A prison is, by nature, a cage of endless monotony.
And in the nineteenth century—especially within Château d'If, surrounded entirely by the sea—that monotony evolved into a constant, grinding torment.
The dungeon was damp and dark. Moss and mold creeping along the stone walls were the only "decorations." The ceiling was so low that when Favia stood, he could almost touch it with his hand.
Even at dawn, when the first faint sliver of sunlight attempted to slip through the narrow gap beneath the iron door, the cell remained shrouded in gloom.
When Favia opened his eyes, the first thing he felt was the chill and dampness seeping from the stone wall. Every attempt to move caused his long-stiffened limbs to creak with a faint crack of his joints protesting.
He had no choice but to force his body awake—stretching cold muscles, driving away the ache and numbness.
Soon, the iron door opened with a harsh scrape. A guard tossed in the prisoner's breakfast—
A piece of hard-as-stone bread and a bowl of murky, green-tinged water.
For Favia—who was used to surviving harsh wilderness conditions—such poor food was far from the worst he'd tasted.
After all, whether it was ancient Rome… or the earliest cooking attempts of Manaka Sajo… none of it was exactly pleasant. Still, if he had to choose the absolute worst, the meals of Château d'If won without question. Surrounded by the sea, even the guards barely scraped by—naturally, the prisoners had it worse.
As always, Favia tore off most of the bread and handed it to Abigail. Though others couldn't see the golden-haired girl, she still needed real food to survive.
That very necessity was why, during the daylight meal delivery, she could sneak past the guard while Favia distracted him—returning only at night. She had even attempted to steal the keys once, but her hands seemed to pass through anything made of iron.
Favia wasn't bothered by this. As long as this young girl didn't remain trapped in this dungeon all day, that was enough. Ideally, she could escape the island entirely.
Unlike him… a child her age couldn't endure such psychological torment.
Once breakfast was over and Abigail slipped away again, the cell grew even more suffocating as the afternoon humidity settled in.
Favia lay on the damp stone, idly tracing his finger across the wall. With time the stone bore faint marks—but they always vanished again under the relentless moisture.
There were moments when all he could do was close his eyes… and listen to the distant, intermittent roar of the waves.
For Favia, this imprisonment was the most miserable stretch of life he'd ever experienced: wretched conditions, unhealthy rations, and even his magecraft sealed away. His only companion was the dungeon itself—something that would have broken most men.
When evening came and dinner was delivered, Abigail quietly slipped back through the door, careful not to brush against the guard.
Being unseen didn't mean she was intangible—people could still feel her presence.
"By the way," the guard said suddenly, handing over three pieces of bread and two bowls of slightly cleaner water, "seems like we've got rats around here lately."
"Is that so?" Favia replied calmly.
"Yeah. Food that should've lasted a week disappears in three days."
"Perhaps someone still needs to grow," Favia suggested lightly, "so they're helping themselves."
The guard let out a laugh.
"Hahaha! Father Faria, you sure have a sense of humor. If the rats are eating well, might as well let you have more."
"I hope so."
As soon as the iron door slammed shut, the golden-haired girl—who had stayed pressed against Favia's side for the latter half of the day—finally exhaled in relief.
Then, with great pride, she dumped the food hidden in her overly stuffed sleeves into his hands.
"Brother Favia! I'm back! I didn't get caught again! Pretty amazing, right?"
"Yes… Abby did very well."
"Of course I did!"
"But it seems they've started calling you a rat."
"I am not a rat! And even if I were, then Brother, you would be the big rat, and I—at most—the little one!"
They chatted as they nibbled the stale bread.
Favia remembered well how frightened she used to be when she first began sneaking food—so scared someone would notice that she shoved all the bread into her mouth and returned swollen-cheeked… nearly choking herself.
There was never any need for her to push herself that hard.
He still remembered her timid excuse back then—head lowered, voice trembling:
"...If I don't hurry… you'll starve… I'm sorry… Abby messed up… I'm sorry…"
Her eyes had held a deep fear—fear of losing something precious.
And Abigail, too, remembered what happened next—
Through her guilty tears, she had watched Favia quietly tear a piece from the soggy, saliva-soaked lump of bread she had brought… place it in his mouth… chew… swallow…
Then give her a soft, gentle smile.
"...It is, without question… delicious."
Her face had turned as red as fire.
W-What was that?
Was that… was that an indirect kiss!?
He could have peeled off the soggy outer layer!
Or eaten it secretly later at night!
But despite her embarrassment, what she remembered most vividly was the expression she wore at the end of that evening—
The same pure, radiant smile she used to show when waiting for her "big brother" long ago.
Night was the most unbearable time. Utter silence—broken only by the sound of Abigail's breathing and heartbeat, audible to Favia alone.
One day passed in darkness, waiting for dawn.
Then dawn passed waiting for darkness.
On and on…
Years in the prison had not been wasted entirely. Favia learned to craft improvised quills, parchment, ink, blades, lamps, ropes—anything to retain a human spark.
As "Father Faria," he endured. That was expected.
But Abigail… was a child who deserved a full life. Her world should not be this small.
One day, he vowed, he would get her off this island.
---
In April of 1814, the Sixth Coalition defeated France and entered Paris. Napoleon was forced to abdicate unconditionally at Fontainebleau. Thus ended the First French Empire.
Louis XVIII returned to France—restoring the Bourbon monarchy.
But to the guards and warden of Château d'If in Marseille, such monumental history mattered little. The ruler changed from Emperor to King—nothing more. Their work remained the same.
Far more important, at least to them, was the arrival of the prison inspector that day.
In the nineteenth century, inspectors were tasked with observing prisoners' behavior, routines, misconduct, and reporting on the prison's condition. But in truth, few cared about the inmates' welfare—requests and appeals were ignored. Rules above all.
Yet the inspector today surprised even the warden—rather than going through the motions, he jotted down notes with serious intent.
The silver-haired man examined each cell, even questioning the prisoners—
"How is the food? Any requests?"
Inmate after inmate answered the same—
"The food is terrible! We want freedom!"
"And any requests besides freedom?" he asked.
They shook their heads. What else could a prisoner long for?
The inspector nodded, face unreadable.
"So every prisoner speaks the same words. Bad food or wrongful imprisonment. It seems that seeing one prisoner is equivalent to seeing them all. A pity—I gave up a promising career in mathematics to take this post, hoping to glean something meaningful from the wicked."
The warden stayed silent. Despite being younger, the inspector's gaze was fearsome—and he was appointed by higher authority. The warden dared not offend him.
"Are there any prisoners we have not seen?"
"Yes. One more—in the dungeon."
"Take me to him," the inspector said calmly. "Though I expect nothing different, diligence demands I confirm."
"Please wait," the warden hesitated. "That one… he's a good man. If possible, could you tell your superiors to lessen his sentence?"
"Oh? You all seem to treat him differently. A special prisoner? What was his crime?"
"We don't know. Orders from above were simply to guard Father Faria strictly… He must have been persecuted by that damned Napoleon… Or perhaps… perhaps the fault lies with me alone…"
They descended a foul-smelling, wet, suffocating staircase. The stench burned their eyes and lungs.
"Warden, has something broken inside your mind? This environment is dreadful… Is this the one?"
"...Yes."
"Give me the key. I'll question him alone."
The warden handed over the key and left.
The inspector unlocked the door and surveyed the cell inside—expression still blank.
Then, upon seeing the "old man" before him… the silver-haired youth's brow involuntarily furrowed.
Not because of the filth
Nor because of the stench
Nor because of the prisoner's ragged state—
But because something in him whispered:
This man does not belong in a place like this.
He never should have been thrown here at all.
If there truly is a God…
Then surely He must hate humanity for allowing this.
That thought appeared in the inspector's mind—and he found himself speaking it aloud.
"If there truly is a God, I believe He must hate humanity because of this."
"Is that so? I, on the other hand, think God neither hates nor particularly loves humans. Perhaps He simply… isn't very interested in us."
"So the world is not loved by God because it is punished? Is that what you believe in as a priest, Father Faria?"
"That—I can't say for certain. But I do quite like this world."
"You've already been locked away for three years. From 1811 to 1814. And judging from everything known, there's no chance you'll ever be released."
"Even so—I still like this world."
"...A curious man you are. Good day. I am the prison inspector—James Moriarty."
***************************
Read advanced chapters ahead of everyone else on my P@treon.
P@treon/GodDragcell