He looked around in the cell, lit up brighter than he would have expected. All the old stains in the stones plainly there to be seen. His hands were bound in shackles but he had freedom to roam. The cell was incredibly sparse and without anything that could be considered furnishing. He had read the copy of the Constitution of Dementlieu that Senna Merula had given him more times than he ever thought he would in his life.
"Do you think they will hold to it? It will be a theatre, the script already in everyone's hands."She had read Article Four aloud to him. High crimes.
"It never matters what you actually do. Only what you appear to be doing - and who tells that story."He was sat on the cold floor as comfortably as he could, staring towards the other side of the cell. How often did people wonder what path had brought them to the lowest levels of the Gendarmerie? He had lived a life of more privilege than most. There was never a day he had gone hungry, when he outgrew his shoes there had always been another pair. His schooling, while not at the university, had been seen to. His father had ensured he would not grow up an imbecile. He had worn the House's colour with some measure of pride. In unquestioning service and loyalty.
"And this is your reward. For always holding your silence and knowing your place."He took in a shaking breath, his fists clenching as he began to slowly rock back and forth on the stone floor. It was all gone. He was disgusted. Repulsed. In their eyes he likely had more in common with some monstrosity. He was thankful for there not being any mirrors around. He had always thought he had taken more after his mother in appearance but he could not face that now. What had they done to her? If it was done to another, where is she?
"A peasant woman, someone who would be easily forgotten. No one to look for her, no one to remember her. Where do you think she might be?"A shiver went through him and he felt nauseated. There was a time when he had tried to imagine what her laugh sounded like, what her smile looked like. What kind of stories she would have told him. It had almost been a game to play when he was to remain quiet and stay out of the way, when all he had left to do was to observe the people around him, trying to compare them to her in some way. In time, he had come to accept that he could not remember. That he did not know and likely never would. But he always liked to think that she was somewhere. Perhaps even paid off in enough solars for the trouble and her silence. Living a happy, comfortable life.
"All the dreams of a boy, who has not yet seen the world for what it is. Do not be afraid of the truth. Look past the light. That is where the truth can be found. You know this."Why had he not vanished with her? Why had he remained behind, as a form of proof?
"Proof. A stain. No matter your actions. Like an old rag, that has been worn out and is no more fit for purpose because it smells and the grime cannot be hidden no matter how many times the rag is folded. Because it was dirty from the beginning."He suddenly yanked the shackles apart at his wrists. They were sturdy, the action only serving to rattle them loudly and cause him a sharp pain that lasted for but a moment. His whole body shook and he took a couple of deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself. There were but theories. In the larger scale of things such amounted to little. But what
if?"What if? What if it is true? But you need to remember what she said. It is a secondary matter considering your current predicament. Patience and calm will serve better than anything else. There will be a time for words. And after words.... after the words have been said... ..." He continued to stare at the other end of the cell. He had many hours by himself to find peace in the nothingness.
