Soon, Doetrieve and the dwarf began cautiously tracing the great elfen wall separating they and the density of the forest. Navigating an assortment of vegetation and a deluge of wet mud, the two eventually came up to the sole mountain of the village; of the forest. Descending the rocky topology, the dwarf stopped in front of a particular side of the earth he waited for Doetrieve by. The elf muttered to himself in disbelief that the dwarf knew of even this, hands waving fast and knowingly, crevice chipping throughout the mountain wall in response to give way to an entrance. The last time the dwarf had come, he discovered Waspig and Bathiel sealed in an orb of glass, Pistol sent off for next breakfast’s main course. This flashed a touch of rage across the dwarf’s face, but he swallowed it. He could not blame Doetrieve for how elfs ate nor for following Locust’s orders, reasoned the dwarf. Additionally, it seemed Doetrieve had turned around this timeline as well, acting completely against his captain’s interests, even harboring a spider as pet, its hideaway confirming they, the elfs, liked their meals out of sight. Having grown up on a farm, the dwarf could not reasonably relate.

Just before having arrived at the mountain face, the two’d first snuck their way to the traditional elfen glass bars finding nothing. Doetrieve did not volunteer the subterranean arachnid chambers forthcomingly--but the dwarf offered knowledge of another path, and so after Doetrieve became even more convinced the dwarf was not at all what he seemed. Entering then that where swinesects had once been imprisoned, a wretched looking funguay indeed waited for them in cramped, transparent conditions. The dwarf at once leapt toward the console and raised a fist high above.

“Halt!”

From the shadows, Captain Locust emerged. Several elfs not limited to Sowsmith and Giltgrief aimed steady arrows. The dwarf’s balled hand continued its pause in flight. He considered what pain death by bow would incur and whether he’d prefer it to waiting away nights in a cell before being hanged beside Doctor Mallow--but the dwarf considered, then, the elfs of this ‘SAVE’ would have no preconceptions of how the dwarf previously escaped. It would destroy his knuckles, but a possibility lay nonetheless. He’d have to chance it, knowing such a plan would be less effective cooped up in Waspig’s previous quarters.

The dwarf’s fist crashed down onto the console, releasing a panel of glass.

No arrow loosened. The funguay did not stir. The dwarf’s bludgeoned hand came to rest by his side.

“Insolent little dwarf,” said Locust, waving away the arsenal around him. “You enter much luck with our having multiple facilities. We’ll march the two of you right away to your halfway house,” and, turning to Doetrieve, the captain continued: “Shall we march you alongside, traitor?”

Doetrieve smiled. “Ya’ccuse my deliverin’ a war crim’nal to yer doorstep a traitorous act, is that it?”

The captain cleared his throat, adding after some time: “No. I suppose you’re to be commended, lieutenant. Set them up, will you?”

“Yes sir.”

An elf tossed glass shackles to Doetrieve’s hands. He brushed by the dwarf and dragged Doctor Mallow out from the orb, clamping a handful of hands in each hole. He brought the chains back to the dwarf, an icy glance shared. The dwarf complied limply, and he and the funguay became chained together, arms bound, horrible shrill marble ringing out from glass on glass. Back out from the cavern, dawn arrived. The elfen village’s wilderness became lit in gold, rays melting off the prisoners marching up mud and towards a vine woven path.

The morning teemed with buzz among those who had awoken in time to share the rising sun with prisoners. Some clothed, some bare--elfs of all sizes gawked and ogled the shambling funguay and dwarf. He, the latter, could not resist submitting to hot embarrassment--it was even worse in nudity. And so he kept his beard low, neck bent until arrival at the cell he’d already known. Shackle undone, two hands gripped his hair and neck and tossed him past bars of glass, beaten shroom next. A variety of strange knobs lined vertically dispensed air in quick hisses before petering out. The captain made the prisoners’ rights known:

“You have both been declared, as decreed by myself and The Ponderous Tree, criminals of war. Among other charges, you are both accused guilty of conspiracy to destroy The Ponderous, a scheme you have unfortunately nearly succeded in. Neither of you will be tried--no need. A hanging will be arranged posthaste--and our vines will keep. My men will stop at nothing to keep you lawfully imprisoned in the meanwhile. I, Captain Locust, recommend trying nothing lest you wish to make both your debuts bruised.”

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Locust leaving, Doetrieve stood firm facing away from the cell, bow strapped across back, feet pointed away. He glanced at the miserable eyed dwarf. He excused himself from the room and stepped outside. The dwarf sighed and took stock of his familiar circumstances. A dark rectangle, the facilities offered within were: cot, bucket, mass of hay, and a funguay attempting to sit upon a chair of three glass legs. Managing a balance, an “Aah” escaped its lips.

“Spend enough time in a ball and any chair is heaven,” it offered. The dwarf nod and fell onto hay rear first. Doctor Mallow continued: “I expected no rescue effort. When hearing of your flee from the village, I thought you long gone. You have my regards even if the act was somewhat pointless.” It clapped a multitude of its hands. “A spacious upgrade did follow, so do not look so dour.” But the dwarf resisted a change in face. No tears came, but defeat and a strange sense of boredom weighed on his mind. Doetrieve having left the prison, there was no reason for the dwarf not to leap upon the opportunity and begin pummeling concrete. But he could barely will the energy, his legs more than anything shrieking in defiance. They had both turned a shade purpler than the dwarf was accustomed to seeing, and the funguay soon noticed this change as well, observing aloud: “What’s this, ‘adrenaline’? You do not know your limits? I’ve seen this many times. There are remedies for such discomfort, but you’ll hardly find the right ingredients in a hole like this.” It glanced away. “One hole for another, one hole for another...”

The dwarf suffered a unique confliction. A part of him did not wish to really speak with the doctor, actions of the funguay’s unremembered past remembered by he. Funguayou existed either way. But the betrayal suffered underneath a mossy cottage top had embittered the dwarf greatly, and he found it difficult to come to terms with the idea of such an action vanishing, that Funguayou arrived in a different manner, that the dwarf himself could be argued the only aggressor. But the doctor, nonetheless, was partially responsible for the Ponderous’ state. And, apropos, what cure existed for the Ponderous, for one surely must?

“There is no cure,” affirmed the funguay, sinking into its chair awkwardly.

The dwarf realized in his rush out the church he’d not even asked Funguayou the same. He’d try to remember to if granted another ‘LOAD’.

“No, there’s no cure... however,” started Doctor Mallow, “There is something between a cure and the poison itself. It could grant the Ponderous his lucidity once more, and rapidly. And then a few more moments and he’ll die. So really, ‘cure’ is no right term. And as he is now, he’ll exist for much longer.”

What good was existing in its state, questioned the dwarf.

“The Ponderous is responsible for a great many trees. His death would not go unnoticed. And now Locust is shrewd enough to pawn whole blame onto a man of God and a bearded bastard. Never even met the damned tree... with our removal this entire colony will blindly follow Locust towards any goal so long as he pretends it comes from His incoherent pagan deity.”

The dwarf knew Doetrieve knew this as well. So why had the elf turned? Could it be just cowardice? Did the lieutenant have another plan? And as if reading his thoughts, Doctor Mallow chided: “I warned not to trust the knife eared. The rosy faced one was always going to betray you, just as the long haired stick knew he’d stick myself.”

The funguay put its face in its many palms.

“I regret it all. I regret ever arriving on this island, ever settling in those ruins, ever seeing you--even if your intent this morning were noble, it was you who still damned me to my fate. And for what, dwarf?”

He, the dwarf, saw little reason to hold back besides lack of energy. So he retold his story in as few words as possible, explaining his rise from the same hole the funguay’d been damned to, detailing the cottage visit in one timeline and contrasting it against the other, revealing even Mallow’s own act of betrayal, omitting only the existence of Funguayou. He spoke of ‘SAVING’ and ‘LOADING’ and spiders. The doctor chewed on every word. But before the dwarf could field a response, his lids drooped, and his face fell...

“Dwarf. Dwarf. Dwarf. Les go, alright.”

The dwarf was jerked up by Doetrieve, Sowsmith attending to Doctor Mallow in fixing its array of hands back to shackles. So too joined the dwarf, and the two of them were wordlessly marched out into the light of the next day, no breakfasts eaten by either prisoner nor meals had the night previous. Once more came gawking, and it intensified in number and effect as the two were made to ascend carved stairs crawling up a massive stump. Bars of glass shot up from smooth rings and offered two looped vines. The dwarf was affixed to one and the funguay the other. During the securing he noticed panels beneath Mallow and himself. Satisfied in their work, Doetrieve and Sowsmith broke and interspersed with the crowd while Captain Locust joined the prisoners to make an address.

A few words later, and a panel slid back: the funguay dropped, its cap pressing tight against vine, its stalk changing hues fast.

Then slid the second.