"I see you found a mug," the cruel guard with the ladle from yesterday remarked with irony. "And I was going to pour it on your face today."

Hans bit his lip and allowed the guard to have his moment. All he needed was to look down at his bandaged, still-sore hands to be reminded of what happened to dissenters. He simply held out the mug, waiting for it to be filled. The scalding broth was poured into the cup, and Hans obediently moved away, toward the long line of prisoners having lunch.

He was not only sore, but incredibly stiff. Yesterday's exertions were enough to almost paralyze him, and yet he had to continue work. In the morning, he'd tried to approach a guard from the mud pit and ask for a moment's rest. A single look from the guard indicated that it would not have been a successful plea. Thus, Hans continued mudding, along with everyone else.

Back on Central Isle, Hans had been doing menial labor for a year, but mucking the horse stables or scrubbing the palace floors was a waltz compared to his present occupation. His body, while fit and trim, was not used to the abuse it was taking, not only from the mudding, but from the burns, scrapes, bruises, hits, and tumbles. His face was growing red from prolonged exposure to the sun. Though able to eat again, the quality of his daily food combined with the downsizing of the amount of it was leading to a miserable bout of indigestion that Hans feared would end in a rather humiliating way unless he found a place to relieve himself soon.

The broth currently in his mug appeared to be the standard noontime fare. Carefully bringing the soup to his lips, Hans allowed a small amount to pass his lips. He had expected a rancid-tasting substance, but the broth itself wasn't entirely terrible. It was watery and had hardly any flavoring at all. He could have dunked a tea bag into it and had a piping hot cup of chamomile like he used to have before bed as a boy. But there was a hint of chicken flavor that sank to the bottom as Hans continued to drink. It wasn't enough to satisfy Hans' very real hunger, however.

He leaned over to the child sitting next to him in line, a girl with her deep black hair wrapped in a headscarf.

"Is this all we get?" Hans asked.

The girl nodded silently.

"And we are expected to be able to work effectively for six hours more on this ration? Do these guards have any sort of brain?" he berated.

The girl stared up at him blankly, either confused at his words or interested in what broth he may have had left in his mug. Hans chose not to address her again. She looked no more than six, she probably didn't even know the meaning of half of the words he spoke.

He looked up and saw Noma near the end of the soup line, talking eagerly with the younger girl, her sister, she had been laughing with the night before. They were again conversing in the strange language Hans didn't understand, but their inflections matched the heavy accent that Sigurd had in his tone when they spoke the night before.

Sigurd had to have been out of his mind. There was no way that a life on this Gud-forsaken island was preferable to a free existence anywhere else in the country. It was possible that the old man had gone batty from the years of captivity. Perhaps, when he went home for a visit in a few months' time, he could plead for the release of Noma and her sister. Probably not Sigurd, who had an actual crime to his record, but the girls had to at least stand a chance of being freed.

Freedom! Hans already knew what he would do the minute he got back to the Central Isle. He was going to eat a full, rich meal, and many different cakes and desserts. Then, he would spend a full hour wallowing in a hot bath. Then, at the end of each day, whether or not he was in his old bed or his pallet from the past year, he was going to stretch himself out into a big 'X' and relish in the fact that the bed was entirely his.

"Hello there, Your Majesty!"

Hans lifted his gaze to meet Noma's and her sister's. She was grinning again.

"This is my sister, Ingrid," she introduced the girl next to her. Ingrid, in response, gave an exaggerated curtsy that, while silly-looking, might have actually passed as good form in the court. Hans responded halfheartedly by nodding his head.

"You still don't believe me," Hans moaned. "I think it would behoove you to call me Hans."

Noma sat down in front of him and shrugged. "As you wish, Your Majesty."

Ingrid giggled. "You're crazy already! And you have been here two days?"

Hans decided to let the matter drop entirely.

"How are your hands?" Noma asked, peering over to catch a glimpse. Hans raised one for her to examine. "No redness or itch? And the pain?"

Hans shrugged with indifference. "It burns, but it's tolerable," he replied. Noma nodded.

"One more night with the aloe. I will change them after supper," she concluded. "Just...use your mug now that you have one."

"Was it you who found it for me?" Hans asked. Noma nodded.

"It's new because no one was trading last night, so I had to go to a guard," she explained.

"A guard?" Hans thought a moment before the audacious idea popped into his head. "You mean to say you-"

"-I will say nothing other than I procured the mug for you, so please don't bring it up again," Noma said quickly. She looked over at Ingrid, who was biting her lip. Hans didn't want to think of what that crazy girl might have done just to get a cup for him to drink from. His first instinct was practically unspeakable.

Hans began to prod against his better judgement. "But would you just-"

"-listen up, peasants!" Everyone's attentions turned to Commander Leif, who was standing by the vat of soup. The two lesser guards were now standing at attention. The prisoners sitting in the line all jumped to their feet. "There will be a lashing in one hour. You will all attend."

Hans looked at Noma and Ingrid. Ingrid's eyes went wide with fear. Noma put her arms around her sister and said something in the foreign tongue. Then, she turned to Hans.

"I hope you fully stomach that broth before then, and try to look down as much as possible."


Everyone was summoned from the pool exactly one hour later. Hans had barely begun his afternoon work. The prisoners formed two straight lines, one line for females and children, the other for males. Hans couldn't make out where Noma, Ingrid, or Sigurd were. The lines were marched up the hill in a brisk, timely pace. As if it was timed to the second, they arrived back at the the top of the hill just as the other groups were materializing. It took only a few minutes for the groups to be lined up in meticulous rows in front of the high wooden scaffold by the cement house in the center of the hill.

After everyone was in place, a few minutes of inactivity went by. Hans was able to make out the figured he thought were Ingrid and Noma, two rows in front of him, the taller individual with her arm discreetly placed around the smaller.

"Prisoners, attend," Commander Leif barked, mounting the scaffold with two other guards. One of them carried a cat o'nine-tails in his grip. "These are lessons for all of you. You are expected to watch, listen, and learn from all of these. Any fainting, vomiting, swaying, or speaking out of line will result in three days and nights in the hold."

Hans shuddered. One night in that box of a room was more than enough for him to stand. Three days in that place would probably drive anyone to delusions or worse.

"Bring him," the Commander signaled to a guard on the ground. He ducked inside a moment,and Hans craned his neck in order to spot the unlucky transgressor.

Two guards were holding a short, frail boy of no more than thirteen or fourteen years. He had thin, blonde hair that covered his eyes, and he wore no shoes, nor did he wear a shirt. He looked defiant, but there was no struggle as he was led to the scaffold and forced to climb the steps.

"It's Axel."

"Oh no."

"Axel? What could he have done?"

"Disse monstrene."

Hans couldn't believe what he was looking at. A mere child, possibly not even pubescent, as indicated by his tiny size, was about to be publicly punished? For what? Murder? One of the whispering voices around him was correct...these guards were monsters.

Commander Leif unrolled a scroll of official-looking parchment and began to read from it.

"Axel Olsen, you have been charged and found guilty of stealing from the guards' food stores, procuring four pieces of bread and approximately a quarter of a pound of meat. As punishment, and to serve as a lesson to your fellows, you will be bound and whipped at the block a total not to exceed ten lashes," he announced, a certain sort of perverse pleasure in his voice.

Hans had witnessed executions before, but never a whipping. He wasn't sure why the boy started to shake at the announcement that he was condemned to ten lashes, but how bad could that have possibly been? Hans heard that most criminals got between thirty and forty lashes for most trespasses. Surely ten would be over and done with quickly, and Noma could visit later and give the boy some of that miracle plant that had spared himself much pain?

Axel was forced to his knees over the block, and his hands were bound to the each side with rope. He laid face-down over the block, turning his head to the side to Commander took the cat o'nine tails in his own grip and unfurled it. It was long, shiny, and black. The twine was thick...and glass shards were woven into the rope.

Commander Leif raised the whip above his head, and-CRACK!-it came down hard onto the boy's back. He replied with a high-pitched holler so desperate, it made Hans' stomach churn. His body struggled against the pain, but the Commander only recoiled briefly before he dealt another blow...the boy's cry this time was louder.

Hans felt pain on his own body, but not the aches he felt from his hard labor. He suddenly had a memory of his brothers and himself in their childhoods. Once, Alban, Flavius, and Caleb had found Hans wandering towards his room after a fencing lesson. They caught him like a rat in a trap and dragged him around a corner. While Flavius and Alba disrobed him, restrained him, and forced him face down onto the ground, Caleb undid his belt and began whipping Hans with it violently on his naked backside. Caleb was relentless for a solid fifteen minutes, to the point Hans had stopped struggling and just silently taken each blow.

He never found out what it was for, but the welts running up and down his back throbbed for weeks afterwards...a reminder that he was never safe, even in his own home.

Three...four...five…

The Commander was beginning to take longer pauses in between cracks of the whip. Axel was shaking violently after only five hits.

Six...seven…

Hans could see Ingrid try to turn away from the view, but Noma held her still. If she didn't watch, she could end up in the hold, or worse, on the same scaffold. But there was no chance these brutes would whip females...would they?

Nine...ten.

Commander Leif finally let up on the boy, who was weakened enough to be slumped over the block, hardly stirring now. Axel was untied, then forced to his feet and turned around so that the crown of prisoners could see the damage done.

Hans winced and felt sick again. The boy's back was red with blood. Ten fresh scars scored over his tanned skin, dripping and inflamed. The skin had been shredded, and in two places where the scars intersected, Hans swore that even from the distance he was at, he saw exposed muscle.

"He will spend one week in the hold for this as well," the Commander informed him. "What have we learned today?"

After a seconds-long pause, the prisoners chimed in unison: "We will not steal food from the guards' storage."

The Commander nodded in approval, then shoved Axel into an associate guard's arms, after which he slipped away as Axel was led back into the stone building. The guards on the scaffold began shouting: "Back to work!" "Lazy dogs!" and "No more to see!"


"Will he die from his injuries?" Hans asked later, trying to keep his voice as monotonous as possible. He had decided to join Noma, Ingrid, and Sigurd around the fire pit after supper that evening. After what he witnessed, he had many questions that needed quick answering.

Noma shrugged. "Some of the stronger ones survive. It's more or less about whether the scars become diseased if they aren't washed out. He may have a chance, seeing as he wasn't put back into work instantaneously. He'll be locked up, away from diseases."

"He was….so young," Hans murmured. Ingrid nodded.

"There have been younger," she confessed. "I was given five lashes for waking up late for the morning roll call."

"And how old were you?"

"Fourteen. Axel is tiny for his age. He is sixteen."

Hans didn't expect that answer. That boy couldn't have possibly been sixteen. Most boys, even Hans (who was a late bloomer in physical development), were becoming men in the physical sense by that age. Axel looked like a small boy.

"But I was lucky," Ingrid added. "They didn't make everyone watch me. They pulled me out of line and forced me onto my knees. It felt like lightning on my back."

"Everyone watched mine when I got fifteen for being caught trading," Noma added in response to Hans' shocked face. "Yes, me too. Practically everyone has. I know you will have to endure it too, soon."

"Oh no," Hans shook his head, disbelieving. "If I keep my head down and not break rules-"

Sigurd shook his head slowly, making Hans stop mid-sentence. "They will find a charge for you. It's almost an initiation into the camp. Or a fellow prisoner will lay blame on your head to escape a punishment of their own."

Hans shuddered and looked into the fire. There was only enough wood allowed for a small pit every night. Even now, as the work day was over, guards stood nearby to ensure the fire was used only for the purpose of light and heat as the sun went down. Hans had wondered why prisoners were allotted this luxury. Perhaps it was to quell any thoughts of rebellion within the establishment. After all, Hans had read in the history books of cultures allowing slaves to get drunk every night on cheap beer to keep them from rising up in the middle of the night.

"How...how can you let them treat you like this?" Hans whispered, still trying not to show emotion.

Sigurd shrugged. "I do blame myself for this," he said. "But when a criminal forfeits their freedom, isn't this all he deserves?"

No, Hans thought immediately. If they don't warrant a death sentence, they should at least be given more than this. And their children should not be taken away from the world as well.

"I've seen what other countries do to their criminals," Hans admitted. "And I have never seen a...camp. A camp like this. I've seen cells and scaffolds, and even some torture chambers for interrogations, but never this."

"You've been abroad?" asked Noma with interest. "What were you outside? A tradesman?"

Hans suppressed a laugh. They still didn't believe who he was!

"Let's just say, I've seen quite a few places."

"Have you ever been to Lavania?" asked Sigurd.

Hans shook his head. "That's too far to the east, so I can't say that I have."

"It's where I came from," Sigurd said. "As a much younger man. I was an apprentice who came here with a merchant and never went home. I learned the language, met a citizen and married her, and earned my stay."

Hans raised an eyebrow. He knew his father's feelings toward immigrants. King Hagen deeply distrusted foreigners who came to the Isles to stay. They threw off the status quo, and, according to his law, deserved to be closely spied on in case they were reporting illicit activities back to their motherland.

"I made it my business to teach my daughters the language of their heritage as well as the language of the Northern Kingdoms," Sigurd continued. "But that didn't sit well with authorities of course. It made us look suspicious."

"I see" Hans shifted awkwardly on the ground where he sat. He didn't want to admit that he'd allowed his father's prejudices to seep into his own way of thinking over time. He didn't know much about Lavania, but growing up, every country outside of the Northern Kingdoms was just as shady and just as foreign.

"Why did you come here? To the Isles?" asked Hans, curious. Sigurd sighed.

"For a new start." He remained silent after that, staring into the fire as if his head had floated off into some other dimension.

"Papa," Noma mumbled. "It's nearly curfew."

Sigurd nodded quietly and allowed his daughter to help him to his feet to begin guiding him into the barrack. Ingrid and Hans stayed by the fire a moment longer.

"We know how he feels," Ingrid explained. "We let him feel it, and instead try to tell him through our actions that we don't care."

"You don't mind being in this hellhole?" asked Hans.

"Oh, we do," Ingrid answered. "It would be nice to live a normal life...but when this is all you know, you learn to be grateful for the little things. Noma and I have our father, and we are a family that cannot be torn apart by anything. We are strong and have adapted to the hard way of life here. That is all we can hope for."

Hans let her go into the barrack after her father and sister, while he stared back into the fire as it faded. The embers glowed an animated, beautiful red and orange. It was mesmerizing, and it took Hans a good fifteen minutes to re-establish his place in the real world before he could get up and walk inside for what was sure to be another sleepless night.