Let the Earth Hide Thee

Avaunt, and quit my sight! Let the earth hide thee!
Thy bones are marrowless, thy blood is cold;
Thou hast no speculation in those eyes
Which thou dost glare with.—Macbeth

Once again, I am left alone with my brother's sleeping form and the quiet, rhythmic sounds of the beeping machines, the hiss of the ventilator, the tick of the clock.

Daniel left some time ago, to tend to the thousand and one matters a leader of so large an expedition must attend to, and the nurses are respectfully hovering in the background, allowing me to be alone with Gilleasbachan.

I have dragged (literally) a broken gurney out of the storage closet and set it up next to his bed. The only thing wrong with the gurney is that two of its wheels got bent out of shape and it doesn't roll—the result of a very drunk marine with a very broken arm not wanting it set. It's perfectly good for sitting on, which is all I need it for. Someone from the laundry sent a pile of socks what need to be darned to me and I'm glad they did. There is nothing more I can do for my brother, but I must do something. Anything to keep my mind off what I have done.

I've gotten half-way through the pile, but still have a good number to go. Even with trading partners and frequent supply runs, socks are always in demand and too precious a commodity to just throw away. Many of the socks I've darned this evening I darned before, some several times. Toes and heels are almost entirely in a black not quite identical to the original, carefully woven stitches instead of knit-and-purled ones.

If only spirits were so easily mended.

The infirmary lights have been dimmed for nighttime—it must be late. One of the new nurses already—foolishly—suggested that I return to my own room: no reason to stay with a wraith who didn't know you were there. I purposefully ignored her, pretending not to hear. I had borrowed a broken Ipod from Radek—there is a small but growing collection of broken music players hanging around the labs. All I wanted was the appearance of having music playing in my ears, an excuse to anyone who doesn't know me. Anyone who does know me knows that all the music players I borrow are less capable of playing music than the gunnery I'm sitting on.

"Maria, ir a la cama."

Unfortunately, Dr. Santiago knows me, and is standing right behind me.

"Maria," he grasps my shoulders and turns me around, sending several undarned socks to the floor. "Dormirse."

"Doctor, I can't sleep," I reply, hints of a whine and an edge of desperation creeping in. "There is too much to do, and my brother—"

"Is asleep," he counters, collecting the socks and depositing them on a nearby chair. "And so should you, mi'ja."

He doesn't understand—if I close my eyes, she'll be there. If I go to sleep, I'll have to face my brother's accusations.

"Mairghread, Maria," he says softly, holding my shoulders with his large hands, "You're shaking with sleep. Listen to your body."

"No puedo," I plead. "Mi hermano, su cirugía…"

"We will wake you up before sen," Dr. Santiago counters, pulling me gently but firmly off the gurney. "Nurse Kathy made a bed for you, in se corner here, see?" Indeed, a spare mattress and blankets have been arranged in the near corner, the hospital corners belying a nurses' handiwork, and I am swiftly and protestingly led there.

I open my mouth to offer another counter-argument, but am brusque cut off and lovingly shoved down onto the mattress.

"Dormirse, Maria."

Obediently, I kick off my shoes and crawl under the covers, secretly determined not to go to sleep.

"Remember, mi'ja, we can see you," Dr. Santiago reminds me, only half-playfully as he walks out and dims the light to a dark twilight—enough for the nurses not to trip if they come in, not enough to help me stay awake.

And so, I lie here, tired to the core of my being but all together too afraid to sleep. In the darkness, it is hard to resist the undertow of exhaustion, which tugs at my consciousness, which is trying to swim against the tide with all the strength of my will, but eventually, as even the strongest swimmer is pulled out to sea…

"Hello, murderer."

I spin around, to face a young girl, clothed in a loose dress of childhood, smeared with grass and mud from a day's play. Her round face possesses that childish beauty and innocence.

"What did you call me?" I ask, fearfully, slowly approaching her.

"Murderer," she answers darkly. "Mothair. You killed me just yesterday. Or don't you remember?"

"Murderer?" I echo as I begin to back away from her. "No, no, I killed the queen—she deserved to die!"

"I AM the queen," she answers, and before my eyes she morphs into the hellish monster who tortured my brother and killed my family.

"No! NO! She's dead! You're dead!" I scream at her, this…spectre, haunting image of my troubled mind.

"Yes, I am," she purrs. "And you killed me. MURDERER!"

"No, you're not real!" I shriek back, desperate for this horrid vision to end. "A dream!"

She smiles at me, dark lips drawn back from serrated, yellowed teeth. "Wouldn't that be nice? If you could just wish it away? But its real, pet," she stalks towards me, her face set in a hardened expression. "But it's real. You killed me-"

"No"

" You had them burn my body-"

"No!"

"You're going to have to live with me—"

"NO!"

"Mairghread!"

I spin around to see Athair standing a short way off, enveloped as always in the grey mist.

"Come away from her, Mairghread," he commands me. "She can't hurt you."

"Can't I?" the queen hisses and grabs for me, but I suddenly find myself standing by my father, separate, but safely within the descended cloud. I turn my face away from the queen so I don't have to see her trying to fight her way through the fog.

"No, you can't," my athair tells her firmly. "Be gone!

"Mairghread," he calls me softly, "Turn around. She is gone."

Trembling, I glance over my shoulder and sigh in relief when I see that indeed, she is gone. "Oh, Athair!" I cry, reaching out for him, forgetting as always that I can no more touch him than the image in a mirror.

"Shhshh, sweetheart," he whispers, reaching out to me. "I know. The first time you take a life, it haunts you."

"How long?" I ask with trepidation.

"Forever," he tells me sadly and his shoulders slump. "Oh Mairghread, it shouldn't have happened like this. No child is asked to be the executioner the first time they feed. Always an elder, someone who is willing and ready to pass into the next world—"

"You can still see them?" I ask him sharply, and he nods.

"Yes. Some I even know their names. Blaedvyn—she was one of the matriarchs of the village. Ancient, tiny," a wistful look comes into his eyes. "She thanked me. She said she was ready to see her mother, her father, her husband, her youngest child again. She was ready not to be in pain anymore. Her lungs were slowly failing her—not surprising, really; I saw over a hundred years of memories in her mind," he tells me. "Even so," he admits, "I wept that night for her. It does not matter how willing the owner of the life is, it changes you to take a life.

"And I have no way to make it better, my child," he says regretfully. "I am so sorry."

TBC

A/N: Sorry, its a short chapter. I'm working on it, I swear! Please, leave a review and let me know what you think so far! up next, the dreaded surgery...