"The mind is its own place and, in itself can make a heaven of hell or a hell of heaven."

-John Milton-

A man woke in the dark. He lifted his head off the cold stone floor and pain spread like roots through his breast and every limb. A burning thirst closed his throat, but the agony of his body kept him silent and still, tortured by the echo of water chasing into the deep. He knew nothing, had no name, and cursed his waking to hunger, thirst and pain. He was a man, but he had no more than the powers of a worm, so he lay prone and welcomed the advent of non-entity, wishing for his eyes to close and not open again.

But open again they did, and, afflicted now with foreknowledge of his existence, he felt even stronger the misery of a body in deep distress. Knowing that his bones would creak like burdened wains called resentment to the fore of his thought, so he lay like a dead man, pale and starved and devoid of hope. Slumber rescued him for a moment, but then left him, only to return again as in maniac cycles he was tortured by the wheel of living. So, he rolled onto his belly, pressing through his thousand hurts so that blow by blow he could crush his head on the cold stone floor, and his hand struck a vessel that splashed water over the barren ground.

Am I truly so weak spirited, that I would exert myself to end my pain through death, rather than to find what I need to be well? And the man leaned down to lick the moisture from the stones, then turned over and again he rested, this time to dreams of falling white leaves.

The water dish was replaced and refilled when he woke, raising questions in his mind regarding the layout of his cell. He took the dish and, feeling that his eyes had been grievously wounded, groped with his fingers until he rested in a corner with his back against a wall. There he sat upright until he heard the soft padding of feet. He leaned forward, listening, and measured the footfalls as best he could. He determined that he had a spacious cell, which, while burdensome in his current state, told him much of his captors. But the matter of passing his water gave him cause to gripe, as each step was a new nightmare, not to mention the pain of rising. Grunting, he found his way to the bars where he pissed through onto the ground outside. He fell asleep soon after, having found again the same corner, and he dreamed of waterfalls while his body mended.

He woke with a groaning stomach, but he found only water by his side after a lengthy search for a food tray or a bowl. To distract himself from hunger, he stood and, hand touching the wall, paced the circumference of his cell. He cursed himself for his weakness, as he finished his task slowly, and with only a vague impression of the room’s size. His hunger and many pains proved too distracting for him to maintain a count of his paces.

Tomorrow, he thought.

He spent some time leaning against the bars by his corner. That corner appealed to him, though he could not tell why, other than that he felt a certain freshness when nearby, and when he slept there, he woke feeling noticeably less hurt. While near the bars, he could hear the sounds of the deep earth, and he listened for signs of life amidst the distant travelling of a stream. When he grew tired, he laid back down in his corner, and as he drifted into sleep, he thought he saw a faded blue glow.

Waking returned him to blindness and hunger, but he sensed warmth nearby, which he searched for cautiously. He found a bowl, which burned his hand when he touched it. He waited patiently for it to cool enough for the gruel within to be devoured. When he had eaten and drank, he went about searching for a bucket, which he found in the center of his cell. He took it to the corner opposite from where he slept and relieved himself, then returned to the bars where he could hear the stream. It occurred to him that either the water’s flow had increased, or his hearing had improved. He slept again, dreaming of a grey sky streaked with clouds breached by a pale sun. Voices came from the clouds, warning him of the Unkindled, and he road across a wide and barren plain on a black horse to a lonely tower.

“Luthr!” He shouted when he woke. At last, he had remembered his name. He heard the sound of subtle movement, and a thin line of orange flame sliced through the gloom from some ways off. He sat upright, instantly regretting the quickness with which he did so, and looked around the cell. There were rush lights mounted on the outside corners of the bars, and in the corner where he slept there was a faded blue glow. He blinked, feeling intense pain at the brightness, and, wanting something to cover his eyes with, he took stock of his clothing.

He wore a linen robe over a roughspun tunic and trousers. He tore a strip from the bottom of his tunic to bind his eyes, and sat in corner by the blue glow, lapping up the healing spirit that seemed to emanate from it. Food and water were brought to him, and when he lifted the bandage, he saw only one man, robed as he was. He opened his mouth to speak to the man but when air passed through his throat it burned.

“Be patient,” the man said in a soothing voice. “You have many wounds. It will take you a little while still for you to heal.”

“My name is Luthr,” he managed to say, though it hurt him awfully to do so.

“Yes, it is,” said his jailor. “Iudex Luthr. You are a famous man. Depending on who you ask.”

Luthr tried to speak more, but could only choke and cough. So he slept when the man had left, eager for his healing to be complete.

His eyes and throat seemed to have been damaged the most. The soreness in his muscles was gone in a few days after meeting his jailer, and he began developing a routine of rudimentary exercises. By the time his sight had fully returned, his body felt quite strong.

The blue glow came from a songwood sapling. It was very young, and had snaked its way through a narrow crack in the masonry just outside the bars. His prison, he observed, was a three quarters cage built against the cave wall, held in place by eight large bolts on either post. Naturally, he tried removing the bolts, but they were fastened tight and there was nothing for his fingers to even grab hold of. The bars were far too close to the wall for him to squeeze through, or he might have slipped through the space between the cage and the wall. Once he was satisfied, he could not escape at the moment, he took to watching the cave as far as he could see in the songwood’s blue light.

The cave stretched on for miles. It was bare and cavernous, with hundreds of tunnels along its many high walls. He could see the banks of the stream, and there was a distant roar that may have been a waterfall. Now and then he’d hear the splashing of fish. The sound of the fish called to his stomach, and he began to feel dissatisfied with the fungal gruel his captors were feeding him. In one dream he saw himself in a boat on the sea with a young man and two little girls. They had rods bent over the boat and were laughing.

“I have a son,” he said. His throat burned much less.

He told his jailer “Good morning,” when he saw him again, and thanked him for the food and water. The jailor responded by producing a rose from the folds of his robe. Luthr hesitated before reaching his hand through the bars and accepting the gift. Its petals were blue.

That day he ate three meals and was given a book of children's poems, which he read by the light of the young songwood. He’d begun to hear the little tree’s voice, which sounded like a string of small chimes rung just beyond hearing. He took to pouring some of his water down the crack the child tree emerged from, and it seemed its voice grew louder.

One day, his jailer brought a pair of stools. He turned the key to the door, which before then Luthr had not been able to make out the boundaries of. Jurat came in and, after locking the door, placed the stools in the middle and sat on one. Luthr did the same.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“My son is Provost Brannig,” Luthr said.

“Yes,” said Jurat.

“My wife is a seamstress named Bryony, and my daughter-in-law is named Estelle. She is a singer.”

“An astounding one at that. Any other family?”

“I had a dozen children over the years, and two grand-daughters. Iyegas be praised.”

“Yes. Iyegas is mighty. We all feed him, in the end. One might argue that when we honor Iyegas, we are honoring ourselves.”

Luthr nodded, unsure what to say.

Jurat stood, and Luthr caught sight of a sword as his robe parted.

“Who are you?” Luthr asked. “And why am I imprisoned.”

“I want you to know all these things,” Jurat said patiently, “but I’m not sure the information will mean much to you just now. Let’s give it a little more time.”

He went to the bars by the songwood after Jurat left. There he looked into the deep and lost himself in thought. He caught his gaze drifting ever to a place where the moon shone through a hole in the roof of the cave. The beam of light cast a sphere on the ground the size of a man, and Luthr longed to be beneath it.

Another day went by before Jurat visited again. Luthr busied himself with exercise and when his jailer returned, he noted how small the man was compared to him. Violent thoughts entered his mind as Jurat entered the cell with the two stools. But Luthr imagined there were likely guards in other rooms, though he could always disappear into the caves and search for an alternate route of escape. And yet, Jurat had been kind to him, and though smaller the man did not seem afraid, so Luthr decided to be patient.

“To pass the time,” Jurat said as he handed Luthr another book.

It was not a very thick book. “How much time?”

“Hard to say. But, given what you’ve been through, I imagine you’ll be associated with us for quite a while. Still, I aim to get you out of this cage as soon as possible. It was built just for you; I’ll have you know.”

“And you’re in a hurry to get me out of it?”

Jurat smiled, and Luthr noticed that the man kept his eyes hidden under his hood. His fists clenched.

“You’ve been in here long enough. But, soon... you’re eyes...”

Luthr’s jaw tightened. “What about my eyes?”

“They’re regaining their luster.”

What did he mean by that? Luthr’s jaw and fists loosened.

“Do read that book. I’m anxious to hear your thoughts on it.”

And with that he stood and left.

Luthr slept fitfully. He dreamt of the Unkindled, that they had captured him while he was on assignment and tied him to a tree, forcing him to watch them make wanton ruin of the land they saw through dim and lifeless eyes.

Regaining their luster.

He held his water dish to the songnwood’s light and peered over. His eyes did seem dim, but it was hard to see clearly in the water’s rippling reflection. He looked to the orange glow of the rush lights, but he felt sickened at the thought of walking away from the songwood. Instead, he sat with his back to the wall and read the book Jurat gave him. It told a story of a crofter’s son who left his home to become a minstrel. He married a dancer and they had a fine life together. When he brought her to meet his family, they wanted nothing to do with them, so they travelled to another fiefdom where they grew old, and, having impressed a wealthy lord, they died in comfort while long after his parents had died of a brutal plague.

Luthr threw the book across his cell. Unkindled rubbish. Died of a plague...

Jurat was in his cell when he woke again. He was holding the book in his hands.

“Didn’t like it? Or, do you prefer to read by torchlight?”

The sunlight dripping through the hole in the cave roof looked as tired as Luthr felt. Still, he rose, standing to his full height.

“Who are you?”

Jurat sighed. “I’ll tell you that when you can tell me who you are.”

“I am Iudex Luthr.”

“And?”

And he had little else to say. Other than a few names and fleeting images, his own life was a mystery to him.

“I am a Iudex. I serve.”

Jurat inclined his head. His eyes were not as hidden now, and to Luthr's relief they were bright and alive.

“And who exactly do you serve?”

Luthr’s shoulders sunk and he let out a sigh.

Jurat stood quietly for a moment, then looked down at the book.

“Read it again.” He held it out to Luthr. “Go on.”

It made no more sense to Luthr on the reread. He was angry at the son for abandoning his family to poverty, robbing them of their best laborer so he could chase after a childish fancy. When Jurat came the following morning, Luthr handed him back the book and told him his thoughts.

Jurat nodded. “Much better.” He took the book and pulled another from a pocket inside his robe. “Here. I’m expecting you to like this one a bit more.”

The next book told a story of a troop of young city guards who stumbled on an enemy courier while on a routine patrol. Along the way to deliver her to their lord, the spy used her wits to stir an argument between them and she escaped. It angered Luthr to read of such worthless people, and he tossed the book aside before going to sleep.

“Read it again?” he said when Jurat next called on him.

The following day he told Jurat how the lord was a fool to neglect training his young officers, or for sending them on patrol without an experienced man with them. He also condemned the boys for their failure.

“Am I understanding you correctly,” Jurat asked, “when I surmise that the only character you found worthy was the enemy asset?”

Luthr shrugged. “She did her job well.”

“But she was the enemy.”

He shrugged again. “Everyone is someone’s enemy.”

Jurat nodded slowly. That night, Luthr was brought a feast. The mushroom gruel was replaced by a tender beef stew, and he was given a helping of salad with pearled mushrooms and capers. As he was settling into his corner, armed men entered the cave and approached his cell. One held a bedroll wrapped in a blanked under his arm. Another hammered a peg with a chain attached into the ground beneath the beam of cyan moonlight. Then they escorted him to the spot where they chained his ankles with loose fitting shackles and laid out the bedding. Luthr slept marvelously that night, and he dreamt of Iyegas and its expansive golden boughs.

Jurat had breakfast with him the following morn, and when they’d eaten, he told him how he was found.

“You were ambushed abroad. Your office sent a rescue squadron, and they too were ambushed. In desperation, our king reached out to his estranged brother, anxious to retrieve the vital intelligence gathered by his most capable of servants. So, the exiled prince Einsof sent his clandestine forces to extract you. Word is, rather than handing you over, he ransomed you and the intelligence.”

“You work for High King Rommel, then?” He vaguely remembered the name.

Jurat removed his hood. He was a thin man, as Luthr had guessed, with the look of an adjutant who had seen combat in his younger years. Tightly cropped hair crowned his weary brow, and his deep-set eyes were indeed bright and alive. He reached into his robe and took out a small case which he handed to Luthr.

He opened the case and took out a small mirror, just the size to show one their own gaze. When he looked into it, his breath froze in his throat and he fell from his stool.