By Joseph Sullivan

Beneath the abbey was the cellar of the Imprisoned One, that none dare speak of in public or polite company. The clerics that ran the place seldom brought it up, save in hushed whispers around each other in dark times or aside glances at the stairwell that suggested it was that time again.

It was the latter situation that evening, and Gelvan Thorndike, travelling priest, had been assigned the task of feeding the Imprisoned One. Previously, he had only heard rumours of what the abbey held below, but he was quietly told about it shortly after he arrived by the senior clergy.

As soon as a traveller arrives, they get them to do it, Gelvan mused ruefully as he carried the food down the stairs. Yet despite his misgivings, he was always willing to do his duty.

The cellar was dark and cold, the stone walls dimly lit by fading torches illuminating the dirt and decay. In the centre of the place was a large wooden box, inscribed with all manner of religious words written in old languages and symbols of holiness.

Gelvan hesitated briefly before opening the box. Inside was a pale, middle-aged man dressed in an old black cloak. The smell of food seemed to stir something, and he awakened.

“You are not one of the men upstairs,” the Imprisoned One’s silky voice was tinged with a guttural growl.

“I’m a traveller,” Gelvan replied bluntly. “I was told to feed you.”

He took out the bottle of pig’s blood as the prisoner opened his mouth and bared his fangs. Gelvan was briefly shocked, but steeled his nerve and poured the bottle out as the prisoner drank it all.

“Ugh,” the Imprisoned One retched after finishing the entire bottle. “Taken from old stock. I have little strength left because of cheap tricks like this. I have pleaded with them to let me sample human blood, but they will not provide any…”

“I doubt they will change their minds,” Gelvan shrugged nonchalantly. “At any rate, feeding time is done, so —”

“Wait!” The Imprisoned One called out before Gelvan could close the box. “Do not close the box just yet. I wish to speak with you.”

“And why should I indulge you?” Gelvan said as he grabbed the lid.

“Because it is the only reason I am here,” the Imprisoned One explained. “You holy men could have destroyed me years ago upon my defeat, and yet I was kept in existence so that I could…speak,” a faint grin spread across his face, although to Gelvan, it could have been a grimace. “I am old, and I know much of the workings of evil throughout the world, which, according to some of your elders, made me an asset for good.”

“And yet there is no good in you.”

“Ha! I should think not! But you were told of me, yes? You are aware of the purpose I serve?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know that I am telling the truth. Over the years I have informed your ilk of demons that threaten the innocent, abominations that lurk in the darkest corners of the night. And it is in that spirit that I wish to speak with you…traveller.”

Gelvan paused. He’s playing at something, he warned himself. This is on his own time, not for his own survival. He cannot be trusted. He resolved to keep talking, but to also keep his guard up.

“Is that so?” 

“Yes…you say you are a traveller, a wandering priest. Does this mean that you go from place to place, preaching the good word to the people, lending a hand to those in need, standing up for what is right, and acting against injustice whenever you come across it?”

“Indeed, I do.” Gelvan did not want to give the Imprisoned One any clue as to his thoughts, and yet he could not help but feel pride at this description.

“But it is more than just that, I think. You, like the others, fancy yourself a protector against evil, against unholy forces like those of the demons and the undead. You want to drive them away, or bind them, as I have been bound here…am I correct?”

Gelvan waited before answering, considering his words. He is not wrong, but what is he playing at?

“That is true, yes.”

“But for all you preach, the injustice is always present, is it not? Whether it is the thief, or the lawman whose harsh laws drove that poor soul to theft to begin with. It will never leave…nor will the unholy, I suspect. There is far more in evil than either of us know…there have been times I was consulted on matters most foul when even I professed ignorance.” The Imprisoned One smiled, baring his fangs. “Do you think about these things, traveller?”

Gelvan sighed. “Yes…” he admitted. “But for all that evil, good persists as well, and it has persisted for a long time and will continue to do so. All I have done in my travels is to serve that end.”

“We shall see…” the Imprisoned One laughed coldly. “I will not keep you for too long…but I think we shall meet again soon enough. When that happens, I will see how strong that faith remains.”

The Imprisoned One closed his eyes and did not protest as Gelvan, content with not needing the last word, closed the box. As he did, he looked at the lid and noticed that the inscriptions etched into it had begun to fade. Fear ran through him, and he looked down at the rest of the box and saw that it too looked plain, its carvings decayed.

Have the binds been broken? Gelvan stepped back. Could he have escaped this whole time?

He waited for a minute in fear, but nothing happened. The Imprisoned One seemed to lie still.

Gelvan sighed in relief and started back up the stairs.

I will need to inform the senior clerics that the imprisonment rituals need to be renewed.

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