Drip. Drip. Drip.

He had lost all sense of time, then. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d last seen any form of light, since he’d last talked to anyone. All he had to talk to was himself here, in the dark, as he lay on the sandstone floor which scraped at his naked skin every time he twisted and turned in his sleep. He was bathed in his own sweat as usual- the entire place had seemed like an oven since he had first been tossed in here, blindfolded and stripped naked save for his undergarments- which he had later taken off on his own accord due to the unbearable heat. The salty sent that lingered in the air around him was a mixture of that from his sweat, urine and feces. He vaguely recalled minding the horrid stench once- but now it was something he had gotten used to. It didn’t bother him anymore.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

It was maddening. There was no other sound in the room save for the sound of his own breath- and there never was any other sound, save his own voice at times when he got desperate enough to talk to himself. Not even his captors talked to him- they never even entered the room. Not since the day they had put him here, before shutting the door forever. Food and water was delivered from a hole in the ceiling- normally rock hard bread and hot water that burned his tongue whenever he tried to lick it off the floor where they poured it in from above. It was usually salty, and it had a grainy texture to it where it had mingled with the sand and the dust. He had suspected it to be urine, once, but like everything else around him it had ceased to bother him.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

And of course, at the rate he kept on sweating, even with water poured down to him frequently, he sometimes had to lie here on his back, his mouth open to catch the drops of water continuously trickling in from the ceiling. This source of water didn’t burn his tongue, and compared to what they gave him to drink, it tasted as sweet as honey. Even if it was actually, tasteless.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He wished the water dripping in from the cracks in the ceiling, concealed by the pitch blackness of the room would come down in larger amounts.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He wished that someone would talk to him. Anyone. Even if his captors would just shout at him, without saying a real word, he would know he existed. He would know that they knew and acknowledged his existence. Hell, he had come in here expecting torture- like all the other stories he’d heard before taking on the job. At one point, he had asked for it. Because pain, given to him by someone else would also be a form of acknowledgement that he was alive.

He’d even tried offering information that they’d want in exchange for freedom, shouting at the top of his lungs, hoping that someone above him or outside the hidden door would hear him. There had been no answer. At one point, he had broken down into sobs, no longer offering an exchange, but shouting what they would want to know. Everything. He’d told the invisible, silent listeners everything. And still they wouldn’t talk to him. He had even hoped that they’d come in, now that he’d spilled everything, and execute him.

Not a single word ever came from any mouth but his.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Yes, he wished for death. He’d thought of starving himself, but every time food was thrown his way, he’d mechanically pick it up anyway. He’d thought of banging his head against the walls of the Black Room, but he always held back at the last minute.

As much as he wished for it, he was still afraid of it.

And oh how he had prayed back then, clasping his hands together in the darkness and chanting every verse he knew of, every praise, every line to his God, asking for mercy, be it in the form of a rescue or death. Now he could hardly remember, his faith completely lost now that he had been abandoned here, left to rot here in the clutches of the Black Room.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He’d heard people say that, when you go mad, you here voices that weren’t there. That they’d whisper all sorts of evil things in your ears, laughing and mocking you. It was the kind of noise that you wouldn’t be able to block out at all until your mind was completely broken. He hadn’t heard any of those voices yet. But the unbearable silence of the Black Room was enough to break him.

His sobs of anguish and despair brought no sympathy from anyone. No mocking, no laughter, no anger, nothing.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

How much time had passed since he had been put here? Had there been any light at all in the room, he might have been able to keep track of the passing days by making visible marks on the wall. But then he was denied of even that. He couldn’t even see his hand if he held it up to his own face. Sometimes he wondered if it was even there to begin with. He’d clench his fists and let the fingernails dig into his flesh- then he’d unclench them again and sigh with relief, knowing, just knowing that they were still there. Still his.

The Black Room was sheer nothingness, and as every fragment of time passed by, its embrace was growing tighter- soon to make him fade into nothingness. It even invaded his dreams- which were once his only escape from this miserable cell. Now even his dreams were of blackness, of the silence and loneliness he had to go through in his every waking hour.

He realized that even his memories were beginning to dim. He still remembered his name, his training, his home and those kind of details. Other things, like the song he used to sing when he had first come here were completely lost. It was the song he had used to sing when he was a child, and it in itself had been another form of escape, allowing him a mere fragment of his past, when there was still light and color. Eventually the words were lost, and he had been reduced to humming its tune. Now even that was robbed of him, and truly, if he spent more time here, all that he would have left in the end was the Black Room.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

He gasped with surprise when a large hole suddenly opened up in the darkness in the wall to his left, pouring in a huge rush of yellow which caused him to shield his eyes and retreat to whatever part of the room that was still draped in shadows. He wanted to look at that hole, wanted to greet that light that had so generously been given to him by whomever it was that now stood at the mouth of that hole, tall, powerful and God-like.

The light hurt him more than he had expected it to. So much that he shrieked and whimpered at the thought of having his eyes being burnt out.

The figure approached him as the door behind him was closed halfway so that the light rushing in wouldn’t be so intense. This allowed him to open his eyes slightly to gaze upon the face of his savior.

It was perfection. Such powerful, commanding green eyes. Such handsome features carved onto his face, from his broad forehead to the perfect white teeth that smiled at him warmly. Yes! That smile was directed at him!

He wore a circular golden headdress over his forehead- it shone like a halo to his eyes. It kept his shoulder-length black hair neatly behind his head where it hung loose in braids. His skin was tanned- a sign of being graced by the glorious sun, and his muscular body was glistening with sweat. His stance was strong and imposing, and there was an air of refined confidence and dignity about him that he, the prisoner of this Black Room had lost over his time here.

It was the white loincloth this man was wearing, that hung down to his knees along with the gold bracelets at his ankles which had the all too familiar symbol engraved in them that gave away his identity as one of the captors. He looked familiar, somehow, like someone he’d met in a past life. Still he could not recall his memories enough to give this person a name.

“Do you want to leave?” the man asked him, in a deep voice.

He looked up at his captor, taking a while to form the words. “Yes,” he said, his voice too weak to sound desperate, and so he repeated it again, “Yes, please.”

The man crouched down in front of him, his eyes staring straight into his. “But I cannot do that,” he said regrettably. And that regret was genuine- the prisoner could see it in his captor’s eyes.

“Why?” the prisoner asked.

“Because you are not one of us,” the man answered simply. “Because you are an infidel.”

Hearing this, the prisoner sank back against the wall, feeling the demons of the Black Room retightening their grasp on his frail, skinny body. Had his captor come here simply to tell him that? Would he leave now, and take the light away with him?

Tears streamed down the prisoner’s face.

“But,” the captor said. “We can change that. We can welcome you into our fold if you are willing. You will have to be corrected. You will have to renounce your old beliefs, and the King who sent you here to assassinate me.”

Silence.

At the mention of his king, the prisoner realized then that he didn’t even remember that person. That man, who had sent him here where he had been caught and thrown into this cursed place, and hadn’t even cared enough to have him rescued.

“Your loyalty will be rewarded,” the captor assured him. “We never abandon our brothers the way yours apparently have. There hasn’t been so much as a single rescue attempt on your behalf.”

That sealed the deal.

“Yes,” the prisoner said. “Yes I am willing to change. I am willing to be corrected.”

And what happened next caught him by surprise.

The captor, this God of a man who had come here to bring him his freedom gave him not only that, but more. The prisoner almost fainted with surprise when he felt this man embrace him, helping him to his feet. The embrace lasted a long time, and as it lasted, the prisoner found himself weeping tears of joy as he took in the very air that this God was breathing. After being kept here in the Black Room for so long, finally he was being acknowledged. Finally, here was a sign that someone cared. Finally, here was someone who would give him purpose, a place in the world.

He made his decision then to follow this man, his rescuer, this God of a man till the ends of the Earth.

-

The High Priest watched as the guards led the prisoner away, slowly, giving his eyes time to accustom to the light. Like all those who had been purified by the Black Room, he would first be cleaned up and dressed, before he would be castrated as only eunuchs were allowed the honor of being the priests’ slaves.

“You kept him in here for one whole year- that’s four months longer than the others,” he said. “Why? You could have damaged him permanently.”

“He’s a trained assassin,” came the answer. “I expected him to be a bit stronger, so I needed to keep him here just a little longer. Besides, we’re not only after him as a convert- we want him for his skills.”

“We have our own assassins,” the younger priest pointed out.

“They would have to sneak their way past the borders and into his castle,” the High Priest said. “Now we have one who can just walk in and do the job. And considering the fact that he would’ve managed to kill me if I hadn’t been saved by a stroke of luck, their King is as good as dead.”

“Assuming we can trust him to do the job,” the young priest reminded him.

“I wish you had more faith in our converts,” the High Priest sighed as he started walking towards the exit. “Considering the fact that they seem to be more loyal to our Lord’s cause then some others. He belongs to me. He will do what I ask of him, and then he will return to me.” Then, he slowed down and said, “Perhaps it would educational for you to spend some time here? Perhaps that will convince you of how loyal our converts are.”

Hearing this, a chill ran up the young priest’s spine as he fell silent and hurried after his master, for fear of the doors closing while he was still inside. The two of them disappeared into the torchlight from the corridors, and the door was shut behind them. Again, the room fell into total darkness.