“Why--” she started but was stopped by the knock on the door.
Elsy watched as Brann turned around, taking a key from his cloak pocket, and unlocking the door. A head popped inside, belonging to a boy no older than thirteen summers with chin length red hair and large brown eyes. He bit his plump lips as he carried a bucket of water inside with both hands, wincing at the weight. His arms were so scrawny. Elsy was surprised he could manage such a feat, given all the steps she’d walked up to arrive at this room. His round cheeks were flushed with the effort, and he nearly dropped the bucket before her, a small rag hanging off the side of it.
“Thanks, Scotty,” said Brann with a slight smile.
Elsy noticed the way Scott refused to look at her. She would have found his shyness endearing if it wasn’t for the fact that she was being held captive in this fortress against her will. Her head spun, and she was once again reminded she had no clue what these people wanted from her nor what they would do. She groaned as she dropped, the bed behind her cushioning her fall.
“Let me help ye,” said Brann as he quickly stepped toward her.
Elsy hardly noticed him. Her gaze was fixated on Scott. The boy opened the doors, but before he left, he gave her a curious, wide-eyed gaze. He closed the door as Brann cut her bindings. She tried to stand, tried to run toward her escape, but another wave of exhaustion and nausea hit her hard, making her vision swim.
“Don’t worry,” said Brann as he moved away from her, taking the rope with him. “Yer not in any danger. For now,” he added under his breath, words she hardly caught as he edged away from her.
For now, she thought, a bitter smile tugging at her lips. But what would happen tomorrow? Or the days after? What did they have planned for her? She doubted they would keep her prisoner for much longer. There was something they wanted from her.
“Wash yerself,” said Brann as he gestured toward the bucket at her feet. His hand was on the door. He was going to leave her. She needed to stand, she needed to get through that door. She couldn’t remain in this room.
Slowly, she rose from the bed. “What will ye do to me?” she asked as she stepped toward him.
“There should be proper attire for ye in the trunk.” Brann nodded at the corner behind her, but she refused to look, knowing the moment she took her eyes off him he would leave. She took another step toward him.
“Please,” she whispered while reaching for him. “Please, let me go.”
Brann opened the door, quickly sliding out of sight. She watched hopelessly as the door slammed shut, the lock clicking into place. The feeling of doom weighed down her shoulders. Her knees buckled, but she refused to give in.
Turning around, she closed the distance between her and the bucket. Her hands tugged at her dirtied dress, pulling it over her shoulders. The garment dropped to the floor, followed by her underclothes. She shivered, moving quickly. Her skin prickled as she dunked the rag into the water, even more cold than the air around her. She washed herself, scrubbing until she was nearly red, focusing on every nook and cranny as she thought of her next plan of escape. As she scrubbed her fingers, her memories took her back to the moment she met the brigands, when she was being dragged from the carriage. Her shrieks echoed in her mind, making her body tremble all the more.
“I need to remain strong,” she told herself while throwing the rag into the bucket. “I can’t give in.”
She strode toward the trunk, heaving it open. Dust flew around her, wrinkling her nose and making her sneeze. Inside, she found a simple black dress.Black, she thought with a bitter smile. Black was usually worn in mourning, but she supposed it suited her temperament as of late. Too many tragic events had befallen her. Black suited her in this moment, as it had suited her four years before. She held it up, noting the garment was a bit big, but would do. The fabric itched at her skin, but it was clean compared to her ripped and muddy clothes lying on the floor.
After changing, she walked toward the door, wiggling the handle to see if it would budge at all, but to no avail. She went to the window, opening it and looking outside, hissing as the chill stung her cheeks. There were candles alight in the windows across from her. The men’s laughter echoed in the courtyard. Her gaze lifted to the heavens, watching the stars twinkling above her. She closed her eyes and whispered a silent prayer. Her gaze drifted down, wondering if she could find a way to jump or climb down, but the moment she looked, she lurched away from the window, her hand flying to her chest as she saw the dizzying drop.
There was no way she could jump or climb. Her arms would be too weak to carry her, and the jump would certainly kill her. She would have to find another way. Quickly, she closed the window. With a sigh, she turned around.
“There has to be something here that can pick that lock,” she mumbled to herself.
She lifted the candles, searching underneath them for a needle, but found nothing. Her feet took her to the trunk, rifling through the dusty dresses. She threw them out onto the stone floor one at a time, taking a moment to shake them, to search their pockets. Her fingers twitched when she found a needle at the bottom of the pile. She held it up to the candlelight, her eyes widening with glee as it gleamed.
Running toward the door, she angled the needle at the lock, her heart hammering in her throat. “Wait,” she whispered, the needle in the lock, but her fingers no longer moving. Footsteps walked past, accompanied by muffled voices. She stuffed the needle into her dress pocket and took several steps back, listening in wait and wondering if the men would enter her rooms. Her breath stalled as she listened.
“Why?” someone shouted angrily, the footsteps pausing outside her door.
Elsy shivered. Her hand gripped the needle in her pocket, careful to keep the point away from her palm. She waited for whomever it was to enter, her gaze locked on the handle, expecting it to turn.
But no one entered. The footsteps resumed, continuing down the hall and the voices quieted. She breathed a sigh of relief, her shoulders slumping. Her feet brought her to the bed, and she sat on it, tilting her head back to stare up at the ceiling.
She would have to wait until everyone was asleep. That was the only way she would be able to make it out of the fortress safely. Then, when they finally rose, she would be far away. Maybe she could find a village, or a kind peasant to aid her. She slid further onto the bed until her back was pressed against the stone wall. Her eyes remained focused on the door. If anyone entered, she would use the needle as her weapon. It wasn’t a sword, nor was it a dagger, but it would do. She could at least stab them in the eye if need be.
But as she waited her eyes became heavy. Sleep threatened to claim her. Each time she snapped them open, they soon drifted closed, until finally her body was slipping from the wall, her ead sinking to the pillow, the mattress cradling her as she fell into a deep sleep.
