The cell was dark, wet, cold and generally not the place anyone would want to be. It had been dug out of the ground and had a sort of wooden cover that let in tiny bit of light from where the wood had knotted. It was too high and Rdusmitt fell, spraining his ankle. He looked around him, to see if he could find any other way to climb out, but whoever had made this cell had covered the walls in wood, and he could not find a single thing to stand on to give him a push up. He felt a pain in his right arm and checked to see what it was. Blood was dripping from it onto his bare feet. He was naked, save for a scrap of cloth that had been wrapped around his waist, and that was only put on this morning for the sake of the public tomorrow. I die tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow they will hang me, or stab me, or set me on fire. Tomorrow the world will forget me. He cried out in rage, and leaned forward, onto the wall. Blood trickeld onto the smooth wooden surface, mixing with his tears. Tomorrow the gods will have me, and they will do with me as they please. I will tell them my story, and they will listen. Above him in the outside world, Rdusmitt could hear a fire. There were people sat around it, talking of their tales of courage and wit and wisdom and power. He sat down, facing the wall, and thinking of the next day when he would meet his gods and when he would be free from the cell, when he would leave existence. He would tell the gods his tales of courage, and intellect. To the gods he would be the man he deserved to be. Man thought him a murderer, a criminal, an animal. He had had nothing to eat for several days, but the pain in his arm was taking away that of his stomach. He realised he had been idly drawing in the blood he had left on the wall. And then he knew. He would tell the tales of himself. The ones which needed to be told. Tomorrow, he thought, I will not be forgotten. --- There were words, the Council saw, when they opened the lid. They had been used to take down notes from meetings. There were pictures, too, where words might have been. They took Rdusmitt out, and examined him. He had a deep cut on his arm, but that wasn’t it. He had bite marks all over him, and scratches, many of them were caked with dry blood. The man, or whatever was left of him, was a mess. And they looked at the walls again, in complete astonishment. And Rdusmitt, the Jailed Man, he still told his tales to the gods.