Arn had been sitting in the dark room for nearly an hour before he thought to examine the black walls. His calloused fingers found the rough surface oddly warm—this was metal, he realized. Like the sword he had once carried, like the plates covering some of the soldiers in the siege camp, this metal wall was smooth and seemed utterly unbreakable. He followed it to the corner and paused… had he heard something? A whisper? Or was that just the shuffle of his tattered sandals?
Then it came again. “… out, try to leave… try…” It sounded like the breeze, but Arn couldn’t spot any openings in his dark, metal box. How did I get in here? he wondered, but he felt that he had only just forgotten how.
That voice was right though—he needed to get out. The room was growing warmer. The floor was metal too, and Arn could feel the heat through his leather soles. He continued past a corner feeling along the walls with his palms. As the heat pressed against his palms, his searching grew more frantic. Was there a hidden door, like the moving wall panels in Quenden’s house?
“You won’t even try, you just hide here…” the voice hissed accusatorily. Didn’t it know Arn was searching?
Arn now tapped the wall, grimacing as his skin was burned by the hot metal. He was forced to step back after a moment, blinking though the sweat. Now the walls were beginning to glow, like the metal the men in the siege camp hammered. He withdrew to the middle of the room—it seemed the safest place.
The voice continued relentless. “Try, why don’t you? Fight instead of just burning,” the voice rumbled.
“It won’t accomplish anything!” Arn shouted back. He had been here before, hadn’t he? He had fought and clawed to get out… and he was still here. His fighting had only scarred his fingers. The walls were painted dark orange and red. Arn was parched, his lips bleeding. He fell to his knees. He was powerless to accomplish anything, fighting or not.
The walls turned white and Arn was branded a thousand times.
He sat up straight. He was sweating and panting hoarsely in his bed, back in Quenden’s compound. The damned dreamworld, he thought. Sometimes he knew it wasn’t real, but not every time. He slowly sank down toward his pillow once more; in doing so, he glanced to the side. His eyes settled on Gamden. The man—real or not—was restlessly wrapped in his blankets and fast asleep.
Arn opened his mouth to wake him, but hesitated. It was madness. In that moment, questioning if Gamden was real or not was… insanity. He was sleeping right there—as tangible as the cot on which Arn rested. Arn could smell his sweat and hear his snores. How many days had passed since his conversation with Quenden? Arn could not count, but he had spent them in here, writhing between the dreamworld and the moments of hungry, confused lucidity.
He tried going back to sleep, but he could not. He found himself longing to call out to Gamden again—and again, he suppressed his voice. Gamden rolled over, suddenly, but his eyes were still closed tight. Looking at his friend’s bearded face—its returned colour after their months of being blasted by the sun on that island—he was even more compelled. “Gamden,” he said.
“Hmm—what?” Gamden asked. He rose groggily, leaning on one elbow and opening his eyelids at different times. “Arn?”
It was the first time they had spoken in weeks. “Are…” Arn trailed off. He was a fool—Quenden had played him.
Gamden pushed his knees up and rose to a proper sitting position, his back against the wooden wall. “What’s wrong?”
Arn rubbed his nose. “Are you real?”
“What?” Gamden asked, chuckling. “Of course, I’m real. How would you have survived on the island without my fishing prowess?”
Arn stared at him. The moon cast rays through the smoke hole in the ceiling, painting a panel of white behind Gamden. In that moment, Arn’s certainty slipped away. Gamden spoke earnestly, but his words were gone as soon as they had been spoken—fleeting and phony. “Where were you from—before the island?” he asked his old friend.
“You wouldn’t have heard of it,” Gamden said.
It was a strikingly familiar reply, though Arn couldn’t remember Gamden’s response to the first time they had broached that topic. “Tell me,” Arn said, sitting up straighter.
“A town on a coast, like Starath,” Gamden said.
Those were all things Arn had learned about since arriving in this new land. If he knew them, perhaps his delusions could, too. “What was it called?”
Gamden hesitated—too long. “Tallam,” he said. He shrugged. “I told you it would mean nothing—”
Arn surged across the shack’s dirt floor and seized Gamden around the neck. He felt real—as real as any man Arn had choked. Gamden gurgled wordlessly, trying to demand why Arn was hurting him. They grappled, but Arn’s grip could not be broken. A tumble to the floor jarred Arn and filled his raggedy hair with sand. He rolled and squatted over Gamden as he continued choking him.
Abruptly, Arn realized he couldn’t breathe. Had he taken a hit, in the fall? Was he winded? He opened his mouth to suck for air, but none came in. He shifted his grip, keeping Gamden pinned and throttled while he fumbled at his neck. His blanket wasn’t caught around him—his skin had not been slashed. He realized what it meant—all the things it meant. He opened his mouth and roared—but no voice could come out. His cheeks flushed red. His rage was hotter than the slave brand. He wanted this… this thing… out of his head.
He nearly passed out; a few moments later, Arn was sitting against the side of his cot, pushing his feet through the sand to get some distance. Gamden was rolling away, coughing and gagging. “You’re out… of your mind,” he wheezed. He rose to one knee, nearly fell, and then stumbled through the leather tent flap and out of sight.
“You want me to resist captivity,” Arn called quietly. He collapsed against the wall of the shack. “The dreams want me to fight back against it. The slaves tell me to say ‘no’ to Quenden, too.”
He rubbed his throat. Everyone who needed to hear him could. “It’s pointless,” he said. “It’s in my damned head! I’m not resisting, I’m not standing up, I’m not trying… I am done.”
He fell asleep leaning against the wall, as alone as he could be.