Chapter Thirteen

Symon awoke to the most horrid smell he had ever smelled. He groaned as he staggered to his feet with a pounding head, an eye that was swollen shut, and a shirt that  was stiff with dried blood.  He attempted to take in my surroundings, but as he realized where he was his heart sank. Symon was locked in a cell in the dungeon. He was the only prisoner,having been witness the execution of the former occupants.

 After some time, a guard brought a plate of food down to him, it was little more than he was used to receiving back home, having not eaten in who knows how long he gladly took the plate and ate it as fast as he could. The guard did not say a word as he turned and left. Days without food, mixed with hitting his head made for a volatile combination. No sooner had his food hit my stomach, when it came back. Symon retched until he had nothing left. Using some of the water he was given, he tore off a part of his shirt that was relatively clean and attempted to clean his wounds before fever set in. The pain was more than he could bear, and once again everything went dark. Once a day the guard brought Symon a plate, this is what he used to judge time. After many days the swelling in his eye went down, and to his relief he was able to see. He continued to clean his wounds as best as he could, and after that first time he did not pass out again, being able to bear the pain. Being locked up gave him plenty of time to think, Symon thought back to his encounter with Tristan.Why had he left him alive?

He got the answer to his question when Tristan himself payed a visit, the guards unlocked the door and drug Symon out of his cell. Though he was weak he refused to let Tristan see, barely managing to stay standing. Tristan informed him that the attempt on his life was to be made an example of. The
following day, he would flogged, and on the 16th anniversary of his ascent to the throne, Symon would be publicly executed so no one else would dare to challenge him. "Any last words for your king?" Tristan asked. Symon stared at him for a long minute before spitting in his face. As the guards shoved him back into his cell, Tristan laughed and wiped off his face. Symon fell back into his cell as the door clanged shut. He stumbled back to his makeshift bed, the stagnant hay piled up in the corner. While some may have been revolted by the smell of old hay, Symon was comforted by it as it reminded him of home. He lay there for a while contemplating what awaited him come morning. Symon knew his death would not be quick, he would suffer. Tristan would see to that.