Arc I

Chapter VI

Shadowboxer

"Time is the substance I am made of. Time is a river which sweeps me along, but I am the river; it is a tiger which destroys me, but I am the tiger; it is a fire which consumes me, but I am the fire."

Jorge Luis Borges ― Labyrinths: Selected Stories and Other Writings

"You shouldn't leave yet. It's not safe out there."

Annie had said those words to him as an attempt to make him stay but still, he paid no mind. He had to find her. A twenty-two-year-old Erron Black left the abandoned liquor store they had been using as a refuge during the last period of the civil war and started the long way back home. He wasn't precisely homesick but there were rumors – rumors about Amanda that he needed to check.

He hadn't completely abandoned his duties as a soldier but he was no fool – war had found him one day, and it had procured an easy path for the young man who wanted to die, but the young man also knew that while some ideas were thriving, the cities of the South and their fragile skeleton composed by the antipathy of the most belligerent ideological infrastructure were collapsing all around him – so he decided to seek sanctuary before it was too late. He took the few possessions he had left back then and walked away from the battlefront, remaining available nonetheless, in case they needed him or his ever-evolving advanced marksman skills.

He never wanted any company, but Annie followed him shortly after his departure.

She was barely nineteen years of age back then, but there was not a single trace of innocence left in her. She was a nurse, an improvised yet fairly good nurse – one of the six female nurses that had been assigned to work with his battalion. She didn't really get the concept of war but she wasn't exactly an idealist either; she just thought both sides of the dispute were speaking different languages, making it impossible for communication to prevail. He had tried to explain to her on several occasions that there were actual ideals and convictions at stake but her attempts to diminish both causes seemed to meet no end and that was exasperating for him most of the times. However, the night when she knocked on the door of the abandoned liquor store he didn't really think about how annoying she could be from time to time – she was a familiar face, pulling him out of the tormenting sights of war and devastation. And she was welcomed.

As weeks passed by, he began to see that she had somehow fallen for him. And for some time, he thought he had fallen for her as well – that was around the time when he began to wear a bandana to cover the lower half of his face. At first he thought he was just protecting his identity, but later on, he had no choice but to admit that by doing so, he was also protecting her. Such small, almost insignificant gestures were all they needed to admit they had developed a mutual understanding, ultimately translated into the notion of actually having feelings for each other, a fact that they both found unsettling but also immensely reassuring almost simultaneously.

Back then, and thanks to her, the young man that just wanted to die had somehow managed to make some plans for the future: he would ask his uncle for a job once the war was over – his old uncle Jim worked in coal mining and as far as he was concerned, the man was in a favored position working as a manager or perhaps a supervisor. Annie wasn't so happy with the choices he was willing to make in order to endure a post-war life and make a living, but she knew she would stick with him no matter what – until the name Amanda stopped being a ghost and became a reality. The rumors were louder than ever: the barber was dead; she was finally free from that unwanted matrimony.

At first he tried to reassure Annie that nothing would change, that he had already moved on and that Amanda was nothing but a sad memory, irreversibly connected to the day he lost his mother but as days passed, he realized that by staying there with Annie, by denying all those feelings he still had for Amanda, he would be fooling no one but himself – he wanted to run and find her, melt in an eternal embrace and never let go from that lovely child he had once loved so deeply. He found himself divided, torn between the one there by his side and the one whose absence was so vividly present he could feel it as a burden pinning him down to the ground. He never meant to hurt Annie, he never meant to cause her any harm or left her facing the sour echoes of abandonment so he tried to remain loyal to the love and caring affection she had been giving him for as long as he could.

Annie never truly believed him each time he would say to her that he wouldn't go away, that he would stay right there with her. She wasn't ready to let him go so it never crossed her mind to tell him to go look for Amanda but she knew that at some point she would have to give him up, the truth irrevocable; he was in love with somebody else. That's why she tried to warn him not to go out that day – she knew he would not be back yet she wanted him to stay for a while longer - to consider the danger; to consider her.

But the prospect of living a lie never truly suited him.

There was no use in delaying the inevitable, he knew.

He planted a soft kiss on her forehead, his lips already disgusted by that bittersweet aftertaste of knowing that he was willing to sacrifice one woman in order to save another one; like they were pieces of a puzzle, interchangeable and intertwined deep within his emotions – but that was back then; back in a time he could still call his own. Back in a time when he still cared about others or at least, cared enough to show it.

He left shortly after noon, carrying nothing but his hat and his bandana; a simple short fire weapon and a rusted knife; nothing more, nothing less. It took him five days to get to his hometown; the precariousness in the landscape that he had left almost six years ago seemed to be a paradox lost in time: everything looked exactly the same but everything had irrefutably changed. He knocked on the door of the house Amanda used to share with the barber but to no avail, that place was nobody's home. The windows had been bricked up and cobwebs were covering every corner of the house. He turned around and made his way to his beloved saloon looking for a familiar face that could explain to him what had happened to Amanda. To his surprise, there was a new bartender, new girls, and new patrons. He placed his hat on the bar and asked:

"Excuse me; I'm looking for Miss Amanda Taggart."

"Never heard o' her," the bartender replied harshly, without even looking at Black.

Erron frowned as he sat down, his forearms resting on the bar in front of him. He took a deep breath and shook his head, admitting that his tongue and his lips were about to betray him and all of his convictions by using the name he had sworn he would never say out loud: "Farindon. Amanda Farindon. She was married to the old barber, Mr. William Farindon. I believe he passed away recently."

The bartender came closer to Erron and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Oh yes, missus Farindon. She packed her bags and left town about two or three years ago. The barber died last month, that's true. But she was long gone by then, she didn't stand by her husband," the bartender moved closer and lowered his voice: "rumor has it that she had a lover, a soldier I believe. Anyway, we haven't heard from her in ages."

Erron stood up and nodded silently, then took his hat and left the place, too many bitter memories starting to get to him. As he was about to cross the door he turned around and looked at the bartender once more:

"Did they have any children?" he asked softly.

The bartender simply shook his head and went back to his duties behind the counter. As Erron left the saloon he started to notice some familiar faces closing in on him – his old neighbors, carried by the tumultuous, swarming rumor of his return.

"Thank God you're here, boy, we were worried sick about you," an old woman greeted him.

"I'm fine," he said distantly as he waved his hand at her, his mind absent and obscured by the fact that Amanda was gone without a trace and the question, lingering before his eyes: a soldier? The old woman moved nearer and placed her hands on his shoulders, her gesture was warm, her concern genuine and tender:

"When we heard your entire battalion had been erased in that fire, we thought we wouldn't see you again – not that we were expecting you to come back here either, but your mother was such an angel, it was heartbreaking."

"What fire?" the obvious truth, paralyzing him.

"Those bastards started a fire that killed everyone in that zone and destroyed every building. We just heard; so sad," the woman finished.

As desperate as he was, he stole the first horse he saw and rode all the way back to the liquor store to make sure Annie was alright but the only things that were waiting for him were the ashes of the place that had sheltered them before and her dead body, buried between the still-burning foundations and the collapsing infrastructure. He got on his knees and cried, absorbed and powerless, completely alone for the very first time.

She still remembered most of the path; of that she was sure. She doubted she could just use the front door but that seemed somehow decontextualized now that her feet were still glued to the ground beneath her – her eyes still fixed, clinging to the vexation left by the remains of Black's silhouette vanishing in the dark. The path stretching before her, bifurcated and obscure, presented her to the fake possibility of choice and it was obnoxious.

Perhaps he had left thinking that he had only unlocked a door, that she was still in control of her own will and destiny, but he had done so much more than that – he had deprived her of a true option; he had managed to close every other possible doors for her, he had slammed them all in her face and had left her there, plunged to the most gratuitous of perils: the one misleading her into thinking that she still had a choice when in fact, there was nothing left for her to choose.

This new-found and only partial freedom was unbearable. He had spared her life as an act of intrepid gratification but that man was never going to help her – he had masterfully imprisoned her in his most ulterior, perverse game: she would have to play by his rules and gain nothing in return. He wouldn't get her back home, he would only keep her alive and use her as much as he wanted – there was no true difference between Black and the rebel-seekers. Only Black's methods were infinitely more intricate and far more subtle and effective.

She had been played.

She couldn't go back to her cell with an unlocked door – it would be simply impossible for her to explain why the door was suddenly unlocked. Why had she chosen to stay and face an inescapable execution instead of leaving? They would think she was guilty of so much more than just simply stealing food; she would be interrogated and even possibly tortured in order to extract data from her; data she didn't even possess, and also, data about what? But if she chose to go, if she chose to play along, she would officially become a fugitive. She knew they would hunt her down so going back to the house she used to share with Harry was out of the question and she truly had no other place to go – despite being acquainted with some other Earthrealmers she was reluctant to ask them for help now that she knew that the rebel-seekers' cause had ramifications that reached longitudes and latitudes she could have never imagined. That young Earthrealmer boy who had accused her was the living testimony of that. She would have to do as she was told and get to the Lei Chen Mountains as quickly as possible but that was a matter that would have to wait – her most urgent need: getting out of the palace.

She hesitated briefly whether to grab the torch that was still burning in her cell or not but decided the luminosity emanating from it would be too difficult to conceal. The place was barely lit, indeed, but that would have to do. She walked down the corridor and faced the dungeon's main gate – to her surprise, there was a wooden bar on the ground, holding the door open by just a few inches. So considerate… - Alex whispered softly as she kicked the bar away as silently as possible and opened the gate carefully – not fully, of course, but leaving enough room for her body to escape. When she was about to close it back she found the night guard sleeping against a gunpowder barrel – how very western of you, you could just ask him for a hat she thought as she walked away in her tiptoes, finally leaving the door as it was.

A few more steps led her to an empty hall – the kitchen was at her right and the dining room reserved exclusively for the guards was at her left. There was a third option, though, right next to the dining room – a third door: the entrance to the old catacombs. She considered briefly if escaping through such a creepy place was even a viable option – she wasn't really familiar with the architecture of the building she was trying to escape from so she decided to stick to a simpler plan: going through the kitchen, and then try to find a back door. If there was one thing she was positive of it was the importance of ranks and social statuses for the Outworld culture so she suspected that there would be a secondary exit, reserved almost exclusively for the serving staff. She went into the kitchen, making her way all across the never-ending maze of counters and shelves until she found it: a small, battered wooden door, barely visible in the dark.

Contrary to her belief, it wasn't an exit.

Alex found herself in a huge, marble-like double staircase leading right into an inner courtyard. She cursed under her breath as she glued her back to the nearest wall. She moved slowly, carefully watching her step as she walked down the stairs as closer to the railing as possible. Then she ran towards the wall, the very limit of her freedom, but since it was covered by a magnificent vine in bloom she had to use her hands to grope for any possible doors hidden behind the flora. The incomparable sound of a metallic doorknob clicking against her fingers was enough to make her smile. She removed the vine from the small, hidden gate and, using all of her strength, managed to open it slightly, her body stretching and writhing in order to fit into the small gap of liberty calling her on.

At the other side of the door, she found several trash bins and a bunch of Outworlders rummaging through the royalty's discarded treasures. She lowered her head and ran as fast as she could, the city nightscape concealing her figure in the dark.

His mother's death; followed by Annie's untimely demise and Amanda's disappearance marked the end of his life as he knew it. He was captured, tortured and forced to become the kind of man he had always despised. His blood grew colder with each passing day; the effects of war and captivity plus the ineffable turmoil of those days acted like an eraser in his mind, detaching him from that tender sense of humanity that had defined him before. An innocent child no more, he began to walk down that almost imperceptible line separating those who care from those who don't.

Until he escaped.

He became a mercenary, an outlaw that had been reduced to only being a gun for hire. Those dreams and expectations he had experienced before never truly left him but he somehow managed to keep them to himself in order to stay out of trouble, delimitating his existence to a vacuum where no one was welcomed to stay. More sooner than later he was the right man for the right job, the one at the right time, at the right place. Neither more nepotism nor chauvinism would ever pollute his speeches again: he was a silent gun ready to fire in the name of the highest bidder.

Then the sorcerer came along and there really wasn't much left to consider – time began a mantle of oblivion, a measure to help him calculate all sorts of distances.

"A prisoner escaped!"

"Quick! Establish a security perimeter!"

Black raised one of his eyebrows and listened as the guards began to run in the courtyard right below his chamber. He grabbed the pack of smokes he still had in his pocket and picked a cigarette, balancing it between two fingers before lighting it. He scratched his chin as he sat down on his bed, his naked torso exposing that original cut that had started it all.

He lowered his head briefly, his gaze wandering before him; traveling from the soft, Brunswick green rug underneath his feet to his own hands then he exhaled, light grey smoke engulfing what seemed to be a somewhat obscured half smile.

There was no use in hiding from the undeniable.

Deep down he had always known that by the time Shang Tsung offered him that deal he was long gone – each meaningless kill would instantly become ammo for the next one. It was the rush, the thrill of neither the sense nor the need for faceless revenge, what truly drove him. That's when he stopped asking for names or motives – not because the exaggerated passing of the years carried an obvious dehumanization, no, he was already headed towards some dark place beyond redemption long before that happened. He knew; he was sure – that deal had only deepened what was already hollowed.

Otherwise, he would have never accepted what the sorcerer had to offer.

He was certain; if only he had had one person, just one person left to hold on to, it would have been impossible for him to accept – acceptance and compliance would have implied leaving that person behind sooner or later, getting them trapped deep within his memories, at the mercy of time and oblivion. That's why he took his chance: not because of the golden shimmer of eternal youth, not because of the possibility of becoming wealthier than ever, wiser than ever, better than ever, colder than ever – but because of the nothingness awaiting for him in any of his possible futures. After all, there was no true sacrifice to be made – everything he cared for had already been sacrificed beforehand. And there was no true need of letting go of anything either because he was already free from everything that could define him as a human being.

"Search the city!"

The sound of the alarm was music to his ears – the signal, loud, clear and evident, was indicating that a prisoner was on the run. He walked up to his balcony, his chamber dark – unlighted, then rested his tight fists on the railing and contemplated the view: guards were running and pacing back and forth indeed, their voices cruising in the night, their feet marching nervously as a muted concert of torches illuminated the courtyard – and it was all because of a tiny, battered young woman from Earthrealm who had managed to escape somehow.

It was a slap in the face of that time paradox he hated so much. Every time he had actually tried to do something good it had ended in misery and tragedy but this time, the only thing he had done was to simply leave a door unlocked.

He grinned, satisfied.

She was out. She had made it.

A/N: Sorry for any possible historical inaccuracies – since I'm not American I didn't want to dig deeper into the civil war period so I just took some licenses while sticking to its most defined parameters in order to make the story work. All those choices were strongly based on Erron's character, exploiting some of his most ulterior lineaments but exploring some new territories at the same time – I'm rambling on, sorry lol

With this chapter I'm ending arc I of this story. Get ready for arc II!

Until next chapter,

Elle