Another round of thanks goes out to anyone who has been keeping up with this story. I treasure each review (probably more than a normal person should).
---
Chapter 4 – A Bit of Neglect
"Self-love is not so vile a sin as self-neglecting." - Shakespeare
For a long time he thought he heard animals. Delirium seemed to be attracting more and more of them; perhaps they were marking their prey? He certainly thought he could distinguish growls and idiosyncratic grunting.
Then he realized that there were no beasts; that he was generating the noises.
Hunger was something that he was used to. Something he could stomach, he joked grimly. The sort of stamina it took to survive long stretches of time on missions had made him a hardened man. He was used to long nights without food, eating little or nothing at all, and making due. Experiencing an absolute depravation of any sort of nutrient was entirely different. Those situations now seemed like they were another man's memories. A bottomless void seemed to have been created where his digestive system once happily functioned.
He tried to distract himself. Really, he tried. Tried to think about anything, starting from the numerous other physical ailments that plagued him -- aching joints, heaving lungs, bruised muscles – to other random, distracting thoughts, but after hours of valiant attempts, nothing he thought about could keep him from the thought of food. Riding with his cavalry? Impossible to do without thinking of their method of transport: giant birds, ready to be plucked and roasted. Swimming in the ocean? Not unless he also wanted to think about fish, simmering, juices flowing, tempting him. He couldn't even think about eviscerating his own dishonorable, feckless brother without reminding himself that his brother's eviscerated organs would probably be filled with food. Glorious food.
Thoughts swam around his head, blending in and out of each other. Catching him unawares, his mind began a descent into a blank, pulpy state. His head rose and fell with the ebb and tide of consciousness, until he let the sensations, or lack thereof, take him.
An icy sensation crept about his temples. Opening his eyes and finding even the dim light of the room to be too intense, he instinctively squinted, pupils dilating. Adjusting his eyes, he realized he was staring sideways at a pair of ornate boots where they met the floor. His head was pressed against the cold base of a dungeon chamber.
"Twenty minutes," an unfamiliar voice commanded before a plate full of what once was food dropped before his ravaged body. He cringed from the sound of the impact the plate made as it hit the floor. His body, by some inherent mechanism, retracted into an almost fetal position.
Clarity came to him as he stared at the plate. He could see what he wanted. What he wanted was to use his shackled hands and uncontrolled need to attack the food. Devour it. Savor it. Hell, he'd even drink the dark, dirty water placed before him.
But he wouldn't. He couldn't. His pride screamed no, never, who are they to offer me food? Is this their idea of generosity? No games. I will have none of it.
Realizing that he was not hanging vertically, at least for the time being, his body felt a pained release; still hungry, still aching, he could at least just lie there. In a temporary moment of tolerance, his body once again betrayed his mind, forcing him into an inconvenient but much needed rest. He remained there, a crumpled heap, leaving food untouched, until the guard found him again.
The familiar binding sensations of his manacles were what brought him into consciousness once more. The relief that those precious moments out of his bindings had given him began to evaporate. If anything, being away from the chains had now made him hyper-aware of their burden on his body now that he had returned, and even more cognizant of the deepened hunger within him. Presently, however, he didn't feel as heavy with delirium as before.
He heard a nearby rustling of chains along with what he thought might have been sharp intakes of breath.
"Hello?" he asked, tentatively.
"Ah," she took in another sharp breath, "He speaks once more." Again, she was somewhere, like him, suspended in the dark.
"If I may be so blunt," he began, but had no idea where to begin. Where did you just go? Where did I just go? He mulled over questions, but merely ended his statement with, "what just happened?"
"Well, I don't know about you, but I was just taken to an ornate manse in Archades where I was given a sponge-bath by none other than Emperor Gramis himself, spun the finest clothes in Ivalice, danced with five-and-twenty men, and fed escargot and poached quail."
"I am serious, milady," he said.
"Really, my good man, what do you think? I've been trying not to die despite the best efforts of guards who think they know how to break a man, er, woman," she said between more short breaths.
"Is it…very painful?" he inquired, uneasily. The idea of a woman being tortured disturbed him. Call it sexist, yes, but as a pseudo-king slayer, he was being given food during his trips rather than lashings. What could this woman possibly have done to merit actual torture?
"I'm a big girl," she quipped, somehow still managing sarcasm. Judging by her retort, he assumed she wasn't in as bad a shape as he thought.
"While I cannot wish you release or aid in abetting your injuries, may they swiftly diminish in pain," he said. It was all he really could do.
"Kind words, more than we can hope to get in this place. I thank you. But enough about things we can't do too much about; what happened to you?"
"I was just taken and offered food. Allowed a moment of respite. It is odd," he reflected.
"That is a curious thing," she replied with what could have been sincerity. She seemed a little livelier. "Now, I mean not to pry, but is it possible that certain forces wish for you to be kept alive for their own ends?"
"I suppose. I refused the food," he added, his mind elsewhere. The boy, Reks, had seen him, or rather, seen his brother, slay the king. Reks was kept alive as a witness just long enough to be useful – so why not consider that he, too, would be kept for an ulterior motive?
"You refused the food?" she asked, sounding incredulous.
"Yes," his reply was adamant.
"Then we're in a bit of a bind," she proclaimed.
"Oh, really? And why 'we'?"
"I know nothing about you, so I can only speculate about your situation. I at first thought that you were tossed down here because someone wanted to forget about you – but it appears that I was mistaken. Whoever put you here is keenly aware of what you represent to him, dead or alive. Now I think maybe you're the ace in someone's hole."
He considered this.
"But what do you mean by 'bind'?" he asked.
"You have no idea when you'll be needed, what you'll be needed for – what sorts of things they'll do to you to break you, damage you, make you forget about what your real priorities are."
"You seem to know what those are," he challenged.
"You'll cling to the last, best choice you have– the ability to decide whether or not you live or die, rather than let someone else decide for you. So the bind is whether or not to keep living for yourself or for your enemies. The answer to that is obvious, which leads me to ask: were you wise to refuse the food?"
"You sound like this has been the subject of much thought on your part. Are you sure that you are not projecting your own inner conflicts onto me? I refuse to let the Empire make any more decisions on my behalf. I need what power I can have."
"Our cases are not exactly the same," she cryptically brushed off the accusation, "but it's important to eat. Willpower means nothing if you're running on empty."
"With all due respect, when did you become an expert on such matters? I'd value your opinion much more if you weren't stuck in the exact same predicament!" His tone was harsher than he intended. But wasn't it useless to discuss human nature while on the brink of destruction?
"How utterly obstinate you are! You expect to leave here, supposedly avenge your countrymen, and protect lives when you do not even value your own enough to preserve it!" she spat, chest heaving. It literally pained her to yell and commit too much energy to arguing, so she said nothing more.
The two remained enveloped in the stillness, weak, but filled with purpose.
He did not ignore her words. While she didn't mean to lose her temper, she did not regret her opinion.