#blorbo's prisoner's dilemma

[too-many-blorbos]

Who wants to read an angsty fantasy story featuring a strangely well-spoken edgelord with too much trauma?

The beginning of the end was on a summer night. It wasn't raining. It should have been; that tragedy should have made the heavens wail and weep like a young widow. It was unfair that the sky remained stoic as my life fell apart. 

Instead, the night was muggy and stale enough to suffocate. The sort of weather that made tempers run hot. That's why the bar fight started, probably– a man trying to burn off the heat, picking the stupidest way possible. It should have ended with my father's first punch. He'd dealt with plenty of drunkards that way; one good hit was often enough to sober them into sensibility. If that failed, flashing his blade sent them scurrying. Which is exactly what happened on that night– a solid punch and the shine of steel made the brawler retreat from the tavern. At the time, it seemed no different than the hundred other times this had happened.

I don't know exactly what the brawler did. Perhaps he ran from house to house, shouting for reinforcements against his attacker. Perhaps someone else witnessed the struggle and feared that my father, the foreign freak, had finally turned violent.  Or perhaps the mob was already waiting. Perhaps that man was bait all along, sent to give them a reason to turn on us. Their attack was as sudden as a tidal wave. I remember few details–in my mind, the scene is a tangle of noise and shoving bodies and my own growing terror. My father's sword flashed over and over, spraying scarlet across the floor as he cleared a path for us. Torches followed us down the street to the stables. We couldn't even go back for our belongings. 

Gerrain saddled the horses while my father stood guard. We heard the mob approaching. We saw the torches growing close, too close. 

"Ride," my father hissed. "Ride and don't look back."

The order made no sense until he knelt to hug me. His arms were like a vice for a brief moment, so tight that I thought he might never let go. I felt a patch of sticky wetness when I hugged him back. Later, in the sunlight, I would see the red stain it left on my sleeve. 

"What are you thinking–?" Gerrain demanded, still fussing with the saddles.

"I have to slow them down." My father pulled away and looked into my eyes. When I dream of that night, that stare is what haunts me most– the dove-gray eyes of the best man I knew, gone dull with despair. "I'll catch up. Don't wait for me. Just ride– and remember that I love you." 

With that, he tossed me onto his horse. A smack on the mare's flank sent her galloping before I could protest. When I looked back, Gerrain was close behind me on his own steed. And my father was running toward the torches, blade flashing in the firelight. 

That was the end of my father. That is how my end began.

[too-many-blorbos]

Part Five of Prisoner's Dilemma

Night became day became night. Weary feet plodded down the rutted dirt road. We rested rarely, sharing the scant rations the prison had sent with us. To their credit, the officers ate no better than we did. I’d wager that was a matter of practicality rather than solidarity, but it spoke to their character. We prisoners were used to a poor diet, but the soldiers with us were privileged enough that cheese and stale crackers were a long step down from their usual meals. Yet they ate without a word of complaint. These were disciplined soldiers focused on a goal. It made me more curious–and more wary–of what that goal was. 

At the third dawn, the colonel called a halt. By now, our march had taken us deep into the valley overlooked by the prison. I leaned against a shaded rock while the officers pored over a map, as they’d often done on this trip. Even from a distance, I could tell the map was out of date; it showed the River Minor flowing east off the border rather than ending in a lake. Lake Minor had existed for over a century, since the Cauldron erupted and left a mile-wide crater in place of the riverbed. There was no reason for a soldier–a colonel, no less–to use such an old map. The army was meticulous about cartography, they’d never let an officer go around without an accurate chart. 

“Prisoners! Fall in!” The colonel barked. She thrust the ancient map back at her subordinate as the prisoners scuttled into some semblance of order. We stood in a sloppy line as she paced before us with ramrod-straight poise. 

“We are searching for a manmade structure, old, most likely hidden beneath vegetation or rockfall. You are here to aid the search and to assist in clearing it of debris and hazards. In return, you will be pardoned when the task is done.” The colonel gave us all a stabbing glare. “Only when the task is done. Run off and I’ll knife you myself, and it’ll be a far slower death than the gallows I saved you from. Am I understood?”

We understood. The motley band split off to search the valley. I beelined for the officer with the map. 

“Ma’am? May I see the map?”

She glowered like a cockroach had asked her for a kiss. “You don’t need it.” I was a stubborn cockroach. “May I see the map? For the sake of efficient searching. Ma’am. Please? Ma’am. The map, ma’am. Ma’am!” I followed her for several minutes parroting my request. She finally yielded, cursing me viciously as she held the chart up for study. It was an old map indeed, etched on vellum instead of flax cloth as was common in the modern age. In the valley where we stood was a city’s symbol stamped against the southern cliff. It was labeled “Avoid” in an archaic script, the kind common several centuries ago. I had to wonder why we were ignoring that advice.

“Satisfied?” The officer snapped.

“Is this from the 9th Centennial?”

“Not your business.”

“If you say so.” I strolled away, leaving her to fume. I wasn’t expert in much, but I did know how to read maps, and I knew for a fact that on modern maps, this valley was drawn deeper and wider than it was on the vellum one. I could see the jagged strata a hundred feet above us, contrasting sharply with the time-worn rock higher up. An earthquake had cracked this place apart, likely in the same eruption that stopped the River Minor. Any structures from the 9th Centennial would’ve been rendered rubble.

 If they’d been built on the ground, that is. I had a hunch to look higher.

[too-many-blorbos]

Part Four of Prisoner's Dilemma fiction

Come sundown,we prisoners were given a quick meal and fresh foot-wraps and shoved out into the street. With the colonel’s entourage flanking us, we marched down the road to our unknown fate. It was still skeeter season, and they feasted on our improvised platoon. Cicadas screamed in the trees and lightning bugs flickered among the foliage, mimicking the stars above us. Familiar sounds, all of them. I’d lived more of my life outdoors than in.

“What were you in for?”

I side-eyed the prisoner next to me, who’d asked the question out of the blue. “Are you talking to me?”

“Not much else to do.” He shrugged. “So? What were you in for?”

I stared straight ahead and ignored him. He waited a moment, then continued without a response. Sigh.

“I was jailed for kyne-rustling. Stole someone’s sheep. Everyone suspected me right away–I’m kind of a black sheep back home. But I hid it well enough that they couldn’t find it when they questioned me. Until the silly thing started bleating.” He shook his head at his own poor luck. “Seems a petty crime to kill someone for.”

The crime didn’t matter. Few people in that prison had done something heinous; the mass execution was a shortcut. The Convocation had deemed it a waste to house and feed criminals when there was a war on. They’d ordered the jails emptied, or so I’d heard from the guards. They could have simply released us all ,or searched the records to find candidates for parole. Instead they took the simple approach of killing everyone. Efficient. The Convocation  liked being efficient.

But I didn’t feel like explaining that to my chatty companion. He moved on from the subject anyway when I failed to reply. “Where d’you think we’re going?” He mused. “Somewhere dangerous, of course, or they’d use proper soldiers. Maybe they need labor. Maybe we’re a diversion. I wonder if we’ll get a chance to run for it.”

“Doubt it.”

“What’s your name? Mine’s Karl.”

“...Xandros,” I muttered, accepting my fate. There was no escaping prison or this conversation.

“Xandros? That’s not an orcish name.”

I sighed inside. If I had a copper for every time I’d heard that... “It’s Faelic.” 

Karl’s brows scrunched in concern. “You can’t name yourself with Fae language! You’ll attract their attention!!”

“You can if you’re half-fae.” 

I watched his face transform from concern, to confusion, to horror. A typical reaction to my heritage. I couldn’t resist some snide advice. 

“You shouldn’t talk to strangers. You never know who–or what–they may be.”

Karl was blissfully silent for a while as he processed that. When he did speak, all his youthful confidence had vanished. 

“...Am I… your puppet now?”

“Ha.” My lips twitched despite myself. I shook my head.  “Fae can’t steal names like that. You have to give them formally.”

“Truly?”

“No, I’m lying to get your guard down.”

“Fae can’t lie.”

“I’m only half Fae.”

“And the other half…?” Karl eyed my stubby tusks. I can’t believe he was actually asking.

“My mother was an orc.”

“An orc and a fae… sounds like a bard’s tale.” Karl scratched his head, amused by his own mental image. People often found my parentage amusing. I often broke their noses for it. I was briefly tempted to break Karl’s, but dismissed the notion. Not worth the effort. 

Karl meanwhile studied my profile, undoubtedly looking for the signs of my fae heritage. They weren’t many. I was more washed-out than most orcs, and freckled, and my ears rose to a much higher point than an orc’s would. I possessed no ethereal beauty and very little magic. My dove-gray eyes were the most fae trait I possessed, but only because they matched my father’s. There was nothing exceptional or ethereal about me.

“...Does your neck hurt?”

That question took me aback. I rubbed my neck, where violet bruises marked a mottled circle around my throat. I’d forgotten about them, truthfully; it was easy to ignore the pain while marching. They seized their chance now to ache, reminding me how close I’d come to perishing. Although I’d felt no fear then, I couldn’t suppress a shiver now.

“I’ve had worse,” I told Karl. Then I sped up to walk nearer the front. I would focus ahead, where the future lay. I did not care to dwell on the past.

[too-many-blorbos]

Part Three of Prisoner's Dilemma fiction

The fall felt like an eon. 

No, that's the wrong word– an eon is an immeasurable length of time, in which anything can happen. The fall was a mere moment, but it was a frozen moment. No time for change. Just the world pausing, letting my mind take in that sliver of time to the fullest before moving to its inevitable conclusion. I felt many things during that pause. Surprise at the interruption. Outrage at the timing. Fear, shockingly–though I blamed the fall itself for that.

 Acceptance soon pushed out the other emotions, though. Whatever awaited me, I couldn't avoid it, so there was no point in dreading it. Perhaps it would even be a boon– perhaps in death, I would rejoin the men I called family. That thought brought me comfort, and I greeted my end with serenity as the rope yanked taut. 

And then just as suddenly went slack. The next thing I knew, I was on my back with the wind knocked out of me. I stared up, dazed. Above me, the rope's frayed end swayed in the wind. 

The executioner leaned over the hole and met my eye again. "You're one lucky louse," she remarked, sounding almost impressed. "It's been five years since a rope snapped on me."

I sat up and felt at the noose still collaring me. The rope had indeed snapped; a foot of it dangled above the knot. I stared at the unraveling fibers, at a loss for words. At a loss for thought, even. This… was not an outcome I'd anticipated. 

"Stop the executions!" The colonel repeated. From my vantage point, I could only see her boots and the dyed legs of her steed. In my stupor, all I could think was that the dye pattern was surprisingly simple for such a high-ranking officer. Practical.

The warden came from the sidelines to greet her. "What are your orders, Colonel? I was told to empty the jail."

"And you will." The colonel snapped. "I'm taking custody of the remaining inmates. They must be prepared to march out by day's end."

The whinging among the prisoners turned to baffled mumbles. The prison staff around us reacted much the same way.

"My lady," the warden ventured delicately, "They are, of course, at your disposal. But please enlighten me on the reason for this sudden change in orders."

The colonel huffed. She indulged him in a professional, though impatient, tone. "Commander Grey is plotting a new strategy. We require extra hands, and as THESE hands were going to end up lifeless in a ditch anyway, we're commandeering them for more productive things."

Ah. They needed expendables. I rose and dusted myself clean, or as clean as I could manage. The prison staff, still confused, herded my peers back into the shade of the prison. One man resisted, shoving past the guards to confront the colonel.

“What have you in store for us, high-cap?” He glowered at the soldiers. “Is it not enough to take our freedom and dignity in this hell-forsaken place? Must you also drag us like cattle to be slaughtered on the front lines?”

“You can be slaughtered here if you prefer,” the colonel quipped back mockingly. She spurred her horse toward the stables, not deigning to give any more attention to her lessers. The petulant prisoner was pushed back into line, and I along with him. As we filed into captivity once again, I tugged the noose off and tossed it to the ground. My end had been postponed.

For now.

[too-many-blorbos]

Part two of the Prisoner's Dilemma fiction

Pearl.

Father called me that in his most tender moments. I was an unexpected boon, a pearl in an oyster. The greatest treasure in his life. I took comfort in that often. People didn’t look kindly on a child without a mother, much less one who traveled with mercenaries. If I was never dear to anyone else, I was at least dear to him. 

I clung to that sentiment when we fled the mob. I was certain he’d catch up to us as promised–I was too precious for him to abandon. Even as days became weeks, I kept telling Gerrain that we’d rendezvous soon. I pestered him to visit our favorite towns and check with every courier we saw for a letter, certain that Father would send news any moment. Gerrain humored me grudgingly, always silent. He knew better, of course. He was too wise to believe my father had survived. Every confident assertion from my young, hopeful self was a dagger in the heart to him, a reminder that his brother-in-arms was gone forever. I wish I’d been wiser back then; we could have at least grieved together. Instead, Gerrain suffered by himself… and by the time my hope faded enough to see the truth, he was already beyond saving.

He lasted five years raising me alone. It wore him down, like a river beating stones into sand. Towards the end, he stayed in bed and did nothing but drink. He died in that bed. Heart failure, the undertaker said… that's one way to describe a broken heart. I wondered often if I could have prevented his fading. I doubt it; I couldn't even heal my own broken heart. And now I faced the world on my own for the first time in my short life. My guardians didn't leave me with nothing; I had no material riches, but I knew their trade and I knew their mastery of the wilderness. It was an inheritance that could sustain me my whole life if I used it well. 

But I was young. I was hurting. And that combination rarely breeds good decisions. 

Splinters dug into my feet as I climbed the shoddy stairs. My skin prickled and stung under the sun's relentless shine. It didn't matter. I wouldn't live long enough to burn. My unfortunate peers– other prisoners, their crimes ranging from manslaughter to poaching deer– were noisy as they waited their turn. Some cried. Some prayed. Some cursed. I should have been doing the same; any normal person would be emotional in the face of death. But I felt nothing. Even looking at the wagon piled with limp corpses, waiting for the rest of us to be loaded in for disposal, I couldn't muster any feeling. My own execution felt as bland to me as a bowl of gruel.

The noose pulled snug around my neck. It was damp with sweat, its fibers coarse and irritating. Funny how I was more annoyed with the mild discomfort than the prospect of death. 

"Any last words?" The recorder asked in a monotone.

"Screw off."

"Noted." He wrote the phrase down with a hint of disappointment. Perhaps he'd been hoping for something poetic. People sometimes expected eloquence from me when they heard my name, with its exotic syllables. They were usually disappointed.

The executioner crossed to the lever. Her weather-worn hand gripped the mechanism, but didn't pull yet. She met my eye, briefly. I stared back, unspeaking, unblinking. I don't know why she hesitated to end my life. She'd shown no such squeamishness with the other prisoners. I broke her gaze, choosing instead to stare at my feet and the platform beneath them. The wood displayed an impressive collection of stains from its years of use. It was almost like a painting. An abstract painting, made with pain for pigment and cruelty for a brush. A fitting place for my end, after a life shaped by cruelty and pain. 

I heard the lever creak as it was finally pulled forward. Then the sound was overshadowed by the sudden blast of a horn, and the thunder of approaching horses. 

"Stop! Stop the executions!!!"

My head snapped up of its own accord. I caught a glimpse of silver and violet, of a colonel's shining crest--a high-ranking entourage from the national army.

And then the wood gave way beneath me and I fell. Plunging to my death.