To each his own
He should have seen this coming. He should have known his end was near. But he never envisioned the ends; he only had eyes for the glorious beginnings. As always, he had been blinded by his own shameless pride.
But what good was it now? There was nothing to be proud of, and he at least, had the decency to acknowledge that fact. It was all gone now, all burnt down to the ground, good and bad times alike.
It had taken him centuries of wars, of struggle, of hate to achieve something akin to comfort. To be feared, if not respected. It had taken him centuries to show his neighbors that he could stand at their level, that he could be a force to be reckoned with. However, he had once more been reduced to nothing. A name in an old, dusty history book, that is what he was doomed to become. His could almost see it. A kid in a distant nameless future, would stumble upon an old book and see his name there. He would ponder, perhaps, and ask his elders. They wouldn't know. No one would. Those who did still wouldn't care. Was he really at fault, though? Had he, in the likes of Icarus, strived to fly too high?
The cold floor of the cell felt rough on his already wounded skin. He couldn't move away from it. He couldn't stand up, even if he tried. The injuries he had sustained in the past few months, and weeks had become too much. It had finally reached the point where he couldn't hide it and pretend. He loathed showing this weakness to his enemies, but he couldn't do anything about it. He wasn't in a position to do so. Briefly, he wondered how his brother was faring, but soon realised the ugly truth. He pushed those thoughts away. He reminisced, he wept, until his cries gave way to ugly sobs. Even if he lived, if he somehow, someday saw the outside world again, he knew he didn't have anywhere to go. He wasn't wanted. More importantly, he wasn't needed. He closed his eyes. All good things must come to an end, and he was probably going to get what he deserved. He gave it no more thought. With an odd calmness washing over him, he thought that even if he survived, he wouldn't be himself again; he would be but a ghost of his once glorious self. He knew what they would do to him. They already were. He decided not to be bitter. He would accept this. He was too weary of it all now. He wanted to stay like this, with his eyes closed, and sleep. Forever.