Light.

Merlin opened his eyes to see a spotless white room. He was laying in a hovering bed, firmly strapped down by unseen bounds. There was no clear light source yet light seemed to come from everywhere. For an indeterminate time, he waited in that timeless room, struggling to come to terms with his capture. He growled softly.

He had to get out.

Yet no matter how he struggled, the invisible bonds held him tight. Another timeless struggle passed, this one infused with the desperation of a trapped antelope sensing the approaching lion.

Merlin was still struggling when a man appeared beside him, dressed in a white lab coat with plain brown hair and eyes. Such plainess was strange in a world where people could restructure their bodies on a whim.

He looked down at Merlin's still form, “Oooo. A struggler, huh. This’ll be fun.”

He gestured with a wrist and Merlin found himself able to speak.

The man continued to speak, “You know, technically, I’m not supposed to talk to you.” He had an almost crazy quality about him, rambling as easily as breathing. “But I find that talking to my patients makes the process easier for everyone. In fac-”

“Who are you?” Merlin questioned harshly.

The man’s smile grew, a glimmer of something disconcerting appearing in his eyes, “They call me the doctor. But that's a lie.” He leaned in as if telling Merlin a secret and whispered, “I’m an executioner.” He leaned back suddenly, his voice gaining energy, “But I’m not that crude ‘put your head in a basket’ type. No, I’m an artist.” He leaned closer again, voice falling, “And with the brush of death, I will remake you.” He laughed, the excited noise of a child receiving a new toy.

Merlin’s mind went into overdrive as he struggled to think of a way to escape this obviously insane man, no executioner. Keep him talking.

“And how will you do that?”

The executioner exploded to his feet, “So glad you asked!” He started to pace, frantic energy evident in his every movement.

“You see, men are more than just their bodies. They are minds. They are identities. They are ideals. When you simply kill the body, you don’t kill the man. He lives on, enshrined in the ideals he upheld and the people he loved. No, that is not death.” All at once he rushed back to Merlin’s side, gazing at him with wide, wild eyes.

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“So you cut everything away. Break their ideals. Break their minds. Scatter their identities. Kill them on a level deeper than the mere physical.”

Merlin was becoming increasingly worried at the lack of openings he saw. Normally there was something, but so far he had come up blank. And the man's speech was becoming increasingly worrying. Keep him talking, there must be a way.

“You can't touch my mind or identity. They are beyond your reach.”

The executioner laughed, a wild sound, “Exactly. Exactly! No, I can’t touch you. You are beyond my reach.”

He reached out and took Merlin’s hand, almost reverently, “But not yours. I will teach you, guide you in the art of death. From now on, you are my apprentice, and I your master. Under my guidance, we will kill you, striping away all that defines you. And when the work is done? A new man shall walk the physical once more, one wearing your body.”

In truth, it is not a new man walking the street. The soul is eternal, everpresent. Treatment such as this and the trauma it generates suppresses the soul in its vessel, leading to the mindless people that seem to be produced. Theoretically, rebounding from such an experience is a path to power like no other. Trauma can break a man, yes. But it can also refine one. The higher the risk, the greater the reward.

Merlin’s eyes widened, realization rushing through him. This was what had happened to Beth all those years ago. His heart broke once more as he realized what she had gone through, being forced to break her own ego.

The executioner chuckled, “Excited, disciple? Your first lesson starts soon. You will be learning through the greatest teacher of all. Pain.”

“How could you do this to people? Just kill them!”

“Oooo. There’s the fire. Well, my dear disciple, just killing people creates martyrs. Martyrs act as bridges, connecting higher concepts with lesser people. We break those would-be-martyrs, separating the ideal from the frail man, and therefore separating the ideal from the people that would be inspired by it.”

“The ideal is still there! You can't kill an idea!”

This time, the executioner laughed, his voice reaching a fever pitch, “Oh, yes we can! An idea only exists so long as it is remembered. The seconds it's forgotten it ceases to be. We simply need to wipe it from the collective consciousness. Truth, my disciple, is malleable, and so is thought.”

Merlin felt his blood turn to ice. This was so much worse than he had expected. And the worst part was he had no idea how much he had been affected. What had he forgotten? Was what he knew true, or simply another creation of the empire? The world spun around him as he tried to find something true in a sea of illusions.

The executioner laughed again, “Now do you see? Resistance is futile. We already have you in all but name. Just surrender the last portion.”

Merlin was drowning in doubt, but he would not surrender himself. “No.”

The executioner’s grin grew to an impossibly large size, the crazed light in his eyes flashing.

“First lesson, my disciple. You don’t say no.”

He snapped his fingers and the world became pain.