Disclaimer: Obviously, I own nothing from King Arthur. The only things I own are the characters that I have created. I owe the name of the Tribe to author Cynthia Voigt. On that note, please don't sue me, I just couldn't think of a good enough name. )
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Numb. That's the only word that could be used to describe her now. She had
lost all feeling in her body, but perhaps her mind had willed it so. She was
grateful for the numbness; at least now she couldn't feel the pain that was
inflicted on her. She slowly turned her head to look at the girl across from
her. Guinevere was her name, and she was still unconscious from the last
beating that the monks had given her. She felt sorry for the girl. Guinevere
was strong, and she still kept up her hope of being rescued. She herself knew
that it was pointless. The surviving prisoners were never going to get out of
the dank pit that they were being held in. As far as she knew, there were only
two other prisoners left besides herself: Guinevere and a young boy named
Lucan. His parents had died many days ago, and he was now alone in the
world. /Just like me./ With that heartbreaking thought, she curled up in a ball
and let the darkness have her. Sleep was the only escape for her, besides
death. She was not ready to die, however, unless she took a monk or two with
her. If she was not to leave this place alive, then neither were the so-called
men of God. Finding that her thoughts were keeping her awake, she sat up and
leaned against the cold, hard stone of her cell. She picked up her hidden
weapon – a small chunk of stone – and began to sharpen it. She was not
physically strong anymore, but she still had the spirit of her people. The
spirit of survival is what was keeping her alive, along with thoughts of
revenge. All through the night, she sat staring, lost in the memory of her
village, all the while toying with her piece of rock.
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