Warmoon [ONC 2020]•[Shortlisted]•[Honorable Mention List, Stunning Worlds]

7. Prisoner

The Vanguard lifted his head when she came to the cell door.

He squinted, blinking against the light of the lantern, and she hesitated. His face was haggard, his eyes hollow, his angular features drawn in weary lines. A flicker of guilt darted through her middle as she turned the key in the padlock and stepped inside. She chased the guilt away with the firm reminder that this man wasn't at the fortress as a friend, and her father had bound him to the wall for a reason. He was dangerous.

"I've come to make a deal," she announced, placing the basket of supplies on the floor by the cell bars.

He stared at her.

She unhooked the shackle key from the keyring at her belt and held it up. "I'll release your hands and leave them that way if you promise to behave."

There wasn't any attempt at sarcasm. He just nodded, then watched her with dark, dull eyes as she stepped closer and crouched next to him. Wincing, he let out a groan when the shackle bar opened and his arms dropped like bars of lead, the backs of his hands hitting the floor beside him.

Like every other time she had freed him, Rhoa shuffled quickly out of range, although he had yet to take a swing at her. She doubted he could, now. He had been sitting in the same position for nearly three days with his wrists above his head, and his movements were sluggish as he flexed his arms, bending his elbows and curling his fingers.

She regarded him from the safety of the front end of the cell, her palm poised over the trigger lever of her crossbow.

He got slowly to his feet, rolling his shoulders and shaking his hands a few times, working the blood back into his fingertips while he stretched his legs.

Rhoa glanced away as the blanket fell to the floor, revealing that long, powerful torso and the swirls of ink gleaming in the lantern light.  

"Do they bother you?" He asked quietly.

With a frown, she looked at him again. "What?"

He lifted an eyebrow. "My tattoos. Do they bother you?"

The hum surged ever so slightly, eddying around him and washing over her.

"No." She flashed a tight grin in his direction and started unloading the basket, lifting out the water bucket and the lump of hard lye soap, followed by several rags, a large linen drying cloth, Isander's shirt and the Vanguard's own pants. "It's the smell of you I mind. Here." She backed all the way out into the hall, closed the door, locked it, took a moment to make sure the salt line was still unbroken, then tossed the shackle key through the bars at him. "Bathe yourself."

He caught the key, his eyes widening.

Still gripping the trigger of her crossbow, Rhoa took a few steps along the wall to offer some privacy, then leaned against the next cell down and settled in to wait.

There was a scrape of chains, then a thunk as the ankle shackles hit the floor. Something soft joined them – the filthy set of braes he had been wearing – then water splashed a few times and the astringent scent of mintsage soap began threading through the musty air of the dungeon, chasing away the reek of stale sweat and dirt.

A few minutes later she made out the light slap of his leather breeches and then the metallic scrape of the key in the shackles.

She raised her eyebrows. He was locking himself back up. Willingly.

Was that normal? Or sane?

Figures she would drag home the crazy Vanguard. That brought an odd urge to laugh, and she pressed her lips together, holding in a silent chuckle. "Are you decent?" she called, still grinning a little.