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The Dungeon: Midnight
The brothers sat back to back in the dark, pulling warmth from each other as their stories unfolded. The torch had long ago expired, and the only light was the sliver of a moonbeam that washed cold across the unlikely pair. Like bookends they sat, shifting at intervals. The stone floor was a constant discomfort, but the stories they told were gripping and poignant. They endured the cold without comment.
Ravan, pondering D’ata’s tormented history, was silent as he considered it. He pulled the flask to his lips briefly before offering it to the other. This time D’ata took a draw himself.
His brother leaned more heavily against him, apparently finally comfortable with their proximity. “Now you’ve done it,” he murmured more to himself than to his companion.
D’ata swallowed the wine, welcoming the warmth in his belly. He’d neglected to eat again this evening, and the wine felt good. Waving a hand carelessly over his head, there was apathy in his voice. “We loved each other,” he argued weakly as he closed his eyes.
It was obviously painful to recount such memories, especially when he’d become so accustomed to burying them. But perhaps his brother felt less like a stranger now, and the past might be shared. He dropped his face into his hands and rubbed his eyes.
“Yes, and you fornicated in a church,” Ravan said dryly, mercilessly, turning his head just enough to discern the reaction on his brother’s face. He said it without malice, but it was harsh nonetheless.
D’ata winced, that his brother should describe it so bluntly. “I know…I know,” he sighed and hung his head. “Don’t you see; it was all wrong. Not us, I mean, but the whole affair. The world was—is wrong.” He dropped his hand into his lap and leaned back, resting his head against that of his companion. Looking up at the tiny, moon-blessed window high above them, he said, “I was not meant to be there, and she was not supposed to come; it was all wrong. We were not supposed to be in this life.” He lamented softly, almost a whisper, “I know that now.”
“Well, you have obviously considered the error of your ways or you would not be here tonight to offer me redemption,” Ravan said gently, turning his head slightly. “That should make it right? Should it not?”
D’ata straightened his legs in front of him and worked a spasm from his calf by twisting his foot in circles. A rat scuttled away beneath the straw. “Yes, well, God is my salvation. I know no other recourse.” He spoke from rote memory—the lines carefully memorized and spoken a million times before. It was dull and ugly, and it gave no solace.
They sat quietly for a spell, and then Ravan ventured carefully. “Tell me, was she good?” He grinned, elbowing his companion gently. It was more a stab at kindhearted levity than a serious query.
D’ata hesitated, turning a bit, surprised by the impudence of the question. He pondered Ravan’s raw audacity but then caught on and generously took the bait. “I can’t believe you! As compared to what might I ask?” He smiled painfully at the sad humor of it all the same. “As though I made this a priestly, everyday affair?” He tried hard to sound properly indignant. It was odd that mirth could surface at such a time as this.
Ravan chuckled, and D’ata followed a few seconds later, their voices eerily mingled into one soft laugh.
Another moment of silence, then D’ata offered, “You didn’t seem to be in such a fanciful state of affairs either. Tell me…” he shifted, an identical grin spread across his face. Mimicking Ravan’s crass approach, he ventured, “Did Pierre finally have his sordid way with you?” He felt his brother bristle stiffly against him as though humiliated by the question.
Ravan must have realized the intent of the priest was to evoke just such a response in him—a game of pas de deux. Your turn—my turn. The pair erupted into laughter, the sound oddly out of place in the dungeon.
Outside, the sleeping town remained oblivious. No one cared about the two in the cell—forsaken captives—as the inevitable morning circled them like an unfed wolf.