The shade hurt. It pressed against his wasted body with the force of the soldiers' boots, and it rotted away his mind as surely as it did the steel bands that secured his tomb against all possible hope of escape. Escape. Why would he escape? What would he escape to? In a way he had already escaped, escaped from slavery to silence. Not escaped in the sense of improvement — escaped in the sense of a change. Whether he was better off he could not guess, whether it were better to see the sun and feel the air yet not be permitted to appreciate it, or to be removed from such elements to eternally reflect on their fleeting memory. Was the sun real? It had been a long time since he had seen the sun. Maybe he had been dreaming. Maybe the nightmare and shadow were the reality, and all that he had in the dim past counted pleasant was only a mocking twist of the universe to mock him. Maybe he was alone, and would always be alone, all but forgotten in this subterranean pit.

This was all your fault.

That was one of the few full thoughts he had been able to maintain in this place. It did not affect him much; his emotions had been so charred already that he was left in a state of numb fog. He seemed to see himself now more from the third person than the first, seemed to see from without the body lying against the cold stone wall, despite the total shadow — even the face, which he had not as himself seen since the darkness had come. That too, was how he saw the blame: a mere thought like the others, carrying little behind it except a faint indictment of that which he had called himself.

They died because of you.

"They did."

You could have saved them.

"I could have."

But you stood there like a fool, and watched them die.

"Yes."

Why did you fail to save them?

"I do not know."

Were they not your friends?

"Perhaps they were."

Do you not care?

"Not any more."

You said you loved them.

"I did."

And yet you betrayed them.

"I did."

Well? What have you to say for yourself?

So the accusations came and went. Had they come from someone else he could have ignored them; but they came from himself, the one voice he could not shut out. Not that it mattered. He knew he was guilty, that he was a black traitor. There was no question there. He would never escape. He had killed them. The guards would be waiting. Killed them as surely by not lifting his sword as the soldiers had by lifting theirs. He simply didn't care. He deserved all that had been done to him. Had his conscience not incessantly reminded him, he would already have forgotten them. He deserved no better than this, worse even, because he had committed the worst crime possible, the betrayal and the murder of those who had trusted him with their lives. The air was cold. He felt no remorse, or even sadness. The stones were cold. He had no excuse. He could not, because he had already felt them enough to dilute them into insignificance. Warmth had disappeared since the darkness came. Now they were only facts like the rest, facts and no more. Everything was his fault. The darkness had used him and it was his fault that he deserved this prison cell and yet he did not care he had forgotten them cold blame darkness guilt numbness...

He knew his mind was going to pieces. It was not the first time, but only the latest iteration of the pattern he had watched for a long time. It was odd; he could only think clearly when he watched himself descend into madness. From a distance, he could see himself with a clarity that would have startled him had that been possible. He knew perfectly well that his thoughts were going in circles, yet he did nothing to stop them. Perhaps it was because he knew that if permitted, his mind would go to darker places even than the cell; not from fear, which he could no longer feel, but from the knowledge that it would do nothing of benefit to him. And so he lay there, watching apathetically as his mind turned circles over the past, the past that could never be changed.

Sometimes his mind gathered itself together for a time and focused on one thing for unknown hours. Often that thing was one of his former companions, and most often, for some reason, it was her. He seldom remembered things about them in any sort of order. He remembered her yellow hair, the way she held her pencil when she was deeply focused on a book, the green trim on her boots, the exact tone of her voice, but only as isolated vignettes without context. Sometimes he did remember the context, like the first time they saw each other, or when at midnight he helped with her research, but more often he did not. It was the details he remembered, details in unnatural clarity, void of any meaning attached.

At times of especial clairvoyance, he would gaze back over what he had done and judge it as folly. He had been foolish to try so hard to keep her friendship. He had been foolish to resent her friendliness toward others. He had been foolish to dream of a happily ever after for them, and the crowning folly of all was that he had accepted that she loved him and had tried to reciprocate. But that had come too late, after the darkness had come, and even then he had felt a vague suggestion that she was already being lost. And when he held her in the hidden room as the temple fell above them, he had felt a certainty that she would die, and he was frightened, not because he would lose her but because he saw that he was not afraid to. He had been foolish to resist it. He had thought in his folly that he could save her by opposing the darkness; but he did not know then of its true power. It was that choice which had led him here. He felt no regret. He would not, if he were now as he had been, have done anything different. He knew it had been foolish, and that was all.

He remembered the others too. He remembered, when his mind stumbled upon the records, exactly how he had interacted with them, exactly how he had been foolish, and exactly how they died. He remembered, though he did not know how, the concern in their faces when they had resolved to come back for him. He remembered their desperate confusion at his torpor, and he remembered their panic when the soldiers appeared and cut them off from life, and he remembered their pitiful efforts to stay the merciless swords that were to part them from him. They had failed, and it was he who was responsible.

He gazed at the shadows of the steel bands of the door. The darkness had never overtly presented itself as such. He was not certain why or when he had begun to see it as the darkness at all. Its coming, he saw now, had been long in the making. The event was only the climax of a long chain of careful manipulation. No one had foreseen its arrival, and even after the usurpation of the so-called King of Light most still refused to see things for what they were. He wondered at times whether he was the only one who noticed the darkness of the Light. The others had seen it too — but they were dead now, and no one else had shown any hint of misgiving. He could not really blame them. The 'Light' had made clear its intention to destroy every sign of the 'Darkness', and to protest was to be labeled a shadow which was to die. Most still feared death. They did not see, as he did, that to comply was to accept worse than death. They had no foresight. They feared momentary pain more than eternal doom. He could see now that this was nothing new. They had been trained for centuries to live for the moment at the expense of the future. And only now, when it was too late, did anyone realize it.

Suddenly his mind started awake. Shadows. There had been shadows on the floor. He opened his eyes. Darkness. There had been a light in the hallway. And light meant soldiers. What were they doing here? Obviously they were not concerned with him. And he was the only item of interest here. He had watched the miners break down the cemented entrance to this place. There had been no light since, until now. Had they delivered another captive? In his aloofness, he could have easily missed any sound. But how was he to know for sure? And what would he do if they had?

He held his breath and listened. His time here had sharpened his already keen senses with the silence and the darkness. As he concentrated, he became aware of the faintest of rustlings: the movement of clothing with the rhythm of breathing. At this sign of life, his mind moved to his second question. What was he going to do about it? Given the nature of his own imprisonment, the newcomer undoubtedly had misgivings about the Light. Equally likely, the newcomer also knew at least some of what had happened since he had come here. Should he speak to the newcomer? Ask for information, at the least? He debated. There was little benefit to be expected from it. But on the other side of the coin, there was little harm either. At length, he came to a conclusion. Careless of silence, he hauled himself to his feet. His head swam for some time; when it cleared, he walked unsteadily to the door and waited, listening. After a time, he heard from across the hallway a faint sound of movement. Then there was the sound of a chain clinking. Strange. They had not taken the trouble to chain him. The sound ceased, and all was silent for uncounted moments. Then, seemingly loud in the stillness, a feminine voice, laced with fear, and with the slightest tremble, spoke.

"Hello?"

She seems afraid. Perhaps she thinks she hears some sort of vermin. She does, in a way. Answer her. You may not have another chance.

"Hello," he answered. His voice surprised him somewhat. It was not that he had forgotten how his voice sounded, it was just that he had not remembered it. And, as was to be expected, it was a good deal changed from when he had last heard it, from lack of use. As it struck him from the one word, he likely sounded much older than he was, and it would not surprise him if she had formed a set of erroneous assumptions about him already — that is, if she were anything like him.

There was a pause, then he heard her stand and move toward her cell door. "Who are you?"

The phrase was accented on the 'you', rather than 'are'. It reminded him of his late friend. It will mean nothing to her what you did. It would be more useful to be sure that she is against the Light.

"I saw the Light for what it was."

The stranger was silent for some time. At length, she sighed. "So do I."

So she is on the same side. You have one thing in common, at least. Best to be sure.

Before he could press her, she asked, "What's your name?"

"If you do not know who I am, you cannot betray me."

"...Oh..." She seemed embarrassed, and slightly hurt. He made no move to apologize. Reality was reality, whether she liked it or not.

After an awkward silence on her part, he changed the subject. "What put you here?"

She sighed. "I don't even know. One day I asked my friend whether a military takeover was the best move for the Light to establish peace, and the next I'm a Shadow." She seemed to be holding back tears.

An innocent follower caught in the inquisition. At least she seems disillusioned with them now. Or she may still be loyal and think it was a well-meaning mistake. Either way, she will be willing to listen to you, at the least.

"What about you?" she asked, somewhat timidly, it seemed, after his earlier blunt rebuttal.

"I saw them for for the evil they are. I convinced others, and plans were made. But they were too cunning for us, and we were found out. The others are dead. I was sent here." He did not tell her about the betrayal. It would not be of any use, and it would not reflect his present state. If he wished to turn her from the lies of the Light, he would need to gain her trust.

"I'm sorry." She seemed to be in thought. He waited.

"Where are we?" she asked after a time.

Strange that she would be unaware.

"The forgotten prison under the market. Did you not see when they brought you here?"

"I was drugged," she said sheepishly. "When I was sentenced, I tried to fight. It was wrong of me, but... I couldn't believe..." She trailed off.

"You must be some fighter if royal troops thought it was worth the trouble of drugging you."

She laughed once, halfheartedly. "I had three brothers. They taught me more than I cared to learn."

He did not quite understand, but did not remark on it.

Minutes passed. Eventually, the stranger spoke again. "~~~~ said he would rescue me if I was condemned." Hearing the name, he forced himself to immediately forget it. "But here..." She sighed. "I suppose it's our only hope."

He preferred to think that 'our' excluded him.

"So you want to escape."

"Well... of course." She seemed surprised.

"What would you escape to?"

There was a long pause. Evidently she had not considered the question before. When she finally answered, her voice held a seemingly unaccustomed resolve. "We'll fight. We'll go underground. Gather a resistance. Then we'll replace the Light, and fix the system."

Interesting that she does not seem to want vindication. Instead she wants control, which could be worse. If she is against the Light, that can be remedied. At the foundation, she is still on your side.

"You don't just want them to accept you, and put things back how they were?"

She sighed, tearfully, unless he was mistaken. "The threatened me with terrible things. The did terrible things to me. I can't go back now. It wouldn't be the same now that I know what they do."

Good. You could help her. What? You heard me. Help her escape. If you succeed, you can have a second chance at saving the people from the Light. If you fail... you would have died anyway. Yes... Yes. Just tread carefully.

"I might be able to help."

"What?"

"These vaults were never meant to be used again. Because of that, the specifications were declassified. I know exactly how this place is laid out. The cell doors are secured with a steel bar, screwed to the wall at one end and locked in place at the other. But the builders overlooked one thing." He made his way toward the back of the cell, where his food was lowered in.

"What?"

"The soldiers gave me soup."

He retrieved his spoon, and with it returned to the door.

"These particular screws have one groove," he went on as he threaded his hand through a gap in the door, "so they can be screwed in more easily. But they can also be unscrewed just as easily."

Feeling carefully around the bar, he touched the head of the screw, just as the specifications had noted. He placed the head of the spoon in the groove, and began the slow and painful process of undoing it. As he worked, he watched with interest his recent clarity of thought. The moment it was needed, his mind was ready and able to solve the problem, despite everything that he had been through. It was interesting how he was able to immediately reason out a plan of escape based on an old map he had studied years ago when his goal called for it, while an hour before his mind had spun aimlessly in circles like that of a madman.

At last, he felt the screw giving way. Withdrawing the spoon, he used his fingers to twist the screw further, until it finally slid from its purchase in the wall. As he drew the screw out, the bar slid toward the floor, but was stopped by the fastener on the other end. He placed the screw carefully on the floor, then reached for the bar. There was practically no danger of the soldiers hearing any noise, but he was instinctively cautious, just in case. He carefully eased the bar free, then rested it against the wall. He opened the door slowly, then, satisfied, stepped into the hallway. Without speaking, he made his way to the stranger's cell, and felt for the screw. Finding it, he set to work again.

When he finished, he eased open the cell door. As she slipped through, the stranger blundered awkwardly against him. Drawing back, she took hold of his wrist. "So we don't get separated," she whispered.

They felt their way along the hallway to the entrance. The door was locked, but it was wooden and much less sturdy than the cell doors. Their combined strength was enough to break it down; though he was instinctively uneasy, he knew that it was almost impossible for them to be heard. As they started up the long spiral staircase, he wondered why they had been brought here. There were unquestionably more secure and isolated facilities available; why this one? And why had he been so sparsely guarded? Did the Light think they had won, that he had lost hope, and with it the will to escape? They were right, in any event. If he had not spoken to the stranger, he was sure she would have met the same fate. If that was their reason, it would also explain the location: no rescuer would know of this place, and even if he did he would remember it only as a sealed tomb. But now, the spot lay in their favor. They would emerge into the center of the busy market, and none of the common folk would think to look for them here. There might be another reason as well, he speculated darkly as he recalled an old legend.

At length they reached the top of the staircase. He knew from the map that the prison entrance opened into a hidden room in the town cellar. Once out of the cellar, they would be free — for a time. The door to the hidden room, though sturdier than the one below, was unlocked. Passing through it, he felt about the base of the wall for the hidden trigger. He pressed on a small lever hidden in what felt like a rat hole. With a snap, part of the ceiling sprang loose, letting in a thin ray of light that seemed bright after his time in the darkness. Swiftly, he scaled the ladder, disengaging his wrist from the stranger's hand in the process. He opened the trapdoor and hauled himself out into the small space behind a stack of forgotten crates, followed by the stranger. He closed the trapdoor behind them, and they were out of the prison.

The town cellar was a large underground room directly below the pavilion central to the market square. He still did not understand why it was called a town cellar when it was in the center of the city, but no one else seemed to mind. It was furnished somewhat haphazardly with an array of booths and goods, and dotted with lamps where necessary. Ordinarily the place was jammed at all hours with people, but he realized that there was no one here. The stillness was uncomfortable, because it clashed with all his memories of the setting. Through the stairways, he saw no sunlight; it must be nighttime.

In the light of the lamps, he was able to make out the appearance of his companion. She was almost as tall as he was, and well-proportioned. Her hair consisted of a cascade of brown curls reaching below her shoulders, and her eyes were the same color. Her face had the same innocent, inquisitive quality that had marked his late friend. She was clad, like himself, in the generic leather outfit of a prisoner. An undefinable something about her suggested that she had been someone of no small importance in society. She examined him as well.

"You're younger than you sound," she said with a slight smile. He did not react.

They picked their way through the vacant room, stopping at the base of one of the stairways.

"Why is no one here?" he asked.

"The Light doesn't want anyone out after dark, for security."

"It stands to reason," he said sarcastically.

"So, what now?"

"I know of a shop where we can obtain better clothing."

"You can trust the owner?" No doubt she was still wondering why he did not trust her.

"The owner is dead," he said flatly. "He was my cousin. If he were alive he would not object."

"...Oh."

She paused awkwardly.

"We had best get started", he muttered grimly, and started up the stairs. After a moment's hesitation, she followed him into the darkness.