Sevensworn

VII. Shrouded Elegy

The mines led them on a winding path through the mountain. They moved through caverns, ducked under half-collapsed beams, and paused multiple times in a panic as Shivaroth set him down to make sure their torch would not be extinguished by the frigid water that dripped from the ceiling and pooled on the ground.

They saw light a total of three times throughout the first hour. Once as a glimpse of the moon through a crack in the wall, once as a flicker of magic barely visible down one of the other mineshafts, and once as a flash of eyes in the dark. In spite of their run of bad luck, they had not had any further run-ins with the Rhydellans, which Ronan grew increasingly grateful for as his state continued to deteriorate.

His forehead was beaded with cold sweat, the color had all but disappeared from his cheeks, and his bandages had been soaked through with his blood within the first half-hour of their trek. Judging by Shivaroth's increasingly frantic glances in his direction and their rapidly slowing pace, it was becoming more of an issue than either of them knew what to do with.

Hours later, they still had not found the exit, and Ronan had all but collapsed against Shivaroth. He could barely lift his feet, and the god stopped in his tracks, a hollow defeat ghosting over his features.

"Stay awake," Shivaroth had pleaded, not for the first time. "Just for a bit longer."

'A bit' always turned into an hour, then three. The night dragged on like an eternity, and Ronan began to think he'd never again see the snow-covered and windswept land that was Adacia.

Somewhere along the way, his knees buckled. His head started to swim. Shivaroth cursed and lowered him to the ground, letting him lean back against the wall and breathe. A moment later, the god brushed damp hair from Ronan's face and felt his forehead. He bowed his head.

"Ahn'vahey," Shivaroth muttered. Ronan knew little to none of the language of the gods, but the venomous tone with which the word was uttered made it abundantly clear that it was some sort of expletive.

"I'm⁠—" Ronan's voice broke off into a shuddering exhale. "I'm sorry."

"Do not apologize, miksahan." Ronan knew that word. Dear one. Shivaroth's voice was ravaged with sorrow. "This is not your fault."

"Vi'mahn viras, ak shal nai etash te'ran," he breathed in Old Adacian. It was the beginning of a prayer, a prayer whispered for the dying and the dead. The words themselves were taken from the gods' language, twisted for the mouths of mortals.

"Do not speak those words." Shivaroth shook his head. "You are not dying." He picked up their torch and put two fingers beneath Ronan's chin, tilting his face up so their eyes met.

"I am going to find a way out. You are going to stay here."

"Please," Ronan whispered. "Don't leave." He could see the hesitation in Shivaroth's posture, in the way his bare feet shifted beneath him as he kneeled.

"If I stay, we will die here."

"You won't." Ronan's fingers curled around Shivaroth's sleeve. "You could escape. You'd be free to return to Feihjelm."

"That does not matter."

"You don't want to be here."

"That does not mean I am going to let you die!" Shivaroth's voice rang out around their small cavern. He bit his lip, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "I am not going to let you die," he tried again, this time with a forced calm. "I will be back. Stay awake."

Ronan didn't protest this time. He watched Shivaroth walk away, watched the ruined hem of his coat sweep through puddles and mud. The light faded, and Ronan's eyes followed it until he could no longer see it, leaving him alone in a room where the only sounds were the periodic splashes of water hitting stone.