Mercy rose from the pillows and sheets of her bed. She stole a glance at Drannor, who still slept soundly beside her and smiled. The moonlight peered in from canopies in the ceiling, bathing their bodies in the pale glow, casting shadows across his placid face. By Mar, how she loved him. She brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen across his face and at his touch, his eyes fluttered. For a moment, Mercy worried she'd woken him but his breathing settled back into its rhythmic pattern, which was good. As much as she loved Drannor, this was something she had to do alone.
She gingerly lowered her feet to the floor, careful not to make a sound. Her father had taught her how to move in the shadows, to dance with them in the dark crevices of the world, though she doubted he realized it. Most of what he'd taught Mercy had not been through words or lessons like how Aracdius used to instruct her.
Her steps took her farther down the quiet halls of the palace in what she hoped was her inconspicuous escape. Mercy didn't want anyone following as there had been no one else in her dream.
With another turn, she felt the cool breeze of the air and left the stilled palace behind into Estramaddon proper. Again, mimicking her father, she ignored the streets and climbed into the rafter-like tree trunks that covered much of the night sky. She hopped from branch to branch and laughed despite it all. It reminded her of riding on her father's back as they dove across the branches and leaves as a child. It had been her favorite game, though she wondered now how much he had enjoyed it. She can't have been light, even as a child. She hoped he had trusted that he had.
The forest always felt different at night, wild and untamed than when the sun shone. A world all her own, where she could go as she pleased and traverse the streets unbidden as a passing ghost.
She remembered–although vaguely–one night when she was barely five that she had snuck out of her room, chasing after her newest pet, Mr. Rings. She'd slipped out the doors and raced the raccoon down the staircase, giggling as she went. She had explored all around the school the whole night and climbed up a tree before finally falling asleep. Arcadius found her passed out against a branch. She'd received a scolding and no cookies for a whole week because of the adventure. It hadn't stopped her, of course, from stealing one or two when he wasn't looking.
Mercy always smiled when she thought of the funny old wizard who'd once raised her and then frowned when she remembered he had murdered her mother.
Royce had never told her that. No one had. But hands–Mercy had come to understand–never lied and she'd gleamed enough from her father's to know.
She spotted it, down below the towering oaks that had stood for thousands of years. The Rose Bridge, as it was called. Mercy had been there many times as a young child, chasing Mr. Rings up and down the brook. The memory returned the grin to her face. She climbed down the tree, and again, touched her soft feet to the dewy grass, listening to the sounds of the night.
Mercy crouched by the lip of the brook and gently rubbed the moss-laden stone that marked Mr. Rings' grave. He had lived long and prosperous, for a raccoon. She let herself linger there before returning the real night's work.
Stepping into the cool bank's water, Mercy searched for the stone. It could not be any stone; this was something she knew for certain. It had to be the one from her dream, from her vision. Though she didn't understand the consequences if she failed such a task, Mercy felt it best not to chance fate, the future, especially since her dreams often proved to be right in the most horrific ways.
So, she waded through the waters, soaking her asica and looking for the stone. It must have been several hours because the darkness was starting to shift, gradually becoming lighter. Mercy needed to hurry, she didn't want Drannor to discover her missing and incite a panic. He had once been her bodyguard; a fact he reminded her of every time she attempted something he deemed 'stupid'.
In the corner of her eye, she saw it. The stone, the right one with the rounded slides and slight ripples across its surface. With tentative hands, she reached out and pulled the stone to the surface. It emerged from the water, glistening in the moonlight.
This was the stone. Mercy felt a tear run down her cheek.
…
Mercy walked the familiar path that led to her father's bedroom, the stone pressed to her chest as if to wear it as a shield. Her fingers lingered on the door handle before opening in the massive bed of down feathered pillows and silk sheets lay her father like a small crow amidst the breast of a swan.
He was not alone.
Mercy was startled to see the tall, thin man sitting on the edge of her father's bed. She had not seen the man in her dream and her dreams were detailed. To see the man, so prominent in the room, but so invisible to her Sight, frightened her.
The stranger noticed her and spoke.
"I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to scare you."
His voice was calming, a kind sound that out Mercy at ease.
"Who are you?"
The man only smiled and looked down at her father. Royce was small and thin, even amongst her own people. When Mercy was a child, he'd been big to her. Not much in size but in presence and comfort. She'd grown up knowing that nothing could ever hurt her when she had her daddy. As she'd gotten older, seen more of the world and more of her father, it had become harder to ignore the fact that Royce was not as big as she once thought. Her father had become a swallow: elegant but fragile. Mercy knew Royce hated relying on her-hated relying on anyone-which made each passing day more painful than the next as his age and illness wore down on the strongest man Mercy had ever known.
The stranger touched Royce's forehead, rubbing it with his thumb, and spoke, "He's so small. He always was. I remember thinking when I held him for the first time as he squealed and wriggled in my arms, that he was so tiny—a virtual runt."
The smile faded as his brows creased.
"He had her eyes, you know. Persephone's. The last vestiges of her legacy, her bloodline seared into his stare."
Mercy stood, frozen, still clasping the stone in her arms. He brought his head up and, as if noticing Mercy for the first time, stood.
"A stone... I haven't seen that tradition in millennia. You're a very good daughter... I won't take any more of your time. I just wished to say goodbye."
Before she could see him, before she could try and peer through his eyes, the man briskly left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
She stared at the man who'd evaded her gaze but in time, pried her eyes away. She walked softly up to the bed, setting the stone down beside her as she sat. Royce laid there, chest rising and falling to the timed beat of Elan. She sat there for what felt like hours before she felt her father move.
His eyes flickered open and his gaze settled upon her. He smiled, deep and pure.
"Gwen."
"No father, it's me, Mercy."
Royce nodded sagely before asking, "Did you have a bad dream?"
"I'm a grown woman, father. I have a husband and two children."
"My little girl."
"I'm bigger than you."
"Still my little girl."
Mercy smiled and took her father's hand, rubbing it. It was so slender and weak, barely responding to her movements.
Age had only slightly marred her father's face; eye bags carving into his already thin face, the crevices somehow deeper. Grey and white hair strands littered his black hair. It surprised her that some black still even remained. Despite these changes, Royce still looked like Royce and somehow, that made it worse.
"Well?" Royce said, with half a grin and Mercy responded in kind, lying next to her father, still clutching his hand as if she were a child and her daddy would save her from the bad things.
"I had a dream, that you died."
"Very plausible. I'm old."
"I had a dream that you died this night, before the sun rose and that I needed to give this to you," Mercy said, holding on the stone.
Royce smirked at her and said, "Ah so it's one of those dreams."
Mercy's father had always trusted her dreams, even when she didn't. She had supposed it was because he had a greater understanding of her Sight, considering he had known her mother to sometimes have dreams and read palms. It wasn't until she was older and sought out her own teachers how much faith had gone into each and every time he'd abided in her counsel, especially under the scrutiny of the Aquilla.
"Are you afraid?"
The question came out as a whisper, a breath made audible that even Fhrey ears might not catch.
Royce sighed and closed his eyes, "Oddly, no. It's about time the bastard finally caught up to me... I'm ready, Mercy. I'm ready to see her again."
"I'm not ready," Mercy said, her voice quaking, "I'm not ready to lose you daddy. It's been two hundred years and I'm still not ready."
Her father raised his shaking hand to cup Mercy's cheek. She melted into his hands, once strong, always gentle.
"I will always be there for you, Mercy. Even...even when I'm not here, I... Gwen was always better with words than me..."
She felt his arm shake holding itself up. She grasped his arm; partly to make it easier for him and partly because she needed to hold Royce's arm.
"I'll be with you... in the way that counts I suppose. Sounded a lot better in my head."
Mercy laughed and cradled his arm.
"Thank you."
"I won't ever stop loving you, Mercedes."
"I know."
"Death won't change that."
"I know."
"If the bastard ever tried to-"
Mercy gripped her dad in a full hug, burying her face into his chest and cried. She clung to him and suddenly, she was six years old again, clutching her daddy after a horrible dream and he was petting her hair and chasing away the nightmare. She laid there, hugging her father, who in turn embraced her. Tears streaked down her cheeks and Royce held her hand, rubbing her palm with his thumb. Mercy laid there, cradling her dying father, until at last, the rubbing stopped.