Death is Only the Beginning: Cynwyd(continued from Bad Things Come in Threes) Cynwyd woke on hard, damp ground. Wisps of fog obscured his vision, leaving a slick layer of condensation on his skin. A faint luminescence radiated from the floor, strands of light dimly pulsing like the veins of some great beast. The walls and roof were beyond his scope of vision, hidden in an impenetrable gloom. A dull thrum made the air shiver, penetrating into his skull; the vibration resonating from some distant, unknowable source. His body ached, every muscle protesting, bones feeling bruised. His flesh felt hot, swollen. But he appeared to be alive. However, the reassuring presence of his Other felt… absent. "oh, balls," Cynwyd said, holding his head. "And here, I'd had plans of dying In my own bed, at the age of 80, with a belly full of wine and a girls mouth around my... ouch." He sat up, furrowing his brow against the pain, his eyes almost closed, as of yet unworried about his environs. "At least, I'm assuming I'm dead," he mused aloud, taking inventory of his parts. "No Osric means something bad... for both of us. And I'm back to square one." His brow furrowed. "Unless *that* was the dream, and I'm just waking up," he said. "Perhaps in jail. Or in some nobleman's dank dungeon after a going on a bender and not getting out some window in time." "I'm tired of figuring stuff out," he said, screwing his eyes tightly closed against the impending headache and laying back down. "AND WHOMEVER THAT IS, STOP BEATING ON MY BRAIN!" he yelled. Then he lay there. "It's not going away. Bugger." He sat up, propping himself on his hands, considering. Then he sighed, got his feet under him, and came wearily to his feet. "At least if I'm going to have a hangover, I might as well find something to drink," he said, his voice now taking on a fatalistic tone. And with that, he walked into the mists. He walked some distance before the ground became increasingly... uneven in places. Soft. Moist. A whiff of feminine musk rose from the fleshy floor, heady and coying. The distant thrum had shifted its resonance becoming a sensual music – like jazz or blues or something in between – barely audible, but nonetheless compelling, hypnotic. Sanguine lights glowed distantly, outline vague structures and alleyways; an exotic, yet familiar city. Cynwyd's eyes narrowed as he cautiously made his way towards the structures, his every sense on full alert as he did. The city beckoned to him, and to old instincts. But he knew that old things had passed away, and that familiar instincts after what had just happened could be very dangerous. After all, sanguine had two meanings, and one of them not too benign. The ground soon lost its fleshy softness, wet-lipped murmurs of regret and shame fading behind him. The mists Rain-wet cobblestones appeared under his feet, as the mists retreated like whipped dogs. A heady stink of spice and sex and smoke greeted him, accompanied by the siren-chorus of saxophone and double bass. Neon lights flickered with promises and a crescent moon leered down with lopsided grin. Somewhere, a ferry boat called from the river. The city’s aged buildings were an exotic mixture of French and Spanish colonial, wrought iron balconies overlooking narrow streets. Luridly-shaped ivies hung from red brick and rusted trellises; their oily leaves reflecting the multicolored lights. Garbage-cluttered alleys disappeared into shadow, where vague shapes grunted and moaned in wonton excess. Delicately painted signs marked doorways – promise liquor of food beyond. Here and there, curtained windows had been pulled back to reveal a cornucopia of inhabitants – male, female, and amalgamations thereof. Some were human, others with horns or animal features, but all beautiful and exotic in their own terrible way. As he passed her window, a olive-skinned woman motioned for him to join her, plying her trade expertly – and although her mouth mirrored the sensual cleft between her thighs, he knew she was smiling. Though his eyes were drawn by the woman's obvious beauty, he didn't have a problem resisting the dreams that she sold. He'd always been on the other side of that transaction- perhaps not for money, but in his cynical view it was always the same, and you fell to one side or the other. As that thought came to mind, he remembered Satonaka, and unbidden a smile came to his face of what might have been. But remembering Cole's predicament, he thought better of that. As Cole came to mind, he was brought back to the here and now. Again, he had no information, so had to do what he needed to get it. Pretending to be taken in by the 'attract mode' display, he made his way towards the woman, but said nothing, waiting for her to make her pitch. At his approach, she shimmied up to the window and pressed her creamy breasts against the glass – dark aureoles spreading out invitingly. Then she slowly pulled away, running her fingers over her body’s geography in unrestrained exploration. Her hand eventually reached her perverse mouth, sharp fingernails parting the engorged labial lips to reveal the glistening darkness. Her eyes shone with pleasure... and desperation. With her free hand, she reached out for him, clutching at the air. Her apartment’s door swung open with a warm hiss, and she beckoned Cynwyd again. Pleading soundlessly through her pitted mouth. Yet, lacking the power of speech, she made her meaning clear. He could have her. ~Shape~ her. In any way – everyway – he desired. All he had to do was step into the dark. At one time, the darkness was his hour. But now, he knew well what lurked in that darkness. And even if not that, the memory of blonde hair, reflecting the sun upon him would have reminded that in spite of everything everyone said about him- some thought he was worth more than what the darkness offered. So with a shake of his head, he turned to look elsewhere for the information he desired, heading down the cobbled road towards the strains of music that still hung in the air. Seeing him walk away, her eyes flooded with rage and need. She slammed her fist against the glass, beating it desperately to get his attention. In the last seconds before the street took him elsewhere, Cynwyd caught a glimpse of her carving a long gash in her stomach – as if offering him another warm place to slake his lusts. He turned several corners, walked rain-slick streets until finally coming across an open-air café. On a raised stage, a band played the music he’d heard. They were a jazz ensemble led by a finely dressed woman with a songbird’s head. The players – clarinet, piano, and guitar – were equally bestial, in appearance, but the gender appeared to lost in some continual flux. A dozen or more patrons populated the café’s tables – their exotic bodies a protean menagerie, both alluring and repellant. “I know you seek more than this,” a tinny voice said at his elbow. He found a short, plainly dress man beside him; ageless, although pale and white-haired. His eyes were hidden behind polished glass lenses. For long minutes, Cynwyd continued to listen, his mind deciphering the complex melodies from the jazz group, ignoring the sound of the man as if he'd not said anything. Finally, as the last strains of the set faded away, he looked down at the man as if noticing him for the first time. "Really," he asked. "What is it that I seek?" “Answers,” the man replied. However, the word on his thin lips exuded other meanings. “The pleasures and pains of the Flesh are trivial in comparison, are they not?” Cynwyd's eyes narrowed. This 'man' had seen something others had not. That made him more suspicious if anything. He dabbed his sweating brow with an immaculate handkerchief. “Perhaps you seek the Twins.” "Why would I seek the Twins?" Cywnyd said, capitalizing the name even in his query. "And what's your angle?" he asked skeptically. “Angle?” the man said with a wounded frown. “I have no ‘angle,’ as you crudely put it. I am simply a pilgrim of the Truth, just as you are. So few gaze beyond the sensualities of the Flesh. They are like explorers too frightened to venture beyond the shores of this vast landscape. Tourists. Ants. Fools. “But you? You would delve into darker truths would you not? Strip away the Flesh and see what lies beneath.” He adjusted his glasses. In that instant, Cynwyd caught a glimpse of black, wormy pits hidden behind the mirrored lenses. “The Twins are but one doorway to that other realm.” "No," Cynwyd said, meeting his gaze evenly. "You are no seeker of Truth. Merely a seeker of a 'truth', couching himself in half-lies to make it seem as if one 'truth' was higher than another." He gave a half-laugh as he turned away, done with the man and his offers. "Mystical explanations are considered deep. The real Truth is, they aren't even superficial." "It's quite amazing," he mused, half to himself as he strolled away from the construct, "that this could be created just for me. But, that's the Truth that I've come to see." He walked on, looking at the flesh dens, the offers, and even the music in a different light with that realization. Though he could be wrong, he didn't think he was. And though the original thought process was more working this through, he kept monologuing as he walked for a different reason. "The problem is, it's based on a different me. If you'd caught me a scant few days ago, then this might be tempting," he said, looking down as he trudged along, jamming his hands into his pockets. "But not now. I'm not sure where I'm going, but I do know that I consciously took a step along a path. And having taken that step, to fall back to what I was would be impossible. Well, not impossible- but highly improbable." Cynwyd considered- and if there were two paths, and two beings, and he really wasn't dead after that whole thing with the Greater Shadow, then there had to be a purpose to this. And if there was a purpose, then whomever was behind the purpose would have to be monitoring their experiment... so with that, he took a chance, continuing with the real question that he had. The one thing for which he needed an answer. With that, he stopped, looked up towards they sky, and removed his hands from his pockets, spreading his arms. "So, I guess the only question that remains is: considering that, what do you want?" “I seek the Truth. I am a pilgrim of Flesh and Desire,” the man replied, his voice coming from all directions. Cynwyd could feel the man undressing him with dead eyes, a long, pink tongue wetting his narrow lips. Then with a gruesome yawn, his mouth opened impossibly, the jawbone beginning to splinter. Another voice spoke from deep inside his throat – something ancient. “I watch the meat dance and rut and bleed and wallow, shredding their souls for one more taste of pleasure. I feed on their depravity, their anguish, their humiliation. I witness the Truth of how far Creation will Fall.” He began to pace around Cynwyd with a feral hunger – the air tainted with a musky perfume. His small body bloated obscenely as something ~else~ began to fill the tight skin. Steel and glass ruptured from his fingers to form claws, breasts budged from his chest, as his mouth finally spilt open with a red splash. Clothing melted and wove with erupting flesh, transforming into cutting wires and binding leather. An equine phallus tore free from his shredded slacks, its mottled head tasting the air. “I am Gamaliel, the Seeker. And if you shall not reveal your soul through Desire, Son of Bariman, then there are ~other~ pathways to Discovery.” Cynwyd recoiled instinctively from the sight- this was nothing that would have appealed to him at any point, and filled him with revulsion. But then, he realized that the failure in temptation to rouse a response had engendered this- and his feelings were exactly what the thing wanted. Kel had concentrated a lot of her advanced classes on state of mind in addition to technique. Those were the lessons that had interested him the least- that is, until he had experienced it himself. He reached for that fugue state where emotion meant less than action, and those things that existed in his subconscious could come forth- a pure state of mind where action and thought became one. He held out his hand even as he stopped his retreat and felt the reassuring weight of his blade fill his hand. His stance widened as he turned slightly to the oblique and raised the blade above his head, balanced between offense and defense, waiting. Gamaliel blurred in his vision, as from from somewhere far away his voice whispered to the demon. "Temptation falls/As realization dawns/Tempered steel awaits" Gamaliel’s dangling tongue flopped about lewdly, as a pair of ghost-light eyes shone out of his gaping maw. The thing inside him purred hungrily, “Such courage in the face of your violation. It shall sweeten your shame.” He continued to stalk around Cynwyd, his glistening member hardening into a fleshy truncheon. Kel’s training saved Cynwyd when the attack came; that, and the creature wasn’t going for the quick kill. Gamaliel dropped to all fours and sprang at him like a striking tiger, crossing the distance impossibly fast. Even without Osric’s influence, Cynwyd’s perfect control allowed him to strike before the brutal impact. His blade sliced through Gamalial’s bobbing phallus, pinning it to one of his many breasts – the killing edge penetrating up to the hilt. But it did nothing to slow his stunning momentum. The impact nearly shattered Cynwyd’s wrist, pain lancing up through his shoulders, stealing his breath. He went flying backwards, crashing through the plate-glass window of an abandoned café – a dozen lacerations biting deep into his back and arms. Fortunately, his instincts allowed him to roll with the fall, preventing permanent injury. Tasting blood and raw agony, he realized he’d somehow miraculously held onto his sword. Gamaliel stood outside, unfazed by the blood pumping out of his severed manhood. “Oh yes. Such sweet defiance,” he moaned lustfully. “You shall be a delicious distraction. Once you have been Remade.” With a gesture of his mutilated hands, the daemon began Weaving a spell of some kind. As the thought of Osric came to mind, the thought of one of the spells that was child's play to that Elder came also. The time of spell weaving- especially for a spell that took as much attention as the one Gamaliel was crafting- was a delicate time. So much power in lattice, being layered on top of each other with potential energy unrealized. That same foreign word that so undid the crazy woman came to his lips as he levered himself to his feet, extending his hand curled as if to give the demon a gift, intent upon not just unmaking the careful matrix of energy, but breaking its bonds to create a violent reaction! Cynwyd could feel a flush of heat radiate from the core of his being, spreading out in sensual waves. His body felt the urge to ‘shift,’ to mold to Gamaliel’s desires. Images of submitting himself to this beautiful creature – allowing it to use every orifice, current and new – clouded his thoughts, weakening his resolve. But, for the moment, his Will was stronger than Desire. As the offending spell neared its completion, Cynwyd utilized the technique taught to him by his Other. Almost instantly, he felt his body purified of the corrupting influence – a strange peace passing over him like light rain. His entire being glowed with a silvery radiance, pushing back the gloom, if only for a moment. Gamaliel shrieked as Order disrupted his weaving. The spell-energy, with nowhere to go, reflected back into his borrowed body. It expanded and melted, rupturing messily, as flesh and bone and muscle were reknitted and torn apart again – devolving into lewd protrusions and perverse crevices. The fleshy pile that remained became locked in an endless cycle of transformation and penetration. Its screams of pleasure and pain were exquisite. Exhaustion settled over Cynwyd like a fugue; his wounds taxing him. Across the street, other sensual monstrosities were now emerging from their homes; be they attracted to Gamaliel’s perversion or Cynwyd’s purity, it was difficult to know. It was at this point that Cynwyd really missed Osric's reassuring presence, and he realized how much he'd come to depend on his Other. Not for the power, though that was indeed a boon, and he'd not have survived the recent past without it. But for the company, and for the ability to bounce ideas and fears off of him. He really wish he'd known him in life- Cynwyd could now see what Benedict meant that they were a lot alike. But now, he was alone. And now, having discerned the trap that lay before him, he wasn't really sure what to do. He was just so *tired*. On one side lay the madness of Desire and the fulfillment of same that Suhuy laid before him. He wasn't sure if this was a dream, a Shadow, or something else besides- that was what the ultimate goal was- to join him with some demonic monstrosity and remake him so he wouldn't even recognize himself. On the other side... what? There'd been no offer of succor, nor help forthcoming. What was he to do? As the beings closed, one thing became abundantly clear. He was quite fond of himself as he was. And he'd made promises. Only one aloud, to Benedict... but others less so. To himself. To Kel. To Osric. To the Queen. To Amber. And though he'd been an underachiever and a screw up before, he wasn't that person anymore. Quickly, his resolve overcoming his fatigue and pain, Cynwyd tried to call forth the bird of Benedict's creation- to at least let someone know what had happened. Then he made his way away from the beings, taking inventory of what abilities he still possessed with his Other's absence, so he could figure out a way out of this hell... For an unnerving time, Cynwyd felt nothing – only emptiness. Then, like a whisper, he sensed the flutter of wings brushing against the inside of his chest. Their flapping became more frantic, beating madly against his ribcage. His chest budged, stretched, and then a shiny black beak erupted from beneath his skin. Painlessly, yet no less disconcerting, a blood-dark raven pushed its way out of his chest, pulling itself free in a burst of feathers and exuberant caws. It left no sign of its ‘birth’ behind – the skin once again untouched. The bird took flight, circled thrice, and then returned to him – landing upon his shoulder. It cawed expectantly. Outside, the mass of inhumanity began feeding and pleasuring themselves on Gamaliel’s mewing remains. And as they did so, they’re bodies began to expand with transferred power – the daemon’s essence supplanting their own. The raven cawed loudly and took off – flying down a narrow corridor and disappearing into the shadows. Its familiar voice called distantly. For a moment, Cynwyd stood there, startled. "Well, *that* was dramatic," he said, patting his chest where the bird had exited. Then he realized that the bird was getting away, and followed. He wasn't sure where it was going, but it was better than here... ...and better than any other idea that he had. The raven waited for him at the end of the corridor – beady, red eyes staring at him impatiently. Every time he approached it, the bird took off down another grim-caked hallway. Turn after turn, corridor after corridor. Deeper and deeper into the building. Impossibly so. Cynwyd realized that he must have traveled the length of five football pitches. And still the corridors stretched onward. He ascended stairs, passed wide galleries and vaulted chambers, on and on until his legs burned from the effort. Other than the bird, he encountered no signs of life – only dusty emptiness. And when he thought this chase would never end. . . it did. The raven flew out onto a wide rooftop; the ground obscured in glowing fog. When he turned, the corridor he’d entered through no longer existed. In every direction, all he saw was angry, boiling storm clouds of orange and purple. He felt a vastness on all sides, and the air was thin. He dared not think of how high up he must be. The bird arched and then came back at him, landing on his shoulder with an annoyed squawk. Princess Mirelle stood some distance away, gazing up at what appeared to be an enormous gold coin, which floated in midair. An image of the Hanged Man was imprinted into its tarnished surface – silently screaming in eternal agony. No, not a coin. A Seal. She turned and glanced in his direction – teary eyes narrowing with confusion. Just when he thought he couldn't be surprised by anything he saw here, Cynwyd found himself surprised. Actually, surprised into speechlessness as he blinked in confusion that must mirror hers. As he recovered his wits, he began to scrutinize the woman, trying to gain any sort of information that might help him before he opened his mouth. Her features were familiar, even if her face wasn't... his brow furrowed as he sifted through his memory before picking out the ghost of a resemblance to some of the Elders in her face. That wasn't any indication of her parentage- after all, the Elders were nothing if not prolific. But the cheekbones, the cut of her face... almost patrician. And he thought it no coincidence that she was here... now. No, there were no coincidences in this game. But ... who? He tried to remember his history classes... that blasted book by... Bernaud? Arnaud? He shook his head. That way was hopeless... he never paid attention to genealogy... too boring. Though now he wished he had. He noticed that in the interim, her confusion was starting to give way to something else, so he knew his time had run out. "Princess...?" he ventured cautiously. "Do you know where we are? What's going on?" “The Great Seal,” Mirelle answered in a solemn tone. She came toward him, disturbing the faint layer of fog around her feet. “You shouldn’t be here. But I suppose it was inevitable one of you would find your way here.” She cocked her head, returning an intensive stare. Whatever she witnessed in his face caused her to flinch and back onto her heel. “You have been Unbound. Yet you persist. How?” More than anything he had seen or learned, this was the most jarring thing. Not because of the persistence part. The loss of something that he had come to depend on- that had started this tergiversation was ... gone? Just like that? Someone he'd come to know... and had come to know him... and believe in him. <Osric...?> he ventured, unable to keep the bewildered look off of his face. The lack of response was as painful as someone taking off an arm. A part of him was gone, and he didn't know how to get it back. He looked back to the Princess, wild-eyed in his grief, his other questions pushed aside by this new knowledge. "How do I get him back?" he asked, his voice tense with the emotions he struggled to control. He closed the remaining distance between them, in an almost wooden gait. "Where has he gone?" As he drew closer, Mirelle began to wring her hands. “It is not he who has been separated, but you.” She gave him a mournful smile. “He remains in Amber. Although I doubt that will make much difference. He will be as displaced as you are here. He – as with all Ghosts – cannot exist for long in Creation. Just as the Quick cannot persist in this realm.” Her throat catches at this, for some reason far deeper than empathy. She cupped his chin, lightly brushing his cheek. “I. . . can send you back. Do you wish that?” "I wish..." Cynwyd began, but his words caught in his throat as his eyes were drawn over her shoulder. Cynwyd could now see the Great Seal behind her – a massive golden circle like the lid to a sepulcher. Many of the runes around its edge had been marred or worn by some great force. But the figure in its center remained intact. A man bound to a tree upside down by one foot – the Hanged Man. And although strained with agony, the face was unmistakable. Oberon. "I wish a lot of things," he said wistfully, once he was able to form words again. "But my wishes matter for little, in comparison to what's at stake," he said resolutely, tearing his eyes away from Oberon and looking back towards Mirelle. He sighed. "What do you think best? How may I best serve Amber?" Mirelle offered a rueful smile. “The Fall has begun, Cynwyd. That can no longer be avoided. And there shall be no reprieve this time. All sins shall be cleansed.” She stares up at the Great Seal, folding her arms tightly to her chest. “Only a true sacrifice in the darkest hour might turn the tide. But even that price might not be enough. Better to perish in ignorance, than to suffer until the very end. Oblivion possesses its own freedom. “I can offer you that, Cynwyd. A small reparation for your service. I can return you to live out your final days ignorant of all that has happened, and all that shall. You might find some peace before the Fall destroys Amber. Would that not be better than to fight and suffer, knowing only that you will fail?” She stares at him, awaiting the answer. He looked back towards the Seal, his gaze measuring. "Even before, my answer would have been no," he said simply. "For to live in ignorance is no life." "But now, even more so," he said, his head swiveling to take in the Princess. "I have made oaths and promises, and through them come to know myself more fully. I have made friends, and through them become stronger." "What you offer is not peace, but a prison. For no matter what you know or say, there's always a chance, as long as you fight. And fight I will, no matter the odds." Mirelle offered him a sad smile, shaking her head. “No, Cynwyd. There is no chance. Only inevitability. And the great sacrifices you will make shall make little difference in the end.” She lightly touched his heart – an electric spark passing between them. His felt his pulse quicken, as if he now stood in the middle of a Shadow-Storm – all chaos and order swirling around him. The touch last only an instant. "I ... promised," Cynwyd said weakly as whatever the Princess did took hold. "And in that promise... comes possibility. I'll prove it to you" And when she lifted her fingers away, he felt the dull, grey world crash back in like cold water. “But I will not rob you of your struggle. Perhaps, in suffering, you shall discover Purpose before the end.” A cloud passed over her angelic features, her gaze drifting back toward the Seal. “I would never place someone in a prison. The thought is. . . an abomination.” She ground her fingers into her shoulder-blade, frowning with unspoken miseries. At Cynwyd’s silence, Mirelle sighed again. “Very well. I will send you back. I only ask one thing of you. That, in the end, you place compassion above duty.” Her sad smile gained the warmth of hope. “There are many kinds of freedom, Cynwyd. So more humane than others. No matter their cost.” She stepped forward and lightly kissed his eyes. “Farewell, brave one.” The warmth of her lips flooded his thoughts, casting a gentle shadow over his vision. He felt himself falling into her embrace; a cold, euphoric peace that stripped away all doubts and fears. It felt like sleep. It felt like death. Both welcome and liberating. But this peace did not last. Soon he felt claws digging into his throat, choking him, flaying him from the inside out. All darkness and pain, flooding him, wrapping him up in a tangled shroud. His skin burned. His muscles froze like ice. Every cell in his being screamed as they were tugged and pulled and stretched to breaking. A fevered hell trapping him, refusing to let him go. But then the pain dulled. Cool water filled him, as if he were some hollow vessel. He numbly felt the shell of his body, the outer edges of existence shaping, becoming real once more. He awoke in darkness; a bedsheet wrapped tightly around his sweating body. Nearby, the coals in a fireplace shimmered; their weak light hinting at an opulent room he'd never seen before. <Gods, boy> Osric whispered, fighting back tears. <I thought I’d lost you.> <Same here,> Cynwyd thought, never so glad as to hear Osric's voice in his head. The bedsheet was very clammy and uncomfortable- and he was cold despite the sweat and the fire. But he willed himself to stay calm so that he could get a good handle on his bearings. <So... what's been going on here? And do you know where we are?> he asked as he blinked his eyes, trying to accustom his eyes to the light and scan for others in the room. His eyes felt dried, crusty. He must have been sleeping for a ~very~ long time - no mere hangout this. What vague shapes he could see became slightly familiar to him - or was that recognition Osric’s doing? The thoughts were too muddled to tell. But in one corner, he sensed some sitting. Sleeping. A woman. <Too be frank, I haven’t the foggiest> Osric admitted. <I’ve been in a fevered state. Fading in and out with no reference to time. I knew we became disconnected after the Pattern explosion. But after that everything has been. . . cloudy. All I know for certain is that the disconnection has left me trapped in your body, unable to move.> He added, <These are my old chambers in Castle Amber though. I suppose ever ~traitors~ are remembered in this family.> As Cynwyd surreptitiously tried to focus on the shape in the corner as not to wake the woman, he continued the conversation with Osric. <Traitors?> he asked, truly curious. <I don't remember *that* part of the story.> Osric gave a wry chuckle. <Any who stood in my father’s path were considered such. Particularly, wayward children. After all, he was the Crown. To oppose him was to oppose Amber. I suppose it made it easier for him to dispose of us. No matter.> Cynwyd’s eyes adjusted to the gloom. Despite her plain clothing, he could not mistake the Queen’s austere beauty. She shifted in her chair, as if sensing his gaze. Blind eyes opened and looked back at him. . . confusion curling her lips downward into a frown. "Your Majesty," Cynwyd said, his voice a bit more gravelly from disuse than he'd expected. He cleared his throat, then tried again. "Your Majesty," he said again, "Your pardons for my forwardness, but what has happened? What is going on?" Just those questions took more out of him that he thought they might, and moved upward on the bed, trying to prop himself up against the headboard as he awaited her answers. The movement nearly undid him, his body as weak as a newborn kitten. Gravity and frailty gripped him, pulling him back down to the bed. His throat felt parched, cracked. And the very exertion caused his heart to race, coloring his vision with specks of light. A cool cloth damped his forehead – and Cynwyd realized he must have blacked out for a few seconds. The Queen smiled down at him reassuringly, “Rest easy, young man. You’ll need to regain your strength before you can be up and about. You’ve been unconscious for several weeks now.” "Weeks," he asked, his voice hoarse and thin. "But, how..." he began... She frowned slightly, betraying even darker revelations yet to be told. "What?" he asked, his question forgotten at the look on her face "What is it? How are the others?" “They are resting peacefully, as far as I am aware,” Vaille reassured him. “Prince Benedict ordered that your bodies be brought here after the explosion. His instructions were very explicit. And I supported his request. You’ve all been suffering from Apathy Syndrome. I volunteered to help watch over you. A small kindness to repay your service to my husband and I.” "Explosion?" Cynwyd said, dazedly, focusing now on something Osric had said. Despondent at the picture that had begun to form, he said with horror, "Oh. No." "Gillian." One word responses were all that he was able to do the pieces spinning in his dizzied mind, remembering her form, suffused with Pattern as she flew above the courtyard before everything went to hell. "Is that what you meant? Pattern explosion? That gate that was hurting the Greater Shadow so... it was Pattern, wasn't it? ... and I was dragging the Logrus construct towards it." He lowered his head, looking at his hands. "And actions during the Hour mirror actions in Amber," he finished, more despondent than ever. He looked up again, his eyes wide and empty as he stared at the Queen. "How ... bad?" he asked hesitantly, afraid to hear the answer. The Queen’s back stiffened, her lip hardening into a straight line. “Bad enough,” she said cryptically. “It is the ramifications thereof, which harm Amber now. As your ‘Dark Hour’ is not acknowledged by most, the explosion was blamed on Kashfan extremists. And King Rindalo did little to dissuade these rumors, perhaps in his mad attempt to prove his reach.” She reached down and touched his forehead, cool fingers soothing the feverish skin. “You must rest, Cynwyd. There will be enough time to dwell upon these dark days before us.” Cynwyd wanted to protest, but his body put in the final argument as his strength began to fail him. But before he would give in, he had one final duty to perform, as hard as it was recognizing his part in Amber's woes. Holding up one weakened, shaking arm, he extended a finger, and called forth the bird that had helped him escape the hell Gamaliel had created for him. It was the only thing now to let him know that his experience had been real- the thing that connected the here to the there. He looked the bird in its blood-red eyes, trying to communicate to it- to let it know to relay to Benedict all he'd seen, and all he'd experienced. Then lifting his arm a bit more, he sped it on its way before succumbing to the sweet call of slumber. The bird slid from beneath his skin like silk, reformulating itself in his hand. It appeared. . . different, more real, more substantial than before. It gave a loud squawk, shocking the Queen. Her head turned in its direction, blind eyes scanning the room, blinking. Her head tilted slightly as the bird turned in her direction. An obvious moment passed between them, as if they recognized some unspoken bond. At his coaxing, the bird took flight. It streaked toward a wall... then simply vanished in a puff of crimson smioke. Vialle gave a pleased smile, “You never cease to amaze, Lord Cynwyd.” Though unconsciousness stole upon him too quickly to respond, a smile came to his face as his eyes began to close. Then something occurred to him, that jerked him back to semi-attentiveness. "This isn't still part of the dream is it? You'll still be here when I awaken?" he asked concern over the thought seeping into his half murmured words. But he couldn't wait for the response, as fatigue returned with a vengeance at being denied, and unconsciousness stole over him. Cynwyd vaguely saw the Queen dip her head. . . her lips moving soundlessly before he slipped into unconsciousness. This time, only restful fog awaited him on the other side. Continued in (Death Comes a-Calling) |
