He woke in a sterile white room. A Fraldian man in a white lab coat stood in front of him, face possessing the typical bushy Fralidan eyebrows.

“Ah, good. You’re up.” he said upon noticing Jonah’s stirring, “I am Doctor Mclain”

He snapped and a Fraldian soldier rolled in a cart filled with sharp implements before leaving once more.

“What do you want?” Jonah managed to groggily ask.

“Oh, that's simple. You will go in front of the people and repent for your sins. Then you will be executed.”

Human bodies may be fragile things, but the legacies they create and the ideals they stand for are frighteningly powerful things. They continue to persist so long as a single person remembers them. I have seen the legacies of even simple men persist for millennia, much less those that have achieved greatness.

Jonah’s blood ran cold, recognizing what they were trying to do. They were seeking to destroy him. Mind, body, legacy, and all. They couldn't destroy what he stood for. Only he could. If they simply killed him, he would be a martyr, living on in what he stood for. But if he repented before his death, he would stand for nothing and would therefore have nothing to live on in. He would just be another man.

If he gave in, his people would be without hope.

He remembered Mary’s face. Remembered her words. He was whole. He was mighty.

And he WOULD NOT break.

The man in the lab coat smiled, instruments flashed, and life became pain.

—--------------

He did not know how long he spent in that room, or others like it. They tortured him again and again and again. Life became a symphony of pain. Within the first week, he had already stopped screaming, his voice no longer up to the task. After that, time blurred, turning into an ever-flowing stream of hurt. Yet no matter how intense the pain it could not compare to the pain of that day. The smell of charred meat and weak moans of dying people. It could not compare to the sight of his blackened family. His kind sister who only wanted to grow her flowers. His wise father, who had taught him to lead. And his gentle mother who loved to sing. It could not compare to the burden of leading. Of holding the lives of your people in your hand and knowing no matter what you did they would never escape. Life was pain, with or without torture. And so he lived in the pain. He laughed and cried and loved and hurt. Sometimes the instrument felt like the sting of failure. Sometimes they felt like the caress of a lover. Sometimes they felt like the agony of heartbreak and sometimes they felt like the embrace of family. At long last, he was home.

—-----------------------------

Low voices woke him from his slumber.

“Orders came from the top. We are to publicly hang him”

“But we're not done” came the reply, voiced by the hated doctor. Or not hated. It had been so many lifetimes that Jonah was no longer sure.

“Doesn't matter,” the voice replied, “Orders are orders.”

“Executing him without breaking him could cause riots”

Jonah could practically hear the shrug in the other man's response,

“Not my problem. Besides you guys had months and he hasn't broken. I've heard he's gone insane. Can't break insanity”

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“He's lucid. He just has some… interesting coping techniques.”

“Well, they appear to be effective.”

“We almost have it. We just need to find someone. Some girl. Mary? Yes, Mary.”

Jonah’s blood ran cold.

“The guards apparently heard her calling out to him when they took him.” he continued, “She was probably his lover. With her, we can probably break him.”

“Too late.”

“Fine,” the doctor grumbled, “Take him. Not worth my time anyway.”

Jonah felt hands hauling him to his feet and he stood for the first time in what had likely been months. His muscles were atrophied and weak but he managed to stumble after them. They led him out a door and into the gloomy morning. He walked through rows of buildings packed with people watching curiously.

Zors.

His people.

They were dirty and ragged with many having visible rib cages. It hurt him to see them like this. But it wouldn't hurt for long.

His escorts guided him to a high platform carrying him up the stairs like a sack of meat when his weakened muscles failed him.

They made him stand on a high stool and tied a noose around his neck. Then they stepped back.

The execution would be for another hour, but if his legs gave out and he fell, his end would come much earlier. He considered letting himself fall, but in the end, he couldn't resist one last opportunity to see his people.

The hour passed in silent contemplation as more and more people filed into the massive courtyard. Jonah reflected back on his life. The peace of his early years and the struggle of the end. And he found himself at peace. He had struggled with everything he had, and he would continue to struggle till the last moment, but it was nice to know rest was coming.

He searched the crowd, desperately looking for hints of those he had brought with him. And even more desperately for one person in particular.

He found depressingly few. Only 4, scattered around.

He gave them a nod and a smile when they saw him. They looked back with a mixture of awe and horror. He knew he must look like a mess, covered in burns and cuts and missing multiple fingers and even half an arm. Yet he still smiled and greeted them.

The void beckoned.

Still even so close to the finish line. He held his head high. He had thought long and hard on how to go out. Then he found it. Since ancient times Zors had been differentiated by the depth and ardor of their faith. How the Fralidans had proved that no Gods ruled here. Only men. So he would show them that they needed no god to be strong. That they were enough as mere men. So he held his head high and met every gaze that came his way. He stood in the eye of the world and looked back with just as much intensity. No words were needed. They could feel it.

Soon the Fraldians began to read the long list of his supposed crimes. He stood tall and owned them all.

Finally, the moment came, he saw her in the crowd. Mary. He met her haunted eyes. And he smiled.

‘I’m sorry’ he mouthed, ‘for all this. For leaving you. For failing. I’m sorry.’

The list of crimes continued, but all that mattered to Jonah was Mary.

Tears began to spill out of her eyes and he saw her mouth form her own words.

‘Idiot. There’s nothing to be sorry about.’

The long list of crimes had finally ended. The soldier moved to kick out the chair under him. As if he would let anyone else control his death.

‘I love you’ he mouthed to Mary, seeing the profound rush of emotion fill her face as a result.

Then he stepped off the stool.

Immediately the animalistic parts of his brain panicked as his air supply was cut off. But he had long mastered those parts of his brain. He continued to smile at Mary even as blackness crept into the edges of his vision. The last thing he saw before all went cold and dark was her tear-streaked face.

And so Jonah Grimlek, King of Zors, perished.

—----------------------

Nobody that had witnessed that execution forgot it. It ignited a fire in each and every one of them. A fire that drove them to survive until the camp was liberated by Parrickian forces three months later. Mary survived and told his story, creating organizations dedicated to peace and writing books dedicated to remembrance.

I pressed his path into the core of the earth itself.

Life itself is merely a protest in the face of inevitable death. His path would remind them the outcome doesn't matter, only how one faced it.

Mary joined him after her death and they finally got the time they had never had while alive.

I looked upon the senseless devastation. At the pointless deaths of countless.

And once more.

I began to doubt.