- Chapter 3: Prison Visit -

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you, Sir Deanna?" the guard asked. "He can be very unsettling. I wouldn't want to face him alone, myself."

Deanna smiled, warmed by the compassion of the guard's gesture. "Thank you. I wouldn't want to either, but I have to. It wouldn't be right to have a guard hovering right there."

"As you wish, Sir Deanna. Call me if you need anything."

Deanna's smile faded as he walked down the stone steps. It was chill in the dungeon, and he briefly rubbed his arms before moving on. He didn't want to be here. He'd postponed this visit more than once, however, and he did feel obligated to keep the visits to at least once a year. He knew that Natasha felt guilty about the man's being imprisoned here, as though it were her fault that he'd tried to kill Carla; Deanna's visits helped appease her guilt. It was out of the question for Natasha to visit him herself, since Deanna knew how much he would upset her.

He stopped before the appropriate cell. "Brehen," he said softly, foolishly hoping that he would not answer.

He was curled up in a corner of the cell, half-dozing. He was an old man now; it was nearly 20 years since he had tried to kill their daughter, and imprisonment had not eased his aging. A long gray beard curled and knotted over his chest. The hair on his head had withered and largely disappeared, and the hands clutching vaguely at his pant legs were gnarled.

"Brehen," he repeated, risking a much louder tone, since it was apparent that he was already awake. "It's me. Deanna."

"Deaaaaaannnnnnnaaa," Brehen hissed through his lips, as though forcing his mouth to speak was an effort. He stumbled to his feet and lurched over to the cell door. "How delightful. Heh. Heh heh." He grinned, a smile marked by the eerie gaps of missing teeth.

"You can't intimidate me," Deanna said firmly. He was admittedly a bit unsettled, but he was able to hold that under control without difficulty. "I just came here to tell you that Carla will be getting married soon."

"Ah? Heh heh. Is that so? Well, who's the unlucky lad?"

He didn't emphasize "unlucky", but it had to be some sort of bait. In Deanna's past visits, Brehen almost always dropped such cryptic remarks, and prying into their meaning always led to his elaborating on some prophecy of doom, usually the one in which Hindel became a terrifying Iom warlord known as "The Cloud of Iom".

This time, Deanna wasn't biting. "His name is Ryan. He's a good man. He's very much in love with Carla. They're already talking about starting a family."

"They should wait. Not a good time for it. No, no. Not good at all. And what about your first born son, your pride and joy, your future executioner? What is he up to?"

"He's here in the capital with me," Deanna said, casually. A casual manner might settle Brehen down. "He wanted to visit the shrine here."

"The... shrine to Iom?" The prophet's hand was quivering.

"Yes."

"He's... going there?"

Deanna didn't like the look in Brehen's eye, but he pressed on regardless, as though unable to stop himself. "He's there right now."

Brehen's arm came through the bars with the swift suddenness of a praying mantis seizing its prey, and clutched Deanna's arm in a grip with the strength of madness behind it. "It's beginning," he said, his voice stern and sober. "It all begins today."

"What does?"

Brehen's eyes stared into his. "Your son's destiny."

Deanna took a breath. "Maybe. But not... the one you're thinking of. Hindel won't ever be a warlord. I've even... tried to get him to join the military, and he won't do it. He hates killing."

"He'll learn to love it," Brehen said, no trace of doubt in his voice. "Iom will teach him." He grip on Deanna's arm tightened. "This is your last chance. Killing him as a baby would have been easier, but if he lives past today, you won't be able to kill him at all. If you have any compassion for the thousands who will be brutally tortured and slaughtered at his orders, go now and kill him."

He stared at Brehen. In that moment, he couldn't remember when he'd felt a greater sensation of pity. He reached a hand up to Brehen's and very firmly but gently pried his fingers loose. He then took a step back, in case he should try it again. "I'm sorry we let this happen to you. I think you were already too far gone when we first met, when you tried to kill Carla, and it's not as if we didn't do what little we could to keep you from descending further into madness, but I'm still sorry we failed. No one should have to be tormented by the visions you're cursed with."

Brehen forced his face against the bars, his leathery skin seeming at one with it. "Whether I am mad or no, or tormented or no, my visions are true and infallible!"

"No," Deanna said, with more pity than ever. "They're not. They've all been accurate to some extent, but they're warped by your own fixation with violence. Hindel's just one example. You were right about his devotion to Iom, and it wouldn't surprise me if you're right about him becoming one of Iom's most powerful leaders. But his becoming a warlord, leading a bloody conquest of Emild, Cypress, Sharland, and Guardiana, and killing Natasha and me... that all was just your own distorted dreaming, you fantasizing death and slaughter into his life story. If it were really going to happen, Hindel would have started down that path by now." He sighed. "But you'll never accept that. You'd rather believe that the world will descend into a whirlpool of bloodshed than accept that you tried to kill an innocent baby for nothing."

"And you?" Brehen returned. "Would you accept the fact that your child must die to save the world from such a fate?"

"I wouldn't accept that anyone has to die based on projections with any uncertainty."

"That is irresponsible! You would risk the world perishing just to keep your hands clean?!"

Deanna did not answer that. He did have an answer, but the argument was futile. As he'd said, Brehen could never accept that he was wrong; his conscience would not allow him to live with what he'd done. That was something Deanna could not empathize with – he had always accepted his responsibility for any misdeed, however terrible – but he could at least understand it.

Instead, he reached down and removed a bundle he had tied to his belt. He tossed it through the bars. "Here." Brehen unwrapped it. It was a pair of pants, with some fruits. "They're not the best, but at least they're new. ...And Natasha picked those for you, from our garden. It's not much, but she thought you'd appreciate a change from prison food. ...I guess I can't expect you to think much of her forgiving you, but I think it means a lot."

Brehen picked through them. "Yes. A lot. Heh heh." The sternness and sobriety was again gone from his voice. "Hordes of monsters may be poised to eat us all alive, but we'll be fine so long as we have our fruit! Heh heh heh!"

The mad prophet was no longer playing attention to him, so Deanna decided to leave without the awkwardness of a goodbye. He doubted whether his visit had done any good, but there was no sense in remaining in a dark dungeon indefinitely. He walked back up the stone steps to the warmth and light that waited above.