Master

He knew every gray stone in his prison cell, every mortar-filled line between each of
them, every change in topography of the dirt floor beneath his filthy, cold, bare feet.
He had stopped counting the days of his imprisonment after one thousand of them, for he
no longer cared to keep track of what had become this eternity of worm-filled black
bread, dank water, and horrible, dark solitude.
He'd spoken to no one for an a eon, since the day he'd gone mad at the jailer, demanding
to know how he'd come to be here, incarcerated-what he'd done, what crime he'd
committed, who had sent him here, what horrible error had been made. But the only
answer he'd received had been being thrown into this cell, even smaller and darker than
the one he'd previously occupied.
He had nearly stopped reminding himself of his own name.
Edmond Dantes.
His lips moved silently, for there was no one there to hear. But the name that did come to
his lips, in a quiet, gentle murmur, like a lifeline to a drowning sailor, was the talisman
he'd clung to all these days, these years. "Mercedes."
He said it again, no more than a release of breath in his silent world. "Mercedes."
How many times had he spoken her name? At first, with anguish . . . he'd been taken
from her, from the woman he was to marry, without a chance for farewell.
Then, with despair. Would he ever see her again? Touch her?
With pain. Would she wait for him? Had she tried to find him?