A study in eschatology.

[Carnath-Emory]

"This one will not flee, dearling. He will die."

But he hadn't, despite the best efforts of Thadius Dhrin; had refused to succumb to a torment that Ariane's mind couldn't fully grasp. Mostly because it didn't truly wish to. But this was unimportant. All that mattered was that Altias Bromn had made a lie from that prophecy, condemning the mad apostle Dhrin to die in his place, and had since spent his days in a Rememdium bed, under the careful care of several skilled physicians. That Ariane was inclined to include D'Zir amongst their number is the sort of mental justification that a magic-loathing woman can surely be excused.

But it was in this way that those days had passed: the Governor in his sickbed and she in her small chair, glancing up only occasionally to see the passing shapes that were D'Rael and Renne. The memorising of what they could tell her of his condition, that this thing or another had improved, that some or another thing might speed matters along.

By the second night she had accepted the possibility that Bromn would die. By the third, they'd permitted her to occupy an unused bed cot there.

Still, perhaps Bromn had discovered a contrary streak in his nature, for despite her pessimism -- or perhaps to spite it -- recovery had indeed begun. And as he improved, she had begun slow work on herself: had made a habit of bringing parchment and ink to the Rememdium, with which to practice her lettering, for instance. Had found that a slatted chair made a good weight with which to exercise her legs, and the doorframe fine enough to work some strength back into her arms. Over the days, they'd become used to seeing her hanging from the thing; had learned to dodge her movements in the hallways -- and she, in turn, had come to guage with some accuracy their needs... and arrange her schedule accordingly.

And during the quiet times between, she'd kept her voice lowered when she spoke to the brutalised man who lay in that sickbed. Had whispered her threats, her pleadings, her poor attempts at humour.


But on this new day, everything changed. Absent for most of the night, it was a lopsided woman who'd staggered back into that room some brief hours before dawn, one bloodied from chin to knees, and filthy to boot. Hurried explanations had followed to what staff was present: that the blood was not her own (mostly) and that the limp arm was likely not broken (probably), and that all was really quite well, if in need of some bandaging (bold falsehood, but of the forgivable sort). And then had begun to distribute the coins necessary to grease wheels and palms and set her few, feeble plans into motion.

A great many coins.

Dawn had seen couriers dashing back and forth between Rememdium, tavern, and Myrkentown itself. Had seen papers, ink and quills delivered to poor Bromn's room, and a woman seated awkwardly at her makeshift desk there, writing, crumpling away ruined paper, smearing ink awry -- and now and then sipping at the tea that had been procured at some expense. But the sort of expense that she was willing to pay, after her discussion with Captain Daniels the night before.

Civil War was the phrase that none of her missives contained. But it was bright in her mind all the same.