Act I - A Forgotten Past I: Imprisoned Beyond the rusted metal bars of his prison, John stared into the abyss of her eyes as he desperately searched for answers. Why was he being held prisoner? What had he done to deserve this? And more importantly, who was he? John had no memory of his past. All he had was the pain of the nightmares that haunted him each night without fail. He saw nothing but pain and sorrow deep within her eyes, and he felt an excruciating migraine that tore his mind apart. He could stare no longer as his body began to numb and forced him to surrender his efforts to search for those answers. She passed by his cell every evening as supper was thrown in; her visit was routinely accompanied by a conversation devoid of words. After she blinked her eyes once, she would often roll them into the back of her head as if to look upon the young prisoners behind her. She would often exhale a humph at John in disappointment. After one final gaze, she reveled in a wicked laugh that made him cringe. She had earned the title of Ice Queen. On this night, he attempted a desperate, final plea with her for his freedom, a plea that fell flat as he was unable to build up the courage to utter his words beyond a whisper. “Can I please g-g-go?” The words vanished into thin air before they completed their flight to her ears, or so he thought. She acknowledged his mumble and ceased her malevolent laughter. She turned around immediately and yelled beyond the worn teeth of her barely open mouth, “What did you say?” Rumor had it among the young captives that her teeth were worn because she had eaten any child who attempted to flee, flesh and bone. A young prisoner nicknamed Delusional Dahlia swore that she had seen the wicked lady devour an eyeball that dangled from the tip of her ice arrow after an adrenaline-filled escape attempt. John mumbled, “Nothing, Your M-Majesty.” Once again, she screamed through her teeth and almost shattered them with the sheer force of her words. “That’s what I thought! You will never leave this place! Now go eat your liver porridge, you ungrateful little pauper!” Unable to speak anymore, John retreated into the corner of his cell, which he had begun to rapidly outgrow. It was a mere six by six feet and only six feet tall. It hardly accommodated a growing eleven-year-old. As was his routine every evening before he lay down on his rat-chewed mattress, he gazed beyond the gated window, barely two feet in diameter, situated in the center of the dungeon wall. John enjoyed the view of a beautiful landscape below, lush with foliage and abundant with life. He often imagined freedom beyond the thick stone walls and the rusted metal bars that he was imprisoned by. He was not alone; several other children, many of whom were two or three years his junior, shared the same hopeless fate. To the east he had begun to hear the shrieks of the phoenix dragons, which had been dormant for the past several years. Over the past days, they were active during the late hours and were often confused for meteorites as they soared past the east wing and across the southern skies. He could not see much to the west either, as the west wing of the dungeon protruded into his line of sight. All he could see was the weakening earth that broke apart in clusters from time to time. It covered the one-foot-thick stone walls that imprisoned countless young captives beneath the palace. He often looked toward one of the cells in the west wing, in hopes that she would gaze upon the few stars that struggled to get noticed in the distance, beyond the ominous southern kingdom of Villanis. On this night she did. Her emerald eyes, which glistened during the hours of daylight, were not as noticeable against the stars. However, her radiant smile still managed to glow against her smooth caramel skin with hopes of finding freedom one day. She raised her heels from the ground and stood on her toes while she looked over to John’s gated window. She waved to him. He panicked and released his grip from the bars. He jumped away and gasped as he leaned against the cold dungeon wall while his heart raced. She had frightened him. Tonight, however, he would finally build up the courage to return her wave. He approached the gated window deliberately as he hugged the wall. He peeked from its side, but she had already gone. He would no longer be able to admire Ivy’s beauty on this evening. He was not a courageous lad and was disappointed in himself once again. He returned his gaze toward the lush jungle several hundreds of feet below, in which villages were scattered, with torches that shifted throughout as the palace guards moved about during the evening hours of their patrol. He turned his attention toward the south. Beyond the lush paradise, there was a desert, in which sandstorms gusted regularly and rarely allowed visibility during the late hours. Farther south was an expansive sea, which appeared calm, as was usual at this time of the day. Beyond the sea was Villanis, from which rose the Fire King’s castle, veiled by the darkness of ever-present black storm clouds. Freedom would be as likely as him soaring across the sky along with the phoenix dragons. John stepped away from the window and lay down. He pulled his blanket over himself and exposed his aching feet to the elements, thanks to the hungry rats that often passed by in the middle of the night and nibbled on his blanket for nourishment. It was a constant reminder of the chilly winter as the coldness of the stone dungeon grounds permeated his mattress, which was barely thicker than his blanket. As he curled into a fetal position in order to trap the heat, he often shivered uncontrollably. He was forced to rest his hands between his knees so they would not crash into each other continuously throughout the night. His body often ached, and this day was no different, as the other young prisoners had just twice re-iced the entire hundred-chamber Ice Palace. Icing duties, which lasted from immediately after breakfast until just before supper, had become increasingly challenging over the past few days as icicles unshackled from the palace ceilings and fell upon the young workers beneath. This was one of the first signs that the impossibly cold winter finally was approaching its end. Especially excruciating was the pain he’d felt in his left foot since the day prior, when an icicle penetrated his thick boot after it had fallen from the ceiling. Though the Ice Queen afforded most of the prisoners visibility, John was required to wear a blindfold within Her Majesty’s master chamber. Still, she expected nothing short of perfection. As the icicle pierced his foot, he stumbled directly into an antique porcelain doll, which had allegedly been stolen from the young princess of the lavish western kingdom of Buv’re in a vicious crime of envy. This mishap triggered an unfortunate sequence of events. A large shard from the shattered doll broke free and collided with the icicle-laden ceiling. Her Majesty’s royal bathtub brimmed to the top with a deep black substance that she bathed in daily. Perhaps she was attempting to darken her merciless soul further, but without success, as it could not become even one shade darker. The massive icicle approached rapidly. The impact in the tub was so massive that the thick substance exploded throughout the chamber and left almost the entire space coated in black. John was not sure what had happened until he peeked from behind his blindfold. He immediately knew there would be consequences and feared that he would be consumed next. A collective gasp followed, and nervous screams soon echoed throughout the Ice Palace. Just before the frozen door swiveled on its iced hinges, he quickly veiled his eyes once again. Her Majesty was at his feet, and the chilled and terrible smell of her breath permeated his nose. It forced his face to contort in anguish and gave him the appearance of wrinkles that seemed comparable to those residing within her frosted, middle-aged skin. Her long, deep black hair was pulled back into an unfashionable twist and remained unmoved as the chill that emanated from her body froze it into place; it juxtaposed against her pale skin. “Do you realize what you’ve done?” she screamed. “Um…no, Your M-Majesty,” replied John deceitfully. “Well…” She began to speak as she lifted her scepter and forced his body to bend at his knees, which were soon soaked by the oily substance. “You will scrub this chamber until only the chill of the ice remains…tonight! And you will not rest until you are finished!” She stormed off to her secondary resting chamber. John scrubbed throughout the wintry night until he could scrub no longer. He took only one brief break before he completed the daunting task as several sets of eyes observed and judged his every movement. Guards had been on watch to ensure he finished by the break of dawn. He finally finished at the hour of sunrise, just in time for breakfast. He rested his eyes only briefly, however, during breakfast, and as a result, his face had swum in his bowl of liver porridge. John snapped back to the frozen present after he reflected on the past days as he lay on his mattress. He overheard some chatter from the other cells. Whispers of his name barely broke the silence of the frigid night. Finally one of the other children yelled out, “Nice job, Joe!” He mumbled to himself, “It’s…John.” A few extra torches were lit while the guards finished their final patrol of the night, not out of generosity but to prevent the young captives from becoming frozen in the dead of the night, which often dropped by at least twenty degrees in temperature. The illumination also forced the children to watch one another in despair, which added to the terror they already felt. Her Majesty needed to preserve her labor force, though she often threatened to worsen the conditions with the removal of the torches if they misbehaved. The guards usually rushed their last patrol to expedite their after-hours activities, which included drinking mead over a raucous game of modinos, a game that confused many. It consisted of face cards, stone tiles, and a wooden board. Modinos often led to loud and obnoxious yells as flying fists rumbled throughout the halls of the dungeon. The ruckus routinely woke the young prisoners, who tried desperately to rest and regain their strength for the following day of unfair duties. As John looked hopelessly at the dirt-filled gray dungeon floor, he observed every breath, each one visible due to the bone-bitingly cold temperatures of the night. The billows of his breaths began to break form around a hazy chocolate figure. The figure continued to approach him slowly, and it soon revealed itself. It was nothing more than a frail, aged rodent that was quite large for its kind. It coughed against John’s unsavory breath and looked at him as they both groaned in pain. John was famished as he had missed his opportunity to eat breakfast. His supper portion barely made a dent in his belly after the long day of labor followed another sleep-deprived night. The liver porridge from the morning had been smothered into his blanket, as he’d used it to wipe himself. The unsavory odor brought him some welcome company this evening. With a desperate hunger of its own, the overgrown rodent approached cautiously. It looked at John with each step as if it were concerned that it would become dinner itself. The silence was finally broken when John mumbled miserably, “Don’t worry…I prefer liver in my porridge.” Upon hearing this, the furry little rodent raced toward the foot of John’s chewed-up mattress and scoured the blanket for the dried porridge until none remained. The feast was finished, and the rodent was aware its welcome had come to an end. It looked upon John as it crept away. He realized the frailty of the rodent was actually a shiver, so he offered what little warmth remained under his blanket. The furry rodent raced once again and joined the young prisoner to share the isolated and minimal warmth. The guards played modinos each night. They were about to commence their disorderly game, though this night seemed a bit more civilized, since no fights broke out before the game. Perhaps they had run out of mead. The yells became muffled and distant, as did the soft whispers of John’s name from the other cells. His chilled breaths began to vanish, while the ominous, rustic gray that surrounded him on all sides subsided to the darkness. The last sounds he heard before he faded into the darkness himself were, “Don’t worry, John.” John was in a dark room illuminated only slightly by a few torches that flickered in a struggle for their lives. The flickers of light allowed for only brief visibility of his surroundings. As the last of the debris fell and settled in, he could see several partially burned scrolls among the rubble of a battle that appeared to have just reached its dramatic conclusion. With his head lowered, he searched desperately for anything that resembled some meaning. He found nothing. He began to hear footsteps in the distance, increasingly amplified with each step as they approached. A red silhouette finally appeared around a figure before him, veiled predominantly by the darkness of the shadows. The dark figure was beastly, with crimson eyes on the verge of erupting. John cowered. The footsteps approached and became heavier and louder. The heat emitted by the beast began to warm his skin and soon created a mild burn. John did not have the courage to look up. He began to weep as he covered his ears, with his head sheltered between his knees. He sang a familiar lullaby: “Don’t worry…It’s going to be all right…” The beast roared John’s name repeatedly as he whimpered. He continued to hum the lullaby as his lips became paralyzed; he had lost his ability to sing aloud any longer. He still could not face the beast. Soon the voice transformed into a tone no different from that of a young boy, which calmed him; however, John’s wrist suddenly seared as it was clenched by the firm grip of the beast. The tension that had subsided just a moment ago returned. “John! Wake up!” And he suddenly awoke. “John, hurry up. You overslept again. She’s going to eat us for breakfast if we don’t hurry up!” “Sorry, Jacob…Sorry, William,” John replied as he wiped the sweat that had drenched his hair and face throughout the night yet again. “Don’t be sorry to us. The others despise you for what you did,” said William. Jacob added, “Don’t worry, John. For most of them, this is their first winter in the Ice Palace. Spring is a few weeks early this year. We would need to re-ice the palace twice a day anyway.” A mild relief reset John’s apprehensions. After he hastily dressed himself in his winter attire, John missed breakfast once again due to his tardiness. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he raced toward the queue of prisoners who were on their way into the great hall. He briefly looked back at his mattress and noticed a small, empty imprint from his company the night before. As he clutched his wrist in pain, he realized that he had a mild burn in the same place that he had been grabbed in his dream, something that had not happened before. The burning sensation was soon soothed by the coolness of the great hall. Coming soon: II - An Attempt to Flee Thwarted
Posted on: Tue, 29 Oct 2013 14:32:59 +0000
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