Judgement day

prompt: a young man facing an executioner

    It has been more than three hundred days in the this stinking hell hole. I can see the stench radiating off of me.  My fingernails are long and blackened with filth from my cell.
   My beard is wild and matted with dirt and straw. My muscles -once firm and strong- have atrophied from lack of movement. My wrists are raw from the shackles they have been in for so long.
   Three hundred days awaiting my fate for preaching loyalty to God over king.
   My voice is gravelly with disuse.  I have waited quietly and patiently and endured my fair share of beatings while seeing the dead eyes of my fellow prison inmates staring back at me while I writhed in pain on the floor.
   The worst days were when I could hear the sing song voice of my betrothed, crying and begging the prison guards to let her see me, and hearing their raucous laughter and derogatory comments before sending her on her way.
   Three hundred days have passed since I have felt the silk of her creamy skin under my fingertips or smelled the lavender in her flax coloured hair.
   I have saved my last crust of bread for my little friend who is crawling from a dark corner, sniffing his way toward me.  It is our compromise, so he would cease nibbling on my fingers while I slept. This is our last supper together, and I think somehow he knows it.

   I hear the executioner coming for me now, ready to bring me to the gallows. He is all hard muscle and sinew. His stare is hard and unyielding. He unshackles me from the wall and pushes me forward but I stumble, my legs giving out from being bent for so long. He utters a long stream of curses and raises the whip ever at his side. Instinctively, I raise my hands to cover my face.
"Wait," I say.  "I have something for you".
I crawl to a dark corner and grasp around feebly until my hands find the glass vial.  I traded many favours and many meals to obtain this precious liquid. I can feel the hot, angry breath of the executioner on my neck. He is ready to beat me.
"Don't break it,"  I cry out.
I lean in close and whisper. "It is for your daughter. Just a drop at a time. It will ease her pain."

They are calling for me and my executioner yanks me to my feet by my chains. He pushes me roughly forward, but he is walking slowly and he doesn't strike me which is his normal practice.

"Peace brother," I say. "Be at peace. I have prayed for her, and the Lord told me He will heal her."
I shuffle forward, into the blinding light where death awaits me.  I feel his heavy hand on my shoulder, squeeze once.  His weeping face, full of a new hope is the last thing I see.