Zidane awoke. The soft light of the moon shone upon him; he lifted himself out of bed. She was standing there.

"Cyra," he whispered, staring up at her. The woman stared back at him. "On your knees," she said, pointing to the ground. Zidane knelt down.

She walked over to him. He offered no struggle, but sighed forlornly as she pulled his wrists behind his back sharply. She bound him tightly, as if savoring it. She pulled him up onto his feet.

He followed her as she walked out of the castle. As soon as they were out of the city, she turned back to him. Zidane shuddered at the cruel stare she shot at him.

But he said nothing, knowing that she might decide to be a little more merciful if he was still.

She drew an iron collar and chain from behind her. Zidane knew what that meant. He stayed still as she brought the collar around his throat, pulling it suffocatingly tight against this throat. She yanked the chain and he fell forward, unable to pull himself because of his bound wrists. She hauled him up by the throat. They continued.

At length, after passing though a rather empty forest, which contained nothing but rather old trees, and a few very young ones, they came upon a small clearing. The trees seemed to bow towards this clearing, and the grass that grew within it was wild, but at the same time soft.

Zidane noticed a rather large stone table in the center. The table was composed of pure white marble, and along the edges contained a script that Zidane didn't recognize. It was in a language he had never seen or heard of; but the characters were beautifully crafted, as that of a beautiful language. The table was tall, about up to Zidane's chest, and remarkably well built; it wasn't just a flat rock.

Growing near and around the table was a trellis with roses, still in bloom, flowing up and over the table. The roses were a dark red, not a bright dark red, but rather a dark red that showed that the flowers had been dead for some time, but had somehow managed to keep their color. Upon their dry stems, thorns, sharp and curling cruelly shot out.

A few yards away, there was a tree. The tree, one of the younger trees in the forest, stood surprisingly tall. Its branches spread out, but it was indeed thin, only about ten inches thick, Zidane thought, compared to the other tree's great thickness of anywhere from three feet to even fifteen feet thick. Cyra dragged him over to the tree. Binding him so that he was hanging from it, she left him alone.

Dagger awoke early the next morning to bring Zidane some breakfast. She had just placed some fruit as well as some oatmeal on a tray when she stepped into the room. Zidane was gone.

She had a feeling he had just gone for an early morning walk (as he was sometimes inclined to do), and so she went over to his bed. A small note lay on the bed. She picked it up….

….and dropped the tray. The note was not Zidane's hand, nor was it friendly.

Dear Queen Garnet,

I am sorry to tell you that Zidane is now in my custody, and is awaiting execution. I would suggest to you that you come to the place marked in the enclosed map three nights from now, if you want to see Zidane before he dies.

Remember that he is in my legal custody, and so you are not permitted to see him prior to this.

Sincerely,

Cyra Kalimika

Dagger began to quake slightly. Who would have a reason to kill Zidane? She wondered, rereading the note.

She turned the note over to see an elegantly drawn map. She still couldn't believe what was happening.

It had been a day or so, and left out in the heat of the day, Zidane was utterly exhausted. He knew what Cyra was doing—she was weakening him. He was dehydrated and hungry, and his wrists ached from being hung for so long.

He worried about Dagger, though. She's probably worried sick! he thought, imagining Dagger pacing back and forth in her room, wondering where he was.

He longed for her, pined after her. He knew he was here to die, and whatever course of action Cyra would take as far as his death was concerned, he didn't care. He knew he deserved it, but he prayed fervently that Cyra would at least let him see his precious Dagger again.

Finally, night fell again. The relief of seeing the sun set was absolutely relaxing. Zidane laid his head down on his shoulder and tried to sleep.

He later awoke to the feeling of something cold and hard beneath his chin. It was pushing up against him and he was too tired to give resistance. His eyes fluttered open. Cyra was standing in front of him, holding a knife. Her face bore a sadistic smile, and she leaned in close.

"I'll only let you rest during the day…" she whispered, laying the knife on his chest as she slipped in closer. She cut his shirt and vest, smiling as she did so, watching him shiver in the slightly cool wind that blew across the clearing. "But tonight I'll make an exception…tomorrow will be difficult, though."

Zidane was thankful for her mercy, and as she walked away, he laid his head back down upon his shoulder and tried to sleep.

Dagger stared up at the ceiling of her bedroom, thinking about Zidane. What on earth did Zidane do to deserve death? Why is it three nights from now and not right now? What are they doing to him?

The questions buzzed around Dagger's mind until she finally fell into a fitful sleep.

The next night was terrible. Cyra had spent most of it beating him, truly to within an inch of his life.

She picked up her hands and laid them on his bleeding and bruised back. Zidane gave only a small whimper. "Just one more night," she whispered in his ear, caressing his face lightly. Zidane said nothing; he was hardly conscious anyways. Cyra turned and left.

Zidane was hardly able to stay conscious for the rest of the day. He knew he had been conscious for only a few minutes at a time, for spaces of hours. When he opened his weary eyes again, it was night.

Evidently, Cyra had left him alone tonight as well, for when he opened his eyes again, it was day-break. He had never felt so hungry in his life, or as thirsty.