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It was dark, cold, and wet within this quiet, dank place, as rats and roaches, strangely, were nowhere to be found, despite their hardiness, likely because of the sheering cold temperatures outside. The very air seemed to cause the warmest of men to quiver in the cold, ice stalagmites forming on what seemed to be a ceiling. This was, however, no cave. This was a prison.
It had been built for the worst of criminals in the cold, dark land of Russia, the guards themselves dressed heavily in the fur of the wolves and bears, as they stood outside many of the cells where the residents therein continued their slow, but painful journey toward death, as the very cold would slowly freeze their lightly clothed bodies to death. However, as if to taunt them, the warden made sure they got all the needed nutrients and water to simply keep themselves alive, their own body heat keeping them alive, slowing the mind numbingly painful process and causing one of the most torturous environments one could make for a prisoner, as they would often be forced go through several cycles of frostbite a week, eventually recovering after going through the cycle, only to get another case the next day and having to endure the pain of the icy cold once more.
However, there were worse punishments than this in this domain of creeping, as even prisoners here could summon the anger and bravery to fight back, only to be beaten, put in solitary confinement, but never executed, as the guards let the cold do that.
But there was a prisoner that suffered more than anyone else in these cold, stone walls. In one room, cut off from the rest by a large stone door, as he sat chained with cold steel along his hands, arms, and legs, even around his eyes, as he simply lied there, silently conserving his energy for his next meal. No one, not even the warden himself knew who he was, or where he came from. But, of course, as anyone, he did what he was told by the higher authorities, whom he had never met himself. In the beginning, this prisoner had struggled and yelled in a different language, but had only brought more punishment on himself in doing so, causing his ruckus to cease to exist. Now he spent most of his time simply laying on the ground, sitting up to try to keep already freezing skin from touching the even colder stone floor below him, or sleeping. The guards had given him longer chains so that he could eat, however, they only went so far; in themselves becoming an element of torture in this stronghold of suffering and despair. This was the story of an exile, who had long lost the tastes and feelings of his own home, his very past feeling like a dream…
Back before IT had happened
It was a sunny day, filled with cheerful glances from the sun, as the people of Bestal enjoyed it as they went to their work, selling, buying, making, whatever peasants were supposed to do. However, Ishcar understood none of these things. Rather, he preferred to live his life away from such things, being the spoiled brat that he was. Even so, he was forced to learn how the peasants lived this day, as it seemed the teacher had decided that a field-trip was in order for Ishcar. As the duke's son walked through the town, he couldn't help but be disgusted with how these peasants dressed and worked.
"Peasants, peh. Why should I even be concerned with such commoners?" He would ask the teacher, his green eyes looking at him sharply. "Well, Ishcarnius. If your ever going to learn to be like your father, you need to realize that the commoners are the reason we can live the way we do. Without them, our technology and politics would mean naught." The teacher finished, his own black eyes looking at Ishcar's rather scornfully. Ishcar shrugged. He could care less about the blabberings of the teacher. He could do just about anything he wanted.
That night, however, something happened that had not happened every night. Ishcar was asleep, sleeping in the Mansion owned by his family as he heard a crashing sound eminating from his mother's room, looking shocked as he got up in his night-gown, quickly throwing on his royal attire as he shoved open his room door, running down the stairs nearby toward his mother's room, only to find something he would never forget.
The vases were broken, as were the marble statues of women supporting them. The blanket was was ripped and torn...and covered in blood. Ishcar quivered at the sight of it, as he had never seen this much blood before in his entire life. However, he continued to look up at the rest of the bed, spotting...under its sheets, his mother in her nightgown, her left arm limply laying off the side of the bed as her face faced the same direction, blood gushing out of her throat as she layed there, as her eyes were wide-open. Quickly, Ishcar raced to her side, speaking to her at first in a kind and gentle tone, possibly one of the only ones he had ever used in his entire life."Mother?" He asked.
There was no response.
He asked again, a bit louder this time, and more demanding."Mother?"
Once again, there was no response.
At this point, he realized what could have happened...he had heard of death before, but he had never seen it in his lifetime...but still, he tried again."Mother!?" He asked in an even more demanding voice, his eyes beginning to fill with tears. "Mother!!" He exclaimed, yelling loudly as tears poured down from his face. "You...can't be dead! You can't be!" He would yell even louder. But the damage was already done. His mother was dead, and he hugged her body, crying bitterly as he held her even closer, her face pressing against his. At this point, his brother burst in, wearing his nightgown as his brown, short hair foreshadowed his currently sharpened eyes as Ishcar turned toward him. "Brother...who...why?" Ishcar would ask, looking wrought in anger and pain as he had never experienced before in his entire life. "Do not call me brother, murderer." Said the older man, as guards followed him in, surrounding Ishcar. "Ishcarnius, you are hereby arrested and charged with murder. You are sentenced to life in prison and exile." Ishcar's brother would finish, walking out of the room with a certain pride as if he was dealing with a commoner, and nothing more.
Now here he was,and despite all of his rights as the son of the duke, he had become nothing more than a criminal in the eyes of his people, and perhaps rightly so. Perhaps he really did kill his mother in anger. Perhaps it was him who cut the throat of the one he loved out of anger and pride...but it wouldn't make sense, not even to one who now didn't even speak. Now, he merely thought and felt, for that was all he could do now, for even sight eluded him after being sent to this god-forsaken prison.
However, today was to be different from other days for the young exile. For today, his salvation would come, as Ishcar himself would feel something different. There were new footsteps in the hallway, and they carried a certain air...a feeling unlike the ones of those prisoners, slow and heay, being worn down by grief and sorrow. Rather, these felt light and quick, as if someone was rushing through the prison, as the vibrations were barely felt through his body.
He heard the rattling of keys, the sound of some murmurs, and something stange had happened. The door, which was usually bypassed by a small slot for entering in crusty old breed and disgusting water, was opened.
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