Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds.
- Franklin D. Roosevelt, April 15, 1939
What is a man
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? A beast, no more.
- Hamlet, Act 4, sc. 4, l.35-7
Basch quickly learned the boundaries of his life. Heavy iron bars, too thick to bend even when he possessed his full strength, marked the perimeter of his world. Five feet across, enough room to sit with knees bent, but not to lay flat with long legs extended. Fifteen feet high, and he couldn't stretch his length to reach the ceiling or the pulleys that sat in the iron capstone of his cell. Bars set precisely nine inches apart, too close for a muscled torso to squeeze between, and while Basch figured that problem might be eventually solved by time and neglect - if they kept him alive that long - there was still the matter of the circumference of his skull. The cage itself hung suspended above a wide pit; with his arm stretched to its fullest extent, shoulder wedged painfully between the bars, rusty iron cutting into the soft underside of his turned chin, his fingertips could just barely brush the hole's rim. He could vault the distance, if he could free himself from the cage.
Although, even if he could escape the cage, the chains held him fast. Thick leather cuffs wrapped too tightly around his wrists, the steel bits of attached hoops scraping his skin. Over them, iron shackles, soldered closed, no locks to pick and the hinges a single piece that could not be levered loose. More of the same around his ankles. And at his waist, a wide, snug-fitting band of steel-reinforced leather prevented him from sitting comfortably, cutting off his breath if he bent or slouched too far. Around the belt wrapped his chains, heavy links clattering with every slight movement; they looped to the shackles at wrist and ankle, binding him to himself so he would trip if he ran. If he could run. If he had anywhere to go.
If he could break free of chains and cell, Basch knew he would still be lost. He'd been transported here while unconscious, bound and blindfolded and shoved behind bars, and he had no idea where he was, save for some kind of dungeon. The puzzle provided a welcome distraction for some time. The cells beneath Rabinastre's Royal Palace had a damp to them from their proximity to the Garamsythe Waterway sewers. This cell was dry, hot, and echoes were quickly lost beyond the confines of the rounded chamber. The desert, then - too warm for Archades, too parched for the undercity. His best guess was that he remained in Nalbina Fortress, which moved him to hopelessness. Even were he to escape the confines of his cell, strike free the chains that bound him, and wend his way out of the maze of cells and cubbyholes, he would still have miles of Estersand to cross before even catching sight of the Royal City. Too far to walk without water.
He barely noticed his confinement in the first few miserable days and nights. Aching from beatings, in anguish from the loss of his king, Basch wept because he could do little else. When he thought about it - and he had so much time in which to think - he knew Raminas' death was not really what provoked his despair. Although he felt his failure keenly, and grieved for the poor Princess Ashelia, now truly bereft of all whom she loved, he had been neatly outmaneuvered. While he blamed himself, he could not see what he should have done differently, though he went over the scene repeatedly in his mind, holding every detail in his memory up to the cold light of inspection. He found his deeds wanting - too late, too little struggle, too easily beguiled into the trap - but could not find the one action he should have taken to arrange a different fate.
The trap itself held his obsession; he wept bitterly over the visceral betrayal of trust.
For some unknown time - it felt like hours from the rawness of his throat - he screamed his brother's name, hoping to conjure his presence once more. But no one came, save a helmed, voiceless guard who occasionally brought him sustenance.
At first he refused to eat. He could not be entirely sure that the thin gruel contained no traces of poison, although if the Empire wished his death, they could achieve it more directly. But direct and Archadian politics were distant cousins, almost strangers, and he would not put it past the mind who conceived of such an elaborate ruse as played out in Nalbina to require an "accidental" poisoning of a condemned man. Next, he reasoned that someone wanted him alive, or he would be dead already, and perhaps if he refused to cooperate, someone with authority would be dispatched to deal with him - a Judge, perhaps, to whom he could plead his case. If those reasons were not enough, he relieved himself along one curve of the small cage, being unable to do otherwise, and the reek killed his appetite easily enough.
But either the Archadians played a deeper game than he could fathom, or they truly didn't care. No one came. In the end, Basch ate. Despite his despair, he did not wish himself dead.
He tried to keep the days. Light filtered in from torchstones and windows cut high in the rough face of the wall. But surrounded by iron, he had no soft surface on which to scratch a mark, save his own skin, and he quickly lost track. His beard normally grew in patchily, which was why he trimmed it close, so although he could run his hands over his face and feel stubble, it wasn't enough to mark days or weeks. Meals came without regularity, and the gruel did not agree with him; he soon could no longer trust even his own body to tell the passage of time.
It may have been weeks before Vayne Solidor deigned to visit him, accompanied by a Judge Magister in gleaming black armor. Basch huddled on the floor of his cell, knees drawn up and head bowed over his loosely crossed arms, breathing shallowly against the stiff leather belt of chains. He looked up as the Judge's clanking steps grew louder, stood with his arms at his sides, and waited. If the stench of the prison affected Vayne, he gave no sign. His closed expression promised nothing, and Basch waited, wondering what the young Solidor would employ as his opening gambit. Vayne simply watched him for several moments, evaluating his condition perhaps, then spoke. After so long with only his own ragged sounds to keep him company, Basch completely missed what he said for the rich, cultured tones of the young man's voice. He squinted, unwilling to ask clarification. Vayne smiled slightly, a motion of his mouth, not his eyes.
"It may please you to know that Dalmasca surrendered without further incident," he said. "There is no need for more bloodshed; you are the example no citizen wishes to follow. Treason is an executable offense."
"Then why am I not executed?" Basch asked, and winced at the sound of his own voice, broken from screaming. He wanted to fold his arms across his chest, that familiar stance he took when threatened, but the chains disallowed the motion.
Vayne's smile lifted his lips momentarily, then disappeared like light reflecting off steel. "The Marquis of Bhujerba kindly announced that you have been. It appears his information was a touch premature. Nevertheless, it serves its purpose. None are willing to follow you to the gallows, even if you have not truly felt the noose." He tilted his head, examining Basch critically. "I will admit, things fell into place even better than I expected. You play the patsy well, General."
Basch snarled and crossed the distance to the other side of the cage with two short strides, hobbled as he was. The Judge at Vayne's side shifted in a clatter of armor, hand dropping to one of the swords at his hip. The Solidor dismissed his bodyguard's attentiveness with a casual wave of his hand; he had only to keep his distance from the bars to remain out of Basch's limited reach. Basch gripped the bars themselves in place of his captor's throat.
"I play the fool no better than you play the schemer," he rasped. "Your plan, wasn't it?"
"Indeed, and I take justified pride in how well it worked." Vayne's dark eyes gleamed in the faint light as he lifted his chin. His smooth, unlined face remained impassive, all emotion contained in a slight narrowing of eyes, the quirk of a full lower lip. His long hair shadowed half his face, a mask as effective as the lack of expression. "I dislike the waste of resources we experienced in Nabradia. The ruse to take Dalamsca granted us a greater measure of sucess, without ruination of valuable land, without such heavy loss of life on either side."
"No," Basch spat. "Far better indeed to murder only one man and expect the rest of the kingdom to capitulate." Scorn laced the words, but Vayne nodded seriously.
"I am glad you agree, General. It proves the wisdom of choosing you as the traitor."
"You only - "
Vayne raised a hand gloved in gleaming white dragonhide, spotless and nearly glowing in the gloom. Basch was keenly aware of being coated in his own filth - dirt, grime, sweat, blood - and scowled, trying again to cross his arms.
"It is true enough that you were chosen for your appearance, a fortunate double of one of our own men. But also is it true that your character played a role. Fon Ronsenburg...not a Dalmascan name. Your fierce sense of honor is well-known, as is your background. The ruse would not have worked with a man like General Azelas, noble-born and Dalmascan-bred, and a man willing to compromise his beliefs for the sake of the greater good."
Basch rattled the bars, wishing he felt even the slightest give in the iron. "You judge men poorly, if you think Vossler capable of treason."
"Treason? Of course not. Were you not listening?" He shook his head, hair sliding over the bright epaulets on his shoulders. "General Azelas is not a man given to treason."
"And I am?"
"You are a man of inflexible honor."
It made his head hurt, this dance of words coupled with hunger, thirst, inactivity. "I do not understand your game."
"No matter." Vayne offered him a brief bow, one hand placed over his heart. "I salute you, General Ronsenburg." The Judge at his side turned sharply to look at him, surprise evident in the set of shoulders and tilt of head. Vayne nodded. "Yes, for without you, Dalmasca would still be fighting freely. Because of you, because you have held secret from everyone the truth of your twin, because no one who knows you will question your outrage at allowing your adopted homeland to become an occupied territory as is the former Republic of Landis... Because of you, the Empire has been able to annex Dalmasca with little effort. I owe you thanks for bringing my strategy to fruition."
Basch gritted his teeth, hands tightening around the bars, which cut into his fingers. "You could not have done it without a traitor."
Vayne laughed with real humor, a pleasant sound in this dismal place. "Oh? Your brother is a man of the Empire, General. The only traitor in this room is you."
Basch blinked, not understanding, then his shocked gaze swiveled to the silent Judge Magister.
Solidor bowed his head again mockingly and turned away. "Come, Gabranth. We will leave the king-slayer to his fate." He walked away, and after a moment more of staring at Basch, the Judge followed.
Gabranth. It was - had been - their mother's surname.
"Wait!" Basch cried. The two figures retreated without looking back, the rattle of the Judge's armor echoing loudly. "Wait!"
"Noah!" he screamed again, but no answer came.
