That left Josef. Taken by the Iron Legion. I didn't even know if my friend was still alive or not, what the Iron Legion might be doing to him. I must admit, even in my wildest nightmares, I did not come close to the truth. Perhaps my imagination was lacking, or perhaps I simply could not fathom the reality of his situation. I thought about Josef a lot, especially on that first night in the cells.
Spending too much time with only your own thoughts for company is dangerous. They start to swirl and circle, becoming ever more damning and heaping more and more guilt upon you. It was too much to take, too much turmoil, too much pain. My gaze slid to the rope over and over again. All I had to look forward to was torture. They wouldn't kill me, it wasn't the Terrelan way, due to laws set in place centuries ago, circumvented in the cruellest fashion possible. The Terrelans didn't kill their prisoners, just convinced them to kill themselves. I was in their clutches, well and truly caught with no way out, and it would be a kindness, both to myself and to the whole world, to just stop it there and then. No more pain. No more torture. No more mistakes causing the world and its people harm. The others would be free of me, of the things I put them through, and I would free of everything. It would be over.
"Ssserakis?" I asked of the darkness, my voice quiet, timid like I had never been. I received no reply. The horror was inside me still, coiled tight around my heart and soul, but it ignored me, a different sort of torture. Punishment for the promise I had broken.
For the first time in as long as I could remember, I felt alone. Truly alone. No friends, no horror. Nothing but empty darkness. That scared me more than I can explain. More than the threat of torture or the lingering stare of the Emperor. I was terrified of being alone. Tears welled and I started to cry, at first, they were great, wracking sobs, but my broken rib soon put an end to that, and instead I cried in silence. It seemed fitting somehow.
A deep, dark, desperate misery settled upon me. The type of despair that makes the call of the void even stronger. Again, I found myself staring up at the noose and imagining how easy it would be to just stop. It was with no small amount of surprise that I realised I was no longer alone. Horralain stood nearby, his image pale and soft around the edges. A silent ghost to keep me company, a friend I had pressed into service beyond death, summoned now to chase away the fear of being so utterly alone.
Horralain's mouth moved, but no sound came out. Ghosts had no voice. My friend had rarely spoken in life, and when he did, his words were measured and brooked listening to. There was meaning to his words now, but I could not hear it.
"I'm sorry," I whispered into the gloom, unable to take my eyes from Horralain's ghost. "I did this to you. You don't deserve to be here." It should have seemed funny. Of all my friends, Horralain was perhaps the only one who did deserve to be in a cell. I had no idea what he had done to earn his way into the Pit, it was impolite to ask after another inmate's crimes, and back then Horralain had seemed the type of man who would strangle a person rather than talk to them. But there were plenty of rumours and none of them were kind to the big man. Even so, he didn't deserve what I had done to him.
I reached out with my good arm and clasped a hand around Horralain's own. The surprise on his face was obvious. Ghosts have no real form, they cannot interact with the world, nor even with other ghosts. They are nothing but thought and memory trapped at the point of death and given pitiable form, slowly eroding from existence. A terrible fate to inflict upon anyone, especially a friend. So, I did what I should have done long ago, right from the start. I unravelled Horralain's ghost and freed his spirit from the damnation of existence. He stared down at me the entire time, an unreadable expression on his face. Gratitude maybe? Pity? Hate? I couldn't tell through the blurred vision of tears.
And then I was alone again.
Chapter 26
Belmorose said: There are just two reasons for torturing a person. The first is to acquire vital information that would otherwise be withheld. The second is because you're a sadistic fuck who likes to inflict pain. Nowhere was the truth of his statement more apparent.
There is no concept of time down in the Red Cells. No light, save for that which my captors provided, illuminating nothing but the noose. There is no sound but an incessant dripping of water, and the wails of the damned as they experienced what was I was certain to. How long passed between that first meeting with the Emperor and the next? I don't know. Long enough that I had to use the bucket. Long enough that I started to dread what was coming and imagine what they might do to me. It is impossible to truly imagine torture. You can never really comprehend the pain and fear of it, until it is happening to you. I slept, I know that, exhaustion getting the better of me and dragging me down into oblivion. Ssserakis did not wait for me there. No nightmares or existential trips to the Other World. Most people would think that a blessing, but I would have given almost anything to hear my horror's voice once more.
When they came for me, I had barely enough time to open my eyes before a flurry of hands grabbed me, pulling me to my feet. I fought back, of course, but there was little I could do in my weakened state, and even less I could do once my arms were twisted behind my back. I reached for the Arcstorm inside, but its power was diminished. Too long without a Source to draw strength from. Even my eyes had dimmed. Still, one of my captors got a nasty shock that sent him stumbling and I took some small pleasure in that. It was short lived as I received a backhand to the face that had me spitting blood.
I was pulled to a halt and a hand grabbed hold of my chin; an ugly face shoved up close to mine. The man was old, wrinkled skin like dusty onyx and a white beard that was so tangled it looked like a bird's nest. His uniform was clean and pressed though, black on black, the colours of the Grave Watch. Even I had heard of them. The Emperor's loyal dogs; men and women without scruples or morals. In any other profession people like that would end up down in the Pit, but as long as they were loyal to Aras Terrelan, they were more useful to him free. I was under no false impressions; my guards were killers and worse.
"Do not do that again," the old Grave Watch man said in a voice that whistled through missing teeth. "His majesty wants to tend to you himself, but that don't mean we won't play rough if you struggle."
I stared at the man, putting as much venom as I could into the dim flashing of my eyes. Silence held for a few moments, then he looked away and started on again, the others holding my arms pushing me forward. Even at my most vulnerable, people have struggled to meet my gaze. Again, small victories.
The dark corridors passed in a blur of hazy lantern light and rushed footsteps. I saw other cells, doors locked and the occupants within either silent or screaming. My guards joked as they hustled me along, something about the city being in an uproar, its people demanding to see my corpse. Again, I was struck by the oddity that the people of Juntorrow hated me so. It really shouldn't have surprised me; Terrelans have always been a people who are easily led, and the Emperor had declared me an enemy of the empire, a dissident who wanted nothing more than to throw the people into another war no one wanted. I suppose Orrans were not so different, really. The truth is, the only real difference between Terrelan and Orran, back when it still existed, were the markings on a map.
I was moved down a winding stairwell, pushed along and held by the arms behind my back and a hand on what was left of my blouse's collar, then down another blank corridor of dark stone. Finally, the old Grave Watch guard opened a door and I was shoved inside. A single chair, set into the floor, sat at the centre of the room and I was pushed toward it. The Grave Watch wasted no time in forcing me down into the chair and then securing the iron manacles in place over my wrists. They had a little trouble with my stone arm and had to adjust the size of the manacle, all the while exclaiming at how odd such a thing was. I offered no explanation.