Piss wets Owain's breeches as the hangman tightens the noose around his throat. He quivers - terrified of dying - something he didn't think he would be. He feels shame, stood there at the center of the square of Sargot, with the locals looking on to see just another waste of skin being brought to justice. Their sneers and stares cut deeply. He knows they might all have done the same to survive.
To his left hangs a horsethief, stupid enough to have tried taking from some nobleman's stables. Further over hangs another man, guilty of one crime or another severe enough to warrant death. The hangman moves around the side of the platform, where a lever connected to some mechanism will pull open doors below the feet of those who in a few moments will cease to exist.
There are incomprehensible shouts from the mob, but the hate in their voices is palpable. Owain averts his gaze and stares at the sky, tears rolling down his cheeks. He sees birds pass overhead.
With a snap, all goes dark.
Owain wakes with a jolt, sitting instantly straight up on the cold, dank floor. A streak of light reaches into the cell through the barred, small window in the ceiling, the sun tickling his face. Owain places his head in his hands, combing through his greasy hair. He checks – his ragged breeches are dry. The cell might smell of **** and piss, but at least he’s not wet himself.
Down the corridor marching footsteps approach. It’s a prison guard. He rattles the bars with his wooden baton. “Wakey wakey, scumbag. Grub.” He says in a coarse voice, after clearing his throat. The guard slides a bowl of murky liquid under the cell door, along with a piece of mouldy bread. “Don’t understand why we feed you lot, you’ll be dead by the end of the week anyway.” he follows up with. Owain ignores him, keeping his head down. With a grunt, the guard leaves.
Owain stands up, pain shooting through his back, still sore from the beating he received when the Lord’s men caught him. The would-be soup is barely lukewarm, but he slurps some down quickly. A few sad, lonely pieces of vegetable swim on the bottom of the bowl. He reaches for the bread, removing the mould where he can. Mouldy bread isn’t anything new – that’s most of what he could afford to eat lately, anyway. He savours it, dipping it in the salty liquid and eating it with the mushy carrot and onion.
Having eaten, he slides down against one of the cold walls of the cell, and waits.