Crimson Lace

Chapter 17

ELLE
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

My voice bounces off the walls, and I hum a harmony with my echo. This is my attempt to hear anything but the ticking of the clock on the wall and my own labored breathing.
Whatever it takes to pass the time.

Solitary confinement isn't nearly as bad as people make it out to be, or maybe it's because I am used to being lonely. It's been over a day now, but I'm not worried. They can't hold me here forever. I know that. The king will have to address what happened eventually. In the meantime his brilliant idea is to leave me down here alone. With no food, water, blanket, or bed.

My whole body shakes from the cold air and icy stone floor. Even in the heat of summer this prison doesn't seem to thaw, and neither does the king's cold heart. My stomach literally feels like it has begun to eat itself, like maggots chewing away at my internal flesh. As the hours go on I become more and more aware of my drying tongue, which feels oddly prominent in my mouth at the moment. My body is becoming weaker by the minute and my neck is struggling to hold my head up. It's like having a brick for a hat.

"If your goal is to slowly kill me you are doing a fantastic job," I mutter to no one. In truth I am starting to wonder if the king does actually want me dead, but I have the good sense to know that he wouldn't let me go down like this.
If I'm going to be executed they at least will make a show out of it. Nobles are all about their precious shows. I for one can't wait to find out what kind of a lie the king invents to cover up for what I said on live television. From what I gather I think they want to claim that I am delusional. Maybe I am.

I yanked the red ribbon out of my hair a few hours ago, and have spent the majority of my time here trying to come up with new ways to tie a knot. So far I have come up with one and have tried to think of other ways that Wesley might have wanted me to put this thing to good use.

Surprisingly, there are no portraits of Queen Santia down here. Although I suppose that makes sense. The king wouldn't want his beloved queen's memory to be gifted upon prisoners, nor would he want her to be stuck down here with a bunch of lowlifes.

As a kid I used to talk to her paintings. Sometimes I would pretend that she was my imaginary friend. It was stupid. Her portraits do provide some semblance of comfort though. She is the angel queen around every corner, watching over you and guiding you through life. That is how everyone was taught to view her, and with that I have been raised to believe so as well. It might actually be nice to have an image of her down here. Her kind eyes following me around always gave me the sense that I am never alone. I could use some of that feeling right now.

I sit curled up in a corner. My knees are tucked into my chest for warmth. I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to stare a moment longer at the dull grey stone that is enclosing me in this prison. My head rests on the wall to relieve my tired aching muscles. Maybe sleeping isn't such a bad idea.

"Elle." The soft tone of the Northlander accent makes his voice easily recognizable, and it's melodious sound is like music to my ears.

I jump, springing to my feet far too fast. My vision darkens and my head spins, threatening to lose consciousness. When my sight returns I stumble my way to the impenetrable glass wall that is separating the hallway from my cell. I lean against it's cool surface in an attempt to keep myself standing. My vision focuses allowing me to see a figure standing on the other side of the clear wall.

"What are you doing down here, Alec?" I heave, sounding even weaker than I thought I was.
"I'm pretty sure you are not supposed to be talking to me. No one is."

"Are you all right?" he asks.

For a moment our eyes meet from across the glass. I try to straighten up, not wanting to look entirely helpless.