"Justice is not Healing. Healing cometh only by suffering and patience, and maketh no demand, not even for Justice." - Tolkien, The Silmarillion.

It was after the War had ended that Lily learned of her father's death.

She remembered the way the sun had recoiled itself behind the dark, ominous clouds that swallowed the sky. She remembered the sharp whistles of the autumn wind that hissed and nipped against her face as she scaled the narrow stairs leading to the front door.

There was an old quote from a book once. It had stated that no change was ever instantaneous; that in a gradually heating bathtub, one would be boiled to death without even knowing it.

Lily felt, if she hadn't been so blind back then, those words would never have haunted her.

There was a smell in the air that day - nothing unordinary or striking; yet it was a smell that was distinctly Londonesque. The smell of pain, of sorrow, of ash.

Much of the city's buildings and streets had crumbled due to the bombings, and there was a grey, dreariness to the atmosphere - it came to her, at that moment: the city had lungs.

London was alive, and it wept bitterly.

Hesitantly, Lily lifted a gloved hand to grab the door-knocker and swing it lightly against the wood. The girl had waited - breath baited - as the tell-tale footsteps hobbled towards the door.

It opened. Mr. Williams greeted her. "Hello, Lillian." He smiled. It wasn't friendly, it was tight. She had shivered and wrapped her pea coat around herself. She remembered the colour, a prim and plain blue, faded from years of use.

"'Morning, Mr. Williams," she'd said.

He'd stretched open the door wide and stepped to the side. From behind him, Lily could make out the polished, spiralled staircase at the end of the hall. Home.

She had grown up here - in this tiny, two-storied flat with adjoined walls to the neighbours on either side. Wiping the mud from her loafers, she'd stepped inside.

Despite the front hallway being narrow, the ceilings were high. As a child, Lily had wondered what it would be like to be that tall. Hoped and prayed that one day, just maybe, she could see the world from a much higher perspective.

The lights were dim, and she shrugged off her coat and draped it on the hanging rail beside the door.

Next, Lily tugged off her gloves and deposited them inside the coat's right pocket. The girl distinctly remembered her actions that day. They were rehearsed. Practised. I suppose the human mind will always cling to the ordinary when faced with the unknown.

The War had lasted for 6 years. Lily had not seen her Papa since then.

She had heard once that war changes people. At that time, she never thought it changed her. She didn't want to believe that she'd be different - some shadow of the past; a hollowed-out life form. Lily didn't want to believe that such memories would taint her future.

After the War had ended, survivors were expected to go home and continue living. But that was a lie. War changed everyone. Nobody - not even the Queen of England herself – could hope to move forward unscathed.

"How is he?" Lily had said. Her voice; she remembered her voice, some people said it was kind and strong. At that moment though, her voice had been small. Afraid.

Mr. Williams had only smiled that empty smile. Lily felt her heart drop.

After a heavy pause, he spoke. "He's upstairs."

The girl thanked him before ascending the spiral staircase to the upper floor. Her Papa's room was down the hallway to the end; she remembered it had a large, bay window that overlooked the bustling street below.

She would sit there as a child. She would study and ponder the stars with her father's old telescope. Sometimes, if she were lucky, she could make out the yellowish shadow of Venus.

The stars, then, were once familiar to her.

Lily had crossed the hallway and with a raw urgency, pushed the door to her father's room open. It was dark. A heavy staleness lingered in the air. The curtains to the bay window were drawn shut and in the centre of her father's room lay the bed. Ominous and ghastly, it was. The sheets were a dull white, encasing the man who raised her.

Lily gently closed the door yet stayed where she was. She remembered a big brass band was crooning from the record player beside the window. The happy tune seemed so out of place, so different to what she was feeling. Her knees felt weak; she couldn't breathe. She stood and examined her papa's face from afar - the slope of his nose, the thin lips, the strong jaw. His unique, prominent features.

It was horrible to realise, but she felt it. She knew.

Lily had forgotten him, during the War.

He'd been pushed to the back of the girl's mind since her dispatchment to France. He'd faded from her memory. The grey roots in his hair, the way his eyes crinkled at the edges when he'd smiled, the last song they'd both danced to.

Guilt sucked her dry.

Papa's eyes were closed. Lily tried to think rationally.

She remembered her mind scrambling for every logical outcome; that he was sleeping, or that he was placed on medication. She couldn't bear thinking of any other possibility.

Lily had already seen so much death. Surely the world wasn't that cruel.

"Papa," she'd choked. Her eyes watered. She had limply crossed the room.

Kneeling beside the bed, Lily reached out to grab his wrist. The world around her seemed to spiral downwards as she scrambled to feel for a pulse. He was so pale and so cold. His cheeks were sunken yet his mouth was curved into sweet, happy serenity. "No. No."

There was no pulse.

"Papa, wake up," she began to sob. Hot, salty tears stung her cheeks. How dare he leave me. I had no one else, and he knew this. How could he? She remembered thinking.

"Please," Lily had cried. She'd gripped his wrist tightly and held it to her forehead. A bitter, powerful feeling latched onto her and would not let go. It was grief, and it rolled in waves. All the numbness, the deadness felt throughout the War seemed to break free. She wept. "Please."

Death had taken millions of lives. Death had taken Papa from her.

It was November, 1945, when Lily's father passed. A couple of months before she found herself here. Trapped within a small, forsaken prison with but one window to mock her of the freedom she could not have.

There were heavy, iron shackles latched to both her wrists. Perhaps for the sake of mockery rather than restraint, she thought glumly. Even if I could escape these chains I wouldn't get far.

In her cell she had a bucket for relief. It got emptied once a month – once a fortnight, if she was lucky.

There was no bed, no bench. She sat on dampened, foul stone with her back pressed against the cold wall.

Lily knew, in all logical terms, she shouldn't be here - trapped inside a medieval dungeon. It defied reality. However, fate, it seemed, cared not about reality. It decided to deal her a hand which did not exist in the deck.

She knew she was no longer in post-War London. There was no electricity, no running water. Strange, devilish creatures carried flaming torches, the only source of light, as they traipsed around the dungeons. They walked with a limp. Lily surmised it was due to the severe hunch of their backs. Or that it was simply a genetic trait.

Time here was never ending. Circular, ancient, expansive. Days seem to meld together to form one blurry haze. Lily could make a notch for every time she saw the sun's distant rays pass by the window, but it would be fruitless. Much like every other prisoner here, she was doomed – there was no end to her sentence.

The sunlight cast a reddish hue into her dark cell. Despite the window's smallness, it allowed her a glimpse of the outside world; a place she hadn't been in so, so long.

The girl felt as though she'd been trapped for millennia.

Oh god, what I'd give to feel the warmth of the sun once more. At the thought of it, Lily wanted to curl up and weep – but she knew that if she started, she wouldn't stop.

She had cried when her Papa died - just after the War; she had no other relatives apart from her Aunt Agnes - and her aunt despised her. Perhaps it was because Lily looked too much like her mother. She had little memory of the woman, she passed when Lily was a child. Papa had kept a photograph of her in his pocket watch. It had frayed and was crinkled around the edges - but Lily had liked it very much.

Sometimes, if she'd looked hard enough, Lily could see her own eyes staring back at her from the portrait. Fragments of the past were all that she had, and everything that she clung to.

If she were to find a way home, she'd need not only her wits, but her memories.

Her thoughts halted. There was a piercing scream from down the passageway, followed by the unmistakable sound of a whip cracking.

Lily dragged herself from the floor to the iron bars and peered out. A few other inmates did the same. She paled. Further ahead, two creatures were attacking an inmate.

"Ashdautas vrasubatlat, zanbaur!"

Wrapping her fingers around the cool iron, Lily watched the creature growl at the inmate in their thunderous, guttural language. The prisoner, weak and wan, crumpled to the ground.

At night, Lily could hardly sleep, worried that she'd simply freeze to death like the previous captive across from her did. Her thin pale nightgown never provided enough warmth. Whether she died or survived this hellish place lied on the toss of a coin.

This prisoner - one of them – wouldn't even have a chance of survival if the assault continued.

"Stop!" The girl yelled, a rare burst of courage propelling her forward. The creatures didn't stop. A few more hits and the prisoner would die. "Stop it!" She screamed and screamed until her voice was raw and hoarse.

Lily's disruption finally drew their attention. Snarling, they dropped the bloodied inmate onto the cobbled floor and set their black, bloodlusted eyes on her.

The two creatures staggered towards the cell like drunken sailors, bumbling with incoherent screeches. Dark blood painted their armour. It trailed behind them like a blackened river. Lily ducked her head, closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her mouth to hold back watery bile.

They jumbled with the keys, fumbling to unlock her cell door.

Panicking, Lily turned away and crawled back to the corner by the right wall - away from the putrid stench of her own faeces. She eyed them as they attempted to enter her cell.

"No, no," Lily shook her head, scrambling as they reached for her.

They latched their fingers onto the girl and took her to a place she'd been before.

During the tortures, he came to Lily so clearly.

She would see him, sitting beside her in a photo booth. Or at a train station, his army cap gripped tightly in the palm of his hands as he waved goodbye.

Lily shuddered.

The wall opposite her was made of brick - a dark, mud-like brick. There was a faint pattern if one looked hard enough. Like the veins of a leaf. Or a group of blood cells viewed beneath a microscope.

There was a sudden movement from behind her. Lily's heart jumped into her throat.

The train. The train.

Crack!

She let out a sob. The pain - it seared into her spine. Coughing, she convulsed on the wooden table. The world blurred and the whip was brought up once more.

She forced herself to think - to escape mentally. The train had seventeen carriages. He was on the fifth one, the 18th regiment of the British Army -

Crack!

She bit down on her tongue, hard enough to taste blood. The whip ripped into the bare flesh of her back. The creatures liked this – Lily knew they received sick pleasure in causing pain. She could never – would never - allow them the satisfaction of tears. Tears were an aphrodisiac to them. Tears to them was like casting petrol onto a fire.

The train. The train billowed with a thick smoke that filled the station. Lily had clenched one hand to her chest as she waved goodbye. There were no tears. She thought that she would see him again. That the war would only last for a few weeks and it would all be over. But that never happened.

The train station was the last time Lily ever saw him.

The thought was enough to send a wave of bitter agony crashing through her. Her eyes felt hot. So did her spine. Oh god, it burned.

The whip struck for the eighth time. By this time, Lily felt numb. Something warm and sticky dripped around her sides, pooling onto the table below.

Clenching her teeth, she waited for the next blow. Yet, it never came.

Instead, the creature - tall and pale and ghastly, came directly into her view. She turned her head away, refusing to look at him.

"Amal shufar, at rrug, Kurv," he snarled, yanking Lily's hair back and forcing her chin up. Hot, unabashed anger burned within her.

Without another thought, she spat at him. Defiance, no matter how small, could change everything.

"Agh!" The creature swore, wiping his chin and pulling out a dagger.

Lily saw it and sucked in a breath. Was this it? Was this the final blow? Not from a gunshot wound in the frontlines, or from typhus, but by a resentful creature with a knife. How would he do it? A quick slit? Or will he let her bleed out - slow and painful?

A strange calmness washed over her. The train, she thought to herself, think of the train.

He lifted the knife - glinting and sharp, lowering it down to her head. Lily held her breath, quivering, waiting for the end. Surely it would come? Then, it finally came, and she heard a slick noise.

Oh.

The creature was slicing off her hair. Uneven, jagged and frenzied swipes, with chunks of matted locks tumbling to the ground. He cut so close to her skull she was afraid if she moved, he'd slice straight through her scalp.

It was soon over. He pocketed his knife then grabbed the girl by the arm, wishing her to stand up. Pain shot up her spine, and she hung her head with a groan.

She could not move.

The creature was quick to lose his temper, snapping her arm back. There was a loud crack. The room spun on itself. Lily heard a cry. Was it hers? She felt she was on a teacup ride. The world spun and spun and she wanted to yell at it to stop.

But it didn't stop. There was the feeling of sharp tugging, of pulling, of dragging. Nausea from the sudden movements made her gag. Before she could force her head up, she was thrown to the ground. She let out a dry sob. The familiar, horrid stench of her own filth and sweat welcomed her.

The creatures slammed her cell door shut.

If I don't die from hyperthermia, it will be from pain.

Lily's heart thumped against her chest, pounding so hard it stung. She was shivering. Yet she couldn't move. She felt exhausted.

When night reached her, she forced herself to stay awake. She knew if she closed her eyes, she wouldn't wake up.

She had seen it before, during the War. Whilst she was in France, soldiers with no arms or legs would enter the infirmary tent at night, only for them to be dead by morning. By that afternoon, the corpse was removed, the sheets cleaned, and the next soldier would take their place. Death was a common occurrence. Something that Lily had witnessed every day.

Was she afraid of it though? Of dying?

If she died, it would only partially quench the thirst for blood that these creatures had. They hungered for it like humans hungered for companionship. The devils that tormented the prisoners, they wanted to believe they had absolute control, but Lily knew that wasn't true.

She still had her sanity, and she clung to it as a dragon might do to gold.