Sorry that this is a lousy piece of work, probably because I was happy when I wrote it. I particularly hated it but still, it is here.



Weapons.

The tired body of the prisoner slumped before his captors. They had generously presented him with a choice, a free-will decision to pick the method of punishment he preferred. But he picked wrongly.

Had he chosen the executioner with his axe, it would have been over in split second, yet he chose to preserve his life. Had he chosen the soldier with his flail and hot poker, he would only suffer from bruises and burn, yet he chose to cherish his physical body. He had to pick the jester, innocently spinning his scepter, with that sinister smile on his face.

His punishment began the moment he chose the jester. Letting his guard down against what he thought would be an easy opponent, he was putting himself in higher danger than ever. Words of false comfort penetrated deeper into his heart than any steel could. Just as he embraced those words, it was drawn out of him cruelly, shattering his heart into a million pieces. What he confided in the jester as his deepest secrets were made to sound worthless and unmeaningful as the wit of the jester manipulated and broke down each memory the prisoner held dearest. Every misdeed was amplified a thousand times to weigh him down with guilt and every moment of joy and achievement were shrunk till they were unrecognizable.

In the end, his soul was wrecked, his mind gave way and he was in a state worse than death.