†
The Dungeon: Ten p.m.
D’ata sat listening, quietly captivated by the story Ravan told. There were two things that critically captured him about it. First, he could hardly imagine the heartache and stress a child would have endured at such events as Ravan just described. His own childhood had been so privileged, so protected. More pivotal, however, was that D’ata heard for the first time that his true mother was dead. He’d hardly hazarded to think about her—the biological origin of himself—and could not recall having ever considered her welfare to any great extent.
Now, to hear Ravan speak of her was heartbreaking—his love for her, from the very center of his being, and his account of her sorrowful death. It did something to D’ata that was profoundly and sincerely real. It was no secret that children were given up, mostly because of earnest need beyond the capacity to care for them. Certainly twins could create a grave burden on an already struggling family, especially with a father absent. Even so, for the first time ever, it pained him to consider his mother leaving him on the steps of the church.
“So, did you bed her?” Ravan’s abrupt question pulled him from these thoughts, surprising him quite a bit.
D’ata’s mouth dropped open. He leaned back so he could more closely examine the face of the man whose mouth had uttered those vile, thoughtless words. “Why—how could you say such a thing? I should—” D’ata was mortified.
“What? Kill me?” Ravan retorted. “You’ll have to wait your turn.” He cleared his throat and selfishly took another pull from the wine flask then added, “And isn’t this what we are doing? We are discovering about what happened? The whole of it? Aren’t we? The good and the bad? Or does sincerity know restraint for the privileged?” He snorted, turning his attention once more to the wine.
D’ata simply stared, speechless. He'd shared the intimacy of his love for Julianne with his brother, had exposed his memory of her to him, inviting his confidence. True, Ravan did not yet know all of Julianne’s story, but even so.
The prisoner was silent, rearranging himself as he stared at the cold floor. Finally, he mumbled awkwardly, “I’m sorry; that was cruel.” Shifting on the stones again, he added, almost as an afterthought, “I do not begrudge you your fortune. It’s just that, I suppose I might have…”
“Might have what?” D’ata asked, incredulous.
Struck ill at ease, perhaps by the familiarity of the expression on the face of his brother, Ravan tried again, more kindly, shrugging as he did. “Oh, be reasonable already. She was beautiful—I mean, she sounds…” He frowned, his own lack of elegance obvious. “I suppose I would have wanted to. That’s all I meant.”
Another long pause and D’ata said hoarsely, “Just be quiet, please.” He stared upward, toward the tiny window opening, not really seeing the night beyond.
Ravan tried one last time. “I mean she sounds really, very…um, nice.”
D’ata sighed, but was forgiving of his brother. “Yes,” he replied, considering what the prisoner offered to him—an apology of sorts—and then almost smiled, “Yes, I suppose she was very nice.”
Ravan peered at his brother, studied the expression on his face—such sadness, such remorse. As though he was almost sorry for the callous words he’d spoken, he said, “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to—”
D’ata waved him quiet and closed his eyes. His twin reached the flask toward his brother, bumped his elbow with it to gain his attention. Pausing, the priest took the flask, drank deeply and looked into the eyes of his brother, the mercenary. It was strange to hear the prisoner, thrashed, beaten, wounded and caged, speak so tenderly, so kindly.
“I wish I'd known her; I wish I’d known your Julianne,” Ravan murmured.
It was utterly sincere, and D’ata was pleased. “And look at you, about to make the woods your new home. That’s a situation if ever there was one.”
“Mmm…”
Leaning against each other, they shared the robe and the wine. The night paused, and the urgency of what was to come was, for the moment, at bay. By and by, the unlikely pair continued their journey together as a distant thread of what once was returned to the fabric of the here and now.