Chapter 3

It was early morning when he woke up. Still dark out but the stall was warm and then straw better than the ground. Bess was asleep, standing quietly in her stall. He couldn't hear any of the Jackal guards. Knew instinctively that they weren't close by.

He felt a presence settle next to him. He wasn't afraid. It wasn't the first time this has happened. He took out the piece of bread he had saved. Took a bite and chewed on the hardened piece of crust. He took his time, savouring each bite.

"What happened to your face?"

He stopped chewing. Sighed but didn't turn his head. He knew. Just knew there wouldn't be anyone there and yet the voice was clear. Not afraid and the timbre of a child.

"I fell." He had taken his time, swallowing first before he spoke. Something soft brushed against his left forearm. The hair on his arm raised slightly before settling again. A whisper of touch that he could never understand.

"Does it hurt?"

He closed his eyes. It was always better to imagine that there was someone sitting next to him then voices in his head. Not answering the questions…yup, not going there.

"It did."

A hand touched his face. Trailed fingers over the bruise where Joruus had managed to score a hit. Trailed over his cheekbone, down his jaw line and then the feeling of it disappeared.

"You shouldn't take chances. I don't want to lose you too."

"I'm still here, aren't I?"

"Uh huh."

He wiped his hands on his pants. The last crumbs of his bread gone and his stomach a little fuller. There was still hunger but it wasn't that bad. He had endured worse.

"You should sleep."

He shook his head. Opened his eyes and stared up into the rafters. Nothing but darkness greeted him. There was a shift of air next to him. The feel of a body settling against him - if he pretended enough he could see the head of a little boy resting against his shoulder. Seeking comfort.

"Sleep will help."

"Not in this case," he says softly.

"Why?"

"You know why." He shifted, a piece of straw poked his backside and he wiggled until he felt comfortable again. The feeling against his shoulder didn't move. Didn't change. He was certain that if he stood it would still be there.

"But when you sleep, you dream."

"Sometimes dreams turn into nightmares." He said. Winced for his reality at this moment wasn't far off.

"I like the angel." The voice was longing.

"Yeah…me too."

"Is she real?"

He didn't know how to answer that question. Somehow he knew it was important. That maybe if he saw her for real, his memories would return and he would know who he was. Bess shifted, snorted. One hind leg was raised slightly, the tip of the hoof resting on the ground. His own breathing was deepening, slowing down. His head drooped. He woke with a start. The feel against his shoulder was gone.

He was alone again.

A door slammed somewhere. Voices drifted in the stillness of the early morning air and he cautiously rose and looked out. The sky was hued in orange, light streaked across clouds high in the atmosphere. It wouldn't bring rain; it was too high. He knew that as a fact. He still didn't understand how some things would just come to him and yet he couldn't remember his name. Where he came from.

He slipped out of the stall, managed to make it to a back alley down the way. He used one of his coins and brought breakfast at a stall. Something fried in bread that he didn't want to think of as meat. But it tasted good and he finished all of it. By the time he made his way to a park, the sun had risen and the sky was blue with wispy white clouds drifting across the expanse. The grass was patchy at best, dry in the winter sun of the desert planet. He found a straggly tree, branches warped up to the sky. He sat down, watching as the city woke and started the day. Buildings surrounded this piece of land that somehow had managed to not be converted to cement. At one end of the park, an open piece of land had been raked. Two old men were rolling what looked like steel balls across the rectangle, trying to hit different markers painted into the soil. He watched them for a while.

His peace was finally broken when a shadow fell over him. He looked up, squinting against the sun.

"You have more lives than a cat." Marcus towered over him and then the shadow moved and he sat down next to him. "Joruus complained."

What was he to say to that? So, he shrugged his shoulders, wary of the closeness of the other man. Immediately knew that he was not to be trusted. Ever.

"You can come back, you know. I can use someone like you."

"Not interested."

"Oh, come on. Don't be like that. You've been out less than a month. You need protection."

He watches Marcus out of the corner of his eye. Saw the false sincerity in the other man.

"I'm fine."

A hand reached out and he was up and a body length away from the other man before Marcus had completed his movement. The hand hanging in the air where his body had taken up space. A look of annoyance flashed across the other man's face and red eyes met his. It held the promise of violence. Well, he could do the same. Met his gaze with one of his own. Marcus grinned. Rose and they stood there, underneath the tree while two old men played bowls in the dust.

Marcus raised an arm, made a circling motion with his hand. A whistle sounded, piercing in the air and the old men looked up, gathered their balls in silence and scurried away. He shifted his feet and stilled inside himself. Brought his core close.

They were on him less than a minute later. There were five of them. He danced and weaved, broke a leg and an arm, leaving two men rolling in the dust, their screams muted in the haze of his mind. The air was filled with the sound of fist hitting flesh, of gasps of pain and anger and fear.

Then the whispers started.

He suppressed a whimper. Not the greatest time for it. His body seemed to get a mind of its own. His limbs moved and around him men fell away.

When he came to himself and the whispers almost gone, Marcus was still standing under the tree. Around him men groaned and rolled in the dirt. He didn't like the way that Marcus seemed to be appraising him anew. There was a definite glint of interest.

He turned and walked away. Stole his way down an alley and then another until he was certain that he was alone and not being followed. He leaned his head against the wall and breathed. Turned and slid down. His knuckles were red and bleeding. He wiped them as best he could on his pants. Something maddening was dripping down the side of his face and he reached up. Wiped at a cut that had opened up just above his eyebrow. His fingers came back streaked with blood.

Frasier won't be happy…

He frowned. The voice in his head was gone again, just like that and with it the memory of someone in a white jacket. He pounded a fist in the dirt in frustration.

"He's dangerous."

He was tired. Just damn tired of it all. Fingers that didn't exist traced the path of blood down his face. A breath stirred his hair.

"I know."

"You need to go back to Seth."

He closed his eyes. Balled his fists even though it hurt.

"Why?"

The fingers slid away. Wrapped around his left hand and his fingers opened.

"He's a friend."

He blinked. The top of his hand was being caressed; a thumb seemed to be making lazy circles over his knuckles. When he looked down, the bruises were disappearing in the wake of the feel of the hand. He opened and closed his hand, looking in wonder when the feel of fingers moved to his other hand.

"The angel is important."

He nodded. How many times now have they had this conversation? It doesn't matter if he attributes any weight to hazy pretend people.

They still couldn't help him.

He was still lost. And a little crazy.

Why else would he be having conversations with voices in his head that seemed to be able to heal his injuries.

On the fifth day he realises that he couldn't remember who he was supposed to be. Or what he was doing here. Or why he was singled out by the guards. All he did know was that he was hungry and thirsty and desperately wanted a hot shower.

One of the other prisoners tries to befriend him, his eyes dark and unreadable in the semi-darkness of the cell. Brown hair standing in waves of unruliness, face smeared with dirt and sweat and old blood. A hand - fingernails black (somehow he notices that little detail) – touches his arm. He barely flinches, his own eyes carefully sealing his emotions inside as he returns the guy's stare. The man looks towards the cell door; his movement's jerky as he pulls his hand back. Squatting, he leans in and the semi-sweet foetid smell of rotting teeth centres on his face.

"I died; you know. Twice."

Perfect. A nutcase.

The guy gives another furtive glance at the cell door.

"You should make yourself invisible. That way you're safe. They can't touch you if you're invisible."

He closes his eyes, hoping this will be enough to send the idiot on his way. He hears shuffling of feet and then a sniffle.

He thinks he remembers blue skies and cool rivers rich with fish.

Is he a fisherman?

He wasn't sure.

"Kel shak kree, kel shak kree…"

It sounds like a damn lullaby. He opens his eyes to watch as the guy hugs himself, his eyes closed and features filled with a weird kind of bliss.

Maybe Daniel will know what to make of this guy.

Crap.

Who the hell is Daniel?

For a moment he ponders the question. A blank face with glasses somehow materialises. And sneezing. Whatever the hell that would mean.

And then he stills.

The weirdo moves suddenly and so silent, it's like watching a ghost. A moment later he watches as the guy shrinks into a darkened pool of shadow and freezes.

When the footsteps pass, he remembers to breathe.

Heart thudding in his chest, he realises that he was clenching his hands, tight enough to create little half-moon grooves in the palms of his hand. He hears the weirdo start to hum the idiot little song again, the notes soft and melodic in the twilight surrounding them. He grimaces as he touches his beard. At least he knows that he doesn't like the prickliness all over his face.

He dreams about soap and a shaving knife sharp enough to glide effortlessly over his skin and cleanse him from his irritation.

He wakes to find weirdo staring at him hungrily.

Disconcerted, he shuffles away until his back hits the corner. He tries to remember the last time he ate anything. His stomach clenches painfully and he swears that he can feel it shrinking even as he craves to fill it with anything.

Pizza.

Now that would be good. Full of cheese and pepperoni. He doesn't question his knowledge of pizza. Or steak. Or hamburgers.

Something skitters across the floor and even as he eyes the cockroach, the weirdo pounces. Nausea assails him when the guy crunches the insect alive, a twitching foot disappearing from between his lips.

And then the footsteps again.

This time the door opens.

He still hasn't given himself a name. He's not sure why. Or whether it should matter. But he does know that every time he tries to think about it, his head hurts.

It's just easier not to.

He's cold when consciousness returns. For some inexplicable reason he suddenly feels alone. As if he should be missed somewhere. Weirdo is ominously quiet. He shuffles his way upwards until his back is leaning against the wall. He can feel blood and grit and vomit in his mouth. His side is tight and protests with each shallow breath he takes. His one eye is swollen tight and he tries his best to survey the room through his other eye.

The room tilts and he closes his eyes as he leans back, trying to ride out the wave of pain and threatening blackness.

For a while they ignore him.

He didn't know if he preferred it above the silence of the cell. Weirdo was gone, disappeared. Maybe he really did become invisible. Hiding in the shadows where no-one could see him. His bruises healed. His stomach shrank.

When the hunger became too much, did he knock on the door when the footsteps came. They slowed. Stopped and then the key turned in the lock.

Afterwards he decided that he preferred the silence.

He never drew attention to himself again.

They fed him when they bothered to remember. Sometimes his bruises faded before the door opened. He tried to make himself invisible after one particular bad session. That didn't work so he didn't bother trying again.

The whispers…the whispers were quiet in the beginning and got more vocal as time marched on. One time he woke, lying in the dirt on his stomach with bruised muscles protesting.

"You should get out of here."

He had stiffened and then suppressed a scream when his muscles seized. He opened his eyes but there was no-one with him in the cell. This was more than the whispers that seemed to always hover just within himself. This was a voice. Real, the timbre of a young boy. He frowned.

"I know you can hear me."

He closed his eyes again. Fingers drifted across his back, smoothing trembling muscles. It felt …nice. Calming.

"They're going to kill you."

The hand movements stopped on a particular sensitive bruise. He stopped breathing. Waited and then something pinched inside him and a burning sensation spread outwards from the spot. His scream echoed back at him. Tears spilled from his eyes, ran down his face as he writhed on the ground. It didn't let up.

He sobbed. This was too much. He couldn't anymore.

"You were dying. I needed to fix it."

The voice calm in the face of his agony. But he suddenly realised that it was true and that he was in fact feeling better.

He got angry.

"I wanted to die."

The hand was back. Smoothing his hair away from his face. Cooing in the child's voice.

"You can't."

He groaned. Didn't move as it was just too much to take in. All of this…insanity. And for what?

"Why?" he asked.

"Because you chose this."

He laughed. Couldn't help himself.

"Don't be like that."

His laughter trailed to a stop. "Who are you?"

"Don't you know?"

"No."

"I'm you."

And then the day came where the door opened and they made a mistake and let him go.

He managed to make it back to Seth just after midday. The man wasn't there so he just got on with it. Cleaning the stall and led Bess around the courtyard. She followed readily enough, without much prompting. He brushed her down afterwards, enjoying the feel of her beneath his hands as he did so. Seth returned at the moment, and didn't look surprised to see him. Grunted a greeting and then went indoors. He was surprised when the man came out a bit later, a tray in his hands. He put it on a bench beside the wall.

"Food," he said, indicating the covered tray. Walked back inside and left him alone. He finished with Bess and then washed his hands. He pulled the cloth away and looked at the plate before him. There was a small piece of meat, some fruit and potatoes.

It was a feast.

He hadn't eaten this well since he could remember.

"I told you. Seth is a friend."

He took a bite of the meat. It was …good. He ate with relish. Enjoyed the meal as he sat on the ground with the plate balanced on his lap. When he was done, his stomach was full.

It came as an epiphany then. He felt full. He grinned. It was such a feeling of contentment that he couldn't describe. Seth came out and his brown eyes met his own. The man gave him a short nod in acknowledgment and he gave him the plate as he rose. Wiped his hands off his shirt.

"I see you had some trouble again." Seth said, turning his back to him and placing the plate on the tray.

"I didn't go looking for it."

Seth chuckled. "When have you ever…" He stopped. There was the hint of sadness and a glimmer of a grimace on the older face in front of him. "You found a place to sleep?" Seth asked instead to cover up his earlier words.

"I'm sorted." Seth turned his head, looking behind him. Their eyes met again. The unspoken between them is bright with meaning. Seth knew he slept in the stall but hadn't called him out on it. He went back inside, taking the tray with him. He finished up with Bess, returning her to the stall when it was time. Seth paid him a full day's wages despite his protest that he only worked half the day.

He sneaked back into the stall after it got dark. A blanket and pillow sat in the corner where he had slept last night. Another luxury he couldn't remember.

It was nice to be warm.

That night he dreamed of her again. In his dream she spoke his name and he knew hers. When he woke, the words disappeared. It didn't matter.

He could still see her. Blue eyes. Blond hair. A smile that lit her face.

"She's important."

"I know."

"You need to remember."

He snuggled deeper in the blanket. Relished the feel of the pillow beneath his head. Closed his eyes as sleep started to steal over him again.

…I know.