Archive of Our Own ^beta

Endon knew it was a matter of time. He knew that the Guards would come eventually. He knew. 

That doesn’t stop the cold, raw terror from climbing up his throat as his wife is dragged away from him. That doesn’t stop the icy fear from gripping his heart. That doesn’t stop the nausea from rising up his throat. 

That doesn’t stop his ears from ringing with her scream as they’re locked into separate cells. 

Her voice echoes in his ears long after he knows he cannot hear her. He does not show it. Does not give any indication of weakness. He knows, deep down, that this is his fate for failing Deltora all those years ago. 

He closes his eyes and leans against the stone wall. 

Please, just let Sharn be spared. He begs the freezing air. There is nothing else to plead with. 

He does not know how long passes before he thinks he hears his son’s voice, but a glance shows that it was merely a dream. His mind is playing tricks on him as he is on the corners of sleep. 

Then, the cell door opens, and Prandine walks in. 

“Before you say anything foolish, I am Fallow,” The man stares, reading a scroll impassionately, “Prandine was one of my predecessors, and a foolish one at that. He died the day Deltora fell- you would not happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“I know nothing.” Endon mutters, not letting anything show. Pran- Fallow gives no reaction, only a raised eyebrow. 

The questioning continues- different topics, added threats, but nothing makes Endon change his words- For Lief, for Deltora he must hold to his silence, and continue his claim. That is one truth he does not budge from. 

A few more times, he is questioned, and each time, Fallow does so alone. Sometimes he has Sharn brought in, and there are threats, and close calls, but no attempts to physically harm him or his wife. 

That, of all things, makes Endon the most nervous. 

Then, one day- or one night, it is difficult to tell given the lack of windows- Fallow stumbles into Endon’s cell and collapses on the floor. 

It feels as if it should be a joke. 

“If anyone asks,” Fallow says, face still on the floor, “I am torturing you. Horrifically. It is taking all of your willpower not to give in.”

“Of course.” Endon replies, not too sure what else to say. 

Fallow gives a weak chuckle, “Good man.”

“You cannot always trust that the one I bring you is your wife,” Fallow states as Endon and Sharn embrace once again, “Nor can you always trust the one I am taking you to is your husband. There are creatures of the Shadow Lord that can take another’s face.”

Endon freezes and feels his throat become thick. He looks into Sharn’s eyes and sees the same doubts in hers. Is she the one he loves, or an enemy spy? But what other strategy could this be but an attempt to create doubt between them? Yet the proof of such things is right in front of them: Fallow wears Prandine’s face, and Endon would be a fool to believe that the Shadow Lord would not be able to go further. 

“You are fortunate that my master is uncreative in that area,” Fallow mutters,  shaking his head and stepping away, “He may not remain so forever, so it is best to find a way to determine you are to each other what you believe. I will return in a few minutes. Do not talk too loudly.” 

Fallow’s voice is almost light as he leaves, and the moment he is gone, Endon allows himself to hold his wife closer and bury his head on her shoulder. She is trembling, but she is still warm, whole and alive, and Endon allows himself to find comfort in that for as long as fate will allow. 

“Endon.” Fallow says one session, bringing in the food and placing it in front of the man. 

Endon sighs as he takes the bowl, “I have told you, my wife and I know nothing.” 

“Allow me to rephrase, blacksmith:” Fallow’s voice is impassive, almost drained as he speaks though lips that do not seem to move, “I know you are Endon.”

Fallow gives a dull smile as Endon carefully does not freeze. He wonders if his lack of reaction can give the entire ruse away. He pretends he is too focused on the food to care about whatever madness Fallow is speaking. 

“Jarred has a scar on his wrist that never healed properly,” Fallow continues, sighing, “Do not worry. I burned the only portrait that it shows in.” 

Endon remembers that. Jarred had decided to climb one of the older trees the morning after a storm, and had slipped just as Min was arriving. Jarred had hated that he couldn’t go outside for a week but still needed to attend lessons.

Endon says nothing, but he does give Fallow a small nod of thanks for the meal. 

“Any new word of the ‘important items?’” Endon asks during the usual interrogation. It is an odd sight, both himself and his wife sitting on one side of the cell while the man meant to interrogate them stands in front of the door, making no move to harm them.

Endon has not forgotten that the man is an enemy, and that he must be feared, but Endon is too exhausted to fear. More often than not, Fallow enters the room off balance, and moves sluggishly. On those occasions, Endon and Sharn have a chance to get what information they can. 

“Dread mountain has been liberated of its,” Fallow says with little else added besides, “Though, they are still supplying to the guards.”

“The dread gnomes serve the Shadow Lord, then?” Sharn asks with what Endon can tell is a false casualness. 

Fallow gives a bitter chuckle, “They serve my master as willing as any other.”

“You humans are so lucky,” Fallow mutters as he leans his forehead against the wall. Endon is aware that any ‘interrogation’ is simply an excuse for Fallow to talk at him or Sharn. 

“Why is that, Fallow?” Endon asks as he eats his food. It is only polite to ask the obvious question, after all. 

“You…” Fallow’s voice drifts off for a brief amount of time as he frowns, clearly still out of it, “When you die, you leave… proof. Evidence, and… you know- what happens after death. You humans… know you have- spirits. We do not. Either because we just stop or because your Belt doesn’t care to call for creatures like us after death.”

This is certainly a conversation Endon never thought he would be having with the Shadow Lord’s servant, but he supposes this place is as good as any other in making one think of such things. It is a place of death and little else, after all. 

“People do not know what happens after death either,” Endon comments dryly, “We just hope it is nothing too horrible.”

“But you know you have souls,” Fallow replies, not even opening his eyes, “That is- is lucky, among so many others.”

“You have a soul, too,” Endon says, and Fallow snorts with something that could almost be called laughter.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, blacksmith,” Fallow’s lips are still curled without mirth, and Endon shrugs his shoulders. It was still worth the attempt. 

“You know, your continued silence is very convenient for me,” Fallow says as he sits across from Endon and Sharn, “If you actually broke and began talking, there would be a chance I would be sent back to the Shadowlands.”

“Back to the Shadowlands?” Sharn’s voice does not tremble, but the horror in it is plain for all to hear, “You have been there before, Fallow?”

“Oh, yes, I was born there,” Fallow blinks, not looking at anything in particular, “A miserable place, it is. There is no colour in the sky when night and day change, and there is always a thick… smog. Not like here. The sky is always… changing.”

“How did you end up here, then?” Sharn continues, unafraid at talking about such a taboo.

“This is my exile,” Fallow closes his eyes, clearly not worried at any escape attempt Endon or his wife might make, “I failed, though not enough to get myself killed. I was sent here with certain- privileges. In truth, it is simply because the previous executioner is no longer among the living.

“I must say, though, that I much prefer this.”

Fallow stands and dusts off his robes. 

“Are you done, or do you have anything else you wish to discuss with your husband?” Fallow asks as Endon and Sharn share a look. Neither want to push further, yet…

“What can you tell us of the Shadowlands?” Endon asks with forced casualness. 

“Besides how miserable it is?” Fallow shakes his head, and then winces at the actiong, “Little else. There is nothing good I can think of it. The closest is the Shadow Arena, but the entertainment it offers is repetitive at best.” 

“You seem to have had a bit too much to drink,” Endon comments as Fallow massages his head. Endon does not know if it actually helps, or if Fallow does it because he has seen humans do such a thing to nurse their own headaches. 

“I do not- drink, blacksmith,” Fallow murmurs, “This is… Lumin. It is- soaked.” 

“Does it actually help with anything?” Endon asks doubtfully. 

“It… Dulls everything,” Fallow’s eye opens a crack, and he gazes at Endon, “With it I do not have to- have to think of what has happened, or the- or fate that awaits me when this is over. I can merely… merely enjoy the moment.”

Endon sighs. He could not say that he does not understand the temptation. He has always been painfully aware that the fault of it all lies with him and him alone, so he had not dared touch the bottle to escape from such things, even if his family could afford it. Even if that were the case, he would not. He could not afford to let his mind or senses become dull. 

“Would talking help, or make it worse?” It is not sympathy that causes him to ask, nor is it pity. In truth, he does not know why he does. 

Fallow gives a huff of breath, “Tell me… something. Something human, that I never would see in the Shadowlands. It would be… pleasant, to think of nothing else.” 

Endon raises an eyebrow, but does so, talking about a day where nothing in particular happened, carefully making sure he does not give any names or details that Fallow could use against him. 

Endon is not sure how long he has been here, or what is happening outside. His time is a cycle of food, rest, food, time with Sharn, food, and interrogation. If Lief, Barda, and the mysterious wild girl have gotten further than Dread Mountain, he does not know. 

He knows that they are so very close, and if they have not fallen yet, then they will not die on their quest for the last two gems. With luck, they may even find Jarrad and Anna in Tora, and join forces with them. 

All he needs to do is wait. 

“Does the Shadow Lord not suspect betrayal?” Endon asks, “Does he not consider that his servants have grown dissatisfied?”

“No. You do not understand it, do you? Our kind aren’t like you humans. We are not born, we are not left to chance, we are made with an idea in mind.” Fallow’s voice is more focused than usual, and he looks at Endon with cold, empty eyes, his face completely blank, “Even now, I wish to break you, to hurt you and make you scream for a mercy I do not have, yet I know I would never be able to undo such an action. I know that it is not similar to- some form of broken toy- I cannot simply fix it, because you are a living being, and that pain remains.”

Endon is silent, his throat suddenly feeling dry. Fallow at least has the decency to look away as Endon’s horror clearly shows on his face. 

“You humans are so very fortunate,” Fallow’s voice is quiet, his tone almost that of mourning, “To have such choices from birth.” 

“My master is growing impatient,” Fallow comments, his voice an almost nonchalant tone. 

“Is that not a good thing?” Sharn’s voice sounds calm as she responds, but Endon knows that the tone hides the worst of her nerves. It is only a voice she uses at her most fearful. 

“He will not stop until he has proof. Of that, I am certain,” Fallow replies, “However, there have been times when he has found confessions unnecessary.”

Endon knew that death was always a possibility, and this is a far better death then others he had imagined.

Better to die in Deltora than live in the Shadowlands. 

“And when he has the proof?” Sharn continues, breaking Endon’s thoughts. Of course, death will not come for them yet. 

Fallow hesitates, and that alone makes Endon’s nerves spike, “He will either publicly execute you, or use you as a bargaining chip against your son. Likely both.”

He hears Sharn take a sharp breath, but when he looks to her, he sees her face a cool mask. They both know that the fate of Deltora will alwas be more important than their lives, and they know their son knows. 

Of course, that is assuming they will break before then.

Both of them know neither will break. 

Fallow walks in with a scowl, his eyes sharp. Endon straightens, already prepared for what the news will be.

“He knows,” Fallow spits, pacing back and forth within the cell, “He knows.”

How-? Endon wonders as pure panic floods his veins, “Is Lief-?”

“Your son is fine,” Fallow answers before panic can overcome Endon, “As is your wife. It seems a spy was able gather their identities and inform my master of them.”

“And the spy’s identity?” Endon raises an eyebrow, suspicion clear in his voice. If the Shadow Lord knows that Lief is-

“I do not know. We are only told what is ‘necessary.’ I did not even know of this information until I proposed that you may be innocent,” Fallow sighs, suddenly appearing drained, “He does not know the complete truth, only that Lief is the one attempting to gain the gems for the Belt of Deltora, that he is accompanied by a girl named Jasmine, and a former palace guard named Barda.”

Endon allows himself to relax as he realises not all is lost. The Shadow Lord has information, but only enough to mislead him. 

Fallow gives a cold smile and continues, “Let us remember that until Barda’s identify was confirmed, the Shadow Lord believed that the man traveling with your son was king Endon.”

Perhaps it is the sudden relief that has flooded his veins, but despite his mistrust for the man, Endon cannot stop himself from laughing at Fallow’s attempts to lighten the atmosphere of this cold, decrept cell.