2 Chapter 1 - All I have to do is die (1)

Roran sat with his back to the stone wall, his fingers drawing random patterns in the dirt. His stomach ached and he felt ill. The air was heavy with the smell of his townspeople. He wanted to go to the bathroom but the singular stall was constantly in use by those who had fallen ill. He wanted fresh air but they weren't allowed to leave their dungeon. The wardens said it wasn't safe for them to wander around. Roran didn't believe them, nobody did.

Soon, the wardens would bring them their rations. Charity, they called it. Helping refugees survive after being displaced by war. It didn't feel like charity, it felt cruel and cold. The stone faced figures that brought them their meals and messages barely seemed human.

A loud bang startled Roran, signaling the arrival of the food cart. Roran's cellmates stirred themselves, heading towards the row of bars that served as a wall. The food cart would take some time to arrive. It had to stop at all the other dungeons along the way. All the other cells holding refugees who had found themselves without a home, without freedom, and without mercy.

Roran settled back against the wall. Being young, he opted to stay on the floor, leaving the handful of cots and benches for the elderly and the infirmed. Most people huddled together, either on the furniture or under the braziers where they could soak up a little of the warmth. Everyone had someone close to them. Everyone except Roran.

Around him was a bubble of space, an invisible barrier isolating him from the others. That space had been there for as long as Roran could remember. Nobody in the town wanted to acknowledge that Roran existed, but they couldn't just ignore him either. So he existed on the fringes.

The rhythmic squeak of unoiled wheels signaled that the food cart was getting closer.

"Foods coming," said Murrin, an older man with gray streaked hair. He was gaunt and lean, the tattered remains of a uniform wrapped about his body. Pressing his face against the bars, he peered down the hallway.

"About damn time," said Yora, an elderly woman with a sharp tongue. "These wardens are lazier than a dead cat."

"Mind yourself, Yora. We can't afford to upset them," said Kamil, a middle aged woman with hollow eyes. She shuffled towards the bars, standing next to Murrin.

From outside the bars, Roran could hear the sounds of a steel door being opened and the grunt of a warden throwing food into one of the other dungeons. Another collection of souls misplaced by the never ending wars. Roran's stomach growled in anticipation.

"Back from the bars," said Murrin, trying to sound official. "They won't feed us if we crowd them."

"Oh shut it you brownnoser." Yora swiped at Murrin's shins with her cane. "Nobody, put you in charge."

Murrin yelped and swore. Rubbing his bruised shin, he glared at the old woman. "I am the last remaining councilman. I have more authority than anyone else here. Now do as I say and be quiet, they're coming."

The cart, escorted by two wardens and a clerk, squeaked its way in front of the dungeon. One of the wardens, a hulking man with leather armor and a sword on his hip, produced a key and opened the large iron door.

Consulting a clipboard, the clerk said, "Refugees from Millgrove, four rations." He gestured to one of the wardens and they began pulling large sacks from the cart, haphazardly tossing them through the door.

"Four rations!" cried Yora, "You're starving us."

The clerk shrugged. "That is all we can afford to spare for refugees like yourself."

"What Yora means to say," began Murrin, "is that we have forty people here."

"Forty seven," corrected Kamil, eyeing the bags and wringing her hands together.

"Quite right." Murrin stood a little taller. "Four bags simply isn't enough, our people are already starving and ill, we will die."

The clerk shrugged again, his face a placid mask. "Nothing I can do about it. If that isn't enough then you're welcome to leave or earn favors."

"We can't leave, you heartless bastard," said Yora. "We wouldn't survive the journey out of here."

"Then earn favors," said the clerk.

"We lost all of our soldiers in the war," said Kamil, her thumb massaging a golden ring on her finger. "Nobody here would survive."

"Favors are earned upon participation, even if your representative falls, you will keep the favors they earn."

"You just want a blood sacrifice," said Yora.

"Call it what you will. Roll call occurs in an hour. If you wish to put forth a representative, have them ready by then."

The clerk stepped back and a warden closed and locked the door. With a grunt and a squeak, a warden pushed the cart forward, heading towards the next dungeon full of refugees.

As soon as the cart was gone, Murrin turned back to the four sacks that had been left inside.

"Well that was pointless. Kamil, if you and Denali would be so kind as to start passing out the rations."

Kamil and another woman gathered up the sacks and rifled through them. After taking a quick inventory, they began wandering around the dungeon, passing out loaves of moldy bread and bits of jerky. As they worked their way from person to person, they both avoided going near Roran.

Denali stayed on the opposite end of the dungeon while Kamil simply walked past him without making eye contact. Roran didn't hold it against her. Kamil had always seemed like a kind woman, she just wasn't comfortable with Roran or the implications of his existence.

Yora, watching the women avoid Roran, growled and made a beeline for Kamil, cutting her off.

"Oh for the love of your ancestors, give me that!" Yora snagged an extra ration from Kamil's bag and stomped over to Roran, handing him some meat and bread. "Here you go boy. Don't mind the twits."

"Thanks," said Roran.

Yora sat down near him and began to tear apart her own grimy rations. With her stocky body and thin limbs, the old woman reminded Roran of a frog. The way she watched people with her beady eyes and lashed out at them with her tongue only served to reinforce the image.

"It's not right the way they treat us," she said. "We lost our homes, our families, and our freedom. Now they're trying to take away our dignity. It's not right!"

Roran nodded as he chewed on a gristly bit of jerky. The salt hurt his tongue and gums.

"And telling us to earn favors, as if that's not a death sentence. These bastards and their little games. We're nothing more than prisoners to them, fodder for their amusement and they tell us to be grateful. It's a dark world they've created."

Roran nodded again, remembering what he'd heard of the games. They were violent and dangerous and people died. But participating earned favors, tokens that could be exchanged for food, water, and even better lodgings. Participation got you a handful of favors, victory got you a small pile of them.

"If our men were still around, the real men not simpering cowards like Murrin or children like you, then maybe they could have fought in the games, but they're all dead and gone. Buried on a nameless battlefield because someone decided our land was more valuable than our lives."

Roran didn't like thinking about the war. He'd been too young to be conscripted when it started, so he'd watched from the sidelines. He'd watched the farmhands and laborers and tradesmen put on armor, pick up a flag, and march off to their deaths. Only the merchants and politicians remained and they were too cowardly to pick up a sword anymore.

"It would be a death sentence," said Yora.

Roran nodded a third and final time. He hadn't been able to do anything then but could do something now.

"I can do that," said Roran, "I can die."