The Inquisition

Darkness is what I see. Not the men in suits, or the torrent of ice cold water headed for my face. All I see is the dark inside of the black sac they have placed over my head.

The water burns. I try to breathe, but the black cloth sticks to my nose and mouth.

“We’ll ask you again,” a man says calmly. “What does it mean?”

“I told you,” I gasp hoarsely, “it’s just nonsense.” But it isn’t, not to me. I hear things, voices from the earth, in the rocks. Sometimes they whisper secrets. It’s their music, not mine. I just write it down.

Silence. Then a fresh torrent of water in my face. No questions this time, they just hit. I’m nearly choking on my own lifeblood by the time they carry me off. They pull the sac off my face and shove me into a cell. I fall into the hay they’ve layed down. There’s a man in my cell with straw-colored hair and bright blue eyes.

“W-who are you?” I whisper.

His voice is softer than mine when he replies, his eyes focused on everything and nothing.

“They used to call me Kurt.”

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