A man dies when the last memory of him dies.
– J.K.
Rowling
*
Arthur lay sprawled upon a cold bed of stone, breathing hard as jagged fragments bit into his skin.
Water still streamed from his clothes, leaving muddy streaks across the fabric, while wet strands of hair clung to his face.
He could scarcely believe he was alive.
Every breath came with effort, as though his lungs had yet to recover from their desperate struggle against the river.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the dark silhouette of a castle looming above him from atop a towering cliff.
Beneath the leaden sky, the reddish stone of its walls seemed even more menacing, as if the fortress itself watched him like an unwelcome intruder.
No sound disturbed the air save for the faint murmur of water and the distant howl of wind threading through the gorge.
Something foul and slimy still remained clenched in his hand.
Looking down at fingers locked in a cramp, he stared in surprise at the remains of a soaked lump of bread reduced almost to mush.
That same loaf.
How had he managed to keep hold of it?
No matter.
The sodden crumb tasted salty and disgusting, but it was still food.
In Flea Bottom one could find far worse, if one found anything at all.
His heart still hammered in his chest, and his thoughts refused to settle.
How had he ended up here?
The current had dragged him down mercilessly.
He remembered feeling his strength ebb away, feeling the water swallow his mind.
Yet by some miracle he had escaped and found himself here…
And where exactly is here?
Arthur looked around, trying to understand where he had arrived and how he might find his way back.
He stood upon a small shelf of stone surrounded by cliffs, dimly illuminated by the weak light filtering through the clouds.
The place looked as though it had remained hidden from mortal eyes for centuries.
The rocks seemed natural enough, but soon his gaze caught upon something crafted by human hands.
Rough-hewn steps had been carved directly into the stone before him.
Each was coated in moss and slick mud, yet it was obvious that no whim of nature had shaped them.
A few paces farther on revealed a narrow black opening leading deep into the cliff face.
Its dark mouth stood unnervingly still, as though waiting for someone bold enough to enter.
The boy felt a chill emanating from the passage.
Not a chill of the flesh.
Something deeper.
Instinctively, his hand reached toward the stone for support.
The steps led directly to the opening, and there seemed to be no other path.
The silence hanging over the place was oppressive.
Only the faint sound of water behind him reminded him that the world beyond still existed.
Gathering what little strength remained, the orphan took a cautious step forward and peered into the darkness.
Suddenly he realized he had little choice.
The place where he had emerged was a tiny sheltered cove amidst furious waves crashing against the sharp rocks beneath the Red Keep.
A storm was gathering.
Foaming waters relentlessly assaulted the dark stones.
Even if he wished it, he could not return the way he had come.
Only one road remained.
Forward.
Though if stealing a loaf of bread could earn a whipping, being caught somewhere inside the royal castle…
Arthur did not know what punishment awaited such a crime, but his imagination painted dreadful possibilities.
Especially considering that children employed within these walls seemed remarkably prone to losing their tongues.
From time to time he had seen such unfortunate souls among the crowds.
“Ah…
seven hells,” the boy muttered with a sigh, cursing with the foulest oath he knew.
He still needed his tongue.
Yet he had no choice.
The tunnels beneath the Red Keep were cold and gloomy, steeped in ancient secrets and long neglect.
The damp stone walls were draped with old cobwebs, moss, and patches of mold.
Moisture seeped from tiny cracks and fell upon the floor in hollow, lonely drops.
The stale odor of dampness and ancient dust lingered in the air, untouched for centuries.
At times there was another smell as well.
A far less pleasant one.
The narrow corridors stretched endlessly, branching and crossing one another until they formed a vast labyrinth.
In some places the ceiling hung so low that the boy was forced to duck.
The stone floor was slick, and every footstep echoed through the empty darkness.
Arthur had always seen well in the dark, but here, without even the faintest source of light, he was forced to feel his way forward.
Every corner, every turn, seemed to conceal something ancient and dangerous.
Something waiting.
Down here, time itself felt halted.
A faint breeze rose from the depths of the castle, carrying strange sounds with it.
Whispers, perhaps.
Or distant moans.
As though the grim walls preserved the voices of the long dead.
The boy pressed onward, feeling the cold creep beneath his clothes while his heart beat ever faster.
There was something else as well.
A strange tugging sensation had settled in his chest.
It whispered to him.
Turn here.
Turn there.
The feeling insisted he had left something important behind in one of those passages.
Yet Arthur stubbornly continued along the main route.
It would be all too easy to become lost in these corridors.
One wrong turn and he might wander forever through the maze beneath the castle.
Reason told him that entering one of the countless side passages would mean surrendering any hope of finding his way.
So he remained on the only path that had led him into this dreadful place.
The silence weighed heavily upon him.
It was as though the darkness itself sought to draw him into its embrace, whispering that there was no escape.
Now and again, forks appeared ahead.
Broad arches opened onto corridors even darker than the one he walked.
Yet he resisted the temptation.
Something about those passages inspired both an overwhelming desire to enter and an inexplicable fear of what lay beyond.
Then suddenly, shattering the deathly quiet, came the unmistakable sound of footsteps.
Dull.
Distinct.
The noise tore Arthur from his thoughts.
He froze.
His heart began to race as the sound echoed through the stone halls.
A moment later, he saw the faint glow of fire.
Torchlight flickered around a distant corner, briefly illuminating the walls.
The boy crouched low and pressed himself against the stone, striving not to make a sound.
Someone was approaching.
The footsteps grew louder, clearer.
Their pace quickened, as though the torchbearer moved with purpose.
The wavering firelight cast long crooked shadows that danced across the walls, making it seem as though the stone itself had come alive.
Arthur tensed.
Soon he would be seen.
Again he glanced toward the narrow passages branching away to either side.
Yet he knew entering them was dangerous.
Only seconds remained.
“Seven hells…” he whispered.
Retreating quickly before the footsteps drew too near, he felt his insides twist with terror.
Fear of being caught overcame all hesitation.
Without another thought, he darted into one of the narrow openings.
After several hurried steps he found himself within an even tighter corridor.
The walls seemed to press inward around him.
To make matters worse, the passage ran perfectly straight, forcing him to retreat farther and farther to remain hidden.
What if the man with the torch turns this way?
The thought spurred him onward.
Feeling his way along the walls, he moved quickly through the darkness.
Only after rounding a bend did he finally feel somewhat safe again.
The footsteps still echoed somewhere behind him, though now they sounded distant and muffled.
Whoever carried the torch had apparently passed by.
Yet Arthur’s heart refused to calm.
Every rustle.
Every sound.
Everything beneath the earth felt suspicious.
Ahead, the corridor curved sharply.
Beyond the bend he thought he glimpsed a faint glow promising escape.
So he decided to investigate.
Arthur cursed every god he knew when he realized he was lost.
After taking one of the forks and attempting to retrace his steps, he had become hopelessly tangled within the maze of passages.
Now he wandered onward and downward, following the faint movement of air.
The light he had seen proved to be nothing more than patches of dimly glowing moss.
And now he was trying to find his way back.
It was so dark.
Had he possessed even a single torch, he would never have missed the proper turning.
Instead he was forced to stumble onward by touch alone.
Worse still was the realization that he could have gathered some of that glowing moss to light his way.
Fool.
Yet the airflow grew stronger.
With it came a fragile thread of hope.
The air was stale and carried a strange scent, but for some reason an irrational certainty settled within him.
He needed to go this way.
One step.
Then another.
The vast chamber hidden beneath the Red Keep revealed itself without warning.
One moment Arthur was descending through a narrow corridor.
The next, the floor vanished beneath him.
He slid downward and barely managed to stop himself before another drop.
When he finally caught his breath and looked up…
The chamber’s vaulted ceiling soared into darkness so dense that the upper reaches were lost from sight.
The cold damp walls were carved with twisting ancient symbols that glowed faintly green, bathing the cavern in an eerie light.
Several other entrances gaped from the stone walls.
Yet none of them held his attention.
What lay within did.
“Gods…” Arthur whispered in awe.
A/N:
While everyone else is waiting for updates, com / Captain_Lag (remove the spaces)