Actually, this my alternate begining. My orginal has little activity and a person who likes long, lengthy, frivolous speeches.
Here goes:
“The sentence for murder is death!”
In the shadows of the makeshift cell, the black-haired prisoner hid from the glares of the stocky guardsman. His face was turned to the floor between his boots, resting his forehead on his knee with an arm wrapped around his head, covering a ragged cut. The prisoner inhaled the stale air, fumigated with the reeking odors of alcohol and decaying straw. He brushed a stray strand back from his head, wincing as the hair snagged a pus-filled pocket. The prisoner refrained from holding it, not wanting the onlookers to realize the pain it caused him. It was a wound that his guard would have enjoyed to have given him. As it was, the slash was there as far as he could remember. He looked at his fingers. At least it had stopped bleeding. The two others looked in on him before continuing.
“Stock, he doesn’t even remember what happened.”
He snorted, “That’s what he says, and you agree, but since when are either of you two trusted?”
The prisoner cringed, his mind involuntarily taking him back to the crime. He woke up in a pool of blood, his eyes swollen and sticky, his hands blistered from the use of a sword. Glazed eyes stared into nothing, the crown was laying at his feet with the body of the fallen king straight across from him. A maid rushed in, screaming incoherently at the sight, her hazel eyes wide with surprise. Others entered, and the memory faded when the conversation resumed.
The cloaked man, frowned with his eyes steadfast on Stock’s, his cheeks sucked in slightly. “Stock, do you remember who you are speaking to?”
Stock silenced then. The prisoner saw the hard set of Stock’s shoulders and knew Stock wouldn’t back down a second time. Stock was that way. He refused to do anything without an argument first, and even his superiors had a hard time keeping him in line. The man shook his head in disapproval and turned away. Stock rounded on the prisoner the instant the other man left. “Murderer. Assassin. Regicide. That’s what they’re calling you on the streets, but I need something else to call you by.” He took a long drink from his flask.
The prisoner stirred, thirsty, but tried not to show it, since that would only provoke teasing. His parched throat was made drier by watching the wine dribble down the guard’s chin and weten his shirt. The guard sneered,
“Look at yourself, you pathetic infidel.”
The prisoner showed no emotion, used to such taunting.
Disgruntled at the lack of response, the guard sloshed wine on the ground in the cell, nearly yelling, “I don’t owe you anything!” Even half-drunk, Stock couldn’t help but feel something was wrong, that this shadow of a soul deserved better than this.
By science and blood, the prisoner was an elf, but he was no longer accepted by any society in the Promised Lands. Queen Desdemona herself had denounced any further reference to him as an elf. He was too great a scar to those he once lived among.
The prisoner stood, knowing his strength to be waning. He couldn’t remember his name, and search for it again with no success as he moved out of the way of the muddy puddle. His anger boiled over at the thought of execution. He had been nearly convinced that some of his family would step forth, to tell him who he was. Now the time was nearly out; he needed to do something now if he was going to live beyond tomorrow. He’d be executed the next day at sunset.
Ideas raced in his head. He could run, hiding until he proved himself innocent. He would live off the lands, interacting with no one. Even if he never recovered his memory, he could still live. The prisoner scoffed the dirt floor, his eyes searching the barn wall. A pile of horse dung in the opposite corner revealed its previous occupant. A breeze brought the unpleasant but increasingly familiar stench to him. He shivered, and cast a long look at the straw piled into a corner. If he got much colder, that stack of stems and horse crud would look mighty appealing to sleeping on the wine-soaked ground.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Stocks voice was raised loud enough to be heard outside. Footsteps showed they’d heard him, and as Stock spoke, the rattling of keys turning in a lock could be heard, “I know you! You were planning to escape. I’ll bet that’s all you ever think about.”
The door burst open, one of the hinges breaking. Two more guards entered, swords drawn and ready for a fight. They were disappointed to see the prisoner calm and in perfect order. They frowned, but one of them looked relieved. He turned to Stock, ushering a young woman in. The prisoner thought she resembled the woman in his memory, but he wasn’t sure. She was holding a tray.
“This is the prisoner’s daily meal. I don’t suggest you eat it.” The woman was staring pointedly at Stock, but he ignored her. The woman left with a wink to the prisoner, who puzzled over her gesture. The two soldiers who had entered remained.
The prisoner salivated at the meal in Stock’s hands. Stale bread, tough meat and a cup of thick vegetable stew. Stock snorted, saying, “This isn’t a prisoner’s meal! Bread, meat, and stew! HA! Prisoners get no stew, least not on my watch.”
The prisoner’s stomach growled, and his hopes sank when Stock seized the stew and bread, tossing the meat on the ground inches out of the prisoner’s reach. Stock broke the bread into three pieces while the prisoner retrieved the meat with his foot to drag it within finger’s reach. The other three watched him as they shared the stew and bread. They shoveled the bowl clean as the prisoner tore into the hard boar meet (the taste revealed the origin) to hide the longing for something better tasting.
After he finished the first bite, the prisoner muttered in his hoarse, scratchy voice, “I hope you get what’s coming to you.”
The offending trio laughed, then talked together for a time about various subjects. Suddenly, Stock doubled over in pain, clutching his gut and muttering some colorful words. He fell over onto his side while the others rushed to help him, recoiling when vomit hit the floor. The stench of it gagged even the prisoner, though he didn’t retch like the two soldiers did. Groans and curses issued from all three. The prisoner kept his face turned aside to keep down his own meal. After what seemed to be hours of listening to heaving and splattering noises, the prisoner wondered what could be done to help. He realized he could do nothing. Even if he tried to call out and somehow succeeded in being heard, he’d be ignored. He used to yell a lot, one of the causes for his failed voice.
The trio continued to writhe in pain and horror while the prisoner slammed his side against the barn. He cracked a board, letting in glorious fresh air, and revealed that no one was anywhere near the barn. Dismayed, the prisoner sank down as his legs failed. He waited until, one by one, all three inhaled their last breath. The deaths occurred from fifteen to twenty minutes after they’d eaten his meal.
The prisoner felt a stab of relief and regret that he would have been the dead one if Stock had listened to the lady. The night passed slowly, reeking of vomit, and an uncomfortable sense that dead eyes watched him sleep in a sitting position.
But I was pretty sure that you might be explaining why the maid was 'helping' him later.
LOL. I seem to do that a lot.
I've got both! Actually, I've got nearly all of the Age of Empire games...(there needs to be a geek smiley, I'd use it right now and any time I mention my games...)
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