The dungeon cells had been hand-carved into the rock. The doors and locks had been crafted by the greatest builders that money could buy. The cells had been broken in by those same builders, because The Voice wanted to be sure that the dungeon had been built to such perfection that no one could get out, not even those who knew every inch.

The builders had not been able to get out. No expense had been spared for the condolence cards.

The walls of the cells had been constructed with intentionally off-putting angles, ensuring that each meeting of wall and ceiling or wall and floor was somehow off in a way that was undecipherable but most-assuredly unpleasant.

The Man of Locks surveyed his new quarters as the cell door slammed closed behind him. Age had seeped back into his skin.

A dull green glow illuminated the air, the light coming from the rock formation from which the jail had first sprung.

He caught sight of something rustling in the corner of the cell.

He nodded in the direction of the movement. “Brother.”

The Keeper of Keys pulled himself into the light.

He was garbed in robes that were ragged and ripped. His body had been beaten and slashed. His left hand was gone.

“Oh, brother,” said The Man of Locks. “You’ve got to be more responsible when it comes to your limbs. One of these days you’ll misplace some important piece and never see it again. What has happened to this hand?”

“Not my fault,” muttered The Keeper of Keys. “That bloody dog decided it needed a nibble to hold it over until dinner. I hate that mutt.” He shook his head. “You know, it used to be a man named John Jackson. Nice fellow, good with kids. One of those quiet lives of great nobility and few rewards. Until he got the phone call saying he had a rare blood disorder.”

“And let me guess,” said The Man of Locks. “He fell to his knees begging for help. And then at last he heard a friendly Voice telling him of a place where there was no sickness or aging or even time. And the poor man stepped through-”

“-and entered a life of dog treats and heartworm medication,” said The Keeper of Keys. “Real shame, that. It’s always a shame to see a good one go astray. To see a good soul lose its way.”

The Man of Locks sighed. In a way, he was glad that his brother had chosen to resume the old battles so quickly, rather than let the anger simmer along and simmer along until it reached boiling at the most inopportune moment.

“Kay,” said The Man of Locks, “If it makes you feel any better…you must know, you must believe, that my leaving had nothing to do with you or with the order.”

“It doesn’t,” said The Keeper of Keys, “but thanks for playing.”

“Now Kay,” said The Man of Locks, “everyone takes sabbaticals every now and again. When was the last time you tried to corral the Muses into a meeting? And lest we forget, whenever the order needed assistance, I was always on…well-”

“Hand?” offered The Keeper of Keys.

“Well it’s not like I can be expected to get used to it straightaway,” said The Man of Locks. “Give a man time to acclimate.”

“Whatever you say, Big Brother. You always knew best. Always had the best advice about every problem. Do this, change that, everything fits together, blah blah blah. Then you run into a bit of girl trouble-”

“The love of my life threw herself from the tallest tower to her death. Sorry about not taking your feelings into account on the matter, Kay, how unbelievably selfish of me to do that.”

“So it’s alright for you to abandon who we are and what we do when it’s you that has the problem? I must’ve missed that day of school. Though, on the record, we both know I never missed a day of school.”

“What record? There’s no record for this to be on or off of.”

“Hypothetically, then.”

“It’s as though you are forgetting,” said The Man of Locks, “how I intervened and prevented The Living Flame from spreading across the globe. Not to mention halting the ascension of Mordred Blackcollar to the Ivory Throne.”

“Yeah, but not before poor Gaseous Man was evaporated by enemy forces!”

“Gaseous Man was already evaporated,” snapped The Man of Locks. “Being evaporated is what makes him Gaseous Man. Face it, when I was really needed, I always arrived.”

“And you think that’s enough?” said The Keeper of Keys. “To what, live life like it’s some highlight reel? Just an empty string of battles and accomplishments? If that’s how you want to live, if that’s what you believe life and love are, then I truly pity you. You don’t get to pick and choose moments you will care from the ones which you won’t. You don’t get to be part of a family only when it’s convenient. Sorry.”

“Yes, well, so am I.”

The dungeon with its irregular stones was moist and somewhere, just on the cusp of their earshot, water was steadily dripping.

“I imagine that doesn’t stop,” said The Man of Locks.

“You imagine right.”

“A form of torture?”

“I don’t believe so,” said The Keeper of Keys. “The King and his pet can’t usually be counted on to be so subtle.” He waved his stump. “I think he is probably too cheap to call a plumber.”

“I wonder why they would lock me in here and not simply commence with the interrogation,” said The Man of Locks. “Surely he doesn’t want to- what is it?” For The Keeper of Keys had begun to laugh.

“Really?” he said. “Really? You can’t figure that one out?” Off The Man’s confused look, The Keeper said, “I guess you can’t. Em, you’re not one to be bullied or threatened. They have nothing to threaten you with. The King knows you’d never give up the last lock, not even at the point of dying.”

The silence in the cell was so complete that The Man of Locks could hear the trickle as the tears fell from his brother’s face to splatter on the grooved stone floor.

“You’re…you’re not w-w-weak,” stammered The Keeper of Keys. “N-not like me.”

“Kay,” said The Man of Locks, “that’s nothing to do with strength.”

“W-w-what do y-you mean?”

“Brother,” said The Man of Locks, “it’s no sin to be in love with life. To fear pain, to long for the sun, to look at the world with an appetite for food and drink and…and people. These are good things, the best things, really. I…I don’t have that. And maybe that makes me better at performing our task and solving problems…but it’s you who are truly blessed.”

“Be that as it may,” said The Voice, “it is you who concerns me most.”

The Man of Locks made to spin around to face the offender, but thought better of it. He laughed to himself.

“And what,” said The Voice, “could you possibly find funny about your predicament?”

“Oh nothing,” said The Man of Locks. “Only that I was going to say, ‘Show Yourself’ and wouldn’t that be the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard!”

When next The Voice spoke, it sounded as though it were speaking through gritted teeth. “Quite. But I hope you will forgive me for not finding the current situation terribly amusing. So what happens next is-”

“Oh, shut up,” said The Man of Locks. “Go and boil your metaphorical head. You can’t complete your plan unless I open the final lock, and since doing that would cause the earth to simultaneously im- and ex-plode, flash-cooking every living soul in a single moment, and since I have no intention of allowing souls to flash-cook (the smell is unbearable) I do not have that intention and so will not be performing that action. And here we are.” The Man of Locks folded his arms and took a seat. He shifted, uncomfortable.

“And I suppose that if I forced you to watch while my pet peeled the flesh from your brother’s bones, that would do nothing to sway your mind in either direction?”

Now it was The Keeper of Keys’ turn to laugh.

“You really didn’t pay attention in school when it was time to learn about us, did you?”

“I was home-tutored by the finest-”

“Because if you had, you would know that, prior to a certain romantic-escapade, there were none so committed to our tasks and rites as my brother. We were forged in the fires of Creation, our bodies bathed in the purple fires of the nascent stars. We used black holes as wading pools, frolicking across the infinite. We played tag by tap-dancing on the boundaries between the dimensions, a space smaller than one-millionth of a pinhead. And all along we were indoctrinated with the sacred missions, the holy quests. We had the incantations carved onto our bones.

“Of course, each of us revolted at one point or another. Every hundred millennia or so, someone would have a temper-tantrum, claim a planet as their own, be a god for a little while before getting brought back home. You know, kid stuff. Each of us had his or her turn.

“All but The Man of Locks. Until one maiden stole his heart, he never wavered from the true path. And after her, he couldn’t even bring himself to come home again, such was his shame.

“So no, my intangible-interrogator, I am very sorry to tell you that there is no pain you can inflict upon me, wide variety though I’m sure you know, that will loosen his tongue.”

The Voice whistled softly in the dark. “And here I thought my family was a pack of lunatics with inflated expectations.”

“They were.”

“Fair enough. Still though, you do seem to have put me at an impasse. I have half a mind to kill the both of you for inconveniencing me thusly and then moving on to a different approach. But if you believe that to be an option than it is you who have failed to understand me. This game we live is founded on patience, and patience is all I have.”

“What do you intend to do?” asked The Man of Locks.

“There are…such…horrors in the world. The worlds, I should say. And you lot have done your utmost to keep them locked away and buried behind your precious doors. Well, no more. I will fling open each door, unbar each reality, and let whatever demons and shadows lurk behind loose upon the world and your oh-so special humans.

“The Living Dreams. The Madness Breathers. The People from the Lands of Broken Time. Flesh-rippers and soul-stealers, ghastly ones and ghouls, all shall walk among the waking world and do as they please.”

“Madness,” whispered The Man of Locks. “Utter madness.”

The Voice was a low whisper in the dark, and the brothers had the sensation that it was moving farther away from them as it spoke.

“And then I will release you. You will walk across those blasted lands and feel those few survivors clutching at your feet, begging you for salvation. And your heart will break.

“Because you do love, don’t you my good Man? Deny it all you want, lock it away as far as you can, the truth will always be the same. You love, and because of that you fail. Hearts are so easily entranced and led astray, particularly the broken ones. You love those people and that earth and you will do anything to release them from pain.

“Because you love, you will break the world. And then, at last, I will be free.”

“You sorry fool,” spat The Man of Locks. “Can you truly believe that destroying the world is a means to an end?”

“My friend,” said The Voice, “you truly do not understand. The end of the world is the end which I seek. All that is left to you is to decide how much suffering must be incurred upon your precious people before I receive what I want.”

The Voice was silent. The Keeper of Keys and The Man of Locks were left to shuffle and mumble in the impenetrable dark.

Probably Sort-of Safe

Written by Brendan Foley