The wooden chair, now weathered and worn, protested against the weight it bore, emitting a tired creak as the Old man settled into a more dignified posture.
Chains fastened tightly around his limbs suspended Zerin in the air.
"Hey, son..."
Zerin hesitated just before speaking, his gaze fixated on the crude knife gripped in his hand.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself, you wretched child?"
The feeble frame of the Old man rose, eliciting a relieved groan from the chair. He approached, the tip of the rough knife pressed against Zerin's throat.
"I misjudged you. How could you ever lead our people? How could you ever usher in a new era?"
Zerin held his breath, the sharp blade's edge grazing his skin, his face filled with confusion.
As the blade slowly retreated, Zerin's eyes trailed its path, only to confront an unexpected reflection—not of his own.
A scarred face stared back at him. As the sudden realization dawned on him, a sudden change occurred. He felt a force pushing him back into a corner of his mind, reducing him to a spectator.
"Bashir, do you recall what I despise the most?"
Zerin pondered, but then the scarred face returned, and he realized he was not experiencing this event but witnessing it through Bashir's perspective.
"Incompetence..."
Bashir's voice resonated.
"Correct..."
The Old man passed the crude knife to a figure emerging from the shadows, its presence nearly blending into the darkened room.
The figure accepted the knife, positioning itself before Bashir.
Behind the figure the Old man paced, hands clasped behind his back.
"Don't you think a price must be paid for your incompetence?"
The Old man shifted his focus towards the figure.
"Take his knee..."
Without an ounce of hesitation or remorse, the figure drove the blade into Bashir's knee, delving deep as it withdrew its grip.
The knife was left deep in Bashir's knee as he stomached the surging pain.
"As enduring as ever… Remove it..."
The Old man's command spurred the figure into action as it twisted the blade. With a brief moment of struggle the blade found way, eliciting a sickening pop as the knee succumbed.
Bashir stifled a cry, wrestling with agony as he clenched his jaw.
Observing the perverse delight in the Old man's demeanor, Zerin recoiled at the cruelty.
"I might have spared you with just that punishment... Yet, your transgressions surpassed just mere incompetence... Is that not so?"
The Old man disappeared behind Bashir.
"You committed the unforgivable sin, you laid your vile hands on the goddess prophet!"
The Old man's voice whipped the air.
Bashir face filled with pure anger as he looked at this covered figure.
"He must not understand how serious I am… give him more."
With a nod, the figure forcefully shoved, the knife back into the exposed knee, silencing Bashir with torment.
"Agh!"
Through gritted teeth, Bashir strained against the chains that suspended him in the air. He frothed, his anger driving him through the pain.
"I'll fucking kill you!"
As the man returned, he wielded an unholy instrument of torment.
"Bashir, such a great name wasted on a pitiful soul."
Despite enduring the torture, Bashir's defiance boldly flared, venom lacing his words.
"Born to a worthless father..."
Enraged, the Old man demanded,
"Remove his other leg!"
The Old man passed the crude saw blade, fixed to a handle, to the figure, permitting the act.
Anticipation hung heavy as the figure poised himself, the serrated blade meeting Bashir's unscathed leg.
The room echoed with gory sounds as the blade hacked at his leg, leaving splinters of bone and pieces of flesh. Eventually the serrated saw hacked its way through his leg, leaving behind a gory stump and a torrent of blood.
A deep voice finally burst from within him as he screamed in pain. Struggling against the pooling crimson below, Bashir's strength waned, his gaze drifting downward.
With a composed sigh, the Old man stepped into the bloody puddle, seizing Bashir's hair to face him.
"Forced by your actions... I could not spare you. Blame yourself for you own careless actions…"
In a final plea, Bashir rasped,
"You promised me..."
Disgust contorted the Old man's features.
"Still dwelling on that? You proved yourself unworthy of the burden!"
Turning to the figure, the Old man made another demand.
"Put an end to him... Hopefully the goddess will forgive him when he returns to her."
As the Old man receded into darkness, leaving Bashir and the figure, Zerin remained a powerless spectator as he witnessed all the horrors prior.
A rhythmic clack heralded the arrival of the cloaked woman, the same figure from the festival, brandishing a sack over her shoulder.
The crimson pool rippled as she stepped into it. Standing amidst the crimson pool, she collected Bashir's severed leg, placing it into the sack.
"Through your sacrifice, the goddess grants our prophet a divine gift."
Zerin grappled with horror and disgust as the woman's words gave him a revelation that chilled his core.
"How can our prophet be sustained by such a meager gift?"
"Sister...
Passing the weapon to the woman, the figure issued a directive.
"Pick an arm and sever it."
Zerin witnessed the woman's fleeting hesitation before she steeled herself to carry out the gruesome task.
As Bashir cries pierced the air, Zerin bore witness to a soul succumbing to torment that was going to end in death. Zerin wanted nothing to do with this, but as the scene further unfolded, his cries becoming more pronounced expected his position.
His arm hung onto a thread of his flesh, before the weight eventually tore the muscular limb off his shoulders.
A mantra was uttered,
"This fate befalls those who stray from the path he carved."
The figure spoke, afterword the woman scooped up the muscular arm and stashed it into the sack.
In Bashir's dying breaths, Zerin experienced true helplessness, his heart heavy with despair as the moon light filtered through the cracks of the stone walls. The light shining brighter and brighter, before Bashir gave up, closing his eyes.
Drenched in darkness, all of his senses subsided, but Zerin's anger and disgust resided.