Author's Note The First: Hello. If you are here because you've stuck with this yarn since the beginning, I salute you. I realize it has been many months (cough) since an update, but I think that this chapter will have been worth the wait. I will not say much more about it until the end of the chapter, so I will meet you down there!

Without further ado…

Of Oubliettes & Obligations: Chapter 7 – A Brief Candle

"Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow" - Shakespeare

"I'm going to die." He said it simply, resolutely, the culmination of all the disquietude that had been brewing within him.

Voicing it aloud gave it a different level of severity. A soft shift of cloth and rake of metal on metal detected by his keen ears indicated another presence. It sounded as though the other prisoner was pulling herself up, propping herself against the edge of her confine.

"You are sure?" she asked, sounding low and cautious.

"Ondore has decreed it. A Judge Magister informed me it is to be so," he said, not mentioning that the same Judge Magister was his brother.

"I do believe," she said, "that we are well past the time for avoiding certain subjects." She sounded closer somehow. "Speak frankly. You need not bear this alone."

But he would die alone, he thought. The truth burned in him, brimming, almost too intense to be let out. Had he the chance, he would have stood atop Mt. Bur-Omisace and shouted his woes into every crack and corner of Ivalice. Yet how different could it be to speak the truth in this forgotten place? At least here, their conversations, like thin, brittle threads, spun them together, with potential for solace in every weave.

"My name is Basch fon Ronsenburg," he said, finally breaking anonymity, "and I have been framed for the murder of my sovereign."

He went on, "I was born in Landis. I lived with my mother and my brother, my twin. 'Twas a good life. We grew up the way any brothers did, with an eye for mischief and as each other's confidante. During my fifteenth year, our Republic was invaded by Archadia," he continued, waves upon waves of words scattering, dissipating into the oubliette, into the sky and earth and cage that held him. He pressed on, "Our family was one of many that had to endure the hardship of occupation. But endure it we could not. My mother developed a crippling disease. We couldn't move her; the nature of her affliction didn't allow it. Noah - my brother - wanted to stay, thinking perhaps the Archadians could help. I saw things...differently. Noah would tell you I fled. I would tell you I saw Archadia's forces as nothing more than oppressors and conquerors, so I sought aid elsewhere. I saw hope to the west, in Dalmasca. When I reached Rabanastre, I sent him a missive. When he replied...when he replied..." he could not go on, and let out instead a stifled sort of strangling noise that barely left his throat. He was only able to clear it with some effort.

The stillness as he spoke made him so aware of the sound of his voice that, at points, he wasn't sure whether the void was speaking aloud or he was. It wasn't like the woman's tale, which had sounded practiced and careful. It was a purging.

"There was nothing left for me to return to. Thus did I stay in Rabanastre. I joined the order of Knights. It was quite unlike the village of my youth. 'Twas a thriving city, somehow surviving against all odds in a harsh desert." Much like myself, he thought, until now.

A question floated to his ears, "What of your brother?"

"Her...passing," he began, unable to call his mother by name, "sundered our relationship so wholly that we remained on our chosen paths, he in Archadia and I in Dalmasca, for twenty years."

"Until the night you were brought here?" she asked.

"Aye."

Where he found the strength to speak he did not know, but he finished his tale, explaining the machinations that brought him, unwittingly, to Nalbina. All of it – Raminas' assassination, Reks, Gabranth's ploy.

"Do you think, still, that he spoke truly?" the woman asked. "About your – your sentence?"

"I do not think he has reason to lie to me," he offered.

"Captors have every reason to lie to prisoners, kin or not."

He wondered, then, about death. Was it really another living, breathing person's right to decide when another's would end, or was it an inexplicable force guiding their actions on behalf of another, higher power? A soldier's life was a gamble with every swing of the sword. A soldier's life was a dance of blood, led on by the beat of the blade, of life and death, and he found it arrogant for anyone, even his brother, to decide when or where death should come to claim a person. No, he decided, it was nobody's rightful place.

"Do you hear those sounds? The clanging of this prison?" she asked.

"Aye."

"The prison runs, I believe, as does a clock - cogs turning, pendulums swinging. Here, they think they can control a person's destiny, a person's life, like things they can crank up and let work within their walls. But even if you break a clock, time remains unbroken," she said.

"What mean you to say?" he asked. He was tired and confused and beyond metaphors at this stage of his incarceration.

"I'm really not sure. My optimism is clearly affecting my brain. Maybe I've finally gone mad. Actually, I know I am. Forgive my shoddy analogies," she apologized. "Maybe what I'm trying to say is, when we escape, we should buy a new clock. I miss the feel of time passing on my own watch."

"A grandfather clock," he said, adding to the absurdity.

"With a little chocobo that swings out at the hour, every hour," she said, not sure whether she was on the verge of tears or laughter.

"You've my word. In another life," he promised the darkness.

He waited for Death. Yet Death, it seems, runs by no clock of our devising. He was weakened and in darkness still, but alive. Instead of a visit from Death, two others, who were destined to set more than clogs in motion, entered the oubliette.

In the middle of one of his moments of personal rumination, he heard the shrill sounds of the chamber at work. Eventually he heard human voices, though they had naught to do with him, or so it seemed.

"Well met, Solidor," the woman called out above him, "have you come all the way here to give me a pardon? You truly are a gentleman. And oh my! Who is this? Has the image of Nalbina Dungeon been diminished thusly, that it's seemingly acceptable to bring children? I'm afraid I'm fresh out of parlor tricks for your young companion."

"Were I but here for that purpose. I'm merely showing young Larsa the dungeons, as part of an introduction to Archadian Law," he said. "I find that civic duty is a responsibility best introduced early."

The speaker had a very refined cadence which cut like a blade. If there was another person, this Larsa, he was not ready to speak.

Vayne spoke again to the young boy, "This is the oubliette. Political prisoners reside here, awaiting judgment from the council you and I visited last week."

"Ah," she said, a slight sound escaping her lips, "and it is my judgment that you bring today, is it?"

"It is. By the Order of the Judge Magisters of Archadia and the Imperial Senate as well as a mandate by the Emperor, you have been sentenced to -"

"How simple you make it sound," she mused, apparently unaffected. "Tell me, did Cidolfus parade around the Senate, pretending to talk over his shoulder to someone who is not there? And with him as the key witness against me, I am still considered at fault? Did Larsa have the pleasure of watching that?"

"Do not make it seem as if evidence was based on word of mouth and witnesses alone. You know as well as I that tampering with government files is an offense too grievous to forgive. Doctor Cid mentioned somewhat about having anywhere from six months to a year's worth of research to make up now that he is bereft of what you've either hidden or destroyed. Why, the damage to the Experimental Magicks wing alone is enough to condemn you twice over. And still you proclaim innocence."

"Do you presume to teach me of innocence?" she cried, voice crackling with outrage. "The Mist consuming Nabudis runs thick with blood that you and Cid have spilled!"

He appeared to consider the statement, for Basch sensed a pause. "Judge Zecht is the one to ask about Nabudis, if he is ever seen again. But better one incident at Nabudis than three times as many via airship and bombings spread out across Ivalice over the course of years. Over decades."

Basch heard the woman spit, presumably at the ground in her cage.

"This was your idea of mercy? Such selfish games you people play. You and Cidolfus had no idea what would happen and didn't give half a damn about the consequences. Zecht was right to run."

"Let me make myself abundantly clear. What has passed, has passed. The shard was used and it cannot be undone. See how Dalmasca consented to peace, knowing the price of another incident."

"You killed the dream of two lands by massacring one and are swallowing the other whole. I don't know which is worse. You disgust me."

"Larsa," he said, apparently ignoring her words, "see how like a viper she spits poison. Criminals show their true natures when they are cornered. They direct their guilt elsewhere, so as to diminish their blame."

"Bold words from the man whose House crest is a depiction of two dueling serpents," she responded. "More fitting still, as sibling rivalry among your kin nearly tore the Empire in two."

"You would do well to hold your tongue as to the matter of my family," he said, a particular note of hostility present.

"You speak as though things are going so well for me right now," she remarked. "I wonder - does your younger brother's introduction to Archadian law include learning about fratricide?"

"Larsa," Vayne said, ignoring the woman again, "Leave us for a moment. I will meet you in the outer chamber."

Presumably, the young boy began to walk away, for Basch heard the woman call out to the boy one last time.

"Child! My life is forfeit, but you are still free! Free to doubt! I hope the Gods have blessed you with better sense than your brother to see that war is destined to have no true winners. If you want answers, follow the Nethicite!"

Whether or not the child had left, and whether or not her words had reached the child's ears or heart, Basch knew not. All he heard then was the soft, lethal voice of Vayne Soldor.

"I know that you have been more than honest, so allow me to be equally blunt in return. Your sentencing, where I left off, was this: you will be here for the rest of your life."

"Not good enough to warrant a death sentence, am I then?" she called, not hesitating after the verbal blow.

"My lady is too quick to judge. I'm a man of the people, I'll have you know. Which is why we're moving you to the open chambers," Vayne said, and Basch could swear he was hearing the words emerge through a tight smile, "A fitting place for your impertinence and desire to talk nonsense at length. It has been a long time since we had a woman prisoner and the men, I think, will enjoy your company. As for death, I can only hope that the other prisoners will be courteous enough to give you sweet release before you start begging for it."

This did give the woman pause; or so Basch thought. Though what answer she could have given, he knew not. All he knew is that he felt sicker than he had since the incident with the food. He wanted to cry out in rage – but to what avail?

Vayne left without another word; the man had said more than Basch expected – or needed – for one lifetime.

Their last conversation, laden with an urgency neither of them expected, was as swift and absurd as the ones before it.

"I can think of one more thing I miss," she started.

"Oh?" he grunted from between still-raised shoulders and through eternal fatigue.

"When I lived in Archadia, I would sometimes go to a man in the lower city who would read my cards. He had the most beautiful hands," she mused. "Calloused, careworn... I would have liked to have him read for me one more time."

"But are you not woman of science?" he pointed out, "and, if you'll forgive me for saying so, the future seems certain, here."

"Science, divination. What do both aim to tell us? Present, past, future. Both would show you things you really already know," she replied, "conclusions that just require a different set of circumstances to believe."

He would have to consider such an idea. He could sense, somewhere in his weak, aching self, that there was precious little time left to just think, to just be. It saddened him to his core.

"Say he were to read for me," he began, not really realizing what he was about to say. "What would he see? What do you see?"

A small lilt of a laugh, resembling the ones she had emitted before and perhaps the last of her laughs he would hear, came in response. "You, my friend, are the Hanged Man."

The Hanged Man?

A curious sound emerged from Basch's being, out of his chest and into the chamber, groaning but still lightning-quick. It was a labored laugh, but it was a real one. Had he spare tears, he would have shed them in bittersweet amusement.

"I could have told you that!" he called.

"Not so," she said, with a bit of pride. She changed to a different, deeper tone. "Don't take it too literally. The Hanged man is no victim. The Hanged Man is a vision of sacrifice. He would happily cast himself out for his fate. He smiles at his oppressors because he possesses a precious gift."

"What gift is that?"

"A cause," she answered. "One that he is willing to risk his entire existence to uphold."

"What befalls him?" he could not help but question.

"Depends on the reading. If you view it badly in the context of the rest of the cards, it means a loss of faith," she sounded like she was shifting her body around to edge closer to where he was hanging. "If well-aspected, however…it is his tormentors who will ultimately suffer."

Perhaps she was saying this to console him; perhaps it was her way of providing comfort. "Would that I could give you some sort of reading, in return," he admitted. "Could I?"

"Who would fault us for trying, here? Close your eyes," she said. "Think of me, and seek the first image that comes to your mind."

He did, though he did not have much to go on. It did not take him long to come up with a thought, an image, but he wasn't sure if he would strike true.

"A gear," he stated. "We're surrounded by the blasted things." Similar to when he had recited that first riddle, the anticipation of being well-received suddenly mattered. Funny what could affect a man while on the brink of facing his own mortality.

"Oh," she replied, the vowel sound hanging for a moment. "Oh," she echoed.

"An ill omen?" he asked, caution and embarrassment ready to seep in.

"No. I know what it is," she wanted to sound assuring, but he could not tell what her purpose was. "It's the Wheel of Fortune."

Almost as soon as she uttered the words, the machinery around them launched into motion, beginning to spin, releasing a screeching clash of moving parts. They both knew what it meant. For one of them, those sounds indicated a stark finality. But for whom?

"All things pass," she spoke into the whirling abyss of metal. The sound of her voice hit his ears, but he did not know if it was a cry, or a sigh, or a song, for it mingled into the roiling of the oubliette.

When his cage did nothing more than sway in response to the chaos around him, he knew, irrevocably, what was occurring. That it would not be him, not this time.

"No," he said. It felt like a whisper; it could have been a yell.

Forces pulled them apart – like gravity or magnetism, uncaring and decisive. As they parted, another more pressing thought hit him. Too late it came, and it left his lips on its own accord, a futile utterance.

"Your name!" he howled into the clamor. "Your name!"

He heard a reply, strained and desperate, though it was an echo of what he had hoped to gain. What met him was sound of her repeating vowel sounds as she had done moments before. Oh, Oh, Oh.

What he would have given to have stolen it before she had left, to have plucked her name out of the unkind cavity he had been cast into. He could have given the stranger more reality, more meaning than he had already gleaned. Yet such things were not to be. Only one companion awaited him now: silence. Impartial, thick, and all encompassing, it enveloped him like an unsought cloak, one he would have to forcibly accept.

The wheel came to mind; perhaps she would have said it is the way of things to cycle, to change. That in the turning of the gears there was wisdom, life to death, death to life, time ever flowing.

Alone he stayed in the oubliette, the hanged man, swearing never to forget himself, until the wheels of fortune called upon him one more.

Author's Note The Second:

Well, here we are. I'm sure you're wondering – is that it?

Short answer: No.

The original purpose to this story was to answer a question that I thought was a logical hole in the game – how does Basch survive for two years, fixed and cuffed like that? Because he needs to eat – and nobody can hang like that for too long without suffering grievous bodily harm. So I attempted to answer my own question. In the process, I wanted to examine Basch and Gabranth's love/hate relationship, how it was that the nethicite shard got to be used as a result of the Archadian war machine, and how twisted Vayne really can be when it comes to the simple matter of life and death and messing with poor Basch's head. The OC helped fill in some of those gaps, in her own way. (And yes, she does have a name.)

Anyway, this is not the end. However, this does conclude scenes taking place in the dungeon itself.

The rest of the story takes place in the future, and focuses on Basch and Larsa.

That said, thank you to everyone who has reviewed the story so far! Frankannestein, Captain L, Laguna's Twin Sister, Kissy, and the whole lot of you: Thank you!