When Lucan woke, all he could see was darkness. And then his other senses started to work, and he was engulfed in screams, moans, whimpers, and worse, insane babbling. A strange smell met his nose: a smell he had never smelt before, but instinct told him what it was. It was the smell of death, of those dying and of those who did not have long left in this life.
Lucan, initially frozen in fear, began to look around. He was in a circular pit, with a mesh above him. his arm throbbed, as did his head, from the fall.
The fall. Slowly the memories washed back into his tired mind. Woken from a comfortable sleep. A sickening sound as an arrow hit flesh. The fall. Blinding pain. His mother, lying still, her crimson blood spreading across the snow. Why hadn't she answered him?
It hurt too much to think about. And so he didn't think about it. There was the present, and nothing else. No past, and if something spectacular didn't happen, he doubted he had a future either. He was alone, and there was no one to save him.
Lucan whimpered slightly and curled up into a tight ball, as if by making himself as small as possible he could block out everything that had happened.
Next time Lucan woke, he had no memory of his previous life. As he slept, he had built a wall around his heart, protecting himself from the pain and grief that he could not deal with.
The small boy blinked, aware that torch light was flickering in the passageway. There hadn't been light before, had there?
He heard a deep voice, speaking not in his tongue, but that of the Romans.
"See if there's any still alive."
Lucan whimpered and shrank back, as if trying to hide himself. His captors had spoken in Latin.
He heard raised voices, and then there was the sickening sound of metal sliding through flesh.
"That was a man of God!"
"Not my God!" came a voice, the anger in it scarcely concealed.
But for some reason, that voice gave Lucan some hope. It was not Roman, and though the man spoke in Latin the man had an coarse accent, and though Lucan did not recognise the voice, the accent was familiar.
He heard the metal grate next to him scrape open, and a very familiar voice spoke. "This one's dead."
Lucan wanted to cry out, to make sure that the well-known voice came to him, and lifted him out of the hell he was in, but fear kept him in check, and he stayed silent.
Then hands appeared at the grate above Lucan. The metal bars were pulled back, and a face appeared at the top.
Relief washed through Lucan. He knew this face! But with it came memories. Memories that caused nothing but pain, and so he forced them to the back of his mind, along with the familiararity of the face, so he wouldn't have to grieve.
"Arthur!" Dagonet shouted, and reached down and carefully lifted the boy out.
Arthur was picking a woman up from out a cell, and Dagonet followed him out, cradling the boy in his arms. He had not failed to recognise him, but he had seen the blank look that Lucan had given him, and knew that it was not the time to let emotions and long-concealed secrets come out.
Dagonet knelt on the snow-covered sand. Propping Lucan up, he carefully let some water dribble onto his lips. Horton, the man sent by the bishop, came up to Dagonet.
"His arm is broken!" he exclaimed.
Dagonet didn't answer, instead concentrating on slowly feeding Lucan the water.
"And his family?" Horton asked.
That stung. Those three simple words had sent a arrow straight into Dagonet's heart, and his eyes steeled, as he looked down at his son, and realised what the Romans could have done to him.
And another part of his mind was filled with doubt and pain as a single word echoed over and over.
Adara.
Dagonet almost doubled over with nearly physical pain. Where was she? What must have happened to her that she had let her child be taken? He was sure she wasn't back in the dungeon, dead or alive, and that offered no comfort.
He was almost oblivious to what was happening around him as his eyes rested on his son's face, pleading with him to tell him where she was. But no recognition showed on the small boy's face, and Dagonet was close to despairing when he heard a voice that filled him with loathing.
"I was willing to die with them. Yes, to lead them to their rightful place.
It is God's wish that these sinners be sacrificed. Only then can their souls be saved."
Dagonet slowly turned eyes, blazing with anger, towards the monk who had spoken, but Arthur retaliated first.
"Then I shall grant his wish," he said, his voice deceptively soft. But there was nothing but hardness in the next words he spoke. "Wall them back up!"
Dagonet watched with quiet satisfaction as the monks were forced back into the hell they had created, and he did not look away until their final cries had died away. When the final sobs of 'these sinners, these sinners!' were completely lost behind rock he looked down again at Lucan, and found the boy had passed out in his arms.