chains of conviction
Gilbert had no recollection of the time. The passing of seconds to minutes to hours was lost on him.
Ever since that day, where the chains of his past proved to be far stronger for his mind or body than any weakly mustered resolution he thought to have possessed, Gilbert’s thoughts have been drowning him.
Yet, even with Glen’s words ( the seemingly only thing of this world that could cut through the fog ) to not encroach on the dungeon bellow, more specifically, the prisoner bellow... Gilbert’s stiffened legs carried him. Through the halls, down the steps, and... in front of the man he knew as Xerxes Break.
The only barrier held between the two men were the stalwart, metal bars of the cage the Mad Hatter was contained in. He did not dare look up; he didn’t possess the courage will to do so. In the darkness of the dungeon, someone would only be able to make out the vague silhouette of a hanged man.
Gilbert did not stir from his spot, did not anxiously glance around in hopes to fill the silence with his gaze. No, those were habits of old. Cut like weeds, torn up from the roots, burned away into ashes.
He stood there, posture lax, as still and stoic as the prison bars a few mere feet away from his face. His jaw hung loosely, lips pursed only just... as if any words the Nightray Baskerville hoped to muster could only fade away in his throat.
