Painful Revelations

Folco slumped against the wall, face bleak. “I'm sorry, Lindo,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t lash out at you. It’s just… what country would risk war over two kids, even if one is a prince?”

Lindo leaned back into the rough stone wall and closed his eyes against his pounding head, thoroughly spent. His life the past few hours- perhaps even days, he had no way of knowing the passage of time- had been a blurred nightmare of hoofbeats, jostling, rough handling, a change in some of the guards from hobbits to orcs after orders came from- somewhere, presumably either the Royal Guard or the Borderwatchers- to switch off. Why hobbits were not wanted in the group, Lindo could not understand.  His best speculation was that the Foxtrots- or Jarmir Esteel, since it seemed he’d taken charge of capturing those deemed traitors- did not want news of their capture leaking out, given who his friend was. However long it had been, it had been unpleasant, and Lindo had the horrible feeling it would only get worse.

Despite the lack of sleep, Lindo felt wide awake, though his head still throbbed something dreadful where one of the bandits had clouted him.  It hurt almost as much as his wrists. They had been sore enough with most of his weight pulling on them during the ordeal of the painting, but now that the manacles had been removed, releasing the pressure that had prevented him feeling the sting of wrists rubbed raw, they were stinging as though they’d been dunked in a bag of salt- something he wouldn’t put past the guards he was starting to realize with foreboding were quite sadistic.

Folco was either asleep or unconscious, bruised face cleaned of the crusted blood for the portrait marking him as a disgraced prisoner. His head was propped up in Lindo’s lap. He’d seemed intensely weary when the pair were thrown in the dank, damp cell that reeked of mildew and decay and begun to keel over sideways after only a few minutes of leaning against the wall in silence. Right on cue, the prince’s friend had scooted across the cell to allow Folco to drop into his lap in hopes of making him slightly more comfortable. Folco would have done the same for him were their predicaments reversed. They were not like men, who shied away from comforting their friends because for some reason they feared others misinterpreting gestures of comfort as erotic. Humans were strange.

Their cell was large and there was plenty of room to move about. However, it was nothing but four walls of stone with a large, heavy-looking steel door and a metal bucket indubitably intended as a chamber pot in the corner. There was nothing even remotely resembling a bed. The uneven stone floor promised to be even more uncomfortable than the ground in the woods where they and the rest of the refugees plus their guides Kiran and Non’tim had spent untold nights on the journey to Cancalia.

His grey eyes went wide with fear and confusion at a sudden realization. This was not the ordinary lock-ups where Drémeadow citizens generally served a short term, usually until their trial, where their every basic survival need was met. He’d seen the regular Lock-ups before. There was a bed in all of the cells, a small desk and chair,  privies that prisoners were brought to at regularly scheduled times, chamber pots in case of emergency, the courtyard in the center where they might have a breath of fresh air. So where had they been taken? Lindo was surprised Folco had never said anything of prisons like this existing- unless he didn’t know. He would have to inquire when his friend awakened.

Presently, Lindo felt the beginnings of a stirring in his lap. Folco swore as he shifted, face contorting in his fading sleep. Lindo gently rubbed the uninjured part of his head in comfort. Presently, the prince’s dark brown eyes flickered open in the midst of another oath. Lindo made to squeeze his hand, then remembered the cuts on Folco’s palms and patted the back instead.

Folco gingerly pulled himself up off his friend’s lap, recoiling at his own motions. “Gods above… one would think I’d be less sore after a nap, not more… how long was I asleep?

Lindo shrugged his shoulders apologetically. “Dunno. They haven’t brought us food or anything yet.”

“Did you get any sleep, or were you too busy appeasing your overdemanding friend?” the taller hobbit wryly asked. He made to rub his eyes, pain washing over his features.

Lindo feigned indignation. “The latter, clearly.”

“I suppose that’s one of the drawbacks of choosing to be friends with royalty,” suggested Folco.

Both lads laughed short laughs before fading into soberness. “In all honestly, I couldn’t sleep a wink, wasn’t tired.” Lindo told Folco.

“Lindo…” he chastised, voice growing raspy.

“Okay. My headache is keeping me up… or I’m too scared to sleep because I’m not as brave as you… or something,” Lindo admitted. 

Folco pulled a glare. “Oi, mind you stop insulting my friend.” His face broke into a pained grin. Lindo emitted a hard enough laugh to shoot a stabbing sensation  through his head. He must have made his discomfort obvious because Folco went very serious. “Lindo, you all right?”

Lindo stared at the prince in disbelief. After Folco had been knocked around by those guards, he was asking someone less injured than he if they were all right? “I am well enough.” He gestured to the sodden bandages on Folco’s hands. “How’re your hands feeling?”

“My hands?” Folco repeated. He looked at the bandages. “Right, nearly forgot about them.” Lindo felt a sudden pang. Just how hard had they hit him when first capturing the pair to make him forget gashes in his palms from the shattered pot? “I hope this is the most we have to worry about… we just need to figure out a way out of here…” A faraway look came over the prince’s thin face.

“Which bit?” interjected Lindo, drawing his knees up to his chest.  “Your hands being all cut up or us being stuck in the lockups?” He wished the guards would at least have the decency to change their bandages, or at least Folco’s, who looked very dirty.

“Us being stuck in the lockups, hands are nothing I can’t handle,” the other adolescent replied flatly. He cast a look around, scowling. “Apparently without a bed, let alone two- how lovely. I suppose we just need a nice comfy patch of floor. But yeah, this is secondary. Ought to make eating an interesting affair.”

            Right on cue, a deep pain of hunger took hold of Lindo’s stomach at the mention of food. “Be careful not to get those dirty.”

            Folco pulled a face. “Too late for that, I reckon, but I’ll try to not get them dirtier.”

            “Right.” Lindo rubbed his head.  A sudden hopeful thought surfaced. Considering who Folco was… he knew international law demanded royalty be treated with some measure of respect and not mistreated. He remembered from history lessons that people reacted badly when they got wind of a breach of that courtesy. One somewhat recent example, though it happened a couple of years before Lindo and Folco were even born, after Spolingharrow had seized control of the former land of Wishmay and shut Wishmay’s royal family away in prison, several neighboring lands, Cancalia being one, had informed Spolingharrow that they intended to attack Spolingharrow unless the former Wishmay rulers were released from the Spolingharrow dungeons. Ultimately, Spolingharrow had been forced to give in. “Perhaps we’ll actually be released once… oh, I don’t know.” Lindo had just remembered Folco was in hot water with his own family. “Perhaps some of the others will come to get us out of here? Or the Benoits will send someone?”

            Folco gave a long sigh. “If only. We’d be fools to expect it though.”

            “How so?” Lindo asked. “I’m sure Nont’im or Kiran or someone will eventually realize they haven’t seen us, or at least, in a while… if anything we’ll be missed in class and be told off for skipping, and she’d probably tell Kiran or the Duke or someone.” He thought of the makeshift classroom that had been set up for all of the refugee hobbits between five and twenty to carry on their studies and resume a glimmer of normalcy. “How much trouble could two kids without parents get into anyway?”  He forced an ironic grin. Nothing could surpass their predicament now.

            Folco had grown too glum to be amused. “Dunno. I wishwe were skipping to get drunk in some tavern that’ll let us. Or maybe they’ll assume that’s what they’re up to. It’s not like we have any way of telling them where we are. Or they’ll think we ran off for a bit… Xenia used to do that a lot before she left Drémeadow for good, remember? Disappear for a few days with only a note about where she meant to go?”

            “Ran off without our stuff though?” Lindo pointed out skeptically.”

            “True, but…” Folco let out a long sigh. “It’s politics. We’re nothing more than two errant kids without their parents to raise a fuss over it. There’s almost two hundred other refugees to worry about. They’re risking a lot as is… they won’t want to bring trouble on themselves for our idiocy. Let’s be honest with ourselves… we’re on our own. We need to figure out something for ourselves.”

            Lindo’s jaw dropped. “But surely… Folco! Think about whoyou are. You aren’t exactly a regular kid- don’t look at me like that, you’re not! Think, wouldn’t they want…?”

            “I have thought about it,” snapped Folco, “and yes, if things were normal and I’d been kidnapped or something, and you because you were there with me, then yes, Drémeadow wouldraise hell to get me back.” Lindo felt a lump in his throat. “We’re not in Drémeadow, at least not the Drémeadow we thought we knew, and who is there in Cancalia who’d give enough of a damn about our safety to gamble their own? The Benoits have their own subjects to worry about! They helped us, that is true, they gave us a place to stay out of the cold, but we can’t forget we’re a burden to them! If they tried to get us back, that could cause a war between Cancalia and Drémeadow if my father got angry enough!”

            “Hobbit’s don’t do war. War is for humans, we have no love for fighting amongst ourselves. And your father’s never talked about wanting war,” Lindo said reasonably.

            This did not seem to assuage Folco’s sudden fit of wrath. He slammed his fist into the floor, cringing as the angry move activated the pain in his wounded hand. He said through gritted teeth, “my father never accused anyone of a crime without evidence suggesting their guilt either, at least until January… nor had he ever ordered an attack on hobbits who did nothing wrong… doesn’t mean he won’t. We sure learned that the hard way, didn’t we?” Lindo gave no reply, but simply looked at Folco, afflicted by the suffering of his closest friend that had latently festered within him for so long until it exploded out now even as it had when they’d had their argument. Folco slumped against the wall, his face bleak. “I am sorry, Lindo,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t lash out at you like this, it’s not right. It’s just… what country would risk war over two kids, even if one of them is some foreign prince?”

            “I suppose,” sighed Lindo. “Any ideas?”

            Folco muttered, “I’m thinking.” He rubbed a finger against his chin. “I just wish… never mind. Pay me no heed.”

            He was met with crossed arms and a mulish gaze. Lindo was not about to let his best friend hold whatever else troubled him to his chest. “Out with it. I know you’re holding back something you want to say.” The prince shook his head in denial. Unmoved, Lindo raised both eyebrows. “Come off it.  You cannot fool me.” More gently, he added, “I’m listening.”

            Folco’s downcast brown eyes reluctantly looked at him. “I ought to have let what Tumis said about me go instead of losing my head over it. I should’ve just kept my mouth shut and taken it. I was really angry though, I didn’t like being yelled at by the teacher and Kiran over  something I didn’t even do, you know?” Lindo shook his head. He couldn’t imagine Kiran yelling at someone, but Folco’s parents had both been authoritarian enough with their children’s upbringing for his friend to see yelling and a disappointed lecture as synonymous. “Then I tried explaining but nobody would listen to me and accusing me of using my position to get everyone to make trouble or… ugh, I’m as bad as my father with losing my head.”

            Lindo gawked at him. In short, clipped words, he said “No. You. Are. Not.” When he Folco’s bewilderment became apparent, he elaborated, “We ought to have said something to help you out. The teacher would have listened had we spoken up on your behalf.”

            “Unless she decided I got everyone to gang up on him. You know, like how my father decided Kiran had turned me and you and everyone against him when in actuality I am perfectly capable of knowing someone couldn’t possibly be guilty if they were with me or Father the entire time during which,” a flash of grief washed over his face, “someone was putting poison in Mother’s wine.”

            Lindo draped an arm across Folco’s shoulders. It suddenly struck him just how thin his friend had gotten during their weeks of exile. While surely he’d regained some weight, one weekend was not enough to restore what several weeks of scant victuals had taken. “I hope not,” he said bracingly. “Anyway… I understand why you were mad.”

            “Well, yeah, that’s obvious, but why-“

            Lindo interrupted, “I should not have made that comment about how I have to worry about my family’s safety because of yours either.”

            “Well,” Folco reluctantly said, “I cannot deny it’s true.”

            Lindo patted the lanky hobbit’s arm. “Yes, but I kicked you below the belt there. I should not have been carrying on about how you have nothing to worry about because nobody in your family’s in danger either. Especially since you’d already told me what happened with-“

            “It’s done,” snapped Folco. “It’s over. It doesn’t matter. What matters is us getting out of this place, because I’m not interested in being a prisoner of hobbits I’m related to.” Lindo snorted slightly; he’d never heard Folco refer to his family in a detached manner like that. He had a good excuse to, though, given the tribulation that was past month.

Questions were swirling around his head now, questions Lindo hoped his friend might be able to answer. “Do you suppose they’ll at least give us utensils? Or feed us, for that matter? They must, right? Where do you suppose they’ve brought us? I should’ve liked to see where we were going.” He shivered slightly. “It’s right cold in here, do you reckon they’ll at least give us blankets if not actual beds?”

            An aggrieved look came to Folco’s eyes, making Lindo regret his questions. He had not meant to cause further anguish. His parents were right when they said he needed to think before he spoke. How could he expect Folco to know any of this? Folco hadn’t even known his father was capable of ordering an attack on innocent hobbits for merely demanding he adhere to usual procedure when it came to accused criminals. Nobody had known the king would have it in him to do that.

            When the young prince finally spoke, he said hopefully, “I’m sure we’ll get food and blankets and all, surely this is just a holding cell, surely they can’t expect us to actually stay here, right?” He did not sound at all confident in his words. “How bad could it be?”

            Lindo was about to express the hopes that Folco was right when he heard the cell door begin to open. He froze mid-sentence. Waves of shock and panic crashed over him. The teenagers stared at the elf who’d just entered, stricken dumb with horror. The name had been mentioned when they were first taken prisoner, that was true, but at the time Lindo had ultimately dismissed it, remembering that personal dislike of someone did not necessarily mean that someone was evil so much as disagreeable.

Folco squeaked softly, “I do believe we have our answer.” Much louder, glaring at the visitor and crossing his arms, he forcefully shouted “YOU!”

The visitor stared coldly back, the corners of his mouth curling into a sneer. “Me, Your Highness.” He chuckled cruelly, reveling in the fright written all over the faces of the helpless hobbit.

Lindo's jaw dropped. Jarmir Esteel? That advisor that's always telling us off for being too rambunctious and acting "improperly?" What the plague is HE here for anyway? Why is it him and not the king?"

 

Author's Note

Please give me any constructive criticism you can think of as well as comments on strengths you notice. I hope to be a published author one day, so I want this book and all of my books to become awesome and as close to perfect as is humanly possible.

Reviews

[NoelHC]

Carrying along with the tale, still keeping my interest.

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

Yay! Makes me happy to hear it! Thanks for dropping by!

[jjwilbourne]

awesome read. Your dialog always impresses me because your characters feels so real. I'm pretty sure these are real people.
One thing. I think you should say who it is that enters the cell. I know it's supposed to be dramatic, but it feels a little cheap that I have to "turn the page" to see who's on the other side. I don't think telling us who it is (provided Lindo knows who it is) would deflate the tension at all. In fact, It might raise it.
Great chapter. Clean prose as usual.
Mark-ups here: https://diigo.com/05njyg
stoked to read on. RR me the next part!

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

Yeah, I suppose I could. Perhaps something like this-

Jarmir Esteel? That advisor who was always telling us off for being too rambunctious and acting "improperly?" What the plague is he here for? Why is it him and not the king?"

[jjwilbourne]

Yeah. something like that will work. You're bring more questions into play and thereby raising the tension higher than just not knowing who it is.

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

That bit is sorted 😃 Markups to be addressed next time I am on "desktop " with proper Internet

[Craig2591]

Conversation between two characters is always a good way to give the reader information without boring them. I like the addition of the politics while talking over their hopeful rescue. I was actually thinking the same thing - would Kiran and company risk war over their rescue? Perhaps a commando raid, though.

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

Yeah, good question. The Duke likely would not want war if he could help it, and then if there was it might upset his older brother and sister-in-law more than a little! Politics are definitely fun, and would definitely be a massive part of Folco's life and identity at this point.

We shall see what comes, and if one or both are rescued or escape [=

[A. H. Pinley]

“Fear not, royalty, traitor or not, has its privileges. Worry not, you'll not miss a thing. Now, to make sure you don’t try escaping…”
Now I know you briefly describe one of the captures, but did I miss you gradually describing Falco's features? The imigrey is good, but can you describe the cell more? Is there a window leading out to freedom, where the sounds of subjects of the crown rise trying his soul? Is it a cobble stone floor? Chain or rope? Like I said, maybe I missed it during my reading... Stick with it Cher!

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

Thanks! I definitely need to work on passive description; that seems to be the comment I get most. I just worry about contradicting earlier chapters and I think I described it in the previous chapter, but hey, revision catches that sort of stuff. (= Definitely gonna take this review into account!

[A. H. Pinley]

I like the place your story is set in...

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

Thank you! (=

[FlatLineBeauty]

I was not expecting that at all! Amazing write, Cher! xo Winter

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

Thank you! (= Glad the attempt at surprise worked!

[genocide]

very amazing very good keep writing

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

Thanks for the review!

[A.M. Victoria (LostWrit..]

Your writing is really amazing! I can definitely see these becoming published books or even movies. I'm curious about one thing. When you say that you aspire to become a published author on your profile, do you speak of this series?

[SpeedyHobbit Armstrong]

As one of them, definitely. I have other ideas about this world in my head too. Just need to devise a new name for this race, both because they aren't quite the sort of hobbit Tolkien invented, lack of hairy feet for one, though the poorer do lack shoes, and because the term is copyrighted if i remember right.

[A.M. Victoria (LostWritings)]

That makes sense. Well, good luck finding a new term!