A Taste of Freedom
Traitor was such a strong word. He wasn't a traitor. He was an opportunist. The woman was far from evil, anyway. She wanted to reward him for his cooperation. How could that make him a traitor?
And yet, he felt guilt; guilt for choosing her side, when his family chose the side opposite. Guilt for a betrayal he hadn't yet committed.
Because he knew he would do it.
And it wasn't a betrayal, anyway. Because betrayal is something traitors did. And he wasn't a traitor. Just because he'd given her a little information didn't make him a traitor. Just because he'd not wanted to die a martyr for a cause he didn't quite believe in….that didn't make him selfish. It made him smart.
The thoughts consumed him, though. He didn't even ponder the effect she'd have on him when she wasn't even there. Didn't even think that maybe he'd not had as much choice in the matter as he'd liked to have hoped. Didn't wonder whether or not she was playing fairly.
Because she wasn't.
But he didn't know that. Didn't think it the remotest possibility. She needed him, right? She needed him. He didn't need her. He could go on perfectly well without her. Right?
Wrong.
She'd proved it to him, when he'd least suspected it. He'd promised her results, and they'd fallen through. He'd not as much sway as he'd thought, and had returned alone. Hoping for the reward she'd promised. 'A for Effort' and all that, right?
Somewhere, though, between his empty-handed arrival and her frightening welcome, rewards for cooperation became punishments for the lack thereof. Promises became threats. Or did the threats become promises?
It was harder to be in denial about it, as well. He had a harder time convincing himself that he wasn't a traitor when he was locked up in a cell with her enemies. His family's people, not his own.
It was harder to not be a traitor when he was condemned to die as one.
You became mine the second your secrets reached my ears, she taunted. Because the blood of traitors is mine to do with what I will.
It was hard to think himself smart when she told him how stupid he was. When she ousted him as a conspirator against his own family in front of the other prisoners.
When even those prisoners – they who claimed to fight for all that was right in the world – breathed out threatenings against him.
When he had no friends no matter where he turned, because none felt he was trustworthy.
When the cold was unbearable, and he feared removing his shoes, lest he remove his feet with them.
When he caught his reflection in the ice, and didn't recognize himself.
The boy in the reflection couldn't be him, could it? That boy had his guilt written all over his shadowy face. That boy deserved his punishments, because he was a traitor. It was obvious by the look in his eyes.
He wondered if he'd ever get out of this mess.
That was when the contrition finally came.
How could his family take him back? How could his friends accept him? How could his family's people – his own people – trust a traitor to their cause? He'd sold them out. And for what? For a little bit of loaded kindness from their greatest enemy.
He'd not even the company of the others, now. He was the last prisoner in her dungeon. And he knew what had become of the others. They'd become a part of her collection – she didn't kill. She collected. So she could display her victories as works of art to adorn her hallways. He'd passed a small "collection" in her courtyard when he'd come in. Oh, how long ago that seemed!
Forever frozen, with looks of horror on their faces.
He wondered if, even in death, he would appear to be the traitor he actually was.
But she wanted him to suffer. She didn't kill him right away. He wasn't sure whether to fear her hidden agenda, or to welcome the relief that death and torture would bring.
He deserved what he got. He was a traitor. Was there a stronger word for it? Turncoat. Absconder. Deserter. Betrayer. Untrustable one.
He'd had no excuses. And he'd die a death deserving of his horrible deeds. It was only just.
When the time was come, he didn't struggle, though he ached from head to toe. Aches of cold, of hunger, of fatigue. Aches from artful blows, designed to cause pain, and not to bleed too much. To break bones just so, ensuring possible mobility, but also inspiring gut-wrenching throbs to shake his very core. He thought, in a rather deranged way, how good it was that his face had been spared – otherwise he'd make a horrible work of art.
He almost imagined he saw a small cavalry at the end – flashes of light bouncing off of shields, emblazoned with a signia he knew did not match that of hers.
How cruel of his own mind to play tricks on him like this! But he was deserving of every hope being dashed. He'd accept each punishment for his misdeeds.
He saw the look of hate on her face. Imagined the ghost of a defiant smile on his own: I'll take anything you throw at me. My death will only bring release, and my pain will only bring resolution. I don't fear your hatred.
Why did we have to rescue him? He is a traitor – traitors are hers.
Traitor or not, we have orders. And our mighty leader sees great potential in him. That alone is enough to override his misdeeds. They are exonerated.
Not by me.
He laughed a little bit – softly, because he suspected his ribs were broken – This was the perfect punishment! To betray both sides! Everyone would hate him then, and he'd soon be brought to a proper, messy end! He was unfit to be her work of art.
He wasn't sure at first to whom the next voice belonged; he was half mad, and in a lot of pain. Was it just his dream cavalry, taunting him further? Was it someone new entirely? Was it just her again?
It doesn't have to be this way. You can live a long, healthy life.
I'd rather die.
A sort of clarity came at the end, he supposed. And a fearlessness. Everything that could be taken away had been, except the smallest inch of dignity – the knowledge that he ultimately decided his own fate. And he'd sooner face death than soil his hands further in betrayal and deception.
It wasn't much. But it was enough. And it made him free.