((Clipped moment from a roleplayed scene))
Cody didn't seem bothered by the silence. He was used to it. In six months the only alternatives to silence had been arguments with his cellmates and a few syllables traded with the guards. Silence had quickly become his favourite sound.
And then she broke the silence, his neighbouring captive. He didn't dislike her voice. She wasn't going for an argument, and she was even keeping the boredom at bay. They had talked of his daughter and he explained, "She's with her grandmother now."
Fyria nodded subtly, and thought of telling him how her own child was six feet under, but perhaps he didn’t need to hear such a grim sentiment.
“My father is the judge at the town hall.” , she said.
Somehow that fact seemed more relevant as they were rotting in jail. A wide slow smile spread on her face, “He hates me.” She seemed proud, almost as if she would have told that he loved her.
However a moment later that pride was gone, “And he fears me.” She let out a quiet breath, “He fears, that in my trial I will openly state that I am his daughter.” Her smile reappeared again, tinged with amusement, “I used to trade stolen goods. It seems to me that he has stolen your freedom, and I am about to steal his reputation. Perhaps I could arrange a trade and sell him his reputation for your freedom.” Her smile grew kind, and somehow she seemed noble, portraying her plan to blackmail the judge with surprising grace and empathy. Crime came natural to her. At least when the cause justified the deed, “No child should grow up without her parents.”
Cody sighed at her words. Of course she thought it would help, he hadn't told her he didn't want to be free, he hadn't told her he didn't want to deal with his life anymore. He brushed his hair away from his face and looked directly at her. His expression spoke loud and clear, with his eyebrows pulled together and slanting downward, his forehead creased, and his lips rolled inside his mouth, and his eyes were still a little reddened, but she probably couldn't catch that detail from the distance. "I don't want my freedom."
Fyria’s eyebrows rose slightly in surprise, although a moment later she gracefully went along with it, hoping to lighten the mood with a gentle jest, “You are right. It is rather cozy in here.” She patted her hays and looked around her small cage, “In truth, I feel more free here than outside. There is no longer expectations, fears, doubts nor uncertainty. I am guilty and I will be punished. I find that resolution liberating, as I no longer have to hide. In a way these bars are physical manifestations of a cage I already lived in before I was dragged here yesterday. At least now I no longer have to pretend and in that I find some freedom.” Her voice was distant as was her gaze, although it flickered at him, before she added. “Are we captives if we choose to be here?” She smiled a little, her expression suggesting the question had been rethorical.
Cody slowly shook his head to her words, dropping his gaze back to the floor of his cell. She had not understood what he meant, but maybe it would be better that way. She didn't need to understand, it wouldn't make her life better, it wouldn't make his life better, if anything it would sadden her. It had been a mistake to say such and it was a good thing if it went unnoticed.
However, he found himself agreeing in part that the resolution was liberating. If only he also had that certainty, and if only they would carry it out quickly...
"But will you be really free again, once you're free again? Or will you just walk into another cell?"
Fyria smiled sadly, “I don’t think I will ever be entirely free. My past holds me in an iron grip, much like this cage… I won’t be free…And at times I am not sure if I’m even alive.” Her gaze wandered without destination, halting eventually at his face, “That’s why I’m not terribly worried or in a hurry to get out of here…How can they harm me, if I’m already dead?” Her eyes widened subtly, almost playfully, even if there was nothing joyous in her words.
Cody's gaze didn't wander much, like a splinted arm, it only moved up or down. Up to her face, her figure, or down to the floor, or his feet. And it was down to the floor while she spoke, but it drifted up to her face once she was finished. He had pushed the pain away from his own face, leaving room only for a bittersweet smile. I wish I was already dead. That's what he wanted to say. Or what he thought, really - if he wanted to say it, he would have.
But the words he chose were different, "Try waiting here six months, you'll painfully realise you are very much alive."
