Has it been so long? I miss you, my son. A boy you were, covered in scrapes and mud, your face a mirror of what could be. Has it been long enough for all the world to be torn in two and then resewn, so that such tragedy could mar those happy eyes, and leave an open wound in place of the heart I gave my all to nurture? I ask because... how could I know? I've been here, where I suppose, I perhaps belong. I have not forgotten everything, though. No jail could rob me of you entirely. Like a miser, I locked the smallest memories you all away where they could never be found. Every skinned knee, every cut lip, every promise made to your mother. I will see you, ere nightfall, that I know, for when I sleep my mind recalls what my eyes cannot. They took my eyes, but not my love for you. Don't worry over me, my boy. Stay true to your path, and your life will be filled with purpose, and maybe we'll see each other again, on the eve of then and now.

Oroboron could not help but feel nervous as his gaoler looked over the note. But the man shook his head and shrugged, then handed it to the chermitigal, who tucked it into the soft fold of skin where its kind stored the parcels they delivered. It rumbled a little when the note was tucked away, and the tentacle it held the note with quivered. It's translucent head glowed a soft blue, then faded back to clear white.

"You alright?", the gaoler asked.

The chermitigal glowed pink for a moment, then lifted off the ground and floated up the stairs, its twenty three tentacles treading the air as if it were water.

"Freakish things," the gaoler growled.

Oroboron mumbled agreement, taking great care to uphold his guise as a dust man.

"I don't understand how you lot can write but not speak." The gaoler spat through the bars and went back to his seat in the outer hall of the oubliette.

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Oroboron leaned back against the wall. He'd never been in such a lowly form before, and was afraid it would fail him. Though it had not yet. He owed that to the stupidity of his gaolers. Were even a hint of his true nature discovered, he'd be put in a more secure place, with intelligent guards. Without his eyes, disguise and deceit were his only hope of aiding his son.

He knew he didn't have long. Arun's gaolers were cunning, and would see through the dream he left behind in his old cell in the Hall of Night. Then any new prisoner anywhere in the realm would be suspicious and subject to inspection, and Arun himself knew the body Oroboron was in. Arun would send the foxes, and they would smell the sweat of a fallen Starborn at the very least, if not detect that he was an Elder Being. The foxes fed on the radiance of dead primordials, Oroboron knew. They would recognize his essence, most likely, and then he would be forced to slay a great many people, or be brought back to Avon Lasair alive. Either way would bode ill for Othomo, his one child left whole. Either he would not be alive to pass the secrets he'd learn to his boy, or Arun would use him as leverage.

Othomo had far too soft a heart for his task, especially for family. Oroboron remembered the groaning among the stars when Othomo subdued his brother. Hadeon was mad beyond healing, and a danger to all works of the Radiant Soul. The Soul Himself had brought Hadeon in, but He must have been moved by Othomo's deep brotherly love. Oroboron wanted to have complete faith in the Radiant Soul to see His purpose fulfilled, but so much of the great work now hung on the verge that his faith wavered more each day. He could only hope that the Will would not be challenged much longer, and Othomo would not let his compassion be his undoing. He could not imagine that the Radiant Soul would not have intervened in Othomo's battle with Hadeon unless He saw true potential in their combined efforts. But it was difficult, though Oroboron loved his sons and had once taken great pride in them both. Now one was insane and bestial, wreaking havoc without reason or mercy, and the other was exhausted from a series of brutal defeats. The road before Othomo would be painful. The Fiends would have to all be destroyed before he lifted a finger against Arun, and that would mean slaying his own sisters, whom he was so very fond of. Oroboron wondered if Othomo knew they'd been warped by Noctis.

No. How could he? Noctis is his beloved. A man like Othomo will never suspect treachery from his own bride.

Oroboron let out a heavy sigh. He'd been imprisoned so long. So long...