There was ink, on her hands and yet, she couldn't see it. She could smell it, amongst the earthy scent of mold, mildew and decaying straw, human waste and anguish.

It was, then, night.

During the day, the dim band of golden light beneath the heavy wooden door turned the cell into a wash of different, vague shades of grey over different, sparce, shapes spread across the small space.

She hadn't noticed at first, exhaustion, shock, fever obliterating the worst of her surroundings which seemed to consist of the stench of her own sweat and the brewing infection which had spread through her torso in long, throbbing, fingers.

It was now, that she noticed, the comings and goings of the footsteps, the sounds of her assistant picking over the neighboring cell. He was ill, she knew, his movements sluggish. She'd written the letter and prayed, she didn't remember to which deity, that it reached the newly crowned king. She doubted it would. She doubted even the news of their arrival had reached him. It'd been so long. Eons, in the freezing darkness.

There were times when she dreamed of the mines.

The frozen, black, press of the walls, the groan of the supports, the thunder of distant cave ins and the plumes of dust which shot from the openings in the mountain like the giant nests of fabled dragons. The lingering sense of claustrophobia which constricted her chest until each breath seemed like a fight between life and death. It was that crushing feeling which drove her from even the remote comfort of sleep.

But was it better than the hopelessness? The trapped feeling?

They had come so far.

So. Far.

Sometimes, she called to him, tried to dig under the stone wall which separated them, tore at the flag stones in vain. But the cave in never ended and his voice faded away to nothing at all. It all faded to the faint movement of his chains when she pressed her ear to the three inch thick door.

She heard other things, the guard's chatter as they passed. The festivities above, the women, the drink. Sometimes they talked about her.

"Bound fer execution she is, shootin' at Gerald th' way she did,"

"S'only a matter o'time 'afore th' justicer 'as th' reasonin' tortured out o'er,"

"I say, th' lil' chit's dead either way, might well 'as 'ave abit o'fun wi'er first,"

"S'not gonna be my 'ead on th' choppin' block if th' king pardons 'er, me, I'll wait till it's official, won' git m'bollocks chopped off o'er a skinny lil' mop, I seen stable lads wi' more t'grab on to than that 'un,"

"Why wait? S'not like 'ee's goin't do ennythin' about 'er anyways, too busy 'ee is, she's jest goin't git old an tough, 'sides, I t'ain't a faggot like yew,"

"Shut'cher hole fuck face,"

It was the same conversation, over and over it seemed, or perhaps it was the voices which streamed through her head, hour after hour in the fever which came and went. She wished he would, kill her, that was, rather than just keeping her down there. Day after day. If it even was days any more, not just one, never ending span of darkness and more darkness.

But the ink wasn't dry and her eyes still burned from when they'd opened the door to take it away, as if she'd stab them with the quill and bash their brains in with the well.

"I am not a vigilante, I am just, a jeweler."

But no one ever heard.

She had the feeling, that nobody ever would.

She smeared the thick, liquid across her face, to prove she could still feel.

It was ink.

It dried.