Time passed, though Jack didn't know how much. Weeks, he thought, though there was no way to gauge it. There was no way to even measure the passing of the day. No light and no moon. No window to see either. No natural air. It felt, to him, as though he'd been taken from time and left drifting in the void.
The summer warmth outside the Bastille helped things breed within it. A healthy supply of rats and enough waste for them to feed on. There was no dignity in it, in the small confined spaces where Jack was all but forgotten. His only measure of time was the bucket that would be lowered with water and stale bread. It seemed to him that was roughly every two days or so, though even that was imprecise and not accurate to use as any sort of marker.
There were few people that moved about above, and so calling or shouting would do little good. It was a forgotten little hole in which he'd been put, and he had no choice but to wait it out. It wasn't something he could escape from, even Jack Harkness had his limitations.
Outside, in Paris, life continued, and a month passed and so did another, and Jack hadn't moved from his hole.
The weather cooled and so did the water that pooled in the cell, it froze on cold nights, and froze around him, cooling and hurting his body. His body that already had become weak and worn. It hurt to sit and hurt more to stand. The shackles on his ankles that had once been tight were now loose and wore at his skin when they touched it.
Contact with the rats and the waste had infected him and given sores to his skin that stank and grew. And all he had, was the hope of a piece of bread every few days.
That and knowledge. Ah yes, he had knowledge. Because, if nothing else came, the revolution would. He knew that. Years, yes, and a great deal of them. But he had nothing but time, of course, and he could lie to himself and pretend it was fine. And he would get out.
no subject
The summer warmth outside the Bastille helped things breed within it. A healthy supply of rats and enough waste for them to feed on. There was no dignity in it, in the small confined spaces where Jack was all but forgotten. His only measure of time was the bucket that would be lowered with water and stale bread. It seemed to him that was roughly every two days or so, though even that was imprecise and not accurate to use as any sort of marker.
There were few people that moved about above, and so calling or shouting would do little good. It was a forgotten little hole in which he'd been put, and he had no choice but to wait it out. It wasn't something he could escape from, even Jack Harkness had his limitations.
Outside, in Paris, life continued, and a month passed and so did another, and Jack hadn't moved from his hole.
The weather cooled and so did the water that pooled in the cell, it froze on cold nights, and froze around him, cooling and hurting his body. His body that already had become weak and worn. It hurt to sit and hurt more to stand. The shackles on his ankles that had once been tight were now loose and wore at his skin when they touched it.
Contact with the rats and the waste had infected him and given sores to his skin that stank and grew. And all he had, was the hope of a piece of bread every few days.
That and knowledge. Ah yes, he had knowledge. Because, if nothing else came, the revolution would. He knew that. Years, yes, and a great deal of them. But he had nothing but time, of course, and he could lie to himself and pretend it was fine. And he would get out.
It was all a matter of time.