Our Saviour
WARNING TW
Five days have elapsed since they hauled me into this spartan room, its only furnishing a desolate bed. Two weeks have passed since they wrenched me from my cell. During this period, I've withstood torturous hours, both mental and physical. Shifting slightly, the restraints bite into my skin. Grime and fluids that have congealed on my skin peel off onto the mattress, their sting a vivid reminder of my situation.
Countless men have taken their turns, subjecting me to beatings and using me at their discretion. Tugging on the chains binding my ankles, I silently wish for them to disintegrate in my hands.
"I hope Fleya is okay," I sigh, her image prompting an ache in my heart.
Pain sears through me as I move to lie on my side, facing away from the door. Dried blood and bodily fluids on my legs have begun to itch, an unsavory reminder of my ordeal. I long for a bath to wash away the evidence of their assaults, but such a luxury is far from my reach. Instead, I will be sent back to work, a canvas showcasing their abuse.
A loud bang reverberating from beyond the confines of my room makes me start. In my memory of the outside world, it sounds like a gunshot. I dismiss the thought with a shake of my head, burrowing back onto the bed.
'There's no way.' Firearms are forbidden within the prison, lest one of us seizes it for revenge against our oppressors.
Suddenly, my solitude is punctuated by a cacophony of bangs, clashes, and clangs echoing in the halls. Shouts and the shuffle of hurried feet pique my curiosity. What could possibly be happening beyond my door to cause such a tumult?
Without warning, the door bursts open, admitting a flood of figures swathed in black. Fear widens my eyes, and I instinctively shrink into the corner of the bed, a feeble attempt at self-preservation. To my surprise, they halt their advance, their gaze trained on my bare, trembling form.
"It's clear in here, you guys go," One figure orders, his voice ringing out decisively.
The command is met with immediate compliance. As they exit, my attention remains fixated on the one who spoke. With his hands raised, a rifle clutched in one, he crouches to rest the weapon by his feet. Next, he unbuckles a belt laden with knives, placing it beside the firearm. Rising slowly, he begins advancing towards me.
The shadowy figure's slow approach does nothing to calm my nerves. Every instinct in my battered body is screaming at me to fight, to resist. But I am spent, too weak to even stand. My head is dizzy, and my vision is blurred from days of physical torment and lack of nourishment.
As he lessens the gap between us in the dim, shadow-riddled room, his hand ascends with a calculated slowness to draw away the enigma that is his mask. The cover drops away, revealing a visage that shatters the darkness, a face of such stunning handsomeness it seems to belong more to the realm of fantasy than reality.
Despite the scarce light, his features stand strikingly apparent. His age, somewhere in the realm of the mid-twenties, is etched in the subtle creases on his face that marry the soft glow of youth with the tempered strength of experience. His skin, a rich chestnut hue, absorbs the scant light, each contour and edge accentuating a rugged handsomeness. High, strong cheekbones sculpt a formidable structure for a pair of eyes so profound they might be kindness personified.
Those eyes, an intense grey akin to a storm cloud, hold a mesmerizing depth that captures the faintest hint of light, reflecting it back like the promise of dawn after a storm. Beneath their tranquil surface resides a fierce, unwavering determination, a resilience that glows like a beacon in the murky room. Each glance from him feels like a steadfast vow, the oath of a guardian, the commitment of a champion. It's an intensity I had begun to believe had vanished from this world, yet here it stands, resurrected in his gaze amidst the shadowy ambiance.
"Don't be scared," He murmurs, his voice low and calming. "We're here to help you."
It is then that I notice the emblem on his uniform, a single white rose in a field of thorns. The Resistance. I have heard rumors about them. They're rebels, trying to take down the brutal regime controlling the prison. I had never dared to believe that they might actually exist. And yet, here they are, right before my eyes.
A whimper slips from me as the man nears, and I flinch instinctively. He gently cradles my face with a large hand, his thumb tenderly brushing against my cheek. I keep my eyes shut, bracing for the violation I believe is imminent. I never question why he is present; my fear consumes all rational thought. Time elongates as I await the inevitable, yet when I realize he merely continues to stroke my face, I cautiously open one eye.
His captivating eyes meet my gaze, at some point while my eyes were closed, he had removed his hood. As I stare into his them, a mysterious sense of reassurance suggests that he doesn't intend to hurt me.
He releases my face and slowly removes his hooded cloak, carefully draping it over me. The garment envelops my frame, and I watch him with guarded curiosity as he retrieves a tool from his belt. Returning to the bed, he kneels by my feet, his gaze seeking permission to proceed. With a slight nod, I acquiesce.
After two resonating snaps, the chains that once bound me lie severed, though the cuffs remain on my ankles. The man lifts me into his arms without a word, my hands instinctively clutching the front of his long-sleeved turtleneck. He secures the cloak around my body and draws the hood over my head before exiting the room.
Upon stepping outside, chaos reigns. Dead bodies litter the floor, with the majority belonging to the prison guards, much to my surprise. Two individuals, clad in black like the man who carries me, emerge seemingly from nowhere. Flanking him, they cut down anyone who dares to cross their path.
My grip on his shirt tightens as we reach the cave entrance. The outside world, with its grass underfoot, has been but a distant memory for far too long. Closing my eyes, I draw in a deep, steadying breath. For the first time in what feels like eternity, the air no longer reeks of sweat, urine, and decay, but instead offers a freshness that soothes my senses.
"Would you like me to take her for you, my Lord?" The voice of one of the men who had been fighting alongside us reaches my ears as he extends a hand towards me.
My grip reflexively tightens, and I burrow deeper into the other man's embrace. As I tremble in his arms, he gently strokes my back, attempting to calm my trembling form.
"I have her," He replies to the smaller man, his voice firm. "Go catch up with the others."
"Yes sir," The man responds, bowing before disappearing into the woods.
"You're safe with me," The man assures me, his hold tightening. "I won't let anyone hurt you."
His words should be comforting, yet I know the harsh reality of life; no one is entirely invincible. So I remain silent, and I suspect he doesn't expect anything more from me.
He quickly strides in the same direction as the other man, the cloak around me rustling with his hurried movements. Suddenly, we step through a concealed portal, the rush of magic tingling my skin as it teleports us. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they do, we stand at the edge of a clearing. Hundreds of people are scattered around, and I realize with a jolt, they are all prisoners from the cave. He saved us all.
'I'm free. I'm finally free.'
Tears well up and overflow, streaming down my cheeks. Food is distributed amongst the people, no one is being beaten, whipped, yelled at or harmed. It's a stark contrast to the life we left behind.
"Listen up!" The man holding me calls out, making me jump. He offers a comforting stroke down my arm as an apology. "You have all been wrongly imprisoned. I have rectified that injustice, but it does not end with you."
My eyes remain on him as he addresses the crowd, still cradling me in his arms. Under the night sky, his chiseled jaw, high cheekbones and smooth chestnut skin look strikingly handsome.
"I plan on eradicating all of the Stoneward prisons," He announces. The crowd gasps in unison, myself included.
The Stoneward prisons are the property of the King of Xithairene, who holds dominion over all lands. His rule is marked by callous indifference towards his subjects. To oppose him is to invite death, yet to live under his rule is no less perilous.
"With those that I save, I will build an army, and we will liberate our lands," He continues, his voice echoing with unwavering resolve. "Join me as brothers and sisters in arms, and together we will avenge those unable to fight for themselves."
Cheers and applause erupt from the sea of people, bowing in unison to him, accepting him as their leader without hesitation. He was the man who freed us from our prison; he is our savior.