In Which Searle Gets a Last Chance

May 7, 1173

Searle squirmed his way out of his brother's embrace and looked him over. It hadn't been quite two years since the royal wedding and he appeared rather the same as always, save for one notable difference. "I'm taller than you."

"Perhaps, but you're still my little brother." Abrich stood on his toes and ruffled Searle's hair; he pretended to be annoyed. "And, as such, you shall always be known as 'Shorty'."

He felt his nose wrinkle, but he chose to otherwise ignore the comment. It was so rare that he got to see his brother that he didn't want to ruin the occasion with an argument. "Anyway, what brings you to Naroni?"

At once, his brother's face fell from levity to an unfathomable seriousness, as though he had just been reminded of some terrible mission. A moment or so passed, the tension growing with it. The pit of Searle's gut turned to stone. "Abrich?"

His brother nodded toward the couch. "Let's sit down."

Not giving Searle a chance to reply, Abrich lowered himself into the far seat with the pained, sloth-like movements of a man four times his age. Not sure if he wanted to hear the sort of news that could make a geezer of a man only four years his senior, Searle hesitated for a moment before joining his brother on the couch. "What's this about?"

Abrich sighed. "It's Father."

The stone within his core shot up to Searle's throat, its jagged edges etching scars into the tissue and its frigid surface turning his very spit to ice. Was his father... dead? Dying? Surely his mother would have written if--

"It came on so suddenly," Abrich muttered as if reading Searle's thoughts. "There was an outbreak in the castle. Father got sick. So did Odette, and Ramona and Delia and a handful of servants. The girls are fine, and the servants as well, but Father..." He didn't finish. He didn't need to.

Searle pulled himself out of his slouch and locked eyes with his brother. The details were sparse, but he had just one question. "Is he alive?"

"Yes, but the healers don't think he'll make it to June." Abrich's fingers shook as he fiddled with the strings of his pouch. He looked frightened and anxious and alone, much like a lost child. Searle wanted to make it better, but he couldn't. He was a lost child too.

"Abrich..."

"I've already been to Armion for Conant," his brother informed him, not giving him a chance to finish the thought--not the worst thing, considering he had no thought to finish. "And to Veldora for Karlspan. Jadin and Xeta said they'd take care of your lands if you and Valira and the girls wanted to come back to Dovia and see Father one last time."

One last time. He was not sure how he would pass this news onto his wife. He was not sure he could take his three young daughters on a long journey and expect them to understand that they'd never see Grandpapa again. He did not know if he had the strength to sit at his father's bedside and watch him die.

But then again... this was his father. He'd scarcely seen him since he'd been sent to Naroni at five, but they'd written, exchanged gifts, laughed and cried whenever they visited. There would be no more letters and no more gifts, but if there was a chance for a last audience, then damned if he didn't take it.

It was the last chance. It was his father.

"We'll leave first thing tomorrow."

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