Dungeon Walls

If walls could talk, I wonder what these ones would say. Hard, round stone dewed with questionable moisture in this impossibly cold and dark prison… would their teeth chatter as mine do when trying to make a sound? Would their breath breathe frost? Would they whisper for fear of being caught?

Would they even have the courage to talk?

Or perhaps, would they be on their side? For how many of us have been locked up, chained and shackled only to find the end of the irons attached and burrowed deep inside these very walls upon which I surmise? Though we both be cold and hard from the endless dungeon night, suppose it takes more than suffering to break the bond of ideology? Suppose these walls too take issue with me, my loves, and all who dare call on the Dark Mother for guidance, support, and power?

But who went and deemed the “dark,” “bad?” For I assure you, never in all our millenia have the followers of the Dark Mother ever chained those we deemed our enemies. Leaving them for rot and filth in a forgotten, frozen cavern. Never have we set out to destroy without a cause, on a preemptive whim of preservational fear so that we might conquer and rule and condemn as we please. Never have we thrown such disgrace, distaste, and malice upon the human race, so tell me, O’Great and Precious Walls Who Keep ––

Who really are the bad ones?

And do you serve your duty proudly?

The latched wooden door at the end of the hallway snaps and creaks open, casting a flickering shadow from the last remaining torch in the subterranean hall. The soldier’s footsteps echo a slow and ominous approach, but Alatra keeps her head pressed against the stone wall.

Or given the choice, would you tell my story?

“Get up.” The footsteps stop and the endless drip outside Alatra’s cell suddenly changes pitch as it taps the top of the soldier’s shoe. Alatra’s hair covers her face as she whispers and mumbles into the wall.

“I said get up!” The soldier kicks the iron bars, but the echo falls short against Alatra’s instant and hysterical laugh. She positions her face toward the soldier while the rest of her body remains immobile against the wall.

The light glow flicks against her face. Gaunt cheeks and hollowed eyes stare back at the soldier as her thin, blue lips split and let out an endless howling laughter.

Would you tell my story?

The soldier shifts uncomfortably, steels himself with a transparent bravado, and faintly attempts a louder sound than the sardonic melodies building and bouncing off the stone walls.

“You’re being summoned. Get up.”

Alatra jolts –– halting the laughter in the cavern and replacing it with hundreds of jangling chains as she crawls hurriedly to the cell door. Her bony fingers grip the iron bars, and with a sinister, blackened-teeth smile, her eyes glow as she looks up at the soldier.

“He bade me ban and now bids me leave, huh?” A low and growing chuckle begins in Alatra’s gut. Slowly, she pulls herself up the bars. Her prisoner garb nearly slips off her emaciated body. Her hair wrapped and tangled around itself creates a matted puff behind her head, and yet, a strange light of life sparks in her eyes as she finally stands face to face with the soldier.

“It’s not going so great out there, is it?” The soldier’s stone response reveals all the clarification needed, and once again, Alatra’s laugh echoes and fills the dungeon space. Through her laugh, she screams, “We told you all. We told you.” Venom now pouring from her words she spits in the soldier’s face. He strikes the bars near her face before fishing out the cell key and opening the door.

“You’ve been summoned. That’s all I’ve been told.” He enters the cell, and as he unlocks Alatra’s shackles, she remains impossibly still.

Whose side of history will you be on? Many have perished in your confines, and yet, now one leaves. Were you really a prison? Or were you merely a covert incubator?

Was this your plan all along?