A/N: Hi everyone! Before you read on, I intend to finish this story- it will just take me a while. Feel free to stick with me or to meander off- no harm, no foul. It just takes me a bit longer to hammer out chapters with everything going on (work, life, etc) which is why I prefer one-shots.

In any case- happy reading! And apologies in advance for the mistakes- I'm uploading this from the office so I'll go back and clean it up later tonight or tomorrow. Just figured I should post this sooner rather than later.

Also, I do quite a bit of foreshadowing in this chapter. I mean, it's kind of heavy handed but I could say that about other things in this story. =P

Chapter 15

It should have been me.

My brother is dead and it should have been me.

You understand, don't you, Arthur? You understand why I have to fix this.

###

Why didn't you stop

Eames he

why didn't you do something say something anything everything to make them stop Matty would be alive and I wouldn't have to

I wouldn't have to be here anymore. I'm still here.

why am i still here?

###

"…and this is it," Eames said, guiding her into a bright, sunlit room. His hand felt warm on her back. "Studio is a rather grandiose name for it but it's where I do my work."

Ana stepped inside and then watched him as he moved ahead of her. He wiped his hands on his pants and then gave her a quick smile.

You betrayed our team.

She was still trying to figure out how she felt about his confession, about Stockholm and what he'd done.

He'd been willing to let those men die.

But they'd been criminals, Eames said. The chemist had been a drug dealer whose concoctions had killed several people throughout his career and the architect worked as a hired gun for the mob on the side. She had known this, he told her, but she'd chosen to focus on other details. She'd chosen to see Eames as nothing more than a greedy liar. Someone who she couldn't trust anymore.

"It was us against them, Ana. I just wanted to make sure we got out of there alive."

Eames was anxious as he spoke, afraid of what her reaction would be and she'd watched his face carefully, looking for any sign that he was lying or hiding something in his retelling. But every action, every emotion that passed across his face had been genuine.

"You told me to go. I didn't want to, I never wanted to, but I did what you asked and let you go."

Except… Eames kept her things. Even after she moved on Eames had kept all the little traces of her that she left behind for him to deal with. Either she'd known the depth of his feelings and didn't care, or she hadn't realized it and thought–

It would have been so easy for him to throw everything out or hide it all away.

–that he'd move on quickly because he wasn't capable of feeling deeply for her. Apparently she'd said as much to his face and it was clear from the way he recited her words that they had cut deep.

When he finished speaking, kneeling at her feet as she sat on the side of her bed, Eames looked down and hung his head. He looked like a man waiting for his punishment to be meted out.

Instead she'd asked to see his studio.

She looked around at the various canvases scattered around the room, stepping carefully around the flotsam and jetsam on the floor. There was a yellow, paint splattered loveseat in the corner and faded, loose pages with half-finished drawings littered every surface. There were dozens of images drawn in pen, charcoal and colored pencils and paintings of varying sizes and shapes were propped up against easels and walls.

"You'd stay here sometimes and watch me work," Eames said behind her. "You'd sit right there on that couch and read a book or jot down thoughts in your little notebook. You used to ask me about my technique, why I held the brush the way I did, what mixtures I used..."

Ana wondered what those days had been like. She imagined lazy afternoons spent basking in the warm sunlight, the smell of paint and turpentine thick in the air. She looked up at the large windows that took up the far wall and saw the worn, discolored latches on the middle frames.

He opens the windows there to let out the fumes.

And then she narrowed her eyes.

There was dust around the large hinges; not as much as was in the corners of the room but enough to be visible from a distance.

He hasn't had to open the windows in a while.

Ana shook her head as if to clear her thoughts, not ready to think about what that implied. She had wanted to see his studio to understand him better, to see his art in progress as a way to explore his mind. Now though, surrounded by his work, she felt more overwhelmed than assured.

She walked towards a half hidden canvas in the far corner of the room, intrigued by its size, but something caught her eye and made her pause. Hung up on the wall was a collection of three paintings.

With a jolt, she realized: I've seen them before.

She felt drawn towards the paintings, as if something was physically pulling her to them, and the closer she got, the colder she felt.

"Ah, I should have known you'd like those," Eames said. His voice sounded fond but Ana didn't look back at him. All of a sudden, her heart felt as if it were beating too fast and too hard. The images were odd, perhaps even a little unsettling but familiar.

And she knew their names.

The sanctuary.

One was of a house made of vivid, red roses; every surface was covered in flowers. There were no windows and only a black hole where the door should have been. It stood tall and solitary in a field of long, green grass.

The living obstacle.

The other was of a tree made of glass. Each individual leaf and twisted branch shown clear against a blue, cloudless sky.

The shadowed throne.

The last was of a silver throne in a dark room. A candle stood against the right front leg, illuminating the scene from the bottom up. Shadows seemed to lurk around edges of the painting and Ana could almost see faces in some of the strokes.

"You asked me to paint those."

Ana caught herself before she jumped back at the sound of his voice and she looked at him with wide eyes.

"I did?"

"Yes, for your brother. Apparently he was working on–"

His words cut off abruptly. Eames stepped forward and put a hand on her shoulder, looking alarmed and not a little frightened.

"Ana, what's the matter? The blood's gone completely out of your face."

"I asked you to paint these?" Ana said, feeling breathless. "I told you to make these images as they were?"

Eames frowned deeply and nodded. "You wanted the details just right, yes. Your brother was a fan of children's stories. I think he taught on the subject. He was working on a book about fairytales, some sort of analysis of them, and you wanted to surprise him with illustrations for some of the chapters. What of it? What's wrong?"

"I've seen these before," she said in wonder. "These things, they have names, titles... And I know them."

Eames' expression darkened and he glanced at the paintings for a moment before looking back at Ana's face.

"You've seen them before," he repeated. "You mean, you remember them?"

"Maybe," Ana said. "Or maybe I dreamt of them. Seeing them here like this… I feel like… But there's one missing, isn't there? There should be four paintings. The sanctuary, the living obstacle, the shadowed throne and the… The…"

"The citadel," Eames finished for her. His gaze was thoughtful when he spoke next. "You called it the citadel."

He hesitated and then, without taking his gaze from her face, he leaned forward and grabbed the edge of the large canvas she'd originally wanted to see, pulling it out from behind the other paintings slowly so that she saw the picture revealed inch by inch.

When it was fully exposed, Ana felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. Something in her mind seemed to click with recognition and for a moment she stood there, stunned, unable to move or speak.

The citadel.

The painting was waist high and nearly twice as wide. It was a medieval-style castle with tall, sturdy walls made of stone, pointed turrets capped by slashes of red and yellow, and a dark, forbidding looking moat. It looked like the stuff of bedtime stories, a home for a king or queen, with knights in armor and–

A dungeon.

–rooms with tapestries and grand fireplaces and a banquet hall.

It was beautiful, so perfectly detailed that Eames must have spent hours on it.

But it was unfinished.

As if in a dream, she reached out and touched the empty white spaces left on the canvas. Ana saw herself in her mind's eye, walking down a stone corridor towards a flickering light in the distance. She remembered a room filled with maps, every surface covered with charts and atlases. She remembered a library filled with towers of books that reached all the way to the high ceilings.

I want to go back.

She blinked rapidly, feeling a wave of longing came over her and she was horrified to find that she was on the verge of tears.

I want to go home.

When she spoke next, her voice sounded shaky and far too loud in the quiet room.

"Eames, it's not–"

It's not done, the painting's not done.

And then her knees gave out.

From a distance, she heard him utter a curse and felt his arms wrap around her in a tight, almost painful hold. He pressed her against his chest and she slumped against him gratefully, knowing that she would have fallen to the floor if he hadn't been there.

I can finish it, I know where the rooms go, I know-

It's not done.

She didn't know that she'd said the words out loud until she heard him respond. "I know it's not done yet but it's okay. I can finish if you want me to but you need to sit down now. We're going to sit down right here."

She felt herself being moved, pushed and then pulled, and then the next thing she knew she was sitting on the couch with her head in her hands, staring down at the floor. Eames had propped her up against his side and he was rubbing her back soothingly.

"Feel any better?" he asked. He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body seep through into her and she curled in towards him. He was a ready source of comfort and she accepted what he was offering without hesitation.

"It's a real place, Eames," she said. She raised her head to look at him. "I've been there, I swear."

Eames seemed troubled and his hand came up to push her hair away from her face. "Love, they're pictures. They don't exist in reality. Perhaps you're remembering how they came to be; you came up with those images, after all."

"No, they're real. The citadel – it's real," she insisted. She touched the side of her head, at her temple. "I know the layout because I've been in there before."

Eames stared at her for a moment and she could see him struggling with his thoughts. He looked pained, yet there was a hint of something else in his expression. Something almost like understanding. She could see flecks of green and gray in his blue eyes and she realized that she had moved even closer to him.

"It's real," she said desperately, "even if it was just a dream. I remember it, Eames. It's the first time I've felt like something belonged to me. Please. Please believe me."

Please don't take that away from me.

"I believe you, Ana," Eames said. He bit his bottom lip, as if mulling over something and then let out a sigh. "Alright then, you said remember the layout?"

Ana nodded. "There are four main corridors leading to different rooms. I remember where they all are. Looking at your painting – I just know where everything is inside."

"I have an idea," he said after a brief silence. Eames pulled back a little, clearly meaning to stand up, and Ana grabbed his arm reflexively. He froze and looked down at her hand curiously.

Shocked at herself, she let him go, albeit reluctantly. The loss of his warmth was disconcerting and she still felt off-balance and a little frightened. She didn't want him to go but she still opened her mouth to apologize, to explain.

Before she could say anything he took her hand and brought it up to his face, pressing his lips against her fingertips.

"I'm not going anywhere." His expression grew soft as he looked at her. "I just wanted to get a pencil and sketch book."

"Of course," Ana said. She pulled her hand back and began to adjust her bandages, bending her head down so that her hair covered her face. "I just… Of course."

She heard him walk away and she surreptitiously looked up at Eames as he moved about the room.

He said he believed me.

She asked him to take her word as truth and he did without hesitation. Guilt overcame her and she swallowed it down quickly; it would do her no good to dwell over it. Whatever Eames was, whatever he chose to be, he had loved her once–

Might still.

–and that was the truth. She looked around the room once more, spotting the fresh wrappers on the floor and the new tubes of paint on the easels. She had noticed the dried out containers he'd thrown in the trash cans and the set of brushes soaking in a glass jar beside a bar of olive oil soap.

He's only just now started working in here again.

There might have been more to Stockholm but he hadn't lied to her and she knew that leaving her had affected him. Everything he'd told her was true. Because it was clear he loved working here, his passion was spilt out over cotton and linen and paper for her to see.

Yet he'd stopped.

Eames couldn't fake that, couldn't manufacture the disuse of his supplies or the way most of his work had been shoved carelessly against the walls. There were scratches and slashes of dirt on his faded drawings, as if he'd kicked them aside in a fit. As if they hadn't mattered anymore.

The least I can do from this point on is have more faith in him.

Eames exclaimed loudly and she turned back towards him. He held up a large pad, grinning at her as he walked back towards the couch.

"I knew it was 'round here," he said, walking back. He opened it and flipped through a few pages, sticking a charcoal pencil behind his ear. "When we first started on those paintings, we drafted a few sketches beforehand. I have the original drawing of the citadel right here."

He turned the pad towards her and she leaned closer to him to see. Ana could feel his gaze on her again but she forced herself to study the drawing.

It was impressive. Eames was talented, that much was obvious, but despite the beauty of the painting she found herself much more moved by the simple, stark black lines on the paper before her. There was something both haunting and menacing about the citadel depicted in lines and blurred shadows. The sense of homesickness rose up uneasily in the pit of her stomach at the sight and she placed her fingertips–

Where he kissed me.

–on the edge of the page, unwilling to touch the actual drawing for fear she would accidentally alter it in some way.

"Did you come up with the names?" she asked without looking at him. "Or was that from me as well?"

"All you," Eames said. "Each one symbolized some central theme in fairytales. I'm not sure what, really. I was more concerned with making sure you were pleased with the finished product."

She blinked and drew her hand away. "But you didn't finish them. Not completely. The last painting…"

"It didn't seem right to continue," Eames said in a low voice. "When it was over between us, I put it away. There wasn't any point left in finishing."

Ana raised her head to stare at him.

Did I love you?

It was beginning to make sense now: it really would have been so easy to fall in love with him after Arthur. Eames with his crooked, smile and his art and his multitude of masks. He had none of Arthur's razor sharp edges but he had the same undercurrent of danger and competence, the sense that he could take control of things if he needed to.

She wished then that she had loved him and that he'd known.

"Eames, I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry if I hurt you before."

I'm sorry I doubted you.

A flicker of surprise crossed his face and he looked down quickly. Not so quickly though, that he could hide the pain that filled his eyes.

"Nothing to be done for it," he said, sounding almost nonchalant. "I know it was never your intention to hurt me. You did what you felt you had to: I understood that then and I understand now. I never held it against you."

"Regardless."

The sides of his mouth tilted up in an almost smile but he kept his eyes down. "There's nothing to forgive, Ana," he said, "but you're fine."

Ana gestured to the drawing. "Thank you for showing this to me. For giving me back my first real memory."

Eames looked back at her sharply and raised his eyebrow. He said, "I didn't just want to show you the sketch, Ana."

He flipped to a blank page and pulled the pencil from behind his ear and Ana realized what it was he meant for them to do next.

"I want you to tell me what the layout is. Tell me what's on the inside of the citadel."

###

London was once Londinium was once Lowonidonjon. The city of kings and queens, paupers and peasants. And castles. Always with the castles. Matty and his love of fairytales. He never quite grew out of that, always had his head filled with stories. He'd tell anyone who would listen tales from around the world but his first love centered on the originals. You remember the knights in shining armor, fighting dragons and saving princesses.

He knew what they really meant. He taught the allegories and symbols. Knew all the theories. But just because you know the secret behind the magic trick doesn't mean you can't enjoy it from the audience.

He never got to travel. Always meant to though. One day, one day I'll go see the castles, Annie. You'll take me where you've been. I'll see for myself where the stories were made.

He never did. Never can now.

never never never

He thought I lived the good life. Oh, he hated you. Hated that I was with you but he loved that I got to see the things he wanted to. He collected stories and I collected places and maybe he thought that made us complete like two halves of one, complete soul. The storyteller and the story maker. Brother and sister. Hansel and Gretel. The little fish and the lambkin.

The Tremont twins.

He fell in love with Sandra in college. Got married right after school. Went straight to grad school. Got a job doing what he loved. Funny how I turned out to be the aimless twin. The one who never put down roots, never had someone who wanted me to. My brother envied me a little but he would have never, ever given up his life for mine.

I wanted an adventure.

thought maybe you and I

someday maybe we

I did live the good life. It was a good life once. But Matty, he lived the fairytale.

###

"Arthur, what do you think? Will it work?" she asked.

Ana stared at his face, noting the way the lines around his mouth deepened and his eyes narrowed a fraction as he studied Eames' sketch of the citadel.

"It stands to reason that it will," Eames said, from across the table. He leaned forward in his chair and ran his thumb against the edge of his poker chip. "It's clearly a place Ana remembers and one that she feels safe in. I can add a few tweaks here and there but you couldn't ask for a more perfect layout for the first level."

Arthur let out a breath and threw the pad carelessly onto the table, looking frustrated. He looked up at Ana for a moment and then at Eames.

"Yeah, it's perfect," he said, "a little too damn perfect, don't you think?"

Ana reached out and drew the pad back towards her. She smoothed out the corners and stared at the layout, not liking the way Arthur just tossed it aside, uncaring of how it landed.

They were sitting in the dining room she'd come across on her first night there. Arthur told them about his conversation with Cobb and it was clear, to Ana at least, that he was holding something back.

He'd probably tell Eames everything if I wasn't here, she thought, feeling a little resentful.

His proposed plan was fairly straightforward as far as she could understand it. Though the terms were still strange, still alien, they would enter into a shared dream with Ana as the subject and Eames as the dreamer. They decided that tomorrow mid-morning was when it would happen and Yusuf was due to arrive from Paris to act as their lookout.

Since Eames was their architect, it made sense to make the first level his to own. Arthur would go down into–

Limbo

-the deepest part of Ana's subconscious with her to try and reconcile her waking mind with her dreaming mind. However, they couldn't spend too much time there. The problem with Limbo wasn't getting out; it was remembering that you were in Limbo that was the issue.

Arthur had looked at her intently as he described that part, as if willing her to change her mind about going under. It was dangerous, Arthur had said, she could wake up worse off but Ana couldn't imagine living out the rest of her life without her past.

"Imagine waking up and having two different personalities," he'd told her, "Imagine not being able to remember anything from moment to moment. That's what could happen and that's what you did to yourself."

Eames hadn't taken kindly to the way Arthur was trying to scare her off and they'd almost descended into an ugly argument when Ana showed Arthur the drawing Eames had made for her. He thought it would make a good structure for the first level but it was obvious that Arthur didn't agree.

"I admit," Eames said now, "it's a bit worrisome–"

Arthur waved his hand at Eames dismissively. "Ana allowed herself the memory of this place. She wants us to use it for the first level. She was careful about this whole thing so she wouldn't let anything slip through to the surface unless it was intentional. Dom thinks we only need one level, as long as the Somnacin we use has a sedative strong enough to go deep. She wants us to follow her down, that much is clear but she's not going to make it easy. I don't want to go fucking around in a goddamn medieval castle if I can help it."

Arthur's expression was sharp and fierce as he spoke and Ana looked back down at the pad, feeling her stomach drop. She carefully pressed her fingertips against the edges of the page to flatten them and somehow the action made her feel better.

"This place holds meaning for her," Eames said firmly. "It's a tie back to her brother and it will help anchor her and settle her projections. You may be afraid of it but Ana isn't and that's what matters. Would you rather I build one of your sterile little puzzles? We could run around in an office building on a never ending staircase like rats, if you want. But if she doesn't feel safe then Gideon's code will be locked up far more tightly than if we go with the familiar."

"Eames, it's likely a trap," Arthur said. "Besides, if she does want us to use the citadel for the first level, she could easily warp what you build into her own design. She–"

"Even if that happens, I'll be there, won't I?" Ana cut in. "If I'm there, won't I be able to control that level too?"

Arthur turned to her with a frown. She'd remained quiet for the most part, letting the men lead the discussion but now she felt the need to speak up.

And to remind Arthur that I'm still in the room.

"Not even you know what could be down there," Arthur said patiently. "And I think it would be best to hide the build-outs from you; that way, me and Eames have a little bit more of an advantage. We need every one we can get."

Arthur was only being logical but she still felt disappointed. She'd wanted to see the citadel, to walk through its halls and compare what she saw with what she remembered.

She looked back down at the drawing and shrugged. "I understand," she said. "And you're right. We should try to be as safe as possible. It's just… It would have been nice to see it, especially since I created it for my brother. But that's an aside. What's important is that we follow you. You know what's best, right?"

There was silence and Ana raised her eyes to find Arthur looking stricken.

"Yes, Arthur, let's follow you because your plans always run perfectly," Eames said sarcastically. "Especially since it has Cobb's blessing, because we should all trust that lunatic, shouldn't we? Particularly about things like our mental safety and Limbo."

Arthur blinked and seemed to come back to himself. "He's the only one who's gotten out of Limbo-"

"Right, because of the three people who have gone down there, Cobb's the least damaged?" Eames said, tilting his head to the side. "Ariadne–"

"Dom's changed and you know it," Arthur snapped. "Don't make this out to be an argument against him. And Ariadne was down there for a short period, we need his expertise on–"

"Yet even Cobb thinks we should create a safe space for Ana and you've just shot down the one familiar place she wants to be." Eames leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "We don't have to share the layout with Ana. I agree with you on that point, but I think we should stick to the citadel as our main environment."

Again, Arthur was silent. Guilt was clear on his face and Ana realized that Eames had turned everything around on Arthur, using his own words against him. It made her feel uncertain. Was Eames doing this for her or because he truly thought that his plan was best? She didn't think he'd simply cater to her whims; if it was a bad idea, Ana trusted Eames to make the right decision.

But going against Arthur seemed wrong somehow.

Ana stood up suddenly and both men looked up at her, surprised. She took Eames' pad and held it against her chest protectively.

"I don't know what to do," she said, "but I don't want this to become about what I want. So just… Just plan it out the best way you can in the short time we have left. I'm clearly not going to be of any help right now anyway. I trust you, both of you."

Without waiting for a response, Ana hurried to the doorway and headed back to the guestroom. Though it was only mid-afternoon, she felt drained and needed to be alone for awhile; watching Eames and Arthur argue made her feel frustrated knowing that there was so much more going on over her head, so much more they weren't saying.

Feeling relief as she closed the bedroom door behind her, Ana kicked off her shoes and fell back on the bed with the sketch pad still clutched in her hand. She stared up at the ceiling for a bit, listening to the sounds of the house – the wind outside, a ticking clock at the end of the hall… But no footsteps towards her room.

Good, she thought. I hope they're getting things done now.

Her presence had been a distraction. Ana was nervous enough about what they were planning to do without having to witness Eames and Arthur bicker. She heard a distant, rhythmic sound and suspected that Eames had begun to pace back in the dining room.

She turned to her side and flipped through the sketch book until she got to the original drawing of the citadel. Though at first it had comforted her, looking at it now in the silence of her room made her feel a little lonely. Without Eames pressed against her side and away from the warmth and sunlight in his studio, her initial excitement rang hollow.

A lonely home.

All of those empty rooms…

Ana's eyes grew heavy but she continued to stare at the picture. The comforter beneath her cheek was soft and smelled of fresh laundry and vanilla. A feminine scent, so unlike Eames' or Arthur's own.

The dungeon… The throne…

Without really being conscious of it, she slowly set the pad down and her eyes began to close. The sound of Eames' pacing was hypnotic and relaxing.

It's there.

…it's waiting for us...

Ana fell asleep.

###

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