Quick note: This one goes out to Westcoast Witchdoctor for practically reading my mind!

Arc III

Chapter XXIII

The Bottom of the Blackest Tongues

"Your green eye is a reducing chamber. If I look into it long enough, I will become as small as my own reflection; I will diminish to a point and vanish. I will be drawn down into that black whirlpool and be consumed by you. I shall become so small you can keep me in one of your osier cages and mock my loss of liberty."

Angela Carter ―The Erl-King

[Three months later]

With all the things she could have done now that she had his money and all the time in the world to spend it, the woman had settled for a much more primitive task: she had crafted a ritual. The intimate atmosphere of the recondite, dark redoubt where her husband was being kept had helped her yet, deep down, they both knew that it was her tenacity the one true element that would never be ready to give up on him.

Like everything that had ever encountered him, he knew it wasn't volitional. There was meaning to it, an intention. Or maybe even more than one: in the panoptic view of her colorful palette, the gunslinger could choose a different reason for her to be there every night – she didn't want to be alone, she didn't want him to be alone, she didn't want him to feel like an outcast desecrated by the society he had tried to protect, or maybe she didn't want him to feel guilty, perhaps she wanted to make sure he was alright.

Maybe she wanted to collect all of his states – now that they had caged the beast it was finally easy to document every change in his personality from a simple awkwardness to an intricate pattern of instability.

"I wish they had given you a more talkative neighbor," she said, carefree, as she began handing him all the contents on her tray. First, the glass of water, then, the two small metallic containers: one with his dinner, the other with the subsequent dessert. Since they would never allow for his gate to be opened, they would be forced to maneuver every night in order to get everything to get to the other side of the bars. The ritual, simple enough, would not only force him to get to see her every night: the woman would at least make sure that he would finish his dinner, only allowing herself to leave once the containers were empty.

"I know," Black chuckled, his hands already getting busy. "We talk from time to time, the usual… The weather, sports, but he's more of a listener."

The corpse rotting away in the other cell was Black's only companion during the day. Besides the occasional guard checking in on him every once in a while trying to justify their salary and his wife bringing him dinner every night, he would spend most of his time in complete isolation. This wasn't the first time he had been imprisoned, the brand on his shoulder would forever talk about a faraway past, a past when he had known the dark paths of jail and punishment, the symbol accompanying him, defining him for having served the wrong side of history, yet this new-found loneliness was beginning to get to him.

"You can't even smell it anymore, can you?" The woman inquired, as she raised an eyebrow.

"What? Henry?"

With the greenish skin of his face finally giving in to time, Henry's cheekbones were slowly starting to sink in, producing incipient holes and concavities where there should have been muscle and a solid osseous structure.

"Oh, so you even gave him a name," she said as she sat down on the floor, cross-legged right in front of his cell.

"You look tired," the gunslinger said between mouthfuls.

"I am," she said, cautious at first then slowly regaining some self-confidence. "I have a job now – the Kahn offered me a position."

Black's cold gaze met hers almost instantaneously, the spoon hovering mid-air in front of his half-opened mouth.

"I can't wander around the Palace all day waiting for the night to come, Erron, and you know it," she retorted, trying to justify her decision.

"I don't remember you doing much – ever," he began, his tone was honest. "I mean no offense, Zar, but you… you having a job, earning your money, being an independent woman… I'm sorry but I just don't see it." He laughed, the intrepid sounds ricocheting through the empty cells. She stared at him - her mouth agape, not really sure of what she could say. She was no stranger to his chauvinism yet it hurt her all the same. To know that her own husband saw her as nothing but a decorative piece in his life was degrading, to say the least.

"You have my money, Zar, and all the time in the world. You are bored? The days are long without me there? I get it, just find something to do, a hobby, I don't know, what about gardening? The Palace is big, Zar, I'm sure you'll find something to do."

She swallowed, trying to remain calm and avoid confrontation.

"I told you I won't touch your money, I can make my own." Her voice was colder now, as if offended by his lack of sensitivity. "How do you think I survived all those years alone?" The memory of his abandonment, ever painful and certain, and the struggle of all those years alone and completely forgotten had never truly forsaken her. If anything, he had been the one responsible for this new hunger she had encountered, the need to go on against all odds, the certainty that if she was to survive, if she was to save herself, it was only up to her.

"I'm just saying – it's not your fault that I'm here," Black said, trying hard not to dwell on the possible prospects of her lonely years. "If you need money, use mine. The Palace is big enough for you to find something to do; without the pressures of a job, that is."

"The Palace…" She rolled her eyes, ready to strike.

"I'm not implying that you're incapable," Black retorted.

"The Palace… you don't even know how much I hate the Palace. You may see this place as the epitome of power but all I see is the fake idol that took everything and everyone away from me. This place consumed Dexitis, it lured my sister into a life of pleasures and money – it drove you away from me," the distance in her eyes was replicating each one of the painful memories of those distant, decadent days. "I always knew your soul was meant to succumb to greed, but I could have never suspected you would leave me behind so easily."

"I was never yours, to begin with." He spat disdainfully, tossing the food aside. "You warned them about me, he's a bird of prey you said. Yet you fell for this bird of prey, it wasn't something that I did on purpose – you knew what you were signing up for, no one lied to you, you knew our marriage wasn't real."

She stood up and turned around, she had heard more than enough. She knew there were days when his captivity would get to him, making him insufferable and mean but that didn't mean he had the right to hurt her. She reconsidered her chances now that it was her turn to strike back: no, she wouldn't leave so soon, she wouldn't go without putting up a good fight.

She took a step forwards and faced him.

"Yvo needs a new Scrivener. Just so you know, that's the position the Kahn offered me," now it was Black's turn to stare at her speechless. "I would consider gardening, you see, but I think it would be far more interesting to spend my days sitting right next to the only man besides Kotal himself that is powerful enough to release you from this cell."

He had taken her for granted once more. As years went by, taking her for granted had become more of a common sport to him than an actual, real attitude towards his wife.

"A Scrivener sounds like a much better job than the one your sister and her husband had planned for you," Black retorted, stubborn as ever, his machoism blinding him from the obvious truth: Zarrabayeusse had finally gotten the upper-hand.

"Don't mention them – you don't get to mention them after all you did to us. L'am and Dex were good people until you corrupted them," she said; suddenly eye-contact was simply out of the question.

"L'am and Dex, L'am and Dex..." his tone was mocking her genuine love for the ones she had lost. "L'am and Dex saw you as an expense, woman, open your eyes. They let you stay with them because they knew no one was ever gonna marry you. You didn't work; you and your sister had both your heads in the clouds believing in all those Edenian fairy tales about princesses and fancy dresses and luxuries you knew you could never afford, you didn't have any friends, you would never leave the house, you were never going to find any suitors – and you were never going to leave," he explained coldly – all the bitter words that had propelled from his treacherous, poisonous mouth were finally shaping those ideas she had had in her mind all along: that her own family pitied her, that she was perceived as a burden they couldn't get rid of. "There was a point when they even considered handing you over to the House of Pleasure – you should thank me for saving you from such undesirable fate, Zar – it was me the one who saved you; not the other way around. I saved you when I said 'Yes, I'll marry her', remember?"

"How dare you?" Her grip tight against the bars, her jawline rigid. Those emerald eyes deconstructing him were ready to become darts and penetrate his imperturbable skin.

"What's a whore's biggest fear, my lovely?" The gunslinger demanded, a half-grin adorning his naked visage. "Come on, humor me," he instigated.

"Getting sick," Zarrabayeusse said, sighing uncomfortably at the question.

"Getting pregnant. But that has never been a problem for you, see what I mean?"

"You are lucky these filthy bars are separating us."

Her hands were now tight fists lingering before him – such fury in her eyes, that fire: he knew better than to provoke her with the painful imagery of a time that didn't exist anymore. But as Black and his wife stared at each other defiantly, they were interrupted by the echo of a distant sound – a sound strong enough to penetrate the Palace walls and travel all the way down to the pavilion. Their shared gazes spoke about an alarming uncertainty as the ground began to shake; it only lasted for a couple of seconds yet it had been powerful enough to startle them, their arms and hands trying to hold on to the bars.

"Are you alright?" Black asked once the tremor was over and the woman nodded in silence, reaching for him at the other side of the bars."What was that?" He mumbled, his fingertips caressing her hands.

"Another incident, I guess," Zarrabayeusse told him, already feeling disheartened. "It started several days ago; minor incidents all across the city: the remnants of the Rebel-Seekers initiative. They… they have been expressing their discomfort towards the Emperor's decision," she explained.

"By these minor incidents, what do you mean?" He squeezed her hand.

"Sporadic attacks all over the city. Reptile is the one in charge of the raids; he says there's nothing to fear, says they got it under control. Yet this was… I wouldn't call this a minor incident."

"That didn't sound like something that's under control to me."

"That's why Yvo needs a new Scrivener – the attacks are getting bigger, and louder. So many people are entering the Palace prison every day that the barristers are having a hard time trying to keep up with all the paperwork."

There was a shared moment of silence; a much-needed truce for both of them. Only a few moments later the woman spoke again, their hands still intertwined in a warm gesture of company.

"Erron… please be sensible and tell me where Aalem is, it's not safe out there," she pleaded, "you promised me when you took him with you, you would take care of him – so please take care of him now: tell me where he is."

"I don't know where he is, Zar. He left."

"You cannot not know; that boy is your shadow." She demanded.

"He's not a boy. That's your problem, you still think of him as a little boy but for fuck's sake, woman, he's thirty-three," Black yelled as he finally let go from her hands. "It's always about the boy, about the boy – you sound like a broken record, Zar. And it's not like this interest makes you aunt of the year, either. You knew he was living in the Palace with me but you never came to visit. You knew he was staying in the cabin but I didn't see you there either; do you want me to go on?"

"You took him under your wing, you molded him, and now you expect me to believe that you simply don't know where he is?" Zarrabayeusse yelled back, the truce between them had officially ceased to exist.

"People change."

"I want to protect him, Erron – and not just from the bombs outside. I want to see how much of him can still be saved after being corrupted by you and your ways for so long. I don't want him to become you," the woman confessed. He handed her the containers and the glass and retreated to his cot – he couldn't face her anymore; couldn't find the courage to tell her the truth about Aalem. As twisted as their bond was, there still was a part of him willing to protect her.

"When my sister and I were but little children, our parents used to take us to the beach every year during the golden season back in Edenia," she began, her voice soft and quiet as she welcomed the treasured memories. "We spent a lot of time there; I got to know the people and the place like the back of my hand. But ever since I was a child, I've always had the same dream: I see myself walking on that golden sand, I am back on that beach again, or at least I feel it's that beach I used to know. The sea looks calm but as I keep on walking towards the shore I realize it's far from calm. There is some sort of a restaurant near the water; people are seated by different tables, the water brushes their ankles: they don't talk to each other – they don't even look at each other. I see pilings in the water; the place is but a dreadful desert, rocky and greyish, and the sea becomes a tempest that cannot be contained. There's always a detail that catches my attention: it's never sunny there. There are ruins at both sides of the restaurant; ruins that remind me of some distant funerary ritual – perhaps they are the remnants of some old cemetery surrounded by water. The image is truly terrifying but it somehow soothes me, as if that version of the place I knew was home to me," she placed the tray on the ground and leaned her head against the bars. "I know that place from my dreams does not exist. But if I ever was to go back to Edenia, I know I would go look for it anyway. I am positive I would search for that version of that place even if I knew I could never find it because it simply does not exist. But lately my dream has changed: I cannot find that place anymore. I manage to reach the beach but I cannot find that specific spot and when I ask for directions it's like no one in my dream knows what I'm talking about. That's how I feel every time I try to tell them that you're a good man: they look at me as if they didn't know what I was talking about. Every night, when I come here, I try to reach out and find that good man even if deep down I know he might not exist at all – but lately I haven't been able to find him."

"I thought you only saw me like a bird of prey," Black mumbled, still captivated by her story.

"I did, for the longest of times. But those years we got to spend together as husband and wife with the boy… I don't care if our family was nothing but an elaborate lie – I saw you; and I saw him, the good man that seems to be out of reach now. I know he's still in there, Erron. I know time it's taking its toll on you but I refuse to believe they're right; I refuse to believe it when they say this cell is going to make you lose your mind."

She caressed the bars and looked down before reaching for the tray once more.

"Goodnight, Erron," she whispered as she left.

"You didn't say goodnight to Henry," the gunslinger mumbled, a new sense of sadness taking over his baritone voice.

If there had always been one thing balancing the scales of his sanity, that one thing had been his longevity. The same element punishing him, detaching him from the inherent candor of mankind by forcing him to witness the death of those around him was the anchor keeping him afloat. Every time life would slap him in the face, there would always be a subsequent long gap of time for him to recover. Of course, some blows had been really hard to take yet time had always been his ally, helping him recover from the pain and the sorrow that had always chased after him, ever since he was nothing but a helpless child.

The vision of a cold mercenary had played its part as well. He never doubted what he wanted in life, there had never been a single moment of hesitation for him. Such clear goals had been his anchors all along, giving him purpose, giving him a horizon for his tired bones to walk towards to.

Yet his last months had been a never-ending nightmare: Aalem was dead, there was not a single certainty about the missing doctor, his wife had reappeared after a long time and now he was in prison, deprived of everything that had been constitutive to the man that he was. Ten years were more than enough for him to recover, that much was true. But ten years isolated from the world were still ten years of solitude. Ten years without his goals, ten years without a purpose. Even for a man like him, ten years were a slow punishment, one that would leave him breathless in the dark corners of his cell, wasting away while talking to a dead companion.

He turned around, his back resting against the cold structure of the cot, his hands on his stomach.

"Goodnight, Henry."