To set the stage, I was kind of fucked.

I wasn't sure how long I'd been down here, but I had a theory. It wasn't what you'd call iron-clad, but I'd been beaten eight times, and I reckoned it was a once-a-day special.

That made this day nine.

In the Duke's dungeon, it was too dark to see. No windows. But I could still hear. There was the sound I was used to, thick boots on grimy stone. The echo of it always made me think the dungeon was larger than it felt. I'd only been able to poke around my own cell, of course, which was plenty cramped. I was the only prisoner, so those footfalls were always for lucky old me.

I was dead wrong.

I heard something else in that great black darkness. It was fainter, too soft to echo, but I was pretty sure it was something being dragged.

There was a creaking noise, a cell door being open, and something being thrown in. They had to be dropping off a new prisoner. It sounded like they were right in front of me, the cell across from mine. I wanted to reach out and grab at them, try and feel what was happening, but the guards didn't take too kindly to that. They didn't take too kindly to anything, really, but especially me.

I was hoping if I stayed quiet, they'd leave, and I could try and get something out of the new prisoner. How many days had it been? What was it like outside? Fuck, I'd settle for a description of sunlight. I was happy to talk to anyone who wasn't a guard.

"Alright, let's deal with this bitch," one of the guards muttered. He had a voice I'd heard before, creaky with age.

"I'll get the stick," said the other. Another familiar voice. That one was fond of slapping me.

The stick was one of the many parts of this procedure I fucking hated. Aguard shoved it through the bars and tried to bean me with it. Either the stick had a seriously long reach, or the cell was real fucking small. After enough hits on the head from that thing, I didn't really care which it was.

But getting knocked on the head wasn't the point; that was just to figure where my head was. The guards couldn't see any better than I could in the fucking dark, and after the first time I'd stolen a candle and shoved it in somebody's face, they stopped bringing them down. No, the stick had a loop of leather at the end, and they used that to get my neck and pull me up against the bars. Then they could get the door open without me lunging at them.

I still tried, though. I fought like all the hells until one of them landed a halfway decent kick. Honestly, I didn't have to go down right then, but it seemed like the smarter option. They were going to get me on the floor eventually, so I may as well have some of my wits left when I got there. When you're at a disadvantage, it's always good to make yourself seem weaker than you are, but you have to make it believable.

No, if you're wondering, I'm not an honest woman, and I don't want anyone making me one.

Once I was on the ground, they kicked me a bit for fun, and then got ready for the part where they asked questions. I suppose they'd have called it an interrogation, but honestly, fuck them.

The Slapper was real fucking fond of sitting on me during this part, which made him the one I hated the most. I hate men touching me when they know I'm a woman. But I bore it, because I had to.

Grandpa wasn't nearly so fond of getting in close. He just put one of his boots to the side of my head, wanting to let me feel the threat. People always need to feel powerful, even when it doesn't fucking matter. I was at the bottom, beneath any peasant, even a villein's wife. A woman in prison? I was more screwed than a nail. But they still needed to lord it over me.

"What are you doing in Sigan-Faru?" The Slapper earned his nickname.

"I told you," I said, because I had. I probably should have given up and just let them beat me, but I was always one to struggle, to argue. It had worked for me so far; so far, they'd got nothing from me I hadn't wanted to give. "I was just living here. Trying to get work."

"As a man?" Whenever we went over how I'd dressed as a man for nine years, the Slapper acted real shocked, just disgusted. I think that's where the slaps came from; he wanted to punish me for it.

"Fuck you." I tried to spit in his face, but he didn't get any angrier, so I must have missed.

"Why were you living as a man?" Grandpa nudged my head with his dirty fucking boot again. "Who are you really?"

None of their fucking business, not that it mattered. The truth wouldn't satisfy them, and I couldn't think of a lie that would.

"What were you doing here?" The Slapper leaned in real close. I could smell his rancid breath, feel his weight bearing down. I wanted to scream, and I didn't. Sometimes you have to focus on the small mercies. At least I could turn my head away; in the dark, he wouldn't notice. "Why did you seek the Duke's employ?"

They wanted me to be a spy, was the thing. The Duke of Sigan-Faru-- a man who up until recently I'd worked for as a sometimes hunter and general dogsbody-- was wildly paranoid. He had total control over land out in the middle of nowhere, and it made him a twat. Men with little power always think someone's out to steal it.

I hadn't answered, so I got another slap.

Grandpa nudged me with the boot again. That thing was practically halfway in my ear. "What's your name?"

"Swicend." It was the fake name I'd been going by for nine years; it was instinct.

The Slapper, who was always the more playful one, let out a theatrical sigh. His weight eased back until he was mostly just sitting on my hips. I fucking hated that, the way it felt, everything, but I couldn't do shit about it. Grandpa's other foot was on my arm, and the stick was keeping down the other, with the leather cord still wrapped tight against my throat.

"The same old lies," the Slapper said. "I'd hoped I wouldn't have to resort to this."

"Bullshit," I gasped out, real eloquent.

"One of my mates in the guard," the Slapper said, "he told me you talk in your sleep."

I still tried to move forward, anything to get at this fucking prick. I strained to move my arms, trying to claw at his face, to rip him apart. To pass my time alone, I had nine hundred desperate fantasies where I had my revenge on these fuckers, and against all sense, the urge still moved me. But then I heard a sound, and it made all that rabid hate flee my mind.

It was flint struck on steel. I saw it, too. It was just a few sparks, but in that swallowing dark, it was bright as starlight. A few flashes of light, pure as gold, spilled onto the dry hay that covered the bottom of my cell.

"He told me you talk about a fire."

The sparks lit, and tiny bits of flame danced over the hay. It wasn't enough to see much-- not the guard's faces, not even how big my cell was. But I could see how fast the sparks grew into flame, how hungrily they ate up that dry hay. I could imagine how quick it would grow. I could smell the burning flesh from nine years ago.

"Yng," I sobbed, "my name is Yng."

It turned out the guards had brought a bucket of water to douse the fire with. They'd also got me half-soaked in the process, so I was freezing on top of being in a real shit mood.

Whatever joy I'd felt before, whatever excitement I'd held for the possibilities of a new prisoner to chat with, they were fucking dead. Seeing fire close up always makes me want to roll over and die. I'm fine with candles and campfires and things like that, mind you-- don't know how I'd go outside if I weren't-- but when I'm inches away from an open flame? I always thought of how quick people can turn to a burning pillar. Skin didn't catch as fast as hair and cloth, so the thing that damned you wasn't the fire itself. It was the little parts of you, things you had on, that really fucked you over. It was the things you couldn't pull off fast enough, the things you couldn't escape.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Did you know that skin can melt? I hadn't, not until I was fourteen.

Cold and wet as I was, you'd think it was easy to push the thought of fire from my mind. But fire had an awful hold on me, always had. I was freezing cold, and all I could think of was the burning heat. I could get stuck thinking about fire for hours if I wasn't careful, and nothing could distract me in this endless dark.

Until the fucking whistling began.

You'd think I'd be grateful to get out of my head just then, but I'm no less petty than anyone else. I snapped at the prisoner across from me, "could you fucking stop?"

"The whistling?" The voice was low, male, and had that kind of sharp accent that meant he was from farther north.

"Of course, the whistling," I hissed. "Keep it the fuck down."

He obliged, at least for a while. I'd curled up, thinking maybe I could sleep this off, when he spoke again. "I just, well, I was using it to keep track of time?"

That was clever enough, I supposed, and I could sympathize with wanting to know how much time had passed. Honestly, I could have commiserated with him, but I didn't want to commiserate with anybody. I didn't want to be nice, or friendly, or kind. I mean, do I need to paint you a picture about the way that I felt?

I insulted him. "That won't work, you daft bastard."

"How do you mean?" He asked me, perfectly fucking civil.

"You can't keep the same tempo every time, and how will you count how many times you've sung? What happens when you have to stop singing?"

"I see your point. I… hadn't expected to be here long enough for those details to matter." He made a little sighing noise, which I imagined was the sound of him getting a clue. "How long have you been down here, goodwoman?"

I winced at the goodwoman, mostly out of habit. From his tone, he probably didn't mean it as an insult, but I wasn't feeling very charitable, either. My answer was hot with spite. "I've been down here longer than you, which is really the only measure that'd be accurate."

I could hear a little sound, barely a breath. Later, I'd learn that was how he laughed. "My name is Ecka," he said, "Sir Ecka of Wyddod."

You can tell a lot about a person by their name, which is why I hated I'd given mine.

From his name, though, I could tell you a few things. First off, he was a knight, I mean, obviously. He'd given that away for free. Since he didn't have a surname, though, he was some commoner who'd been raised up to knighthood. It was rare, but it happened. Wyddod was just his hometown, wherever that was. From that northern accent of his, I'd guess he was from the great cities. Three of them stood on the far north of the continent, absolutely bursting with people, so I'd heard.

While I was lost in thought, Sir Ecka of Wyddod politely cleared his throat, like a gentle reminder. That he still had manners down here in the dark would have made me laugh if I'd been in a better mood.

"The fuck you want?" After the last few hours, I reckoned if I wasn't having fun, nobody could.

"Your name," Ecka said. "Please."

"Swicend," I said. It was still instinct. After everything, it still felt safer.

"No, no," he said. "The guardsmen-- I heard it. You said something else." As he spoke more, he got a little more lively. I kind of hated him for that. I kind of hated him for existing.

I mean, he'd clearly been out of it when he'd been dragged in. He probably only barely remembered what'd happened during my little session with the guardsmen, so I shouldn't have blamed him for talking about it in such good spirits.

I did anyway.

He asked again, "what was the name you said?"

There was nothing to gain from lying, which I hated. After lying for nine years, telling the truth about what I'd hidden felt like admitting a weakness. "Yng," I said for the second time that day, "my name is Yng."

"Ah," he said, his voice practically sparking with interest. "That sounds Magni. You're Magni, aren't you?"

I didn't want to talk about this, but I guess he took my silence as confirmation. He decided to make a joke, one I'd heard variations on a thousand times.

"I bet your hair is bright as sunlight and lemon, and your eyes river-green."

There's a lot of things Eadlings think about Magni, and most of them are wrong. A lot of it has to do with the fact that we used to raid a lot of their cities, not just on the coast-- we have special boats, I'd been told, that could sail up rivers. It builds a level of distrust between people, you could say. So there were plenty of stories, told mostly by people who had never met Magni, about what Magni were and weren't. The most popular one is that we're all pale as cave fish, with blond hair and green eyes. It wasn't true, of course-- Magni came in all shades and shapes-- but the stories persisted. They said all the men were ruthless warriors, and all the women were these incredible beauties, just stacked.

The thought of being thought beautiful, just then, made me want to scream. "Fuck you."

But Ecka kept on going, like he didn't even notice me being a snotty little virago. I was really getting the sense he liked to talk. Normally, I would have appreciated that-- I can get plenty chatty myself, if you haven't noticed. But, you know, we've gone over how I was feeling.

"I should let you know," he said, like he was doing me a favor, "I have no ill will toward the Magni peoples. They do not raid up North. I think the treaties will hold. Yours are a reasonable people."

Personally, I knew how little stock the Magni put in treaties made during peacetime.

"But I wonder," Ecka continued on, "what a Magni woman-- you are a woman, aren't you?-- what is a Magni woman doing so far inland?"

How many more times was I going to get asked this question? For the rest of my short life, I reckoned. But a thought that wormed its way through the rotten apple of rage and despair in my throat. This was probably going to be the last time someone asked that question and actually cared about the answer.

This Ecka guy-- he was flippant and annoying, but I could tell he gave a shit.

So I took a breath to hold back some of that anger, and I told the real truth, my truth.

"Did you know some Magni make settlements on the coast? There used to be one near here." I kept going before Ecka could ask what had happened to it. "I got here, and I didn't want to just--" Just be in danger again, like a fourteen year old in the Summer Lord's cult, but that was too much to explain even now-- "I had to keep safe."

"This world is unkind to a woman alone," Ecka said, like he was giving me permission for something I'd done nine years ago.

"And I…" and this was the other half of it, "Magni women are allowed outside, until they're married. I didn't want that to end. I wanted to keep being out, doing as I liked. Working, still. Nothing debauched."

There was another silence, and I hated that I didn't know what it meant. He had to be judging me, to be putting my life on a scale, and he didn't even have the decency to tell me what I rated. I hadn't expected him to give a shit, but I was prepared to deal with scorn, not silence.

"You fall asleep?" It was louder than it had to be. I could hear my voice bouncing off the stone. He had a whole chorus screeching at him.

When he finally spoke, it was slower than before, but with that same irritating cheer. "You know, not all Eadling keep their women inside at all hours."

I was glad to hear he'd missed the point. "Good for them."

"But Sigan-Faru is a very… it's very different from up north. I've heard that Duke Ceorl is quite… well, I've heard he disapproves of such things."

"That's real fucking polite of you."

"Does that bother you?" Maybe he was trying to needle me back, which was only fair considering what a shrew I'd been to him, but that didn't mean I had to like it. I didn't answer, anyway; it was too close to the truth, and as you might have guessed, the truth and I hadn't been friendly for a long fucking time.

Nine different shades of polite, Ecka didn't try and force me to answer the question. He moved on to the next topic, not even mentioning my admittedly fucking conspicuous silence. "You acted the man; clever, I suppose, if you wished to live out of doors, but… as you've said, your own people would have given you better work, and you would have had to tell fewer lies."

I thought about my people. What did that fucking mean when the only contact I'd had with my people had stopped after the fire? Were my people all the Magni, or just the ones who had raised me, the followers of the Summer Lord? Under the Summer Lord's law, at the time of the fire I'd already been a little old to be unmarried. The high priest-- my fucking father-- had kept me back with some notion of a special plan for me later. It would have all ended in the wives' tent, anyway.

You know that belief the Eadlings have, that all Magni look a certain way? That comes from somewhere. It's what the Summer Lord says everybody should look like, and he says it's your job to make that happen.

"Don't feel like talking anymore," I said, and curled up on the cold, wet ground. I turned to face away from him, letting the burnt hay, still soaked, cushion my head.

Whatever kind of person Ecka was, he wasn't the sort to press. I was finally tired enough that I could appreciate that.

This time, when he started whistling, it was an old lullaby. I didn't know the words, but I'd heard people singing it to their children. My mother had never done that for me, and my father certainly didn't have the time.

I think it was the first time anyone had ever had a lullaby for me. I kind of liked it.

But it didn't make sleeping any easier.