Talking with Sewell
Feeling decidedly unsettled after leaving the Grove and his discussion with Kenrith, Rhys went back to the Tower. That was his domain, where he felt comfortable and where he was in control, and he felt the need for some of that stability right now.
Not to mention the need to talk to his uncle. Perhaps he'd be awake and coherent this morning. He felt both urgency and trepidation, wanting his uncle awake so he could learn the truth, and yet afraid of exactly what that truth might be.
Nothing to be done for it except to continue on. Either he'd be awake, or not. And if awake, either coherent or not. It was out of his hands, and aside from the bad feeling he felt at the beginning of all of this, the gods had been unnervingly quiet.
Rhys took the steps two at a time up to the ward where the remainder of the Holdfast patients were bunked, Godfrey and Sewell included.
Sewell seemed to be in a light doze, but he roused when Rhys came in, looked at him, and tried to smile. He looked very old and frail; this attack had, it seemed, taken a lot out of him.
Rhys scanned the room briefly to see that all was in order, then crossed over to his great-uncle and sat down. "How are you feeling?" he asked, reaching forward to surreptitiously feel for the pulse at his wrist.
"Not good, my boy," he said. "Not good." There was a long silence. and his eyes sought to meet Rhys's. "I'm dying."
Rhys snorted. "You're being overly dramatic," he retorted, though a chill went down his spine at Sewell's words. He took his great-uncle's hand in his. "You're going to be fine. The fever has broken and you'll continue to improve."
Sewell shook his head almost vehemently. "Not ... the fever," he managed. "Not ... head."
His eyes were burning into Rhys's.