An excerpt

From my "Fidelio" novel:

Florestan lay in total darkness. The lamp outside his cell door had burnt itself low, so low that it would soon snuff itself out, and he would be in darkness forever more. But Florestan could not bring himself to care. It was so cold, and he was so hungry. He hunched himself over, wanting to fade back into sleep again, but nothing came. Florestan was awake, and still alive.
“Oh God,” Florestan whispered, “Give me the strength to endure this. I am ready to die.”
He was dying: Florestan knew that as surely as he knew the reason for his incarceration. It did not matter who was behind his imprisonment: one of his enemies had disposed of him, and in the two years that he had inhabited this cell, Florestan had not once convinced the jailer to tell him who the prison’s governor was. It did not matter anymore.
Before, when he had still had the strength, Florestan had sometimes raged at God, wondering why this was happening. As time passed and the suffering increased, he stopped murmuring and began to pray in earnest, begging to be comforted in his trials. God would not forsake him, even as he lay dying. Even now, starving to death, Florestan stubbornly clung to the hope that he would not be forsaken. He wrapped his ragged coat tighter around himself and leaned back against the wall. There was nothing alive down here, not even rats. No one but himself, and the jailer would not come. The light would soon be gone. This time, there would be no one to come light it again. They had abandoned him to death.
Florestan no longer cared that he was dying. The hunger rode him mercilessly; thirst clawed at his throat since he had finished the water that the jailer had given him days before. All he wanted was for it to end. He was finished with life. Death was coming for him, but Florestan did not fear it. He only wondered how much time he had left in this hell. There were things in this darkness. Since the jailer had stopped bringing him food, creatures had begun to appear in the dungeon. Many-legged creatures skittered in the corners where before there had been nothing. Nothing was alive here but Florestan himself. But even while his reason knew that, the hallucinations continued. It was so dark! He curled into himself, praying for peace, for comfort. The chains around his wrists were so heavy that he could barely lift his arms. They cut into his skin. Florestan ran his fingers over them, wishing that they were, at least, looser. Chains were the reward for his integrity. Florestan forced himself to remember.
I am here because I fought for the truth, and for justice. I did the right thing, and this is my reward. But I am innocent. And now I will die, and God will judge my enemies for their crimes. I did my duty, and I am comforted.
“Florestan.”
He opened his eyes and gasped. An angel stood nearby, her white dress shining so pure and bright that it hurt his eyes. A rosy light surrounded her. She smiled at him, holding her hands out; there was a soft scent of roses about her. Leonora.
“Leonora! Careña!” Florestan gasped. “Leonora!”
He reached for her, frantic, desperate to fall into her arms and be born away to Heaven. The angel smiled so beautifully, her rosy light falling upon the filthy, miserable man before her. Florestan gaped at her. Leonora! His own Leonora! She would take him away from here; take him to Heaven where he could rest, where he could finally find peace. Florestan struggled to his knees, reaching, reaching… And then the angel was gone, and all that remained was darkness. No! No, please, no. Come back, come back... But the angel was gone. Florestan, heartbroken, collapsed.