Were it not for the smoldering crackle of the fire, nothing would have disturbed the silence reigning after that simple question; the silence, on the part of one man in the camp, had been much longer and more strenuous, though perhaps his companions did not realize what had caused this shift. Solomon listened carefully, hovering on every word coming from the mouth of the green-haired man, but could barely understand why they elicited such a response throughout the core of his being, why the grabbing hands of fear were clawing at his throat and forcing him to stay silent. Not a word, not a whisper, nothing– he could not have spoken if he wanted to, and the fear was stifling even that urge, but he could not discern exactly why ... blackness had settled before his eyes, and he felt for a moment as if he could not breathe, thinking left him, and his hand strayed up the hilt of his sword.

He remembered. He remembered the sword. It had been there, it had ... something had been with the sword, no it must have been someone, not something. He remembered the same fear, the same blackness, the claws of dread. He remembered real claws as well, and while one hand clasped his mantle tight about his shoulders, the other strayed down to his calf, where he remembered pain. The pain had left, but he could feel the marks. The sword! the sword had been there!

As quickly as it came, it went, and he was left in silence again, not remembering, his eyes unseeing and his lips pressed tight together in a firm, white line, as if some wound had suddenly pained him and was now throbbing throughout his being, a feeling so tearing that he could not move or think. But he could think, he remembered now! He could think, but he could not talk, and his body would not obey a command, nothing would obey a command. The blackness over his eyes had not left, but he could see now, there was someone there, and they knew one another, they knew one another well, as lovers know one another but in a worse way, in a horrible way that was as perverse and hateful as the atrocious acts that had been committed in their minds and by their hands.

"We had our fun, it seems," the voice, his voice, said. It was calm, cold, and dangerous. The lurking death of black magic had never left him, but it was a small death ... it had always been a small death, a weak death. That was why he had kept it at bay, and he knew that, he remembered that now.

He answered, knowing that nothing would hear him but what was already in him, what was him in every way. The darkness of his soul held sway in the darkness, and whatever good was left in him had been left to rot; that was truth, he knew and remembered that truth now ... his ‘sanity' had not been taken, he had thrown it away. Insanity would come in time, because he was too frail to hold back the tide ... black magic smiled on the insane, gave them power, might to uphold themselves and crush others. He remembered what it felt like.

Outwardly, his eyes opened and he looked out across the hills and bracken without actually looking at anything, as one does when staring out into space. His head jerked once, side to side, and he remained silent. The internal struggle, such as it was, had managed to reach him through his memories. His mouth formed a grimace, and for the first time since the insanity had first settled on his shoulders, becoming the burden for him to bear, he was able to come back.

"Know the land!" he yelled, leaping to his feet, "Knowing the land is not enough! You are right, Zachary Leos," he barked, the legionary tone of his voice returning and the rust scraping away, "there is more to black magic than searching for it. Have you looked at your life? Have you chosen between your family, your friends, your comrades, your country ... have you weighed them against each other on the scales of power, and found that power was the greater boon, the thing that you needed more? Because only the people who have done and are doing that very thing can know where the roots of black magic are spreading."

Sinking to his knees, Solomon felt the cold mush seep into his trousers ... he ceased to care, and enveloped himself in the protective blanket of thought. He remembered still, but it was different now than it had been. He knew the sword, but he did not recognize it through mists ... mists were everywhere in his mind's eye, an unbreakable wall of mirrors shining all the light of thought back into his eyes. It was impossible to see more than he already knew, but that was not enough.

The keening call of a bird rang through the land, and sunshine suddenly broke through a patch of cloud, blue sky stretching quickly as a west wind blew the clouds away. For the first time in an unknown time, Solomon knew he had won the struggle within his mind. His eyes sought the eyes of Zorlo, and he held them.

"I will help you, because you have helped me."