CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

The survival time of a human body without food and water was estimated to be between a week and two, but that depended on several factors, including the individual's overall health, age, physical condition, and environmental conditions. However, while Tatsuya had always prided himself on his physical endurance and mental fortitude—and was sure he could have survived for however long if his body was in top shape, fueled only by his determination to stay alive—his current situation pushed him to the very limits of his capabilities, and he was no longer certain about his prospect.

The battle against Ferris had been fierce and unforgiving, and in the process, he sustained several injuries; although he barely registered them, there was no denying they were taking their toll on his body—as his innate healing factor could only do so much—draining his strength and will with each passing moment. Even his unwavering determination couldn't overcome the physical reality of his weakened state, especially now that he fought a battle against dehydration and malnutrition.

As time seemed to stretch indefinitely, the only constant was the hunger gnawing at his insides and Farah’s almost feverish babble:

“They will come. I know they will.”

It was almost admirable how, like a mantra, she never faltered in repeating it, and though he didn't believe her words, he didn't try to discourage her. Hope, in this situation, was worth their weight in gold—it was all she had; she clung to that flickering flame of hope, desperately holding out for any sign of rescue or salvation, and even if the passing shadows or distant sounds were not who she wanted them to be, she refused to surrender to the mounting pain and despair the circumstances brought.

However, days turned into nights and nights into days, blurring together in an agonising haze, and Tatsuya’s focus turned to himself as his body grew gaunt, his once-strong muscles withering away. It wasn't long before his mind, once sharp and focused, followed suit and began faltering under the strain of his biological battle.

At first, the signs were innocent and easily dismissed, brushed off as mere absent-mindedness, but as time progressed, they became more pronounced and impossible to ignore. He would stare at nothing in particular for minutes on end while clutching his stomach with a grimace, and simple conversations became arduous tasks for him. He struggled to find the right words or information, often grasping at the fringes of his vocabulary in search of a familiar term.

Eventually, all that remained were those that pertained to his life’s purpose, and as such, in moments of lucidity, he questioned the choice that led to his current situation. He wondered if he should have turned away from Farah (and his inevitable capture) and wagered on his ability to find the Wind Blades; surely that was better than this desperate struggle to remain alive.

But regrets held no power in the desolated room, and he had no choice but to endure.

“They will come. I know they will.” Farah’s voice, barely a thread of sound, raspy, tired, and filled with a heady mix of emotions, carried a haunting melody that drew him back to the present— and immediately, his eyes zeroed in on her form.

Her hair and eyes were dull in vibrancy, wild and somewhat distant, and though she wasn’t what anyone would call stocky before—not like Leia—she still had the lean yet defined muscles of a fighter; now, her body was thin, stripped of the feminine curves she once possessed. Yet, even if she looked like death warmed over, all that mattered was that she had not given up and was still alive—and despite his treacherous thoughts, if he had his way, he would ensure that remained so.

As he stared, their gazes locked for a fleeting moment, and in that instant, before she could drop her gaze and return to wallowing in her mind. “Farah.”

She inclined her head in response, her hair falling to the side in a matted, dreadlocked-like mess.

“Can you tell me more about your master?” Body aches struck like knives as he approached her cautiously, muscles quivering with every movement. “We didn't really talk much about her.”

Her gaze softened, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her chapped lips, and as she fell into his open arms and snuggled into him, her hair pressed up against his face, he pushed his own emotions and problems to the back of his mind in favour of listening.

Face buried in his chest, she sighed, and her body slumped into his. Then, at last, she said in a rough, muffled voice, fighting through the pain of her parched throat in order to stave off the creeping doubt, “She always told me to have faith, that regardless of what's happening, things will always get better…”

He tried to keep awake as they shuffled back until he leaned against the wall, but the call of sleep pulled his eyelids close, and her words numbed his body of its cravings—yet, even as the echoes of distant voices (and occasional clanging of metal) faded, and his thoughts turned to dreams, and reality gave way to reverie, his grip around her remained strong.

“Tatsuya, wake up! I think I hear voices drawing near.”

It was a pity he was thrown—after what felt like minutes at most—from his dream back into reality by Farah’s sharp, croaky whisper, and as he breathed in the musty smell heavy in the air, he could hear the encroaching voices of men somewhere outside. One man with a deep gruff voice was shouting orders, barking like an overzealous guard dog, and though the room was sealed in—and thus, mostly cut off from the currents—it was still enough for him to pick up on the rattle and crash of metal chains being dragged over stone stairs.

As there was no door, a section of the stone wall folded into the other in a quick display of earth manipulation, and the light from the hall fell across two men in boots and long, dirty cloaks bustling in. One was a small, thin man with matted hair and dirt stuck to his face, while the other was a large man—a crooked nose, dark unwashed hair, and cruel blue eyes (in contrast to the other’s green) that hid beneath a furrowed brow—carrying a riveting hammer. Both also carried a pair of iron manacles.

“Come on, you two. Your execution awaits.” The water elemental laughed and rattled the chain in front of them. “Don’t think of doing anything stupid; most of the lords and nobles are in attendance.”

The man grabbed Tatsuya by the hair and pulled him to his feet. So close were they that their individual smell of sweat and rot, which permeated from the layers of dried and crusted blood that coated their clothes, came together in a spirit-awful mixture that filled his mouth; Tatsuya swallowed back the urge to be sick and, as the man’s mouth opened to speak, drew the air from his lungs with a sharp inhale.

Tatsuya’s attempt at suffocating the water elemental was cut short by a slap across his head from the short man—who quickly returned to Farah’s side to prevent her escape— forcing him to stop, and once said elemental recovered, he was dragged across the room by the hair and sent tumbling to the floor.

“Oh dear, looks like he still has some fight in him,” the man said amidst coughs, bringing down rugged boots on Tatsuya’s fingers and pinning them to the floor before he could yank them out of harm’s way. The water elemental peered down at him, and from the latter’s position, he could see the bottom half of the former’s face and the crooked teeth that lined his sneering mouth. “Let me douse it quickly.”

Sordid water leapt from the slop bucket at the corner of the room to splash over his head, but though Tatsuya felt anger rise at the deliberate insult and slight fear at what could follow, he would not give them the reaction they desired; instead, in the dim light of the room, he boldly smiled through his pain, mouth tightly shut and forcefully spread across his face.

The two men looked at each other and then at Tatsuya as he knelt in the sodden straw that was scattered over the stone floor—with the large man raising a fist in anger—before the smaller of the two shook his head. The water elemental let out a displeased hiss but held out on pouring down an expected deluge of blows in favour of lifting Tatsuya by the neck and not- so-gently pushing him against the wall. Hot ale-sodden breath washed over his face.

“While I would love nothing more than killing you now, Lord Ferris needs you both in one piece for his show, and let me tell you something”—a nasty look was conveyed—“I will enjoy watching you die greatly.”

The man spat out the words, and Tatsuya tensed the muscles of his throat against the strong hand that attempted to stop him from breathing.

“That won't happen,” Tatsuya said, even as the grip grew tighter.

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Farah said. “They will come for us.”

In lieu of a reply, the water elemental released his hold, and Tatsuya fell to the floor, left to scramble ineffectually for laboured breaths. Only for a moment, however, as the stone floor rose to wrap around him and Farah. Their limbs were skillfully brought together and to their body’s front simultaneously—he could grudgingly admit—and the bracelets of the manacles were pressed over each wrist before the water elemental hammered in the locking rivets. Their stone shell returned to the floor, and each man took hold of a length of chain.

“Now, come on. It's time for you two lovers to die together. A true love story.”

Sardonic laughter followed in their wake, and Tatsuya was almost tempted to join as they were led out of the room and up a flight of stairs, tumbling out of the prison into the bright afternoon—no doubt towards the city centre where a sizable crowd could be seen milling around.