Page 16 of The Last Dragon

Seeking some semblance of comfort, Tariel rummaged through the provisions bag they’d been left with, pulled out the rest of his apple, and began to nibble on it slowly, his gaze fixed on the motionless profile of the older man.

He chewed and chewed and chewed some more, losing himself in the automatic, repetitive motion, before freezing.

His bags. He felt along his sides and let out a very long sigh of relief: he still had his bags. Although the mercenaries had looted his provisions when they captured him, he still had everything else. His grimoire, his potions, his books, his weapons, and his vials…

Tariel wrapped his arms around himself, finding meager comfort as tears began to flow silently once more. At least he hadn’t lost everything. Well… They had taken his dignity, his magic, his freedom… But not his notes, not his knowledge.

As he tried to calm himself, a voice that was becoming all too familiar broke the stifling silence of the crypt:

“They didn’t even have the decency to bring you some honey…”

5 - Captives

Cassian

A painful ache radiated deep in his side with every heartbeat, forcing him back to consciousness. In the dim light of the crypt, a pained groan escaped his cracked lips. Damn it, that’s going to leave more scars. Just great.

He could feel something sticky on his skin—probably an ointment—struggling to heal his wounds, leaving a tingling sensation. The stone beneath his half-naked body was icy, drawing slight shivers out of him. He felt vulnerable, lying on what felt like a sacrificial table. It hit way too close to home…

A few steps away, in the deafening silence, he sensed the elf’s presence—a motionless shadow whose tension was palpable. Cassian doubted he would ever deign to speak to him again after the events of the previous day. Yet it was in a soft voice, tinged with a vulnerability he seemed to be trying to hide, that Tariel broke the silence. “Who would have thought, huh…”

Cassian slowly turned his head, the small movement wringing a grimace of pain from him. He watched the elf approach. The noise was unbearable as the black iron chains moved with an unpleasant metallic clanking that echoed off the stone walls.

“Why are you crying?”

The question came out bluntly, devoid of any of the elegance one would expect from a prince, even a fallen one. His blue eyes, still glassy from the effects of the toxins, took in the slender silhouette of his cellmate. He studied his fine, almost ethereal features and the silvery strands of his hair that caught every faint glimmer of the dim light.

He caught himself studying him with an unsettling intensity; he chalked it up to the poison making his head spin.

“Look at me, Tariel. Why are you crying?”

His voice grew deeper, more authoritative. It bounced off the damp walls of the crypt before returning to strike the elf, and the latter visibly tensed. Tariel did not respond. Instead, he raised his clasped hands—bound by metal and rope—to wipe his cheeks sharply in a gesture meant to be angry, but looked nothing more than desperate. Finally, he fixed his fiery gaze on Cassian’s, taking a hissing breath.

“How dare you ask me such a question? Is this one of your many taunts?” the elf spat. “Even here, even while captive and wounded, you can’t help but try to humiliate me? Is that all you can do, Cassian?”

He looked like a lost child, filled with rage and bitterness. Cassian watched him hurl his contempt in his face, and he saw in it a distant echo of what he himself had been, a very long time ago, when everything had been torn from him.

He was right to hate him. Cassian took no offense, nor did he intend to spare him—only the Crystal mattered to his eyes. He had no time to dwell on the futility of a wounded heart. He had a lineage to restore and a people to avenge.

“I didn’t think elves were capable of shedding tears—they who are said to be so cruel,” Cassian continued with calculated coldness. “This isn’t mockery, Tariel; it’s simply an observation. I see your grief has you on the defense.”

“I see your grief has you– oh my, how did you figure that out, huh?! What, am I supposed to thank you? Oh, forgive my manners, dearest Cassian, I offer you my most sincere thanks! Thank you for dragging me through the mud, thank you for attacking me, then taking me away against my will to sell me like cattle to the first pervert who’d offer you two gold coins! Thank you for accompanying me so gallantly to the gates of the abyss! I didn’t ask for so much; I’m sincerely touched by such devotion!”

The elf had become aggressive. He was spewing his venom with theatrical sarcasm, bowing with an exaggerated and ridiculous reverence before the man who was now trying to stand up, clutching his side. Tariel then turned on his heel to return to the rock where he had left an apple core, chest heaving, avoiding the other man’s gaze.

It was almost offensive to act that way in front of a prince like him… Though the elf had no way of knowing that. No way of knowing who exactly he was addressing.

“I have no use for your sarcastic thanks, Tariel. You’re putting on an act, but you’re a terrible liar. You’re afraid for your life, and I understand that. Who wouldn’t be afraid in a situation like this?”

The elf did not reply immediately. Silence fell once more, even heavier than before.

The sound of footsteps echoing off the stone walls provided an interruption that Cassian greeted with a sigh of relief. Soon, the metal of a trapdoor carved into the dungeon’s only door creaked, and a tray was practically hurled through the pitiful little opening.

“Food,” growled a guard before slipping away.

Tariel, already back on his feet, approached the dish warily, then grimaced.

“Is this some kind of bad joke? First a mushy apple, and now this?”