"It doesn't so much matter WHAT you write, but THAT you write."


{Broken - Seether}

On one section of the wooden plank sat the shadow of a man who was known elsewhere as a prince. His head hung low, his body hunched over. Rusty iron shackles conquered his wrists, the hard metal uncomfortably sapping away warmth from his huddled form. Clamped around his neck was an iron collar. Its jagged edges chaffed against the skin on both sides of his neck. The collar was tight, and made deep breaths difficult. A bulky chain stretched from one wrist, through a loop in the collar, and down to the next wrist.

{Bother - Stone Sour}

None of this restraint really mattered. The shell of a man looked at the floor in a vacant stare. The tears had long since stopped flowing, and the numbness his cheeks once felt had extended into his entire body. His hands were lifelessly cupped between his knees. A while before he had been rocking himself. That too had stopped. Instead, he simply sat there, his body swaying with the movement of the wagon.
'A fitting end to a failed prince' he thought. The events of the past few days replayed endlessly in his mind: the ill-advised expedition to find the scepter, each city they interrogated, the hesitant moments overlooking the makeshift Doglus encampment, his men's attack on the camp, the fury he felt in seeing that white haired man riding off with his heirloom. The emotions of each scene overwhelmed him, a never-ending battery of waves crushing his resolve.
'How could I be so petty?' he agonized. The look on the white haired rider's face was etched in his mind. A look of conceit. A look of utter confidence. Even when his horse fell below him, taken down by an arrow from one of Arik's men, this messenger landed softly on his feet. In a flash, Arik saw himself standing before this man. His men, loyal, honorable, duty bound, formed a semi-circle around the rider. A boy, a foolish boy, dressed in regal armor unmounted and demanded that the courier hand over a paltry talisman.
'For what...' he silently cried, his heart screaming to not see the next moments. Yet the images surged forward. The child who called himself a prince drew his sword, and again demanded the return of the sceptre. The white haired man deftly pushed aside the boy's sword and with a firm blow with the back of his hand, knocked the ceremoniously dressed dimwit to his knees. His mind flashed forward, seeing his men surround him - willing to protect him to the death. It was at this moment he should have called to retreat. It was at this moment that he should have looked beyond his own pride and looked after the safety of his men. But it was at this moment that the prince knelt, his hand gently caressing the cheek this courier had soundly beaten. Defying the pains of his heart, Arik's ears shared the next images: the terrifying froak of the assaulting green skinned Toadmin, the rallying cry of Barutus, the clanks as sword met shield, the grunts as his men tried to hold back the endless hordes.


Arik's fingers clenched as he relived the anguish of his past. His throat swallowed painfully, fighting the asphyxiating grip of the metal collar. The memories kept coming, relentless and cruel. While his men stood fast against the attackers, Arik had fallen to the ground, cowering. His fingers entwined into the brown grass, his nails clawing into the dirt. One hand moved ahead of another. His knees pushed him onward. Terror consumed him, and the boy prince crawled out of the circle of safety, and mindlessly into the battle beyond. Lost in their bloodlust, neither the attacking Toadmin nor Doglus noticed him, and Arik continued crawling out of the mob. He crawled for what felt like days, his fingers bloodied and caked in dirt, his mind so pervaded by fear his eyes were useless. He didn't remember how he had wound up at the rocks. He remembered the screams of pain as his men began to fall. The hideous snarls and howls as the enemy resounded their victory into the coming night. The sounds had ushered a new rush of blinding fear. Arik remembered shrinking into a small alcove in the rocky outcropping. The louder the howls, the smaller Arik became. The light of the sun had long since faded with the coming night, yet an eerie orange glow cast shadows in the darkness. Arik dared not think about what burned in the distance.

---

Rays of light shot into the carriage from cracks in the wooden frame, illuminating others enslaved beside him.