Disclaimer:Don't own anything.

Author's Note: Stylistically, this is taken from The Lazarus Pit by Necchan, one of my favorite Batman fics and I simply had to do it.

The first book in my brother and I's original alternate history/fantasy series is up on authonomy. I would appreciate it if you guys would head over there, take a look.

authonomy / books / 47917 / sanctum - files - the - dragon - scroll /


You meet someone and you're sure you were lovers in a past life. After two weeks with them, you realize why you haven't kept in touch for the last two thousand years.
Al Cleathen


Limbo doesn't drive you insane, like some say, or wear you thin. But perhaps that is preferable to the things it does do.

It makes you remember. Makes you remember and know.

Makes you know your Self.

Not anyone else. Your Self.

You are Your Self. Everything you ever are. Everything you ever were.


You're Eames. That won't change. But you are not only Eames.

You are all the Eames who have ever been.

This is what limbo does; it wakes you up. Makes you see those parts of yourself that hide in your subconscious, that create the projections, that are different facets of your Self, but always you. It overflows you with possibilities and regrets because it lets you see everything you could ever have been, everything you can be.

You were a farmer once. Out in the endless fields. You and that stubborn dog of yours who was half-lame, but feisty. The only person he didn't bark and snarl at was the wanderer with old eyes and a young face, a pack slung over his shoulder and a sharp tongue.

You were a stableboy once, and the youngest prince would come down to visit you and he was the only one utterly unafraid to ride the black Andalusian who no one had been able to break and he was the only one who never minded taking the time to brush the horses down with you, voice little more than a soft murmur.

You were the Queen's guard—and that thought is something to laugh at. You, on the side of the law?—and you watched them bring the rebel in.

You were a merchant, travelling to Constantinople for silks and spices and a gypsy boy flashed a smile and made off with a few scarves.

You were eighth in line for a throne once before you were suspected of killing the boy king and tossed in a jail. The former priest in the cell across from you looked skinny enough to fit through the bars, but he was intelligent enough to get you both out of there.

You were the father of a princess once, a princess who didn't believe you were her father, that her father was the slender king who never went anywhere without a sword at his hip.

You were a soldier once, in your red coat and you sailed across the ocean to come to the New World and found the colonists rebelling and you thought they were in the wrong until you found yourself hiding from the cannon blasts with a patriot, too young for the militia or the army, skin weather-beaten and dark hair long and curling past his collar.

You have been thief and lawman, hunter and hunted, peasant and king, but you have always been your Self.

And your Self has always been a man in love.

You were Stephen and loved Michael. You were Emil and loved Arturo. You were William and loved Anthony.

Always the same man, the other's Self, even if he did change his name. Always the same man with the same knife-sharp eyes and the same wit.

It hurts to look at him sometimes, this sleek, dangerous man of this life, and not see his other Selves superimposed on him.

How were you supposed to watch him smirk and shoot back an argument and not remember the traveler who'd stayed on your farm and pet your dog until the winter was done?

Watch him walk into business meetings, smooth and confident, and not remember the rebel who'd shaken off the guards to walk under his own power, shoulders back and head held high, refusing to bow even before the Queen?

Watch him smile and not remember the gypsy boy who'd charmed you into distraction before snatching some scarves and bolting away?

How can you speak with him on books—and even on this subject, the two of you rarely agree—and not remember the face in the darkness of the other cell, calm and steady and fond as he traced words in the dirt of the floor?

How can you be expected to watch him with Phillipa and James and see him embrace and laugh with them, catch them at the bottom of the slide and kiss them goodnight and not remember the man who raised your daughter and died protecting her?

How could you ever be expected to forget the brave boy he'd been, musket in hand, and Irish accent sharp as he backed himself against the wall and accused you of murder when you had seen that boy in this life, fresh escaped out of the Army and snarling at you to let him go, he'd make his own way?

How could you see him simply be there, in your life, graceful and deadly and neat and loyal and not remember the taste of corn and sugar and wine, the callouses of his hands on your skin and the slip of his smile in the dark? The way his hair curled against a pillow and the challenge in his eyes?

It's impossible. Like limbo.

So you watch him—this incarnation is always watching, always learning, even though you don't have much to learn from him, Arthur is his name in this life—and you run because your Self has always been a little bit of a coward.


Limbo doesn't drive you insane, like some say, or wear you thin. But perhaps that is preferable to the things it does do.

It makes you remember. Makes you remember and know.

Makes you know your Self.

Not anyone else. Your Self.

You are Your Self. Everything you ever are. Everything you ever were.

And everything you ever were has everything to do with him and the two of you have never been ones for happy endings.