Of Oubliettes & Obligations

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The steel cage was a waste, he thought. His shackles, while bruising and burdensome to his wrists, were ultimately meaningless. Dark, damp, and smelling vaguely of rust and oxidation, his suspended confine could house him forever; it mattered not. No prison could compare to his own self-incarceration, a sturdy cell built of misery, shame, and guilt. Gods, the guilt. It pushed through his veins like poison, replicating and thriving as it flowed.

With his hands tied, suicide wasn't an option. Not that he really contemplated suicide. The reward for his mistakes was an eternity's worth of time to replay the tumultuous moments before his capture, and to see the images once again in his head. Constant darkness provided ample room for the workings of his own psyche. His fallen comrades, his murdered king, and his brother's look of bloodlust and triumph were his constant companions, both flashing and lingering in his vision.

He oft wished for the time. Or the date. Certainly it was selfish, and such knowledge had no worth to a dead man, but his body wanted release from circadian rhythms gone haywire and the sandbags his eyelids had become.

Bodies were curious things, and he was continually reminded of the fact. How he managed to keep growing hair despite obvious nutritional deficiencies was beyond him. On the twelfth day, or perhaps the twelfth week, or month, the strands emerging from his face were the culprits of a particularly agonizing itch, creeping slowly across the right side of his chin. He hadn't the strength to do much of anything, especially not rub against his shackles and find release.

Time passed. His accursed epidermis taunted and agitated him more and more every second. Insignificant sensations were ruining him. After what indeed felt like a lifetime's worth of denying himself, he allowed a groan to escape from the depths of his innards. Initially merely a quiet release, it grew in volume and stamina and eventually became a cathartic howl, ringing and reverberating as it echoed up and down the chambers of the prison. In desperation, he tilted his neck and jutted his chin forward just enough for the tip of his jaw to touch the rotted iron of the manacles around his right shoulder. Gasping and panting as he stretched, it took a good minute to muster the energy to fuel the movement, but his efforts were enough. An immediate sigh of relief indicated as much. He breathed heavily and let his head tilt backwards in exasperation.

"Ugh, I hope you're not doing what I think you're doing," said an accusatory voice.

"I beg your pardon?" he asked, automatically. You could take the man out of knighthood, but you couldn't take knighthood out of the man.

"My pardon? We could both do for some pardon, given our current location. But don't act like I can't hear you over there, you know, polishing the old sword, as it were," the voice continued.

The voice was female. He felt a blush creep up around his temples. Locked away for eternity, and she thought he had nothing better than to...!

"I assure you, my hands are nowhere near my-- I mean to say, I was merely trying to scratch an itch, and it's awfully hard given that --" he stopped.

A bead of sweat was forming beneath his brow as he felt the after-effects of a mild rush of adrenaline. A voice from his own imagination. He honestly didn't expect to have lost his mind so soon.

"Ah. Scratching the itch. I like your euphemism better," the voice teased.

He assumed one's sanity slowly melted away, like a candle, doomed to be rendered a wick that would eventually drown in its own fuel. Instead, it seemed his mental health had exploded and left nothing but ashes in its wake.

"I've been far too forward," the voice started again. "It's not like I can see what you're doing, anyway. I should probably be welcoming the company. Not really the epitome of excitement down here, I'm afraid."

"As good of a welcome as a disembodied voice can give," he answered, deciding to go along with the wave of lunacy rather than fight it. For now, he decided, his mind could have its way with him.

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