Chapter 10
Out there the world continued turning with the urgency of mortals. They continued destroying forests, polluting the air and water, torturing animals and killing fertile soil while he was still in the hands of those who had more in common with the elves and the magical creatures of Bethmoora than with humans. Regardless, they worked for them. The Prince tightened his fists, clenched his jaw and swallowed bitter saliva through his dry throat. His exposed skin burned and inside his eyes, right behind his eyeballs, a pressure like a stab prevented him from having them open for more than a few seconds. Almost four weeks of torture, he kept count as an exercise for mental sanity. He knew Nuala was near at meters of distance. He called her telepathically time and again, yet she refused to go to him. She had left him to his own device and in the hands of torturers. She was also suffering. Every light shock on his flesh, every unspeakable pain on his skin and retinas unable to digest the violet halo coming from all directions affected her. He could feel her curling in pain along with him. Despite her own torture, Nuala remained still and deaf to her brother's plea for help. If he was to escape it had to be on his own, but how? His guts shrunk in thirst and hunger, his skull stabbed with the never-ending physical and mental fatigue. Was this his end? Five thousand years of existence fighting with his own hands for his freedom and that of his people to end up reduced to a prisoner in the enemy's hands. Would they show him as a trophy of war when he drew his last breath out of his lungs? He knew they were capable of that.
The Prince attempted, with the little strength he still had, to rest his mind by going into a trance. It was the closest to sleeping he could do, tied vertically as he was to the structure at his back. Silence dominated all around him, yet at any minute the German tin man would come back and would apply another dose of light. He'd die first before revealing the incomplete crown of Bethmoora's location. It was his as heir to the throne, or it was to be nobody's. The crown, complete or not, was Elven and so was it to remain. Never, if he could help it, was it to fall in human hands. Not again. He wouldn't make his father's mistake, which sufficient damage had already done. He tried to empty his thoughts. His dermis tickled like millions of needles stabbing him over and over again. As his consciousness began elevating above his body, he heard a noise. He woke up. Immediately one of the metal belts released a click and opened. It was the one holding his head by the forehead. Then followed the one around his neck. One by one the belts of his core and arms opened. He held tight to the structure with the little strength he had left. His fingers and knuckles hurt at the effort. Those holding his hips, legs and feet followed. The Prince collapsed hard on the floor. The impact against his naked skin made him hunch in pain as all his muscles cramped and pulled with stabs. He clenched his teeth and jaw, twisting and grumbling in pain from the back of his throat. He heard the door opening. He could hardly lift his head. Impossible. Who entered the chamber in that moment was Loreto Clair. She ran towards him carrying a big white blanket and covered him completely with it. She neared a bottle of water and carefully raised his head from the floor. Every cell of his body ached, the wound of weeks long bearing the light halos. It took him a big effort to hold his head above the floor. She held him by the nape and neared the bottle to his mouth. He drank the whole content in one sip, the water drops ran out of the corners of his mouth wetting his neck. The freshness returned some life into his body. He gasped for air as soon as he drank the last drop.
"Oh my god!," Loreto Clair cried as she watched his face and attempted to approach her hand to his cheek.
The brush shocked him. He felt like he had been skinned alive. He curled backwards with the little strength left. She did the same with her hand and begged him for forgiveness. He looked into her eyes. She cried. Loreto Clair desperately scanned the room with her eyes, then offered her hands to help him sit against the wall. Every single insignificant movement released a chain of spasms and stabs from the head to the tip of his toes. Finally, he supported his back against the wall. He gasped for air at the effort. Loreto Clair covered him with the blanket and hooked the corners behind his shoulders.
"Tell me what you need," she said with a broken voice in a crouch facing him. "You need to recover your strength. What food can I bring you? You need to eat!"
"Why do you help me, human?," the Prince mumbled, still hardly bearing the pain with his head supported against the wall. "Weren't you the one responsible for my current situation?"
"No!," she cried and sobbed the nose. "I was told you were a dangerous terrorist that had to be caught at any cost. I didn't know they'd torture you like this."
Her voice broke and let her head fall. Her sobbing was discreet yet clear. The Prince turned slowly his pupils towards her direction. Loreto Clair rose her face and dried her tears with the sleeve. She looked small, harmless. He felt sorry for her. She had just been a mere pawn in his capture. The mistake was his for having allowed himself to be seen climbing or descending from the theater at the days of her concerts. The rest hadn't been so difficult to infer for the agents of this place.
"You can blame me later when we get out of here but first you need to recover," she said with a trembling yet firm tone. "There are guards on shift in all hallways but the rest of the staff seems to sleep. What do you need to eat?"
"All that which nature freely gives and nothing that once lived and walked the Earth," the Prince uttered with effort and closed his eyes in an attempt to ease the constant burn.
Without further ado, Loreto Clair nodded. She got up from the floor and went out of the place. Later, when we get out of here. How was she going to be able to escort him out having the same muscle mass than a little girl? He didn't know where they had hidden his coat and sword, but he felt the presence of his silver lance in the surroundings. Forged from magical Elven silver on the day of his birth, his lance was a gift from his father as the heir to the throne and the one responsible for giving him his surname, Silverlance. Loyal partner in countless battles and training, slayer of foes, extension of his arm like a blade born out of his own flesh, his lance was there somewhere in this chamber. Now that he could finally move, the Prince took a deep breath and against cramps and pulls tried to stand up. It was a mistake. Everything turned in circles and he landed with all his weight on the metal floor. He was weaker than what he had initially admitted. He bit his teeth and hardly uttered a throaty growl to the expansive wave of pain that the impact provoked in all his body. He needed to eat. The human was right, he reluctantly admitted. He sat back on the floor with his back against the wall. He covered himself with the blanket Loreto Clair had brought. Only now was he conscious of the softness of the tissue against his injured naked skin. He was exhausted. From that position he studied the walls, floor and roof, unable to spot any secret door or nook where his lance might have been. All around him seemed like a glorified empty cube specially designed to contain him inside.
The door opened. As rarely ever in his life, he felt real dread. In the state he was in, it would have been challenging to defend himself. He sighed in relief when he saw Loreto Clair entering. She brought with her a tray filled with pots of fruits, vegetables, nuts, cereals, rice and more water. She left it at his side on the floor. The Prince took one of the pots and devoured it. The juice and sweetness of apples, strawberries, pears and oranges stabbed his jaw and watered his mouth for more. At the corner of his eye he saw Loreto Clair sitting on the floor by his left side. She watched him in silence. He knew the image he projected. Elves were a well kept secret, protected by the human elites of all times. Only the chosen ones and those who amassed the world power in their hands knew of the existence of Bethmoora and the surviving elves of the Great War. Some even knew about him, Prince Nuada exiled by his own conviction and wandering the human empires between the shadows. A mythical legend like many other civilizations who vanished into grains of sands of the universal watch.
"Somewhere in here my silver lance ought to be," he said with full mouth and the fruit juice running out of the corners of his mouth and down his neck and chest, "yet I only see walls, floor and flat roof. Search some secret compartment. I know it's here."
Without uttering a word against him, the human stood up and obeyed. He didn't know whether she felt guilty or she immediately accepted his authority unconsciously. He saw her feeling the walls with her hands as if wanting to perceive the tiniest protuberance through her fingertips. The Prince took another pot filled with almonds, walnuts, cucumbers and bell peppers and ate away while he took portions of steaming jasmine rice with a spoon. Slowly but surely his core began warming up after weeks deprived of any food or drink. He focused his gaze on Loreto Clair, slowly his eyes stopped burning, his skin was turning more resistant to touch. Suddenly he spotted the human stretching tall on her toes to reach a higher spot on the wall she insisted on touching. She turned and faced him. Could it be possible? Loreto Clair studied the structure to which he was chained and operated some grid or lever at its backside, releasing a click. She moved it to a horizontal position. The human smiled and searched for his approval. She climbed and tried to reach that spot on the highest end of the wall. She pressed the area on the wall and like magic a small door opened. The Prince opened his eyes in surprise. Loreto Clair rummaged inside, stretched at her maximum capacity and produced his silver lance. She turned to him and questioned him with her eyes. Open-mouthed, he nodded and slightly smirked. To his surprise, that was not the only thing stored in the secret compartment. Loreto Clair produced his sword and coat and left them on the structure.
The Prince devoured the rest of the food on the tray at full speed. He drank down the other water bottle and attempted to stand upon his own one more time. The energy was again slowly flowing through his veins, yet it was still challenging to stand on his feet. He offered a hand to Loreto Clair and helped her to come down from the structure. Once standing face to face, he realized how small she was. How could she sing so low and loud as she did with such a tiny body like hers? This was not the moment nor the place to ask about her singing technique. Quickly he dressed his coat, adjusted the blood-red belt to his waist, the protections to his chest and forearms and wore the lance and sword on his back. He opened his way before the human and opened the door. She grabbed him by his arm. He turned and faced her, frowning.
"Are you sure you feel well and recovered?," she said with a worried gaze.
"Enough for a few surprise attacks. I'm not planning to fight," he said and advanced towards the control cabin. "You will always stay at my back. Never cross fire, they'll shoot to kill. You must come with me, for when they know you have freed me they'll hunt you down too."
Loreto Clair nodded in silence. There was dread in her eyes. She clung to his arm behind him. He opened the door and checked both ends of the hallway. They went out and in silence the human pointed towards which direction to walk. After almost an entire month, he was leaving that torture chamber. Insolent humans who had dared taking him prisoner without thinking of the consequences. Rage boiled in his core, right there where his chest protection did not cover. They would pay with blood for the insult of having captured and tortured Nuada, Silverlance, Prince and future king of the elves.