Ben was not sure how long he remained in the silent darkness. He was uncertain how much time had passed when he finally heard a collection of purposeful footsteps echoing through the corridor. It was not long until the three elders appeared, the path they had traveled illuminated by the oil lamp one of them held high. They entered the small area where Ben sat, bound in place by the rope tethering his wrists to his ankles, captivated by his fear for his eldest son and his apprehension regarding what the men had come to say—or do.

The elders collected horizontally, standing in a tidy line in front of him. The light of the oil lamp allowed Ben to clearly look upon them, but the flowy, black robes disguising their tall, willowy bodies, prevented him from looking past the area where the men stood. He longed to see the entry to the corridor again, to decipher how far it continued and assess the pathway which had consumed Adam when he took the midwife's hand and allowed her to guide him away from his father.

Looking among themselves, the trio's aged faces were set in triplicate grim expressions. Unlike the midwife, the men appeared older in the cave. The whiteness of their hair and long beards endured. What could be seen of their ancient bodies were somehow slenderer, their wrinkled, hollowed faces more sunken and centenarian.

Casting his gaze down upon Ben, the middle elder was the only one to speak. "You looked upon the injuries to your youngest child," he said, his voice as calm and casual as it had ever been. "You heard the story he told when he awoke. On the outside, you were haunted by the things your oldest son refused to share, and, in this cave, you heard his malevolent voice with your own ears. You saw the blood marking his lips; you became aware of the evil he has chosen. Now can you accept the truth you refused to consider before?"

Unlike the midwife, Ben was neither unsettled nor intimidated by these men. The fear that had immobilized him before vanished in an instant as anger and frustration rose in his chest to secure its place. He would have been relieved had he not given himself so entirely to its wielding power. Anger was an emotion he could use. "The truth," he repeated darkly, directly. "You mean the lies you told about my sons."

"We have told no lies. The only lies that are being told are the ones you cling to. You saw, you heard, and still, you refuse to believe."

"Believe what? That my oldest son attacked my youngest? That he volitionally led him–us–to this horrible place? Adam would never do that, so don't you dare stand in front of me and purport that he did."

"If you choose not to believe this truth, then what will you choose to believe?"

"Tell me what's really going on here," Ben demanded. "Tell me why my family has been led to this godforsaken place and how I can lead my sons away from it. Tell me where to go from here."

The trio looked among each other, their discerning eyes sharing in a silent discussion. Eventually, the middle elder turned his gaze away from his silent companions and focused it on Ben. "If you cannot accept the truth we've already shared, then how are we to presume you will accept this one?" he asked.

"You're just going to have to trust me."

"Trust, faith, when it comes to men these are reciprocal sentiments. You wish us to exercise faith in you when you refuse to trust the things we say. If we were to provide you with that which you do not know, it will not be easy for you to hear. It will be more difficult for you to believe than anything you have heard or seen thus far. For us to share it, we must have faith in your ability to hear it, faith that you will never repeat it. When faced with this truth, you must choose to trust us; you must have faith that what is to happen next is the only thing that can be done." The middle elder regarded the piercing cavern walls. "This is a place where nothing matters, your oldest son, the midwife, they both shared that glimmer of truth with you whilst carefully guarding the sovereignty of the rule which dictates its verity."

"Which is what?"

Smiling joylessly, the middle elder stared at Ben with sorrow-filled eyes. "The only thing of substance in a place where nothing matters is what leads you to it and the promise you make once you are there. For us to share more you will need to have faith in the infallible things we say, and we will need you to promise to truly hear them and never to share them once you have. This is not a promise to be made flippantly or lightly; once it passes your lips it becomes a sacred vow, much like the one your oldest son has already made."

Ben did not pause to think about the implications of the warning. He didn't have to. Whatever expectations accompanied this vow, he would fulfill them. Whatever complications or repercussions arose because of it, he would deal with them. He would do whatever was necessary to save his family, the son who had been led astray by the midwife and the other two who have been left behind outside of the cavern. But he could not do anything if he did not, at the very least, listen to what these men had to say. The midwife had refused to answer his questions; Adam had refused to acknowledge them altogether; these men, trustworthy or not, were the only ones offering to explain anything.

"I promise," he said.

The elders looked among themselves. Ben knew they were silently questioning his trustworthiness. This strange trio, who he decidedly did not trust, were deciding whether they would place their faith in him, a man who held so little conviction in what they had shared thus far. If he were in their place, Ben knew he would not choose to do what he was praying they would. If he had encountered someone so insistent, so downright violently eager to dispute everything he said, he would not have faith in this person's ability to trust anything he could say, because faith and trust were reciprocal—with all the things the elders had shared this was one he knew was undoubtedly true.

Several long, agonizing minutes seemed to tick slowly by before the middle elder appraised him again, and in his solemn eyes, Ben saw a hint of something he did not want to believe or see—only the smallest forewarning of all that was to come.

"We cannot tell you," the middle elder said.

Ben's frustration and anger was swiftly dampened by desperation. "But I swear to you, I will—"

"We can only show you."

TBC