21 days of writing: day 03

Prompt: “Don’t fuck this up”

 

 

The press of steel against his wrists is cold, brought even colder by the temperature of the place they've thrown in him. He can't make it out through the scratchy cloth covering his eyes but he can hear the dripping of water, can feel the jagged edges of stone against his legs where he'd made contact with the floor. 
 

There is damp in the air too, and the odd mixture of human sweat, mould, and what he hopes is just rotting food and not anything else. A stark contrast to the warmth of his own room and the silken touch of his robe. 
 

He twists his wrists, feels the way the cuffs bite into his skin and grits his teeth against it. He's lucky the guard who'd come to take him away hadn't done more than a brief pat down or they would have found the thin sliver of metal sown into the hem of his sleeve, easy enough to get as long as he was willing to spare a few layers of skin and some bruising. 
 

He knows when metal breaches skin, can feel the sharp bite of it, the warm trickle of blood down his hand when he tries to get at his sleeve. But it is worth it when the pick falls through the strands of fabric and into the palm of his hand. 
 

From there it takes a little bit more wriggling for him to pick himself free and the relief that floods into his system when the metal clicks has him sagging against the stone wall. He catches the cuffs in one hand so that they don't clang noisily against the floor and lifts the cloth over this eyes with the other, a risky move but he needs to take stock of his surroundings.
 

As far as he can tell, there is no one else around him, no sound of footfalls or creak of armour but he keeps his movements as slow as possible just in case. 
 

With the blindfold out of the way he can tell that he is in some kind of basement room. He hesitates to use the word dungeon but that is the closest thing to it, from what he can tell by the sliver of light leaking beneath the door anyway. Perfect. He doesn't get a clear view of the outside but that also means no one can see him. 
 

He places the cuffs down on the ground behind him and gets to work stretching himself out. He knows a guard will be sent down eventually and when he comes he'll only get one chance to get his hands on his weapon.
 

He twirls the pick between his fingers, its sharpened edge winking in the low light, says to himself extra quiet even though no one can hear him.
 

"Don't fuck this up."