The Mournful King

XIII. Too Easily

The Silent drifted in grey, his eyelids so leaden that he couldn't open them. He felt no pain, just a chill numbness over his entire body. He could dimly hear voices through the fog. The first one to speak was ponderous and slow, strangely resonant and inhumanly deep. There was no way to mistake it for a man's voice, even in the Silent's current state.

"...WOULD BE A KINDNESS."

"That's not what I'm asking you to do," Andraste's voice said, heated with anger. He knew her well enough to both recognize her through the fog and know that she was trying to control her temper. "You can heal him."

"HE IS A SERVANT OF GADER'EL. THE MARK HAS PROVEN...RESISTANT...TO ATTEMPTS AT REMOVAL. WHAT DO YOU BELIEVE WILL COME OF IT WHEN NEXT YOU ENCOUNTER HIS MASTER? THE CLOSER YOU COME TO ZAEYLAEL, THE MORE COMPLETE GADER'EL'S POWER OVER HIM WILL BE. THAT HE RESISTED NOW WAS A SIGN OF OVER-EXTENSION ON HIS MASTER'S PART MORE THAN SOME INHERENT STRENGTH IN HIM, ANDRASTE. YOU ARE ALLOWING YOUR EMOTIONS TO BLIND YOU."

Andraste made a noise of frustration. "I'm human, Orobas. I feel things."

"I AM AWARE."

The Silent heard Andraste pull in a deep breath. "You told me once that everything had its price," she said. "His chance to live is mine."

"VERY WELL, ANDRASTE. BUT I CANNOT OVERSTATE THE CONSEQUENCES OF FAILURE. YOU ARE OUR ONLY WAY OF DESTROYING DEUS. IF YOU DIE, THAT IS THE END. HE WILL SHATTER EVERY ARMY ARRAYED AGAINST HIM. EVEN THE IMPERIUM WILL CRUMBLE INTO DUST BENEATH HIS ASSAULT. THE MEMORIES CANNOT BE REPLACED OR RECREATED WITHOUT THE SORCERY OF THE ANCIENTS. THERE WILL BE NO SECOND CHANCE..."

Blackness surged up around the Silent again as sorcery poured into his body, burning like a liquid fire through his veins. The darkness was an all-encompassing, all-consuming night. He was not certain what light had even looked like any more. It stayed that way for centuries, until ever so slowly, sound began to return again. Not human voices, but birdsong: trilling, chirping larks and sparrows. But instead of fresh air, all he could smell was decaying plants and moist earth. It lingered heavy in the air, even if its source had departed.

The Silent's eyes flickered open, burning and dry. For a moment the world was blurry, but every blink seemed to make it clearer. His body ached and trembled beneath the single sheet, drenched in cold sweat. He turned his head, neck stiff as he moved, to look at the person sitting beside him.

It was Andraste. His friend was half in the chair, her arms crossed and on the edge of the bed. She had leaned forward so that her head was resting on her arms. She seemed completely asleep, though she was still frowning ever so slightly. There was no sign of bruising on her throat, nor any other obvious wound. He had been unconscious for a while, apparently. And yet, he felt no serious ill effects other than this strange sickness. Was it her sorcery that had healed him or another's? He still remembered the voices, in a distant way. Perhaps it was the demon who had eased his suffering. 

He looked down at his crippled arm to see a long scar down his forearm to the back of his hand, but otherwise his hand seemed whole. He flexed his fingers. They were stiff, but he could use them. That didn't seem possible. What miracle had been worked on him? He moved his legs experimentally, feeling a surge of relief when they stiffly obeyed his command. He should have been a cripple for life, bedridden until he died. He was weak, but he was able to move. Hopefully he would even be able to walk.

The door creaked open, admitting Seva of Essen. She smiled faintly at the sight before her, but there was a worried edge to the expression. She took the seat on the Silent's other side. "Thou art awake earlier than Orobas anticipated," she said softly. "Welcome back to the world of the living, Silent."