“The king is dead!”

There was a clink, clink, clink of lock after lock collapsing from each cell door.

“Everyone out!”

The voices were all male, and there was a waving of countless arms as the prisoners were urged outside.

“You’re free to go!”

All of the voices were encouraging, light, giddy, and all of the words were even more unbelievable.

The king is dead?

We are free to go?

There was a cascade of protests from the prisoners, and a push back against all of those arms, which forced the detainees forward like some fast downhill stream.

“No! We cannot leave!”

The prisoners latched onto the bars of the cells they passed, but the rush of the crowd swept them away. Forward, forward, forward, the stream of prisoners went.

“They are going to kill us!”

The screams were full of fear, so much fear they even caused a pang in the heart of those who had long been numbed to the prison’s harsh conditions.

“This is murder! Murder!”

There was a march of footsteps above one prisoner’s head. This prisoner forced himself upright against the door of his own cell. There were no windows. The door just looked like another part of the wall. The lights had long gone out.

The man wondered what was happening, but he was also glad to be detained below all of the chaos. Surely, the guards were going to kill all of the ones who left.

They had done so many times before.

The man had lost track of how long he had been in this cell, and his body was quite adapted to being on the hard, cold floor. He hardly felt the coolness of the hardened dirt against his skin. His robes were so thin, there was hardly a point in wearing them other than allowing him to keep what little dignity he had left in front of the guards.

Maybe he was not so lucky to be so far from the chaos; he had no chance of seeing the light of day, even if it was to die.

The shouts continued, and the man leaned his forehead against the coolness of the door. The foul stench of the room had long become normal to his senses, and he did not realize how filthy he really was. He had grown up here, in this little room. He did everything here. There was no longer anything outside of this room he longed for.

He used to wish for death, but he had long given up on even that.

He was prepared to spend eternity here, until some small twist of fate finally relieved him of it.

Sure, the chaos was a little abnormal—usually, the guards would quietly round up the prisoners they wished to eliminate instead of making up some story about why everyone needed to leave. And there seemed to be many more people being led out than usual, but perhaps the country was running out of the resources needed to sustain all these prisoners.

The man would smile if he could; those prisoners knew better than to trust those guards.

The man listened to the pounding of footsteps above him, wondering for a moment if there was enough weight to make the ceiling collapse.

There was hardened earth all around him, but the ceiling was strangely thin. The man was convinced the king had ordered it built like that on purpose. He could hear it every time a prisoner left for execution. He could hear it every time a group of prisoners left their cells for death. He could hear it every time a new person was brought in to be added to the prison’s collection.

The man thought of the place as the king’s collection of misbehaving dolls.

Other prisons in the country were more like labor camps, where the prisoners were put to work. Here, there was nothing the prisoners were allowed to do except breathe. Forced labor, the man reckoned, was better than no labor at all.

Being in that little windowless room with nothing to do had driven the man to insanity.

There was a sudden noise and the man noticed the darkness behind his eyelids had lightened a little. His eyes already hurt from the sudden light. The man wasn’t used to opening his eyes often, since there wasn’t anything to see anyways.

It was more frightening to peer into an endless, starless night, then to never open his eyes at all.

Slowly, carefully, he peeked an eye open, quite confused.

And amazingly, he could see his own hands.

He nearly fell over at the sight.

Dirty and thin and possibly pale. His hands were like a skeleton’s. He was afraid the bones were already protruding out of the skin. He closed his eyes again.

His heart was pounding, and it was painful.

His chest hurt, his lungs hurt, his eyes hurt.

Why had those animals turned on the lights?

He leaned against the wall, waiting.

That steady pounding of footsteps continued above him, along with those shouts. But now, there were loud noises and shouts closer to him. Not above him, but level with him. Across from his cell.

The man hadn’t received a meal in two days. Maybe they were finally bringing some bread.

He heard more noises, like iron grinding on iron, or wood scraping against wood. The man scrunched his eyes closed, wondering when they would turn off the lights.

His vision was all red.

Closer. Closer. Closer now, the sounds came.

His mouth salivated as he imagined one of those stale pieces of rock-hard bread they would toss at him everyday. He was starving—he was always starving, but it had been two days.

His body was expecting this piece of bread, and a little water as well.

There was a loud rattling, until finally, a huge slam, like some heavy door hitting a wall. The man imagined a plate full of bread, and he could almost smell it. It made him all warm inside.

There was something else, some other food he had eaten before, but it had been too long to recall. He could almost smell it as well, but he wouldn’t dare dream of it.

Those outside were running now.

The basement wasn’t too big, from what little he could remember when he first came here.

He didn’t trust his memory, though, and simply listened.

“The king is dead!”

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There were those words again.

Impossible.

The man listened with his face against the hard-packed, dirt wall, not caring if he got any filthier, until finally, someone stopped in front of his door.

“There’s another one here!”

“There aren’t many here, but to find even one—”

There was a loud clang, and then a gasp.

Door after door opened on the basement floor.

The man knew there were others here, but he didn’t know who, and he didn’t know how many.

He counted five doors opening before the door to his own cell opened. The sound of it seemed as distant and unreasonable as the sound of the other cells opening.

Covering his eyes with his hand, he wanted so desperately to see who it was. For all he knew, the man was going to kill him dead right here, but his eyes hurt so badly, and the door opening would only allow more light inside.

“There is one in here!” The man who had opened the door shouted. “Alive.”

A few footsteps, and then, the voice was closer.

The man peeked through his hand to see dirty black boots in front of him.

“The king is dead,” the man said, a grin in his voice. “You are free to go.”

The man on the floor did not move an inch. He sniffed, wondering if there was any bread in the man’s hand.

“Did you hear me?” The man standing over the prisoner said. “The king is dead. You can go.”

The man on the floor had not spoken in a long, long time. The last time he spoke was to curse one of those guards who had thrown him a worn cloth shoe instead of a piece of bread. It tasted disgusting when the man bit into it.

“Fool,” the prisoner muttered.

“Do you need help?” The man towering over him wondered, his voice quite pleasant.

The man on the floor snorted, allowing a little more light through his hands.

The man was wearing black robes, and an impressive, curved sword hung at his waist.

“No fool,” the prisoner muttered, scooting backwards.

“Let me help you—”

The man on the floor shoved the man’s helping hand away.

“Fine,” the man huffed. “If you want to remain in this cell, I cannot force you out. But there will be no food or water deliveries from now on.”

Hearing this, the man on the floor raised his head so he could view the man’s face through the little hole between his fingers.

Strangely, he could not see his face. All of it was covered by a black mask except for his eyes.

All the guards were too proud to do so.

Why was this man any different?

Was he going to do something that he could not risk even a prisoner with a lifetime sentence seeing?

“No fool,” the man on the floor huffed again, feeling a spike of fear jolt through his heart.

The man before him was motionless, quite unsure what to do with a prisoner refusing to leave.

“Maybe your family is outside.” The man paused, then asked, “What is your name?”

The man on the floor did his best to hold his head up so he could at least see the man’s eyes. This was surely the man who would end his life.

Or was he being too hopeful?

All of the guards had always been too cruel to relieve him of this life. They had always maintained that it was better for people like him to spend a lifetime of suffering then to die.

“Thirteen,” was all the prisoner replied, sounding bored, as though he had said it a million times.

“Your name, I said” the man huffed over him. He watched the motionless prisoner for a moment, then tried again. “Your family name… anything?”

But the man on the floor only knew himself by this name, and was quite exasperated to be asked again. Just how many times did the guard need him to repeat himself?

“Thirteen.”

Much to the prisoner’s dismay, the masked man lifted him as though he weighed nothing. He tried to shout, tried to hit that masked man, but he hardly had the energy to remain awake. His legs collapsed under him, and pathetically, the man fell to the floor as the man was forced to release him.

The masked man cursed, then opted for hoisting the man over his shoulder.

“You can’t even walk by yourself anymore.” Then, “Curse the king for getting to escape so easily.”

The butt of the man’s sword hit the prisoner’s head repeatedly as he was hazardously carried through the basement. He made sure to keep his eyes closed, afraid the light would blind him if he opened them too quickly.

A few moments later, he was in that sea of chaos.

The ceiling looked like the floor, and all of the prisoners hurrying to die had their heads where their feet should be. The man remained silent throughout all the shouting, separating his fingers a little so he could see just a little more. He shut his eyes at the searing pain, finding the light far too bright, then slowly tried to open them.

The sun was far too bright today. Or maybe, it was everyday.

He would hardly know.

“Murder!” Prisoners shouted all around him. “Murder!”

Maybe the man really was going to die.

At least, maybe he would be lined up with others. He would not die alone.

His mouth shifted, as if he meant to smile. All of his blood was rushing to his head, but he didn’t mind. He didn’t really feel anything at all, except for that pain in his eyes.

He could hardly believe he was outside of his cell.

Today was a rather interesting day. A nice change of pace.

“I have someone from isolation here.” The man holding him said urgently. “He can’t walk anymore.” Then, softly, “He doesn’t seem to know his name either.”

The person the masked man spoke to cursed, then cursed the king, then sighed.

“We don’t want to shock him. Let us send him to the recovery camp for now, and get some water and food in him. Slowly.” The man paused. “The medical personnel will know how to handle him if you inform them.”

The masked man thanked the other, then continued walking, excusing himself as he pushed through the endless crowd.

The prisoner knew the exact moment they stepped outside.

The air was cool on his skin, and there was a slight breeze. The sun was so bright, he could only see white.

Maybe the guard had already killed him on his way out, and the man was already opening his eyes to his next life.

None of it mattered; he would find out eventually. For now, he wanted to feel the breeze a little longer, even if it burned his skin.

There were many people running, shrieking, sobbing around him, but he could hardly understand why.

It seemed those upside down people really had nothing to say.

The masked man carried him a while longer than stopped, and shifted him onto a chair as gently as he could. The man grunted from the strain, but eventually got him on it.

The prisoner folded over in the tiny chair, unable to hold his body upright, his hands covering his face with his hand. He tried to sneak a look at that masked man, but it was still far too bright to see anything but his silhouette.

The man was urging someone over.

“This man is from isolation. There are around ten total from the wing I went to, but many were already dead. He has presumably not eaten or drank in days. He cannot walk, and he does not seem to know what is going on.” Again, that pause, then: “And he doesn’t know his name.”

“Thirteen,” the prisoner insisted. He tried to raise his voice into a shout but the word only came out a mutter.

“Thank you, and thank the heavens for his safety.” It was a woman’s voice.

The man in the chair covering half his face froze.

When was the last time he had heard a woman’s voice?

Who knew it could be so gentle, like a soft caress.

Unbelievably, tears welled in his eyes.

The woman turned towards him and his eyes blurred just as her face came into view. He cursed himself, but the tears spilled over and did not stop.

“Thank the heavens for your safety,” the woman said to him softly. “The king is dead. I know it is impossible to believe. I know you have been in there for far too long.” She paused, seeming to choke up. “I cannot express in words my gratitude for your strength. Surely, you did something so brave to have ended up there to begin with.” She paused again, wiping at her face, still a blur. “Thirteen.” His name came out another caress. Then, to herself, she muttered: “Heavens, how are you Thirteen?”

For some reason or other, he felt young, like the age he was before he had entered prison.

The man could not stop crying, and he did not understand why.

Slowly, slowly, he began to accept he was not out here to die.

All he wanted was to see that woman’s face, but his eyes would not cooperate.