Long, long afterwards, Lena still remembered the soft terror of that moment. Not because it was a drow. She hadn't met drow before, and she was not raised among the elves and their constant stream of hatred for the underground cousins. She had barely any feeling for the drow, much like she had no feeling for the Mulhorandi.

No, she was terrified because the man in the cell corner had sat there, completely motionless, all this time, he hadn't said a word, hadn't moved at all. Yet he was not unconscious. In the lamplight she could see his purple eyes, watching her unblinkingly, observing, waiting. Like a spider. Didn't the drow have some... thing... with spiders? And Lena was always terrified of spiders.

Then she mentally shook herself off. She was staring, of course the man was wary. Probably sick and tired of people staring. And probably doesn't like surface elves much, but he hasn't gone for her throat even when he had the element of surprise, right? Anyway, he was a fellow inmate. This wasn't the first time Lena was in the nick, she knew the etiquette.

"You scared me," she said, smiling, as she sat back down.

"Forgive me, Mistress."

Just that. Nothing more. He had a strange voice, deep and very masculine, but it had this odd effect, sounding like a whisper even though the man was not, in fact, whispering.

"I'm Lena," she said. He bowed his head, but said nothing.

She sat in silence for a long moment, trying to remember everything she had heard about the drow. It had all seemed like complete bullshit, every time. A bunch of tales invented by the men of the surface to show what horrors would ensue if women ever had power.

But apparently at least some of it was true. She made a last attempt to follow prison manners.

"So what are you in for?" she asked.

He gave a snort, of sorts, a ghost of a chuckle. "Nothing."

"Funny. That's what I'm in for, too."

:::::

It wasn't that she was very talkative. She wasn't. She had spent most of her life in the woods, in the company of her bow and maybe animals. But when she was back among the people of the estate, she liked to trade stories, joke around, sing even. She didn't object to talking. He, apparently, did.

After some time, the darkness and the rocking motion of the ship made her feel drowsy. Boredom probably had something to do with it, too. She leaned into the opposite corner as best she could, curling up for warmth and, incidentally, keeping her right boot upper close to her hand, because the knife there might be useful. Closing her eyes, she listened for the rats scurrying about the ship, amusing herself with guessing their rat business. Slowly, she dozed off.

When she woke up, he was halfway across the cell. He didn't seem to be springing at her, more like silently creeping forward, and his hands were empty, as far as she could tell in this light. Fighting back the urge to spring forward, she kept her eyes almost-shut and waited. What would he do?

He stood there. Did he notice she woke up? Hard to say. He crouched down, and she heard a strange, faint jingling. What was going on? Did he just want a better look? After a tense moment of waiting, straining her hearing, she finally made a show of waking up.

"How long was I asleep?"

"Hours, Mistress. At least four."

She winced as her back confirmed his words. "Any more of this and I'll have to go right to Targos infirmary, forget any guard duties. Actually, that's not a bad idea..."

His quick glance told her guard duties in Targos sounded familiar to him. She waited, but the question did not come.

"Are you on your way there, too? Pay's supposed to be good," she said, fed up with silence.

"I am. I won't get paid, though."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm shipped there instead of being hanged."

"Oh."

She waited, but no more came. "What for?"

"Nothing."

Bit by bit, Lena wormed the story out of him. It was a story nasty in its mundane pettiness - a barrack-room, a bunch of rough types employed as guards, a drow man among them. A recluse, disliked, disrespected. Finally, one evening, the other guards decide to show him exactly what they think of him, only they don't know that a drow man is used to fighting for his life in a way they don't even expect. Two of them are dead by the time the orderly officer even hears the commotion.

He killed in self-defence, that much was clear. The men were even overheard talking about how much they hate him and want to break his neck earlier that night, in a tavern. If he were human, or an elf, or a gnome - anything, just not drow - he'd walk free.

But he was a drow, so he was sentenced to death. Several priests intervened on his behalf and managed to have the sentence commuted to penal servitude, and he was shipped off as part of reinforcements to Targos.

"If I'm hacked down by goblins, it's the same in the end. But I probably won't," he said, and she saw a thin white curve cut through his face, gleaming in the light. She realised he was smiling. It was an odd, unexpected grimace, but she found it enchanting. In the dark, rotting hold of a ship, on his way to fight someone else's battles in a land he did not know nor care for, this man still had pride in his skills. Lena could relate to that.

"What's your name?"

"Rizdaer, Mistress."

"Riz-daer? Rizdaer..." she repeated it a few times, getting used to the alien sounds. Then she realised he was watching her lips as she did so. She smiled. "I like it."

:::::

Hours went past, and Rizdaer was not more talkative now that she knew his name. Back home - that is, back in Gerain's estate, of course - she knew gardeners and gamekeepers who were called surly, but they were positively perky when compared to the drow. She did already grasp that he'd never speak if not spoken to, and it was getting on her nerves. She was not used to conversation where one had to do the work for both sides, and it was exhausting.
She had found out the most basic things about him, shared not because he wanted to share but because he dared not refuse a woman's wish. That was straight-out creepy. After a few such exchanges, she felt so frustrated she just curled up in her corner and sulked.

The ship creaked on.

Water came from nowhere, crashing through the wood that ceased its groaning and now screamed in agony. Ice cold droplets and splinters together shot from the breaking hull, eager to turn any living flesh into a tapestry of pain. And through all the holes and cracks, water came roaring in, promising a swift drowning and deliverance from all mortal cares.

Lena gaped at it all, far, far too long. It was only when the lamp was thrown off the roof and onto her lap that she jumped up, scalded by the hot metal.

"Mistress! You must run! Now!" It was his voice. Rizdaer's voice. Powerful, stern, commanding, somehow audible through the shriek of the dying ship. Almost automatically, she took out the key and unlocked the cell door. Thank you, Sam, thank you, thank you... She turned to the drow.

"Well come on, then!" she shouted back.

But he didn't move, he stayed glued to the wall that was now letting in torrents of water. He only shook his head. In two strides she was by him, grabbing his arm, pulling him with her. Then she heard that jingling again.
Water was above the ankles now, but she saw the chain shackled to his leg and hammered into the wall. Even if the wall was pulled loose the chain would drag him down like an anchor...

She dropped down and pulled his boot off before he could even react. Thank goodness his legs were slender and lean like all elven legs. In another moment she crashed the lamp with the chain and covered his leg with the thick oil.

"Come on, pull!"

"Mistress, I beg you, leave me! Go!"

"Just shut up and pull, dammit!"

She held on to the metal collar and pulled with all her might, as he did the same. Their screams were drowned by the torrent of icy water, and by the screams of others, far, far away. A world away. She could see his skin scraped right off by the metal shackle, but still she refused to let go. Better to tear his foot off than to let him die, of that she was certain.

He threw his head back and screamed, and with that final effort, the metal collar slid off his leg, oil, blood and water mixing into a disgusting broth. Lena steadied him, but he shook her off.

"Can you swim?" she shouted. He nodded. "Then let's go! She's gonna break any mo-"