[piosenniel]

Dain Ironfoot's post

Fréa stepped quietly into the cell and closed the door behind him. It was late in the evening; all the others on duty had already left except for old Balthor who was guarding the outside doors to the prison. Fréa could do or say anything he pleased to Haldór and there was no one to witness his actions or object.

Earlier that evening, he had seen Brytta stride into the cell block and talk privately with the prisoner. The two men had put their heads together in a conspiratorial fashion so that it was impossible for Fréa to hear what they were saying no matter how hard he strained. When he saw Brytta leaving the holding area, he’d gone up to the man and told him with a straight face and feigned sympathy in his voice that there was little help for his brother, and it was best if the family reconciled themselves to that reality and prepared for the worst. Brytta had not responded verbally, but had shot a vicious glance towards Fréa and clenched his fists quietly by his side.

As Fréa stepped inside carrying a torch to light the darkened cell, he glanced over towards the prisoner. “Not much longer,” he gazed steadily at Haldór. “I’ve been at these executions before. Usually, they come in the morning just before dawn to lead you out to execution. They place shackles on your legs, bind your arms, and blindfold you. Then, as you’re led down to the place where the scaffolding’s set up, the crowd will jeer and let you know how they feel about someone who murders an officer of the king. Such a pity you lost your temper and bludgeoned that poor man.”

Fréa acted as if he was about to turn aside and leave, then pivoted around at the last minute and spoke. His words did not hold a grain of truth, but then the prisoner had no way to know that. “By the way, there was something I needed to make sure and tell you. Oh, yes, I was with the commander today, and he mentioned that your brother Brytta was suspected of helping you hide the body. You know, the one who’s crippled. Someone denounced him, I believe. They’ll be charges prepared against him as well. Such a pity to see an entire family struck down. But then I guess you won’t need to worry about that since you won’t be here to visit him in prison.”

Fréa walked over to the shoddy, beaten mattress where Haldór was to sleep; the knight had taken off the chain he always wore round his neck and set it down nearby on the floor. The piece was a heavy silver chain of ornate workmanship with the insignia of the Hildeson family outlined on a golden crest. Woven in and about the frame of the crest were strands of silver hair, obviously from an older woman. Fréa reached down and fingered the piece of jewelry roughly, then picked it up and spoke with contempt, “What’s this? A family heirloom? And with your deceased mother’s lock of hair interwoven? Old Hilde of the famous Hildeson’s, the one who lost her life as Orcbait.”

Fréa lifted up the necklace and pulled out the misericord at his side, using its tip to strip out the strands of silver hair one-by-one. Then he held up the treasured locks near the flickering flame and watched as the fire totally consumed them. He halted for a moment to look over at Haldór and then pushed the jewelry deep inside his pocket. “We’ve got rules here. Prisoners aren’t allowed such trifles. This is mine by right. I don’t expect that you or your brother will need this back. See you in the morning.” Then he turned and left the cell.