Rowan bit into the bread, trying to pace himself. It wasn’t anything spectacular, but one ticket bought him the closest thing he’d had to a meal in some time: two rolls of bread, a mysterious slab of meat, some less-than-fresh vegetables, and a flask of water. It may as well have been a feast to Rowan, though he did offer the meat to a random passerby. Rowan already wasn’t much of a carnivore, and the fact he couldn’t discern the meat’s origin made it all the more unappealing. He stifled a giddy reaction at the sustenance as he polished off a roll and tried to organize his thoughts on the situation.
He was somewhere underground; though he couldn’t be certain, Rowan speculated it was more specifically the heart of a mountain. It was cold, but it wasn’t insurmountably freezing like the crag had been out in the wastes of the offscape. As such, Rowan surmised they weren’t below the crag; no, they were likely above it and probably near where Rowan first met Mogrim. After all, the pudgy trader didn’t strike Rowan as someone who ventured beyond his maze very often: that airship of his didn’t seem built for long-distances. His eyes flickered as he felt a step in his plan solidifying: the airship would be a great option for escape. Depending on the models used to make the junk heap, Rowan even had a feeling he might be able to pilot the thing: the more he thought on it, the more he felt airships were an integral part of his upbringing. With the help of another, or if he had time to struggle with the vi, Rowan could get the ship flying better than ever.
So they’d commandeer the ship; that, in theory, would be easy enough. What obstacles stood in the way? The guards and the collars. The guards were armed and unafraid to use their clubs to subjugate the prisoners, yet Rowan suspected they’d all fall to the tower. The real issue was the collars around their necks. They must have been imprinted with vi, and the sequence was likely linked to Mogrim’s remote—it’s an astonishing concept, really. Rowan would love to get his hands on the remote and see how it worked, but freeing the Tower of Zchēve was paramount.
Rowan’s mind reeled with words he couldn’t place and voices he couldn’t recognize. The offscape puts holes in your head. Rowan knew this to be true, he just wished the offscape wouldn’t be so obnoxious about it. All this forethought was muddling the already-murky pond of his mind. Though Rowan was unsure how he’d escape his current predicament, his finger harp was a saving grace. He grazed the wooden designs etched into the side of the instrument’s body—it felt so warm in this cold, callous environment. With eyes closed, he felt a tune bubble up from the pond and his finger’s plucked the tines, instinct taking over. Each note hung in the air before the next picked up the slack; the melody was practiced and effortless. He gripped at the lyrics, trying to wrench them free from the offscape’s hold, to no avail. Instead, he hummed along, feeling his actions propelled by a comforting memory he couldn’t recall. He opened his eyes and noticed those in the cell had crowded around him with fascination, his nameless ally included.
“Oh,” Rowan chuckled nervously, a stranger to such attention. “Hello everyone.”
“What was that lovely tune?” An old man, who looked like he spent his remaining energy of the day to speak, pointed a shaky finger at the instrument.
Rowan, whose face was beginning to redden, cleared his throat. “I’m not sure, but I can play some more if that’s okay?”
The nameless one immediately nodded to a question that wasn’t directed at them, but others soon followed suit. Rowan closed his eyes and continued the melody, following an unrecognizable path he somehow knew like the back of his hand. As the song drew to a close, Rowan felt the traces of a face in his mind: soft features, a nose not unlike his own, and a brilliantly green pair of eyes. Yet, as quickly as it came, the image was gone without a trace. He tried his best to piece it back together, but it was a futile effort. He gripped his instrument tighter, wondering what secrets it held.
“That was a lovely melody,” a woman in the crowd said.
“Thank you.” Rowan responded. He felt the attention on him and stood up, stepping off to the side in the hopes that the crowd would disperse. As they did, the old man from before walked over to him.
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“As unfair as it is to say, I’m glad you’re here with us. These people, I think they need a dose of levity.”
Though Rowan was feeling rather withdrawn at the moment, he figured this was a brilliant opportunity to gain some much-needed information. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m Rowan, what’s your name?”
“I am called Aariv.”
He seemed open to communicating, but he certainly wasn’t expanding on the conversation. Much to his chagrin, Rowan would clearly have to do the heavy lifting in the conversation. “Present circumstances notwithstanding, I’m honored to make your acquaintance, sir.” Before Rowan could even consider his actions, his right hand gestured a circle before rapping against his heart four times. Rowan furrowed his brow as he stood upright from the bow, unsure of the impetus to his gesture—the old man grasped both of his hands.
“Law, a Scholar. An honest-to-Law Scholar.” The old man’s voice broke as his words hung out of his agape mouth. “I’m sorry.” The old man said, tears in his eyes.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Rowan said, stammering and looking around, hoping the scene wasn't drawing attention to the pair. The people around Rowan were all otherwise engaged, to his relief, except the nameless one. The tower was right where Rowan had left them, sitting against the cell wall. He wondered what they might be thinking about until the sniffling old man reminded him of what was currently demanding his attention.
“I apologize,” the old man said as he released Rowan’s hands—much to Rowan’s solace—and wiped his face. “I’d just given up hope.”
Rowan wasn’t quite sure what the old man was insinuating, but it sounded vaguely positive. “I couldn’t blame you: this place is abhorrent.”
“Yes, but now we can bid this place goodbye.”
“We can?”
The old man’s face was puzzled as he debated the exact words he wanted to follow up with. “You’re here to save us, yes?”
There it was: the crushing weight of expectations placed upon Rowan’s narrow back. The cell slowly spun and Rowan felt himself losing the ground beneath his feet. He needed something to steady himself: perhaps sensing that, the old man took hold of Rowan’s hands again. The inherent relief Rowan felt was dashed when everything went dark. The cell, the prisoners, the nameless one: they all faded away into the suffocating dusk until only Rowan and Aariv remained. The old man slowly swayed as he held Rowan’s hands, his flaxen eyes the only light source reminding Rowan that he wasn’t alone. He tried to speak, but he couldn’t keep ahold of the air in his lungs.
“Shh.” Not a word had escaped Aariv’s mouth yet, but Rowan was petrified nonetheless—even his anxiety would have to wait. “Save your strength. I know I shouldn’t be here yet. But I couldn’t help myself.” Rowan eked out a squeak of air, trying to say anything at all as a gnarled finger grazed his cheek. “That blight looks severe. You were truly cursed in this iteration. But don’t worry, I’ll save you.”
A single tear traced a path down Rowan’s cheek when a hand shot out from the darkness. Rowan’s eyes fluttered as the picture of his surroundings refocused from the murky depths. The nameless one’s hand tapped his chest, gently pushing him back from Aariv and getting between them.
“I’m sorry, Scholar. I didn’t mean to upset you.” Aariv said, backing away nervously.
The old man’s befuddled look told Rowan he didn’t seem to even know what happened. What happen? Was he just breaking down? Rowan leaned on the wall, slinked down until he was sitting, and gasped for air. The Tower of Zchēve kneeled beside Rowan, their scarlet eye scanning him up and down. His heart bounced around as he sought something to focus on. Though he knew it was a risky action, he reached out and touched the nameless one’s helm. His finger traced along the metal, the cold smoothness of the majority of the covering was wonderfully contrasted by the grooves along the face of it. The angular cut of the grooves was so abrupt, it seemed sharp enough to cut if one wasn’t careful. Though it was impossible, Rowan swore he felt the air of the stranger beyond the mask puffing against the metal on the opposite side. The helmet would be so claustrophobic for them, he thought; their breathing in such a container was a triumph in and of itself. Perhaps they didn’t have to breathe at all? No, they were breathing just like him—he was sure of it. In and out, slowly, steadily; they were another flicker in the dark just like him. He hadn’t even noticed it, but his heart was calm again, his breathing was steady.
“Thank you,” Rowan said as he closed his eyes and let his body relax. The nameless one didn’t respond. Instead, they mirrored Rowan’s earlier slinking, and sat beside him.
