A/N: Hey there, everyone. As one of the comments from the last chapter reads, no money, no freedom, no Alex, no job yet the story continues – and while this particular chapter may come off as a bit of a filler chapter, I honestly believe these two deserved some time alone. I'm loving Zar, to be honest, and her interactions with our beloved mercenary but up until this point they had never had a whole chapter to themselves so I'm trying to make them justice here; they are husband and wife after all.

Hope you enjoy this and also, you are going to have to be patient now since chapter 22 will take a little longer than usual – I got to finish both my research and my math (yes, it's going to be one of those chapters) before I even start drafting again but this chapter, now that it's done and I've just read how it flows, seems like the perfect transition for what's to come. Thank you all so much for every comment, PM, fave and follow. Every single interaction with my readers, no matter how big or small it might be encourages me to go on. But you'll have to bear with me now, I've warned you: arc III was going to be a bumpy ride and it's only just begun.

Last but not least, the initial part of this chapter is a personal homage for one of my favorite scenes in the whole Uncharted series. Kudos to those spotting the reference!

Love.

E.

Arc III

Chapter XXI

The Dance we Do

"You could be my silver springs

Blue green colors flashin'

I would be your only dream

Your shining autumn, ocean crashing

And did you say she was pretty

And did you say that she loves you

Baby, I don't wanna know."

Fleetwood Mac – Silver Springs

[Nine days later]

"Move it, asshole, you're ruining the show here; I'm trying to offer good entertainment, for God's sake!"

Her shadow had covered most of the wall he was using yet, besides the rude yelling, the prisoner seemed to pay no mind to that unwanted presence blocking the improvised stage he had created. He didn't even turn around to face her, the man simply protested to the shadow as if expecting it to move, as if demanding it to go away.

She had never expected to witness such highly elevated spirits as she made her way to the maximum security pavilion of the dungeon. End of the corridor, right under the sign that reads West Wing they had indicated her and she had obeyed, finding her way through numerous dimly lit alleyways and rocky corners.

His cell was much smaller than what she had anticipated: the image she had crafted in her mind was not exactly condescending but it was definitely better than the depressing reality she had encountered. That initial mental sketch she had produced was more benevolent; it carried more dignity than the actual room he was being forced to occupy. Just three concrete walls and a fourth one, made by metallic bars and an antique-looking doorknob. His cell did look like a cage, really, composed by filthy walls and absolutely no windows. God, it was small; it was painfully, deliberatively small. The cot was placed at the right side of the cell, leaving little room for some other device that she couldn't quite place yet – the darkness, concentrated and dense, was making it hard for her emerald eyes to decipher what was it that he kept next to the wall, at the left side of his cot.

She placed her hands on the bars, gripping her fingers tightly to them in spite of the odor emanating from the little, poorly ventilated room – the metal was sticky, the sensation left in her skin was enough to make her shudder. Pores glued to the metal, and the humidity, the acid, putrefied chill entering her nostrils without asking for permission.

Still, he remained there, sitting up on his cot, his legs outstretched before him and his back facing the bars. His arms, airborne, were swinging as his hands stayed rather close to the wall yet not quite touching it. His fingers moved; their shadows were creating a most peculiar image, the light and shadow festival now fully projected on the wall. It was a beast she didn't recognize: it seemed to jump as his fist moved up and down; the fingers of his free hand were creating what seemed to be very long ears.

A most peculiar beast, she concluded.

The woman narrowed her eyes: if there were no windows in the room how come he was using light to project his phantasmagorical shadows against the wall? Her chin moved, relentlessly, trying to spot the source of such a capricious ray of light.

Until she found it.

There it was, just a few inches below the ceiling, embedded in the wall opposite to the door. A small, irregular hole, barely the size of a fist.

So much for ventilation, Zarrabayeusse thought to herself, unable to mind the soft sigh escaping her lips.

"Finally," she spoke, her hands still glued, even if involuntarily, to the metallic bars of the cell.

"I told them not to let you in."

Taking a good look at the little theater he had improvised with that wall and nothing more than his bare hands, the woman noticed a timid, slender ray of light drawing a perpendicular line across the room and traveling from the filthy hole to the wall right beside Erron's cot. Following its straight trajectory, the light concentrated on the wall, creating a nearly trapezoid shape for the cowboy to unleash his imagination. Such diaphanous, flickering canvas didn't belong in a place like that.

The nearly bicentennial man kept playing with his fingers, bringing that unknown beast to life in a seemingly effortless manner. Far from the decadent view of that cell, the beast seemed joyful enough as it kept on gamboling over an imaginary meadow. The gunslinger's tight fist was frolic, jumping up and down in a rather carefree way.

The woman's lips curled up at the image; the beast was happy. Not only it moved, she contemplated: it was free. That beast was, indeed, enjoying its precious freedom.

"So you're telling me these people still see you as a figure of authority?" Zarrabayeusse taunted him, trying to detach her mind from that imaginary green meadow in order to go back to reality. Yet the image was truly hypnotizing, her eyes still glued to the chubby animal created by the cowboy's imagination.

"Just leave," he commanded; his voice surly and unwelcoming as ever, in perfect contrast to the amicable atmosphere he himself had created with nothing more than his bare hands and his unleashed imagination.

"You are not even going to ask me how I am,"

Only then the man in the cell shifted slightly on the cot, allowing his peripheral view to asset the woman waiting for an answer at the other side of the bars. He barely looked over his shoulder yet the distinctive white of the gauzes still covering her forehead and most part of her skull was enough for him to realize that his wife was still dealing with the repercussions of his fight against the Rebel-Seeker.

"Still recovering, I see. There's no need to ask," he sentenced, bluntly, turning his attention back to the little game of Chinese shadows that was visibly capturing his undivided attention.

At least he got some privacy, the woman thought as she shook her head in pensive, genuine concern. The pavilion was indeed quiet, definitely quieter than what she had expected. The silence was prominent and unequivocal – there was only one inmate sharing the same dungeon area with Black: a prisoner that was peacefully sleeping in his cot, in the cell right across the hall. The man looked still, a little too still perhaps. Yet the rest of the small cells surrounding the circular hall were completely empty; besides Erron and the possible corpse rotting itself to oblivion in the most placid way, the West Wing was definitely the closest approximation to a sepia-colored, démodé ghost town the palace had to offer.

"The bandages are merely a charade," the woman explained, trying to see if her revelation could prove useful enough for her husband to pay attention to her, "I'm alright."

"Then why are you still wearing them? They don't look comfortable."

"I've been trying to get to see you for more than a week now, Erron," Zarrabayeusse retorted, visibly offended by Black's lack of sensitivity and nearly childish behavior. "Perhaps if I kept my gauzes and bandages on I could at least engage the guards into finding some… compassion to let me in." She crossed her arms over her chest as a sign of sheer despondence yet her tone had suddenly softened, as if trying to build a brand new bridge between them – one that, hopefully, his own irrepressible instincts wouldn't burn down this time.

"So, you're a liar now," he sat up on the cot, his feet already touching the ground yet eye contact was a luxury he still couldn't afford.

"What can I say, Earthrealmer – I learned from the best."

There was something in the way she had said the word Earthrealmer that made him stand up and walk towards the bars separating them. A certain musicality in the tone, a different color in a voice he knew too well to pretend it didn't carry the power to mesmerize his sullen senses. He stretched his right arm and allowed his digits to finally touch her face – the softness of that skin, and the way she leaned into his touch, nearly instinctively, were still talking about a reciprocity that hadn't been erased by the cruelty of time or the consuming fire of his indifference.

Zarrabayeusse closed her eyes for a moment, briefly surrendering to the sensation of his skin on hers, as her mind struggled to repress all depressing thoughts from the surface of her consciousness. She cocked her head slightly, allowing his warm palm to finally cup her face with a tenderness so ancient it could not be mitigated by the obnoxious mundanity represented by walls or metallic bars. Eyelids fluttered open, slowly and delicately, the emerald of her enamored gaze finally colliding against a brand new landscape: little remained of that man she had seen only nine days ago. His particular style had been replaced by a common off-white tunic. They had even cut his hair: they had shaved his head, only leaving a single stripe of dark blonde hair right in the middle of his head. No mask, no kohl, no hat. She sighed, though completely involuntarily, at the thought of his body. She didn't want her emotions to be mistaken by him: she wasn't offering him her compassion, not even her pity, but that image of his, the unmistakable reflection of a defeated man, was as concerning as it was alarming.

The truth was she had somewhat prepared herself for a new contrasting reality during all those failed attempts to finally get to see him, yet the real image that was being received by her emerald eyes was way rawer, way more disturbing than what she had previously anticipated in her mind. His blunt denial had provided her with enough time to picture him in her head – what he would look like, how he would react to her presence. Reality was colliding against that mental image she had crafted inside her core while still hoping for the best. And the shock of this new actuality felt nearly demolishing for her weakened hopes.

He already looked thinner.

The woman understood that it was too soon, that he could be, indeed, losing weight already but the physical change would have to be more apparent than real. Yet he looked thinner as if his muscles were finally losing all substance. His second abandonment had its consequences: the man she remembered had little to do with the glum, withered version of him she had found behind those bars.

"Oh, but don't worry, it's not so bad," an ironic Black said as quickly as he could, witnessing his wife's face muscles contort in concern and dejection. That tender, softer version of him now buried under a thick layer of pointless pride. He took several steps back rather energetically and took the device resting against the wall and next to his cot. Seemingly deranged eyes approached her once more, his tight grip bringing the formerly obscured object into the dim light enveloping her figure in the corridor, "look," he said, "they even gave me my own bucket!"

He shook it slightly, stirring the contents inside the dark little basin. The sound of that concentrated liquid moving inside the container was the key to announce her that a mixture of odors was about to find her. The helpless woman embraced her own stomach as if trying to command her intestines not to feel revolted by his moody occurrence.

"Leave me alone," Black sentenced sharply, yet again, as he put the bucket down on the ground.

Still, the woman refused to walk away. The brief gazes they had just shared were still exposing the wall inside those coffee-colored eyes of him; the same impenetrable wall that she had once climbed. Besides getting her knees grazed and her knuckles bruised by his indifference once again, she seemed ready to venture herself, one more time, into his own private prison.

"The most fascinating thing about men like you is that you claim to be lone wolves," she began, her cold stare never leaving his, "men like you; these so-called solitary men… yet the thing is, my dear, men like you are never truly alone." Zarrabayeusse stretched her hands and reached out for him, grabbing his wrists and forcing him closer to the bars. She removed the sleeves of his tunic and inspected his forearms: there were bruises and wounds covering his skin, darkened hematomas underneath his epidermis that were exhibiting shades of purple, green and brown.

He had been beaten.

Not only he had been deprived of his particular, personal style but they had also subjugated his spirits by making him look like a regular prisoner. They had even cut his hair, making him look like a cheap, stigmatized criminal. And they had also beaten him up. He looked away, ashamed, as the woman's strong grip suddenly lightened – the stronghold of her fingers was now a mere caress, impregnating his skin with brand new and balsamic, delicate tenderness.

"You should thank Kotal," Zarrabayeusse whispered, her eyes still unable to look away and leave those colorful bruises decorating his forearms.

"Is it Kotal now? Just Kotal?" Black raised a seemingly suspicious eyebrow – his states, altered and evolving into a deeper phase of instability now. "Heard you got yourself a brand new pension. Is my money buying you nice things, Zar?"

The woman let go from him as she shook her head, completely unable to believe her ears had listened to the words that had just propelled from his treacherous mouth.

"Not everything is about money," she said, hoping her words hadn't been aimed for deaf ears, "I won't touch your salary, not even a single piece of metal. When you come out from behind these bars you can have every single coin... I never wanted your money back then – and I certainly don't want it now either."

The gunslinger retreated to the darker side of his small cell and sat back down on the cot. He rested his hands on his knees, his shoulders slightly bending over as if giving in.

"You know, Erron – I have always had the same old doubt about you eating away at me: if you've always been a mercenary, driven by greed and ambition…" she braced the bars in front of her, her tone was softer now, as if trying to reach for his most sensitive side, "now that you've lived for so long; now that you've been through so many things – good and bad, you must already have all the money you ever dreamed of. Why do you keep doing what you do, then? Why do you keep leading this kind of life?"

"Call it greed, thirst for power, too much free time, boredom - you name it."

"Yours is the most complex simplicity I've ever known," she reflected quietly, a timid grin curling up her upper lip, "you could have told me, we could have planned something together. Yet you kept me in the dark like you always did."

Her words caused him to grimace bitterly. He nodded as if acknowledging her point.

"Are you happy now?" Black dared to ask, mockery and defeat were blended into the same expression.

"Far from it. And not only because of the shame I have to endure."

"Shame?" He inquired, the blood in his veins felt warmer somehow, the red in his cheeks was heating up his thoughts.

"Yes, Erron, the shame. Before all this, I was a lackey. Now I'm the wife of a corrupted officer. Somehow slavery sounds like a much better prospect than being married to you."

Black stayed quiet, silence encompassing him now.

She was right, as painful as it was for him to admit – she was right.

"I've been talking to Yvo about your situation," Zarrabayeusse continued rapidly, not really allowing her mind to process or dwell on the true implications and deeper meaning of what she had just said. The honesty of her statement had been brutal; it stung inside, it felt like a knife cutting way too deep, "he's positive there will be a parole option available for you in about five years, maybe a little less than that if we're lucky, or perhaps longer – he didn't know the exact time, but he seemed optimistic,"

The cowboy griped disdainfully.

"Great."

"Five years, Erron, it's not that much, especially for someone like you," his wife was trying to convince him that it wasn't that bad after all, especially considering what had happened to M'horel; such different, irreversible fate could have been Erron's she knew – and he knew that as well, "look at the bright side, they chose not to take into account what happened in the jungle; that's a martial felony, Erron, and you know it."

Yet the insensitive man seemed too absorbed in his own predicament to take the time to actually consider what his wife was saying.

"I still don't understand why the Emperor chose not to mention that during the verdict. They even brought Ferra to confirm the story," he remembered.

Maybe the Kahn had once more expressed his silent benevolence towards him – or perhaps the Ruler of Outworld had kept that part of the story in the dark on purpose, trying to gain some leverage over him: such an accusation was hard to ignore; it was the kind of evidence that could get him killed. Perhaps Kotal Kahn had an ace up his sleeve and Black, in time, would be turned into nothing but a disposable pawn in his intricate chess of crossed politics. The bittersweet feeling brought him back to his last night as an official enforcer: the Population Census that was about to take place rather sooner than later; Kotal had assigned him to inspect the Lower Terrains. Such a titanic endeavor could mean that he was, in fact, the best at what he did. But it could also mean that perhaps the Kahn wasn't as happy about his job as he thought, and making him face such treacherous, dangerous duty seemed like the perfect opportunity for the emperor to get rid of the problematic cowboy.

"A reconnaissance squad has already been deployed," she informed him, her voice bringing him back to reality – "they will try to recover Kano's body, even after all this time they still believe it may be out there; they are positive the climatic and geographic conditions could have accelerated the state of decomposition of his remains yet they are willing to try to find the body."

"Kotal…" Black vociferated, a vague tone of frustration staining his baritone voice.

"You could have died,"

He knew it for a fact.

Yet his imprisonment felt more like a personal punishment than an actual act of fair social justice being dispensed.

"They contemplated another choice, the Barrister told me. But they had to rule it out," she paused, unsure if she should be revealing such a bitter detail. "Extradition. But since you've been married to me for more years than the amount allowed for a naturalized Outworlder to be sent back to Earthrealm now, extradition was not a viable option… Funny, the one thing that helped you get here in the first place was the same thing that caused you to rot behind these bars. Maybe that's the price for marrying someone in that style; that way – I remember you mentioned its name once to me, a green marriage?" she recalled.

"A green card marriage," Erron corrected her bitterly. Once more, his wife was devastatingly right. He had done everything in his power to get closer to the highest authorities of Outworld. Now, the same extraordinary measures he had chosen to take back in the day were the very same anchors tied to his ankles, forcing him to remain a prisoner in that obscure, depressing dungeon.

"A green card marriage…" Zarrabayeusse repeated, even if only mumbling the words to herself as if trying to apprehend the true meaning behind that foreign definition. "Another thing you should have mentioned is that there was another woman," her tone changed rather abruptly, making her sound like a cold-blooded predator waiting for the right moment to attack a defenseless prey, "I heard about the woman, Erron, this Earthrealmer – the doctor. Is she truly dead?"

She had every right to ask him that, he knew. After all, most of the things he had ever told her had been lies.

He didn't answer – the man simply lowered his head.

"I knew there was another woman, there's always another woman. You should have told me," she reproached.

"How?" The mercenary exploded suddenly, his senses alarmed, the heat rising inside of him. He jumped off the cot and walked towards the bars, "we hadn't seen each other in years, I didn't even know where you were!"

"You weren't even looking!" Zarrabayeusse yelled back, "you weren't even looking for me," she reflected; anguish forcing the woman to lower her voice.

"I loved you once, Erron, I deserved to know."

Black pushed his forehead against the bars and closed his eyes, exhaling loudly.

"What did you see in me?" He asked then, all sorts of feelings leaving his mouth; the skin of his temples receiving the cold sensation of metal pressed hard against them - the coward in him was still trying hard to evade eye contact.

"Evergreen – my feelings for you were evergreen," she said, disheartened.

Only then the man longed for her – his eyes inspected and deconstructed that fragile figure standing motionless, right there in front of him yet immensely far from him, inhabiting a forbidden land; the land of the free.

"Her name was Dakota," Black began, a soft chuckle parting his lips.

"What kind of a name is that?" Zarrabayeusse asked, estranged and bewildered, yet the half grin and the bitter smirk adorning her husband's face were quietly speaking about a certain familiarity, even a certain shared affection, perhaps.

"She saved me when the Rebel-Seekers found me. I was hurt and she tended to my wounds but then the tables turned and we both became targets for them - I may be many things, but I am not ungrateful, Zar – at least I have tried my very best not to be ungrateful. I had to help her, just like she had helped me; that's why she was in the cabin – she had nowhere to go, I was only trying to shelter her," he confessed.

"Did you love her?"

"No."

"Erron?"

"No," he repeated, "there was something about her, though… I guess she made me remember, in a way, faces I thought I would never get the chance to see again. She looked just like Amanda, minus the freckles. And she was a doctor, just like Annie," his wife knew both stories; she was no stranger to his own turbulent past, yet those names were still ghosts for her, monumental ghosts she had never had the chance to face.

She had been defeated by their specters long before she had even been given a proper chance to fight her way inside his untamable heart.

That was a pain that still persisted and echoed their silenced voices during the low hours of the nights they spent together. But now, the fierce of their sudden resurgence felt like a bonfire out of her reach and out of control. That stranger that had died in the fire had had the power to merge his past with his present; something she herself had never been able to do. Such obliterating endeavor, now seen through the kaleidoscope of the bitter substance that encompasses time, was making her feel like her torture was never going to end: that man standing right in front of her would never be hers. No matter what, that man standing so close yet so far away had already slipped through her slender fingers long before she had even had a chance to keep him inside the warm nest of her closed fist.

"Tell me he wasn't in that cabin; tell me he didn't die in that fire," she pleaded; her voice weak, as if surrendering.

"He wasn't in the cabin," the gunslinger managed to say and that was all she needed – Zarrabayeusse lowered her head and walked away, leaving him alone in his cell; alone to face the same old ghosts that had been summoned by the dead doctor - her tragic transition into the world of everything that is no more now turning her into yet another specter to comfort him during his never-ending nights.