This one is a little short, sorry.
A bit of backstory behind the title on this one. Growing up, I lived on a boat part-time with my father, and on the docks there were a lot of great blue herons, which my father would always call "the night watchmen". I still think of them as "night watchmen" instead of their actual name, hahaha. So I thought it would be fun to include it here.
It was as quiet as it ever got in the stone tower. Waves beat against the rocks outside the small window, the ocean a dull roar as the tide came in. Seabirds squawked as they squabbled in their nests. Closer at hand, a new addition to the cell cried in his sleep, his breath shuddering and manacles scraping across the floor as he thrashed, deep in his nightmare.
Macbeth curled a little further into himself, clamping his hands over his ears to muffle the overwhelming sounds all around him. His eyes were wide open, silent tears streaming from the corners as he shuddered in pain. The sounds of many people breathing echoed all around him, swelling into a crescendo of noise and agony impossible to block out - his own heartbeat thumping loudly, and creaking and groaning of the tendons in his arms, like molten rock, flowing into his head through his hands.
Sleep was impossible like this. But Macbeth knew that this was the only time he could - the day would bring with it his turn at the quarry, the screams of overseers and slaves, the cracking of whips and grating of stone-on-stone; each pickaxe being swung straight into his skull, as with the rock.
Suddenly, a loud screech pierced the air as a night-watchman sounded an alarm. Macbeth let out a whimper at the nocturnal, native bird's screaming - and the pounding of its massive wings against the air as it took flight from whatever had startled it. Now would come the actual guards, with their boots tramping across the docks and the rocks, their shouts, drawn out by the startled bird to look for possible would-be escapees.
Then soft hands furled over his own, and Macbeth looked up in surprise at the white-haired girl sitting beside him. With no words, she removed her hands and patted her lap. Macbeth turned over, and laid his head down on her, his cheeks pressed against the scratchy, thin material of her dress. She then began to run her hands, as calloused as his, through his greasy, sweat-coated hair.
As predicted, the guards ran to each of the cells, checking the occupants, bringing with them only more agonizing sound.
But the girl gently laid her hands over Macbeth's ears when they came, and all he could hear was blessed silence, and the gentle thrum of her heartbeat lulling him into slumber at last.