This is it - the end of the first major story arc. Not the end of the story overall, however. Stick around; there will be lots more to come!

Time to thank the betas again: Madigirl and Blackletter. Their input and enthusiasm definitely improved the quality of this story. Thanks, ladies!

For the next few days, it felt as though Charles always had his back turned to Ambrose. He was preoccupied, always tired, and never much in the mood for conversation. Rarely did he make eye contact with Ambrose. Whatever had occurred that Ambrose couldn't remember appeared to have affected Charles's entire outlook.

Gradually, though, Ambrose detected restlessness in his friend, a sense of nervous anticipation. It increased over time until the morning when Ambrose awoke to find Charles prowling his cell like a hungry cat. When he realized that Ambrose was awake, he stopped the overt pacing, but couldn't really conceal his agitation. He'd sit on the bench for a while, get to his feet and lean against the wall, stroll to the cell door and lean, crane his neck to look down the corridor.

On and on and on it went, until Ambrose finally snapped, "Oh, for pity's sake, Charles! If you're waiting for a bus, you may as well take a seat. It'll be a long time coming."

"I can't help it! This waiting is driving me mad."

Ambrose blinked. "You don't mean you really are waiting for a bus?"

Charles showed no sign of having heard him. "What could they be waiting for? If they didn't get what they were after, they should have come back for me by now. And if they did get it, why bother keeping me around? It doesn't make sense."

"Let me get this straight. You're upset because they haven't come to torture you some more?"

Charles stopped pacing and really looked at Ambrose, which was both gratifying and a little unnerving. "How much do you remember from a week ago?"

Embarrassment caused Ambrose to shift on his bench. He didn't want to admit he could barely recall anything specific, or that he really hadn't mastered keeping track of the passage of time. Blustering, he answered, "I remember as much as I want to, I think."

There was a moment of surprised silence, and then Charles surprised him by bursting into laughter. "That is almost certainly true, my friend."

Ambrose could almost have wept with gratitude over the use of "my friend." When Charles's laughter continued for much longer than seemed appropriate, however, he started to worry. Had his friend's sanity finally cracked?

He got to his feet and came toward the bars cautiously. "Charles? Charles, you don't sound quite… Are you all right?"

Charles's laughter continued to build until it sounded downright insane. Licking his lips nervously, Ambrose started glancing down the corridor – half afraid that someone would hear and come to deliver punishment, half wondering if he should try to call someone for help.

Charles flopped onto his bench, his hilarity having peaked and started to diminish. Gasps began to punctuate the laughter, and Ambrose was disturbed to note tears running down his friend's face. There seemed to be too many of them.

The laughter dissolved into lethargic half-sobs, which Charles didn't bother to disguise.

"Charles," Ambrose said, thoroughly distressed. "Charles, what's wrong? You don't seem… well."

This inexplicably triggered a fresh spate of giggling – which was perhaps the most disturbing sound yet; Charles giggling! – but it didn't last as long this time. Charles seemed to be running out of steam.

Finally, as he lay on the bench trying to catch his breath, not bothering to wipe away the tear-tracks on his face, Charles said, "I just want it to be over. I need it to be over now."

Ambrose didn't know what to say to this chilling confession, so he just said nothing.

When they finally did come for him the next day, Charles was asleep. Ambrose had to hiss his name several times to wake him up before the procession arrived.

If he'd known what was going to happen, he wouldn't have. He'd have figured that every second Charles spent unaware was a blessing.

As it was, by the time Azkadellia, Lonot, and two of Lonot's men arrived at Charles's cell, the older man was awake and sitting up, waiting for whatever was in store for him.

Ambrose stationed himself at his cell door. Uneasy, he wasn't sure what was about to happen, but keeping his distance would have felt like abandoning Charles. It wasn't as though he could actually influence events, but he could at least bear witness.

As she came to a stop, Azkadellia glanced his way and flashed him a knowing smile that made his pulse stutter. He had the urge to back away and maybe cower under his bench, but he settled for dropping his gaze until she stopped looking at him.

"I thought you'd like to know," she said, turning her attention to Charles, "your friend's brain was most forthcoming. Archaeon's secrets are now mine. We found all the drop-points, intercepted messengers, and eventually located most of the cells. The rest will be found within a day or two."

Ambrose frowned in confusion. His friend's brain? What did she mean by that?

"Our people?" The dead tone of voice and lack of curiosity in Charles's eyes told Ambrose he knew the answer already.

"Oh, executed, of course," she said casually. "Well… some of them aren't quite dead… yet." Azkadellia smiled brightly and Charles looked away. Ambrose was glad he didn't ask for clarification; he really didn't want to know any more.

Azkadellia had turned slightly, taking a few leisurely steps as she spoke. "I imagine it must complicate your feelings, knowing that a careless remark from afriend destroyed everything you've fought so hard to protect."

She was now standing in front of Ambrose, looking at him pointedly.

"It made no difference," Charles said tiredly. "What you were going to do to me would have produced the same result."

"True." Azkadellia reached for Ambrose's face and he shrank away automatically. Her expression hardened, but she kept her hand extended. Suddenly, Ambrose couldn't move. In fact, he felt a tug in her direction, even though she wasn't touching him, and he was slowly pulled back within her reach. The extended hand stroked his hair and cheek, making him shudder.

"Still, his slip was voluntary, not coerced," she said softly, still addressing Charles. "You must feel… so betrayed."

"He didn't betray me," he heard Charles say, more forcefully this time. "He had no idea what he was doing."

They were talking abouthim! "What? What are you talking about? What did I do?" He tried to pull away again but was still held fast by her magic.

"Oh, he must have hadsome idea," Azkadellia said, running a finger lightly along Ambrose's zipper, fondling the tab in a parody of affection and familiarity. It was incredibly personal and violating, and he was humiliated to find himself tearing up. "Why else would he blurt out a clue to exactly what we were looking for just in time to save you from getting one of our special haircuts?"

"Clue? What clue? Charles, what's she talking about?"

"Nothing! Don't listen to her."

What a ridiculous suggestion. "She's standing right here! How can I not listen?"

"Azkadellia! Leave him alone."

With a lighthearted laugh, she released her magic, and the momentum of Ambrose's resistance propelled him backward and onto the floor. Suddenly self-conscious, he turned his face away slightly to try and surreptitiously wipe his tears with a sleeve.

"I was only trying to express my gratitude for all his help. Anyway, now that I've crushed your pathetic attempt to keep the Queen's regime alive, my attention can turn to more important matters."

"What help?" Ambrose demanded, getting to his feet shakily. "I never gave you any help! Why won't anyone explain what they mean? You're talking about me like I'm not even here!"

"It's nothing," Charles told him.

"Oh, just knock it off already! It's something, all right. You look like you lost your best friend, she's talking about crushing regimes and killing people! I don't understand any of it! And what was she talking about before? Ar-something. Arc. Archaeon! What's that supposed to mean? Archaeon is a, an organism. A microorganism, single-celled, and it…Oh." There was a tickling in his mind suddenly. "Oh, wait. Wait. It's… it's also a code name. I… picked it out myself."

He slowly paced back and forth, coaxing more details from forgotten corners. "We… we came up with an idea. An idea to send some of us into hiding. We were… we were trying… trying to…" He was losing it. The thought that had been so clear seconds ago was fading like breath on a cool pane of glass.

"You were trying to beat me," Azkadellia said, her voice hard and bright as a diamond. "You thought you could establish an underground government and organize an effective resistance to undermine me when my takeover succeeded."

"Yes! Right!" Ambrose shouted excitedly. Then he remembered her earlier words and became uncertain. Afraid. "Wait, though. You said… you said Archaeon is… Oh. Oh, no. Oh, gods, no." Friends. He'd had friends in Archaeon. He couldn't remember them, not even their names, but he knew he'd had them. Wait, Charles was one of them! "You! You were, you… coordinated communications between the cells. Yes, I remember that. Sort of. I…" He looked to Azkadellia, a horrified awareness growing inside him. "And you said that my brain… and that I said something… Charles? Charles, what did I do? What did I do?"

"It was an accident," Charles said, trying to calm him. "Some kind of synaptic fluke."

"Yes," Azkadellia confirmed. "In the blink of an eye, you helped to destroy an organization that was originally your idea. The irony is delicious, don't you think?"

"My idea," Ambrose repeated numbly. "I de… I destroyed it?" He looked past the terrifying evil woman and found the eyes of his friend. "How?"

Charles shook his head, but something in Ambrose's expression made him stop trying to downplay what had happened. "You… I don't know; you seemed to be in some sort of trance." He glanced at Lonot. Ambrose had forgotten the general was there. "He kept mentioning Archaeon. It… must have triggered some memories. You said something that suggested you knew about the organization."

Ambrose felt his face go cold, and Charles spoke more urgently. "You didn't know what you were doing! You didn't even seem to know quite where you were at the time."

"Oh, poor Ambrose." Azkadellia's voice dripped with false sympathy. "Don't feel so devastated. What you said told us hardly anything. Why, if we hadn't had your brain on hand, I doubt your utterance would be worth anything at all."

"My… brain? My brain is here?" He didn't know whether to be excited or sickened.

"It's given us hours of pleasure," she said. "So much useful information."

"Stop torturing him!" Charles shouted. "He's a victim, not your co-conspirator. He's not responsible for any information you might have stolen from him."

"No," she agreed sharply, spinning toward him. "But you? You were completely responsible for your actions, weren't you? Your defiance cost me time and resources that could have been spent in other ways. I really can't tell you how much that bothers me, Charles." She nodded to Lonot, who opened the door to Charles's cell. "So I think that I will show you, instead."

A cold, cold panic washed over Ambrose. Azkadellia plus Charles plus prison cell equaled nothing good. He knew it was silly and pointless, but he found himself looking around frantically for something, anything he could use to defend his friend. But there was nothing.

As the sorceress approached, Charles took a couple of steps back, but then stopped. He maintained steady eye contact even as his chest expanded and contracted faster and more erratically.

"You've been a bad, bad boy, Charles," crooned Azkadellia, "and bad boys… must be punished."

Breathing ever more frantically, Charles swallowed hard, but his facial expression remained calm… perhaps even a little eager? It was that which undid Ambrose.

"Charles!" he blurted uselessly.

His friend glanced his way, and in his eyes, Ambrose read a clear message: I'm ready. Ambrose was amazed that Charles could face death so calmly while he, in no danger at all, could hardly keep from wetting himself.

"Lonot tells me he promised you a quick death," Azkadellia said, again claiming Charles's full attention. She walked toward him with sinuous deliberation. "I think I can accommodate you."

Waving her hand, she employed the same trick she'd used on Ambrose earlier, and Charles began to tremble and grunt softly as he instinctively resisted her pull. Closer and closer she drew him, until Ambrose wondered if her goal was to kiss him. But when Charles's face was about ten inches from hers, the pulling ceased and he was held in place.

"Say 'ah,'" she whispered.

At first, Ambrose didn't understand what was happening. He saw Charles's eyes widen in fear or pain, and then his mouth opened and he emitted an awful choking sound. Ambrose thought she was strangling him until a trail of strange vapor snaked out of his mouth.

Azkadellia appeared to breathe deeply, taking the vapor into her own mouth. Charles continued to make strangled protestations until the last of the vapor had left him. At that point, he simply collapsed, and Ambrose knew he was dead, just an empty husk that had been robbed of its life force by means of quite possibly the ultimate form of rape. He landed on his knees, remaining upright for a couple of very surreal seconds, then fell onto his side and moved no more.

Ambrose felt strangely disconnected – from the scene and from his own body – as he watched Azkadellia shudder slightly, closing her eyes as though in the throes of a mild orgasm. He supposed that once he rejoined with his body, he would be violently sick over that image.

She sighed in satisfaction, opened her eyes, and came out of the cell. Lonot signaled his men, and the longcoats moved toward the cell to retrieve the body.

"No," Azkadellia said sharply. "Leave him for a while."

Lonot looked shocked. "Sorceress?"

She glanced at Ambrose. "I want to create an indelible memory of this, and our friend over there has… retention issues."

Uncertainly, and with apparent distaste, Lonot gestured for one of the men to close Charles's cell.

Ambrose must have reconnected with his body after all, because he felt his blood begin to boil then. Charles had been misused in some horrible ways since he'd come to this prison, but to have his corpse serve as some sort of lesson-cum-punishment for him was pushing things too far.

He lunged forward, grasping the bars of his cell door, and spat out, "You'll pay for this!"

Everyone in the corridor turned to stare at him, which made him very self-conscious and definitely took the edge off his outraged indignation. When Azkadellia actually laughed, he felt his face reddening.

"'You'll pay for this?'" she repeated. "Really, that's the best you can do?" She laughed again, and Lonot's two longcoats snickered. "Oh, how far the mighty have fallen, when the fabled intellect of the great Ambrose can only find a melodramatic cliché to express his rage on behalf of his fallen friend." She performed a casual flick of her hand, and Ambrose was lifted off his feet and tossed through the air.

He hit the back wall with his left side, fell and caught the edge of the bench with his back, and wound up lying face down on the floor.

"'My name is Ambrose.'"

With some effort, he lifted his face off the floor to look at Azkadellia as she stood at his door, reading his crudely etched pronouncement ironically.

His left shoulder throbbed, his back felt as though someone had beaten it with a fireplace poker, and he was seeing stars when his chin had smacked the stone floor. All of this probably explained his choice of responses: "I wrote that."

Smirking, Azkadellia simply said, "I wonder how Ambrose would feel about it."

Screwing up his face in confusion – maybe he hadn't heard her correctly? – he struggled to sit up so he could ask what she had meant. But by that time, she was already well down the corridor, leaving him alone and forgotten.

0o0o0

When the nightmarish memory blitz finally ended, he found that he'd somehow slid from his slumped sitting position onto the floor, using the edge of the bench as a backrest. His spine complained from improper support and poor posture, and he wondered just how long he'd been like this, watching the horrific scenes play out inside his head.

As he tried to stretch, his muscles squawked and he grimaced and felt stiffness on his face. He touched one cheek and felt starchy dryness; his lower eyelids, however, were moist. He must have been crying intermittently as he remembered the tragic events, resulting in waking up wearing a mask of dried tears.

He was numb from serial emotional traumas. Now he understood – if only for this short moment which probably wouldn't last – the acute agitation he'd been experiencing. Calling on knowledge of psychology that he had only just now been able to recall, he felt confident that he'd experienced a psychotic break.

"Great," he murmured. "That's a huge help. Thanks."

His voice seemed uncomfortably loud in the silence, and for an instant he chided himself: Quiet, you'll wake Charles! Realization slammed home like a fist to his stomach.

Charles hadn't been sleeping while he struggled to remember what had happened. He'd been dead from the beginning.

Almost against his will, his eyes sought the cell across from his. Staring, appalled, he wondered how he'd ever deceived himself into thinking Charles was asleep. He was sprawled on the floor, legs twisted in a very un-restful position.

Suddenly he shot to his feet. He'd moved! Charles's leg had m—

His heart flipped over inside his chest as a rat scurried out of the leg of Charles's trousers. He turned his back completely, closed his eyes, and breathed deeply, in and out. He was close to vomiting, and since he hadn't eaten yesterday, it would probably be dry heaves, but he wanted to avoid it anyway.

Footsteps from the corridor became voices here in the cell block. He opened his eyes but didn't turn toward the front of the cell again.

"Gods! Look at this. Did you see this?"

The door to a cell opened.

"Aww, wow! This is foul."

"Yeah, well, you add a corpse and rats and time together, you get a shredded mess."

Swallowing dryly, he closed his eyes again and folded his arms tightly across his chest. He could wait this out. He could.

"Why would anyone want to just leave a dead body layin' around like this?"

"I heard it was by order of the sorceress. Who knows why she does things?"

"Hush, idiot!"

"Oh, I'm not saying anything."

There were sounds of movement and grunts of exertion and disgust. Something was dragged a short way across stone until the men could be heard lifting it. They didn't say anything else, other than to tell each other they were pulling the wrong way or about to drop the stretcher.

When he was sure they were gone, he opened his eyes again. Facing the back wall, the first thing he saw was the words he'd scratched on there what seemed like a lifetime ago.

My name is Ambrose.

What was it Charles had said about his suddenly remembering Archaeon? "An accident. Some kind of synaptic fluke."

Azkadellia again mocked him: "The fabled intellect of the great Ambrose."

"You didn't know what you were doing! You didn't even seem to know quite where you were at the time."

"That's true," he whispered to the ghost of Charles's memory. "And I'm afraid… maybe I never will."

He sat down slowly, thinking, pondering that four-word sentence etched just above his head.

When he'd reached a decision, he removed a button from one of his coat sleeves and scratched lines through all the words, rendering them unreadable.