In Which Severin Is Commanded at the Last Stand

April 17, 1180

Severin and his sister had never been particularly close--could anyone have expected them to be, considering she hadn't been born until he already had four-going-on-five children of his own?--but in spite of that, she didn't hesitate to hurl herself into his arms as soon as he'd reached the top of the stairs. And given the circumstances, he wasn't about to object. "How is she?"

"Mmm... not so good." Aerina dried her tearing eyes on Severin's shoulder, sniffling like his children always had when they'd been down with a bad cold. He never could forget how young she was, but today, she seemed even smaller. It made sense. He didn't think he'd ever felt so small himself. "She was asking for you. I think she's awake."

Severin peered around the back of his sister's head for a glimpse of their bedridden mother; through vision alone, he wasn't sure he could confirm it. But her form rustled beneath the blankets and her lashes flickered. She might not have been awake, but at least she was alive.

"Mother?" He made sure to whisper, in case Aerina was wrong.

But as it turned out, she wasn't--not quite. "Severin?"

"Oh, thank God," Aerina muttered as they broke apart. "I'm going to fetch her some water, all right?"

Severin nodded. Aerina stepped around him and hurried down the stairs while he took half-step toward the bed. Their mother's breathing was raspy and uneven, like a March gale in the last of its wintery prime, desperate to sting just one more cheek before spring warmed it to a gentle breeze. Beads of sweat welled from her brow and the shadows stirred beneath her eyes as the dusk crept down upon a thinning red horizon.

She was worse than he'd been, and worse than Riona. Worse even than Lucien, for he'd endured Remiel's touch for God knew how long. Severin's mother had also suffered for years, but that was long ago now. She'd always been tough--he'd never known her not to be--but she wasn't young any more, not as physically resilient for all she'd kept her wits. Perhaps, this time, she couldn't fight it. "Mother?"

"Mmm." Her lashes opened a crack; the exposed iris was blurred and moist, but what he saw of the sclera was a sickly pink. "You're so handsome. I knew you would be... with your father..."

"Mother--"

"Shhh." It took a lengthy inhale to recover from the fricative, but beyond her respiration, all was silent. "Hear that?"

He shook his head. "What?"

"Sounds like voices."

Voices. Alina hadn't mentioned voices, but Nora's mother claimed to have heard that of her late husband as her last minutes drew to a close. Celina said that Farilon had looked to the other side of the bed and addressed his papa. Even Florian--never serious, never reverent, perpetual prankster Florian--swore that Electra had spent her last breaths conversing with her lost love. Private perceptions were never a good sign. "Mother..."

"I don't know them." As if in some last self-deprecating joke, she cracked a small, tired smile. "That tends to happen when you don't let people know you. But they don't sound hostile."

He wished she'd stop talking and let herself rest. He wished she'd keep talking and keep herself alive. "Mama..."

"Hush." Behind him, he heard Aerina ascend the final steps of the staircase. She held the promised cup of water, but one look at their mother and she set it on the table, resigned. She too was a healer, as he had never been. She was blessed and cursed with an innate knowledge of the point at which she could do no more. It wouldn't be until he reached his own deathbed that he knew whether or not he envied her.

"Take care of your families. And each other. I know you will."

So that was it. She'd said it herself. "Mama--"

"Don't worry about me. I've cheated Death more times than I can count." Somehow, she let herself laugh. "Seems he's finally caught on."

"Don't..." Don't what? Don't joke--but what if it eased her suffering? Don't speak--but what if she still had something to say? He knew what he truly wanted to ask, but he couldn't.

He knew, deep down, little as anyone cared to believe it, that there was no point in asking someone never to die.

"Severin?"

He swallowed--but he forced himself to nod. "Yes?"

His mother labored through a few more strained breaths before she shut her eyes again, a fighting scowl battling for a last stand on her lips. "Kill that son of a bitch."

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