the clicking of his cane, a spark of hope lifted my heart.

His visits soon became regular, increasing in duration. Sometimes we talked, other times simply sitting in companionable silence. Once, he brought along his canvas and paints. I sat on the hard bench that doubled as my bed, quietly watching him through the bars as he worked. This time, he used only two colours. Black and red.

As he worked on his painting, I thought about the portrait on my bedside table, the one Elias had painted for me. The colours he had chosen to represent me, those jagged streaks of black and red.

"Stygian and cardinal," I whispered, with a sudden shock of realisation. "You knew."

He stopped painting, his brush hovering above the canvas.

"All this time, you knew. The portrait... You saw me. You knew."

He gave his head a gentle shake and resumed his painting. "I perceived, I suspected, but I can't say for sure I knew."

I didn't say anything else on the matter. Nothing else needed to be said. He finished his painting and held it up for me to see. Harmonious strokes of black and red, complimenting each other, blending together.

"I call it Peace," he said simply.

The next time he came to visit, he didn't come alone.

"Hi, N-Nemo—I-I mean, Lien," Hans muttered in response to Elias' prompting, his eyes locked on the ground in front of him.

It hurt to see him so despondent, so uncomfortable in my presence.

"I'm so sorry, Hans," I began, my words sounding weak and insufficient.

He stood stiffly as I tried to explain my actions, tried to make my apologies. He didn't say anything, barely even looked at me, simply listening, giving the occasional half-hearted nod.