Armistice - Part 2

     “This is a special guest,” Vex says, his mouth twitching into a grimace or a smile—Meekel can’t tell. “Come with us.”

     Heart pounding in his ears, Meekel shuffles to the door where Haskol clips his wrists into manacles. Then the Skeith kneels, and with the click of a key in a lock, the heavy weight that almost feels like an extra limb drops away from Meekel’s ankle. He can count on both hands the number of times his ball and chain have been removed. He wonders, suddenly dazed, if he’s being taken to wherever Number Five went.

     “Calm down,” Vex says, apparently seeing something of that imminent horror manifesting on Meekel’s face. “It really is just a guest. It’s not a euphemism for something sinister.”

     Despite his words, Meekel can’t calm down. But as the guard and warden flank him, he moves anyway. They escort him through the passageways of the dungeon, past the other cells, and then up a tight spiral staircase. At the top is a massive stone door that Meekel entered once and has never exited. Vex fiddles with his key ring, then unlocks it. But as soon as he pulls it open, Meekel has to shield his eyes from the brightness.

     “Come on!” Haskol grunts at once, shoving Meekel in the shoulder.

     “Give him a minute for his eyes to adjust,” Vex shoots back.

     Meekel raises his manacled wrists to his eyes and scrubs at them with his palms. It takes several breathless, eye-watering moments for his surroundings to materialize around him.

     They are in the main hall of the Citadel. Servants scuttle about over glassy marble floors, scarcely sparing a glance in their direction. Though the space is relatively dark with Darigan’s black and violet aesthetic, the walls are lined with windows—small, blinding windows that offer glimpses of the sun and clouds without. Meekel blinks rapidly, taking it all in. Tears again sting at his eyes, but this time, they’re not from the light.

     “You’ll get used to it,” Haskol says, misunderstanding the reason. Meekel can only nod.

     They bring him a short distance down a corridor behind the main staircase to an ornately carved door. Vex knocks once before opening it, guiding Meekel through. He and Haskol step in after him.

     A long table stretches from one end of the room to the other where a bay window opens up to the clearest view of the outside Meekel has seen in twenty years. He rubs his eyes some more, unwilling to look away despite the almost painful intensity of the sunlight. He even knows he’s being rude when he realises that before that same window, seated in a mahogany chair upholstered in red velvet, is the lord of the Citadel himself.

     For too long, Meekel stares. Then, remembering himself, he drops to one knee and bows his head. “My lord,” he murmurs to the scarlet rug beneath his feet.

     The old Korbat chuckles. “Please rise, Sir Meekel. There is no need for such ceremony.”

     Meekel is confounded by the honorific title but rises to his feet all the same, keeping his eyes respectfully low. He watches as Lord Darigan clasps his hands on the table, intertwining his fingers.

     “Thank you for agreeing to see me today,” he says, as if Meekel had any say at all in the matter. “I will not deprive you of much of your time, for Fyora knows I’ve stolen enough of it from you already.” He pauses, and then: “Come now, lift your head.”

     Cautiously, Meekel obeys. The window behind Darigan is a marvel, so beautiful that Meekel could weep. They’re going to have to use force to get him back into the dark again.

     Darigan sighs, wresting Meekel’s attention from the window. “Sir Meekel, a grave injustice has been committed against you. For twenty years, you have remained here, a prisoner unlawfully held from a war that ended nearly as long ago.”

     Meekel realises that his hands have begun to shake, and he grips the hem of his tattered tunic to try to steady them. Still, his shackles clink together from the motions and betray him.

     His “guest” is Lord Darigan. And Lord Darigan is speaking of the wrongs committed against him. It is too much to hope for, and so Meekel does not let himself hope. For twenty years, he has not let himself hope, has never dared to let himself hope.

     But Darigan continues. “I will not attempt to excuse my incompetence in this matter. I cannot return what was taken from you by my own negligence and error. All I can do is try to right the wrong that continues to oppress you at this very moment. And so you are hereby released from the custody of Darigan Citadel. The personal effects that were confiscated from you twenty years ago will be returned to you, and you will be awarded reparations for the time you spent imprisoned, the sum of which shall be determined at a later date. So let it be known.”

     He scratches something onto a document before him—his signature, most likely—but Meekel does not see it. He can’t see anything anymore as he presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. Someone taps on his shoulder, and he lowers his hands to see Master Vex through a veil of tears. Vex holds up the key ring with one hand while gesturing for Meekel to present his arms with the other. Meekel does, and the cold steel of the manacles falls away. He stumbles back, unused to the weightlessness of his own limbs, and Haskol catches him by the shoulders.

     “Easy there, squire-boy,” the Skeith huffs, but from the corner of his eye, Meekel can see that he’s smiling.

     “I have been working with King Skarl regarding this matter,” Darigan says. “In fact, it was only in collaboration with him and Vex here that I was able to locate the necessary documentation to secure your release. That is no excuse, I know. The two of us must learn to set our differences aside to truly work toward righteousness for all people.” He folds his hands atop the table again. “I won’t ask you to forgive me or excuse the failings of my own nation that landed you here. But it is my earnest hope that you can enjoy living out the remainder of your life as a free man.”

     “Thank you,” Meekel gasps, unable to stop the hiccuping sobs tearing from his throat. “Thank you, thank you.”

     *

     After Lord Darigan dismisses him while wishing him well, Meekel is processed for release remarkably quickly; the paperwork is a formality at this point, Vex assures him. Once it’s signed and sorted, Meekel is taken to another room in the Citadel’s lower level—a spacious bathroom with an enormous mirror, a modern commode, and a porcelain tub over a cerulean tiled floor. He catches sight of his reflection as he enters but just as soon looks away. No longer is he the fresh-faced youth who first arrived here. He knows that time has not been kind to him.

     Vex and Haskol wait outside as he washes himself in the tub. It’s the first bath he’s had in twenty years, a far cry from the cold prison showers. He scrubs at his body with a cruel ferocity, as if it were a simple thing to wash away two decades of pain and suffering.

     A plain off-white tunic and tan trousers have been laid out for him on the vanity. Once he dries off, he slips into them. They’re soft and loose against his body, and he inhales the comforting scent of cotton and detergent.

     When he emerges from the bathroom, he’s met by a middle-aged Darigan Aisha, who puts a hand on his chest and pushes him right back in. She holds a thin black apron over one arm and snaps a pair of shears in his face.

     “Come, come,” she says briskly as Haskol drags in a wheeled barber’s chair behind her. “Let’s get you presentable, hm?”

     She sets Meekel up in the chair before the mirror and fusses over his overgrown hair. “What a mess! Well, what would you like? Something in vogue? Or something tidy and out of the way?”

     Meekel can’t bring himself to care about something so trivial, so he lets her do as she pleases. The soft clipping of the shears lulls him into something resembling a hypnotised state. Once she’s finished with what’s on top of his head, the Aisha takes a razor to his chin with practised finesse. By the end of it, his hair is neat and tied back into a short ponytail, and his face is clean-shaven. This time, he does stare into the mirror.

     There are bags under his eyes and the beginnings of crow’s feet. His complexion is pale, the skin tight around the sharp angles of his jaw. But the new cut frames his face with a boyish bob and restores something of his youthful innocence in the playfulness of the ponytail. Though he hadn’t cared much at the outset, the new look seems to take years off of him.

     “Beautiful!” the Aisha declares, setting aside her shears and measuring both sides of his hair between her fingers one last time. “Yes, yes, very handsome, very dashing! You look positively radiant!” She squeezes his shoulder as she takes off the apron, shaking the loose hair from it. “Get going, now! Good luck, good luck!”

     Even Haskol and Vex are surprised by him when he steps outside the bathroom.

     “Now that’s the squire-boy I remember,” Haskol chortles.

     *

     Haskol and Vex leave him at the Citadel’s gates, where a Darigan Uni waits to take him below the clouds.

     “I would never ask you to come back here for a visit,” Vex says, twirling his beard around his finger. “But if you’re ever around the Citadel… Well, I’m always up for a cup of tea.”

     Haskol is decidedly less graceful in his goodbyes. “I’m gonna miss you, squire-boy!” he cries, slamming an arm around Meekel’s neck in an awkward hug. Meekel can’t recall ever seeing the Skeith so emotional.

     He shakes both men’s hands. “Thank you,” he says. “For everything you’ve done for me. For fighting for me.” He nods at Vex. “And for keeping me sane in there.” He forces a smile at Haskol. “I’m going home. I…” He trails off, dropping his arm to his side. “I’ll try to make it back to the Citadel. No promises.”

     “Hmph,” says Vex, but he’s smiling now, too. “Then I suppose I’ll have to seek you out in Meridell.”

     They wave him off as he climbs into the Uni’s saddle. “Meridell, you say?” he asks, and Meekel nods. “Very well. Taking off!”

     The Uni leaps into the air. Meekel clings to the bridle as they rapidly begin to descend. Then the Uni’s wings unfurl, and they glide into the clouds. Meekel shivers as cold vapour wets his face and arms. But they’re soon below cloud level, and that’s when the world truly opens up.

     He can’t believe he’d forgotten how beautiful the world below could be.

      To be continued…