Alatiel's world had been diminished to a room so small she could not lay all the way down in it. Even after nearly a week in the awful dungeon, she had not gotten used to it. She was claustrophobic, though she had never been so in her entire life. For the first day, she was fine. Then, she began to long for space to stretch her entire body out. There was seaweed, and mollusks, and all varieties of sea creatures growing on the walls, making it at least six inches small on each side.

All this padding made it difficult for one to hurt herself on the walls, though. She had tried, multiple times. She was desperate to get out of this situation, and if that meant bringing herself out of this world as well, so be it.

It smelled terrible down here, too. Prisoners vomited into the water, excreted their waste, and died, but none of it was cleaned. It was just too much trouble to have to cleanse the water, cut off from the tide as it was. She had once considered it gross to breathe in something that had once been a half-digested piece of another person's food, but she could barely remember that time.

Food, if it could be called that was served once a day in very sparing portions. It was set outside of the cell, so she had to reach out through the rusted bars, cutting her arm, every day. It would not be too bad, except that she had already made her arms into a bloody mess by trying to escape in her first day.

It was not that her spirit was gone, or she did not think so. It was just that she had no way to vent it. She believed she would escape if the opportunity presented itself; it just had not, so far.

Every day she had three choices for scenery: her living walls, the rusty bars of her cell, or the murky water in between. The guard did come once a day, but he stayed for as short a time as possible. She thought he might be afraid of her. She was not really an image to inspire fear in the first place, and this week in prison had not improved that. Apparently, the fact that she had murdered her own brother countered this enough.

She was confused about this now. Before, she had known that she had not killed her brother. It was someone else. Someone else had come and murdered him before her eyes. She knew this because she would never have killed Laryn herself. She loved her brother.

But… if this was true, what was the motivation? Who had killed her brother? Laryn had no real enemies. He did not even know many people. Who would have wanted to kill him?

It worried her at first, but now, she was lost. Perhaps she had killed her brother herself. Perhaps she had gone insane and killed him, and blocked it all out afterwards because she had not meant to. Or perhaps she had done it on accident, and blocked it out for the same reason. If she had not killed her brother, she would seem innocent, and there would be clues leading to other people. The king would not have been certain enough to arrest her and put her in prison.

She had memories of how it happened. She remembered the man coming in, his black hair nearly to his shoulders, longer than most men’s. His eyes were dark, and ever so angry. He rushed into the room, with his knife brandished, and began to stab Laryn repeatedly. She could still hear his screams clearly. She had fled then, and when she returned, others had found the scene.

If this was true, though, then what were the memories surfacing just now? They seemed more fragmented and forced, so perhaps she had imagined them after so many people telling her she had killed Laryn. She remembered anger burning herself up, after a fight with Laryn. She did not recall what had happened during the fight, but then she saw herself plunging the knife through his heart, her hand shaking and slipping on the hilt. She remembered the barely recognizable body laying before her when she came back to her senses. She swam away.

Which of the sets of memory were true? It had to be the first, right? Or was that just what she told herself when she swam away?

Feeling sick, she heaved, though it was dry. She had not eaten food yet today, so there was bothing in her stomach. Even as she heaved, it rumbled, begging for food. She felt light-headed when she finished. Why could they not just decide her punishment? Could they not just kill her, and end this agony?

If she was dead, she could see her sweet brother again. Perhaps she could ask him what happened. Of course, if she had killed him, he would probably hate her. Her life would be hell, as well as her death. Shuddering, she stared at the dark hallway outside of her cell.