The light was gray and weak when a jerk roused Ordhan's fevered mind. There was an odd noise coming from the ceiling. With an effort he lifted his head (why did his eyes hurt like this?) and studied the line running down from the hook to his feet (they seemed to be someone else's, not his own). Could it be...? Unless it was a vision born of desperate hope, the fibers of the rope had begun to fray above. A snapping sound--his head spun as another jerk took him a fraction of an inch closer to the ground. Steeling himself, Ordhan curled his shoulders upward.
It was just in time. The rope snapped and he fell, the ground striking his lower shoulders instead of his head. It still winded him terribly, and he was certain the ribs had cracked again; needles lanced his legs and feet as blood rushed back and deadened nerves screamed, but the ever-building pressure in his head had ebbed.
When his feet could finally move he kicked off the loops of rope still strung across them. Scraping along the dirty floor he reached a crate; pressing against it, feet scrabbling at the floor, he stood. His numb feet began to buckle beneath him, but he caught himself with an elbow against the crate's edge and waited for feeling to return. At last he straightened. Something small and cold touched his hand as he pushed himself up on the crate, and his fingers closed around it.
By miracle or chance the way was empty. It was with the holy symbol clutched in one bloodstained hand that Ordhan stumbled through the stench-ridden alleys, his steps faltering but not stopping until safety had been reached. Maker, though the darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm. I shall endure. What you have created, no one can tear asunder.