"No," she whispered. "Akkarin." Grabbing his hands, she sent her mind inward. Nothing. Not even the slightest spark of life.
He had given her too much power.
He had given her everything.
"No." She hissed. "No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!" Her voice peaked at a scream, and she thrust one hand against the floor in sheer anger, cutting her left palm on a shard of stone.
Sobbing furiously, she tore the knife out of Akkarin's chest. A little more blood seeped out, but the wound was still warm. The knife was ghastly, dripping in the blood of her beloved. She hurled it across the room, where it dug into a wall.
Sonea laid her head over Akkarin's chest. The smell of blood was coppery, warm. All she wanted to do was succumb to the pain inside her, let it eat her up so she wouldn't have to feel again.
Her left hand, still braced on the floor, tingled. It felt hot. Sonea poured magic on her hand, trying to make it heal. Instead, she got back a warm rush, like tears seeping back into her hand, up her arm, across her shoulders and down her right arm into her hand, where it ventilated out into Akkarin's body.
She sat up, surprised. Magical energy was flowing out of the ground. Was this even possible? Was it recorded in magician's history before? One answer sprung to mind: Who cares, provided this heals him.
It seemed to be working. The hole in his chest was closing up, and colour was returning to his pallid cheeks. She bent her head over his heart, and felt a weak pattering. Her face twisted in joy, much to the confusion of any onlookers.
Then the flow of magic stopped, as quickly as it had started.
"Akkarin? Wake up, love," Sonea whispered in his ear. She caressed his face softly, tracing his nose and lips. His lips parted, pulling air in a gasp between them.
"Where am I?" breathed Akkarin weakly.
"Hai!" Squealed Sonea, and she grasped him in her arms, heart bubbling with happiness.