Interesting. Truly interesting.
The accused, as he was known before, was looking at a pair of soft hands so small that it seemed to belong to a baby’s. The hands, however, were his. It seemed that by some divine luck, he, a man that was to die a tragic end, survived. Somewhat…
He was currently in a straw basket, one with poor rags as cushioning. To be able to fit in such a basket he either had to be very small, or be put into a basket as big as him. And, as unbelievable as it could be, the former was correct.
The former accused, now confused, gathered his thoughts to make his remembrances clear. He died. Hanged, to be precise. Yet how could he, a dead man, be still alive. Though it seemed like he had no clue of what was happening, he had already pieced the pieces together. He had been reborn.
This revelation elated him. He was given a second chance to live. A second chance to make up for his previous life that could only be considered as pitiful. He can live again. Yet, knowing all that, he was still confounded.
Heresy. That was his crime. In addition, he was framed as a murderer, digging him deeper into a hole. Presented as a heretical murderer in the court, he sat there powerless as his lawyer, his ingenious lawyer, fought a battle of words. He would have been free, he knew, had there not been a priest that coerced the judge, had there not been a judge so weak-minded so as to have been bought off by the Doctrine. However, things that passed have passed and he was now here, alive. What could be there to be mad about? It seemed that he should praise the gods at the moment but if the gods were really at work why would they save him, a ‘heretic’?
He pondered upon this until he heard a creaking and saw, as the basket had some holes, someone come through a door. From the said door, a black-haired woman, dressed in poor quality clothing, walked straight to the basket carrying the baby. Upon seeing the baby, she released a soothing smile, calming the mind of the former accused, now a baby. Smiling serenely, she spoke words foreign to the tiny one but it seemed as if the baby was enchanted by her words, gurgling out unintelligible words. She laughed at the actions of the young one and proceeded to stroke his head. Soon the baby, formerly known as the accused, slept and while wearing a silly grin.
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One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Eight hours. Fifteen minutes after the accused was condemned, he was confined in cell. He sat, in the fetal position, in a dark corner of the stone cell. A sound of a lock being turned alerted him of the opening of the prison door.
It was the lawyer. His pale skin showed his anxiety yet his blue eyes, slightly covered by his slightly overgrown brown hair, showed a fierce determination. He was to open his mouth until the accused, now condemned, lifted his hand, signaling him to say nothing. The lawyer bit his lips and once again opened his mouth to speak.
“Don’t,” a low voice identified to be the condemned’s said. He, the condemned, sat in silence for a while, finding the courage to speak. In a raspy voice he continued, “There was nothing you could do.”
“I could have said something. I-I could have-”
“You could have what?” the condemned said, giving the lawyer a fierce gaze. The lawyer was startled yet the condemned rambled on, “Would you have gone against the whole Doctrine? It’s followers, its believers, its power? Will you, my friend, endanger your family, your wife and your daughter, for this futile effort?”
His friend, eyes downcast, stood there, unable to move nor answer his questions. What he heard next, though, made him tremble to the very core.
“Leave.”
One word sent him on the brink of tears. One word contained such power. One word. He came in here to plan for his friend’s release yet one word was all it took for him to turn back and accept the death of his friend.
Once the lawyer was out of the cell, the condemned sat there alone. He was given around twenty-four hours, maximum, to live yet he wished that everything was to be done soon. Slowly, reliving the image of his friend leaving in a sorrowful manner, he whispered, “Don’t mind me. I’m just a pitiful writer.”