Isabelle
The acidic stench of urine ate away at the lining of Thomas’ nose. Three days he had remained in Fritroth Dungeon on suspicion charges. He was no stranger to the maggoted meat stew and potatoes. Grateful he was too, this time he wouldn’t have to be fitted with the Mute’s Bridal that still tasted of the vomit the previous wearer choked to death on because he was too hungry to refuse the stew.
He could hear the torturer in the other room, whip lash after whip lash. The rhythm transported him to another place in time. Slowly the lashings faded into horse hooves on a cobblestone road. He sat in a carriage. The sun playing peek a boo through the glass with him in between the branches. He glanced to his right and there sat Isabelle.
She smiled so sweetly at him, he could not break his gaze. He stared at her pale skin, the cinnamon specks that accentuated her face jumped out at him with a new life. The sun played with her hair and face. Thomas thought to himself what sheer delight he had found.
“Cream sprinkled with cinnamon, a delectable delight to feast my eyes upon til my hunger can no longer be sustained.”
His daydream was abruptly ended as he was dragged to take his turn at the torturers whip.
With each lash he received, pain jolted through his system resetting it. Returning his mind to pitch blackness. It was between the strokes, in the brief two seconds he thought of only her. As the last and final blow reached his raw back his mind thought of her, though still he questioned his motives.