Everything was dark when I woke up.

There was only a dim light that shone through the canvas sack, and the ground was shaking.

I had been lying on my bad side for what felt like days. My hands were chained and my sight was taken from me. The floor was hard and full of splinters, and the carriage where I was put swayed from side to side. We seemed to move fast and recklessly, like speed was of the essence.

The iron cuffs had been placed so tightly that my bones ached sharply, and the strange circlet around my temples dampened my mind to the point I could not form a single, coherent thought. I was only a half-awake consciousness, barely able to comprehend what was done to me. I fell in and out of sleep many times, though I dreamed of nothing but a black void. Then the carriage turned or bumped into a rock or hole and I was thrown against the wall and passed out.

My side ached, but the poison did not spread further. But the worst about my situation, was the ever-present reigns that were put against my will and mind. The damned circlet after some days had passed caused crushing headaches deep inside my head, behind my eyes. The cursed thing made the journey close to impossible to bear, and I would have gladly crushed my captors without a single tinge of guilt. Many times I would have cried out in despair had my thoughts been clear. But they were incoherent and flashing quickly, like in a feverish dream, and one scene blended into another one until all meaning had been lost.

Once or twice I dreamt about a lightless cave and grey, tumultuous skies and spiraling flames of deep red upon cliffs black. And upon my right shoulder sat an odd presence. I remember talking to it, or having talked to it some time in the past. At least I thought I did. Whether any of this was pure fantasy or some forgotten memory, I could not discern for feverish dreams mingled with each passing one, and I could not distinguish one from the other by the end of it. All that kept me from succumbing to the circlet's torture, was wanting to rip the faces off those who put this cursed circlet on me.

The tiny square box rattled and creaked, and rain leaked through the ceiling and soaked me to the bone. I could only smell my disgusting breath for days, but I had no idea how long the actual journey had been. In the few moments of lucidity, I thought back to the village and how I had felt joy over crushing the skulls of these bestial men. I felt joy over killing them. Over and over I thought back on how there was more rage than technique in how they moved and attacked and very little conscious thought. There was something that deeply troubled me, but I could not piece together what it was.

Then the dreams took me again, and I dreamt about the monster. It kept towering over me and trying to dig its shadowy claws into my mind, urging me to retreat as it laughed on and on. Slowly over the many days, the memory of the creature faded until it seemed a part of my feverish mind, instead of reality. By the end of the journey, reality and fantasy were blended together and I could not make sense of which was which.

With a sudden jolt, the carriage stopped and I sensed I was in a new place. A lash of the reins alarmed me through the mind fog that we had stopped. Dimly I heard voices and echoing footsteps walking towards the back of the wagon. This new place was calm, but the stink of violence lingered even here. It was nighttime for my vision was pitch-black through the canvas sack.

I was grabbed and dragged out of the carriage and held up by my arms and shoulders. My legs were tired and cramped from the journey, and I was certain they could not carry me.

There were many voices around me, but I could not make out what was said. I could make out only a piercing female voice, which said: “Take him… down…”

I was then grabbed tightly into the grip of two captors and dragged forward. Through many sets of doors and narrow corridors I was taken, on and on, and down some narrow and steep stairs into an even darker place. The fresh air turned into a stink of mold, sweat, and piss.

While I was dragged down, voices around me spoke and discussed, but I could not make any sense of it. A few were in front, others were behind me. The two dragging me along were tall and strong and their grip was firm.

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We came to a stop and a door was opened. Its hinges creaked and I knew it was heavy and old. The smell of old wood and wet stone entered my nose, and luckily, no piss. With no dignity, they threw me against a stone wall like a sack of potatoes into a dark cellar. I fell down onto a hard bed covered with an old wool blanket, which smelled like mothballs.

More words were spoken, still muted and far away, and I understood agitation. I was then pulled up and undressed while still blinded by the sack, and deafened by the cursed circlet thing around my head. After I was naked save for my underwear, a pair of heavy arms pushed me back down on the bed. Immediately I felt the cold and dampness of the cell, and after some more discussion, the chains were removed and the sack pulled off my head.

My wrists were bloodied and rubbed raw, and the cut on my side was aching with a dull pulse. Luckily, it was not bleeding.

I opened my eyes and it stung. Everything was a dull color and blurry, and I couldn’t focus my eyes. The headache strengthened at the back of my head, spreading down onto my shoulders and toward my ears. When I looked up, around me were dark shapes against a darker background, illuminated only by a single dim lantern. And because of the damned thing pressing into my temples, my limbs were stiff from the cold and I found it almost impossible to move them.

They pushed me back down on the bed at an odd angle. I tried to get a hold of the frame, but my fingers didn’t listen, and I slipped down on my hurt side. This was, apparently, amusing to my captors, and I heard laughter. Even through the mental fog, I thought about hurting my captors. But it was a cold and slow revenge I was fantasizing over, not a quick and careless one.

And then I heard clearly, as if it pierced the fog, the same harsh female voice. She issued a command, and the others paused and hesitated. After she repeated herself, a shape kneeled next to me and loosened the circlet around my temples.

The moment the damned thing was loose, my eyes focused and my thoughts cleared up. My sight was still blurred, but I finally saw the wretched and tiny prison cell of stone where they put me.

Then I looked up and saw, towering above me, a tall and wide woman with a stern face. She had short and dark hair with even darker eyes piercing through me in the low light. The commanding woman wore a steel corslet with a muddy coat draped over it and poking through her chest pocket, I saw the same golden “Y” medallion, except this one was adorned with leaves and swords running on its side.

With a pitiless expression, she pointed at a corner to her right, under the fist-sized window.

“Bucket,” she said, and then pointed at the other corner to her left, “bread and water.”

She then kneeled down and looked in my eyes and said: “If you make any attempt to hurt my men, or escape or in any way fuck around, I will kill you myself. Do you understand?”

Even through the dissipating fog, I understood clearly and nodded. The splitting headache grew more painful and I had to squint.

“Shall I remove the silencer?” asked a tall guard standing next to her, looking at me with worry. The other guard standing beside him held my clothes all wrapped up in a brown and crusty ball. He looked sick and pale in the face and his knees wobbled.

“Put it back on,” said the commanding woman. “I don’t want him to even think while I have him! Verrier will return soon.”

“He looks horrid,” a younger man said from behind.

“They all do,” the woman replied. “Warden Maore, get a healer and tend to his wounds. We don’t want him to die before interrogation.”

And after a commanding hand wave from the woman, they put back the thin metal circlet against my temples. Immediately, my mind went blank, all my thoughts disappeared, and I fell unconscious.

Time passed. A dim sunlight entered the cell and then passed as suddenly as it appeared, plunging me back into darkness. After trial and many mental battles, I managed to wrap the woolen blanket around myself, and it held me warm enough.

The days outside were short and dark and strong winds were blowing and there was a constant whistling against stone walls and through the window.

I could not tell how long had passed when I heard the door open softly. Someone small and meek entered while I was lying on my back, along with a lantern bearer and two guards. I could only see a shape of a thin woman tending to the gash, and softly padding the other scratches I had all over my body. And while my thoughts were feverish and broken, I could sense her fear and felt how her hands were trembling.

She washed the cut with a damp rag she dipped in some warm water, and I sensed a sweet and unmistakable alcoholic smell coming from it. Her hands worked quickly and with rushed care, and even before she padded her work dry with a clean towel, a gruff and irritated tone commanded her to leave quickly. The door slammed closed and I was left alone again with my thoughts.

Cleaning the cut helped, but not much, and it did nothing to cure it, for it was a different type of wound. It was more of an infection of the body and soul than a scratch, and it needed purer means to heal it. I tried to explain this to the healers, but through my dazed ramblings and states of troubled lucidness, they paid me no heed. Instead, they merely padded the wound clean again and wondered why the surrounding skin was dark and stiff.

And as they were leaving, they wondered why their fingers and palms were itching and they felt a sudden tiredness fall upon them.