Edgar Spelljack
10 Spring, 509 AV
Edgar Spelljack was the king of Cell Number Forty-Six. No inmate dared step foot in Edgar's room. Anyone that tried ended up like the last poor prisoner.
The sparse, gloomy orange light flickered from the hall, leaving faint dancing lights on the cold, steel bars of Edgar's cell door. Being one of the few torches in the entire prison, its light was like magic; it was the only source of light aside from the sun, which was only seen one hour per day during D Hour. D Hour was a daily event that lasted one hour, named for its use in giving the prisoners their daily vitamin D from the sun to prevent rickets. In a year, that’s only three hundred sixty-five hours, or about fifteen days, of seeing the sun. If the long-lasting torch went out, complete darkness would follow. Maybe, if the prisoners were lucky, a guard found out two weeks later. The guards didn't care for the prisoners at all. They came a couple of times a month to "check up on things." "Check up" as in skim by in disappointment that they haven't all killed themselves yet.
There was no exiting one’s prison cell save for D Hour. During that one hour, the dozens of prisoners were all brought together in a small square field called D Field with dirt for ground and towering stone walls on the side. That was the one time a guard was present, and it was only one guard, who didn't watch them during the actual hour. On the outside of the prison, the stone walls must have contrasted greatly with the glass architecture of the rest of Lhavit. It was probably a good scare tactic for many. Clearly it didn't work enough, since there were so many prisoners. D Field had no benches or places on which to sit or rest, and the walls were smooth, preventing climbing. The top of the walls were laced with barbed wire.
The guards didn't care for the prisoners. They intentionally let them rule themselves so that they would have a chance of going to war, in which they would kill each other off.
Edgar Spelljack was not at the bottom of the penitentiary's "society." He wasn't at the top, either. His unique case went like this: nobody spoke to Edgar Spelljack; Edgar Spelljack lived in his own cell; Edgar Spelljack can kill anyone and everyone in this prison because he shoots fire out of his hands. In fact, he did kill two inmates in his almost six years in the prison. The first guy hit Edgar on his first day since he was new. In response, Edgar cooked his brain with his hand; he put his hand on his forehead and burned through his head in a second, killing him almost instantly. Then, everyone stayed away from Edgar Spelljack for about three and half years. After his little break, Edgar was challenged at D FIeld for Cell Number Forty-Six by some tough guy. He died. Now the no-mess rule was officially established. Plus, Edgar's sentence and crimes kept people away from him: he killed ten men, stole over eleven thousand mizas worth of jewelry and burned down a store... all in one night. For that, he was sentenced to life in prison with no chance of perole.
Edgar sat on his bed, his back on a corner of the square cell. The two hundred square foot room contained several simple, old pieces of furniture. A small twin-sized bed hugged the wall across the door. The frame composed of wood shafts that were nailed together by dull wooden bolts. On top of it laid a pathetic excuse for a mattress. Across from the foot of the bed, taking up the whole wall: a small desk with a book, a tied feather quill, and a tired leather inkwell. There was no chair, but it was designed for the writer to kneel. It didn't matter to Edgar, anyway, since he hadn't touched the book once. To the right of the bed sat a large rotting wood bucket for relief, replaced a few times a month. Finally, to the left of the bucket, a corner with no access of view to a passerby in the hallway. The corner was where Edgar tried, multiple times, standing for two days whole days. He was undisturbed until his neighbor cellmates threatened to get security if he didn't reply, thinking that he might have escaped. He did this more and more, so that if he came to escaping, his neighbors' tolerance would be increased.
Edgar watched from his bed the flickering of the torch on the steel bars of the cell. His days of standing by the door were long gone; it didn't get him out any faster. In fact, with his life sentence, the only thing that could get him out was himself. Edgar had already burned a guard in an escape attempt, knocked another in another attempt, and in the other two escape attempts, he didn't hurt anyone but himself. But what could they do to him? The courts were at first merely being lenient by letting him live. Then, the prison pushed for his execution. The court saw that his imprisonment seemed worse than death, so they kept him alive "just to spite him." But it didn't spite him. Edgar feared death greatly. But more than death, he feared a worthless life. He would rather risk his life than spend the remainder of it in a tiny stone room.
Edgar had changed tremendously in prison- physically, that is. His personality remained practically the same; quiet, dangerous, and wicked. It did change slightly: he became even more cold and his emotions went completely out the window.
Edgar's clothes were confiscated upon entry of the penitentiary, including his hat, which had belonged to his guardian. The friends and family of the nobleman he killed, as well as those of the deadbeats, stormed the prison's inmate belonging box and took Edgar's clothes, items, everything. They burned it all and spat on the charred remains. How ironic that they burned the clothes of a fire wizard. Edgar now wore a loose-fitting, slightly over-sized, ragged prison shirt, as well as poor under garments, slacked trousers, socks, and shoes. Everything was gray with thin white longitudinal stripes. His clothes were ragged and his cell was garbage, but he sowed every hole in his clothes and cleaned and repaired his room as best as he could. Despite being around dirty, unkempt inmates, although none in his own cell, Edgar did his best to make him self appealing. He did it for himself only, because it was a thing of the outside world that civilized people did. Edgar wanted to feel like a civilized human being. Despite his efforts, Edgar began looking more like a ghost than a human. The stress and depression of being locked up, with little food, and the lack of energy to work out, weakened and exhausted Edgar. Fortunately, he didn't need to be strong; he was well off so long as he had his fire, and that was round the clock. He had lost at least fifteen pounds in his first month, and he had not regained it since. He was called handsome before he came to the prison, but now that his cheeks were slightly sunken, his fingers thin, his whole body slimmer. With almost one hundred thirty pounds, naturally relatively short height, short-cropped hair, and a clean-shaven face, younger Edgar looked even younger. He actually looked like an older adolescent. The way he felt was even worse- at first. The drastic lack of sunlight and the close quarters had driven him near mad initially. Quickly, however, Edgar Spelljack adapted to his new life. But no matter what, he could not accept his life sentence. Every minute of every day, he thought of escape, not caring for the penitentiary's violent hierarchical bubble.
Edgar had a lot to go back to, even though he was alone. He missed the food of Mizahar, savory pork and juicy chicken, grilled spicy vegetables and sugary fruits, and sweetmeats, of course. He missed the sharp taste of good wine, the kind that made the stomach all warm even though it was cold. He missed a soft bed, one that sat next to a window in the sun's comforting warmth. He missed the grass and the birds and the night sky. He missed every color save for gray, the only color in the whole prison. There was every possible shade of it, but it was gray nonetheless. Most of all, he missed a woman's touch. He would forget the food and drink and sun for just one touch on the hand or the cheek.
Edgar still remained sitting on his bed. His mind was void of thought. He had thought every possible thought in his six years. He still had a lifetime, maybe, and he didn't know what he would think about. Edgar hadn't cried one time in his whole prison time, and he couldn't now if he tried. Nothing new ever happened around here. Ever. New prisoners and deaths didn't count, either, since they occurred on a regular basis. Edgar finally closed his eyes, still sitting on his bed, not laying. They burned for a few seconds, then settled. He opened them again but now they were heavy. He still didn't lie down, because even though his eyes were tired, he was not. He opened his eyes and looked at his hands. They were blurry, and he wasn't allowed to have his spectacles in the case that the glass was broken for use as a weapon.
Edgar was beyond the point of anger, sadness, and self-pity. He was, however, not beyond the point of having hope; hope in being able to escape the Lhavit penitentiary to escape back home to Syliras. Edgar looked all around the room. He didn't even have a spider to talk to; even they must have found the penitentiary revolting. Edgar finally rested his eyes on his cell door. His good far eyesight allowed him to focus on details, something he liked to do, despite the low light. Edgar stared expectantly at the barred door, his sorrowful eyes drooping, as if something was supposed to pop out.
“Magic can be found in stolen moments.”
