The creak of the iron cell door opening was the only thing that had caused him to raise his head in three days. Something like a shadow slipped inside and he was prepared to chalk it up to another vision or another torture coming for him.
A jailor closed the door behind whatever entered (doesn’t make it real) and then left without a word. Amathlan remained seated on the floor where he was, staring out at the door.
The shadow approached him, and it was then he realized that it was a figure in a dark cloak, too similar in color to the shadows that devoured the whole of the cell once the sun went down. The figure knelt down in front of him - but even with their hood still up, he knew it had to be another waking nightmare. For she had died months ago, and ghosts wouldn’t dare come to this place. This line of thinking is what kept his gaze locked around her on the door when a warm hand reached out to touch his cold cheek.
“You should be dead,” he said without thinking. Without hesitation. The hand flinched and pulled away, disappearing beneath the cloak. He turned his silver gaze to meet hers - her eyes always had a storm brewing in them, determination like lightning flashing across.
“So should you,” she replied. “It seems that stubbornness is a family trait.”
“You’re not really here.”
“If it’s easier for you to sleep believing that. The fact remains, though, that we must escape.”
Amathlan looked away from her once more, taking in a deep breath. His shoulders lacked the strength they once did, he could feel it. Like taking in air was a chore. A gauntness to his face and to his soul.
“They’re coming,” he promised. “And if not all of them, then at least one.”
