†
The Dungeon: Nine p.m.
It was cold in the cell. D’ata shifted his weight, uncomfortable on the stone of the floor. The chill crept beneath him, ground against him, seeped through his robes, and he thought briefly how grateful he would be to finally be out of the prison. It was just then that he noticed how Ravan pulled the straw around his knees to curb the cruel bite of the cold. Prisoners were seldom allowed to keep the comfort of their own coats when they were cast to the dungeons, and they’d made no exception for this one.
The prisoner appeared pathetic in this gesture, and D’ata felt a pang of remorse at his own thoughtlessness. This man faced death in less than a night, and he was only sorry for himself. Reaching up to release the catch at his throat, D’ata allowed the heavy cape to fall from around his shoulders. Shuffling to his knees, he moved to wrap the woolen garment around the prisoner.
Tossing his head back, Ravan glared from beneath his dark locks as though he wouldn’t take such charity from the visitor. All the same, he allowed D’ata to wrap the cape around his shoulders.
“So kind of you to make sure I don’t freeze to death; we wouldn’t want me do die now, would we?” He yanked the robe more tightly around his shoulders before adding, “And don’t you have something you need to do? Save my soul or some such foolishness?”
D’ata stared at him, surprised by the man’s lack of astonishment in their bizarre resemblance. He took the loaf of bread and flask of wine from his robes and silently offered them to the prisoner.
With this, the man’s eyes lit up. He begrudgingly acknowledged the gifts, but then snatched them from D'ata's grasp. Patiently, D'ata watched until the prisoner had ravenously devoured nearly half the loaf. He politely allowed him his respite, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.
Finally, D’ata could wait no more and asked, “What explanation, do you suppose, is to be had by our mirrored likeness?” He continued before the other could answer as though they’d already discussed this at length. “Why was I left on the church steps, and you were not?” D’ata rubbed his brow in perplexity, leaving a grimy smudge on his otherwise starkly clean face.
His voice sounded hollow, lifting eerily from the stone cell. The only other sound was the scratching and scurrying of the rats and the maddening dripping of water. Even the other prisoners ceased their groans at the late hour.
“I don’t know. Maybe you were a bad baby,” Ravan offered, his mouth full, bread sticking to his teeth. His demeanor appeared serious, but as ridiculous as the comment was, D’ata could not tell if it was sarcasm or a stab at humor.
A crumb escaped Ravan's mouth and tumbled to the straw. He searched for the fallen morsel as a primate would search for fleas, picking up a straw fragment in his pincer grasp to study it closely before flicking it away. Abandoning his search for the crumb, he continued, focusing his attention again on his late guest and the remains of the half loaf. “And of what concern should it be to me? Look where it has gotten me. My neck will stretch tomorrow, and you seem to have had a fine enough life as a result, monsieur…the more holy of us.”
D’ata thought the prisoner’s eyes danced for a second, but the elusive smile never surfaced. He wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his chin on them, and watched as Ravan stuffed another piece of bread into his mouth, following it immediately with an almost endless drink from the flask. There was something so disturbingly familiar about the prisoner's movements, and it set D’ata on edge.
Unceremoniously, Ravan wiped his lips with the edge of D’ata’s cloak. Then, as though he'd forgotten he was with company, he considered first the priest and then the wine flask. After a serious moment’s hesitation, he halfheartedly offered the flask to the priest.
As the hand holding the flask extended toward him, D’ata studied it. There were calluses along the fingers. Thick muscle defined the forearm—no doubt, he thought, from wielding horrible weapons. He shook his head and waved him off. At the refusal, Ravan seemed pleased.
“I just don’t see how this happened. We were twins, we were—are—brothers,” D’ata pressed him.
Ravan shifted, jerking the cape closer around his shoulders, tucking the edges under his buttocks. He seemed suspicious, not yet ready to trust his new companion. “Well, do not get sentimental with me. You may sport face, but you’re not my brother, Father, at least, not in the way I see it.” He looked up, at apparently nothing in particular, and smoothed the back of his hand across his chin as though amused at his own clever play on words.
D’ata was lost. The divine purpose for which he'd come was completely forgotten. He observed his newfound brother, studied his mannerisms, and listened to his voice. It was peculiar and thrilling. There were suddenly so many questions, questions he seldom considered before. And all the while, he sensed the refined danger of the assassin sitting before him. It showed in even the subtle movements of the man, the casual but calculated way about him.
From here, it was only a short mind-step to venture into the life and memories of his new companion; it didn’t seem so very far at all. Even as guarded as the man appeared to be, D’ata still sensed that his brother experienced the same phenomenon.
Gradually, as the two asked their questions of each other and analyzed each other’s responses, a story started to form; a story with dual, opposite chapters began to unfold. Mistrust and fear gave way to cautious curiosity and a hunger for truth.
D’ata rested his chin on his knees again, unaware that this was also a favorite, unconscious habit of his brother. He listened to the tale that began to lay itself before him, watching the familiar movements of the stranger’s body as it shifted and re-shifted in the straw.
A small rectangular window, thirty or so feet above them, captured the night. The tiny sliver of sky appeared pale in contrast to the darkness of the cell, and stars glistened like suspended crystals against the inky black frame of the surrounding stone. It was odd the way the sky hung down from the window as though it was closer than the stone of the wall…as if it reached for them. D’ata had a peculiar sense that they were not alone.
The rain ceased, and the night became clear, inviting honesty. The brothers edged closer together, as was reasonable. Time turned and walked slowly away from them. Truth started to open itself like the pages of a book, and the story began to fall from it.