But now I'm awake, and I can only stare at the grey stone walls of my prison and the rings on my hands.

There are three of them, each a band of regret, a greater binding than these featureless walls. Wedding bands all, symbols of blessings that never were. Three bands, three loves, not so many for one man, but I am less than a man, and three is more than I deserve.

A simple copper band entwined with a dragon. The symbol of my last love, it was scavenged from a battlefield and presented surreptitiously. A creature of passion and fire she was, but she could not articulate her longing, the heat of it frightened her.

A stubborn, coarse shank of white hair. One who loved me enough to bless me and curse me, free me and bind me. By my will she bound me. With this ring she freed me. Twisted by myth and fate, she chose to die rather than have me fade from her life once more.

A silver ring, inscribed with all the fondness of a true love. I hurt her. I hurt her and then I killed her. And all the time she knew. She knew the price she would pay, and yet she loved me still. I hate myself for placing her death on my hands. I hate her for staining my hands with her death. I hate her for loving me.

To each of them I made a promise, promises of life, death and fate. All are broken, each shattered while my dear one watched on in pain, and love.

Three loves, mother, maiden and crone. Demon, witch and hag . Not so many for a man, but I am not quite a man, and now I can't remember a single face, not a smile, not a frown. I need those faces, but they've been eroded by the ocean, melted and torn until nothing remains but vacant eyes staring from a featureless deflated face.

But sometimes, when I dream of my prison crystallising and slowly cracking around me, just before the oceans rush in and drown my mind, I can see the face of my dear Annah as it was that last night. Tilted up towards me, her teeth bit into her lips, my hands covered her ears, blood ran the grooves of her cheek, flowing from beneath her eyelids, as my thumbs push harder, harder against those pretty green eyes. And as the waters crush me, her blood is diluted with the salt water, the flavour of tears, and her face washed clean.

But I always awake, and find myself in a self-imposed prison, her face forgotten, and the oceans held at bay.

I have nothing but a jigsaw to keep me sane between now and the next time I dream. The pieces of the jigsaw are beautiful ivory white and curved, smooth on one side, and pitted with a road map of veins and capillaries on the other. Fragments of a shattered skull.

Ed: Also, Transeer recently revealed some of his wisdom to me on ICQ: