Bevil doesn't know how long it's been since they brought him to the dark, stone room. Hours, days, weeks even? But no, if it was weeks he would be dead. He should be dead. In fact, he's certain he almost was - almost free of it all - when suddenly, the hooded creature with the sharp knife withdrew, leaving him alone with the pain.

The pain: a palpable presence that overflows the small, dark room he lives in. It rises, obliterating everything else, finally leaving him to wonder if there ever really was anything else. There is only the pain, before and after. The division is a chasm he sinks into, with no hope of return.

He huddles into himself, trying to cradle broken fingers. The movement brings fresh waves of agony. He's barely aware of the blood anymore, seeping from a multitude of cuts. The dim room walls seem to close in and he gasps for breath, struggling to fill his lungs with damp, musty air.

Just before the darkness can drown him, a light appears. It's a thin, flickering flame that makes the shadows quiver. It grows brighter - too bright - and he closes his swollen eyes against the pain. Only to snap them open again. The pain is preferable to what he finds behind closed eyes.

But beyond the light is a nightmare: the cloaked figure. The one who found him in the Mere. With the knife, so shiny and sharp. Shiny no longer. Red...

He tries to pull away but his body lacks the strength. A strangled moan of terror rises as the cloaked man draws near, and after a moment Bevil realizes he's the one making it. The figure stops and pulls back the hood. Underneath is not what he expects.

"Amie?" Bevil finally manages to gasp.

"Yes," Amie says, "I've found you. Everything will be alright now."

Bevil shakes his head, staring, trying to reconcile how Amie could be here. It doesn't seem right. She belongs to the foggy time, before the pain came. And there's something else. "How can you be here?"

"I came to find you, of course." Amie's tone is unfamiliar as she sits on her heels in front of him. "If you mean my injury, I'm healed, good as new. See?" She leans closer. "But then I went to find you and you were gone, not even a word. Where did you go?"

Bevil struggles to see her clearly, urging swollen eyelids just a bit wider. "Amie, you… You're okay? But I thought…" He suddenly remembers, and shudders. "I thought you were dead."

"Dead? No, of course not. I was wounded rather badly. But I was healed. Only then you were gone. Where were you off to, after the attack?"

"After the attack…" Dazed and lost, Bevil grasps at that one line of thought. The attack, where Amie died. Except that she didn't. Why wouldn't he check, to be sure? But it was chaos, and the very instant it was over, Daeghun sent them off on the errand. What was it? Bevil starts to remember. "Summer and I went to the ruins, we went… here?"

Perhaps that's where he is. Another part of the ruins, where even the lizardmen wouldn't venture? Different from the part they saw before. But it was just Summer and him then, and that's strange. "You didn't go because…" Because you were dead, he almost says, but trails off in confusion. How could she be dead when she's right here? Alive and here to save him. If she was dead… His mind skitters away from the thought, not letting it complete. "Because you were injured?" he says instead.

"That's right," Amie smiles at him, and leans forward to gently push a lock of hair - stiff with dried blood - from his face. "You and Summer went to the ruins. What did you do there?"

"I… We…" If he can't remember, will she go away? Bevil doesn't want that. He digs deep and finds a glimmer of silver. "A chunk of metal."

"This metal," Amie urges, hand lingering on his forehead. "Was it silver?"

"Yes."

"Good, Bevil. Good. What did you do with it?"

Her gentle touch feels so good, despite the bruises. Memories slowly float to the surface. "It was Daeghun's… It… It was what those creatures were after."

"But they're gone now," Amie assures him quickly. "You don't need to worry about them anymore. What did you do with the shard?"

"Summer took it. To Neverwinter…" Memories start to flood. He remembers Summer leaving West Harbor, all alone. He didn't say goodbye; he was too angry. Because Amie died. Only Amie's here, isn't she?

"Amie, I don't understand. You died. I saw it."

"Yes, she did." Terror fills him. It isn't Amie's voice, but it's familiar to him. Familiar like the knife. The endless cutting and the questions. Where is the Kalach-Cha? Where is the blade? What have you done with it?

Amie's face shimmers and fades away, replaced by something yellow-green and full of hatred. The creature stands, slowly drawing its hood up. Then it turns dismissively and speaks to someone outside the door: "I must report at once. Finish him off."

Bevil shakes his head in denial. The floor seems to drop out from under him. But he goes through the shock far too quickly, spinning and falling, into humiliation. How could he endure so much - all the questions, all the pain - only to tell them everything now? Amie is dead. How could he forget that? And that thing, it's one of the creatures who killed Amie. Taking everything from him. Leaving him with nothing… except anger.

Anger is his whole existence now. It gives him one last surge of strength, convincing torn muscles to move. He surges to his feet just as three duergar enter the room. Before they can react he rips the dagger from the closest one's hand and turns it upon its former wielder. He slashes carelessly, brutally, and he isn't even sure how the other two duergar go down.

The hooded creature is in his sights, just a few steps away but it might as well be miles. He stumbles one step forward, then another. The thing is caught up in some kind of spell and doesn't see him coming. In just a few more steps his dagger will sink into its flesh, and it will begin to know the pain. Just a few more steps…

As he staggers forward, the hooded creature stops casting and disappears. "No," Bevil croaks. Not when he's so close. His last wind runs out and he collapses hard on the unforgiving stone floor. He sobs in frustration, throwing aside the dagger and dragging himself forward as if he could follow.

The blasted thing is gone, along with his last chance: for revenge or for fixing his mistake, he isn't sure.

An indeterminate amount of time later, a voice disrupts his endless cycle of anger, guilt and pain. The cold, stone floor is gone; somehow he lies in mud.

"Bevil, we've got you," the voice says. "We're taking you to Brother Merring."

Then the ground falls away, and pain rises up and carries him into darkness.