Despair Yacob sat in the pitch black, not sure if he was awake or asleep. He had been in here for so long that he no longer knew when was day and when was night. He could not even tell if he had his eyes open or closed sometimes for all the difference it made. The scheduling of his pitiful meals gave him no indication to the hour. There was no regularity to it, and sometimes he went days without anything. They were not generous with water either. The only thing they were generous with were the beatings they gave him. He was so weak he could barely move. He did not mind. Beatings were preferable to the knives. The knives terrified him. So far they had taken two fingers and both of his ears. His manhood was next, they had said. He knew he was going to die, but the idea of losing any more body parts, especially that, horrified him. 'Makes no sense,' he thought to himself. 'I'll be dead in less than a week, I'll have no use for my body then, and no use for it before then either. I’m dead already.' He saw people in the darkness, people who were also dead. The ones he should have protected came to him the most. Arnielle, his wife appeared in the darkness. She stood watching him, tears silently rolling down her cheeks. Their children were there too, dark curls echoing Arnielle’s cascading locks. He cried uncontrollably, it was too much. He turned away and closed his eyes, but he saw them there too. They were all dead now, and he would soon be joining them. That brought him some comfort. He would not be granted a quick and painless reunion with his family, however. His death would be prolonged. He could only hope that they had at least been granted that mercy. He saw other dead people too, not family or close friends, but people who were very dear to him still. People who had followed him, people whom he had given hope. They marched beneath his banners, following their righteous king to glory. All swept up in the romantic notion of reclaiming their ancient homeland. All surely dead now. A wailing of rusty iron hinges announced the approach of his captors and tormentors. The dancing flame of torches cast eerie shadows in the gloom of the dungeon. Three hooded and dark cloaked figures entered. Before, it had only been two. The same two were part of this trio, Yacob recognised them despite the cloaks and hoods. Two enormous men who had spent hours beating and torturing him. They were sadistic and piteously stupid. Perfect fits for their chosen profession. The third man was smaller, of average height and build, yet he almost looked like a child beside the two giants. This man approached the bars of Yacob’s cell and peered through the bars. Before Yacob’s defiance had been broken he might have tried poking at his face through the bars, or slinging some shit at him. He had tried that with the other two and had immediately regretted it. They had made sure he wouldn’t forget. ‘Hello Yacob Wolfsinger, Bringer of Hope, Lord of the Sky, Protector of the Mountain Realm,’ the man sneered. The torchlight played across his face for a split second and Yacob started. It had only been a glimpse, but he immediately suspected who this visitor was. ‘Have you nothing to say? You who roused your people and marched them into foreign lands to conquer, pillage and take what was not yours? You poisoned a ‘nation’ against their superiors. A nation that we allowed to exist out of mercy. Perhaps now we will be less accommodating to those who refuse to bend the knee.’ There was a long pause. The man was apparently waiting for Yacob to say something. The silence stretched on. ‘Have you nothing to say? No defence? No lame excuses? No apology?’ He lowered his hood and Yacob’s suspicions were confirmed. ‘Nothing to say to your rightful king?’ ‘If you expect me to prostrate myself before you and swear my allegiance you will be waiting an eternity. I have no king. I am the king.’ Fury touched Mellar’s face then, his eyes burned and his mouth curled into a snarl. He visibly controlled his anger before responsing. ‘Defiant to the very end, I see. The very end,’ He said that with conviction, finality. ‘There is a teeming mass of people gathered in the city above who can’t wait to see the man who calls himself their king. We have something quite special arranged for you.’ A faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. ‘You never could keep a cool head.’