The Cell

- Work in progress -
Beware! This story has never been betaread by anyone, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone, and I guess there are many! If you discover any, *please* email me so that I can correct them!

Hours can go so slow. Days can go so slow. Months can go so slow.

And at some point of time, you totally loose control over time. You just don't care if it is night or day, noon or evening, sun or moonlight that comes through your window. The only hint you have about time is the temperature. If the cell gets really, really cold, it has to be winter. In case that the air is hot, sticky and you have the feeling that you could slice it if you had a sword, it has to be summer.

I have gone through all of this, I have learned that.

I have seen some winters and summers passing since I have been locked in this cell. I do not even remember the reason why they locked me here. Maybe this is because I have spoken to a dwarf. Or maybe because I looked at him in a friendly way.

Dwarves are of the lower races, they say. They are treated like animals, or worse. Nobody speaks friendly to a dwarf, or he must be against the system. That’s the law, set by the so called High King Elessar himself. And even if I am human, I do not feel as a part of the superior race. Well, actually they told me that I am not.

When I was sent to court, it was made clear that my grandmother must have had some elvish blood hidden somewhere. Which made me part of the lower races as well.

So they locked me in this cell, and if I was not brought food each day, new clothes, which were actually old clothes, occasionally, I would think that they have completely forgotten me. But from time to time, someone even brings a bucket of water so that I can wash. But the way it bores me to be here is almost killing.

If they would at least do something. Talk to me. Torture me. Kill me. But they just ignore me. And I think that’s worse. I wonder what they want from me. If I am not of the superior race, they should just kill me. But they keep me locked in the cell. Sometimes I think they would like me to be bored to death.

And then came the night all changed. I suspect it was night as the door went open. Fine, a welcome change, the door barely opens; especially not at night.

The wardens threw a new prisoner in; and I was almost in shock. Another prisoner. I had not seen one, well, since I had been brought to this prison.

He was tall.
He was beautiful.
He was an Elf.
And he was angry as he possibly could be.

The moment he hit the floor was the moment the door was locked behind him, and also the time that he was back on his feet. How I adored his fast movements. He was so full of life.

I kept hiding in my corner, just watching him. An almost endless flood of elvish curses poured from his mouth, guided by constant kicking and slamming to the door for hours, as it seemed.

I took the time to study him. His clothes were clean and obviously elvish clothes. Ah, he was new in town; if he had been a slave his clothing would have looked different. The limbs were long and muscular, as I could see as the brown leather trousers he wore were quiet tight. The green woolen tunic he wore indicated that he was an Elf from the woods; the fitting was missing a little as they had obviously taken his belt from him; taken his possibility to escape from this mad world.

When he was finished with his cursing, he leant his back to the door, with an expression that I could just describe as... hate. He clearly hated to be here, to be locked up in a cell. Poor creature, if he was a Wood Elf he was certainly used to freedom, jumping from tree to tree.

And finally, his eyes found me sitting in the corner. I was not quite sure what he would do, but I was sure that I would be thankful if he would break my neck, giving me the possibility not to die because of being bored.

Unfortunately, he didn’t. Instead, he stood just there and kept on staring at me. I tried to talk to him.

"What is your name?"

Great try, I got no answer.

"My name is Faramir," I tried to add.

Once again, no reaction.

"Do you understand me?"

The staring kept on. No reply.

Great, I thought. What a nice change. Now I can not only bore myself to death, but am also stared at while doing this. I was also quite surprised to hear my own voice. I could not remember when I spoke the last time to someone, anyone; not even to myself.

His delicate, beautiful slender fingers picked up a stone and started to throw it to the wall, caught it again, and threw again. I looked to the opposite wall, where a small hole indicated the place that I had been playing this game to for some years now.

I decided to sleep for some hours; if he did not want to remark me, I was sure that I could ignore him myself....

I awoke by the sound of the food that was pushed through the little hole in the door. Now I had a problem.

The Elf was standing right between me and my breakfast. If I wanted my food, I had to pass him by. And he was still standing and staring. I wonder if he had moved a single inch while I slept.

I decided to take a second chance on being killed and got up. A delicate, rising eyebrow was the only reaction I got from him when I picked up the food and went back to my corner. Great, I made him react.

Would I get another reaction?

I stretched out my hand and offered some bread to him. For a short moment, it seemed as if he frowned, hesitated; then he stopped looking at me. Instead, he now faced the back wall of the cell... and kept staring. Wonderful, now I had breakfast for two just for myself.

These Elves were so damn unhealthy proud. Or is it healthy for a minor race to keep up arrogance?

The morning passed, noon passed, the evening came. He was staring at the wall, I was staring at him.

I started to count the seconds that passed between his eyes blinking. I came to the result that this Elf had extraordinary regularity in blinking every six seconds. Breathing took exactly fifteen seconds. Eating took none; drinking took none. He did not touch the food. Just kept standing there, staring at the wall.

The night came, I fell asleep. Somewhen by morning I heard a strange sound that must have woken me up. I looked at the place where the Elf used to stand, no Elf any more. For a moment I wondered if the tales about elven magic were true; then my eyes discovered that he had fallen to the floor, in the unnatural pose as if he was still standing upright.

No wonder, I thought. He had been standing for almost twenty-four hours; and only he knew how long he had been on his feet before that. Besides, he had not even drunken any water during his standing. The silent protest of a stubborn Elf that cannot accept the system.

I crawled over to him and stared at his face. Never had I seen such beauty. Must be because the only Elves I saw until then were slaves. They looked... different with their empty faces and eyes. This one here was obviously deadly tired when he fainted, but his face still showed arrogance and pride even if he was unconscious.

He should not lie in the dirt of the floor, I decided. So I picked him up, wondering how light he was, and laid him upon my bed. I pulled the blanket up to his chin, trying to keep him warm, and drenched his lips with some drops of water. They were already cracking; a clear sign that he did not drink enough. I decided to go a little further and opened his mouth, slowly pouring water in, and in his unconsciousness, the needs of his body won over the strong will of his elven soul; he swallowed. Nevertheless, I decided not to feed him. I was afraid that he would wake up.

I sat by the bedside and studied him. The fine long lashes, the almost poreless skin. The silky golden hair around his head; the sides braided back. I had the strange idea of singing for him; but the only songs I knew were the usual drinking songs – and the lyrics that my mother once sang for me, when I was still a child. I decided for the last, and sang for him, as quietly as I could, for I knew that especially singing would upset the wardens.

And so I spent the evening and half of the night singing and humming next to an unconscious Elf that, if he had been awake, would have probably thrown up if he had heard my singing. Elves are known to be gorgeous singers and love good songs, but I think my singing was rather poor, getting worse with every line, for I had not used my voice so long.

And when I repeated the poor little three songs I knew for about the thousands time, he opened an eye. I stopped my singing. "So you are awake, Master Elf," I said, "You should eat and drink something, for otherwise, you will faint again."

I held the cup to his lips, and his eyes did not loose their stare at my face when he drank. He still refused the bread. I never thought about the possibility that I could also try to starve to death. And so I also refused to eat as well, just sat by his side, and looked at him. A strange sound came from his mouth, he obviously spoke elvish to me. I had no idea what he told me, but his voice was wonderful, it sounded just like a bird on a summer evening. I bet that no matter how much I would train my voice to sing, I would never ever be able to speak with such grace as this Elf did.

I shook my head. "Sorry, Elf, I do not know what you tell me; I do not understand your language."

Trying to follow the easiest rules of conversation, I tapped to my chest. "Faramir," I said, then tapping on his chest, and shrugged my shoulders, giving an questioning look to him.

He stared at the ceiling. Well done, I thought to myself; I had just slammed down the first contact by insisting on making him tell me his name. Maybe the Elves had no names? Oh yes, they had, I just knew that. Maybe it was not a usual practice to ask for the name? Damn, why did I know so little about Elves?

I had to try to get any kind of reaction from him, and if it didn’t matter to me before how this reaction would look – now it wouldn’t matter at all.

I started to sing again. And, after some hours, I was rewarded. He hummed my songs with me. And so we spent the rest of the night humming and singing .together. Not a bad reaction after all.

When the next breakfast came, he still refused to eat; and I did the same. And then his incredibly beautiful hand reached some of the bread to me. I must have stared at him as if I had seen a ghost. So I took the bread, broke it, and handed half of it back to him, and we ate in silence. Could it be possible? Could I find a friend in this Elf?

By noon, the wardens came back; and as quickly as they had brought him, they tore the Elf from my cell by his hair. The door closed. He was gone.

I must have stared at the door for hours. No sound, no Elf returned. They also obviously forgot to bring me food for that day. The only thing I could think of was his voice, when he hummed the songs that I knew from childhood. And this wonderful hand, offering bread to me. I did not think any more that I would bore to death any more. His humming voice in my mind would keep me alive; the slender fingers with the carefully cut nails would massage my mind for the rest of my existence.

That night I could not sleep. Also not the day after, when I was remembered; the food was brought as usual. By evening, I fell asleep; dreaming of a humming voice that guided me through the night in my mind.

Some hours later I woke up, hearing someone coming towards the cell. It were not the footsteps I heard, it was this not recognizable strange sound that became louder and louder.

Like old metal doors, squeaking when opened after years without oil.

Like seagulls in the wind.

A bit of someone scratching with chalk over a board.

It took me quite some time to realize that these were screams, screams of a human being, a living creature. I had never imagined that anyone would be able to scream like this; and my eyes opened wide like saucers, staring into the darkness of the cell, looking at the door.

The light that came through the door when it was opened blinded me for a moment; it was the same time that the screams, the crying, the agony filled my small stone cell.

A bundle was thrown at my feet, and the door closed.

In the pale light that came through the back window I stared at the screaming pile of dirty cloth that moved along the floor, winding in pain. I got on my knees, and when I uncovered the blanket the person was wrapped in I could barely breathe any more, looking at the mass of bruises, blood, cuts and the broken nose that once were the face of the beautiful Elf that left this cell two days ago in a rather... different condition.

Even if the eyes looked at me, he was still not quite there, still screaming and crying.

I remarked a strange kind of white crystals along the cuts and closed my eyes, filled with tears, gritting my teeth as I knew that they had not only beaten him, tortured him, obviously cut him almost to death, but also obviously were successful in trying to torture him more by salting his wounds.

But the worst was yet to come.

When I tried desperately to soothe him, to calm him, even if I had no idea how I possibly could ease his pain in the dark, cold and damp space of the small cell, I was about to grab one of his hands, the wonderful, fine hands that I had admired just a few days ago. And when I tried, he screamed out more, trying to creep away from me, and the bare shock I got and which gave me the feeling of having to throw up any minute when looking at his hands was almost unbearable.

They had torn his fingernails out; the slender tips of his delicate fingers were raw flesh, surrounded by white crystals, dirt and blood.

My own nails left remaining, bleeding marks on the inside of my hand when I clenched my hands to fists. In complete despair about not being able to help him, I started to beat the floor, barely remarking that my own hand started to bleed from this torture as well.

How could anyone be like that, do this to another being, especially to such a beautiful creature as this Elf had been just two days ago?

He kept on crying; the door opened and someone pushed in a bucket with water, a pile of clean cloth, some candles and a bottle which I suspired to be alcohol inside. I stared at the things. This is not true, I thought, First they torture him until he is broken and almost dead, and now they expect me to, well, patch him so that they can continue? This cannot be true. They cannot expect me to do this.

And yet, I think they knew that I would do it; that I would not be able to stand the slow decent of this beautiful creature.

I sat down by his side, drenched some cloth with water and carefully tried to clean the bruises in his face; he jerked back and stared at me with these intensive brown and green eyes, like a wounded deer, with deadly fear.

"I am just trying to help you," I said, still not knowing if he would understand my words. "We will have to ge this salt and the dirt off you; and we will have to disinfect your wounds."

He shook his head. The screaming had stopped, he just sat there, silent tears rolled down his cheeks; he stared at his hands - and shook his head.

I tried once more. "But I have to clean you; if these wounds become septic you will be dead soon."

For the first time since I had first seen him, he smiled. It was a desperate, yet grinning smile, and he nodded his head in a way that I thought he had gone insane.

So he wanted to die, this was not the worst alternative for him, I thought. And suddenly, I realized that he must have understood what I said; otherwise this 'answer' would not have been possible.

"So you understand my words? I am sorry, but I did not think you would."

The smile was gone, he just stared at the floor; the silent tears had come back.

"Listen," I tried once more to catch his attention, "Maybe you succeed. But what if you don't die from your wounds, but instead end up without fingers because they have just, well, fallen off?

He slowly raised his head, the sad eyes looked at me.

"Or maybe your nose. Would you like your life as a slave without a nose? I have once seen one, it is not fun; but well, that depends if you are on the slave or the masters side."

I raised my hand with the cloth back to his face without touching him and looked into his eyes. Oh, how beautiful he was, even in this rather bad condition.

"Better be a slave in good health; maybe then you can manage to escape one day," I whispered, fearing that they had posted someone outside who could hear me.

Finally, he looked at me, nodding quietly, and allowed me to clean his face.

Even if I desperately tried not to touch his tortured skin too much, I had to, in some places where blood and dirt hat molten to almost rock hard layers on his skin.

And I was surprised how each time I had to rub his skin, he obviously felt pain. Oh yes, he felt pain. Weren't we taught that Elves feel no pain? And I remembered the way he was when he was thrown back to the cell, screaming and weeping in agony, and I immediately knew that this information we had been given about the Elves was definitely completely wrong. They felt pain. And I started to wonder what else could be wrong of the information they had given to us.

It came to my mind that they obviously knew that this information was wrong as well, because what sense could it make to torture someone like that when assuming that he would not feel the pain?

Last were the hands, a dripping mass of blood, dirt and salt, and I saw the panic in his eyes when he knew what was to come, that we would have to wash these hands as well, and after that drench them with alcohol, which would be a torture for him.

"Come, my friend, I know this will hurt, but afterwards, it will be alright... we do not want to loose these hands, do we?" And I dared to stroke over the not injured back of his hand. The panicking eyes were closed, the silent tears were back, and he nodded, an extremely tensed expression on his face, tipping his head to his chest.

I took the left hand and slowly lowered it down into the bucket, just waving it from left to right, as I did not dare to touch the raw flesh of his upper fingertips.