HEARTHOLME Chapter 8: The Kindest Prison

Halia sits on her wooden stool near the town dungeon. When one thinks of a dungeon it should conjure images of dark stone and wrought iron. It should convey a sense of dread and despair. Heartholme, however, is nothing if not a ray of sunshine on a warm summer day and this extends to its jail. There are cells in this prison, true, but they have more in common with an inn than a jail. One wall contains the bars of iron, but another lets sunlight in from a high window that any clever thief could escape from. A comfortable bed houses a single occupant, the target of Halia's interrogation, and both a writing table and dresser fill out the room's contents. It took Halia months to get the privacy screen removed for when prisoners wished to change from their morning sleepwear to their daytime finery. The look in her face now conveys all of the distain for the lack of adequate security that forces her to keep eyes on this strange man at all times.
Halia herself is not much to look at. She presents the most plausible defense of crime by visage alone. Half of her face is badly mangled from injuries in her past. The scars cut so deep that hair does not grow on that side of her face as if she slept in acid on that side. The Lord impressed upon her to consider a mask for social affairs, but she wouldn't hear anything of it. She was proud of her injuries. She earned them. Others should fear her, not befriend her.
The Arbiter of Law for this peaceful town snarls like an angry dog at the man in her jail. This man was different. He was new. No one has entered this town since it was under protection of the Dragon Heart. There was nothing out there to enter from this frontier town anyway. She knew that one day she might encounter people despite conventional logic. Intelligent life does the most curious of things that can't be fully predicted on every outcome. She has learned to go with that and expect the unexpected with improvisational cadence and frustration. She expected elves of wood and nature. She anticipated more like Kyrin, such as the druids or perhaps savages. This man before her is not a druid or a savage. He wears well worn, but high quality clothes. The sword they took from him was of fine steel. Many of the provisions he had spoke of artisan quality that required tools of civilized society. This man was not a savage. He was practically as aristocratic as the dragonborns that live in the Dragon Quarter. Halia doesn't know what to make of it. She isn't paid to think, though. She is paid to keep the order and this person represents a threat to order and making her already stressful job more stressful.
"Do you know what hunger feels like," Halia says to her prisoner after an awkward silence. Pressure is something she can do.
"Not really," the man replies. In his cell there are remnants of the gifts of the townsfolks that keep sneaking him in food and drink. One half eaten apple rests on a dresser next to a wedge of cheese. Even the food of this prison is delightful.
"Its this gnawing at the bottom of your stomach at first. It growls at you and yells for you to eat," Halia says as the prisoner grabs the apple and slowly crunches into it with his teeth. The prisoner is, as politely as he can, listening to his warden. "But after a while it stops yelling. It gets tired, you see, of speaking up and not being heard. It then," she is interrupted by another apple being thrown through the window that lands on the bed. It bounces out of the jail and rolls to Halia's feet. "Stop feeding him!" she yells, much like her version of hunger, to the sound of scampering on the other side of the dungeon wall. She takes the apple and throws it back out the window. The delightful red fruit flies as true as her anger. The woman breaths heavy, growling breaths with wide bloodshot eyes.
"You were describing hunger," the prisoner says with a faint nod of the head to her situation, "to wit it is similar to an angry voice that tires after its yelling." Not unlike Halia. "Please continue."
"Is this funny to you," Halia grabs the bars, shaking them as she stares at the man. "You are in jail. You will tells us what your plans are if you want to be let free if we are being merciful." Slowly the prisoner's eyes wander from Halia to the icons of mercy that have been gifted upon him so far. "So start talking!"
"Dahlia," the prisoner begins as the warden corrects, "Halia! Its Halia! Arbiter Halia. There is no 'Duh' sound in my name."
The prisoner composes himself after the correction. He coughs. "Yes, well, Halia then. You'll have to forgive me, but I do not wish to convey the plans that we have at this very moment. Interrupting them would be most dreadful and a true crime to those that are enacting them."
"So you admit you are not working alone," Halia says with a wide grin of victory.
"Yes. You saw as much yourself when you apprehended me with two others. I had no intention of fleeing or harming you, D," the prisoner pauses, "Halia. Arbiter Halia."
Fatigue is wearing on the woman as Halia steps back and sits on her stool. She forgot about that. It is not much a confession or a break if it is common knowledge. Interrogation was not her strong suit. Normally people are so afraid of her that they do what she wants. It is times like this that the old Arbiter, Ryan, would take a measured approach to coax out the truth out of the townsfolk. She considers consulting him when the prisoner keeps talking.
" Are you sure you do not remember me," the prisoner asks, "My name is Jarvis Greene. I serve the House Targarius as one of the faithful retainers. You have my word I will not harm you. This prison is unnecessary."
Halia's eyes wander away from her thoughts and settle on this man. This Jarvis Greene. "I wasn't born yesterday. You are not getting out because you asked nicely. There is no remaining House Targarius here. Not anymore." The founding of Heartholme came at great cost, as all great things do. "Targryn is only remaining House and we are conf firming records of any retainers to the late Targarius House. I don't buy it though, Jarvis. If you were such a loyal retainer, why didn't you and yours accompany your Lords when the town was founded. You should have died with the rest of them. In which case you are a deserter or a liar. Neither of which are getting out of my prison."
"You are in the prison, Dahlia," Jarvis says, "This entire place is a prison. We are trying to free you from it."
Halia leans forward on her stool, "How? How are you planning to free us from the prison."
Jarvis leans back against the headboard of the bed. "You don't believe me, yet. Telling you would only jeopardize what we aim to accomplish. I can't let you do that to yourself."
Drat. Closer this time, though. Halia taps her foot onto the wooden floorboard, "Ok, then help me believe. You say I am in a prison. I say I am not."
"When did you get to this town," Jarvis asks as his eyes settle onto Halia's.
"No, not like that," Halia shakes her had, "Tit for tat. You want me to believe, right? Question for a question." She can't call on Ryan, so she can at least try to think like him.
"If I'm able," Jarvis agrees, "then gladly."
"How did you get into this town?" Halia asks, "The mist beyond our border gets thicker as you go out. It starts like a dull fuzz, like mold on fruit. Pretty soon its as thick as a grey fog. How could you find your way in through that?"
"We did have help," Jarvis explains, 'from the man who made this place. Facilitated it, he said. So he knew how to get us in for a price."
"That doesn't make any sense, Jarvis, we made this place with our own blood, sweat and tears. You mean the Dragon Heart?" Halia begins, but the man replies with expectant eyes. "Question for a question," he says. Halia takes a deep breath and exhales. Channel your inner Ryan. Old man Ryan would keep the conversation going. "I was born in this town. I didn't get here because I always was here," Halia says.
"To your question, I do not mean just the Dragon Heart. This whole place is not real," Jarvis says, "and I think you know that to be true if you stop investigating me and start investigating this place, Dahlia. How did you get your scars?"
"I fell," Halia says defensively.
"From where, Dahlia, there are no hills here. No cliffs jagged enough to leave marks like that. How did you get your scars?" the prisoner asks.
Halia runs a hand over her face. Each gouge of her skin that is replaced with scars is a reminder of when stone ripped against it in the fall. Each dent of her skull is a reminder of the force of impact when she fell. She does not let the prisoner get into her head. "I ask the questions here."
"With respect, that is not the deal. How did you get your scars?" Jarvis insists. He has his goal just as she has hers. The mind does wonderful things to change fact to a suitable narrative. What narrative did Halia spin?
The two stare in silence for what feels like an eternity to both of them. The door to the jail opens as an elf and a dwarf step inside. Fabian kindly holds the door open for Ryan. Although Ryan looks leagues older than the youthful Fabian, both of these races age slowly into their elder years. Its entirely possible they are the same age, despite their looks. No one has ever asked. Neither of them found it important.
"Halia," old man Ryan says, a wobble in his step as the short, stocky man makes his way over to his old deputy. "So good to see you," he tells her warmly.
Halia, still bothered by the line of interrogation, cuts her eyes sharply to Fabian, "Being relieved, am I?" She jumps to the strong conclusion that she isn't getting results so they brought Ryan in. She has failed.
"Even dwarves sleep," Fabian offers diplomatically, "as should you. We watch in shifts." The far elf's eyes move from the tired Arbiter to the aristocrat in the jail cell. "As should you, our esteemed guest, get sleep as it calls you."
Jarvis smiles back to Fabian, "Your hospitality, given the circumstances, is quite impressive. I impress upon you to relieve me from this room, but short of that I shall maintain my health in this cell."
"Very well. Excuse us," Fabian says as he steps over to Halia. She is not easily moved by others commands. She never has been and now is not the time to start. She stands on her terms and in her time. Because Fabian wants her to move it takes longer for her to do so, but she eventually does. The two depart on a lingering note of disapproval.
Old man Ryan looks at the young man in the prison. He hops onto a stool more to his height. "What is my name?" he asks as his old, thick hands fold over his lap.
"Orion Vengryn," Jarvis responds in noble recital of doctrine.
"Thats right," the dwarf says as he squints his eyes, "Jarvis Greene Junior. Let's talk."