At the risk of sounding like a broken record, but again, I really have to thank you all for the fabulous and so encouraging reviews each chapter. I adore you to pieces. And your questions and speculations will (hopefully) be answered very soon. Promise:-) And… here's more:

For three days, John drifted in a feverish haze while his body fought the infection coursing through his system. Sometimes he clearly spoke. He asked for Ronny again, and sometimes, he called out more names, perhaps of those who had once been close to him. Other times he spoke of flying, muttering what Tosia recognized as commands to an invisible co-pilot – telling him to 'pull up,' to 'stay sharp,' his battered hands passing over controls only he could see. But most of the time, he was still and quiet, save for the insistent wet, rattling cough and the rasping of his breath.

There wasn't much to be done for him other than trying to keep him as comfortable as possible, but between the constant pain in his hands, the congestion clogging his lungs and the raspy sound to his voice when he did speak, he was clearly miserable. Unable to sleep for more than an hour or two at a stretch, he tossed and turned on the pallet. Many times, he gave up on sleep completely and sat huddled against the wall, and between bouts of coughing, Tosia could often hear him humming under his breath.

On the third day, Lasca and Antal ventured into the small market in the village, only to be met with suspicious glances. Suddenly, those that they considered friends were too busy to stop and greet them. Some of the villagers even huddled together, talking amongst themselves, questioning what nerve Lasca and Antal had to even show their faces in town, intentionally speaking loud enough for them to overhear.

Thoughts churning with a mixture of anger and bewilderment, Lasca laid their wares on the market carts – the few winter cabbages and turnips they had coaxed from the ground and were able to spare for trade. The other villagers grudgingly made their trades, taking no time for small talk, and Lasca and Antal returned home far too quickly with their ration of grain from the communal stand and a sackful of potatoes.

Lasca had shrugged off the villagers' alarming behavior for Antal's benefit, but in truth, the scorn deeply upset her. And from the distress clearly written on Lasca's face as she stepped back inside their home, Tosia was able to deduce what had happened without the other woman having to speak a word.

"Give it time, Lasca," Tosia told her daughter again. "We will not give in to such foolishness. They will get over this nonsense soon enough."

"And until then, what are we to do?" Lasca said, a trace of bitterness filling her voice. "Do we hide in our home like miscreants?"

"I am not suggesting we hide, at all," Tosia replied.

"Well, then what are you suggesting?" Lasca snapped. "You did not see them! How they acted! I wish that you…"

"You wish that I what, Lasca?" Tosia demanded. When Lasca set her jaw and looked down at the floor, Tosia's anger once more began to grow, but it wasn't only her daughter she was angry with. "What I am suggesting is that you walk through that village with your head held high, and you do not bow down to anyone! I raised you to have a thicker skin than this! At the first sign of adversity, are you going to wilt like a trampled flower?"

Lasca's eyes filled with tears but she stood her ground. "I will do no such thing. I am merely concerned for Antal. He does not deserve this."

"It is all right, mother," Antal said softly. "I do not go into the village very often, and most people pay me no mind anyhow."

"There, you see?" Tosia said, waving an arm in Antal's direction. "Your son is hardier than you think, Lasca. Come, let us all stop worrying so much. Worrying is for old fools and those with too much time on their hands."

The rest of the day was filled with chores as the three settled into their usual routine, but the seed of dissension that had started within the village was now spreading its roots in their small home.

Later that afternoon, though her side ached with such a steady throb that she was unable to walk without limping, Tosia went to find Antal working in the barn, tending to their cow and small goat. It took a moment for Antal to notice her, and then he frowned with concern when he saw Tosia's hand gripped tight to her side.

"Are you unwell, Tosia?" he asked, and a pang of regret went through her at the casual query. Sometimes Antal could seem almost a normal man, and it always pained her to see what he could have been. No, Tosia quickly corrected. He was a good man, a fine, strong young man, and that was more than she could say of the many others she had encountered over the years.

"I am old, Antal – that is all which ails me," she replied with a reassuring smile. "How would you like to take an old woman for a walk?"

Antal brightened at the prospect, then turned to the animals. "But I must—"

"It will not take long."

"All right," Antal agreed with a shrug. Tosia knew that he could never turn down an opportunity to explore and escape his chores.

As they walked, Tosia took hold of Antal's elbow and tried not to lean on him too much. She led him on a course that skirted the village entirely, and Antal's face clouded with perplexity when he saw the landscape of the ruins in the near distance.

"Tosia? Do you know where we are going?" he asked, worried. "The cliff side is that way." He pointed just off to his left, at the cliffs in the hazy, snow-filled horizon.

"Yes, Antal. My eyes are not that bad yet, nor has my mind suddenly left me. We are not going to the cliffs today." She squeezed his arm in reassurance and continued to lead them in the direction of the ruins. "There is something I must to do here."

When they reached the uneven, barren landscape, she released Antal's arm and limped over the rough ground. Though the early snowfall had halfway filled it, Tosia easily found the short trench that John had created. As she stumbled alongside the ragged hole, she marveled again at how deep he had managed to dig with his bare hands alone.

Such determination... she thought with both admiration and fear for what remained of the man's sanity.

Glancing around, she found the long pole John had previously used as leverage. It was stained brown in places from the blood on his hands, but Tosia paid it no mind. She drove one end deep into the side of the trench, and the pole was tall enough to stand free above all but the worst of snowfalls. Tosia stepped back, satisfied. She shivered with cold, and the pain in her side nearly had her gasping, but there was one more thing she needed to do before returning home.

Clambering away from the trench, she lost her footing on the slick ground and would have fallen had Antal not quickly caught hold of her. She hadn't even realized that he had been hovering close behind her, but she was grateful to him for that.

Nodding vaguely in thanks, Tosia held tight to her grandson as she resolutely made her way to the graveside. Kneeling down in the snow and mud, she ran a hand over the stone marker that she had carved herself. Brushing aside the dirt and snow that obscured Gaereth's name, she whispered an apology for not having visited him. For trying to forget him. He deserved better than that, and she was ashamed of her betrayal. She had laid him to rest alongside the place that had offered him such needed hope, because she'd thought that was what he would have wanted. She hadn't meant to abandon him here, but that is exactly what she had done.

Laying her hand on the inscription she had carved beneath his name, beatae memoriae, she silently asked for his forgiveness, and she made him one more unspoken promise.

"Tosia, do you know who's buried here?" Antal said, breaking into her thoughts, his voice rising in excitement at the prospect of a mystery revealed.

It took a moment until Tosia thought she'd be able to speak without her voice wavering. "Yes, I knew him. He was… a very fine man." She quickly wiped the moisture from her eyes that she told herself was nothing more than irritation from the icy wind. "One day, I shall tell you all about him."

"You will?" Antal gaped, surprised. "How did you know him? What was his name? What happened to him? Why is he buried here, instead of in the village graveyard?"

Tosia pulled herself to her feet, breathing hard and clutching Antal's strong hand for leverage. "Today is not that day, Antal," she said, ignoring the disappointment that immediately fell on the young man's face. "Let us go home now."

---A---

The snows continued to fall, and the wind howled an incessant complaint, rattling and banging open and shut the barn doors with every strong gust. John sat slumped against a hay bale, bandaged hands held against his chest, and every time one of the barn doors swung open, he saw a world that was slowly becoming blanketed in white. And with each flash of white, the faces trapped within his mind imposed themselves like reverse negatives against that blank slate. Their wide-open mouths were black anguished holes against the stark white. Their cries mingled with that of the wind – howling, crying, begging, pleading.

John's hands flew to his ears. He squeezed his eyes shut. He began to rock.

The voices only grew louder. He began to hum, mimicking that single note of the ruins. The voices were louder still, but he refused to listen and kept humming. He forced himself to focus solely on the sound of his own voice, and thankfully, in time, he was able to tune them all out. Even when he had to pause and cough from the congestion still filling his lungs, he managed to keep the voices at bay.

He didn't resist when Antal led him back into the hut and peeled off the layers of warm clothing he been bundled in, or when he was sat down in front of the roaring hearth. He couldn't focus his attention on the occupants of the hut working around him. Not with the other maddened faces continually vying for his attention, darting and flitting across his vision. Over the sounds of their mad, distant screaming and his own humming, he didn't hear the door opening and closing when Antal brought in more firewood from time to time, keeping them warm against the growing cold.

When Lasca unsuccessfully tried to pry John's hands away from his ears so that she could give him a cup of warm broth, a part of him wanted to obey her. A part of him wanted to explain to her that he was afraid that if he uncovered his ears and let the voices take over, the screaming of the dead souls would finally ensnare him for good, and so he couldn't let go. When she pressed the cup to his mouth and tried to coax him to drink, he took a few sips that he was unable to taste. The rest dribbled down his chin because he'd forgotten to swallow. He vaguely puzzled and frowned at Lasca's frustrated expression when she wiped it away.

Though she was a hazy, but regular presence beside him over the past days, he didn't register that Tosia had taken to huddling so close in front of the fireplace that she was in danger of igniting herself. Even though she had wrapped herself in a shroud of so many blankets that only her face was visible, it was as if she could never get warm enough. When John, for a brief moment, became aware enough of her presence to glance at her, a distant part of his mind thought he was gazing upon a corpse.

"Do I truly look as bad as that, John?" she said with a cackle, and the sound of her voice broke through the other voices, even through his own droning one. At the same time, the meaning of her words didn't sink in. Not really. She continued talking, and so he focused on the sound of her voice. Like he had done before, like that one night when they'd shared the warmth of the flames, the same manner in which they were doing now, he listened to her words. Sometimes, when he was able to concentrate on it, her quiet voice calmed him. Sometimes, as it did now, it penetrated the swirling, screaming miasma in his head, like a distant beacon of light that he could focus on.

"I remember when I was a girl," she said in that soft, low voice, "my father would sometimes take me to the mainland, and we would pretend to live like savages. Lighting bonfires and roasting the fish we caught in the sea for our dinner, sleeping on the ground and looking up at the stars. Somehow, the stars looked different on the mainland than they did from home. My father would tell me of the old myths and fables to help me fall asleep, but I could never get enough of them. Always asking him for more, more. Sometimes, I miss those stories. Or maybe I just miss being that girl who had no idea what life had in store for her. All she wanted or needed back then was one more story."

John watched her without really seeing her, waited for her to continue speaking so he'd have something to hold onto, but she fell silent. The other voices, the screaming voices, raised in pitch, and so he began humming again, his gaze drifting to the dancing flames. He tried not to see the howling faces that formed in the sparks and shadows. He tried to shut them out, tried not to see, tried not to hear, but a part of his mind despaired that if he tuned out too much, that if he hid for too long, he would never find his way back.

---tbc---