Sevensworn

XIII. Mind Asunder

The road to Terr'Havel was not an easy one.

They rode until the night bled into morning and the morning back into night. Ronan's eyes remained open through it all, his body weak and mind ghosting through reality while his heart pounded as if it had adrenaline to spare.

He dreaded what he would dream of if he let himself sleep.

He sat with his back against Wynne's chilled chestplate. She had taken the reins with a confidence he never could have mustered, and he let his eyes wander over the winter terrain. He didn't speak with the others, hardly daring to breathe above the winds that howled in a way that he could have sworn was almost human.

Every part of him was in agony. His stomach, most notably⁠—he had been effectively cleaved apart only hours prior, and now his body seemed unsure of how to act at the prospect of being whole again. Then there were his hands. They were red and raw where Aevar's blood had stained them, and burned as if someone was holding a brand against his skin.

There was something wrong with him externally, that much was obvious, but he was beginning to fear his mind even more. The voices, faint as they were, had not vanished. No one else reacted to their words, no one knew they were present. It was all within him.

"God-child."

"Avok'Shai."

"Star-reader."

"Blind King."

"Herald."

"Dear one."

The last one was different. Tangible.

"Dear one." It spoke again, and Ronan jerked upright, eyes falling on its source⁠—not a specter, not a voice. Shivaroth.

"Look at me." The god had pulled his mount up beside Wynne's, and his eyes held a suspicious gleam. Ronan turned his head sluggishly, meeting his gaze. "There is something wrong."

"My head hurts," Ronan offered, his words an unconvincing whisper. He could hardly hear over the swell of the voices within him. His mouth moved faintly, letting out a jumbled stream of incomprehensible responses to their endless queries and epithets, and Shivaroth stiffened.

"What did you say?"

"I'm tired."

"Ronan, you⁠—"

"Please, Shivaroth." His voice broke. "Just wait."

Shivaroth eyed him, and the swell of paranoia that rose with the god's stare nearly choked him. He knew. He had to know. Could he hear? Those voices, maybe they were audible to him. He was a divine being, after all, couldn't he hear them?

"As you wish," Shivaroth said after a moment. His face softened. "You are shaking, dear one."

"Am I?" Ronan's voice was faint, far away. He looked at his hands. They shook as he watched, true to Shivaroth's gentle words, and he shut his eyes. The voices rose with his lack of sight.

"Keep him steady," he heard Shivaroth murmur to Wynne. "I will speak with him when we arrive."

"I will," Wynne said. "And Shivaroth?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you. For all you have done."

There was a pause. "Of course."

The horse pulled ahead. The lack of conversation plunged him back into the voices. They were no longer coherent; any structure they had once held had crumbled, leaving broken syllables that continued to grow in volume. He exhaled with a low moan, raising weak hands to his face. He pressed his palms against his eyes, forcing himself to take shallow breaths. His body continued to shake.