Page 37 of Eldritch
It didn’t matter how hard Zevander worked, or what respect he showed the guards, it seemed he’d never find favor in that surly old bastard. Zevander almost wondered if he had it in for him, as much as he singled him out in punishments.
Eyes wide, his father ladled water into a tin cup, offering him twice his usual ration.
Zevander took in his state, as he stared back at him over the rim. “You’ve not eaten much.”
“Food is scarce amongst the elder crowd. Hard fought for and not easily won some days. Particularly when you’ve got a bad leg and the orgoths are scavenging.” His father ladled water for Kazhimyr and Ravezio, as well.
“Come tomorrow, and I’ll have bread.”
“I’d sooner starve than take from my own son.”
“I can get extra rations.”
“You’ve earned your place.” What little pride there was to be had in the prison, it gleamed in his father’s eyes right then. “That’s good.”
“Tomorrow, then.” Zevander handed back the cup, and his father gave a nod.
“Tomorrow.”
The cells that housed the prisoners were nothing more than small caverns with three walls, one of which was a stretch of iron bars. Opposite the bars, yawned a completely open view, no wall obstructing the vast expanse of the Solassion mountains.A breathtaking sight, if not for the nauseating drop, the bottom of which wasn’t even visible from their height. They were known as the Cliff Tombs, seeing as it wasn’t uncommon for a prisoner to edge too close and fall over, their gut-wrenching screams a nightmarish echo. Those first nights in the prison, years ago, Zevander had worried that he might fall with his restlessness, and even tethered himself to the cell bars for a while.
He’d since learned to sleep quietly and still.
With one arm tucked under his head, Zevander stared out at the stars. He’d always remembered them being so much brighter back home. Or perhaps that was just a dream. He wondered if his mother and sister were staring up at them right then.
“Almost the Eventide Somnial,” Kazhimyr said beside him, where he lay on his own bamboo mat. Also known as Winter Somnial or the long slumber, it was a celebration of the longest stretch of night, when both moons crossed paths and all of Aethyria would be shrouded in darkness for seven nights. A celebration of the Lunadei.
A spark of hope when the world was too dark.
Zevander had always looked forward to the Somnial in the past. All the lights. The food. The gifts. The laughter.
Gods, he missed the laughter.
Here, the winter celebration was nothing more than seven nights of misery and heat, not a single flake of snow to know the season had even arrived. Only the extra ration of water declared the holiday in the mines. At home, those who worked laborious trades were permitted to stay home, and some generous masters even offered extra coin. As the days would grow darker in the upcoming months, they’d work just as hard by firelight, with only the blessing of that unbearable sunlight disappearing behind the moons.
“Do you ever make a wish on the stars?” Kazhimyr asked.
“No. Stars are too far out of reach to give a fuck.”
His cellmate chuckled. “What cynical thoughts you carry during thisjoyoustime of year.”
The sound of rustling reached their ears, and both of them lifted their heads to where Ravezio, lying on the other side of Kazhimyr, was undoubtedly stripping himself beneath his threadbare blanket.
Zevander let out a sound of disapproval and lowered his head. “Godsteeth, tell me you’re not sleeping unclad again.”
“It happens to be good for you. I sweat when I sleep.”
“You sweat because you stroke your cock while you’re dreaming,” Zevander argued back.
“That is quite good for you, as well. Keeps the blood pumping.”
“Pump your blood somewhere else, yeah? The rest of us don’t want to hear it.”
Zevander snorted at Kazhimyr’s comment, staring up at one particularly bright star in the sky, wondering how much it’d stand out in the upcoming Somnial.
Kazhimyr sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for one night with a woman. My father had fucked half our village by the time he was my age. It isn’t right that we should be denied during our prime.”
Zevander couldn’t deny the urges he’d begun to feel from the time he’d first slipped into adolescence. Thankfully, he hadn’t yet reached the age of moon cycles, which typically began at the first quarter-century. A time when young Lunasier men grew exceptionally aroused.
