Hey everyone! Before I forget, there's a little author's note at the end of this chapter explaining the reasons behind the title. Now, I didn't have much time to answer the reviews for the last chapter, (for that I apologize) so here we go:

MKXGuy: You're right, thank you for noticing! I've always wanted to explore the meanings behind those intros so that chapter seemed appropriate enough for me to do so. Those two intros and the one when Erron lets the Kahn know that he knows that he's been to Earthrealm a long time ago. Thank you for reviewing!

Da Hybrid Queen: Erron is a terrible husband, indeed!

Now, about Henry, there's something I'd like to point out: I don't remember if I said this here already or if I just mentioned it on Tumblr, but with this fic I'm trying to explore the psychology of Erron and to do that, my husband (who is a psychologist) has profiled Black for me and helps me a lot with the clinical aspects of his mentality. We cannot say that Henry serves as the bridge connecting Black with a state of psychosis – Henry is a cathartic element in this story, allowing Erron to activate mechanisms such as animism and personification (that happens when private or human characteristics are being credited to an item or abstraction, and animistic thinking includes the attributions of life to non-life forms – since Henry is not a 'person' anymore, these concepts apply) – we could talk about psychosis, however, in the following cases: if Erron was in fact expecting to get an answer from Henry or if he had heard an answer from Henry but that's not gonna happen in this story- Erron will be released from his imprisonment sooner or later, and crossing such a determining frontier as declaring him a psychotic patient would make it nearly impossible for him to be himself once freed from his cell.

Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, dear!

Guest: Thank you!

RaeCamille: I know, right? If there was to be someone luring him into a green card marriage, it had to be Tanya, it just had to be her.

I'm really glad you guys are liking Henry so much – I was afraid he could be perceived as a mere figure of morbidity. There is an Erron-Henry chapter coming soon, and that's all I can say about it right now.

The ending wasn't meant to be so mysterious; maybe I should add a little more detail so it's not confusing for the reader. The one that whispers "Goodnight, Henry" is Erron, not Zar.

Thank you for reviewing, dear!

ErronFan: Trust me, I would have left him ages ago but Zar is just not that kind of woman –she really is determined to stand by his side.

Thanks for reading and reviewing!

Looksforthelight: Thank you so much!

Westcoast Witchdoctor: Yeah, right? Henry is a nice fella.

We will be exploring his first incarceration in later updates, rest assure, my friend. I just need a little time between flashback chapters because they are extremely exhausting for me but we'll be exploring that time of his life.

I can't really say much about the attacks, all I can tell is that it's going to get uglier from now on.

Thanks for reading and reviewing, dear!

Arc III

Chapter XXIV

Night of Desirable Objects

"His touch both consoles and devastates me; I feel my heart pulse, then wither, naked as a stone on the roaring mattress while the lovely, moony night slides through the window to dapple the flanks of this innocent who makes cages to keep the sweet birds in. Eat me, drink me; thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden, I go back and back to him to have his fingers strip the tattered skin away and clothe me in his dress of water, this garment that drenches me, its slithering odour, its capacity for drowning."

Angela Carter — The Erl-King

[Six weeks later]

"You look tired, my dear. Why don't you head back home?"

The woman stared at the window in silence; nights in Z'unkahrah were usually quiet but the last few nights had been quieter than ever. The contrast was welcomed, though. The attacks that had successfully frightened the citizens had not only brought debris as they destroyed most of the buildings: they had also brought despair, and a multitude of echoes whispering around every corner. The Capitol was not a safe haven anymore, peace had been brief. But even though the words civil war had begun resounding inside everyone's heads, the tranquility of those nights of terror was appreciated all the same, even if they all knew such calmness was nothing but a truncated panacea.

The screams; the high-pitched cries for help. The red that had painted the streets.

And now the silence.

Yvo placed a hand on one of her shoulders as he leaned closer and repeated his words: "Zar… You can go back home if you're tired." Only then, when summoned by the warmth of physical contact, Zarrabayeusse looked at the Palace Barrister. She moved her hand slowly, as if dismissing his suggestion – the files were piling up upon her desk, the paper tower of precious information was speaking of a certain urgency, of a task that needed to be completed as soon as possible.

"I can assure you – all those papers will still be here in the morning," he grinned softly as her, "you haven't slept in what? Three days? Four days? I lost count already, dear."

"Four days," she said timidly yet her hands were already busy picking up a random file from the pile growing unceasingly before her. She opened it quickly, and her eyes tried to read the words that had been written on the paper but her vision was blurry; the lines confused and intertwined before her emerald eyes. She sighed, throwing the file back on top of the pile. "Maybe you're right, maybe I should get some rest," the woman acknowledged, feeling her shoulders heavy and her neck about to succumb.

Yvo nodded in silence as he watched her stand up, grab her black pashmina and her handbag. Her scratchpad pressed hard against her chest and her skirt already dancing around her ankles.

"Do you need an escort?" The barrister offered, knowing that even though the path separating their office from the Palace was a short one, it was late for a woman to walk alone through the empty streets, especially during such difficult times.

"No, I'm fine," she said as she brushed his shoulder lightly: Yvo was a nice man, he wasn't just a capable, fair boss. Maybe there still was some pity encysted deep inside his eyes, perceiving her as an incomplete, lesser being – yet the man had helped them enough; had helped her enough, convincing the Kahn that hiring her was a good idea. She kissed him softly on the cheek and then closed the door behind her, the ulterior need to rest her head against her pillow was the only impulse driving her through the night.

The path was indeed short yet the sights weren't easy to see. People had begun acting overcautiously, many of them had decided to barricade their houses as an attempt to stop criminals from getting inside – as it always happened during chaotic times, delinquents of all sorts would always try to take advantage of the situation, picking on the weaker ones while hiding inside the tourbillion of terror engulfing the city.

Crimson stains were still polluting countless walls and monuments – the fallen ones imprinting the testimonies of their final fates, altering the landscape and reminding everyone of the ghosts of those cruel, distant times when war was the only form of life they knew how to live. Yellow candles, scattered here and there, were adorning the streets as silent tributes to those souls still waiting - and the silence, the unbearable silence, getting dangerously far from the tender embrace of the quiet night and painfully closer to the very notion of fear.

Her body became a diminutive the second she walked through the large Palace gates – quietness had also reached the epicenter of the city, darkness embracing every corridor and every corner. As tired as she was, her body was still demanding yet another effort from her - not only she hadn't been able to sleep in four days: she hadn't had any time left to see him in four days. The image of Henry assaulted her mind mercilessly: a rotting corpse, forgotten and completely abandoned, slowly kissing away his skin, his very form and shape. She shook her head as her tight fists collapsed against the impervious empty space around her waist. Instead of going to her bedchamber, the woman turned around and went to the Palace kitchen. The place was deserted, not even a single cook or maid could be found in there. Not only it was late; it was inconveniently late: all activity for the day had already ended but it would still take a few more hours for all tasks to be resumed. Trapped inside that useless limbo of dead hours, Zarrabayeusse picked a silver-colored tray from the nearest counter and grabbed the only food she was able to find: two slices of bread, surely discarded from someone else's dinner and a half-empty bottle of red wine.

She walked through the dimly-lit corridors alone, balancing the tray, her scratchpad and her handbag with the little energy left inside her jaded system. The air grew significantly colder as she ventured herself down the rocky alleyways of the dungeon, the silence growing thicker as well, becoming a deafening echo only corrupted by the only guard sitting by the old and rusted West Wing gate; the very last gate separating her from the Maximum Security Pavilion.

Sitting on the floor with his legs flexed against his chest, his arms resting on his knees and his head using his own forearms as an improvised pillow, the guard's loud snoring was enough for the woman to understand that she was late. Unable to use her hands, Zarrabayeusse kicked the guard slightly with the tip of her shoe, earning a soft grunt in response. The man's eyes gradually swam into focus and he cocked his head slightly, as if refusing to wake up.

"Visit hours are over," he mumbled ungracefully.

"I know," the woman replied, "I was busy working at the Barristers' Office; I was hoping you could make an exception."

"No except…" The dark orbs around her eyes were subtly letting him know that she hadn't slept in days – her body, visibly tired and about to crumble down, was balancing clothes, personal belongings and a tray with food for him. "You must really care about that bastard," the guard found himself thinking out loud. He stood up between unintelligible complaints and finally opened the gate. The woman nodded her silent appreciation as her feet started to march down the last section of the prison. His voice in the distance, the alarming claims of someone in need, welcomed her even before she had had a proper chance to stand before him.

"Someone out there?"

She rushed her way through the corridors, his plea guiding her steps: something wasn't right, he wasn't right.

"Anyone?"

Nearly running now, the woman finally reached the last pavilion. She placed the tray on the ground and lighted one of the torches placed by the wall behind her – he flinched as the yellowish light hit his eyes and his hands quickly covered his face, allowing the shadows to mitigate the blinding effect. Only then she understood what was going on: she hadn't seen him in four days; he hadn't eaten in four days, he hadn't even seen the light in four days.

She looked over her shoulder only to find Henry resting peacefully on his cot: "So that's what happened to you," she whispered, brokenhearted, "nobody cared."

She turned her attention back to Erron: the woman got on her knees and handed him the bread and the wine – the starving gunslinger nearly snatched everything from her hands as soon as his eyes saw the forms of substance his body was lacking. The truth hit her then: Erron's wellbeing was completely up to her now. It was bad enough that she was only bringing him dinner every day – such a strong, well-built body like his needed much more than that, no wonder she had thought that he had already looked thinner only a few days after his imprisonment. One day without her was a day without food, a day without water, a day without light.

"What happened to you?" Black asked between mouthfuls, his tone was reproachful, "you kept me waiting for four days."

"Erron, I had no clue," she cried out, her arms reaching out through the bars for her hands to caress his head. "Why didn't you tell me they are not feeding you? What did you do at the beginning, when you said you didn't want me here?"

Holding the bottle between his hands, the man looked down.

"I didn't want to impose," he let out softly. "They would come, throw some food at me during my first days here. Some days they would; some days they wouldn't. I knew what would happen if you were to set foot in this place: you would make a duty out of it, an obligation… and that's what happened - you gave them a reason not to show up at all except for the daily walks around midday to make sure I am still here."

"You should have told me; I would have come – no matter how tired or late. I would have come," worry in her eyes and distress in her tone were the signs showing him that she was ready to do anything in her power for him not to become Henry. "These days… were such hectic days; we've been busier than ever," she tried to explain.

"I thought so," he paused and had another drink, then added: "at first, I thought this new independence had finally pushed you away. There were moments when I thought you were not going to return at all," her hand traveled the outline of his temple and jawline as he leaned into her touch, "but then I noticed the guards were gone as well and I feared. These attacks – those people know that you're my wife; I should have kept my mouth shut and you shouldn't be out in the streets this late during the night." His eyes met hers, a bittersweet grimace taking over his face: of course, he knew the Barristers' Office was placed just outside the Palace – her scratchpad and her handbag were irrevocable decoys assuring him that she had been working late. "All I know from the outside is what you tell me, Zar – and you talk about attacks and rebellion. It's exasperating enough not to be able to be out there, but to know that you're on your own, walking down those streets late at night makes me feel completely powerless."

"I was escorted," she said.

"No, I'm sure you weren't," he retorted quickly, a timid grin beginning to show.

"You didn't want me to accept this job because you felt it could potentially drive me away from you?" It was hard not to take his words as a white flag. Hope, she sensed, finally appearing in the ethereal horizon of his changing states. He remained silent but was unable to look away: brown succumbing to emerald; like most times his untamable heart had had its back against the wall, the words he could not bring himself to say were meant to join the ancient collection of things he should have said. Silence became an assertion, then, suppressing those phonemes that were meant to remain unsaid yet fully understood. "I would have understood, Erron – that is, if you had told me. Sometimes it's easier to say such things, way easier than to keep them all bottled up inside."

She searched her handbag for his last pack of smokes then handed him the tiny red box containing the very last four cigarettes and the lighter accompanying them.

"You have nothing to worry about, not these days at least," she said as his face got clouded by a dense halo of smoke. "The Population Census has begun so there's curfew. That's why I haven't been able to visit you: we need to tag and register every single file before the Committee can start tabulating the results. Today we received the last forms and questionnaires."

"Why now?" Black asked, stupefied.

"What you mean why now?"

"The Kahn informed us about the census months ago – I thought it was already completed by now," he explained.

"Your imprisonment and the dissolution of the Rebel-Seekers Initiative were decisions that startled everyone; then the attacks began so the Kahn concluded that it wasn't the right time. But now that the attacks are getting bigger, now that people are dying out there in the streets…" she paused for a moment, gathering the strength required to be as honest as possible: "The words civil war can be heard every day, at both sides of the Palace's walls. The emperor thinks that, with the census, we'll at least be able to identify those ones that do not belong among us. Once they are back where they belong there'll only be Outworlders left to take care of. He doesn't want any extra actors to take part in the conflict, especially considering how those outsiders could easily take advantage of the situation," Zarrabayeusse explained.

"That's why the guards are gone," Black reflected. "The wagons."

Zarrabayeusse nodded before resuming her explanation: "Most of the guards have been reposted."

The image of Alex invaded his thoughts – if the majority of the guards had been reposted that could only mean one thing: the Earthrealmers they had found while searching the different areas of the city were now waiting to be deported, they were already somewhere inside the Palace.

"The number of Earthrealmers they found in the regions is far larger than the one they had initially predicted. That's why most guards have been reposted - the guards' new assignment is to prevent these prisoners from escaping the Palace before they are taken back to Earthrealm."

As concerned as he was about the missing doctor, he quickly realized that there wasn't much for him to do about her uncertain fate while behind bars. He didn't even have the certainty that Alexandra was one of the captured Earthrealmers yet something had begun stirring inside of him. A part of him wanted Alex to be there, among the people about to go back to Earthrealm: that's what she had wanted all along. But another part of him was still conflicted, unable to let go from someone he had already abandoned. Even if absent, even if completely out of his reach, that woman still represented the most vivid manifestations of a past, of a certain love that he thought lost to the flames of time and oblivion.

"She's alive."

The words flew from his lips with a virulence that felt alien for him; the overwhelming feeling carried by the possibility of having her near once again was already blinding him. Zarrabayeusse tilted her head slightly, taken aback by his sudden confession.

"Who is?" She asked, unable to follow his train of thought.

"The doctor, the Earthrealmer."

She stared at him with her mouth agape yet he knew that he had unlocked a door that should have remained sealed.

"But…" Zarrabayeusse began only to pause again.

"She's alive," Black carried on as quickly as he could, knowing that his wife's state of confusion wouldn't last forever. As if readying himself for a duel, the gunslinger understood that he had to be quick enough not to let her think, not to let her dwell on the true meaning behind his words. "At least, that's what I think - her name is not Dakota - it's Alexandra," Black confessed. He moved closer to the bars and sat down on the cold ground of his cell, the cigarette trapped between his lips.

He told her their story; from the moment he woke up on Alexandra's house to the very last second of it, when he abandoned the woman in the cold mountain night, the flames of vengeance still igniting the cabin only a few steps away from their perpetual goodbye. There was a slight alteration to his story, however: Aalem did not take any part in it; Alex and the boy had never crossed paths according to his revisited tale, the kid hadn't been there at all.

"I need to find her," he said, ashamed.

"What for?" The woman asked, "You said she wanted to go back home. Well, in case she's alive, in case she's out there, she's going back home now, Erron, do not interfere." He looked down even though a part of him was still determined to find the doctor. "Just leave her be, you've damaged her enough already."

For her, it was impossible not to feel the stories intertwining chaotically inside her chest: the outcome of his abandonment seemed unaltered in both stories; how little it would take for him to ruin the lives of those women determined to help him was truly unsettling.

"I need you to help me," he pleaded, "I know you're doing more than enough for me, I'm well aware of the fact that I have no right to ask you to do anything else for me – but I need you now, Zar."

The woman shook her head in silence, completely unable to understand him.

"Tell me where they are; where are they being kept?" He demanded.

Zarrabayeusse scratched her forehead as she let the words out: "In the back of the Palace, they set up tents near the raised level area."

He took a moment to finish the wine and think about the situation: the Earthrealmers weren't being kept far from his own location yet his current predicament was somehow stretching the distance between him and the zone, making it impossible for him to reach them. The reasons why he felt compelled to reach them were still unclear inside his overwhelmed mind: too many ifs were suddenly forming up inside of him – if she was still alive, if she was one of the captive Earthrealmers, if he could gather all the information required to know for sure that she was there, within the Palace walls, if he could reach out to her somehow: then what?

"You work for Yvo now, you must have access to lists and names."

"Have you lost your mind?" The woman yelled, "It's not like I can get my hands on that list but even if I could, what should I look for? Do you have the slightest idea of how many Alexandras we can find in there? Try to narrow it down for me, please. Last name?" She demanded, only causing her husband to frown, exposing his evident lack of knowledge. "Terrific. Age?" The same expression of complete uncertainty contrasted with her own exasperated visage. "Let her go, Erron – if she's here, waiting to be taken back to Earthrealm, just let her go - that's what she has wanted all along, that's what you should have done for her in the first place. Think of this as a poetic way for life to make things even: who knows what could have happened to her have you stayed by her side, considering your own fate. Maybe your abandonment gave her the opportunity to become an independent woman and find her own way back home."

"I don't get it…" the troubled gunslinger let out softly, his words a mere innuendo speaking about a fragility he couldn't hide anymore.

"It's not that hard, actually," Zarrabayeusse said as she grinned softly at him, "Maybe, as years go by, this woman will learn to see your shortcomings as something good; something that ended up helping her instead of destroying her," she said as she brushed her hand across his chin, the soothing touch manifesting a renewed sense of affection, "Trust me, I talk from experience."

The man cupped her hand with his own, the same tenderness showing inside his coffee-colored eyes – even though he understood the meaning of her words he knew, he was positive, that he was meant to do more than just sitting around in a cold, godforsaken cell. He knew his own imagination was not about to let her go so easily; he could already see a variety of possible scenarios playing non-stop inside his troubled head: from the bittersweet image of a free Alexandra, happily resuming her life back home and slowly leaving him behind, to the darker chance of an already dead Alexandra, another ghost consumed by his own mistakes and impulses, forced to spend an eternity in the limbo of his emotions, only summoned by his tormenting memories.

"I need to see her – if she's here, I need to see her, Zar."

"What for? Erron, please be reasonable." Her hands left him and began caressing the cold steel of the bars instead, his obsession was clearly blinding him from the obvious truth: the doctor was a lost cause; it was already too late for him to seek redemption after everything he had done to the woman.

"I need to find her, Zar, I need to know for sure that she's leaving," Black avowed, his baritone voice was louder than before.

"You can't," Zarrabayeusse yelled, tired of feeling frustrated by his lack of perspective.

"I know," he affirmed, "but you can."

The woman took a step backward, a gesture that was more metaphorical than real in her fruitless search for space, in the indispensable need to distance herself from his stubbornness and his misplaced determination. Erron moved closer to the bars, rather instinctively, and placed his hands in the same spots where her hands had been only seconds ago.

"This pavilion used to be a hiding place for the Royal battalions fighting in the raised level area during the war," he began, his memory struggling for precision, "at the end of this corridor you'll find a ladder; if my recollections from that time are correct, it'll lead you near the zone where the tents are. I need you to go up there and find her for me."

"You've completely lost your mind," the woman argued, already seeing the whole plot displayed before her incredulous emerald eyes. "You are forgetting one small detail – most guards have been reposted, now guess where they are?"

"If you're clever you won't be spotted at all," he asserted, "the ladder will lead you towards the end wall of the palace; the guards – if they are truly there and awake will be standing near the entrance and you, my lovely, would be sneaking in from behind the embankment." The sudden coldness in his tone was letting her know that he wasn't going to let it go; the seed of the idea had already bloomed inside his mind. Her only chance was to go find the woman, avoiding the chance of Black's stubbornness to force him to do something stupid in order to get out of that filthy cell to find the woman himself.

She cupped her face with her own hands and exhaled loudly through her fingers.

"Describe her for me."

By the time those words traveled beyond the frontier of her lips and reached the atmosphere, she had already started to regret her decision.

"Well, she's shorter than me – but taller than you. She's in her late twenties or maybe… maybe in her early thirties…" Black began.

"So much for detail," Zarrabayeusse barked helplessly.

"She has auburn hair, blue eyes – she's pale… her name is Alexandra and she's a doctor but you already know that," he concluded, visibly angry at himself for being unable to provide Zar with a more accurate description. "Take the torch with you, you'll need it," he commanded, causing his wife to shake her head pensively, feeling an unsettling mixture of pity and anger towards him.

Zarrabayeusse took the torch and turned around, already venturing her tired body into the deserted corridor. Just as Black had anticipated the ladder was there, only it didn't look safe at all: the space was too small, the rocky steps seemed loose and uneven after so many years of oblivion and disuse. She breathed in as she approached the darkness, the yellowish light emanating from the torch becoming her only guide through the steep path stretching itself before her eyes. Two hundred and fifty-three steps later, she finally emerged to the quiet night waiting for her outside. It took her all her strength, but she finally managed to remove the many stones covered in moss that were blocking the exit. At first sight, she counted more than forty tents scattered all over the area. She inspected her surroundings carefully, her back glued to the end wall of the Palace: no guards were around – Black had been right, either they were already asleep or they were monitoring the entrance.

Covering her head with her black pashmina, Zarrabayeusse began to walk around the tents, whispering the name Alexandra as she moved carefully from one canopy to the other.

After walking for what felt like an eternity, she finally heard a female voice answering her call.

"Are you Alexandra?" Zar asked. The woman met her outside the canopy but as the moonlight washed over her face, Zarrabayeusse noticed her physical appearance had nothing to do with the woman Black had previously described for her. This woman was shorter than her, she was a brunette, and her eyes were brown.

"I'm sorry; you're not the one I'm looking for," Zar apologized as she turned around to leave – but then she stop dead on her tracks, turned around again, and asked the woman: "Maybe you can help me: I'm looking for a woman named Alexandra, she has auburn hair and blue eyes," she said yet the woman stared at her rather pensively as if her memory was struggling to remember. "She's a doctor," Zarrabayeusse added, offering another clue.

"Yes – Alex, the doctor," the woman affirmed, "she helped my father while we were on the wagons – she's staying with us but now she's smoking outside."

"Can you take me to her?" Zarrabayeusse asked.

"I don't really want to leave my father alone, but if you walk east, towards the end of the wall, you'll find the canopy where people go whenever they feel like having a cigar. The smoke and the smell should guide you, really," the woman said before going back inside the tent. Zarrabayeusse grinned softly at her as she looked up, already searching for the distinctive shape of a smoke column.

The dissipated sight found her rather quickly, forcing her to resume her march.

She found them sitting on a dry branch, smoking their cigars in complete silence as if quietly accepting their fates – whatever reason had brought them to Outworld was now lost in the certainty of deportation; their stay in Z'unkahrah was over, they had been caught and the only thing left for them to do about it was to accept that, in fact, there was nothing to do.

Easy to spot among the many solitary men sitting by the fire while reminiscing the lives they had left behind back in Earthrealm, the only woman accompanying them was the living embodiment of Erron's description: her auburn hair was floating freely in the soft breeze adorning the night.

It only took her two steps to be able to see her own reflection inside those big, blue eyes.

"Alexandra?" Zarrabayeusse asked softly as the woman stood up to meet her.

"Yes. And you are?"

She tried to speak, but the words would simply refuse to leave her mouth. She had never seen Amanda before, not even a picture – yet she could see her inside those blue eyes acknowledging her presence. In a way, it was as if Amanda's ghost was still alive inside that woman, eager to break the veil of time with such an uncanny resemblance. The very specter of his one true love was standing right before her stupefied emerald eyes for her to understand why the urgency, why the need – why it was so hard for him to just let her go. The invisible ghost that had tormented and haunted her during her nights had finally acquired a face; a face that was very similar to the one she had imagined on countless occasions - only now, the raw element of being there, in the flesh, was making it impossible for Zarrabayeusse to think clearly.

"Never mind," she whispered, already walking away, "Forget it."

The first steps were short and quick, but soon she found herself sprinting towards the exit – she took the torch that had been waiting for her near the wall and moved some of the stones back to their rightful place before venturing the ladder. Alone, and embellished in the amber-colored light, the woman placed her back against the wall and let her body fall down to the rocky step underneath her flat shoes. She covered her face with her own hands and finally allowed herself to cry, completely moved and overwhelmed by the hurricane of transfixed faces – the same faces that had determined that he was never going to be hers, the same old faces that had become the living manifesto of his love and his affection. Breathing heavily, the woman wiped her tears and stood up slowly; her trembling figure using the wall behind her back for support and stability. Two hundred and fifty-three steps later she was back in the deserted corridor; her body just a mere beacon in a path of solitude. She stopped, inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly as an attempt to fully collect herself before facing him again. A fake sense of tranquility accompanied her during the last portion of the corridor, his cell already visible from her peripheral vision; his forearms leaned against the metallic bars, his curious fingers hovering mid-air, flirting with the now-elusive meaning behind the word freedom.

"She's here," she said as soon as she got there; that fire in his eyes, untamable like the stallion galloping inside, accelerating his heartbeats, making him look like a trapped beast: a beast that needed out – now more than ever. "She is leaving with the others."

"I need to see her."

"I'm telling the truth, she's here, I saw her with my own goddamned eyes," she yelled furiously, "why can't that be enough?"

"I believe you," Black assured her as he moved quickly towards the bars and held her trembling hands with his own, "I believe you, Zar – I do. But I need to see her," he pleaded.

Just like Amanda had disappeared from his life more than a century ago, now the doctor was about to vanish from his days as well. He had never been good at goodbyes but he had never had a chance to say goodbye to Amanda: he had only settled for a sad separation, accepting the fact that she was meant to marry someone else – the rest of her days had remained a mystery to him, he didn't even know when she had died, how she had died… This case seemed determined to repeat the same old story all over again. Yet that goodbye, that final goodbye was the closest approximation to closure for him: he needed to let her go, he needed to say goodbye to that woman knowing that they would never see each other again – unlike Amanda, and her sudden disappearance, this renewed goodbye seemed as certain as to embrace the notion of a lifetime without her.

As tears started to stream down her face once more, Zarrabayeusse looked down.

"I'm really sorry, Erron but you know it's not possible. And even if we could somehow manage to get a permit for you to leave this cell for a while they would know that you lied to them," she whispered as emerald met brown once again, desperately searching for comprehension: "They think she's dead, and maybe it's better that way."

She was right. As painful as it was, his wife was right: he had killed the doctor in his own tale, now he couldn't play God and resurrect her. He retreated to the darker side of his cell; with his back against the wall the marksman began plotting the plan inside his head: it would take a lot from her, more than he could ask her to do – but if it meant getting the chance of seeing Alex again, then it would be worth the risk. He made himself visible as he approached his wife one final time - it wasn't easy for him, jeopardizing the only one person in his life who actually cared about him for a chance to spend a few minutes with some other woman that he couldn't even call his own yet determination had already found its way inside him and it would not let him rest, it would not quiet the voices telling him that even if it was a longshot, it was the only way.

"I need you to get the keys from my cell," Black demanded, coldness in his tone.

"No way," Zarrabayeusse retorted, visibly offended to know that her husband seemed ready to drag her down the same path of instability he had chosen for himself.

"The guard that's always posted by the pavilion gate, he's the one that has the keys to open these cells," the man went on, not really caring about his wife's negative.

"You can't ask me to do this," she refused once again.

"I know… I know I have no right," Black confessed, "but if you do this for me…" the words I'll tell you where Aalem is crossed his mind but only briefly – it was already too much to ask her to steal the key to his cell, the sole idea of blackmailing her with the one true thing she had wanted to know all along seemed disgusting – even for someone like him. Acknowledging how desperation had slowly begun corrupting his thoughts, Black took a moment to consider his chances: he wouldn't play her, not after everything she had already done for him. He couldn't afford to lose her now that he had already lost so many things, so many people; the imminent goodbye he was longing to say was the living proof of that.

"If you do this for me…" he stopped again, not really sure how to finish that sentence.

He had nothing to give, nothing to offer. But nothing had been more than enough for her back then.

"This is the very last thing I'm ever going to do for you," she sentenced even though she knew, deep down, that it wasn't true.

She took off her shoes and walked back to the entrance of the pavilion. The guard was still there, sitting on the floor, snoring louder than before. Like an amateur thief, her shaky fingers snatched the handful of keys that was resting on the table before him, the tight grip of her hand pressed hard against the keys, preventing their unwelcomed dance to wake the guard with its particular sound. She went back to his cell as quickly as possible; her nervous hands soon began to try the different keys until, finally, one worked. As the door got opened, she found herself stepping into the cold cell with her arms lingering before him, as if summoning him. He embraced her instinctively, running his fingers through her hair, finally allowing the pashmina to fall down to the ground.

"I'll be back," he said as he caressed her shoulders softly but even though this new-found proximity was killing her inside, the woman was not able to disguise the mistrust embedded in her eyes.

"I'll be back and I'll be quick," Black reassured her, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. "I promise."

She caught him by surprise before he even got a chance to leave as her hand reached out for him, grabbing his wrist and forcing him to turn around again. "Take this," she said as she picked up her black pashmina and covered his head and shoulders with it, "It'll help you to blend in among them."

"I'm one of them, Zar – I don't need to blend in," He grinned softly at her.

"Maybe, but everyone out there knows who you are." She was cautious, and she had every reason to be: no matter his current situation, he still was Erron Black.

"Then it's a good thing I've spent so much time wearing that mask. And don't forget, not many people have seen me like this," he said as he uncovered his head briefly, revealing the single stripe of hair adorning his head.

She instructed him where to find the doctor and watched him in silence as he moved away from her. He got out of his cell, his lungs already receiving the momentary refreshment of unexpected freedom. She closed the door and took his place on the cot, covering her body with the only blanket they had given him, the keys resting against her sweaty palms.

The cowboy ran through the corridor and quickly found himself climbing the ladder, the torch illuminating the way for his bare feet to arrive safely to their destination. Two hundred and fifty-three steps later he came to a halt, removed the mossy stones and stepped into the night. It took him a moment for his irises to welcome the light - even if it was nighttime already there was such a big difference between the cell and that precious outside. He used that brief recess to practice an apology as he mumbled the words "I should have stayed with you" over and over, the lazy letters coming out of his lips slowly, as if afraid to be heard.

He took a deep breath and walked east, following the smell and the smoke, just like Zar had indicated him.

The doctor was sitting alone on the ground, facing the campfire. Many men were near her but none of them seemed to notice her there. With his heart beating faster than before, the mercenary approached her, placing both his hands on her shoulders and causing the woman to turn around.

She had auburn hair, and her eyes were big and blue.

But she wasn't the Alex he was longing to find.

His hope demolished, the man took a step back and covered his face with his hands, brokenhearted.

"What do you want with me?" The woman stood up and reached him, looking confused. "First this woman comes looking for me and when she finds me, she goes away without saying a word, now you do the same thing…"

As Black started to walk away the woman insisted on following him, her voice becoming a distant echo brushing his ears: "She was wearing that same pashmina, just tell me what you want." She placed her hands on his shoulders and forced him to turn around and face her. "What is this? What do you want?" She asked again but to no avail. She was not the one he had been longing to find and the results of his truncated expedition were unleashing a hollowness inside he couldn't quite contain. He paid no mind to her questions and resumed his march only to be stopped again; this time she was fiercer and more determined than before: "I can do anything you want, anything at all," she whispered in his ear as her hands started to romance his dormant body, "I can't go back; I just can't go back," the woman pleaded desperately yet her need only caused him to flinch under her touch. Tormented, the mercenary pushed her away and ran like a frightened child. He went back to the embankment and removed the stones again, his overwhelmed body already leaving the surface and getting lost in the chiaroscuro of that godforsaken ladder. He sat down on one of the ancient steps, lowered his head, and pressed his temples hard against his knees.

The feeling had found him.

That unwelcomed feeling he had buried more than a century ago; the same feeling of complete desolation he had sworn he would never allow himself to feel ever again.

The same agonizing sensation, all over again, embraced him with the cruelty of a hundred years of denial and improvised oblivion. He saw himself again, the younger version of himself who had chosen to go back and search for Amanda instead of staying with Annie. Amanda was gone but the memories would not stop there, those bitter, painful instants now fully recovered – suddenly, the unparalleled sorrow of what had happened right after his futile attempt to get Amanda back started to creep up on him; the after becoming as petrifying as the before: downhearted, he had returned to the liquor store only to find the place had been burnt down to the ground. The flames had already taken Annie, that fire had killed everything in his life: from his unborn child to the very last thread of hope and innocence left in him.

Subjugated by those images as the different eras of his life overlapped on top of each other in the altered theatre of his mind, the mercenary stood up again and ran as fast as humanly possible – he had already lost Annie, he needed to make sure Zar was alright.

As he returned to his own cell he saw his wife asleep on his cot, now that the wicked eclipse of faces was finally over he got on his knees and cried as he let his head fall down helplessly, his forehead already feeling the warm blanket covering Zar. Her hands reached out for him, removing the pashmina that was still covering his head and his shoulders.

"What happened?" She asked, confused.

Unable to talk, the man simply joined her on the cot, burying his head in the soft space between her head and her shoulder.

"Did you find her?" Zarrabayeusse questioned him, using her fingers to guide his chin upwards. He shook his head in silence, unable to explain how life had once again slapped him hard in the face. The woman embraced him then, placing his head against her chest and running her fingers through his head and neck. As his tears stopped streaming down his face, the new parallelism between the women of his life reappeared before his eyes: Alex was Amanda, elusive and forever out of his reach. Zar was Annie, the one he should have protected, the one he should have never abandoned.

The sudden stiffness of his tongue quickly found its way inside her mouth – his heart dead at first, but beating with the rage of everything that's inalterably final as minutes went by. He took her in his arms and she welcomed him. A renewed sense of urgency enraptured them then, their clothes quickly becoming a mere anecdote decorating the floor. As he made his way inside of her, the woman surrounded his back with her arms and hid her face on his shoulder – now it was her time to cry. The sounds of his love were summoning all those truths she had never wanted to face again: even though she was the one in his arms, she was not the one in his head and, definitely, she was not the one in his heart.

Even though he was making love to her, she was not the one he was professing his love to.

Feeling his shoulder coated by her tears, Black stopped and cupped her face with his sweaty hands understanding her pain and finally able to accept it as his own. He kissed her lightly as their bodies collapsed on the cot, their silences uniting them – the indissoluble bond of nostalgia connecting their downbeat spirits into a single bonfire of things unsaid. As he resumed his pace, the woman threw her head back and closed her eyes, trying to savor the moment through parted lips – his hands roamed all over and explored her; that body reconciling itself with his laconic sense of familiarity, her legs imprisoning his back, his tongue tracing the outline of her upper lip.

It seemed that was the way their love was supposed to feel, after all.

So necessarily urgent.

So inherently artificial.

A/N: The reason why I chose the word 'objects' for this title is intrinsically related to the way Erron's mind works when it comes to women. Part of his chauvinist and macho-like behavior forces him to objectivize women instead of seeing them as subjects. Besides Amanda, both women in this chapter (Zarrabayeusse and Alexandra, no matter if we didn't get to see the real Alex) have always been perceived by him as objects that had led him to achieve something else. In Zar's case, it was power and closeness to that abstract place of supremacy he had always wanted to reach. In Alex's case, it was the possibility to retrieve some of his most treasured memories from a past that, he knows, is never coming back. That explained, I hope you enjoyed the chapter!