Marshall curls into the fetal position on the floor of his cell, muttering to himself.
"So long, so long, so long. Oh god, so long."
His hair is matted and hangs in thin strips against a face he's clawed at for weeks. The tattered remains of his clothes are laid on the floor as though he had once been trying to say something, but the dampness has caused mold to grow over them until the words have become distorted beyond recognition. He hasn't eaten in over a week. The cool mist that keeps his cell moist isn't enough to drink, but still he hasn't died. Through a parched throat and swollen tongue he keeps repeating those words.
In this cell, the fire may never come. He is forgotten and alone. He wishes he could die. By whatever gods there may be in the universe, he wishes he could die, but the fire is far away. The hunger passed days ago, the result of his stomach having too little energy to even growl anymore. The thirst is gone, too. Whether he has become used to the feeling or some biological process has stopped, he cannot know. Even now, he cannot die. All that is left for him is the pain of dessicated flesh rotting off of his bones.
Yes, the pain...and the words.
"So long, so long, so long..." The cruel hope of rescue is gone. The unholy specter of fear passed over him long ago. All he has left is the blessed release of the fire and the flame, and the release of sweet silence.
Because his rest is silence.