(( Might delete later. >.> ))
The scene taking place in a solitary cell deep below the Keep of the Swan Knights in the city of fair Dol Amroth was one which merited no documenting, nor would the behaviour of the guards speak well of them if their superiors should learn of it. In the name of justice, however, these Men could excuse their cruelty, and in such times as these even more so, surely? Thus, absolved of any guilt, they went about their task with zealous enthusiasm but very little variation. This they did over the span of many days, uninterrupted and unwitnessed (though perhaps not unheard, as a servant woman was unhappy enough to have the task of feeding the prisoners and scrubbing the worn stone floors).
Finally, having made no progress as usual, and tired from their exertions, a series of familiar sounds followed the ghastly symphony of torture: The hard thud of a body falling to the floor, the grate of a key turning in the lock, the scrape of boots receding down the corridor, and finally silence.
Hawk rolled carefully, painfully onto his side, cradling his torso and fighting the black ring threatening to overtake his vision. How many days had he been a prisoner here? How many more beatings would he be forced to endure? More to the point, how many more could he survive? Young though he was, he had suffered far more than his share of abuse, and had until now retained the youthful flame of defiance which had kept his anger hot and his body warm, but current circumstances were sorely beginning to test his resolve.
However, what wore him down faster than the seemingly endless interrogations was his concern for his friends. Hawk had at first been confident none of them had been captured, and equally assured that they were doing all in their power to free him, but as the days passed the fear began to gnaw at him that he had somehow brought some terrible doom on them simply by having been in their company. Perhaps instead of planning some daring and ridiculous assault on the Keep involving exploding arrows and questionable magic they had been driven from the city, or worse, accused of equally grievous (and equally confusing) charges and thrown into cells themselves.
No, he comforted himself with the hope that they were still agents of their own free will. The relief of that thought did not linger long, as the second fear invariably loomed close on the heels of the first: perhaps they had exhausted all avenues of inquiry and appeal, and were resolved to let him face his punishment. Worse, they might actually believe he was guilty! Not Xanderian , of course, but the others? Every one of them had been adamant in defending Nethrida as she faced the charges laid against her, sure of her innocence or at least believing there had been mitigating circumstances. Her pardon by the surprisingly benevolent Princess Lothíriel had been a most welcome event, then, only to be marred by Hawk's subsequent and suspicious arrest.
For as little as most of them knew about Hawk, it was not beyond believing that they would not feel so strongly about his innocence—certainly not when presented with such shocking contradictions to what little he had revealed about himself, or what they may have heard about him before this journey.
They could hardly be faulted if they no longer trusted him. Even he questioned his own past now, agonising over the tales his mother had told him as a young child, facing as he was this terrible alternative: Langstan Silvermond the miser, respected patron of commerce and councilman of Bree-town—a hard, cruel man, responsible for so much of Hawk's misery—was probably not his father at all. Of this the guards seemed absolutely convinced, and Hawk's denial only served to prove his guilt in their minds.
Hawk curled in on himself, feeling his heartbeat throbbing mercilessly in his temples. If his tormentors were right, the only explanation was that his own mother had lied to him. All the tales she'd spun, the memories he had of her, the dreams she'd had...all poisoned now. She had led him to believe he was Silvermond's unwanted bastard up to the very day she died, a fact which had shaped his entire life up until this point; it had controlled him, hounded him. As a child he had even dreamed that Silvermond was not truly his father. Perhaps his mother had secretly fallen in love with a prince or a daring adventurer, someone kind and loving, someone who truly wanted him. He'd imagined that man returning to Bree and saving him from a life in the brothel or scraping a living in Beggar's Alley like so many other orphans.
Now, he feared the truth was even worse than if he truly were the son of Silvermond, who had actively sought to make Hawk miserable. It had to be worse, or else why would his mother flee Dol Amroth in secret and then cover her escape with lies? Why would she force herself into a life of exile, degrading herself by working as a whore and raising her child alone? On top of such ignominy, her hope that a wealthy man with influence in Bree-town might make a worthy guardian for her son had failed miserably, leaving him utterly alone when she died.
Whatever the truth, at least one thing remained true, he thought bitterly: his birthright was nothing more than misery, as it had always been.
His spirit faltering, Hawk reached instinctively for the seagull pendant he was accustomed to wearing around his neck, but the guards had taken that along with his weapons and armour, and Hawk felt the loss of it keenly. The thought of losing such a precious gift was almost more than he could bear, and Audea's smile as she presented it to him entered his thoughts.
How right her older sister had been that he would bring nothing but trouble to their lives, that he would eventually hurt Audea and disappoint her, as he would anyone foolish enough to love him. Audea had been forced to kill a man for Hawk's sake, throwing herself into danger at the docks of Kheledul, and he'd seen then that she would only have a chance at a better life without him, so he'd let her go and avoided interfering in her life any further.
He now told himself it would be better if Xanderian gave him up, though he feared she would blame herself too harshly as usual, when it was clear that his fate had never been one she could change. At least he could hope she might be comforted by the others in her life. Then his thoughts turned to Finchley, and his spirit sank further.
If only Finchley had never caught his eye...if only Hawk had been strong enough to let her go, as he should have. At least he could hope that she would never learn the truth. Let her fly free, he silently prayed, and let her visit all the beautiful places she dreamed of seeing without ever knowing how close she came to being embroiled in his misfortunes.
Then he realised how foolish and pathetic it was to linger on such thoughts, and Hawk berated himself for giving in to self-pity. He reached for the shallow bowl of water and though he struggled to lift it, he drank, grimacing at the pain of his cracked and bloody lips.
Finally, he lay on his back and stared at the ceiling of his prison cell, hoping with what hope remained in his heart that whatever happened—whoever he truly was, and whatever these people wanted with him—he would not be the cause of his friends' unhappiness any longer.
