Sevensworn

XII. Avok'Shai

Ronan was hearing voices.

Far away from the pain, from the panicked cries and hands on his face, he was hearing voices. A woman's voice, gentle, surrounded by many smaller ones. The woman's won out among the rest, whispering a word into his ear, one word. One word.

"Avok'Shai," she said.

In some other world, part of him reacted. His breath stuttered, his lips formed a response, speaking it not to the woman but aloud, to those that surrounded him where his physical body lay.

"Miira i'tai nahina." He spoke words he did not understand, words in the language of the gods. He felt the woman's presence. Understood that he was dying.

The rest of the voices joined it, whispering "Avok'Shai" deep within his mind, threatening to stop his heart, the sound coming together like the voices of a chorus, unrelenting and consuming.

Beneath it all, the pain had begun to claw at him. It was a fire in his veins, and he wanted nothing more than to writhe, to get away from it, but his body was prone and frozen. Outside of the cacophony, he heard familiar voices. They were pleading, some speaking to him and some to others, but they all carried the same fearful quality.

The woman's presence enveloped him.

"You are clever," she breathed, "outwitting us like this. You must live. You are a killer, the blood of our kin stains your hands⁠—but all the same, you must carry out the prophecy. Today and today alone, Ronan Aldrea, I will not take you."

On the plane below, his body drew in a shuddering gasp. His eyes flew open and he was forced back into his flesh, one hand curling harshly in the snow around him, his limbs trembling.

"That's it, Ronan, eyes open, there we are." This voice was not like the others; it was soothing, shaking but not panicked. His head was cradled in the speaker's lap. Wynne. It had to be Wynne.

"Miira i'tai nahina," he whispered again, the words still fresh on his lips.

"What in the name of the Three is he saying?" Another voice, Acaeus', was sharp and rushed. "Shivaroth, what's he saying?"

Shivaroth responded, shaken. "That is not the priority. I need to heal him, you must let me concentrate. Be still."

Hands ghosted over his abdomen, now armorless. They were warm, a jarring contrast to the rain that still fell around him. His head listed to the side, his cheek resting against Wynne's knee. He caught a glimpse of a body lying prone near a bonfire, pale and lifeless, once-proud hair matted with mud.

"Don't look at that," Wynne murmured, turning his head back so he was looking at the canopy of trees above. "Focus on my voice, alright? Can you do that?"

He tried to form a response but his lips were numb and stiff, slick with rain. He coughed and a metallic liquid coated his tongue, mingling with the water on his face. A tendril of blood snaked from the corner of his mouth. A moment later he forced out a single slurred word, staring up at Wynne through the dancing spots of darkness in his vision, his mind not quite aligning with his sight.

"Mother?" It was a pitiful whine.

Wynne breathed in sharply.

"I'm here, Ronan." She whispered after a beat. "I'm right here."

He could hardly tell who was speaking anymore. He let out a ragged sob.

"Shivaroth, what's taking you so long?" Wynne again, this time with the hint of panic she'd previously been concealing. She bent down and smoothed his hair away from his forehead, her other hand resting on his shoulder.