Merentha, Year 1252 A.S.
one year after the Forest burned
A body lay upon the bed. Completely still, unmoving, its flesh not quite cool to the touch, but with none of the warmth a living, moving body generated.
Alive, but barely so. Blood still circulating, organs functioning, electrical impulses flowing - the brain still engaged in sending signals, directing the autonomic nervous system.
That much, at least.
Gerald had not hesitated to come with Narilka once she'd explained. Andrys was, after all, the last of his descendants. And now he was lying here, lost to the world, deep in a coma at best, an empty shell at worst.
Neocount of Merentha, indeed. Gerald still couldn't quite suppress the sneer at the thought of the man claiming a title a thousand years defended. For centuries, Gerald had made certain no one could ever claim to have succeeded him - he was and remained the first, and only, Neocount of Merentha. But he'd left that behind - sacrificed it, for survival. For this new life.
He'd let Andrys have the title - was this what he'd done with it? Narilka had explained that Andrys had been in this state for two days already, and had shared her suspicions of what had caused it. He would know for certain soon.
Gerald took a slow, measured glance around the room, taking in everything, and Narilka's gaze followed his. He observed the flow of the fae, here in this room: the way the currents responded to Narilka's every movement, and to his own, to every thought and feeling. Man's emotions might no longer birth demonlings and wraiths, but the currents were still directed and redirected by them. As they were by any living thing.
Any living thing, save the one on the bed.
A still spot: the currents unaffected by the life-not-life state it was in.
"The Healers can't Work the fae any more," Narilka whispered. "They can no longer See within the brain, and so they cannot tell whether anything of Andrys is still alive." Her fingers clenched tightly, as if she were trying to stop herself from wringing her hands. "But you - you can still See. Can you tell for certain?"
Gerald nodded and stepped forward, drawing his knife. It might be that the man on the bed had merely withdrawn so deeply into himself, the fae could not touch him. It might be that there was no life left at all - no mind, awake or asleep. Narilka's concerns were well warranted, though it'd take closer examination to be certain.
He could hear Narilka's tiny gasp when he cut into Andrys's flesh, but she did not cry out, nor voice any protest. Sensible.
With detached curiosity, he watched a small rivulet of blood flow from the shallow incision in Andrys's temple, watched life flow and spill its shadows, its memories on the fae.
This would have been so much easier if he could have Worked. It would have been a moment's work to be certain. As it was, he grudgingly concentrated on what the fae would divulge on its own. He shifted into the currents, strained his eyes for the smaller fluctuations, interpreted the patterns and flavours and images. Narilka remained quiet, though it must seem as if he were doing nothing but stare.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. Sweat! Something he certainly could have done without. It was untidy, and it smelled, and the Hunter had never had to put up with anything like it.
Never mind.
Finally he had seen all there was to see, and he closed his eyes for a moment, resting his eyes. Then he pushed himself to his feet. Irritatingly, he felt himself tremble slightly. Mere perception should not be this much of a strain.
"Are you all right?" Narilka asked, taking a concerned step forward, reaching out a hand as if to steady him. He neatly sidestepped her.
"It is of no consequence," he assured her. Then hesitated for a moment, but there was no point delaying. "He's truly gone, I'm afraid. There is nothing left." He shook his head and looked down in a display of respect for the dead. What he felt was closer to anger than grief, though. How dare the man drug himself into such a state? He'd tasted the blackout derivative quite clearly on the currents. Worked drugs, of the kind it was no longer possible to produce. It must have cost a considerable price. Andrys clearly had taken them not in small quantity, and not once or twice only. Such things could detach a mind from a body, and let it be swept away by the fae if one was not careful. But somehow that possibility hadn't been deterrent enough. It never was.
Narilka seemed to crumple. "I knew it," she whispered. "I knew, but I hoped ..." She shook her head decisively. "Thank you, Mer Silva. I am ... grateful for your assistance."
"Of course," Gerald replied blandly, his lip curling a little as he looked back at the lifeless body of his descendant.
No. Not lifeless. Certainly alive, in the physical sense: Breath and heartbeat, a functional metabolism. But no more than that: a body only.
Gerald's eyes shifted to Narilka, who was looking at Andrys's still form with reddened eyes, spine erect and features still. Despair flowed from her; the currents were sour with it. Despair ... and something else. There was a barely perceptible twist to the currents around her that he didn't quite know how to interpret, like the tiniest of rapids. Too small an irregularity to be seen at a distance - he'd never have noticed had he not examined her so closely. It irritated him that he could not put a name to it, though it seemed familiar. The taste of it on the currents ... no; it wouldn't come. He couldn't remember.
"I thought he'd stopped," she said, voice almost clinically detached. "He used to ... but I thought he'd stopped."
Andrys had always been weak, Gerald thought uncharitably. The Hunter had done no worse to him than he'd done to others, in the long line of Tarrants carefully shaped and controlled by him, and most of them had held up much better.
"It's not any of my business, I'm aware," Gerald said, though of course it very much was. As expected, it prompted her to continue.
"It was a heart attack," Narilka said softly. "Three months ago. We don't know the exact cause, but we did know the danger. A year ago he might have been saved by a skilled Healer, but now ..."
Gerald nodded. In this at least, he could relate, uncomfortable though it was. The heart attack - and wasn't that a worrying parallel to Gerald's own first mortal life? - had left Andrys terrified with good reason. There was nothing to be done about a failing heart; it was no surprise the knowledge had preyed on Andrys.
"He never knew how to battle his fears without intoxication," Narilka said bitterly, and then bit her lip at the unkindness.
Gerald studied the currents closer, and examined the visions the fae threw up. There was nothing of a mind left in there, of course, but objects carried their history with them, and so did Andrys's body. "There must have been warning signs," Gerald decided. "Did you notice?"
She flushed dark with a mixture of shame, guilt and anger. "Yes. A month ago or so, we couldn't wake him in the morning. He said he didn't know what caused it."
Likely the event had only increased his fear. Vicious cycle. Very neatly ironic. Gerald could appreciate that.
"You guessed."
Narilka nodded. "He wouldn't talk to me."
Again Gerald wondered at the flavour on the fae flowing from her. There was something almost-familiar in it, as of a memory long forgotten. When had he last tasted this?
When the penny dropped, he turned and looked at her with renewed interest. "You are pregnant," he stated. It came out sounding like an accusation.
"What?" She blanched. "I ... no. Not that I know of."
He examined her again, silently, and held out a hand to touch her belly. She almost flinched back, but instead chose to stare at him in defiance. He smiled. There could be no doubt, now. There was a second life within her. Small as of yet, almost imperceptible without the help of a Knowing, but it was there. He remembered now. Almea's pregnancies, all of them. His own children, centuries long ago. No wonder the memory was distant.
Gerald forced himself to relax slightly. "You are pregnant," he repeated, almost gently. "You may not have known, but your husband left you something."
He could not help the fascination springing up within him. Not the end of his line, then, after all.
