April Flowers Prompt #24, Confinement
Title: Confinement
Author: mrstater
Rating & Warnings: rated pg-13 for slavery
Characters/ Pairing: Cazaril
Prompt: #24, picture of a tower at sea
Format & Word Count: drabble, 250 words
Summary: Some prisons are preferable to others.
Author's Note: Not sure why my mind went here, except that the prompt made me think of The Count of Monte Cristo.
For seven days, Cazaril has been chained to this bench. Seven days, and even when not rowing, he remains chained here.
He remembers pacing--six strides up, six strides down again, four strides across, four strides back again--in his cell in Visping before he was sold. He wonders if he could walk now, after seven days chained to this bench, if he will ever be able to walk again, when he is freed from the galley.
If he is freed. In seven days, he's become less certain he knows the word when.
He would give anything to be back in his prison in Visping, where he could pace. If only he'd realized then how free he'd been.
There was a window there, overlooking the sea. Caz had avoided looking out it as much as possible, unable to bear the sight of the grey sea that isolated him as effectively as the stone walls and iron bars. If only he could look out at the sea now, and know there is more of the world than this cramped, dark one to which he is confined, and that, though far from home, not getting farther from it with every pull of his oar.
But there is no other view than the scarred backs of the slaves chained to the bench in front of his, and Cazaril begins to fear that in seven more days, he will forget he ever knew any other prison than this bench to which he is chained.
Author: mrstater
Rating & Warnings: rated pg-13 for slavery
Characters/ Pairing: Cazaril
Prompt: #24, picture of a tower at sea
Format & Word Count: drabble, 250 words
Summary: Some prisons are preferable to others.
Author's Note: Not sure why my mind went here, except that the prompt made me think of The Count of Monte Cristo.
For seven days, Cazaril has been chained to this bench. Seven days, and even when not rowing, he remains chained here.
He remembers pacing--six strides up, six strides down again, four strides across, four strides back again--in his cell in Visping before he was sold. He wonders if he could walk now, after seven days chained to this bench, if he will ever be able to walk again, when he is freed from the galley.
If he is freed. In seven days, he's become less certain he knows the word when.
He would give anything to be back in his prison in Visping, where he could pace. If only he'd realized then how free he'd been.
There was a window there, overlooking the sea. Caz had avoided looking out it as much as possible, unable to bear the sight of the grey sea that isolated him as effectively as the stone walls and iron bars. If only he could look out at the sea now, and know there is more of the world than this cramped, dark one to which he is confined, and that, though far from home, not getting farther from it with every pull of his oar.
But there is no other view than the scarred backs of the slaves chained to the bench in front of his, and Cazaril begins to fear that in seven more days, he will forget he ever knew any other prison than this bench to which he is chained.