Struck by Remus's betrayal, it took far longer than it should have for Septimus to return to consciousness. In his mind's eye, he saw glimpses of the events which took place during his unconsciousness, dream-like snatches of memory. He saw the figure of Byrd, the current watchman, enter the house, along with several other villagers, none of whom Septimus was able to identify. The group surveyed the room, then Byrd left Septimus's sight. Moments later he returned, dragging Palf's limp form into the center room. Disappearing and re-emerging, the watchman placed the body of Padma, her eyes bulging and a dark purple line around her throat. Glass shards fell from her modest white nightgown as Byrd laid her bodice on the floor next to her husband's. As Byrd departed to search the remainder of the house, another figure stepped forward, and Septimus recognized Clendon, the village priest. As was customary, Clendon withdrew his silver amulet from beneath his robes and, holding it within his outstretched fist, spoke in an ancient tongue the death rites afforded villagers of Palotston. To the semi-conscious boy on the floor, all that could be discerned was a low mumble. As the priest stepped back, villagers stepped forth, and the bodies of Palf and Padma were wrapped in white linens and carted outside to await their funeral. Only then did Byrd reveal himself, taking quick strides across the room to Septimus's immobile form. Jerking the boy's face to his own, the watchman screamed insults and accusations into Septimus's face. The boy heard none; he was already slipping back under the soft web of slumber.
When next he partially awoke, Septimus found himself bound in the trough of a horse-drawn wagon. He became aware of a slight rain on his face, yet it was not strong enough to bring him fully back to consciousness. Behind him rode a mounted guard on either side, a buckler mounted on each soldier's left arm and a spear grasped firmly in the right. After a few minutes of silent riding, the wagon drew to a stop, and another soldier came into Septimus's view. This man wore full mail armor, with a sword buckled at his waist and a scarlet cloak around his form. The helmed man pointed a mail-backed gauntlet at Septimus, and unseen hands unlatched the shackles pinning his hands to the wagon floor. The captain then ulled Septimus outof the wagon by his collar, spilling the boy onto the dirt. It was not him that picked Septimus out of the dirt; rather, a new man, dressed not in guard colors but adorned in battle-hardened leather, lifted him into another wagon, where he was similarly bound. Then the world began to fade once more, and Septimus drifted into a dull slumber, accompanied by the ache in the center of his brow.
It was not chance that brought Septimus back to the edge of consciousness, but the persistent dragging of his own feet against his will. Staring through half-lidded eyes, he saw the stone walls of a cave, and he was hoisted on either side by a man in leather armor. At even increments, torches lined the walls on either side, nestled in frames bolted into the walls. The torches were placed far apart, and the gloom in between them seemed to swallow Septimus as they plunged into them without hesitation.
Soon the bare walls gave way to bolted-in doors, and through one such entryway Septimus glimpsed a group of men playing dice on a wooden table. Some time afterward, another door came into focus. Within he saw a man bent over a table, and racks of weapons next to him. Then, after a short span of bare walls and a flight of carved stairs, the doors resumed- six on each side. From within, Septimus glimpsed prisoners in various states of mind. Most barely gave sign they noticed the trio; one, however, leapt up as they passed, screaming incomprehensibly and grasping at them with his fingers through the eye-level slat. After a pause, the man's hand recieved a blow from a cudgel carried by one of Septimus's escorts. With a dull thonk and the crack of bone, the hand withdrew with a whimper.
Finally they arrived at a door set in iron at the very end of the hallway; the cells lay several minutes and another staircase behind them. The guard on Septimus's right produced a key after some fumbling, and at his insistent urging the door swung inward into a gloom no light penetrated. Rather than conjure light, the guards drug Septimus through the entranceway, shutting the door behind them and trunging through the black. After that, his awareness faded to the sound of boots striking stone, then again all was lost to him.
Like the alarm bells in the morning in the village, the pain in Septimus's head jolted him to consciousness with a sharp intake of breath. At first, the silence and absolute darkness made him believe he was still unconscious. But soon, he made out the feel of the cold stone on his bare back and legs. Over the sounds of his breathing, he made out the drip of water, slow but constant. Standing water encompassed the heel of his outstretched foot.
It was only after noting these observations that he was able to think. Where am I? he wondered. Recalling the distance he had been dragged, he assessed he was deep underground. Other than that, he could not tell, for the night which encompassed his surroundings seemed to dwell within him as well, so complete were its dark depths. His breathing grew ragged, and without preamble Septimus let out a baleful howl, paining his own eardrums with the magnitude of his voice. The darkness swallowed all sound, and not even his echo returned to him. It was then that Septimus recalled Remus, and the murder, and all feeling left his insides. There, in the darkness, Septimus wept, drawing his knees to his chin and letting tears spill over his legs and seep into his cloth pants.
He lay there, eyes dry and cheeks bitten raw, for what seemed an eternity, unable to move. When finally he closed his eyes, he became aware of a presence, a blanket, it seemed, over his mind. It seeped into every pore in his being, gleaning the details of his recent affairs. The presence, mysterious in manner, dove into Septimus's mind and withdrew his memory of the theft, the killing, and his own head wound. It pained him to revisit the images, but he had no control over the strange force pillaging in his mind.
Soon, he felt the force prying into a new location in his mind, and Septimus was overtaken by a desire to deny entry to the foreign presence. In his mind, the idea was putting up a wall against the mysterious consciousness. It seemed to work, for the thin needle of thought was halted; but then it drove into the barrier with force, and Septimus whined aloud: he had not expected this strange mental phenomenon to cause physical pain. The needle dug into his defenses, and he screamed, "No!!!!!" both mentally and out loud. With sweat beading upon his brow and a racing heart, Septimus drew against the cave wall and stood, pushing away into the unknown blackness. Anything, anything to remove the infesting worm from his head. He found he ground grew irregular, and before long, his foot struck a shelf of rock, and pain lance up his leg as he fell. An identical fist of rock caught his temple as he landed, and the sleep that overtook him finally seemed to halt the mental breach.
As he awoke yet again, He was only aware of one thing: his sleep had not defeated the invading presence, it had allowed it entry! He felt his barrier gone, and instead the stabbing presence lay inside the very depths of his mind. Gasping, he beat the stone floor, unable to contain his frustration. Even the sanctity of his mind was denied him! I must have gone mad, Septimus thought, as he wailed aloud.
Then, a voice emerged from the depths of his being: Calm yourself, child, else you will never escape the hell in which you now lie.
