Could he see?
Could he hear?
“Mari?” he whispered.
The wind traced the trembling of his lips. It settled over the throbbing boom of his heart. His goose bumps rose, and a shudder worked through him.
No. He couldn’t hear.
The solemn one dropped his chin to his chest. The wind rode over his exhale. His shoulders fell, and his breath stilled. This was the posture of defeat. It was the posture men wore when they were about to be chained and led to the gallows; when they’d fought and lost; when they knew their cause was dead and they couldn’t fight anymore.
It was the posture of a dead man.
The solemn one’s chest heaved, and the wind struggled in his pained exhale. It swirled around the cell, carried in the solemn one’s agony. It circled the depths and watched as the darkness took form.
The solemn one’s agony had been distilled into a single, hopeless thing. It crystallized into a faceless, nameless, haunting thing.
A gray-shrouded rag man coalesced in a frightening mist behind the solemn one.
The wind shrieked, pushing at the rag man’s despair. It blew through the chilly figure, not even stirring the dirty, torn gray rags. It was a phantom, a dead spirit thing, and the wind couldn’t touch it.
The faceless thing stared down at the solemn one’s bowed head. Its gray shroud floated around it, moving like seaweed in a rip current. The wind wasn’t blowing it. It didn’t know what was. It was not wind.
The rag man watched the solemn one with eerie, intent focus, as if memorizing the being that had birthed it. The solemn one didn’t notice the thing behind him.
The rag man extended its long arm and held a clawed hand over the solemn one’s head. The wind held its breath, wondering if the rag man would touch him.
It was the death of all the solemn one’s hopes and dreams. If it touched him, would he die too?
The rag man’s clawed hand stilled a breath from the solemn one. Then it turned, its shroud swirling, and walked through the cell’s stone wall.
Solemn one? the wind whispered.
It smoothed a gentle breeze through his hair, pushing it away from his wet cheeks. It ran a tendril of comfort over the agonized drumming of his heart.
Was there nothing left of him?
No.
The rag man had appeared and gone. There was nothing left.
The solemn one had fallen to his knees in the darkest depths, and he hadn’t heard anyone’s voice.
Wait, the wind cried. Wait. Listen.
But the solemn one didn’t wait. He didn’t listen. Instead, he stood, pushing off his bloody knees.
He moved through the dark cell as if it were as bright as noon. At the bed, he pulled on a thick black shirt that smelled like it could repel bullets and blades. He changed into clean jeans of the same fabric and tugged on boots. He tied his long hair at the back of his neck, ruthlessly pushing it from his face. He dressed with a cold, emotionless efficiency.
Then he opened a thick cloth case, unrolling a long fabric sleeve that held more knives than even a houseful of Smiths would need. The case spanned the length of the bed. The wind slid over the edges of the blades, trailing the cold metal. Some were as smooth and sharp as the icy wind in winter. Some were serrated and wickedly jagged, like a bull shark’s teeth. Some were hooked and brutal, like a jaguar’s claws. Some were as thin as a needle. Some were as thick as the solemn one’s hand. All of them were deadly.
The wind moaned as the solemn one covered himself in enough knives to slaughter every being inside the asylum. More. Too many more.
He hid and secreted the knives inside his modern-day armor. The wind could smell the tang of their cold, hungry metal, but it couldn’t see them.
At the last knife, palmed and hidden, the solemn one turned to the cell door.
The wind brushed over his bearded cheek.
