The guard that replaced Michael in the dungeon fell asleep almost immediately at the table, showing no interest in Ray whatsoever, not even sparing a passing glance inside the cell. Ray wasn't sure how to feel about that. On one hand, the guard wasn't going to spit at him or anything. On the other, Ray had no one to talk to except his own rattling breaths. He had no way to tell time, being underground, but eventually the some of the torches began to dim, crying out in need of replacements. It was around this time that Michael returned to the dungeons.

He had taken off his armor and bear pelt, leaving the loose yellow shirt, brown pants, red sash, and soft calf-high leather boots. He carried a bundle of folded clothes and a pair of tall boots. He padded quietly down the stairs, stopped and stared at the guard for several moments to make sure the guard was sound asleep, then walked over to Ray's cell.

"Lazy fuck," he said, nodding at the sleeping guard and sounding very much like the real Michael. "Here, put these on." He tossed the clothes and boots into the cell.

Ray lifted up the top piece of fabric with two fingers delicately. It looked like a stiff vest. "No thanks."

Michael glared and flared his nostrils. "It wasn't a suggestion," he said, fighting to keep his voice low. "Put them on, or I will come in there and make you." So casually as to look nearly accidental, he crossed his arms so that one of his sleeves pulled back. Where the real Michael normally had a tattoo of Ganondorf was a strange tattoo that looked like a vague sword shape made out of Celtic knots. Ray could tell he was supposed to feel intimidated by it, but he simply didn't know what it meant.

"Okay, alright," Ray conceded. He dropped the cloth back to the pile. "I always wanted to die looking fancy," he muttered dryly. Michael's mouth twitched. Ray dug out the shirt out of the pile and turned his back to Michael. He had taken off his normal shirt before he realized that Michael was still there. He looked over his shoulder where the captain was watching with narrowed eyes.

"A little privacy, please?" Ray asked flatly. Michael put a hand on one of the iron bars as if to say something, but then let his hand drop. He turned away and stalked up the stairs. When Michael was safely up them, Ray swiftly and quietly changed outfits. He fumbled with some of the unfamiliar, archaic clothing methods, but eventually figured everything out.

Ray did feel fancy, if he was perfectly honest, even though his outfit had far less colors than all the other outfits he saw his friends wearing. His fake friends. Who seemed to hate him. He shook his head and examined himself best he could in his cell. He wore a white long-sleeved shirt that was tied up the front like a polo with red string. Over this he wore a black sleeveless vest that was held closed by short leather straps across the front. His vest seemed a little tight across his middle. His pants were black and loose until they hit the top of his boots, and had two columns of buttons to hold it closed. His boots were hard soled and mostly black, but the tongue was white, and the laces were bright red. Most interesting about his outfit, however, was the cape. It was long and black with red lining, attached at his shoulders by a pair of red glass pins set into a backing of gold. The cape had a chunk missing from the hem, but when it was hanging loose it was barely noticeable.

Ray kicked his normal clothes underneath the straw in the corner of his cell and sat back down, letting the chill of the stone seep into his thighs and ass. At the very least, this outfit was a bit warmer than the other, especially if he wrapped the cape around himself. He waited to see if Michael would return, but the man did not. Rather than ponder his two days left of life, Ray wrapped the cape around himself and tried to get comfortable on the straw. It was probably nighttime by now, anyway. Ray slept.

He hoped he'd wake up back in his apartment but knew by now that that wasn't happening.

~~~~

Ray barely paid attention to the next day. He was absorbed in his own thoughts, his own impending death. He refused to eat the dry bread handed to him through the bars. The time seemed to go by slowly, but before he knew it, Michael came down to fetch him. He reluctantly allowed himself to be handcuffed with iron bands and led out of the dungeon. He didn't look around, staring at his fancy shoes as he plodded along. The carpet was kinda nice. Green in one hallway, red in this one, gold in another. Each the same thick plushness. He only looked up when Michael forced him to stop walking and pinched the back of his neck.

Ray was at the end of the largest room he had ever been in. The ceiling stretched high above him, and staircases lined both sides of the room leading up to upper floors. Ray glanced over his shoulder down the wide green carpet to see dark wood double doors. Michael tapped him on the back of the knees with a foot, and Ray took the cue to bow. But not before he got a good look at who stood in front of him.

There was a crowd of finely dressed spectators, who stood off to either side. In front of him was a massive throne made of intricately carved gold with green cushions on a raised dais. At the top of the throne was the biggest lump of solid gold Ray had ever seen, probably at least a meter cubed. Jack stood to the side of the throne with his back straight. On the throne lounged the man Ray had kind of expected to see at this point.

Geoff, that magnificent bastard, looked as well as ever. In some ways he still looked exactly like Geoff. His moustache was styled into a twirl, his dark hair was an unbrushed mess, and his sleeves were kept short to show off armfuls of tattoos. He lounged in the throne mostly sideways, one leg propped over the arm. A crown perched crookedly on his head, a golden beast studded with obsidian and emeralds. He wore a rich forest green tunic with black lace ruffles at the neck and a dozen golden chains and decorations. His tunic was decorated with silver pieces of armor at the shoulders and across the breast. His belt was thick and black. Dark green pants fed into silver armored boots. His tattoos, like Michael's, were different from real Geoff's, and in some way Ray couldn't fathom, they were supposed to be intimidating. He couldn't make sense of the tattoos before his head was forced down into a complete bow.

Ray barely remembered what happened at the trial. He had been made to stand again, and he couldn't deny anything that was thrown at him. He had felt Gavin's hot glare and Michael's steely side-eyed gaze on him the entire time. Geoff had rattled off a list of some of his more heinous crimes, and Ray of course had claimed he didn't do any of it. He wasn't believed. He wanted to scream, shout that he was just some poor sap who had stumbled into a strange world, but any time he had tried to speak "out of turn," someone was always there to smack him. He was sentenced to hang tomorrow.

He spent his time back in his cell lying on the floor and staring at the mossy ceiling. His real friends - the ones who didn't want to hang him - must be so worried. He'd been gone for almost two days now. Were they looking for him? Did they search his apartment? What would they find? A body? Nothing?

When he wasn't thinking about his friends back in the real world, he was thinking about his execution. He was too young to die, wasn't he? Worst of all, no one would know how he died. His friends would be looking for him forever, but they would never find him. No closure, no real funeral. A memorial service, maybe. Would they hold it in Austin? Or New York? Who would show up?

At dawn the next day, Jack and a random guard came down to get him. Ray was handcuffed and led up a different back staircase in the dungeon and out into a square courtyard. Dozens of people, both poor and wealthy, milled about in front of a wooden platform, having been let in to the castle grounds to watch the execution. The wooden platform was two meters off the ground and pushed against the outer wall of the grounds. A single beam with three ropes dangling from it was supported across the platform. Jack and the guard led Ray up the wooden steps where a somberly dressed man threw a noose around Ray's neck and stood him on a trapdoor. The king and his prince, as well as Ryan and Michael, were present on the other side of the platform, bearing witness. When Ray was all set to die, Jack joined the four of them.

Jack made a short speech that Ray didn't listen to. The somber man put his hand on a lever on one of the poles. Ray closed his eyes and gulped, waiting for the drop that would break his neck. He sniffed, and the heavy scent of roses drifted his way. He wasn't crying, there was just some dust in his eye. He took a deep breath. At least he'd die with a pleasant smell in his nose. Oh god, it was actually happening. He was going to die. He was going to die and his friends were-

What was that sound?