The Cell

The cell, pitch dark, wet and cold, did not leave enough room to stand fully, nor to lie. Argen was forced to sit uncomfortably; his head between his knees. He had been stripped bare and beaten. His welts burned angrily; mottled black and blue must be covering him by now. Voices drifted through the rough iron door, muted and muddled. How long had he been here? When had he been fed last? There was a shuffling beyond the door. The unlocking was defeaning. When a red head of curls poked through blinding light, Argen croaked in wonder, “Who are you?”