Chapter Text
Minutes, hours — he could bet that even days — of endless, all-consuming silence melted his head a good bit. Lately his life was constant waking up and getting back to sleep, constant 'Did I hear something?' and 'There's nothing to hear anymore', and he forgot that there could be anything else. Day and night are merely a figment of imagination, sky is something only seen in dreams, touch could only be cold: of stones or of the metal bars that keep him in place. He sometimes thinks he hears the rain, but he begins doubting it, maybe he's imagining things.
He picks on his skin in attempts to stay awake in hope that something would change, someone will come, that someone will peek in and ask “Is someone there?”. He mumbles to himself regularly just to be sure he'll be able to answer. “Yes, here's me, I'm here!”. He repeats it over and over. Maybe the guards just forgot he's here. He knows it's foolish to hope this, but he still does, what else is there left for him to do?
They fed him twice a day, the torches were always lit. There were other people in the cells around, they were making their noises, they were screaming vulgar jokes to one another. Maybe they were used to being prisoners, but it's the first time for him and he just pretended he wasn't there. They acted as if that was their home, as if they were used to cold floors, the lack of day and night, and all other prisoners were their old friends. They talked, and back then he hated the noise but now he misses it. The buzz of people. The constant back and forth of deep voices, wheezing laughs, wet coughing… The constant questioning of newbies, “Watcha here for?”, the answers along the lines of “Nothin', mate, I barely e'en touched a girl and that jester of a king sent me right-a here”. “Aye, that king,” immediate agreement from all around. That buffoon of a king, that no-man, that joke.
He wasn't good with knowing kings. Kings were something his world never consisted of. He saw the one, perhaps, but he couldn't guess which one of dozen men he saw that night was him. That king of theirs was man no different to any other, if the boy is the one to judge. Every time the prisoners described that king, he tried to imagine him just to understand if he saw him, but no description made a picture vivid. To him, all men are grown and intimidating, as well as some women alongside them, sometimes even more so. He tried to visualize it — bald, tall, stone-faced, ill-tempered — but saw everyman's face in front of him. Any man could be that king of theirs. But imagining him was at least some kind of entertainment.
Then, with time, prisoners started disappearing, bit by bit, one by one. They were led out, arguing or fighting and only some of them were calm. Perhaps it's those who weren't fed. The boy couldn't picture himself resisting the guards, but now, empty-bellied and exhausted, especially. Prisoners were led out and never came back. Not knowing if they were killed or freed kept the boy anxious. He sat and waited for guards to come for him so he could be either. But they didn't. They always walked past him, now feeding him once for when they fed him twice.
Even when the man in a black cloak came in — no one bat an eye on the boy. He knew those men in black cloaks like any kid of that land. And he was so cold and desperate now, that any stories he heard of the freezing cold North and its Wall weren't able to scare him. If that man took him, he wouldn't mind. He just wants to see the sky again. To see day and night again. He moved closer to the bars, held onto them, looked at the man standing a good distance away and just hoped to be picked. Reaped.
And then the man saw him. Gave a long look in the half-dark, for now only half of the torches were kept on fire, and asked with his hum of a voice: “And this one? Little man?”
“Would he be of use? He's not even much of a man and he couldn't even sneak, ser,” guard answers, amused by his own comment.
The man in black is not sharing his mood. “So? Any tool could be of use if you know how to yield it.” A grim pause. Just a few seconds of silence that made the boy well up with hope. He is a tool and he could be yielded, he wanted to say to them, to beg to be taken out of here… But he's not a man to fight and scream and he's not the one to speak up. In the meantime, the man in black cloak stated: “And I'm no ser.”
The guard nodded, looked at the boy with some strange emotion that made him back off from the bars a little bit. Intense, sharp glare. Is it pity or disgust? Is it indifference? The boy couldn't tell. And even then, he felt uncomfortable being discussed, and, more than that, being discussed as if he's not present right in front of them, as if he's an animal who would not understand, no matter what they say. For some reason, it made him feel like the only appropriate reaction was to stay silent, not get on their nerves. There's a lot of things people do with annoying animals.
The guard man turned to the side and spat right at the floor of the prison. “Ser or not, no. This one will not come with you.”
A sharp nod from the man in black cloak. The look on his face only made the boy back off further into the dark and make a pitiful attempt at hiding. It seemed like the man was somewhat relieved that said tool would not be any of his problems… The boy isn't good at reading expressions, but this one stung. There sure are enough of the thieves to be taken to the Wall either way, one more one less, no big deal, he understands. But to be in such spotlight for the first time of his life and be dismissed with such ease… Well, truly, it's the feeling that could make one desperate to hide.
“Right,” the watchman says. Not asking questions (and boy is saddened, because he would love to know why; did he really make something so bad he has to face this king's wrath, couldn't be let go?), not caring, just committing to his duty and taking what king gives him.
The man, without a word, turns and begins walking away, following the prisoners who were freed just to be stuck to the Wall for the rest of their lives. The guard follows hurriedly.
“We're grateful,” the cloaked man says as they walk away. “Watchmen are always needed. And with the Iron Throne leaving us hanging…” he trails off.
The guard murmurs something as an answer, the boy couldn't tell. Something about the throne. Another man stays quiet for a moment, letting the words hang in the air. Then his confident voice rings again.
“We serve the realm. And we know who doesn't turn a blind eye to our fight, with the threat of the long night looming near as ever…” They reach the turn at the far back and as they leave, the boy only hears the last question: “What's that the witch of yours says?”
And the boy shivers at the word “Night…” consumed by the silence of the dungeon. He curled closer to the wall. The sound of his shackle made him feel much more weary than ever. How long is he left here for, now that chance is gone? Men with deeds far worse than his have been freed and he, who barely sinned (not that he is knowledgeable in the ways of gods, but he knows that he always tried to do good, so what's sinful in that?), stayed in the dark. In solitude. Terrified.
He rarely had a welcome room, for most of the nights he didn't even have a roof over his head, and now all he has are walls and roof, and no sky above and no grass below. He begins getting used to it but it only scares him more. Is that what his life will be? Just because of one evening, forever, in cold and with so little space? His stomach roars and he knows that the next meal wouldn't be any time soon.
Not that he knew when to expect meals in his regular life, he just took any opportunity to snatch something for a snack as long as he could remember himself, even when mother was there to look after him. Sometimes he was fed, but only sometimes. And here, in imprisonment, was the first time that he knew for sure he would have something to eat. And that sense of stability made him embrace his position and for a good while he forgot the fear of death: if he could die satiated, he'd be happy to die. If his stomach is full, no death is really scary.
But then there was less food. He thought the indefinite time passing was playing tricks on him at first, but it couldn't be. He was hungry for most of the time now, he dreamt asleep of food as well as he dreamt of food awake. And the fear came back. What if food disappears at all?
And it did. Once he was left completely alone (as far as he knows), food stopped. He thought it a bad dream, but he never woke up from it. He thought he smelled something, but then it appears he didn't. He sat up, trembling with hunger and brisk, thinking that he heard someone approaching, but there was no one. That is, his mind was melting.
And then there was no light. He opened his eyes and saw nothing. Blindness, he thought! Could one become blind of hunger, however foolish it sounds? There was no way to check it, there was no one to ask. All he had left were bright, painful dreams, talking to himself and hopes. And it blurred and it blurred…
He was reprimanding himself for being so quiet. Perhaps if he was to beg, a man in a black cloak would take him, a guard would have mercy and let him go? Maybe if he shouted, if he screamed, if he was like all those men, proud and confident, maybe if he fought, maybe if he harmed someone or at least threatened to do so — maybe then he would be taken away just to be executed, judged by the king's justice? It would be better to die with a bellyful. And now he knows he dies slowly, with every sound his body makes, with every churn and cramp, panicked like an animal caught in a trap by some kind of cruel apex predator, who wants to see him grovel and cry itself to death. Was it what he's supposed to have, is that the life of his, is that his death? What did he do to deserve it? If he could gnaw off his own shackled leg to escape this prison — he would with no ounce of doubt. But he would never break out. He was never strong, and now… It is laughable to even imagine it. So he sits. And whispers. And hopes.
He prayed so much, recalling all the crumbs of faith he knew. Sometimes he was fed nearby temples, with septas carefully watching over the poor. They prayed before eating, and that is fairly all he had known well, that prayer of hungry and desperate, of poor and thankful. And so he tried to recall it now, with no food to dig into. Just a desperate whisper that barely makes any sense now. But it's something to hold onto.
Thank you, Mother, for looking after us, for giving us life and giving us a safe place to gather in. Thank you, Father, for being just towards every soul living. Thank you, Warrior, for helping us fight all the difficulties on our way to safety. Thank you, Maiden, for making us see the love and care the strangers need. Thank you, Smith, for the workers who laid their labor to feed us all. Thank you, Crone, for helping us to find the way to gather together.
On impulse, he felt the saliva pool in his mouth, for no reason whatsoever. He tried to change the prayer, but he didn't know how to do it, what to address to whom and how. So he kept this one, trying to pretend it's not a nonsense. He gathers with no one and he feels no justice in this position. This is no safety. There is no love nor care for him, no one to feed him. No crone brought her light here. There are no gods, only darkness.
One thing he knew for sure is that prayers to the Stranger are never said, for they are death. But it's the only god he knew well enough to say his own prayer to. And so he did.
“Please…” he pleaded. “Take me sooner, before I starve.”
But no answer came and no death took him. And he kept starving.
Darkness, silence and no time to follow. It wasn't worth it. If he starved more that evening so far ago he couldn't even guess when it was (weeks ago? Months?), maybe he wouldn't have to starve now. If he waited, if he didn't try his luck… If he just kept his hands to himself, if he gave no reason to be caught… Is it really this bad to seek the food for himself the way he did? Those people had plenty and he hadn't been greedy. He had never been greedy, he knew that much. A mouthful would be enough.
He was caught red-handed before and it wasn't anything special. Sometimes his wrist was hit and he had just let go of his quarry. The kids he sometimes took company with always told him it's not poverty that is his enemy, but this politeness and the lack of spine. Just tighten the grip and run. You're not big and you're quite fast on your legs, just turn away and escape through the crowd. It pained him to do so, but eventually he learned. He learned to flee and hide and have his quick meal every now and then.
But then it didn't work. He came in unnoticed, approached the side table… Celebrations are far more trickier than markets, but nothing too difficult especially when there's so many people. Dogs are walking around the hall, children are wandering near their parents, so many people. No one would notice one swift grab-and-leave. But it went terribly wrong way too fast. He didn't even have time to snatch anything from the table. He was the one to be grabbed and pulled away, interrupted mid-attempt.
And there he is now. For a crime he didn't even have time to commit. Something was wrong, but how could he learn what? Was he confused for someone else, far worse? Did he wrong someone he couldn't even recall? Did he insult that king for even trying something like that at the feast he holds? That one of the kings, that ill-tempered, strict king who nobody has a kind word to say about? Perhaps so. The boy isn't the one to know it. His mind is exhausted with questions and second-guessings.
So no wonder he jerks awake when he hears something. Does he hear something? Was it a dream? But no, there it is again. Quiet noise, followed by another one. It couldn't be, he says to himself and closes his eyes again. And for a moment it's quiet and he feels confident that he just dreamt something that wasn't there. But then again — step, step, step…
He keeps his eyes closed, shut even. Scared to assume something that could turn out to be false. There have been too many false hopes lately. But then he sees a spot of the dim light through his eyelids. He shivers and doesn't know where the tears came from — he was thirsty for as long as he was hungry and to him it was eternity. But there his body foolishly decides to let go of some more moisture. His shivers turn to shakes. He opens his eyes.
And there stands a miracle. A torch approaching, and alongside him another light. Usual fire light and a strange bright-red glow coming from afar. Once his eyes adjusted and once the lights came near, he saw the white and the red illuminated. The skin, almost shining pale, and all around it colored red as blood.
For some time he wasn't able to piece it together. It still felt like a dream and the contrast didn't make it any more real. He squinted at the form approaching, blinded by the first light in days that felt like years. Light and shapes. And colors! If it is truly no dream, then he's not blind, and here his body celebrates by crying silently. Like an insect, he's drawn to the fire. He crawls and then forces himself into standing on his knees, gripping the cold metal. He wanted to cry out and ask for help but all he did eventually was choking on air.
After his scrupulous efforts, the pain stung through his head and everything went dark. But in no time it turned bright as never. The torch was neatly placed in the holder, but the red glow stayed in place, just nearer… So near! And finally the young man's gaze turned even higher, discovering the face of a figure towering over him.
And that face was wonderful. The expression on it was soft… Or cautious. Whatever it was, it's a face, and it's here. And the red!
The prisoners who shared the boy's fate previously also spoke about the woman. The witch. And he now saw what they talked about. Unlike the king whose appearance seemed to be hidden by the veil of mediocrity, that form was very easy to imagine. That fabric did look as if it was washed in blood. Those eyes did seem hungry, eager to consume with one single look. That face did seem young and old all at the same time. He had never seen anything like this. Any man could've been that unknown king but no woman could be her. And when she swiftly took off her hood, the boy got only more sure of this. Never in his years of wandering he saw hair like this. And it only lured him in more.
“That is no dream,” the voice said, so pleasant to his ear that the words said felt absurd. How couldn't it be? And then she smiled! “No need to cry, not now. This is about to end.”
His dizzy brain assumed that this here could be the Stranger he prayed to. And the woman's smile dimmed, all warmth or the illusion of it draining from the space between them.
“You will not die, poor thing. That's not what I am here for,” she then placed her hand above his. And this warmth, not at all illusory, overwhelmed him so much that he jumped back into the usual cold of his cell. She seemed disappointed and he again wished for death. If she's here to play with him, it's even worse. “Well then.”
He stared at her with a mix of contradicting emotions. Deep-rooted fear alongside comforting hope. He wanted to touch the hotness of her skin and yet he despised the idea of getting near her again. Maybe she's the predator that caught him in this trap, that's what he thought. It didn't make much sense, but the feeling was strong. Maybe she came here to set another trap, a trap within a trap. He wanted to trust her eagerly, lean in and breathe the same air, but the way her eyes are shining in the red light is making him wary.
And it looks like she doesn't want to win his trust over just like that. She doesn't crouch down to his level, doesn't even bend slightly. She stands straight, tall and intimidating, and looks down, almost pinning him in place as the insect he feels like. And that distance is reasonable, boy assumes. 'How can I reach up to a wonder like this?' his dreamy, tired, hungry mind thinks.
“Can you speak?”
He only nodded reluctantly. She's not very pleased by this.
“Well? Speak, boy,” she demands and such command pierces through his insides.
He says what he has repeated with religious fervor, no matter the uselessness of those words now, in her spotlight, just to say anything and comply: “I'm here.”
She chuckled, amused. “Don't worry, I can see that. Do you want to not be?”
He nodded and she shook her head at that. Raised her hand that spook him with its warmth… While the other one was still behind her back. Is she holding a blade there, in case he's a danger to her? But the voice holds no fear when she speaks, that is the weapon itself: “Voice.”
He felt uncomfortable looking at her and he turned his head down as he answered with a rasp in his voice: “I don't want to be here.”
“There. You can speak to me and you will be heard.” Her every word is dragging him deeper into his reeling state.
He doesn't know how, but the tears still stream and he still tries to make sure he isn't dreaming this: if he couldn't dream of food, why wouldn't he dream of the savior? His hand grips his skin and the following pinch stings worse than any previous. His arm is bruised, he can see it now in the light of the torch. He sees so much and tears keep streaming down his face. He isn't blind. And he sees that she had sized him up already, she saw the bruises, she saw what is hidden and the look in her eyes made him believe that she does know everything. The only light in this darkness, consuming every thing that steps into it.
At the tilt of her head, the light woman asks: “Tell me clearly what has bothered you here.”
He chokes on the hysterical laughter that tried to escape his body. Isn't it obvious? Anything he says would be of no surprise to her. Even if she did not see him through, she would definitely know this.
But then she repeated, demanding the answer she already knows: “I could only help if you tell me what bothered you here.”
“Cold…” he murmurs. “Hunger. Darkness.”
She finally seems satisfied again. Gives him a nod. “For one so scared of freezing, you were fast to dismiss my warmth,” her empty hand turns, reaching out to him again, palm facing the ceiling. She waits for him to approach but he stays, unsure if he should.
It seems like a trick. “Nothing can help you unless you take it. When you're freezing, won't you embrace any warmth given? If you're hungry, would you ignore the food? If you're trapped in the darkness, would you not follow the only light?”
And before he could move towards her, the hand escapes and instead lands on the glowing stone. As her fingers touch it, it glows much brighter. The red glow consumes everything for a moment and he could only wonder what it is. Her words sound like a spell now, her tone — like a prayer.
“Our lives are very similar to this prison of yours. We are blind to things that rule us, we are trapped in the darkness seemingly with no escape. Life happens all around us and we desperately try to satiate our hunger, our need for warmth. We can't control what happens to us, we don't know what's to come. Everything that makes sense suddenly stops. One moment you're a hungry boy who reaches for food, next moment you're trapped with the murderers and assailants. Just for seeking some food, where's the fairness in that?” she preaches and it lulls him into a semi-conscious state. She does see everything. She does know everything. How much light does she really contain? He pinches himself again, to no avail. “Kings turn peasants, almighty omnipresent gods succumb to the fire, the prayers who everyone deems a rescue turn out in death. Nothing ever stands a chance in front of the fire of time. And only in the moment of your demise you are finally enlightened. Do we have to wait this long, truly?”
She lets go of the stone and reaches out again. And this time, he doesn't wait to turn into her hand, an animal easily trapped. If it is the blade she's hiding, he hopes that once his head rests against her palm, the dagger will pierce through his throat and let him be enlightened, as she says. In her light, in the warmth of her touch, death isn't as scary, even though he's hungry.
“People seek the touch of others to keep themselves warm. They seek the stories to feed their mind. They walk around, blind, pretending to see. The blind with a stronger voice leads the rest of the blind, promising them a cure, promising them sight that this one man definitely has — how would they prove he doesn't? He is still able to lead them, after all. And sometimes it feels like he sees something but he only fools himself. Any fool could be lucky enough to guess. But to see?” she murmurs her words now, her hand soothes the dirty skin of the young man. She grips his chin gently, making her look at her. To see. “To see, you have to forget everything you heard before. You have to admit your blindness and beg God to grant you sight. And once you do, everything makes sense. You can be innocent and helpless when your life is taken away, but once you begin to see, it all makes sense. No pain scares you. No freeze can reach you. The light is within. And you can lead the blind to it.”
He still cries, now trying to not think of mother, of the innocence and helplessness he still carries, the sense of this woman’s words being the one and only truth. She did bring the light. She undid his blindness just now. The world seemed to blur but he stood on his knees. Up, closer to her, hoping for rescue. The soft fingers of this light woman wipe his tears away with such gentleness that he only crumbles more. It took so long in this darkness. It was so long. He is so hungry.
“And you are blind, boy. But you have a good soul to see. I can teach you. I can lead you. Will you follow?” she said stricter, and he nodded, gasping for air, pressing into her touch.
“Please. Please…” he repeats, feverishly, he wants to reach out but immediately understands the dirt on his hands would taint the magical pale skin of hers, that red fabric. Her essence should not be touched by something so foul. So he begs like this, restrained and careful. And she enjoys it — he feels it by the way her fingers travel to trail through his unkempt hair.
“I can feed you. Will you accept the food from my palm?”
And he whines in the answer. Stomach twists with hunger and he nods to her. But now, she doesn't seem disappointed at the lack of words. She nods as well and then her other hand appears, holding something.
No blade. Just a piece of meat.
He almost chokes on saliva and looks at her with eyes begging. He'd kill for one bite now. And the piece looked just as magically perfect as she is. He was used to scraps and tasteless food so much that this, presented to him only, felt unreal. But the woman kept caressing his hair as she moved the food right to his face, into this cage of his. Just like with a watchman and a guard, he feels like an animal, but now he doesn't mind it very much. He could pass as one right now. If it gets him such delicacies, he wouldn't mind one bit.
“Come. Come, boy, it's all yours,” her voice, previously a quiet prayer, turned completely seductive. Tempting him into one and only way.
A fleeting thought of poison drifts through his mind, right after it rushes the thought that it's a point of no return, that if he takes this now, he'll have to forever pay the debt. But his blood feels hot and he moves forward to bite in. His teeth feel weird, jaws too weak to chew, but he still gnaws like a wild beast, trying and trying and trying until he manages the first bite. And the woman scratches the back of his head. Nothing was ever as delicious, and it's not even his desperation telling it. He had never tasted this, whatever it is.
He's not entirely aware if he whines because of her touch or the food she gives to him. Either way, it's her. Giving him everything. After so much time deprived, he is no more. She doesn't stop him, not even when his teeth drag across her own skin. He tries not to bite her, blinded by need, and she obviously sees the effort because her whispers are encouraging. Go on, there's not that much, take it, boy, chew it, boy, enjoy the treat I give you, boy. There's so much more. There's so much more, you would never have to fear. I do not fret anymore, our Lord shows me the way, and if you see the way, there's nothing to fear in the dark surrounding it. Come. Have a bite, have a taste, follow me.
Every time he dares to look at her, the glow of the stone blinds him and he's not sure why it is so bright. He takes it as a compliment, though, he earned this light. Just a little bit of it. It finally felt right, he finally sees the world for what it is, revived in this room red-lit cage. He had long waited for the new birth and here it is. Here he is, a new man, born on his knees, instinctively kissing the hand that feeds him. The woman lets out a sigh as he does and he takes it as a sign of pleasure.
When the food is devoured, when he licks her hand clean, when she lets him do it, he doesn't find a care within himself to resist. Her skin tastes even better, so when she pushes her hand to his lips, he opens his mouth and takes her fingers into the hotness of his mouth.
“There you go,” she says sweetly. “You are allowed to be desperate. Our Lord knows, I was desperate too. I suffered hunger and darkness but no more. I've been looking for you. I knew there would be one as desperate. We make the best ones of His servants. No need to be ashamed of it.”
But she felt his exhaustion taking over. His tongue barely lapping, his face relaxed. The satiation made him drowsy. And she gently pulled the fingers out, wiping them off at his cheeks. Then, she gave him careful, gentle slaps to his skin to freshen his mind up. She's not done yet. And he still has to leave this place.
“Don't close your eyes just yet, Night, you've just opened them.”
And here, they snap open. He stares up at her with questions unsaid. She nods at him, a gentle expression on her face. “The guards misunderstood you, but why would it be any different? They carry the flaming heart on their clothes, but they don't yet see, they're still blind. They thought you called yourself a knight, it amused them: what knight is as scrawny, as small?” She gives him a better look, an amused one. “You won't grow much more, I gather, but it's not the intimidating size or strength of body that I seek.”
“What do…” he begins but rapidly stops, still breathless, wondering if he really wants to know the answer. But curiosity seduces him, and the fact that he has someone to talk to only lures him further in. “What do you seek, then?”
And her smile answers the question well enough. Perhaps she thinks so as well, and so she stays eerily quiet, giving him time to look at the shadows on her face, at the way her lips look in the glow of the red stone on her neck. Only when chills run up his skin, as if she knows the very exact moment it happens, she says quietly: “Not much. You won't even notice anything missing.”
Those words chill his skin but she pats his cheek with appreciation. Such appreciation is not something he knows well, especially not coming from someone as fascinating, as powerful, as wise. It makes him feel special, and it doesn't even matter that he's cold when there's that one warm touch. He could see what she meant. His fear subsides.
“I wonder, what would one think, while naming their child in such a way,” she pities, almost coos. “Such a name would suit a foal, a pup, not a baby… And you're not dark nor full of terrors, are you, little one?”
He doesn't fully catch the meaning of her words, yet he still nods. She's amused by that. “No, you're not. This name does not suit you, but it's not my place to change it. You will be my Night, unless you find yourself needing a new name,” she scratched the back of his head again, and his shiver made her reach for the keys. He was here long enough. “You'll get used to being by my side. I think you learned an important lesson here, didn't you? I bring the light, I satiate your need, only I could guide you through the darkness. Step aside and you'll be blinded again. Is that so?”
He nods, but she lets go of him and holds the keys up, so he confirms it verbally: “It is so. I will follow. I saw your light… Please…”
She's satisfied for now. She unlocks the heavy metal door and comes in as if she owns every single stone, all the dust in this place. He sits down as she approaches, looking up with even more wonder. She was unrealistically close. The air she brought was warm. No noblewoman would allow a scum like him this close, but she, a witch by the king, the red woman, approached with no squeamishness whatsoever. She knelt down in front of him and reached for the shackle on his leg. The red light was now looming right in front of him. A divine wonder so close he could touch it if he wants. He could kiss it, if he so desires. But he would not, unless she commands it.
“It is rumored I am cruel,” she said, unlocking the chain that held him in place. She leaned back to look into his face. “But you will learn that I am not. I am righteous, boy, that is all I am.”
And then she laid the keys down, her both hands gripping his head. There's barely any facial hair, even after all this time not tending to it. He is older than he looks, certainly, but he still is young. And he trembles, caught in this touch. But she was in no rush, she was finally able to look at what she was seeking, no words needed. His face wasn't special, wasn't exceptionally beautiful or ugly, but she could see the prettiness in his features. With his hair this long, he could even be seen as a girl and such discovery made her smile grow. That's what she saw — that indefinite face in her fire. A simple face yet so strange. She enjoyed looking at it, never minding that the boy is distraught by the inspection so close.
She moved forward and for a moment Night thought the woman would kiss him. His heart dropped in advance, but it didn't happen. She leaned in to his temple and breathed in the smell of his hair. Though dirty and messy, she sensed what she was seeking and smiled wider. Placed a weightless kiss just nearby his ear before whispering: “You're in good hands now, Night. You shall call me lady Melisandre, but if your heart yearns to name me mistress, I would be very pleased.”
Then she leaned back, knowing how red his face is, even hidden in such bright light of her ruby's glow. She patted the cheek of his timid face.
“No need to rush. We'll have a lot of time to get acquainted,” she picked the keys up and freed him of his fetters entirely… Just to place another kind of them upon him. “I will support you on the way out. We have to tend to your poor body. The worst times of your life are gone. Now you're stepping into the light.”
And she helps him stand up with the ease of picking up a feather. And when they — with her confident stride and his pitiful stumbling — walked out of the cell, she picked up the torch and used its light to see how black his hair truly is. Black as night. But also, black as a coal to start a proper fire. He will be of use. She smiled and led him away.