Reven stepped awkwardly through the dungeon door, pulling his ill-fitting robes forward, higher onto his shoulders; the thickness and heaviness of the ermine-lined vestments making the small man look even smaller. He raised his chin as he searched for the pathetic, skeletal frame before him.

“Say you will name me king,” he said, staring down his nose, as if addressing a naughty child. “Place the crown upon my head, in full view of man and god, and you will be free of these confines.”

“Your crown is made of the people’s bones and hunger,” came the croaky reply from the shadows. “It was stolen from the true king. I therefore refuse to name a man guilty of fratricide as anything other than murderer.”

“My crown is the prize of a thousand sacrifices,” replied Reven. “The price paid in order that I banish such hunger as visited upon the people by my brother.”

The back of his right hand flashed across Dorner’s cheek, splitting the corner of his mouth. “You will name me king, or you shall be the next sacrifice,” he sneered.

“I will name you tyrant,” Dorner hissed, licking the small dot of blood away. “And, as is the way with tyrants, the price was paid by innocents, guilty of nothing more than serving their anointed liege lord.”

Reven stepped lazily around the old man, eyeing him up and down. His finger tapped his lips and, with a cruel smile, he kicked the back of Dorner’s right knee, sending his prisoner sprawling forward. He grabbed the man’s hair, pulling his head back. “You will name me king, or more of your ‘innocents’ will pay the price.” His eyes widened menacingly, his head a jerking nod seeking compliance.

Dorner sighed, then winced as his scraped knees dug into the rough granite beneath. He looked around to the tormentor behind, then to the guards standing either side of the cell. A fluttering flame danced in its sconce, its light bathing each face incandescently, their features shining out of the drabness of both the cell walls, and their dark clothing.

Slowly, falteringly, the aged man pressed his right foot forward, his toes wriggling as they gripped the stone beneath. He dragged himself forward, upwards, back to his feet, wiping his hands on the ragged threads that once were his cassock and gown. He turned to face Reven and smiled.

“Can you hear it?” he asked, his eyes turning upwards.

“I hear nothing,” replied Reven. “What madness do you speak, old man?”

“Why, the sound of the people, of course. They are coming for you.”

“The people?” Reven scoffed at the naïveté of the clergyman. “The people? The people are cowed. They are broken, having paid with many lives. They have a new king now, once you name me so.”

“No amount of lives shall ever satisfy you,” said Dorner. “The people know this, and that is why you shall never rule. You may kill as many as you like, but you cannot kill the aspirations of those who have nothing but hopes and dreams. And you certainly do not win the love of the people by torturing and starving their bishop.”

Dorner smiled again. “Listen. Can you hear it?”