It was as if God had started to come down from Heaven. Oh, not the Son of God… he was busy, preoccupied, as Lancer had always perceived him. But God himself had come down, and the churches were just starting to decorate, the mangers spiking from their little homes in the corner, the people shouting out nativity figure sales and laughing, laughing, no matter how much money they had in their pockets. To each manger they added something new, something different. If Max the hair-cutter was adding his own king, looking nothing like Lancer's father, then Achille the occupational therapist was adding a Doctor. There were possibly cakes and pies, turkeys and roast geese, lobsters and cheeses, scattered everywhere, at least three for each family, but they were kept inside of their houses for now, and only a trace of their smell wafted on the streets, mixing with the burnt wine that often came when the Darkners, in a particularly festive way, spilled wine on their firelogs. It was la veille de Noël… Christmas Eve. The spikes in Lancer's consciousness wore off a little. At least his friends would be able to see this. At least he would be able to see this.
"This is the castle, Lancer? Wow…"
"Heh. I've seen better, Ralsei. With people from my world, we have entire neighborhoods like that.
Hey, Lance…
Don'tcha think we should be going up, not down?
Lance?
Lance, listen to me.
Lance."
"Lancer? Why are we- oh, my gosh, are those- Lancer, stop!"
"Hey, hey, Lance, what are ya, psycho? Hey, let go! Let go, let go, let go-!"
THUD.
An extra bruise sported Lancer's arm, but there wasn't any pain in it. All the pain was directed somewhere else, somewhere. deeper. Somewhere… he didn't know… darker.
A guard rushed in from the hallway, kicking Susie in the stomach, oh God, her stomach, sending her back careening towards the back of the cell. A spade attack from Lancer managed to shove Ralsei to the back of his cell, even though Ralsei couldn't bring himself to do anything but yell out why's and why's and why's, over and over.
SLAM. SLAM.
He'd done it.
The keys trembled and sang in his hands.
The dungeon hung exactly as he'd imagined. The walls loomed, dark and stiff, moss growing in puddles along the edges. For the prisoners, a stray vine hung here and there, all of the grapes plucked off, no, clawed off. But the prison was darker than the rest of the world, emptier than the rest of their souls, save for those in the cages at the back. The air he breathed was thin and fleeting, almost the way Susie had described the mountain climbers in the Upper World.
It was only through sheer stress, sheer cortisol, that Lancer remained upright; the guard next to him had a tiny oxygen tank to replace the stress. The air, next to the cellar, tasted like old wine, and the cellar called from the corner, the guard having a little source of distraction for himself for the night, or, when he was feeling generous, distraction for a few of the prisoners.
Each cell told a story, too twisted and too endless for words. Tales of a boy raised just like Lancer, with everything he wanted and nothing he needed, one mistake dragging him here. Tales of a The endless tally marks on the wall, most of them dating after, not before, Lancer's father took the throne, were more frightening than if the ghost of every prisoner were to walk the earth. The cracks in the walls moved along, entwining with the cracks in Lancer's soul. And his soul beat him, beat in his chest, beat him more than his father ever could. Beat him more than the Dark World's laws could beat the prisoners.
God, he was so pathetic.
Lancer was frightened to look up, even though the thinning of the air was starting to take its toll. Ralsei was the first to collapse, Kris swaying, gnashing his teeth at Lancer before collapsing himself. No words were spoken. A fire rose in the back of Lancer's head. It happened before he thought about it. Susie's little yelp that counted for her yell in the thinning air died. He bit his lip, took the key, and scratched it into his skin. Only scratched it- everyone else would be too worried otherwise. He supposed he wanted a different kind of pain, a sweeter kind of pain. But that would be weak. He stared at the keys for another jaded moment before settling them back into his pocket.
Susie. Susie stared at him with marbles, both of them turning cloudy and settling into Lancer's already-heaving stomach. She was too shocked to even grab her axe, to even say a prayer. That was until the lack of air in that dungeon, steeped underground, lulled them all to sleep. It was the same lullaby that sung every prisoner to sleep, always waking up the next day.
The keys trembled and sang in his hands.
Lancer's own prayer, his "Miserere mei, Domine, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam…", memorized to the brim, sputtered to death when Susie fell.
He knew how much of a little coward he was. Even if his father weren't around to tell him that, he'd still believe it. Here he was, shuddering at every little thing that was brought into his life. Shuddering when he'd come home to the castle, the light still on in the throne room. Shuddering whenever Rouxls would leave his duchy in search of a holiday. Shuddering whenever he'd hang off of Steed in the air for just a little too long, and his senses would jar him, and he'd clutch onto Steed before he could say anything.
His legs trembled, his eyes stung as he trudged back towards the King. The rest of the world throbbed in the background, felt as if it were an angry, pulsing spiderweb. It was sticker than a spider's web, too. He felt dirty. If one were to push his mind to the edge, which was very close to happening now, he would say he felt even dirtier than that one night when the last thing he'd had was taken away. Almost. Almost-
This was the first time the dungeon guard saw Lancer cry.