Into the Forbidden Place

22. Steel Citadel

Timothy hesitated. He wanted to cross the gate, but something made him stay. He couldn't decide who could be watching from above. Perhaps the Inquisition? That would be good because he's looking for them. Or one of Mara's men? That would also be good because they could lead him to her.

No other possibility came to mind, no matter how hard he thought about it.

Then suddenly, to Tim's surprise, a well-known figure appeared from the direction of the gateway.

"Timothy, my dear friend!" shouted Otis, with a wide grin, hastening towards the surprised gatekeeper. He was even more startled when the robot suddenly forced him to his knees by his arm and tied his hands behind his back.

"What the hell are you doing?" protested Tim, but he felt there was no place for resistance; this possibility was also in the cards when he decided to come back here. What did he expect? That his return would be celebrated with smiles?

And Otis, holding the end of the rope as if he had done his job well, dragged Tim through the gate. It was clear where they were headed—at least, Tim thought it would be logical to be taken to Mara. Where else?

The journey through the mazes was long, and questions swirled in Tim's mind, yet he couldn't find the words to speak. Then he stopped thinking because suddenly, leaving the labyrinth, the impressive fortress of the Steel Citadel revealed itself. It rose high above the surrounding areas, and its threatening appearance struck our protagonist. He hadn't expected such a vast building.

The worn stone and steel walls showed time, with mysterious injuries and natural erosion. Along the walls rose watchtowers as if it had once been a medieval castle. The gate was also massive, with a giant iron door opening as they approached. The inner courtyards were crisscrossed with winding paths and stairs but were utterly deserted. Their footsteps echoed emptily.

The interior of the Steel Citadel reminded Tim of the labyrinth, with its dark and menacing atmosphere and poorly lit corridors, but the musty smell was absent.

Perhaps this was the only sign they were not in an abandoned place, but darkness and danger still loomed over him.

They seemed to wander, and then, after a long time, Otis stopped in front of a door, opened it, and gestured for Tim to enter. Tim saw no other solution and uncertainly stepped into the pitch-black room.

"What's in your bag?" he heard Otis' voice. Then, without waiting for an answer, he cut the backpack's straps and opened it. At the entrance to the room, he emptied the bag's contents: dried food, a water flask, and finally, a book emerged: Neruda's One Hundred Love Sonnets, which had been in his bag during his previous journey, and he had never taken it out.

Otis rifled through his backpack, surprised by why he had left it there. The robot flipped through it with interest, as if he had read a page or two. Then, after a while, he suddenly pushed Tim further into the room, kicked the food and water in with his foot, and slammed the door shut. He still clutched the book in his hand, and Tim held onto this sight because his mind protested the room's pitch darkness.

Then, when his eyes stopped dazzling and he got used to the darkness surrounding him, he listened. But he had never experienced such silence before. Perfect silence and perfect darkness enveloped him. He began to move forward, feeling the walls and counting his steps. He thought his room was rectangular, and the walls felt metallic, with rust scratching his palms. He felt everything: the walls within his reach and the floor. He found nothing.

He thought it was a hopeless situation. How do we know when a problem is hopeless? Generally, when we are in a desperate situation, we somehow don't know it because there is always some hope, an exit that we believe in. But Tim now, in this situation, knew perfectly well that there was no way out from here, not even hope.

He thought that after the previous big battle, he would again take up the fight and try to gain victory over the movement, but this could also count as defeat. He was severely caught and thrown into a cell, so he lost again.

In his agony, he laughed. Where the hell are those idiot Inquisitors? And why aren't they doing anything? Do they even exist? How can we recognize the Inquisition's people? He racked his brains, but nothing came to mind. Why didn't this occur to him earlier? Why didn't he ask Noir?

He gnawed at such things, and since he had no idea of the passage of time either, how long had he been here? A day ago or an hour ago? He felt even more miserable. No, that's the wrong word. The feeling of hopelessness was the worst; there was nothing lower.

Sometimes, he ate the dried meats scattered on the floor and drank from his dangerously dwindling flask. Would he die of thirst? He leaned against the wall next to the door. It was perfectly closed, with only a tiny gap marked where the door might be.

In his dream, he was home. He was not in the oasis, but he was having lunch with his grandparents. He never thought he would ever look back nostalgically on that time. Especially since he now knew they weren't his actual relatives. But his grandmother's Sunday lunches and the love with which she watched his every wish kept him close.

So he lingered in thought there and didn't even notice that the room was gradually becoming brighter as if someone were turning a dial to increase the brightness.