The candle went out. Ritcher scrambled for his flint and steel. He chain mail dragged against the floor, outside the water and rain slammed against the window. I sat there, eating my bread. Which turned out more substantial than I thought. I wiped my face with my sleeve and watched him. The Archivist sat in a chair, narrow eyed. He pinched his nose bridge and loosened his spectacles down to his neck. His head craned, the twine about his glasses yanking at him.

“I heard you killed him.” Ritcher fumbled a light, a small flint and steel.

“You heard wrong.” I said. “He killed himself. Right before my eyes. Hannibal’s brother, just like that.”

The sparks hit a lamp. It lit up and illuminated my face. Rain had started its crash outside, hitting the square windows with a rapid crash, as if hail. The glass bent, crackled, though did not break. Wind struck and kept the banners along the stone surface of the watch tower in constant animation, a wet curtain that clung to the side of the glass. And every so often, in that infinite dark out to the ocean-curve the dark of the binds shadowed and obscured the light tower gaze. It truly felt empty. That world, that outside. As if I weren’t just upon an island but another reality all together where the memory of Vicentius, of Duvall was just an imagination. Perhaps, months ago, I would have thought it as so. But the reality of those adventures were too real in me. I could feel them. Each memory, another scar on my body. Perhaps I never really could forget, even if I wanted to. It was all just dormant. All of me.

“This is all great. This fable of yours.” Ritcher said. “But I must be frank. I don’t need to hear this. I need to know where Obrick left. And you’re years away from that. I’ve heard of the conquests three years ago. Now, granted, it wasn’t as horrific as you tell it. But I know you defeated Duvall and I know Xanthus encroached on the east. But that’s not where the tale ends for you or Obrick.”

“No. It’s not.” I said. “It hasn’t ended, not quite, either.”

“Well…” Ritcher said. “That’s what I need to know. Where is my brother?”

“That’s something I can’t say.” I said. “There’s too much left on the table, and you still need your end.”

Ritcher turned to the side. To the Archivist, a personal man of his keeping study over my words. Certainly to go over them for anything peculiar.

“The escape.” He said.

“That’s right. The escape.” I said.

“What is it you expect me to do? With this much time left?” He asked. “I could try to get you out right now. They’d turn the bridge over and have us drowning in minutes. Maybe you’d prefer to fight the whole Veil itself?”

“No. I don’t need any of that.” I said. “Just a small dingy, really.”

“Hmm?”

“A boat. Tiny. Something that could go out in the cover of darkness.” I said. “Chaucer had the idea.”

He laid out both hands on the table. Hands dirtied, blackened at the tips of his nails. Chipped where he’d bitten into them. The lighthouse room was tiny, the shadows cast by the lamp deepened dark cavities inside our eyes, made our forms morphed against the backdrop of the metal sheeted walls. Behind us in a row of chairs was storage, mostly paintings and art, things that could not quite fit the decorum of a torture room or prison cell. Perhaps artifacts of some long lost usage of Shrieker’s Veil. In those Colosseum days. Back when kings watched men kill themselves to bits, back when people filled the rooms drunk with wine watching down at the games.

Someone knocked at the door and both of us turned to it.

“Looks like it’s time to go.” He said. “Would you like me to be honest?”

“Sure. Why not.”

“I don’t think we’ll be meeting again.” He said. “I can’t convince you for a location?”

“Of course not.” I said.

“Where do you want the boat then? If I were to entertain your madness?”

“South side. Underneath the cliff, you’ll see a sewage hole coming from above.”

“This is never going to work.” He said. “One man already got his head cut off trying to make it work.”

“They won’t expect it a second time.” It was as if I was trying to convince myself. Desperation took hold of all us. The Archivist scribbled down my last words like some poor eulogy on his rolls of paper. Using another bundle of papers, he collected them and fanned the ink dry then collected them all and straightened them against the table. The door hammered again, hinges creaking against the blow of fist. The rain struck down harder. Lightning out far off, a single branch of it touched the water surface.

“Can I ask you something?” Ritcher asked.

I had stood up, my back already turned to him.

“What are you going to do once you get out? They’re going to hunt you immediately when when you touch land. If you touch land.”

I tapped my forehead.

“Good. I’ve got a list of men to kill and the sooner they find me, the easier that’ll be.” I said.

He tilted his head and leaned back with arms crossed.

“Soveros. Montley. Xanthus. Vicentius.” I said. “I’ll have their heads.”

“That’s what it comes down to?” He asked.

“If you knew the things I’ve lived, you’d want them dead too.” I said. “I promise you Obrick feels the same too.”

His eyes narrowed as I walked away. The lamp light disappearing once again, the curtain of darkness falling between us. I was greeted (that’s what I call the strong-arming) at the door, lifted by the arm pits and dragged through the almost wire thin bridge that attached to brick and cement at the top of the coliseum. The patchwork of metal and wood and scaffolds and wet, loose concrete all welcoming me with their dangling bits at the surface of Shrieker’s Veil. What a strange look it was as it grew in my vision larger and larger, an almost empty feeling overcame me. Spending as much time as I did in thoughts tended to leave me feeling like this, in the sanctuary of memory real life loses its hold over you. It gets hard to see the world without the rosy rim of memory. The warm color of film.

Shrieker’s Veil looked horrific against the lightning shock that lit it. It looked horrific in dark. It looked horrific in morning. But maybe years from now? Maybe it would be nostalgic too. As all worse days end up feeling. My feet dragged, then I stepped and I walked ahead of them. They did not bother to grab me back, as if I had anywhere to run. Ocean below me, archers in front of me. I walked in that rain, the drops hitting my face. Water down the scars, filling indents. What would Kal do? Say nothing, cut them all in half perhaps. Obrick? ‘Now or never, go for the archers first.’

Chaucer? I’d forgotten how his voice sounded already.

Sylas?

I stopped. They pushed my back. Sylas.

What would he do?

Wait. Be patient. The day comes sooner and sooner, watch the stars. Accustom yourself to dark. Be ready.