Someone's got that drip and it isn't him.

[igiko]

Drip.

How many weeks has it been?

Drip. Drip.

Winter must be approaching. While it doesn't snow in Glenbrook, the air has grown thin and heavy at once with moisture. Droplets of water fall through the cracks between the stones, echoing purely within the walls of his gaol. Roland exhales, riding out the mild shiver that shakes his shoulders, as he watches the growing puddle by his feet when something in the air twists.

Ah. It's you again.

On the other side of the bars, Rutile peers inside with wide eyes. He throws himself at the bars like they might crumble to dust in his hands if he grips them tightly enough. But the bars stand tall, and Roland manages a blink before Rutile morphs into a small critter in order to slide through the space between and reach for the shackles binding his wrists.

"Won't you think of the consequences?" asks Roland. On his knees, Rutile stills.

"What are you saying, Roland?"

Roland's voice cracks from disuse. "There's a reason for my imprisonment." Rutile worries his lower lip with a pinched brow, but draws back just enough to face Roland.

Drip.

"What reason could that possibly be?"

The less Rutile knows, the better off he'll be. Roland's answer is thus perfunctory: "If I were to be freed, the marginalized would rise up in outrage. Blood will be spilt in my name once more."

But the less Roland explains, the greater the tension in Rutile's tone grows insofar that he sounds strained when he asks, "And what will the consequences be if you were to be left here . . . ?"

"No harm will befall me. Most likely, I'll be left here to live out the rest of my days."

There's little to no reason for him to entertain visitors. If he's ignored long enough, the problem he poses will go away in time. Too, the people's discontent will disperse until someone worthier of rallying their hearts appears, which could be months or years later. Even then, none with pure intentions will have reason to seek him out.

And then, one day, the fire in my heart will cease to burn . . .

"I can't," says Rutile, drawing Roland out of his thoughts. "I'm sorry, but I can't accept that."

Roland chuckles once, mirthless and breathless. It's the first time they've met since their initial encounter. Much has transpired since, yet Rutile speaks to him as though they talked just yesterday. There's nothing humorous about the dank situation; rather, Roland laughs at the freedom Rutile holds out that he eschewed years ago.

Drip. Drip.

"You're kind. I understand why he's enamored with you."

Freedom isn't something to which Roland gave thought until what he had was wrenched out of his undeserving hands; as such, he doesn't understand what it means to be liberated. But another man with his name and face does, and he can imagine "how free that man's heart must feel" at Rutile's side—Rutile, who tightens his features and holds out a hand to Roland then.

"I've given the consequences their consideration," he says, "and I think the choice should be yours. If you really are okay with staying here, you can ignore my hand, though I won't leave so easily. But . . . " His hand curls into a loose fist before unfurling. "But if you have even the slightest desire for freedom in your heart, then please . . . take my hand, and I'll take you away from this place, so you can choose where to go next."

There was never a part of him that was okay with being gaoled. He's loathed every second of it—considered starving himself to death, even. But doing so would have been worse than running away.

"Your precious life doesn't have to end in these lonely shadows."

Drip.

Roland heaves a muted sigh. Born and bred to languish in the darkness cast by others, Rutile's words are pretty to his pale ears. They hold some semblance of the truth in them, however, and for that reason the shackles clink as he lifts a cool hand between the two of them. Soft fingers curl around his callused palm; pressed together, Rutile's hand is almost overwhelmingly warm against his.

"You're right."

The shackles fall into a cacophonous heap around his feet and into the puddle with the smallest of splashes. If he's to fulfill his promise, he must exit the shadows someday. Led by Rutile, Roland leaves the bars behind and pads toward the glimmering light of the sun in the distance. Always a step behind, he allows himself a moment of weakness and freefalls into false freedom as he watches Rutile's back.