3. Camille

THREE

My eyes are shut, imagining a realm of dreams where I am free and not huddled against the harsh rocky ground, with bitter chains pressing hard against my battered wrists. In my mind, I seek escape, joining a world far more forgiving and kind to me than the hardhearted world I've been brought into.

I imagine myself running toward freedom, breaching the barriers of the cold and unrelenting prison. I reach out, squeezing between the bars, to find a sense of independence that has always evaded me. My hand stretches desperately, trying to be free even as the world tries to swallow me whole.

I can almost feel it.

The cool drip of water awakens me, and torchlight fills my vision. The sconces present the taunting illusion of movement in this still, restless realm. I try to close my eyes again, feeling the torment of my perpetual imprisonment, but the dripping is ceaseless, and my ears are now full of the clinking bindings around me.

"I can almost feel it," I whisper. The despair in my voice is palpable.

The cavern floor is jagged and unforgiving, and I awaken sleep-deprived as ever. My muscles ache from constant abuse, and my spine is contorted into an unnatural position, but I try to drown out the pain. My wrists are bruised from the callous embrace of iron manacles, but if I leave them limber, I can pretend for a moment they aren't bound.

My eyes dart around the room as I allow the haze of slumber to fade and my sense of inner peace to unravel. The hunched shadows of men, women, and children reappear in my sight.

I try not to see the extinguished lights in their eyes, remembering they are humans trapped in an identical predicament, but so many have given up, and I know that any attempt at escape will be a solitary endeavor.

Snippets of yesterday's conversation enter my mind, then recur melodically over the noises of shaking metal and soft whimpering.

I still see the defiance in some of their eyes, which confounds me all the more. Did they not see an opportunity to stand with me in the wake of their imprisonment? Do they truly long to know any master other than themselves?

I had thought for sure that I would not stand alone in this, but my chances of escape diminish. If I'm to truly escape my confinement, it will have to be soon, before I can talk myself out of it.

The clanging of armor enters my mind, unlike the rattling chains of my fellow prisoners. It's far more rhythmic but still familiar.

Lifting my head slightly from the cold, damp ground, feeling the pain in my spine resonate with the sudden movement, elven boots enter my vision. Around me, prisoners are begging, not even for their own freedom but still pleading with the guards for mercy. Begging for sympathies that will never come. Yet the elven guard in front of me is unaffected by these pleas. His face is stoic, even jubilant.

Do they really take pleasure in our suffering? I recall hearing that elves are utterly sadistic and have even seen it for myself on multiple occasions, but surely no creature could be that bereft of goodness. Sometimes, to calm our rioting, the elven guards utter statements like "This job gives me no pleasure," but I see the dishonesty of that claim.

In my mind, I try to distract myself from the inevitability. Soon, the space in this cell will get larger as the number of bodies around me decreases.

"Bluefrost treats the sniffles and can be found on the mountains," I whisper to myself.

The stomping metal boots are louder and more insistent, rapidly approaching me.

"Zabilla treats sunburns and cuts, and can be found in the heat. Fylvek is found in hidden crannies and can heal even the most brutal ailment."

The stomping stops, and my recitations grow more insistent and rapid.

"If you've got an upset stomach, you can use Gankoya, and it will settle it. Meqixste can stop the spread of burning and can turn back an illness's curse."

The key turns in the lock, and the cell door creaks open.

I turn my eyes away from the sight.

"Goligan can relax the body. Some goligan would be nice. With other herbs, it can also mask pheromones, concealing your passage."

My hand reaches up to my hair, and I feel the absence of my blonde locks. I remember shearing them in an attempt to reclaim even a small amount of my freedom.

"Stay away from numiscu blossoms though," I say, gripping the blonde clump where my long hair used to be and reminding myself of my power. "They might look like rirzed herb, but their sap paralyzes and can easily cause your downfall. This is unlike rirzed herb, which is harmless, relaxing, and smells pleasant."

Nearby, I take in the cruel and indifferent laughter of the market where we are sold off individually. I imagine standing on the auction block to the restrained clapping of an audience that would gladly see me dead or bent over.

I imagine their leers upon my vulnerable body as they huddle together and whisper. Together, their whispers form something loud and oppressive, and though it becomes difficult to pick out when I listen intently, those noises become words.

They speak quietly of defiling me and using my body as an object.

The guard's boots approach past the boundaries of the metal cage.

My stomach growls, and I'm not sure whether I'm more nauseous or hungry. I've grown so accustomed to not having food in my stomach that my hunger seems trivial. However, my thirst for freedom grows all the more insistent, and I feel the defiance rising in contrast to my despair.

You're going to be fine, my mind seems to utter.

In my peripheral vision, I see a small child shivering in fear. I lift my eyes toward her until her eyes meet mine, still not daring to glimpse the approaching guard.

She takes my hand, and I grip hers tightly, then smile casually at her.

She smiles back at me.

Her vulnerability was once mine. In this cell, she's a fairly new presence, but children are taken quickly onto the auction block for how quickly they can be molded by their elven masters.

I want to speak to her, but I know how readily the elves spit out any fire of defiance.

I want to tell her that she has a long life ahead of her if she's only willing to fight. I want to tell her to start a fire in her soul and never let it extinguish, no matter how insistently they try to stomp it out.

I wish I had found the courage to speak to her at a more convenient time. Maybe then I could have nourished rebellion and brought a glimmer of hope to this cell.

But despite my wishes and my desires, I tremble; my comfort is nothing more than a show. I long to convince myself that I can carry out my plan and that I'm not making a terrible mistake. I wish, only once, to find somebody who would truly stand in solidarity with me, unshaken by the tyranny of our elven masters.

As I extend my hand and she extends hers, my faith feels more like a deceptive delusion than anything. I feel our hands separated, my wrist being gripped in a leathery embrace.

"You," the guard says, clearly standing over me, "come with me."

I have been chosen.

Fear cycles through my heart, its chilling presence coursing through my muscles and down the curvature of my spine. I feel its icy presence in my chest and feet.

"You're going to be okay," the little girl says to me as I am slowly pulled into a standing position.

For a moment, I worry that the guards might strike her for her optimism, retaliating against the show of solidarity. But as I'm led out of the cell and look back at her, I let her smile remind me of my mission.

This is the time. It's my final chance to escape.

A surge of adrenaline courses through me, stirring me into action. Soon, I'll have an opportunity to stand with the system that oppressed me, or stand against it and risk my own demise. I will have no supporters when I choose to defy it.

With my forward advance out of the metal cell, a cadre of guards guiding me and three others across the threshold, I feel the warm comfort of the torches glowing against my pale flesh.

"Don't stall now," the guard holding my wrist says, the shackles on my feet and arms clanking together. "It's not going to stop what's coming."

His toothy grin is stained yellow, cracked, and pointed. The dangerous incisors of the elf remind me how small I am.

I look around me as I'm led through the veering passageway, the sconces lighting my path. The details of my escape hinge on what I'm able to find either in the walls surrounding me or in the features of the elves that press me into submission. The slightest insecurity, innocuous to most, could mean my continued existence.

The tunnel opens and a blast of chilled air greets me, the dim lights of the torches becoming much brighter in my sight. Here, the chatter of the audience is at its loudest, and I hear their every word.

"She looks tight," one of them says. "I'd love to break her in."

Hundreds of eyes rest upon me as I trade the confined tunnels for the vast open market where I am little more than a piece of property.

I take a deep breath.

I can't relent now. I need to keep my goal clear in my mind, no matter how stupid it seems.

Otherwise, I might be trapped within this system forever, never more than a disposable piece of property.