Prisoner of Fear, Part 2
Prisoner of Fear, Part 2
When he arrived at the throne room, he discovered to his dismay that
all the other guards had finished reporting several minutes ago. Nordulon,
angry that Craothor was late, demanded to know what he had been doing. Unsure
how to answer, Craothor stammered, “I-I was just h-h-helping one of the
p-p-prisoners, O Mighty One.”
“Helping one of the prisoners?” Nordulon roared. “I thought your
job was to keep them in line and report back to me, not help them!”
His mind swimming with fear and anxiety, Craothor desperately
tried to think of a way to answer Nordulon. Finally, he managed to say, “I was
helping one of the prisoners know how terrible you are, sir. One of them was
being quite disrespectful.”
Not fully convinced, Nordulon fixed his gaze on Craothor, and his
red eyes seem to burn through Craothor as he said, “Next time, put your
allegiance to your King before helping filthy prisoners. If this happens again,
you will be sorry!”
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.” With that, Craothor ran
off, his heart pounding as he anxiously raced to clean the kitchen, which was
his next assignment.
Craothor’s hands were still trembling as he wiped the counters and
swept the floor, and he couldn’t rid his mind of anxious thoughts of Nordulon.
Then, all of a sudden, Craothor had a sudden horrible realization. He suddenly
realized that he had no idea which cell had belonged to Azarion and contained
the secret trap door! “There is no way I could find the right cell without
being discovered by Nordulon!” Craothor realized with despair. His eyes
darkened as he let out a sigh of frustration. “I knew I could never escape.”
That night, as Craothor lay in bed and tried to fall asleep, his
fears and doubts continued to grow. “What am I going to do?” he wondered. “How
can I tell Arelle? And what if Nordulon finds out?” As he tossed and turned,
his fears slowly gnawed away at his courage. “There’s no way I could escape,”
he told himself. “There never was any way.” He paused, a familiar despair
beginning to fill him. In the dark of night, Craothor said to himself, “The
only thing I can do now is tell everything to Nordulon.”
The next morning, as Craothor awoke, he was full of anxiety as he
thought about the day’s events. As he headed toward the South Hall to begin his
first chore, he began to question his decision. “How can I betray Arelle?” he asked
himself. But then, an image of Nordulon’s scowling face crept into his mind.
“There’s nothing else I can do,” he decided. When he had finished scrubbing the
floor, Craothor crept toward the kitchen and quickly salvaged a few pieces of
food, hoping that Arelle would still think they were planning to escape. At the
change of the watch, he started toward the dungeon, handed Arelle the food, and
then told her to wait for him while he got one more thing. Then, as Arelle
waited, he cautiously entered the throne room. “Nordulon will be so pleased
with me,” Craothor thought to himself.
The moment Nordulon saw Craothor, his ugly face contorted into a
scowl. “Well, if it isn’t Craothor, the prisoner’s best friend!” he mocked.
“What are you doing here?”
“I have an important message for you,” Craothor said somberly.
“Well, what is it?”
“The Mermaelin princess, your newest prisoner, has tried to
escape.”
“WHAT?” Nordulon roared. “How did this happen?”
“She was seen stealing food from the kitchen, and then tried to
drug one of the guards and break open her cell door,” Craothor lied. “Thankfully,
I caught her before she got far.”
“That wretch will pay for this!” Nordulon fumed. “Bring her to me,
guards!” Two burly guards soon appeared, carrying Arelle and the stolen food.
Craothor saw a look of confusion in Arelle’s blue eyes at she stared up at him,
unsure of what would happen next. “No one tries to escape from my dungeons!”
Nordulon yelled. “Guards, bring out the fire-whip!” Craothor watched in
heartbroken astonishment as the guards covered Arelle’s back in fiery scars. As
they tortured her, Arelle’s burning eyes remained fixed on Craothor. When the
guards were finally finished, Nordulon came up to Arelle and whispered
something in her ear. Instantly, her confidence faded, and Arelle broke into
tears. “Take her to the death ward!” Nordulon commanded. “Tomorrow, she and her
people’s last hope will be destroyed!”
Craothor was furious with himself for betraying Arelle and causing
her so much pain. “How could I have let my fear get the better of me?” he asked
himself. That night, still tormented with grief, he decided to visit Arelle.
“I’m sure she will be angry with me,” Craothor thought to himself, “but I still
have to try.” As the guard changed, Craothor crept toward the end of the death
ward’s pitch-black hall and whispered, “Arelle?” The only answer was darkness.
“I am so sorry, Arelle. I never wanted to hurt you. I was just so afraid that
Nordulon would discover us, and I knew we could never escape.” Still, there was
no answer. Finally, Craothor heard a quiet voice break through the overwhelming
darkness. However, instead of the bitter resentment he expected, Arelle's voice was quieter than he had ever heard it. "I failed," she whispered. "I left him." Her voice broke. "It's over." Stunned by her despair and the crushing weight of his own failure, Craothor sat alone in the darkness, abandoned to the misery of his own thoughts. Why had he visited Arelle? What had he expected? Why had he looked to her, the one he had betrayed, for a glimmer of hope? There was no remedy for the pain he felt, and the light in her bright blue eyes would soon be gone forever.
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