The bloody corpse limply hung within my arms, the course and flow of its life spent, merely a soft dripping now. All the color gone, gone without the blood. His face, so white; the eyes glazed. My friend was dead.
I held him close to me, weeping in the darkness of the dungeon, until the dawn returned and I could see again. I laid the body in my bed, folding his arms over his chest. Above, the grated window shone upon his face with that rosy, golden light of morning.
The turning lock—the guards—it was my turn now.
Tale Told 