Noun: A Place of Forgetting
Pitter patter went the feet of the one who paced the too-dark cell. Metal at their feet, metal at their sides, metal over their heads, metal their bed, metal about their throat and wrists. Metal. Bare feet numb to the cold of it all. Numb was good, pacing was good, too much time was spent bound in place, unable to move, that these brief, fleeting moments of freedom had to be cherished. Made the most of. If nothing else it kept off the atrophy.
Atrophy was bad. He'd take one look at that and snuff the life from the form they took. Send them kicking and screaming back into the nether, only to begin the process anew. No... No atrophy. More pacing.
Pitter patter. Pitter patter. Once their steps had been quiet as the sand, once they'd walked a certain way, but that had been many lives ago. Before the fog set in, and all former mannerisms were lost. Once they had been a great many things. Now?
Pitter patter. Pitter patter.
Pause.
Creak...
No movement. Still, like a bantha in headlights. Light pooled in, casting the room awash in a faint orange glow. Head slowly turned, eyes squinting, body shifting back away from it. Was it time already? An end to the pacing? They weren't ready for that... Just a minute longer they pleaded, though no words ever left their mouth.
And yet the shadow which stepped in front of that light was not so staggering as the one which sought to torment. Small, wiry, hunched. It did not approach, did not cross the threshold, it simply stood. Stared. They caught a glint of light reflecting from the shadow's eye...
"Come" that shadow's voice strained, strangely accented with an amalgamation of tones. A battle formed upon their lips. Silence stretched out between them. Neither moved.
Drip, drip, drip, came the droplets in the corner of the room, perpetually there to snuff out true-silence. To keep sleep fleeting and disturbed, to frustrate and perturb. Drip, drip, dr-
"Come. Here."
The shadow stepped back, and as more light pooled in their face became evident. Haunting to look upon, filled with fragile familiarity. They closed their eyes against the view, and shook their head. No, this was another trick. Further deception. He was not real, this amalgamation of two beings lost to the throws of time. He could not be here.
A sigh from his lips. Footsteps they did not see the approach of. Hands at their shoulders, pulling them on... Why were their feet moving? "We... Haven't time for this..." that no longer shadowed being spoke, briskly. "Look at me. You... You have to go." A pause, before they were turned toward him. Eyes slowly opened, staring up into that face... "Mother, please..." Whispered, hissed, desperate.
One word uttered to break through. They-- no, not they. She. She looked away, but when he started to move she found herself just as rushed. Go... Go where, she wondered, as her eyes finally adjusted to the space around them. How long had it been since she'd witnessed what lay beyond the cell? The realm of spirits not withstanding... On and on she was led, until her legs ached and she felt certain she might falter.
And even then.
A new threshold was crossed, and all at once she found herself paused in place. Beyond that door moonlight lay, casting down into an open-aired hangar. A shuttle... His pleading eyes, and outstretched hand. She shied back, and shook her head; sense came back at once, and she turned to walk back to the cell. Brought the barriers back up, and inhaled a shaky breath. He'd be mad, oh so mad, he would not stop until he had her in his grasp, no...
She-- no, not she. They. They took one step back, then another, moonlight fading back into the darkness of the hallway until a hand grasped at their wrist and tugged them back the other way.
"No" came their croaked voice, through cracked lips. "Yes" came his.
This time his hold did not relent as he led them back toward the shuttle and forced them aboard. They struggled, they fought, they tried to return to their cell as they knew was expected, but the door was closed soon after leaving just an imprint on their mind of the boy that had been lost. In the wake of his removal from their sight, familiar bindings were returned to their wrists.
Familiarity, at least. They settled, they waited, wondering which new cell they'd be pacing tomorrow.