The blackness cinched up its belt and forced the breath out of Geth and Clover like a pair of tight pants after a large dinner. Clover breathed out quickly through his small nose and then let air slowly seep back into his lungs. “It’s so dark,” he whispered. “I can barely breathe. Listen.” He breathed a few deep, labored breaths to prove his point.
“You’re fine,” Geth insisted. “Besides, dark has nothing to do with the oxygen levels.”
“Tell that to my lungs,” Clover argued.
Geth held his unconscious brother, Zale, in his arms like he was some sort of spineless bride. His brother was still unconscious from the hit Geth had administered when they left the castle minutes ago. Zale’s body was small and light, the years he had spent sitting alone in prison having left him with the physique of a bony rag doll. His long, black beard was one of the weightier parts of his body. Geth shifted Zale up over his right shoulder.
“Ouch!” Clover wailed. “Your brother’s limp arm slapped me.”
“Blame him when he comes to,” Geth said. “But for now, be quiet.”
“I didn’t ask to be hit,” Clover pointed out.
“Quiet,” Geth repeated. “There are things out here that can hit much harder than that.”