Prologue: The Free And The Enslaved.
"When a man is denied the right to live the life he believes in, he has no choice but to become an outlaw."
Those words…The words of a man who sacrificed his all for the country that he knew and loved.
He who had the patriot's spirit that ignited a whole revolution for good and for bad.
He was Nelson Mandela…
Those words echoed in the confines of his mind, a slowly faltering mind…
A quick crack in the wind and the sound of flesh being whipped, followed by a struggling groan of a man who knew only pain and suffering.
More cracks thundered and more sounds of flesh being whipped echoed beneath the dimly lit stoned wall interior. After the groans, the man took this time to inhale as much air as he could, relieving as much pain as his will would allow it.
He struggled to look up to the man who did this to him. His soul-piercing green eyes, filled with hate and contempt darting across the dark reaching for a glimpse of the bastard who was doing this to him but his heavy eyes fell, no longer having the strength to do so.
Then soft, crisp footsteps began to gently echo off of the damp stone walls before him leading away from the suffering man, his eyes only opened a crack of his eye lids, granting him limited vision of his hellish cell.
From what he could see, a figure of a man slowly strode towards the only source of light in the room: a candle. He now could see the figure reaching his left hand towards the candle gripping it with his seemingly firm and tight grip, whilst his right discarded a long coil of rope attached to some sort of grip towards a nearby table.
The whip he thought.
But he was through worse.
He was a soldier..
So he endured..
His salt rubbed wounds….
Illuminated by the candle's flickering light, he saw the newcomer before him clad in some sort of robe that indicated this man was a man of high power or has some kind of authority, whilst a strange aura of dread emitted from this person's physical form.
He glanced towards the tortured, in pain now illuminated displayed a gruesome scene, it was a man shackled to the ground, naked with a steady stream of blood flowing down the poor man's back. His body now suffered from minor malnutrition as his ribs became barely visible. His unkempt hair clotted with blood and his face now scarred. This was hell for the man. For his wishes are not to be freed at this very moment but as to die. To escape this suffering.
But the man in the robe he calls his torturer, does not know the raw power that he or his country posses. For he knows that this damned back-water civilization should all burn in hell for what they did to him.
"God" He whispered..
And so his torturer slowly approached his collapsed form once again and kneeled down towards his level then proceeded to look straight into the shackled man's eyes and whispered something that the man in shackles could not understand, but deep in the pit of his mind he knew it wasn't splendid.
"You won't get anything from me, you primitive fuck!" The shackled man spat out.
His adversary gave an eerie grin towards the tortured soul before him.
And with that the man in the robe, raised his hand in the air as a soft glow slowly emerged from his hand, soon forming into a small fragile ball of fire..
With what ever strength he could muster he widened his eyes in awe, but that feeling of momentary amazement was replaced by utter fear and shock as he knew what this man was going to do with him.
His teeth clenched to prepare for the incoming hell fire that would douse his already weakened body.
Then there was silence. As the two men locked on each others eyes, knowing full well what the other is going to do to the latter. They both embraced their fates, with no doubts. Soon the room was filled with what the room was used to over the centuries that it was built to accommodate to..