It was a miniature death, that of the mind.

He assured himself that all of it was... over. Therefore, enough. And he did not regret the past years – he lived through them fully and nicely. The unfinished could not be changed, what was finished, was appreciated. Think of it one way or another, he had no choice but to settle with the verdict. But he took one step further, and settled with himself. It wasn't that hard – with the tiredness, the slain defiance, it was not only demanded. It was a necessity.

Sitting on the white, white marble, he finalized his life. It was a peaceful ending. He had to be grateful, for he would get to rest before passing away. Not many could boast about that.

Blinks slow and weak, he stared ahead, knowing nothing would be seen. It just so happened that his eyes had his hands before them, to focus approximately on them. How silly, to think he once believed he could do anything and everything with them. But his present dictated a tale completely opposite, which he could not care about.

He thought of it. His indifference was akin to that of a suicidal person, except his sprouted from emotions starkly different: the requited love of life. Its finest decadence.

His past would make a wondrous story. From a loving mom, to a mad father, across the harsh love of both parents to the passing of one of them, when he was liberated and lost and sought in becoming an arbiter. A story for deaf ears to hear, he sighed. This was an interesting way to kill it.

So he did, he murdered himself, pounding thoughts and ideas until they were reduced to naught. Like that of a crazed killer, his pulse was wild and sharp, cutting into his consciousness till blood, all boiled and riled up, spurted out, long desperate to let out the steam and pressure and so much life. They emptied, the streams. They gushed and sang.

Those were recitations... a eulogy. Ticks of the heart steadily suffocated him, deafened too, this heartbeat more of a heartthrob, as he devised the ending rhymes, repeated them, quietly, listening more to their echoes than their melody, and getting lost in them. To think of one's thoughts would mark the finish of contemplation; Ulrich hit the dead end, and clung onto it, despite the sensations of hammering that tore his body and mind.

Eulogies were never easy to deliver. And although so sacred and complex, someone found it in his right to come forth and chiefly tarnish them.

He tried to ignore it at first. Pokes of possibilities, scatterings in the ashes, changes he bid farewell to. The dead end suddenly had its continuation paved, a foggy pavement. He was opening his eyes to a world that should've caressed him, but betrayed, and was once again offering its embraces. Those same dumb mistakes made by the stubbornly good, an attempt to disprove the worldly malice.

Was he dumb? Just some years prior, he believed so. Fine, he wasn't the strongest among his peers, nor the prettiest. None of them held back when wrestling and practicing fencing, both acts nonsensical to Ulrich, because – why fight as a future arbiter? They shouldn't solve disputes among humans, rather difficulties with demons and when it came to them, physical strength wasn't much of an aid. So why?

Then, fencing, how idiotic in the world of guns. Was that too some foolish tradition that held them back? Obviously not, for everyone excelled except for him. He had endurance, not power. He was thrown to the ground one time too many for he couldn't fight back. Strong hands and feet held him there, and he could only tolerate it. Dust in his mouth and itching in his eyes, foreign wonderings like: did his tooth crack? For he wasn't strong enough, not beneath his peers, not in a school like that. He failed.

And at home, he'd change himself into a different numbness. He would hug his mom before she could reach him. Two connivers they were, bound by one disgusting secret. Bound by home.

When father came, when his hands squeaked pristine in the sink. When father ate with a repulsive appetite. When mom stayed a while to chat in the streets. When mom wanted to work in the community. When father brought unwarranted gifts. When father apologized. When mother cleaned. When father promised, when mother assured, when father broke. When they'd slip from each other's guilt and back into it. That was when Ulrich knew hatred.

And when he inquired – for his mother loved her son so much, she would comply – when he inquired: could he leave? Could he tear himself free from this family? Have a life elsewhere? His own, as deserved and expected? That was when she whispered damnation, and the shackles of home forever scarred him. "Please, don't leave me alone." Soon she left this world before he could fail her too.

So he ran away into the world in search for a better one. By everything, if he had to sacrifice himself just to prove the sacrifice would be worthy, he would.

For now, he failed once again. No consolation was to come.

Ulrich could hug himself, so he didn't need that. He could close his eyes too. The road of life may had elongated further, but he needn't move. The one thing he couldn't do was cut his ears off.

Why, his cellmate was trying to – and failing, obviously – to cheer up Ulrich, who had evidently been sulking. Elmedin made some jokes (Ulrich assumed so because he didn't pay much attention, all he could hear was laughter, presumably due to the said jokes), talked about hope and not giving up and... all in all, those were the cliché pep talks.

Ulrich's pulse gradually got worse. He couldn't bring the status quo back into his head. With the entirety of his being shoved unto disorder, he could not handle it anymore.

Elmedin's talk finally shattered the internal world Ulrich was so carefully concocting. Words came through, stepping onto the shambles with no regard, loudly spewing creaks such as, "I know I can reach you, that's why I'm talking all the time, you have to listen, man. You're literally impossible to look at. Awful, for reals. Where did all of that life go? Where did the defiance go?"

The creaks scraped against Ulrich's ear. It was something he could no longer ignore. Whilst discounting the content of the speech, he simply, somehow, in a strangely demure manner, managed to plead,

"Could you please be quiet?"

"Ooh, sorries. But man, man! You really shouldn't give up on hope!"

Ulrich kept staring down. "Sorry, I don't think you can have a say in how I feel."

"Where would the world go if nobody cared?!"

"Look where I'm going."

"Y'know, not yet, because nothing's confirmed. Plus, if you were that big of a threat because of your demon, they would've killed you already. They're stalling for some reason!"

Administration, the arbiter talking to the legal higher-ups, those were all time-consuming events that had to take place. Only afterwards, therefore, sometime soon, would they have to pull the trigger. He didn't bother to explain that to his cellmate, who was already talking more.

"I mean, in our case, there is yet a trial to happen. In your, well, clear case, there shouldn't be a trial. So, that would mean they had to kill you. The arbiter could've just taken a gun and shot you. But, he didn't!"

"Please, don't talk anymore. I can't listen."

"I can't bear to see you like this. So, as I was saying, don't give up on hope –"

Ulrich had enough. Armed with defective emotions, he marched up to Elmedin, whose eyes lit up. Ulrich noticed, and, he glanced away, following the spirals on the floor as his own spiraling quickened, nonsensical, cynical and dark. It was almost as if the world recoiled.

Restless feet were cemented. Ulrich's hands had no purpose but to shake, so they just hung mid-air, floating in aimless shivers. Thoughts frantic and many, Ulrich vented messily,

"I must give up on hope." He grabbed his very pale shirt, right above the heart of his. Clenching it and drumming against his chest, he simulated vigor where it lacked, his own words dripping with calm bile as he explained that indeed,

"I don't have to explain myself to you. I don't have to explain myself to anyone at all! Nobody would listen!" His other hand went on to point at an invisible crowd. "I'm a dead man. Kick the corpse all you want, he won't speak. So cease the thought, no, rather, perish the vile thought that yours can reach mine –"

In one swift movement, Elmedin grabbed his hand that had been drumming. Ulrich was taken aback. He froze, scowling at his cellmate.

"You're kinda losing it, man. Calm down," he urged, with the exact opposite effect. Ulrich tore out his hand and held it with the other one, both insulted and wounded.

"I am calm," he claimed quietly, suddenly ashamed of his outburst. That wasn't his anger. That wasn't his temper.

"You aren't."

And he wasn't calm. He desperately retreated his rage.

"Then allow me to remain calm." He did not realize just how much he yearned it, especially now, having witnessed his own fallout.

Silence. Elmedin took a moment to think of the reply. "Well... that would be boring." That made Ulrich throw his hands in defeat and walk back to his bed – bench, whatever it was, and he murmured, "Why do I even bother?" It was a pointless talk, after all, with someone who couldn't articulate his thoughts well... and Ulrich was no different. It was foolish to think it would end at that.

"But you can escape. It's possible," his cellmate further aggravated.

Ulrich eyed him up and down, not allowing his focus to remain on the face. "Not funny."

"If you don't trust me, ask Zach, he's into corruption and fraud."

Zach didn't comment. Ulrich wasn't particularly keen on making him speak either.

"In any case, yeah, the world sucks and it's so unfair, and you can cry about it as much as you want. Spill as many tears as you'd like! It's worth it, I'm telling you." But Ulrich didn't cry? He blinked and rubbed his eyes. Nothing wet.

"Or you can clear your eyes and do something for once. If you can't see your escape, then make one, it's that simple – and your brain can do it, I'm sure, anyone's brain can," Elmedin paused as he neared Ulrich. A figure darkened by the light hitting his back, he offered him his hand. Taking in the scene with a blank face, Ulrich was reminded of the events of the night before, and, how fittingly, his cellmate had all the dark features of Mephistopheles', with the sole exception of a shiny grin and... humanity, something sensed and seen.

Mephistopheles, eh? Maybe he should've listened to the demon.

With a squint, he measured this offer. To resist till the last breath? It would be futile, especially in a prison like that. "Then I reckon your aggressive activism has a basis, because without it I don't think I can handle hoping," Ulrich warned, not shaking the hand just yet. The man before him widened his grin – now that it was so starkly embedded in Ulrich's vision, he realized he hadn't seen him portray any emotion other than amusement.

But Elmedin finally told his reply in the form of a sharp (and a bit too loud) whisper, "We'll find the way. Zach already has it, and guess what? I'm sure we can do better than him."

Ulrich glanced over to Zach, who was, at the moment, raising his brows. Because, why, Elmedin had tried to whisper but failed miserably. Possibly on purpose.

"And you're just going to talk about it..." Ulrich, conversely, successfully hushed his voice and looked over to the very passive guard.

"Gee, I wonder why," Elmedin commented, retracting his hand. His grin reduced to a smile as he sighed and plopped himself next to Ulrich. Hence, he scooted away.

But why would he talk about it openly? Truth be told, it's not like the guard was... paying attention. Odd, and Ulrich thought he was the one to suffer from a bad case of spacing out.

Maybe his cellmate would be set free by the guard. Was that the implication? Either way, Ulrich turned a little, narrowing his eyes at this rascal.

"Why are you putting me in whatever sort of framework you've devised?"

"Why not?"

"You don't know me. Additionally, I do not seem too pleased with you."

"Understandable. You're on your deathbed, quite literally, ha-ha."

Such a lovely reminder. The heavy pillows of acceptance were trying to suffocate him, but alas, the cellmate did not allow them to. He forced a steady air flow, to fill in Ulrich's lungs and heart and swindled soul. To remind the muscles what movement, thus life felt like, to no avail.

If only, if only he could rest, lulled by the world's ignorance, underneath apathy and its thick sheets! What a gentle rest would it be, before death snuggled, that of inevitable peace.

But, none of it was available. Elmedin simply had to come and blabber on and on and on. And given his nature, the meaning behind the blabbering can't have been... kind. Otherwise it could've been bearable, just a tiny bit more bearable, but...

"Glad to see you can sympathize," he grumbled, smitten by pessimism.

"And empathize! That's why I'll help you get out, simply out of good will." For a criminal, he surely knew his vocabulary. Too bad he used it for lies.

"There's no need to pretend. It must be money you're after."

Happy noises. So intrusive. Ulrich had no choice but to pay an annoyed look. Elmedin peered upwards, wheezing. He spread his arms, looking around as if there was actually someone to look at. "He's got it," he bragged. "He's finally got it!"

All of a sudden, he took Ulrich by his hand, pulled him down, to which he yelped. Staring at Elmedin, ready to awkwardly stumble away, he had a single moment to take in what was going on. Lo and behold, Elmedin glared back.

The gentle stroke of an idea was surely the one to paint his face shady, but not darker by any means. Quite the contrary, the bold twinkle in his eye was not the only shine, no, the entirety of his visage took on joyful brightness.

Ulrich waged his face once again. This could not end positively.

"But out of good will as well. Let me show you, as you fancylad have said, what's the basis of my aggressive activism." He mumbled next, more to himself, "I really like that phrase." With that, he let go of Ulrich's hand, prompting the latter to stand up properly.

"And what would you possibly have to show me?" He tried to sound sarcastic, but his tone came out flat. His cellmate didn't pay any attention.

"One of the few things showable. Watch."

While flattening his shirt, Ulrich glared ahead as Elmedin got up and walked towards the bars... right behind the guard. He clasped his hands behind his back before speaking up, louder and clearer than usual,

"Mister guard?"

He didn't even flinch. No reaction at all. Ulrich wanted to ask his cellmate what he was up to, but he didn't really have to. Elmedin was already preparing the thing, or clearing his throat, for precision's sake.

"Mister guard, do you hear me?"

He sang that bit a little. Zachariah told him to stop bothering the guard, which was, unsurprisingly, ignored.

"Now, mister guard, if the situation were any different, I would've just slapped you, or hit you, or smacked you, something along the hurting part." He walked around in circles, as if debating in a monologue. "However, right now, since I am handicapped..."

Elmedin rolled his sleeves up, and added something about distance being unable to prevent him from inflicting pain. Ulrich wanted to object, but he preferred staying on good terms with this obviously unhinged guy, so all he did was play the part of a blameless accomplice.

All his cellmate did was spread his arms, swing and – clap? A single clap cracked in the air, more than a good startle for the guard. The reaction was immediate: a scream, a jump, and a book landing on the floor. The victim was on his feet, not too menacing because of his height, but definitely disturbed.

The guard yelled at Elmedin that he'd cut his meals and prevent him from going to the bathroom. Redder in his face than ever before, he angrily threatened, and would certainly continue threatening if his voice hadn't cracked. The prisoner responded with laughter only.

As much as a commotion this was for Ulrich's dulled attention, he noticed something Elmedin did not. His cellmate was too busy laughing and taunting, so he had a clear glimpse at something peculiar – Zachariah, clenching his fists, glowering at Elmedin with sustained violence.

Lucky them. All of them could just waste their emotions, without a single care, because, unlike Ulrich's, their verdict was unsaid.

He tilted his head a little, discreetly following the denouement. The guard was left to shake excessively, while Elmedin was rubbing his hands in self-satisfaction. He approached Ulrich, standing before him. Ulrich hesitantly asked him what that was for.

"To show you how easy it is to escape. One guard, and he's like none. Perception zero."

The aforementioned man grumbled.

"See? Also, I wonder why he's the lone guard in this very, very special section. Not only that, but why he won't ask for any help, file a complaint or something, despite the fact I obviously aggravate him." Elmedin raised a finger, emphasizing the following statement. "For the record, this wasn't my first, or last shenanigan."

The guard had his back turned to their cell, so Ulrich couldn't discern his feelings about the matter. The very "hiding" he performed, however, spoke for itself. Things were indeed more complicated than they appeared. But with Elmedin provoking him so clearly, Ulrich feared the guard might act on impulse and try to prove the prisoner wrong. "You might be giving him the wrong idea to actually do something..." That's why he suggested, only to elicit a loud "ha" from his cellmate.

"He's already got it, I'm sure. So, why didn't he act on it?" Elmedin clutched the bars. "Why don't you act on it, mister guard?"

Ulrich really didn't want to join in due to the possible consequences. Luckily, someone was rude enough to end that discussion for them, abruptly and angrily in a seething, painful crescendo, "Just how disrespectful can you get?! Shut up and get some manners! Christ!" Zachariah's voice echoed all around, overtaking whatever was left of Elmedin's hyper talkbacks. The man clutched his hands around the bars, hanging from them whilst waiting for the echoes to die down. Once they did, he conquered the cells with his gravelly, and yet, pleasant laughter, only to choke it down with a rare, subdued tone. Ulrich moved ever so slightly towards the edge of the bed, listening with fearful expectations and sluggish thoughts.

"Manners? Not like they grow on trees for me to collect. Ah, right, I've been meaning to tell you something for a while now," Elmedin began, then whipped his head around, at the prisoner who told them to be quiet.

Staying true to his somber persona, Zachariah didn't bother reacting. Ulrich's cellmate took the liberty to further insult, "Shut your fucking muzzle –"

"O-oi!" It was the guard, Ulrich stared in shock.

"Before your rotten teeth fall out."

The guard got on his feet, fists clenched and arms at his sides, and he turned, facing Ulrich and Elmedin for his emotions to come honest and true. They were, by all means, that of anger, but as Ulrich stared on, he couldn't help but feel unsettled. He noticed the light shake in the guard's limbs. Something had to be said, but was suppressed.

Zachariah huffed. One hand raised in a dismissive manner, he waved it around like a lazy lord shooing away his servants, care absent in his absent smile. "I had that coming. Imps die impish." He spoke with lofty composure. "All is well. Do continue with the chatter."

Elmedin gave a laugh, and ended it so.

Ulrich was interested to know a bit more, that was undisputable, but he did not want to intrude, or even start the discussion which would probably lead nowhere. The two clearly were on horrible terms, and it was the combination of Zachariah's unresponsive nature and Elmedin's light personality that couldn't sustain many provocations. They would just dissipate, it seemed.

Intriguing folk, truly. They too would remain an unresolved mystery, at least in his trivial observation. He crossed his arms.

Elmedin approached. "Was that a good enough of a basis for my aggressive activism?"

Not truly. Nothing seemed conceivable. The system wasn't proper, but that didn't mean Ulrich could slip past it. It was far more likely that the system would mistakenly execute him. After all, they did not hesitate to treat him like a dog. The arbiter himself behaved like a rabid one, and the minister... like a wolf. None was on his side.

But this entire folly proved to be a distraction, if anything. It filled the gaps of his mind where space was misused.

Ulrich lifted his gaze, only for it to meet Elmedin's proud one, and dart away instantly. His cellmate sat next to him, provoking yet another conversation. This time, Ulrich attempted to participate. It wasn't too bad.

Time passed and conversations were born, lived, tossed and turned, died swiftly or slowly. All of them, mundane and meaningless, existent for the sake of existence. But time passed, and a special one arrived. Lunchtime. By Ulrich's standards, a bit too late, but at least they got the food.

And what food it was, not stale nor gross, as one would expect in prison, instead, it both looked and smelled decent. Some yellowy mass, with a side of water and asymmetrically chopped... potatoes, it seemed. And the obligatory cheap bread. And water, of course. The scent made him think it was polenta, for surely, they wouldn't make puree for prisoners. In Ulrich's humble opinion, it was a feast. But, none of it tempted him. He was sick in the stomach at the very thought of eating. Subsequently, he gave his meal to Elmedin, who at first refused to eat it (despite his stomach growling after finishing his own plate). But as soon as it became evident Ulrich would leave his lunch to spoil, Elmedin... "didn't let it to go to waste", as he said. The guard was somewhat displeased.

Soon, Ulrich also got to witness the peculiar mechanism that revealed the bathroom. Zachariah wanted to use it, and so, the guard pulled a lever that was behind him; it activated the movement of a marble block in the other cell, which in turn revealed a very pristine bathroom.

However, where the marble block moved from, some small, dark markings were seen, like cut off, imperfect circles. There was a reddish tint to them. Maybe it was Ulrich's morbid state, but he thought of blood, and did not astonish himself with the idea. He mentally shrugged at it, and left it at that.

Well, the device was an unexpected sight, if anything. Ulrich hadn't seen such machines in a while, so it certainly was a surprise and nothing else. Just a waver in his consciousness. Like the remainder of the day. He would look out of the small window sometimes, just to remind himself of the skies and the world they enfolded. Looking through the bars, ribs of a ribcage, he saw but... everything. And it was all embellished by his despair. Was this how the heart felt when it wanted to soar?

Time passed. Conversations lapsed. Sounds were heard, unfamiliar. Taps. And then, they repeated, and then, he recognized them.

The steps were no delusion. They were a fact, louder and louder with every repetition. He took it in whilst choking on his heartbeat. The countdown was set. Not too slow, not too fast, but just the right speed, unblemished by Ulrich's tension.

And to mark the final few ticks, the door was opened.

Just like any other delicate sensation in his life, Ulrich couldn't meet its eye. He waited, mute in thought and tongue, as the end strolled. The ticks were right next to him, stopped. Mere bars away, stood the reaper, surely, and –

Did not kill. No, the reaper announced,

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I was told to inform you of the unfortunate news, that your collective execution would occur at ten o'clock this evening."

Ulrich welcomed the idea with large eyes. It was so obscure in delivery, so unofficial and relaxed, that he began doubting it. He was not the only one to suspect so.

"Impossible." Zachariah grinned, an attempt to outshine the predicament. "What of the court and all its inhabitants? Rather, what of the trial?"

The officer stared at him. "You're special, I presume, so you won't get that."

What once was a grin darkened to a sullen scowl. "Are we now?" To that, a shrug.

It was sheer luck that had Ulrich's gaze glued onto the guard. Because of the coincidence, he was capable of noticing the man's intent, almost invasive stare at Zachariah, and an act that spoke of unease: clenching the chair's edges, as if ready to set off. But Zachariah continued to talk, almost leisurely, with the officer. "No, sir, truly, death is too big of a thing to skip administration."

"Whatever must be the case, non scio. I was only told this much by lady Merkator. You are no ordinary prisoners indeed, so the traditional law may not be applicable in your case."

Latin? Come to think of it, this officer did seem a bit familiar. Upon further assessment, indeed, the looks – tall and slender in build, of white complexion and black hair – they must've belonged to...

"Officer... Lyos?" What an odd coincidence! It cut through the miasma of his mind, a swift movement of awakening, this hand that stirred, what for? It sowed the seeds of miracles, gave them the possibility of growth and development and maturity. Because, what were the odds! What were the chances this officer would come down, out of all people!

Upon being named, he turned around, staring with his head slightly bowed, a gesture already undeniably his. "My apologies, I haven't recognized you," he spoke as calm as always.

"How... how are you, sir?"

The policeman observed him, lavender eyes skipping up and down in sporadic gazes, only to finally respond a long, wary or inattentive, "...fine."

He was about to say something else, Ulrich saw – and heard the beginning of a word – but he was interrupted by Zachariah, who once again asked his odd questions.

"So you're telling me, officer Lyos, that it takes more administration to get a library membership than to kill a man?"

Maybe it was better that way. It was better to sever one's heartstrings before getting tangled in them. Those were not his problems after all. Zachariah could keep inquiring. Elmedin could persist in his silence. Ulrich, he... he would simply continue waiting, a little more excited and a little more dead than before. Ambivalence lead to a stalemate; extraordinary circumstances allowed it.

The abrupt creak of a chair made Ulrich shiver. He looked, only to see the guard on his feet, upset as he asked, "Officer? Since you're here, now, would you be kind enough to watch over these prisoners? I'm afraid I must leave. I've got a bit of an internal problem."

"Internal?"

The guard coughed, but officer Lyos remained silent. Which is why he had to further explain himself and specify the issue at hand. "Intestinal."

"Mm. Sure. Is there anything I'm supposed to...?"

Already on the move, the guard spun in his tracks, walking backwards for a while as he stuttered hastily, "N-no. Just watch over them. If they need to go to the bathroom, pull that lever on the wall behind you. Lift it once they're done. That's it!" And quickly, skipping two steps at a time, he ran outside.

What an odd turnabout of events, Ulrich acknowledged.

"Great responsibility, but... no warning? Why was that," officer Lyos whispered to himself, which was, unsurprisingly, well heard. Then he raised his voice. "This is a notorious section. No one wishes to take care of it, because the prisoners are per defaltam crazy. I hope none of these ill words can apply to you."

Well, come to think of it...

"Scandalous. I have been called many names, but crazy..." Zachariah paused, realizing his fault. "Crazy is one of them." It didn't seem to disappoint him.

"Yeah, I called you crazy five minutes ago," the chatty cellmate of Ulrich's had to lie.

"Thank you, Mahkazah, I wasn't listening to you anyway."

"As usual, dear Zach."

Ulrich wanted to talk to the policeman and at the same time, he did not. Torn between two opposites, he ended up accomplishing one: he couldn't speak. And what would they talk about? None of it mattered.

What followed next was the halo of silence, holy and heavy. Silence to brutalize the heartthrobs, kill them all and save the rest of the being so. It was no longer the singular affect of Ulrich's, and yet, despite the turmoil that ruined all, his did not increase. It palpitated in unison with the heart. It would persist, so long the remnants of life did, and that was its only cause and term.

Officer Lyos was blatantly ignored. Everyone else had more important matters to attend to. Enveloped in silence, he respected their woe, and did not end that respect for the long minutes which followed. Long and many. Time became sluggish and bitter.

In the screech of the door, the guard finally emerged. Huffing and puffing, he descended the stairs, and he uttered, grabbing many breaths, "Woah...! Err, must feel like I was gone for nine whole hours. To me, it felt like nine minutes."

"I dislike that number."

As if crudely awoken, the guard tremored, stopping his walk at an awkward moment. He turned his head painstakingly slowly towards Zachariah, warned by his declaration. Silence was exchanged, heavy and utterly esoteric. They were two mirrors locked in each other's reflections, sharing a secret unimaginable to any imagination.

And then one fractured. The guard broke out of the self-induced trance and got back to his stool and the catatonic play.

Elmedin, who was sitting by his side, nudged Ulrich. "Did you hear that nitpicky bastard?"

"Did." As well as the connotation.

Elmedin nudged Ulrich again. "Notice that?"

The little paper protruding from the guard's pocket?

"Did."

"The plot thickens."

"When will it burst?"

His cellmate laughed. Ulrich had given up defying him; it was too bothersome. Playing along in his own miserable way was far more... pleasurable, or better yet, manageable. Being passive, barely reactive, proved to be ideal for his nerves.

Officer Lyos left, meaningless and bland, not even sharing a humane "goodbye". The day continued as if nothing happened.

But he couldn't really continue with the boredom. He couldn't maintain it. Some things, some outlets were needed, to keep it restrained. Those were the talks with Elmedin. Those were the sounds from the outside. Kind distractions, they chopped off seconds and minutes. He was unsure if it became more evident or equally as abstract, the fact that death neared.

Once he gazed upwards, towards the window and its bars, he could see the outskirts of purple and black above him. He could easily draw a line that separated day and night, and yet, in a strange absence of common sense, he noticed and admitted.... dusk would always remain similar to dawn. He enjoyed change as much as he feared it. Yet that of the skies, he found it to be inspiring so many times, even now, for it reached out to him. Showed him the beauty of the end and its resemblance to the beginning. This very instant, evening loomed over him. Wounds of his soul were open for the falling sun to scorch them. Indeed, he was horribly injured. Bed-ridden even.

Outside, far away, bound just like him, was his home, and it withheld anything but solace. Those sweet memories prickled the tongue, but despite that... he was moments away from crying at the very hint of nostalgia, his mother, the passing sun he was watching. If he wept, it was internally, more clenching than releasing. An homage to the life he once had, and loved, and lost.

And the sun fell, and the night fell and threatened. Even Elmedin had to listen to the threats. He turned all respectful and quiet so. Perhaps he too, like Ulrich, dedicated his last moments to all the previous ones.

But the future had more memories in store, more reminiscences to be buried. It began abruptly, with a statement,

"It's nine, Zach," the guard spoke.

Familiarity resonated in its softness.

"Most splendid, my dear," Zachariah answered.

And yet the softness damaged so much.

The guard stood up. His keys announced themselves with their rattling, and revealed themselves for the scarce moonlight to caress. Such a desirable object, anyone would love to have their hands on it. Guided by the guard's hand, they flew and landed in the lock of Zachariah's cell. Some turns later, and he was a free man.

The inmate stepped out, no longer one. It was almost as if Ulrich met him for the first time. The modesty of the prisoner's white gown dissipated, crumbling underneath this tall, tall man, of broad shoulders and lordly posture.

He liked to look down, to tilt his head, to nod and condescend so, all while glaring through his golden eyes, royal and dangerous in their pride. Ulrich could barely bear to look at them. Could it possibly be, that he knew and used the very dark features of his face, to assault those he deemed worthy? For he stared at Elmedin with such opulence, such perilous intent, that Ulrich almost feared – and he could not, at all, discern the emotions at hand. They were all assimilated into that forceful appearance, as well as scornfully polite words,

"Before my departure, mister Mahkazah, I believe I should have a word with you. Am I allowed to?"

It was kindness meant to boast Zachariah's ego, not help Elmedin. And so he smiled to himself.

"Guess so," Ulrich's cellmate replied to Zachariah's joy. But this happiness had long distinguished itself as ill-meaning.

"Splendid. Now, Mahkazah, I wanted to teach you one last lesson."

"Not again," Elmedin whined and buried his face in his hands. The wail struck Ulrich as a sentiment he could relate to – and not even Elmedin was immune to disregarding death. In that moment, he felt closer to his cellmate more than ever, when they finally looked alike in their troubles.

Regardless, his enemy continued. "Indeed, this won't mean anything to you. Not a single thing. But I will know I am the one who warned you about it, and I will get the satisfaction of knowing you failed to heed my advice."

"Blah blah, get to the point."

"Your arrogance will be the death of you. You are a vain, selfish bastard, who cares about nothing at all."

"So what?"

Ulrich was blinking rapidly. It was a horrible talk, all these assumptions were just... kicks at a dead body, so... what was going on?

"Your arrogance won't be met. History won't cradle you because you never bothered looking back at her sad eye."

"You think I care?"

"You don't. But you will." Zachariah was grinning at this point, basking in the very same ego that he was accusing Elmedin of having. "And it will be too late, when the sentimental years approach you, when you meet all the wonderfully wrong people and they teach you to love and to hurt and to hate and to have some goddamn culture!" He paused at that passionate scold. "When you rediscover yourself and reform and reassemble your fretful heart, you will change, Mahkazah, and you will finally understand that you are just a man."

Vehemence struck his next words, "And when all is said and done, you will want to regret. You will want to be even more human. But it will be too late, you won't get to belittle yourself. You will burn out in your yearning and finally..." His brows rose, as he whispered, horribly sweet, "die."

Elmedin lifted both of his hands in the air. Smiling idly, he shrugged, eyes closed to show his dismissal. "You could've cocked the gun and ended all this bullshit way back. Just saying," he commented, further sparking delight in Zachariah.

"Oh, but the time is not yet ripe for me to end it all. Inspiration and patience are mortal enemies, but I will coerce them to fall in love." Passion lifted his gaze, floating from reality into some higher worlds, only for the present to bring it back. "When the time is right, Mahkazah, this author will mark the period on your death sentence."

Elmedin was left unfazed. Like a scholar attempting to teach the stubbornly stupid, only to be ridiculed, he persisted with his own grounded approach, sabotaging all the education and wise statements so, "If you were expecting an applause, too bad, you won't get it. Look, not even my well-meaning mate over here seems to like it!"

Maybe, if Ulrich was reading this, he would've liked it, but watching it, listening to it, and feeling it in person, all of that induced blunt confusion only.

Zachariah cleared his throat. "And you, blueboy."

An uncanny nickname for sure. Ulrich too cleared his throat, blurting out, "Pardon?"

"I'd love to see you live, just for the sake of it."

For the sake of it? What did that even mean? It confused him, but, but the intention was clear, and not only that, but it was possible. Bravery in despair made him stand up, and declare, "Then I'm sure you'd want to set me free."

Zachariah chuckled. "Oh, no, no...! No way." He then looked at Elmedin. "He will."

Ulrich stared at his cellmate. Was that it? Was this the final confirmation? Everything Elmedin talked about, the nonsense of the guard's position, the overbearing hope, the... everything, was it not in vain? And if so, how?

"You expect too much of me," the said prisoner complained. Ulrich continued with the stare, wide-eyed and disappointed. What was this? A lie, a joke? Who was the liar, or the joker? Zachariah or Elmedin, or cruelly both?

Zachariah sighed. "Poe, what happens when people do not meet my expectations?"

Without hesitation, his friend offered, "They die?"

"What – no!" Zachariah glared at the guard, completely flabbergasted. "What am I, a murderer?"

Poe let out a huff, whereas the man next to him began laughing. Ulrich hated it. Their friendship, their freedom, their and joy and life. Everything, it seemed, they took shape of everything he wanted, and ridiculed him so. His fists clenched, and he emoted, he realized and believed, for one last time.

Some clattering was heard above Ulrich's head. He shifted his focus there, only to spot a gun's dreaded barrel, and a face emerging next to it at the window.

"Vero," it spoke.

"What are you doing here?" And just like that, Zachariah's tone softened, expression eased. Elation spasmed through his once terrifyingly stiff body, all due to one man. It was the shadow that cascaded from the tiny window.

The stranger's pale visage had undeniable strictness to it, although it had no hard features. On the contrary, it was smooth and gently rounded, an ellipsoid, should one compare it. The nose on the center was too gentle, indiscrete. Underneath, an upper lip exaggerated by a black lipstick, and above, long lashes with brows reduced to black lines. In between, stood the whites, the inhumane whites of the eyes, and where they stood, they left an imprint on Ulrich's memory.

Their white had no purity to them, no pale wisdom, no emotion, nothing but focus, protruding and yet dull, vapid focus. Gaze thrown somewhere, never to merely land, but to hit, to scar.

If it were blindness that tainted them with such a bleak void, why did he know where to look? How come the irises switched back and forth, aimed right, missed not? And when they scratched Ulrich, he shivered, knowing he was caught staring. He would never look at him again, he must not!

Fatal familiarity resonated within Ulrich. Intuition screamed, dragged his gaze downwards, digging his head deeper into ignorance, retreat.

But he was there! Emerging, in the marble by Ulrich's feet, imagined vividly, thus not rightfully. It should've been full of colors all dead, all sublime. Not once had he seen a face so illustrative, so meaningful, and yet...!

He saw beauty, and it devastated him.

It was wrong. It was so wrong, so false, awfully dislocated! This man was a cadaver, and he was still life!

Then why was Ulrich's heart rushing? How come a single appearance spoke so much? In the darkness his vision was swallowed by, he saw but the phantom of that being. It was enough to turn the once boiling blood into ice.

Could this be... one of the demon spawns of Hahr? He couldn't possibly know, only feel.

The unordinary spoke. Voice so surprisingly soothing, there was no hint of brashness, of violence, anything harsh or unpleasant.

"You're late."

And the accusation was as affable as any acceptance!

His acquaintance, Zachariah, was taken aback. He tried gasping, but yawned instead. "Oh dear. A couple of minutes is enough to scare you? That truly is awful." Perhaps it was supposed to be teasing. He looked over to Poe, and this man understood. Being the obedient escort, he took the former prisoner by his elbow. They walked up the stairs, leaving two prisoners beneath.

The freed man didn't have to turn around and grace them with a glance. Walking upstairs, he chanted, "Farewell. If fate does not bring us together, rest assured, I will." And the door closed, and that was all from Zachariah and Poe.

He was introduced to Ulrich as the epitome of vanity. He did not disappoint.

But that other man... Ulrich didn't have to look up to know he vanished too. The moonlight danced on the marble, shifted around, only to still itself, performing a flawless fall from the window.

That was truly all. The shadows brightened, the menaces scattered. Ulrich swallowed, and hoped to dispose of those fretful remnants of their presence.

Elmedin planted himself in the corner of the cell, leaning his back against it, head tilted to land on the bars. His hands went up, to brush over those accursed restraints. This was the first time in hours of knowing him that Ulrich had seen him... down.

"He was right," he said.

What about, Elmedin? About the inhumane demise or the ability to break free? What about? Ulrich pleaded him with sorrowful eyes, to keep going, to complain more, explain more, and to urge him, he even began,

"I'm sorry –"

But was interrupted.

"Oh well, it doesn't matter anyway! Nothing matters!"

It was happy. Elmedin was happy. His "nothing matters" was happy.

And like a completely different person, Elmedin jumped back to his feet, reverting himself into that gleeful persona. He helped himself by clinging onto the bars, which he was yet to abandon.

"At least for now," he added in a solemn tone.

Nothing mattered? For now? Was that an extension? "Wh-what?"

"Isn't it a shame? Usually, good men are bound, whereas the vile run free." He turned around, looking at Ulrich with a mischievous shine in his eyes. He did not let go of the bars. Why would he cling onto them so much...?

"Why won't you add a "but" to my statement?"

"Because you are correct," Ulrich admitted.

"Maybe I'll prove you wrong!"

"How?"

Elmedin did not get to finish.

Unlike the first time, the waking footsteps did not incite anything in Ulrich. Mere salutation in the brain, a mental nod, and that was all. He was tired, physically, mentally, emotionally – and he welcomed the arrival of their end.

Elmedin spoke of escapes, assured, so many times, that there had to be one. Finally, Ulrich would get it.

The door opened. Those who came in were executioners themselves. Who else?

He stared down at his hands. One scar reminded him of how he got there, and how he could've escaped. The advice came from a vile demon, but it was advice nevertheless. If only he listened to Mephistopheles.

But it was too late. They were coming, but... did not arrive fully. Something interrupted. A voice cheered, shrill and sudden, and poor Ulrich jumped from the surprise. For the better or the worse, it was a familiar name in a familiar mouth, "Hey there, Ulrich!"

Oh dear. Speak of the devil.