A/N: Happy birthday to me! Today, I officially become older than time =/

You have no idea how hard it was to write this chapter! As an interlude, it had to connect the second arc with the third arc, but I had to avoid retelling all those things you already know and only provide you with a glimpse of what's to come; the line dividing those structures was so thin it became nearly invisible every now and then – also, style is slowly returning to the original tone of the fic: since this is a transition chapter, this is still narrated in present tense though we have come back to proper prose now; we need to come back down slowly, I know. With chapter 18 (Brimstone - the beginning of arc III) we will return to the original narrative style and structure of this entire work – am I rambling? Sure, I am. Anyways, I hope you enjoy and please R&R!

Many thanks to Ivewashere for the late night help and inspiration and to Hell on Training Wheels for helping me out with a certain paragraph that was driving me insane!

Interlude

Chapter XVII

As Above, so Below

(The Prophetic Dream / A Woman's Intuition)

"I am entirely alone. I and my shadow fill the universe."

Angela Carter – The Infernal Desire Machines of Doctor Hoffman

[Eighteen days later.]

There's a yellow candle illuminating the Kahn's balcony. The playful flame, though certainly weakened by the restless wind whistling its laborious lullaby through the quiet night, still dances around an impervious empty space. As it summons a diaphanous shade of amber against the swirling curtains, it also represents a light that is no more. It flickers, though agonizingly; its intensity carried by a capricious breeze. The sleepy city and the intimate night, eternal and inseparable companions in the low hours of silent tribulation, can be clearly seen inside the reflection of the pensive Osh-Tekk's eyes.

As the orange flame flickers, the true meaning of justice cruises silently from the Kahn's balcony to the surveillance spot in the Emperor's private garden where the troubled guard is standing all by himself. The green of the forecourt, wrapped up in a dark shade of nocturnal grey, allows for the weak, shimmering light of the candle to draw whimsical patterns across the swaying leaves below the balcony. The guard's eyes, waywardly succumbing to the hypnotizing phenomenon, manage to travel from the seemingly eclipsed vegetation to the candle itself – the color, yellow, is significant enough for his pained mind to ponder: according to the ancient traditions and mythical beliefs of the realm, yellow symbolizes the purity hidden behind the perpetual search for an evident truth.

Transcending the limits of the Catholic credo, the existence of such a torturing place as a Purgatory has always been undeniable for most Outworlders.

The Limbo-like space, reserved solely for those lost souls waiting for an eternal, elusive absolution became then yet another example of how both Earthrealm and Outworld cultures were inadvertently overlapped in a field so thin and ethereal it could make their most banal differences and segregating vanities disappear in the flickering light of a weakened flame dancing the rhythm of the wind's capricious tune.

Their common ground, mainly composed by a harmony of ideas and philosophies so ancient and deliberately concave in all their convexity; gravitates relentlessly inside that entangled, shared space of lonely emptiness to finally merge the apparently opposite realms in an intangible system of abstractions only reachable through the utmost spiritual plane.

The ritualistic Outworld belief is fully represented tonight in the shape of that candle and it's exhibited, pristine and mystical, before the guard's eyes - each lost soul waiting in Purgatory is traditionally symbolized by a yellow candle. The flame, just like a simple semiology of grief, would become the allegory of the penitent sorrow experienced by those still living in the surface, seeking justice for their beloved, fallen ones.

Only their triumph over the ruthless impunity of corruption would allow for those weeping, poignant souls to finally reach the gates of Heaven.

As the Emperor's unmistakable figure emerges from the confines of his own bedchamber, the silent guard witnesses his dismal apparition with quiet hesitation – the second coin, at the very end of its tether, travels lightly from one finger to another with such simplicity it makes the man shine in the shadows of his own doubts and regrets. That simple coin, the key that should have opened all doors for them, is burning against his skin – its irregular edges, as the uneven surface is flipped again and again against his digits, are creating a branding groove running along the side of his fidgeting hand.

As the flame dances in the wind, it carries his brother's soul. The weakened glow is certainly startling for the penitent man: will the memory of his brother be strong enough to persist in his fellow citizens' minds or shall it die, subjugated by the inclement effect of time leading to the most condescending oblivion?

The soul, in a rather transient form and summoned by that flickering light, ignites the questions he doesn't dare to ask out loud: why is that candle illuminating the Kahn's balcony? Does the emperor feel guilty about the loss of a young man – a loss that could have been avoided with the same simplicity and indulgence that had allowed it to happen?

The rancor and the never-subsiding feeling of betrayal is the rotten, deep root anchoring the guard's cold stare to the monumental figure of the pensive emperor now gazing beyond the walls of his palace.

Mileena's rule had been chaotic and rather brutal; that much was true – but at least they all knew what to expect from her. Kotal, instead, had corrupted their spirits with a brand new hunger: the Kahn had made them all believe that they were meant to be more, that there was more to life than succumbing to inescapable poverty and a perpetual state of constant misery. He had promised them fortune and opportunity, but he had never delivered.

Shao Kahn's rule had felt like a never-ending nightmare for the citizens of Outworld – but at least they all knew that under the million overlapping shades and shadows of such a cruel governor, there was a certain coherence amalgamating all his actions. Shao Kahn would have never played with their ambitions; he would have never given them false, hollowed hopes. He would have never tried to induce them to a fight that wasn't theirs. The man fought his own battles; he didn't need the common citizen to become his improvised fighter.

It has been nearly twenty days since they found that corpse in the Marketplace yet no one has identified his brother's mutilated body yet. The obnoxious apathy showed by the ones that were supposed to investigate Pareedis' death was infuriating for the troubled young guard. The plots and intrigues inside his weary mind were nearly blinding him.

Were they covering for Black?

Or were they actually in the dark, completely clueless, nearly ridiculed by a horrifying crime they weren't able to resolve?

As the emperor's reflective gaze keeps visiting the distance separating his people from the secluding walls of the quiet palace, the storm gathering inside the guard's eyes is venturing an initial roaring thunder, claiming to be heard.

His indolent coffee-colored eyes visit the domains of the dormant city. He entangles their unfocused sight way beyond the limits demarcated by the small window in the washroom – each rustic finishing of those houses outside the palace walls is as evocative as it is distantly familiar. Every imperfection in their idiosyncrasy seems to mirror his own shortcomings and all his dark, twisted innuendos.

The cigarette, imprisoned between his tightened lips, is creating concentric circles of dense, grey smoke that reach out, spiraling towards the window.

Iridescent fireflies soar to kiss a smoky obsidian blanket –

As the guard contemplates the flickering flame of the candle, the mercenary's tired irises travel through each light gravitating nearby those countless windows beyond the palace. Light, so it seems, is the common pattern bonding their minds in a seemingly equidistant reverie. Those dormant windows, carelessly kissing the day goodnight, are already telling stories of pleasant dreams that are just about to be dreamt – the quiet noises of those fantasies and dreams that are fighting to be experienced by each one of the Z'unkahrah citizens seem to find an equal in the tranquility of the tepid water surrounding his tired body.

Black stretches his arms around the edges of the bathtub – his every muscle relaxing, finally succumbing to a sense of comfort that feels way too alien to be fully enjoyed.

The bathtub, shaped just like a top hat, is made of Earthrealm copper – copper that the mercenary had acquired during one of his very firsts confiscations for the new Kahn. The emperor, knowing about Black's tendencies about keeping souvenirs from his missions, had finally admitted that the copper he had retrieved from those Earthrealm traffickers was not going to make a substantial difference that could prove useful or even beneficial for the Outworld economy.

Using the foreign material as a beacon to express his gratitude towards the cowboy's new-found loyalty, Kotal had willingly allowed the mercenary to keep the copper – like a tacit sign of reciprocal comradeship or maybe even complicity, the gesture had felt like a heartwarming pat on the Earthrealmer's shoulder. Through a simple, genuinely altruistic gesture, the emperor had found a way to express his appreciation for the cowboy mercenary he had hired to defend his brand new government – the man was, possibly, his best asset when trying to ruin all those criminal clans and illegal organizations trying to smuggle goods from one realm to the other.

Black's only friend – the blacksmith known as Dexitis, had helped the cowboy build the bathtub. But beyond the figurative nature of the object, immediately making it a symbol of power and social status, the bathtub had always represented Black's most intimate wishes: he had always had a hard time recognizing himself as an Outworlder. He didn't want to; he knew his fortune could be only temporary. Being a man of his nature had always implied a certain distance, a certain detachment from the environment trying to mold him: deep down, he was still an Earthrealmer; a naturalized Outworlder, perhaps, but still an Earthrealmer.

The water, enveloping his fingers in its soft caress feels like a reassurance in itself – as stupid and trivial as it might be, he would never get used to bathe like all Outworlders do: standing in the cold, with his feet inside a filthy bowl, as another person washes his body with nothing but water streaming down from a reeking pot. He had even managed to build himself a bathtub in the cabin – a rather precarious one, that much was true, but a bathtub anyway.

Yet the cabin is no more. And Dexitis is no more. And that receding loyalty seems to be stained by the indelible marks of betrayal and her face: her eyes and the fire, his mask, his poncho – the kiss; the longing for everything that is no more.

He covers his face with his hands, droplets of water envelop his visage in a warm caress that seems to threaten what's left of his affected sanity.

"You know, I didn't take this job just to make amends with you. I want to see him," Zarrabayeusse whispers delicately as she drags a rather small settee across the washroom and places it near the closest end of the bathtub. Her soft-spoken words reach for his ears with the same intensity shown by her hands, now slowly massaging his temples.

As the mercenary throws his head back, surrendering to the affectionate touch, the woman's careful digits start drawing circles that travel slowly from the center of his forehead to the back of his neck. As those fingers of hers make their way across his seemingly indifferent surface, they also seem to try to retrieve the man that's hidden inside of that ancient flesh vessel, trapped inside, nearly buried in his own skin. His arms, fully submerged now, feel the warm caress of the water surrounding his tired system and slowly, peacefully cradling him.

The woman stops and reaches out until she finally takes the cigarette from his mouth and presses it against her own red lips – the concentric circles of smoke are still there, venturing the room, longing to be free and wander the outside. The mercenary groans in discontent. The nearly guttural sound, somewhere in between an unintelligible sign of frustration and the laconic reverberation of his apathy.

As his clumsy fingers start to move under the water, sending out soft ripples across the tepid surface, Zarrabayeusse's voice becomes a distant echo enveloping him. His mind, drifting away just like water running through his nearly bicentennial fingers, only manages to catch a few, disconnected words scattered here and there; lost phonemes lacking all connection or meaning for his tired mind – the sound of her voice, gravitating softly towards him, cannot reach him in his entirety.

"… you know I do miss him,"

"… want to be part of his life… watch him grow…"

"… not fair; you're not precisely… and I know I'm not exactly…"

"He has…"

"… very loyal to you, but Erron – you know I'm family…"

"… real family."

Wrapped up in his own turbulent thoughts, the mercenary submerges his head under the water – the baptizing moment detaches him from the ashes of a past that still haunts him with the same ferocity of a hungry beast ready to go berserk, ready to make him bleed – his skin, about to be shredded by its urgent, merciless claws, stays under the quiet tide for a brief moment, trying to find a deeper cleansing, trying to get rid of his own weaknesses and vulnerabilities. Longing for air, the mercenary finally emerges from the silent waters, his numb head rests now against the woman's knees. His aching neck is leaving a trail of drops scattered all over her brown skirt. Her long, olive fingers stroke his cheeks as the man closes his eyes, surrendering again to her blessing touch.

"You don't have to do this," he begins, cupping her hands with his own, yet his weak voice stops and remains hovering in the little space separating his body from her hands. That silken touch of hers, buried under the dust of thirty-five years of oblivion, feels as balsamic as it had felt the first time.

"Well, besides keeping me here, seemingly wrapped around your finger playing master and servant, truth is I'm still your wife, Erron."

There's not a trace of remorse encysted in that bitter line of hers – she's genuine and sincere, just like she was, thirty-five years ago.

He exhales, helplessly, acknowledging that she's right. As Zarrabayeusse reaches for the soap floating on the water – his eyes, following her every move, try to focus on something else, something other than her poorly disguised intentions. The grief he's still enduring after losing the boy and the uncertainty behind Alex's fate seem to be unbearable burdens for his tortured soul to concentrate on the tender affection she is giving him freely – with smooth circles from her fingertips, the woman begins to remove the dry kohl from his face; the memory is still there, intact and fresh before his eyes.

You know, your face is also part of your body.

He breathes out loudly, the memory is eager to watch him suffer; it is obnoxiously longing to see him bleed.

You look like a whore who's just had a rough night.

The cowboy fidgets under Zarrabayeusse's touch but it's the unwelcome thought of Alex what's truly making him feel uneasy. Noticing his serious frown, the woman stops cleaning up his face and reassumes the tender, delicate massage around his broad shoulders. He's gone, once again, his mind fumbling towards an empty distance that she cannot seem to reach no matter how hard she tries.

"What's her name?" Zar's voice cruises in the night as her fingers seem to dig deeper into his skull now.

"There's no name," he tries to dismiss her curiosity, yet no matter how long it has been, the woman still possesses the mesmerizing capacity of seeing right through him. His core, shattered and vulnerable, can be read like an open book by those emerald eyes of hers.

"I wasn't born yesterday," her curious tone begins to wander a land that is hers no more yet how could he ever blame her for doing so?

"Neither was I," Black replies, seemingly offended by Zarrabayeusse's rather simplistic argument even though his mind is still gravitating somewhere else, alone, trying to find the missing Earthrealmer in the depths of an ethereal distance that stretches itself in time, evading his every attempt.

"I know. You're 174."

He turns around, coffee meeting emerald for the first time – the stare, deep and engaging for the two of them, seems to reach a dormant part of his system.

"173," he corrects her, even though the fact is as startling as an obvious truth – the moment of epiphany carries a sense of inner oblivion; suddenly he knows, he's sure – Zar's right. Once again, she's painfully right.

"No, my dear – if my calculations are right, you're 174,"

He doesn't know his own age anymore just like he doesn't know where she is anymore – if she still is, that is; if she's survived his own fears and regrets. He turns around once more, his torso welcoming the warm water wrapping up his damaged skin.

"He's older now, maybe it'll be easier to talk to him, and I'm the only family he has after all," the woman goes on, trying to engage his distant thoughts – his mind, clearly somewhere else, is being summoned by his wife's insistence.

"Who?" Black asks with his eyes closed as Zar's eager fingers begin to massage the back of his neck.

"My nephew; Aalem. Who else could I be talking about?"

He exhales, engulfed in a devastating sense of guilt – yet no remorse is powerful enough to make him change his mind: he nods as if entering her needs. He won't expose her to a grief she's not ready to endure; not when the one she's supposed to lean on can barely breathe himself.

The guard still watches the flame as the emperor places both his hands on the railing now – the tempting thought of telling him everything he knows about his filthy cowboy is, once more, corrupting what's left of the guard's broken strategies and seemingly ruined plans. His brother's cruel and unnecessary demise, clouded by a halo of injustice, burns inside his veins.

With only a barely audible sigh to anticipate his moves, the Kahn abandons the balcony and retreats to the confines of his bedchamber – the night will surely wrap him up in its obsidian blanket and dreams will carry him to a more pleasant place, perhaps. The need to escape their own fatal fates seems now an unreachable pedestal that keeps on playing tricks on their fragile minds, making them believe that maybe, just maybe, there's something better waiting for them on a place they have yet to know, yet to visit – yet to find out if it truly exists.

This was supposed to be that something better.

The memory, vivid and painful enough to punish and subjugate his downbeat senses even further into a painful whirlpool of uncontained sorrow, encompasses him in a sadness that seems to meet no end: as he closes his eyes, he can still picture it clearly in the sullen theater of his mind – his younger brother's face, aglow with genuine pride, keeps on smiling as he tells him the good news they had been waiting for: he's been hired at the palace; he shall become one of the Kanh's men now. The relentless grin, contagious and nearly ridiculous, is making him smile too as the brothers celebrate together in the warmer distance of a happier past that exists solely in his memories.

Way back then, he had made his point: it wasn't about the money – it was about the honor. The brand new emperor had put together a rather picturesque group of individuals: his enforcers. He would stay at the palace, true – but the proximity, the nearly religious feeling of defending a noble cause seemed too pure back then to raise any suspicions in the nearly unexperienced guard.

Now, mourning his fallen brother, the man was beginning to see the true tenor of this Kahn's brutality – a brutality far more dangerous than Shao Kahn's or Mileena's: a silent, ideological ferocity that had quickly stained their morality like a dirty metaphor massaging their brains, leaving a scar inside that cannot be removed because they cannot exactly tell what was it that hurt them in the first place.

The common citizen, the people, had been forced to play the executioner in their own unjustified deaths.

The light from the candle is no more, and the weak luminescence coming from the mercenary's washroom slowly begins to fade as well. As darkness surrounds him, M'horel's ideals and hopes are the only sparks in a night that's trying to wrap him up in unbearable darkness. He shall prove, in time, that his brother's sacred blood has not been spilled in vain.

As if self-addressing his very own oneiric state, the man in the dream embraces the fact that he knows he's dreaming and, just like a mystified conjurer, dares to explore those blurry edges that cannot quite conceal the shape venturing ecstasy right next to his own enraptured body.

Back in the consuming fire, the burning chimera of his desire exhibits a pure yet rather démodé amber hue.

As his lips lead the way, leaving a trail of kisses along her slender, soft neck, his hands tuck her hair behind her ears.

Her legs, pressed hard against his waist, are the perfect trap secluding his skin within their grasp – he wishes, even though he knows it's not possible, he wishes he could stop time and just stay quiet, subjugated by her ways and baptized deep within her carnal type of mercy. He, the man that knows that time can be stopped – the one holding his own hourglass in the stronghold of his ancient fingers, wants to remain there, with her, eternally. The notion of a 'now' that he cannot even touch feels intoxicating yet somehow empowering for him. Those deep blue eyes, deconstructing his essence to his very core, are craving him, exhibiting the very same lustful passion he had once shown for her.

He still remembers – her outline back in the house, tenderly rocked by the intrepid candlelight. Each portion of hers, traced by his eyes, could never be compared to the actual feeling of really having her.

Possession, once again, becomes a mere matter of perspective.

He has her, even though he knows he's dreaming.

He has her, but even though he doesn't want to let go he knows, deep within the cobwebs of his own twisted subconscious – he's already let her go.

Iridescent fireflies soar to kiss a smoky obsidian blanket –

Her breathing is deep and even, almost peaceful. She has found a way to slide one of her hands under his black shirt, her palm now resting against the weathered skin of his chest and slowly making its way down to his navel. Weakened, and enraptured by these new, unleashed feelings, he lets his head fall into the soft hollow between her neck and shoulder. The woman longs for his lips and so she ventures a kiss – perhaps, the first one of many or maybe, the very first in a concatenation of loving gestures that shall never be professed.

His mouth, though dead at first, is finally showing some signs of life as the tenderness of the emotion wraps him up in a sense of warmth he hasn't felt in a very long time.

As the perfidy of his lost loves continues to grow in the shape of that woman teasing him with nothing but nearly desperate, carnal affection, his hands begin to move more frantically now, taking off her clothes and placing her on top of him with just one smooth movement of his arms – she's nearly weightless, he soon realizes; she's like a pale feather carried by his windy impulses. She takes off the only piece of clothing covering his torso as his erratic yet determined hands find a way under her skirt, digits eager to satiate a hunger so ancient it blinds him. His fingers, though clumsily, finally remove her underwear.

But something's wrong, he senses it in a heartbeat – the mercenary stares into her glimmering blue eyes as she moves closer. The woman, longing for him, leans in and whispers something in his troubled ears. Her mouth follows the motion of her diction and her lips are clearly moving, but no sound is coming out of that prison. Agitated, Black becomes aware of his own dream slowly turning into a cruel nightmare; the feeling of déjà vu, experienced all across his cold flesh, is slowly starting to show.

Yet she pays no mind, she is not aware of the fact that he can't hear her. Laughing an inaudible laugh, the woman tattoos his neck with her lips. He tries to focus once again, tries to swim in his own muddy waters; tries to go on with fistfuls of a ghost that he can't even love in his dreams. Blinded by his own misfortune, and prisoner of a thirst he knows he cannot quench, he makes his way inside her, his pace is frantic from the very beginning as his busy hands start working their way up into the clumsy strands of her auburn hair.

The sounds of pleasure, elevating her shape, rise from the bottom of her muted throat only to die in a deafening silence. She whimpers soundlessly, with her eyes closed, breathing hard through parted lips – as her fingers get busy leaving trails that burn all over his skin.

She cups his face with her warm hands. It only took them a torturous dream to finally be able to see eye to eye.

Her lips move, once again, a mischievous grin of satisfaction anticipates the words she's about to say.

Yet it's only silence what engulfs the man that should be receiving such a thrilling message.

Her back, arched and enraptured, explodes as the mercenary places his lips on her neck and whispers:

"When was the last time you've been with an Earthrealmer?"

Those words seem to shatter her into a million ungoverned pieces, the meaning behind that sentence seems to reach her dormant depths, bringing her contained shadows into the diaphanous light. Her lungs, longing for air once more, engage in a laborious endeavor as he speeds up even faster, visibly frenzied by her new-found euphoria; the rhythmical race perpetuated by their bodies, fully entangled in this maddening motion, is making them both feel completely overwhelmed.

His tongue comes out and lands on her upper lip, tracing the delicate outline of that silent mouth trying to devour him once again. Her messy auburn hair, carelessly brushing over his forehead, is a soft caress mitigating the ghostly sensations carried by her voiceless image. As she stares down at him with her rich blue eyes, he suddenly becomes tense underneath her touch, his whole body now twitching beneath its grip.

Yet only one of them is groaning loudly; the image of that mouth, deprived of all sound, is a dagger piercing through his skin.

The woman covers his mouth with her own lips, awakening his own sickening silence. The troubled mercenary bits them hard, the timid sight of blood is suddenly startling him, even if only momentarily.

She breaks the kiss only to taunt him again, the smirk on her face is saying much more than her silenced words – he blinks, captured in the midst of a haloing mixture of contradictory emotions; her throat now seems to be making an ulterior effort to finish that final, compelling voiceless sentence – the image of her face engulfed by an extinguished pleasure is causing his coffee eyes to drift away as they both finally collapse on the bed, neither one of them exactly sure where their own body ends and the other's begins.

Eyelids fluttering shut, finally, as his head helplessly falls back against the pillow. The woman knows – she notices his sullen discord. As he sinks deeper into his own saddening nostalgia, she pulls him into her worried arms, whispering words of understanding that he shall never hear.

Reciprocating her desperate need, the cowboy rushes to grip onto that overwhelming person willing to help him face his own darkness. His strong arms cannot contain her yet he tries. He's afraid she might disappear; afraid she might turn into dust the minute his arms close up around her.

He opens his worried eyes only to meet his own fears: she's gone – not a single shadow remains to witness her mystified existence.

His no longer impervious skin, still covered by salty drops of sweat, still longs to find the echoes of those words she was trying to tell him. Her pristine pieces and his shadowed entirety, eclipsed under the same light, are no longer the same thing.

The scorching warmth suffocating his body emulates a fever that threatens his entire self. Tangled between the sweaty, messy sheets, he knows he's trapped inside his own dark void. His coffee-colored eyes gradually swim into focus, his tired sight finds an anchor in the white ceiling above his head – his wet hair, nearly glued to his forehead and temples, seems to be the cause triggering the chill now running down his spine. The dampening hotness that had wrapped up his entire body only seconds ago succumbs to a nauseating coldness decorating his skin with goosebumps.

He cups his face with his own hands, perspiration dripping down his fingers. He exhales, rather discouraged by his own misfortune, the sound of his own respiration chokes against the barrier of his digits.

Black gets up and leaves the bed – as his legs get closer to his wardrobe, he begins to feel considerably weaker in the knees. He looks over his shoulder and reaches for a blanket; places it around his naked shoulders and ventures into the dark.

He grabs his box of memories and sits back down on the floor – his back and shoulders touch the side of his own bed.

Facing the wooden logs burning on the fire, the heat emanating from the hearth begins to wrap him up again, making him forget all about the cold atmosphere that has startled his skin just moments ago. His own black shadow rises – it plays with the flickering flames displayed before his troubled eyes - the shape grows beside him, stretching itself and spreading from the floor and up to the wall at his left: the magnificent magnitude of such an obscure phenomenon seems to be a living metaphor for his own languid obscurity. Flexing his knees, the mercenary finally dares to open his cherished box of memories only to find the relics he hasn't seen in decades, each one of them awakening countless names and scenarios that are his no more. The silence is only interrupted by the fragile wood burning before his eyes, the small fragments of the incandescent material, like tiny little sparks soaring briefly only to touch a heated emptiness, only to be consumed in the same fire that has created them.

Just like an exorcist trying to cleanse his own self, the man acknowledges his own sins in the shape of those objects he has treasured all over the years: the box is not a container anymore, it has become an unbearable siege trapping him in its centurial interior. The woman in his dream, the one without a voice, the one who's there no more, is still clinging somehow in that recondite, hidden place inside his mind still trying hard not to let go.

But he lets go, as he closes his box of memories and throws it into the fire. Those demons he has cast only to be imprisoned in his own Pandora's Box are now agonizing in the dancing flames about to destroy his every chimera.

Iridescent fireflies soar to kiss a smoky obsidian blanket.

He stretches his legs and stoops his back for his hands to cover his own eyes. His shadow mutates, growing in shape and intensity. The same dark halo is still there though, representing the true man that still lives inside of him: a being so dark and menacing that cannot be reached, cannot be touched – not even by the dying moans of his spectral memories dancing their final ballet in the corrupted fire of irreversible, eternal oblivion.

As tears start to stream down his face, the first lights of dawn begin to slipper through the blinds – the new day shall bring a man on his own, with no past behind him.