The hero closed his eyes as he concentrated on his hands. The rope had gone beyond chafing, he was now gripping it so tightly that he imagined the particles in the rough fibers and in his skin mixing and merging until they were indistinguishable from each other. He could hold on forever. For the rest of his life.

He could hear his enemy coming closer, heavy boots clattering across the flagstone court. He would cut the rope, he would let the hero fall into the void below to land amongst the rest of the twisted and broken bodies. The enemy would turn around, victorious, heavy boots would clatter again across the flagstone court, and he would watch the sun set and rise again. But the enemy would not break the hero's grip.

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