All the Time in the World (English)

Chapter 1 - The Golden Hour

"I am free."
Guy whispered those last words, and he was really free. His thoughts slid into a dark abyss, but strangely that darkness didn't scare him anymore: that place wasn't the cold depth of hell that he had always imagined, but a warm and welcoming darkness that promised an eternal and quiet rest.
The terror, the faults, and the sorrow that had accompanied him for the length of his life were left behind, and he was finally free.
Perhaps he wasn't in Heaven, but he wasn't in the Hell he had feared so much, either. Guy abandoned himself to that oblivion.

Jonathan Archer, the guardian of the castle's museum, yawned as he entered his tiny office. He turned on the light and placed the coffee on his desk, then he opened the cabinet where he neatly kept all the keys, and took those of the underground gate.
That part of Nottingham's underground was closed to the public, and the gate prevented access to the tunnels and the rooms carved in the rock. Over the centuries, they had been used in the most disparate ways; as anti-aircraft shelters during the war, as deposits, or even as improvised houses, but for years nobody could access them, apart from scholars or groups of tourists, guided along well defined and safe routes.
The guardian drank a long sip of coffee and he wondered why the group of archaeologists that was about to arrive had felt the need to start their work so soon, when the sun had just risen.
Inside the galleries, however, time lost importance, as the sunlight didn't reach the bottom of the tunnels. So, beginning to work an hour later would have changed nothing for them and it wouldn't have forced him to get out of bed so early.
It doesn't matter, I will be paid for the extra time, and, once I have escorted the archaeologists down, I can take a nap in my office before it's time to open the castle's museum.
He finished drinking his coffee, and finally the group of scholars arrived, with cameras, spotlights and various equipment.
Jonathan accompanied them along the galleries, paying attention to the path they had to follow to reach the place they wanted to examine. The tunnels could be confusing, like a maze, and he certainly didn't want to risk getting lost in the galleries.
"What are you looking for?" He asked to one of the scholars, and the man looked at him, a little surprised that a somewhat simple man like him could be interested in their work.
"Frescoes and artifacts from the twelfth century. We have reason to believe that this subterranean section of the tunnels has remained intact since then. Laser scanning revealed hidden environments behind the wall and we were given permission to open a hole to explore them. Last friday the passage was finally cleared from the debris and today we can enter those rooms."
Jonathan nodded. He had come back from his holidays the day before, after spending a few weeks with his wife and children, visiting his parents-in-law.
Compared to that forced cohabitation, waking up so early was almost pleasant, and then archaeological discoveries interested him.
He was a simple man, and he didn't complete his studies, but culture fascinated him, and during the night shifts he had read all the books for sale in the museum gift shop, carefully, making sure he didn't ruin them.
On one of them, about the legend of Robin Hood, he had poured coffee accidentally, so he had to buy it, but that unexpected expense didn't disappoint him so much: he kept the book in his locker and he occasionally re-read it, letting himself to be carried in the adventures of the merry gang of outlaws.
One of the archaeologists walked in the passage that lead to the crypts, and he started to scream, frightened.
"There's a man here! He looks dead!"
The guardian hurried to follow him, worried, thinking that it had to be some homeless man who had got lost in the galleries and had died of hunger and thirst without being able to find the exit.
He walked past the frightened scholars, and he looked at the man on the floor, surprised by his appearance.
He didn't look like a homeless, but his clothes were definitely unusual: the stranger was wearing a leather jacket, decorated with metal buckles, studs and chain mail inserts on the sleeves, leather pants, and black leather boots. At his side, an empty scabbard.
The man was lying on his back with a leg bent under him, and long, dark hair scattered over the stone floor. Beneath him there was a pool of blood and his face was deathly pale.
Jonathan found the courage to go near the stranger, kneeling on the ground beside him. He pressed his hand on the neck of the man: he couldn't feel his heartbeat, but the skin of the man was still warm. If he had died, it must have just happened, and maybe he could still be able to revive him.
He ordered to one of the archaeologists to go back to his studio and to call for help, then he tried to remember what he had learned during the CPR training course that he had taken many years earlier, and he began to unfasten the strange jacket of the man to start the cardiac massage as soon as possible.
One of the archaeologists knelt down to help him.
"When one takes those first-aid courses, he never expects to actually use them..." He said, placing one of his hands over the forehead of the unconscious man and two fingers of the other hand underneath his chin, to tilt his head back and open the airways.
"Well, good for him that we know what to do." The guardian said, then the two men focused on trying to resuscitate the stranger, while one of the other scholars, terrified and almost as pale as the wounded man, pressed an improvised swab on the wound on the man's abdomen.