Temple sat on the floor in the corner beside his bed in the absolute darkness of his home, legs drawn up, one arm hugging his knees, the other draped over his head. It was so familiar. He’d sat like this as a child, in the darkness, biting his lip until he tasted blood, arms tight around himself to be as small as possible and limit the shaking, so nobody would hear him or see him.

He had sat like this after… after it happened. After… He couldn’t reach the memories; they were too far back. Too dark to grasp. He only remembered being alone after it happened back then. The first place he had gone to was the docks. He had hidden in the attic of a storeroom. He had sat there, shaking, trying not to make a sound. He couldn’t move.

He couldn’t move.

He wished Gilbert were here. More than anything else in the world, he wanted Gilbert’s arms around him right now, and that sent a shockwave of agony through his entire body. He gasped, but his lungs refused to work for a while until he finally managed to suck in a pained gulp of air. He couldn’t think about him.

He had lost Gilbert.

Something had happened. Something inside his mind, inside his chest, had happened. Gilbert’s words had sparked a fierce joy for a second before it snapped, like when the drawbridge of Harbour-watch Bastion opened up with a thud. It was real, and he had felt it coming for weeks now, months, while he smiled for the first time in his life and chatted and cooked food with Gilbert’s arms around him and was happy. He had let all the warmth and happiness swallow the part of his mind that knew a threat was coming. The part of him that ignored the image of the kneeling woman and the child slitting her throat.

He bit his lip afresh in punishment of himself and closed his eyes in the darkness, and the small point of pain became an anchor he could focus on. He couldn’t think about Gilbert. His words had–

Temple tightened the grip around himself and tried to let his mind go blank, tried to concentrate on the wounds under his feet from his panicked, shoeless flight across the rain-slick nightscape of Sonderport. He couldn’t stop shaking; it was a miracle he had managed to dodge and skip all his traps when he came home considering how his body shook.

The rain-wet clothes hung icily on him, and the cold had seeped deep into his bones, just as the living darkness had seeped into him when he was a child.

He gasped for breath. It was true. He knew it. But he had never realised it consciously before. It had somehow hidden itself from him for years. Until Gilbert said…

I love you.

And the words had melted something in his chest and in the same instant, he had felt an old, angry, hideous connection awaken inside and bridge a gap within his mind he hadn’t even known existed. It felt like the echo of a terrible, screeching sound that had torn him open and claws had dug deep into his soul and teeth sunk into the back of his neck. He was its plaything whether he wanted to be or not. He had never felt so utterly alone and helpless in his entire life.

If he hadn’t fled from Gilbert, the darkness that had found him would have burst forth. Wouldn’t it? It would have flowed forth inside his mind as it had done once already when it had held Temple’s hand from inside, closed it around the knife, and slit the woman’s throat. He had looked out his own eyes, but in the same manner as when he saw the executions down on the pier far below him: as a passenger, a passive spectator that had no power to change anything.

He couldn’t fight it.

He was alone. Just as he had always been. Alone with the living darkness staring at him.

*

Gilbert opened the door to his home and was immediately struck by the silence and emptiness inside.

It almost felt like a death. Like bereavement.

It was very close to unbearable, and Gilbert was constantly torn between his anger and his grief. Anger at being found less important than Temple’s fear, and grief at the knowledge that he would likely not see him again. He had no means of locating him.

He didn’t know what to do with himself. On the one hand, he wanted to be home in case Temple came back, and on the other, sitting around to feel the crushing absence of him was so close to the emptiness Nia had left behind when she died that he couldn’t truly bear it. So he worked. Then he walked around the city for hours each day. Went home only to catch a few hours of exhausted sleep if he could; when he tried, he mostly just lay in bed, feeling how empty it was.

Outside in the street, people walked past – chatted, yelled, and lived their lives in the sunshine. He had to pick himself up. At least continue the semblance of life. So Gilbert forced himself to make a cup of tarbean tea. That was normal. He had to eat, too. But the thought of cooking just made Temple’s absence even more pronounced, and he ended up just chewing a piece of half-dry bread.

He should never have said it.

To his inner gaze, he kept seeing Temple’s panic when the thoughtless words left his lips. It was a raw and immediate reaction, and then Temple had turned his gaze away, knowing how readable he was. It was fear. He was so terrified of having someone close that he would rather sprint off on bare feet than accept one more second with Gilbert’s arms around him.

Usually, this chain of thoughts flared his anger and kept the sorrow down, so he at least had a chance to sleep, pretending he hated Temple for his cowardice. Pretending he could dismiss him from his life and heart. But today, one week since Temple fled, Gilbert just couldn’t find the anger. The empty pain inside hadn’t lessened; it still sat there like a cold rock in his chest that made breathing cumbersome.

He didn’t understand it. Temple had been opening up more and more. Warm, caring in his own odd way with all the little gestures he did that told Gilbert that he appreciated him. Like how he stomped when he entered, or how he brought locks for him to pick that he had certainly spent hours making.

Gilbert missed him with all his body and mind. He missed their closeness and the little lines between Temple’s brows that always showed up just before he awoke as if the process of leaving his dreamlands was just a tad offensive to him. He missed the little smile in the corner of his mouth when Gilbert made him eat some food he’d never tried before and he liked it.

Actually, almost all foods were news to Temple, though he wasn’t a picky eater… How was that even possible? How had he gone his whole life not finding any food he found delicious?

If Temple wasn’t back by tomorrow, Gilbert thought to himself, he would give up on him. This was far too painful. Temple was too damaged. It had been foolish to fall for him to begin with.

He had said ‘I can’t control it’. Gilbert wasn’t sure what he had meant. Maybe it was just the closeness between them? The intensity?

Curse the fact that he had respected Temple’s constant need to retreat, to run away instead of insisting on knowing more about him! If he had known where the thief lived, he could have marched over there and gotten him back, forced him to see reason, cornered him, scared him, abused his trust, and taken his privacy from him. Privacy was probably the only thing Temple possessed that he could rely on. And here he sat, expecting Temple to let go of his only source of security after just a few months…

Gilbert sighed and rubbed his face. He hadn’t put words on it before, but all this time he had been competing with Temple’s privacy and sense of safety for the title of most important in his life. He had tried to give him space to come and go. He hadn’t expected miracles, but he’d still achieved a good amount of them.

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The first time Temple stayed the night. The first time he agreed to try to cook, clearly finding it a ridiculous endeavour at first. When he suggested they stay in bed and have a conversation. They had ended up talking about the rights and wrongs of the penal system of all things, which hadn’t been something he’d ever imagined discussing while being naked under the covers with a delicious and opinionated partner and an autumn storm brewing outside the window.

The memories made Gilbert smile, but then they turned around and stung his heart with a force that made him gasp for breath.

If he’s not back here before I go to bed tomorrow, I will let him go…

But Gilbert had thought that every single day since Temple fled. And he knew he would give him years to come back if that was what it took.

*

“Captain? There’s a visitor asking for you,” Sargent Sheridan said, and Gilbert cringed on instinct.

“What kind of visitor?” he asked, hoping it wouldn’t be another lunatic ready to empty a bucket of blood over himself and surrender amid a stream of esoteric ramblings. …Hoping that it would be Temple, but Sheridan would have said ‘your friend’ or ‘the locksmith’, so…

“He says he’s from the Spenbell Estate and that the High Merchant has sent him with an important message.” Sheridan shrugged, puzzled.

Gilbert sighed. More politics. Probably it was some sort of threat about not having found the slightest hint of the mastermind to blame for the whole insane string of wall painter murders. Probably because the man who cut his own throat while Gilbert was subduing him had been employed there.

Well… he hadn’t honestly expected to keep his job for this long… “Throw him in here, Sargent,” he said, shaking his head. He should feel combative, nervous, aggressive, wary – anything. But he didn’t have room for more emotions, so he just got up and leaned on his desk.

The man shown into his office was somewhere in his late fifties, lean and tall and dressed in a very well-tailored suit of clothes befitting a functionary of the High Merchant. His hair had been dark but was now mostly silver, and his blue eyes were clear and piercing. He held a leather folder that reminded Gilbert of the one wrapped around the drawings of the High Merchant’s estate that Temple had shown him. Recalling that day, which he had taken as a sign of Temple’s love, felt like a stab to the chest.

“Who are you and why are you here?” he demanded, more harshly than intended.

The elderly man smiled and gave a slight bow. “A pleasure to meet you, Captain Armstrong. I hear your name mentioned often, and only in the most revered of tones,” he said in a pleasant voice and sat down uninvited in a chair within the small but meticulously neat office. “You seem to be a man who knows that everything has its place,” the visitor commented as he looked around.

“That’s a poor answer to ‘why are you here’,” Gilbert pointed out.

The man smiled pleasantly. “Arguably. I’m here to ask you a simple question on the High Merchant’s behalf, Captain Armstrong. I shall not take much of your time, because you have important work to do,” he stated, calm and confident.

“Is that so?” Gilbert crossed his arms. He was used to dealing with the merchant aristocracy, and it was always an entitled and craven experience. Even their servants felt they could give orders to lowly Watchers. He was surprised the man had asked to see him, rather than just forcing his way in and waving people aside who stood in his way.

“Tell me, Captain, if you were to cross a bridge, what would you prefer it was made of; fear and sadness or love and joy?” the man asked, completely unfazed.

Gilbert stared at him blankly. If it was a metaphor for something, he didn’t get it, but he did quickly study the man’s long fingers for a ring similar to the one the painter had worn. Several of the madmen who turned themselves in after committing their murders had called him a bridge, and he never managed to figure out what the hells they meant.

The High Merchant’s employee merely responded with a small smile, put the folder he had brought in his lap, and held up his hands. “As you can see, Captain Armstrong, I am not about to kill myself as that unfortunate man did.” He took the folder and held it out. “I believe you will find this enlightening. I understand you spoke to several historians at the university about Rakkos, and they gave you very little. Well there,” he nodded at the folder, “you will find the details of the Eye of Greed.”

Gilbert reached out for the folder reluctantly. “And why does the High Merchant assist the investigation, exactly?”

“Why, what a silly question, Captain,” the man admonished. “The High Merchant is of course quite distraught at the knowledge that a man in his employ did such a terrible thing. He asked me to put together a folio to assist you in locating the mind behind the crimes.” He stood up and gave a small bow. “Perhaps we will see each other again. Have a good day, Captain Armstrong.” He turned to leave.

Gilbert looked down at the folder in his hand, nonplussed, and then up again to stop the man. But he had already left. Annoyed, he ran the few steps to the door and looked into the main room of the palisade, but all he found was Sheridan and a patrol group that had just come in.

“Where the fuck did he go!” he demanded loudly, but they all just stared blankly at him.

*

Temple didn’t know how much time had passed. But he began to notice that the pain in his feet was not dissipating. Not that he had moved much, had he? How many times had he gone to drink from his stores of well water? Had he eaten? …He had kept a lamp lit for a long time now. But he wasn’t sure how much lamp oil had been left in the jug to begin with, so he couldn’t use that as a measure. What had he been doing?

He had mostly just sat there, hiding, hoping the …darkness wouldn’t find him. Then he had gone to look at the things in his home, as though they were anchors, keeping him from drifting off. He had gone to the workshop where he built his traps and locks and just sat there, in the corner, realising how happy he had been building more and more difficult locks for Gilbert to fight. He had felt proud of both Gilbert and himself for it. It felt like he had given something of himself, and that Gilbert had accepted it, made it a part of who he was. It had felt special. Sacred, in a way.

When, later, he had been standing there, staring into the darkness in the small pantry that mainly held a bit of dried meat and some crackers, he realised how appalled Gilbert would have been at Temple’s food choices. Terrified at having thought of Gilbert, as if it had called attention to him and brought him into danger, Temple had searched his mind for the darkness that had been watching him from across the bridge it formed to him. He’d searched his mind for memories, but this time, it was much harder to reach the woman, whose opened jugular had covered him in blood, the gaping wound like a mouth, vomiting up the red fluid.

Like the painter in the alleyway. The madman that had kneeled to him. ‘Silver-eyed darkness, grant me your mercy’, the painter had said. The first line in the Litany of Greed that he had known by heart. He had known… by heart? But then Gilbert had been there and lessened the madness. That was the only reason he hadn’t fled. Because Gilbert had always been kind. Always been truthful.

Temple wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but he found himself sitting by one of the wardrobes where he kept his earnings. He wasn’t sure why he was here or how long he had been sitting here, but his thoughts rested on Gilbert, not on the darkness or the blood or the pain.

Gilbert had never lied to him. He had only been angry when Temple didn’t trust him. That was his only price. The only thing he wasn’t willing to compromise. And Temple had kept running away, openly distrusting him at every turn, and kept questioning his motives.

Slowly, Temple got to his feet. There were several points of pain when he put weight on his soles. He must have gotten hurt running here barefoot and not consciously noticed. Running away from Gilbert. Again.

His mind resting on Gilbert had warmed him, kept thoughts of the darkness away, but now he froze, realising that he had probably managed to lose Gilbert. No, the darkness had made him lose him. The godsdamned darkness that kept stealing things from him: the darkness that had been his constant companion, just out of reach, as far back as he could remember, so he had to hide away and feel nothing, say nothing, never get involved. He never got involved with anything. He never dared to trust anyone. He was empty.

Sudden anger flared in his chest. How long had he lived like this? The darkness had been so close for so long, looking over his shoulder, and it was only at the Barlik house that he actually held its gaze in the hideous drawing of the eye with the handprint for a pupil. That was why it was so damned familiar! He had just been too much of a coward to look at it. The Eye of Greed had seen him again.

“Rakkos,” he said in a whisper. “Rakkos,” he repeated, louder, angrier. Somehow, Rakkos was the darkness, and that darkness had cost him his love – it had cost him Gilbert. The only person who had always been kind and caring and protective towards him, and only asked to be trusted in return.

The anger sat like a warmth inside him as he stomped off, stepping over the trigger in the floor that would impale a careless snooper, the thin silken tripwire that would trigger a volley of poisoned darts, and several other of the traps he had all over his home because he lived with the solitude the darkness forced upon him. He couldn’t be involved. He couldn’t love anyone. The darkness was constantly in the way.

Decisively, he lit the lamps and candles on the way to the washroom and then undressed with angry movements, pouring water into the washbowl. He stank, and he was very sure the wounds under his feet still had splinters in them. He had to fix it all. He had to fix everything. He had to let Gilbert know that… that he was done being a coward!

Temple halted in his tracks. That was what Gilbert had said. There was still hope. He had said to come back. Temple knew only one way to show him his trust, and he would do everything he could to make Gilbert understand that… he loved him too.

Then he could just hope that Gilbert hadn’t changed his mind.