A Prisoner in the Land of Silence and Darkness

An immortal king trapped

Unable to move, unable to die.

He couldn’t see, hear, feel, smell or taste.

This was isolation in its purest form. Loneliness inescapable. No rescue, no relief, no companionship, no comfort, and no end.

How long had he been there? A million years, merely a week? Another agony was that in his sightless, soundless state, he could not even measure time.

He would never again know fresh air, a good meal or the touch of a warm hand.

*

“Make me immortal,” he yelled at the Djinn, and it granted his wish.

He gleefully drank down every poison, feeling no ill effects. He had his armed guards charge at him, and even the sharpest blade never pierced his skin.

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A refuge in the storm

Of course, the forest was dark that night, in these sorts of stories it always is. But, even as I stumbled through the undergrowth, the wind whipping razor-sharp branches into my face like an enraged banshee, I couldn’t allow myself to slow.

There it was, by some miracle, a light up ahead. I almost physically stretched toward it, like a dying man in the desert offered a flask of water or, perhaps, to flip the analogy, a drowning man thrown a rope from a passing ship.

What it was, was hope. Lower case, yes, but hope nonetheless.

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