“This is ridiculous!” Hector yells, as the young man casually lights the torches surrounding them to ready himself for nightfall. “The King holds knowledge of my being here, and he will surely send out troops if I am not back in two days. You better let me out, there is no room for negotiation here—”

“Ah, yes,” the young man chuckles, “the all-knowing king. How could I forget.” He grabs the stool he’d previously discarded and sits, then crosses his legs. “For your information,” he mutters, while fiddling with his patchworked, leather pointed hat in his lap, “I doubt he’s going to do anything of the sort, but nice try. Anyhow!” He punches the air. “Let’s get back to the topic, shall we?”

But the knight ignores the warlock. “Let me out!” he yells once more, as he tries again, and again, to push himself up and away—to free himself, of the invisible restraints that bind his arms; his legs. “I’ll never talk. I know what you want, and I’m sure it isn’t only mere apologies. If information is what you seek, then kill me now and be done with it, witch. Betraying my village is the one thing I’ll never do.”

Hector expects a more impactful reaction from his life-sworn nemesis, yet, as he listens to the young man’s new words, his enemy is calm, almost too collected. “Let me ask you something, knight…”

The knight clicks his tongue. “I told you, you’re wasting your time, I won’t—”

“Do your people not spread word, and heed calls, of the mere threat that my existence apparently encompasses for them throughout your lands?”

“I—” Hector pauses. “I don’t—”

“And do you truly believe,” the warlock says, as he stands abruptly, with his old worn shoes advancing towards Hector’s figure, “That I”—he pauses to reach for a vial in a nearby shelf—“the most feared and wanted… witch of the land, would need you, a measly knight, in order to obtain what it is you believe I seek?”

The warlock cackles. He holds his sides. His voice is raspy, yet still youthful all the same, when it echoes across the cave. “Sir Knight!” he scoffs, “I could tell you had the biggest of egos just by observing your foolish actions—walking right into your enemy’s lair alone—but to think you are delusional enough to wonder if I need you to take down your kingdom!” He bursts into another fit of laughter. “You’re hilarious!”

Warmth rises to Hector’s cheeks. “D-don’t you dare make light of me!” despite his demand, hesitation still manages to bleed through his voice.

The warlock comes to a halt in his act of mockery. His features turn grim. It is as if he is preparing a funeral for one. Hector’s funeral. He advances, with a single hand holding a vial filled by what Hector notices to be a bubbling, dark purple solution. He tells him, “Take it.”

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“I know you believe I’m a fool,” Hector mutters, “but this is too much. Even a blind infant could see through these tricks.”

“A blind child…” The warlock hums. His tone is nonchalant as he whisks the vial in circular motions before front Hector’s features. “We’re not too far off then, are we?”

“What do you want?” The wishes he could have his body back, and not this flimsy excuse of a thing he has no choice but to call home; for now.

The warlock takes a deep breath. He sighs, then shuts his eyes tight. His shoulders drop, and for a moment, he is the very embodiment of silence itself, serenity and peace—then, mere seconds pass, and he grows into a storm, creating quakes in the metals of Hector’s earth prison, as he stomps atop the ground with all his might. “Take it,” he grunts. His voice is low. He throws the vial right onto Hector’s chest. “Drink it.” He crosses his arms and spins around again, until his back is facing Hector’s gaze. The storm in his eyes has dissipated. The young man mumbles the words, “Your voice is annoying as it currently is. I can’t stand children.”

Then, why transform me into one… Hector wants to ask.

The knight only sighs. Left with no choice but to coddle the glass in his palms, he observes the liquids flow inside a transparent veil of impeccable craftmanship, with a lingering feeling of fear eating at his heart. I won’t give up. I won’t let him win, he is evil, I am justice, he tells himself; and yet, despite this, Hector cannot help but wonder if there might not be truth in what the jester is saying.

The warlock throws another kick at the cave’s wall. “Come on, Sir Knight!” his shouts pull Hector out of his thoughts, and makes him jump, even if only ever so slightly.

Hector bites his lip. He pops open the vial; to him, the action feels strangely familiar, like uncorking the fine wine in his father’s cellar. Except this time, his fingers are trembling, and his brow is drenched in sweat, for a strange man that he believes is insane watches him with a sly smile—one resembling the grin an executioner had given Anne-Marie’s uncle amidst the village’s plaza, when she and Hector were twelve, before he inflicted his punishment on the elderly man, for speaking out of turn.

The solution the warlock has given him smells of dirt—dirt, grass, blood and other strange things Hector finds best left unthought of. He gulps. He brings the vial to his lips. In his mind, it is either this death or another, and the knight figures it may be better for this to be over quickly. He tries to tell himself it doesn’t matter in the end, yet, the fleeting thought of Anne-Marie’s smile comes to mind as the first, the second, and last drip of the potion touch the back of his throat, until it is all gone, and flowing within his veins.

The warlock chuckles. He points his finger at Hector. “Are you seriously crying right now? What?” He cringes. “Is the taste not good enough for you royal knights?”

Hector’s eyes widen. Am I crying? he wonders, whilst bringing a palm up to the bottom of his eye. And he is. He is crying. Not because of the reasons the warlock might have stated, but because he isn’t ready to lose anyone again, or to lose himself to a darkness he fears—one called The End.

The knight tucks his head into his arms and hides his eyes behind the silver armour that protects his core. I’m a failure as a knight, he thinks, but, I will not give him the pleasure of watching me weep. As he lets out another whimper, he notices his voice is much deeper than before. He gasps. There is an ache in his muscles he can deny no longer.

Before he can speak once more, Hector blinks, and sees darkness altogether yet again.