Seven Deadly Sons

Melanie. (29)

Every day, I seem to wake up in a different room.

This time, I've really mixed it up, think; cold stone walls, the aroma of urine and a straw 'bed'.

In other words, I was in an actual cell.

At least I was finally where I expected to be when Maddox first found me, right? Wrong.

I forgot — more like buried the memory of — the cellar in the Prince of Prussia back in that fishing village. Even though the thoughts are few and far between, the trauma of being in a cage likely overwhelming all other senses; I still can recall that cellars, cells and the like at no fun at all.

I did not walk here myself, I in fact went to sleep in my large double bed, under and on plush blankets. Waking up, the smell was so overwhelming I initially thought, in the darkness, that I had soiled myself.

Not a stretch, all things considered.

I had no idea what lay beyond the metal door into the small space, only about seven feet by two. The dark was all-consuming through the slats, though it wasn't strong enough to omit sound, which flowed without abandon. Moans of anger, pain and sadness among random languages I had never heard of was the tune to my sentencing.

King Rork had said, Melanie will remain here in the courts, for her crime was somewhat lesser for practising soothsaying outside the realm... but he had never said what Melanie would be doing in the courts. He certainly hadn't mention a cell.

Presumably that was what Ameline had meant by lies and half-truths. The king had omitted so much from the sentencing that practically anything was possible. Perhaps, if Ameline failed, I would simply be forgotten in this cell to rot. Many of the other occupants to this dungeon clearly had been, their psychotic laughs suggestion enough.

At last, in Fowey, I had known what time it was in the pubs cellar. The wood was so rotten and poorly nailed together that all light and noise flowed freely.

I was just into another lap around my small room, trying to stretch aching muscles and a strained neck, when a sudden thought came to me; igniting some hope.

Perhaps I could figure the riddle out?

It was quite a laughable suggestion, this was clearly why the lifeline was offered to my doppelgänger and I. I was seen as an uneducated imbecile, and Ameline was too busy trying to murder eight immortal creatures — well, seven, the queen was technically still human, I had heard yesterday eve — that she simply had not the time nor opportunity to figure out and present the queen with an answer.

But all riddles must have an answer. Surely?

This logical thought came from a much younger version of myself, one that had gone to finishing school for a year and had a promising future.

Panicked I had already forgotten the lines, I scrambled around the dark of my cell to find anything I could note down the words with. By the end of my first year of finishing school, I had learnt some English and could competently write — I hope that facet still remained.

I found no writing utensils, but I still had my long nails. Drawing and reading cards had left me with soft hands and pointed fingers; perfect to conform to the witch trope.

The square in the door projected a slightly larger rectangle onto the back wall of the cell, and this was the only lit area in the whole room. It would have to do.

I began scratching away with my forefinger, and when that nail was gone I move on to each until all ten fingers were blunt.

The writing was bad, but I had the first line down:

Struck by arrow; haw it starts...

The words were rough and some letters incomplete but this was no writing competition, the only one who had to read it was me.

I had just begun the first word of the next clue line; It, when the door suddenly unlocked and is thrown open against the stone. In the newfound light within the cell, I could see how truly disgusting and dank it is.

In the doorway stands Queen Delores. She dismisses the guard who opened the door, a man with green tinged skin and a full suit of chainmail, and another man who wears all black. He sneers with sharpened teeth as he stands guard on the opposite wall.

I cannot tell who the second man is, the white from the bright lights obscuring everything but his black clothes and long jerkin. As he nods his head and stands back also, I see his dark hair shimmers white and reflects purple.

My blurred eyes are drawn back to the queen, who I can see in sharp focus.