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Liz paces back and forth in her cell, arms folded tight and head ducked low. Her skin still burns with the fresh tattoos, but it’s a distant thing in her mind.
He’s not back yet. Why isn’t he back yet?
Facts of the case swirl in her head. There is something that ties them all together, something she isn’t seeing. After months of searching, she feels like she’s on the brink of discovery. She just needs to dig a little deeper. Why was Leonardo’s body so mangled? Why did Eva Van Gloss’ research turn up something about the Desconjuração, whatever that is? What does Santo Berço have to do with it? Why are these occultists so interested in it?
And why isn’t he back yet?
Liz should have thrown Thiago out the moment he showed up at the apartment. She should have slammed that door in his face and not opened it for anything, because anything would have been better than this—captured by occultists, tortured with nightmares, experimented on with these strange tattoos that she can’t make heads nor tails of.
She thinks of Thiago going through what she did. She thinks of his mind, under so much stress, being swamped by that Symbol as a result. And considering that his nightmares and lapses of awareness have just been getting worse and worse over the past month—this is the last thing he needed, to get roped up into Liz’s mess.
Thiago was taken for…whatever it is these vermin are doing to them before Liz was. When she was thrown back in their cell, it was empty. She doesn’t know if that means he’s gone twice while she’s only gone once, or if he’s simply taking longer, or if he’s dead—the last of which she can’t even begin to consider, because that would be another person dead because of her. And for it to be Thiago, the one she watched fight for her all those decades, the one who continues to fight to stay here despite the memories of the Symbol eating his mind, the one who means everything to her—
Liz runs her hands into her hair. Her heart hammers in her chest. Oh god. Oh god he needs to be alive. Everything will be okay so long as he’s still alive. Liz can still save them so long as he’s still alive. He needs to be alive. Please be alive. Please be alive. Please be alive. Please be alive.
She continues to pace with her head swirling in desperate pleas. Her shoes hit a steady beat on the concrete, the only sound. Minutes melt into meaningless treacle.
And then, footsteps that aren’t her own.
She doesn’t hear them over the roar of her thoughts, not until they land at the door to her cell. Something is being dragged. She freezes and whirls around in time to see, in the feeble light from the cracks in the walls, a dark heap being tossed into her cell. The door swings shut and locks faster than she can blink, not a word spoken.
“Hey!” she shouts at the door. “Where do you think you’re going!”
The heap shifts. It groans.
“Thiago?”
Forget the fucking occultists. She’s at his side in an instant, dropping to the ground so fast it hurts her knees. She gets her hands to him and rolls him onto his side, checking his head for any bleeding from when he was thrown in. She pauses to tilt his face towards her. The slivers of light reveal that his skin has been written over with tattoos as well. “Thiago? Thiago are you alright? Are you with me? Does anything hurt?”
No answer save for another soft noise of pain.
“Thiago? Are you hearing me?”
Nothing. He’s limp through it all. Weak. His head lolls on his shoulders, as if asleep, but she can see that his eyes hang open, vacant. He looks…
No, she won’t say it. She won’t even think it. He’s still breathing, albeit shallow, and his pulse is steady, albeit slow, and his skin may be cold, but it is not the chill of the cadavers she’s become so familiar with.
She recognizes this look on his face. He’s still here. Just lost. It happens with him sometimes, especially when he’s under stress—the Symbol takes him away for a while. He just needs some help finding his way back.
She doesn’t want to force him to sit up in case he’s injured. She shrugs off her coat, bunches it up, and carefully slides it under his head. Then she cups his face with one hand, thumb rubbing circles under his eye. Then she takes one of his hands in her other and squeezes.
“Hey,” she says, her voice clear. It doesn’t tremble. “We’ve been here before. I know you can hear me. You always do, eventually. So listen to me…”
Come back. You’re not done yet. Come back.
“...Your name is Thiago Fritz. You live with me, Elizabeth Webber. You and the others just call me Liz…”
She keeps talking. She talks about where they live, that Santo Berço has burned, that he destroyed it; where they are now (as best as she can), his work at the Order, anything she can recall of the last time she spoke to any of the others, weeks ago now. Whatever she can think of that might pull him back and ease his anxiety when the disorientation sets in.
At some point, he starts to squeeze her hand back. And his eyes open, just a little wider.
Liz pauses in her speech. “Thiago…? You with me?”
His eyes are moving now, flicking side to side. He blinks a few times. He breathes in, and he breathes out. “...M’with you.”
“And you’re…” Liz wants to be relieved, but she looks over his expression; calm. “...You’re feeling okay?”
Thiago hums. “Tired. Where are we?”
This is strange. This is very strange. Thiago is usually much more agitated when he comes out of the Symbol, panicking because he can’t recognize anything of his surroundings. “I’m not sure. The occultists took us, remember? We’ve been in this cell for a few days now, I think.” Thiago nods a little. “And you’re sure you’re okay? Does anything hurt?”
Thiago shifts and winces, exhaling. “Some. But. It’s not bad.”
“Did you hit your head?”
“No.”
“Do you remember what they did to you?”
“...Something on my skin. I remember nightmares, I think.”
“The same as me, then,” Liz murmurs. “You didn’t hear anything else they said? Anything about where we are, what they’re doing, or…?”
“No.”
Liz stares down at him. She squeezes his hand a little tighter, and she considers the facts, and—this isn’t right. Not at all. His voice is too damn flat. His words are too damn short. She doesn’t think it’s an effect of the drugs, because his speech doesn’t sound slurred, he just sounds—listless. Weirdly disinterested, like finding out anything about what these occultists want from them is hardly a concern for him.
Dread suddenly begins to pool in her gut. No. Liz refuses to consider what it means. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks him after a moment. “Is it something to do with the Symbol? You seem off.”
Tell me I’m overreacting. Tell me I’m fussing too much. Smile and give me a reason to be wrong.
Thiago doesn’t smile. He looks away. Even with all of the nights of lost sleep he’s had over the past few months, the circles under his eyes have never been deeper. “Just… I’m just tired, Liz.”
“You can rest,” she replies. “I can keep watch. I won’t let them take you—”
“No, it—”
They both stop.
A small eternity stretches between them. Liz watches the rise and fall of his chest, and feels the rise and fall of her own. The only sound is the sound of their breathing.
“What?” she whispers, piercing the silence.
“...It doesn’t matter.”
“No, you can tell me—”
“I am.”
Liz pauses. Thiago’s other hand creeps up and finds her knee. Tethered.
“It doesn’t matter,” he continues. “The Symbol has always been in my head. It’s in me, Liz. It’s everywhere. I’m tired. I can’t…”
Her stomach is sinking. The walls are closing in. She stares down at him, searching, Give me a goddamn reason to be wrong, Thiago. “You can’t what?”
He doesn’t answer. Liz feels a sudden dampness running along the side of her hand, the one cradling his face. He’s crying.
No. No no no no no no— “No no no, hey.”
Liz hooks her arms under him and pulls him to her chest, hugging him tight. To hell with the possible injuries, this is more important right now. Nothing could possibly be more important than this right now. “Thiago, listen to me—you cannot give up on me. That Symbol can’t take you. I’m going to get us out of here, I swear. You just need to hang on a little longer, okay? We’ve made it this far, we can make it a little further. I’ll get us out of here, and then we can go home and rest.”
She’s aware she’s gripping the back of his jacket hard enough to make her fingers hurt. She’s aware that she’s crying now, too. She shifts her other hand to cradle the back of his head.
“We have to have hope, right? You promised me we’d have hope. It’s not over yet. We’re still here. We have to have hope.”
Please don’t go. Please don’t go. Please don’t go.
One of his arms shifts up to her back, returning the embrace. It’s weak, but it’s there. It’s something.
Thiago takes a deep breath. “I’m with you, my dear,” he murmurs into her shoulder. “Do what you need to.”
She holds him tighter. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you.
“We’re leaving this place together,” she promises. “Okay?”
Thiago nods.
“Okay.”
Liz continues to hold him. Thiago continues to lean into her. The cell is dark, and they both wait—for answers, for daylight, for whatever is yet to come.