MIDAS

Upon sitting down, the boys curiosity grew for the room's contents; the stacked-up books in every corner made present how much knowledge the man in front of him must possess. He parted his lips, his eyes darting around to the shelves on the right and left of the both of them, the flickering glow of the candle repelling off the shiny glass caps, one of them emitting a faint golden tone. The ampule was much tinier than the others that were stacked on the shelf.

"Harm' di?" The man told the boy, sounding to him with the purpose of getting his attention back to him. Unfortunately, only met by the perplexed look of a confused child, likely not understanding him. He sighed to himself, his eyes wandering slowly down onto the wood as the man began to ponder how to continue. He laid his mask to the side; to the right of him, the table was crowded with papers, writing utensils, ink splashes, and books.

Slowly stroaking his beard, the man finally let go of the tension in his eyebrows, reaching down under the table with searching fingers and, with time, emerging once again with a dusted painting, a small framed piece of paper, slightly bigger than the books that lay on top of the table. The blue, orange, and brown tones were bleaching already, the paper visibly worn, but still, the boy could somehow make up a group of 5 men, their robes around their shoulders, hoods over their faces; they seemed much younger than the man, still much older than the boy.

He tapped onto the glass, onto one of the men's bleached faces, only his fingertips emerging from the bright gray bandage, wrapped tightly around his arms, up his hand. "Alma'ef," a slim grin appeared under the thick beard as the man looked down onto the photo, the boy soon following his gaze down again after risking a glimpse into the man's face to understand his message. With his finger, he slowly traced his nail from one bleek face to the next. Before stopping once again on the same young man depicted on the painting. 

His finger lifted up, back at himself, lightly tapping the piece of cloth shielding his torso. "Alma'ef," he softly spoke again. The boy understood now; his eyes widened slightly, switching down from the framed group portrait up to the finger again. The man wanted a name, his name. Upon looking up to the finger for another time, it switched to point at the boy in a rapid motion, slightly digging into his chest.

Panic struck the young child; he didn't have a name to go with; even if he may have had one before, after his unexpected arrival, any piece of knowledge he had about himself vanished. He had nothing to do besides aimlessly trying to look for something around the room, something that may have a decent-sounding name. He exclaimed a dry huff, the corner of his mouth awkwardly forming a grin on one side. It took a while before he locked his eyes onto the tiny glass again, a gold shimmer hidden away behind a slim layer of dust.

His pupils were stuck on its light shimmer, glicening with silky movements around the glass, stached away for what looked like an eternity. Just as the boy lost himself in its look, the feeling of something breathing down his neck emerged, whispering unfamiliar tones to him, as the glass began to shine dimly, its light barely distinguishable from the candle shine. The boy came back to his senses as the stool in front of him began to speak. The man had stood up, taking a good look at the boy, his brows stern, as he faced the shelf to grab the old flask, rubbing away the dust with the cloth of his robe.

With both hands he held onto the flask dearly, looking at it with sharp brows, before looking to the boy again, then facing the glass once more, his lids shut for a moment, before he put the flask back to the same place on the shelf. Leaning down to the youngling, his palm on top of his shoulders, he named him "Midas." The boy nodded, a nice-sounding name. The slim smile the man gave off distracted him from the eery feeling of the glass bottle. 

Without any long moment between, Alma stretched out his hand for Midas to grab a hold onto. The boy trusted the man much more than he had back at his cell; still weary by the mystery that shrouded him, he followed his step. As they stepped out the door frame, two men winked at the both of them, their hands shortly lifted up from the backend of the handle of what seemed to be sabers of some sort, which stuck out under their belt.

Following him around the sheltered off balcony, which gave a look out of the giant walled off field, sporting dry ground and sand, he followed up two staircases, his legs still weak, as his hunger and thirst increased. As they reached what seemed to be the third floor, Midas gazed upon a dated rug, its red and white strings loosely bound together; it made up a sitting spot for another robed man. Alma let go of the child, sitting in between the two, as he directed Midas to sit beside him.

Without any greeting, the man dined, picking off bluesh gray grapes from its wrinkled stem, silently munching away at them. The foreign-robed person in front of the already confused boy seemed much slimmer; he hadn't moved any slight way. His head turned to the bigger building in the center of the walls surrounding the dry area, one of his arms resting atop the lying-lowing table. The man broke a crumbly, dark loaf of flat bread into two, shoving the other half at Midas' face, nudging the youngling to eat from him.

With thankful nodding, the boy accepted the halfened bread; it crumbled slightly as he held onto it, the man shoving one of the white plates to them, the porcelain glicening in the sun, ontop of the plate what seemed to be dried up meats, sliced sausage, just as dark as the bread. It felt crumbly, and as the boy chowed down onto it, it fell apart quite easily; its grainy texture stuck onto his gums. With reassurance from Alma, the boy tucked a slice of meat into his mouth; it was hard to chew, slightly spicier than he had hoped it would be.

The foreign man turned to Alma, as Midas was busy chewing, slowly, in a dry tone, talking to him, "Alma'ef.. flisir." his hand, loosely shaking towards the middle of the compound, guards rushing down in a closely formed line, down the staircases. As they ran past the floor they sat on, Midas was shook by their shouts and loud marsh, chainmail clunking from under their robes, every one of them who passed seemingly hiding behind the same piece of holed metal.

The old man began to preach something the boy couldn't decipher, slowly mumbling to himself and shaking his head on his own. The boy risked another look up at Alma, catching him sternly looking in the direction of the main building as he slid another piece of dried meat into his mouth. Before hesitating, he stood up, looking down to the barren ground, his grip holding onto the clay rieling.

Shook by the sight, he laid eyes on a row of lightly cloaked people, clothed in white, their hands strapped together, forming a line, all connected by what seemed to be the same rope. The collection of prisoners walked from the opened gate, built into the wall to the left of him, into the compound. None of them seemed to dare move up their heads, glued down onto the floor; many of them were women, some even children. 

Alma stepped up, warm wind blasting against them as they peeked over; his stern expression hid what seemed to be grief as he struggled to look up to the chain of prisoners, his hand on the shoulder of the boy once more. Midas could only hope to not end up like this; he could only hope for Alma to have pitied him; he couldn't end up like them, even though they probably have the same rank as the boy has in this fort.

Midas turned away from them, his head to the ground; he didn't wish to find out what would happen to them, as he knew the purpose of the underground layer, hiding behind the empty center, distancing the main, middle building from the walls around it. Both sat down onto the table again, Alma once again chewing down on the fruit in front of him without any word spoken.