Dawn was waking. The shadows grew long as a smallish light bathed the village with a dullish light. The first of Shard's suns had yet to peek out beyond the horizon, but something of its light washed over nonetheless. Through this, as if in a dream of uncertain nature, Diote ran. She couldn't truly know if this was still yet a dream, and if it was could it be a nightmare or something akin to salvation? Terror sat on the edge of her tongue, but it hadn't frozen her in place as before. Nightmares nearly always had that effect on her. So then what could this be?

There was a reason why she ran, or at least as quickly as this, without as much as a care. Pieces of all that had occurred fit into the puzzle that scattered her mind. Something had happened out there in the blackness, something lessers could only hint at. The one thing she knew, though, was love. She'd felt it without knowing as if a gift unrevealed. This brought life to her bones and the sudden movement that followed.

This love connected wholly to guilt. How could she not have seen it? How could she not have believed it? The anger that had arisen within her had drained away utterly. Her love had needed her and she had not come. Given a second chance, nothing beyond death could restrain her.

Her speed increased via pain. Not hers though the branches did scratch. Though, Ciroc shook with it, a voice trembling in fear. He hadn’t been alone. He'd been under attack, but past all this, where was the witch? Her defeated scream had echoed through every mind she was now sure. At it, everyone within sight had awoken; parents, siblings and neighbors alike. Yet it was Ciroc's death that ended her threat to him. Now that his life was returned should she really trust that all was forgiven?

Where was the witch now? Would she devour him before she could arrive? Would it even matter? Had she not a vendetta against them both? How could she not see her timely arrival as a gift; a hunt ended early, before dawn could burn her evil away. There was nothing for it. She would stand by her love this time, for how was this not the last time; her very last chance to return a love freely given. She knew well enough she couldn’t stand against the witch. Her purpose wasn’t to save Ciroc, but rather to join him in oblivion, hand in hand.

Though where was he? Earlier in the night, with the words “Meet me” she’d known exactly where to go . . . their open field. There could've been no other place, but now that he was lost there was so little to go on. All she could know was he’d arrived at the shoreline. He'd met the water and in so doing Mother Sea. She’d turned away his sacrifice. As fleeting as this second chance surely was, Diote couldn’t be more grateful. Even so, time failed to slow, whether or not it seemed to.

Then self-loathing assaulted her. Aside from the guilt this wasn’t a question of what she had or hadn't done, but rather of what she was, namely a lesser. She hadn’t the power to read his mind as he could hers. As such she may never find him; certainly not before the witch could. Not that she wouldn't try to. If anything her feet moved all the faster.

Regardless, how anyone of her caliber could be found worthy in the eyes of a gifted, she couldn't know. She may live with them, a family full of them even, but they were worlds apart. At times, more than she dared recall, they'd cared for her near to as a pet. Her mother, who loved her best, would find herself catering to her every last whim as if she simply could not do so on her own. How were they not right to? What was she that she deserved any better than her lot? How dared she even dream it?!

Yet she did not slow. How could any of that matter when death was so close at their heels? She edged the shoreline the moment she'd reached it and would've circled the vastness of Lagoon a hundred fold to find her love. Luck would have it that wasn't required of her.

Her eyes soon fell upon him, but what she saw ushered in the nightmares once more. Ciroc lay back within the grasp of Mother Sea and all around him a crimson redness was spreading, shattering her momentary relief.

# # #

Despite the rage a stillness overcame Shirell. Really how could it not? It was born of weakness and mental exhaustion. She'd already collapsed to the meet the earth laden rock. There she’d stay for some time. Until she rose, if she rose, wrath of any sort could not but wait; it came at too high a price. Even so, she hadn’t lost consciousness. The chicata she bore failed to affect her mind, but what remained of it was reserved for observation alone. Knowledge was power and faith remained that she'd one day make good on it.

Shirell could delve well inside her son’s mind. She could since the beginning, but more than this she could somehow feel something of what he felt. Their link, of which not even she fully understood, made such things possible. Ever had this been true, however until these last few years she'd not known it. She’d noticed it only a few years prior, as until then Ciroc hadn’t suffered much mentally or otherwise, not really. Whatever cuts, scrapes, joys, nightmares or other terrors he'd suffered in his early years had been partially related to her, but attributed to any number of things she'd deemed more likely.

Shirell had come to see the truth some time ago, round about when he’d discovered his brother’s untimely demise. Despite the fact none could blame him for an all-enveloping loathing, he’d cared for Trion and Scion both. It derived from a devotion to understand their plight, not a pity. His sympathetic nature prompted him to keep a mental tab on their whereabouts when most others had forsaken the very memory of the lesser once gone, as was custom. An unfamiliar mourning poured forth from Ciroc for the abuse both boys suffered at the hand of their ilk. He’d felt it keenly, particularly upon Trion’s suicide. The shock tore through his little frame, but so too did it resonate within Shirell. Little else but a connection could explain it, for she’d no love lost for anyone who’d abuse her son, even teasingly. Now, should any doubt remain, with such trauma as was his, nothing of the sort could be denied.

Shirell knew Ciroc's pain, not that she'd ever been injured in such a way, but Shion's knife dug through her all the same. Tendrils of pain arched all through her right hand. Despite the severity eased and devoid a single drop of blood, her hand was just as useless. This was of little consequence. With a mind such as hers, she really had no need of it. Even so, it would heal in time with Ciroc's wound. Really, it was her son’s mental anguish that crippled her.

As such, Shirell shared a portion of Ciroc's fear; a feeling she swore would never again plague her mind. Surprisingly, it was something of a relief. So many things that once tethered her to humanity were falling away. Were it not for Ciroc she believed something primal would emerge, and that would benefit no one. Especially not now . . . her gifts were blossoming into something arcane.

Namely, she could bring death with her mind alone. It did drain her and still she remained in that state, but in time she’d rejuvenate. Of course, never having been so debilitated, this was something she could merely guess at, yet she'd always recovered from minor events. Why not this? She'd no clue how long it might take. She'd done so much.

As such, a sobering thought weaved itself through her overly burdened mind. What horrors would she unleash should she lose all restraint? Would the whole of Lagoon perish for their crimes? She shuddered to think what that would mean for the children, because gifted or not, they represented innocence no less pure than her own son. Would her rage strand them or . . . Mother Sea forbid, destroy them?

Shirell couldn’t think on that. After all, through their genetic link what would become of her should Ciroc have passed, regardless of the cause? Never had she felt the full weight of his trials, but she could see how his death might end her own; if not through pain then sorrow. So weakened could the pain alone not be enough? She'd already felt her lungs fill with water as all breath temporarily left her and she remained high above the shoreline. Could she have survived that had Ciroc not been pulled free? Who could know?

Perhaps she'd soon find out . . . because it was happening yet again.

# # #

Shion lay well within reach. The knife remained, having been thrust through his palm like a stone slipping twixt the waves. Somewhere between the mounting terror and the birthing pain, Ciroc bore witness to the blade. With his hand arisen in defense and the force of Shion's thrust, it seemed to stop only an inch from his eye. Death, which wanted him so terribly this ominous night, had failed yet again.

Though had it truly? Death's defeat was a thought envisioned both before the pain tore through him and Shion fell. How was this agony so impotent? How was it death couldn't yet find him through it? Was death not a more welcome fate? Personally, over his short years, he'd witnessed the loss of life from simpler wounds, as disease crept in adjoining the pain with sweats, panic and delirium and yes, finally death. So, he wondered with increasing alarm, was this how that all began?

For it, part of him wished he hadn’t protected himself. Shion's blade would've met his eye and the end would come . . . suddenly he hoped. Would it not have benefited his family to have once again stolen this victory away from the witch? In this there existed a sliver of belief, even before he offered himself to Mother Sea, that this would suffice. Death was death, he hoped, and would appease Shirell to spare his family. After all, as the tales went, was she not supposed to take him last in order to multiply his suffering?

She hadn’t come for them, but nor had she come for Diote, that he knew of. Of course, in sorrow, he knew her life wasn’t one to be spared. Her crime was equal to his own, but only because he swayed her to it, believing it all an elaborate fairy tale. Now he knew so much better and prayed to the witch a prayer all believed she was deaf to. He prayed Shirell would take him and him alone for Diote's crimes.

That wouldn’t happen. Not now. Not after he'd fled his own punishment and attempted to deny her justice. That too was a crime in her eyes, so he'd heard. In the tales all was made so much worse because of it, but at the time tales were all they were to him and he hadn't taken it to heart. So what then? Should he give himself to her? Would that make it all better somehow? Would he even have the chance?

Shion remained, not that Ciroc knew why, but he'd no reason to believe the high elder's intent was only to wound. What chance would he have to offer his life to the witch if the high elder finished what he’d began? In her wickedness, Shirell wouldn’t take into account this death was beyond his control. She’d just punish and punish some more. Perhaps she'd even punish Shion for stealing her kill. That, however, was a small hope . . . until somehow it happened.

Inexplicably the high elder ceased his assault with a gasp and a series of jerks and twitches. His eyes rolled white and then he collapsed into Mother Sea with a splash. Lastly, his fingers fell with small tug on the hilt of his knife, accentuating the tendrils of pain that were already carving into his hand and spreading up his arm. To balance this, Ciroc let his hand fall, but that too was a mistake as the weight of the knife jerked with the sudden motion, widening the already gaping wound. Then his mouth opened to scream, but in shock no sound emerged.

All who’d accompanied Shion quickly backed away and eventually vanished from whence they'd come, but Ciroc had barely noticed. His knees were already buckling with the severity of the wound. A weakness seemed to flow out of him in tandem with the blood. Then he too crashed into the lapping waves; the final companion to the high elder who'd killed him.

However death had yet to claim him. The pain alone couldn’t end him so quickly. The sliver of him that remained sane wished it could. There was one thing that worked in a more timely fashion . . . Mother Sea. That he'd already tried, but voluntary or not he was attempting it again. The cold morning water seeped back into his lungs as he gulped and gasped. Instinctively he raised his head to escape it, but not high enough and a solitary wave swept in instead of the air he so longed for. So then instinct sought to push him higher. That required both his arms and both his hands pressing into the wet sand below.

Within a moment the blade tore free, having jerked at such an angle to finish the slice and sever his hand in two, lengthwise and now connected only at his wrist. The utter torture of it won out and shock took him, but not death . . . not yet.

There he laid, face down, unconscious and dreaming of the end. Then unbeknownst to him Diote finally arrived, a horror etching into her youthful face.