Chapter Two: Blessed Angels Come

Author's Notes: Again, we re-visit a chapter EXPANDED and REVISED from its original posting. Only Gareth is mine (at the moment). Thanks to those who have persevered with the revisions and welcome to those who are new to the tale. Special thanks to the Headmistress for her kindness and dilligence.

Chapter Two: Blessed Angels Come

With the echo of magical departure still hovering in the air, Gareth turned from the window to cross the sun-spattered floor to the birch chest. Trusting that the Guardian Spirits of his home would keep watch, he concealed the wand box deep within before turning to an adjacent altar draped in white lambs' wool, bearing three beeswax candles flaming softly amidst objects of ritual and offerings of devotion--a soapstone bowl of saltwater, a silver bell, grains of corn and wheat, sprigs of lavender and yarrow, chunks of quartz and garnet, a mirror and spindle, an athame, and vessels of fragrant oil. Bowing his head, he offered a hasty prayer for intervention.

"Blessed Brighid, Source of Healers' gifts, stand with me this day. Guide my hands and grant me wisdom in treating this man, for surely one such as he is a treasure to Your heart."

Moving deliberately about the room, gathering his medicines, he began offering reassurance, his voice swelling and ebbing like ocean waves, rhythmic and calming.

"My name is Gareth Islwyn. I am a Healer, and you are in my home. Perhaps you can hear me, perhaps not, but you'll come to recognize my voice soon enough. Be at peace. This is a solitary place, and you are safe. Know that I hold no power over you, and I am not your enemy."

He was pleased to see that Hagrid had followed his instructions perfectly. The ruined clothing and robes had vanished, all traces of blood, venom, and sweat had been carefully bathed from the wizard's lank hair and rigid body, and a cocoon of woolen blankets and soft quilts had been wrapped around him in an effort to bring warmth. Gareth smiled when he noticed black leather boots, minute traces of mud and grass still clinging to the sturdy soles, tucked under the bed. No doubt Hagrid had decided it would be easy enough to replace wizards' robes, but a man's familiar pair of boots should be kept.

Various bottles and boxes, along with an unassuming pouch of black worsted and an oblong leather case, had been arranged on the bedside table. Assuming these had been taken from the pockets of the wizard's robes, Gareth resolved to examine each item closely as soon as possible, for surely a Potions master would always carry on his person the elements and tools most necessary to his craft, just as any experienced Healer would do with his minerals and herbs, his medicines and balms.

Chuckling to himself at the thought of any similarity, however slight, between himself and a wizard, Gareth dropped into his cupped hand five perfectly matched pairs of stones from the soft deerskin pouch tied at his belt. Polished and shaped into wafer-thin ellipses, they were "Blue Stones" of Carn Menyn, source of the mystical monoliths that had been carried--some said by the great Merlin himself--to the first circle of Stonehenge. Washed for millennia in the waters of healing springs, each pair was marked with the symbol of a deity of the Otherworld. Such stones had been handed down through countless generations of Knowing Ones, cherished as one of the most useful Healers' tools, treasured for their ability to summon and sustain the flow of life.

Closing his eyes, Gareth envisioned a fountain of flame cascading from Brighid's hands to his own as he cradled the stones within the warmth of his calloused palms, pressing each pair against his heart for the space of three beats, blessing all with the gift of his own life's breath. As he often did when treating a dangerously ill patient, he began singing softly--an old lullaby of blessed angels gathered around a sleeping child.

"Angels watching ever round thee...

They will of all fears disarm thee.

No forebodings should alarm thee,

They will let no peril harm thee,

All through the night... "

How odd, he thought, to sing a boyhood lullaby to a dying wizard--yet somehow the poignant sweet song seemed fitting. Who other than a Healer and the Angels might protect such a man, whose need was so great?

Pulling away the blankets to place the stones, Gareth was appalled when he saw how painfully thin the wizard was, his body so close to emaciation that lifting him would take little effort. Knowing his voice must become familiar in order to forge any degree of trust, he began speaking companionably to the wounded man, as though in conversation with an old friend.

"Well, then, Neirin Maldwyn, whatever sins you may have on your soul, gluttony certainly isn't one of them, is it? Neirin Maldwyn... treasured and courageous friend. Means nothing to you, I know. It's all right; I'll tell you more once we've brought you closer to life than to the grave."

What he saw as he shifted the man's wasted body onto one side dismayed him further.

"N Celi, whose work was this then, lad? You've been ill-used more than once, have you not?"

His eyes swept over the web of scars and wounds that covered much of the gaunt body, some the faint silvery threads and shadows of traumas long past, others much more recently acquired.

"How many of these were dealt you when you were just a boy, then? So many scars for such a young man... not even reached your middle age yet, have you? I've more than a few myself, but then I'm considerably older. I expect you learned to protect yourself early on. Probably grew to give as good as you got, didn't you? Hagrid calls you an old dragon... says you're a bitter and lonely man. I don't doubt it. Sorry to say, you'll carry yet another scar soon, but what a tale we'll have to tell if we manage to pull you through, now won't we?"

Turning the left arm gently to wrap two stones with soft muslin bandages at the pulse of wrist and elbow, Gareth drew a sharp breath. Seared cruelly into the forearm, faded but still distinct against the parchment skin, was the grotesque image of a twisting serpent slithering from the leering mouth of a Death's Head. Grimacing in aversion, he instinctively signed against evil, as though the malevolent eyes of the snake might seek him out and hold him fast.

"That's a dark and ugly mark you carry there, Neirin. I've seen such things before, and they're usually meant to bind a man to his master... What caused you to accept such a vicious brand, I wonder. Not something you'd care to speak about too readily, I'd think."

Examining the wizard's slender hands, the fingers dotted with tiny scars, yet strangely delicate in their long and tapering grace, Gareth continued his soothing soliloquy.

"You've the hands of an artist or a Healer, don't you, lad. Most likely, the only thing about you anyone ever thought was beautiful. You're truly not blessed with a fine face, Neirin, but I'm told you're brilliant and powerful, and what was it Minerva said... a master of Potions? You've the look of someone who'd have a skill for fencing, what with your height and those hands...that's if we could manage to put a bit of weight back on you. Something of a lost art these days, you know, fencing... I used to have some skill in the phrasing of an epee myself when I was young, although my teacher always said I was a bit too reckless to show any true elegance... I imagine you handle that ebony wand of yours beautifully. Perhaps I'll see that for myself one day... under better circumstances, I'd hope."

Weaving his tapestry of lulling speech and quiet song, Gareth continued to work with a sure and practiced hand, until all the stones were bandaged at the pulses along the length of the wizard's body. One final stone, slightly larger than the rest and marked with the triskele of Brighid the Mother, he took from a pouch worn around his neck to be placed over the wizard's faltering heart to open the Wellspring of Life. Taking both icy hands in his own, the Healer again offered a prayer for intervention.

"Blessed Lady, this man is lost in suffering. Send Your flame to light his way, guide him safely back to us if that is Your wish. Yet, I would ask you to take him swiftly and kindly if it is Your intention that he join You in the Otherworld."

Gently opening the wizard's eyes, seeking signs of life, he saw they were fixed, as black and empty as the coal pits of Rhondda, and when he passed a candle in front of them, the light of the tiny flame was swallowed by their depths. A ghost of dread visited him in that moment and he shivered, believing now that these were the same tormented eyes he had seen in his recent dreams.

Bending to examine the man's bruised and swollen throat where the ghastly wound punctured deep into the flesh, he carefully avoided the rust-dark blood that was beginning to seep once more from the area around the grazed artery.

"How is it you didn't bleed to death, Neirin, or die from the venom of such a snake?" the Healer pondered.

With deft hands, he cleaned away the blood with calendula and dressed the wound with linen bandages, smeared with a salve of honey, sophora, and yarrow to slow the bleeding. Slipping his arm behind the wizard's bony shoulders and supporting the man's lolling head against his chest, he coaxed two medicines, drop by drop, with infinite patience, down the ravaged throat--infusion of burdock and linden to renew blood and anodyne of wine, turmeric, and monkshood to ease pain. He would have preferred tincture of mawseed to induce dreamless sleep, and decoction of adderwood root against the venom, but was hesitant to use either until he knew better what he was facing.

Finally, pulling a soft linen sleep shirt over the wizard's icy body and gently pushing back the heavy strands of hair clinging to his clammy brow, Gareth wrapped him closely in the blankets and quilts before settling him onto the mound of pillows positioned to ease his breathing. The faintest moan crept from Neirin's spectral lips, and a fleeting vision of an unloved child flickered through the Healer's thoughts. He suspected that the simple kindness of a compassionate touch had rarely been offered to this man, even as a boy.

Dropping into the chair beside the bed, Gareth studied the haggard features of this man whose survival, or soul's release, had been placed in his keeping--an intelligent face with deep gashes of anger bracketing the hawkish nose, harrowing the brow in testament to a fierce and bitter nature--yet almost piteous in the loneliness etched into its sunken hollows and bony plateaus, a landscape of desolation in the lines around the eyes and mouth. A hard and mirthless face, yet there was not true cruelty in it--only the absence of any joy of the heart or peace of the spirit.

"What am I to do with you, Wizard?" Gareth wondered aloud. "We must battle this wound and whatever else ails you, but I'm not certain you've the strength, or even the inclination for it. I must try to pull you back from your wandering or at least help you find a peaceful death, but I know precious little about what's afflicting you. I don't suppose you might have a few words of advice on the matter? Some little trick of the wand?"

He paused with his eyes fixed on the graven face, hoping for another sound, a twinge of muscle. There was nothing.

"All well and good, then." Gareth shook his head at the futility of his own question. "Since you've nothing to share, let's both take a moment before we proceed. Bwyso awron, brudiwr. Rest for a breath or two, and I'll do the same."

Placing his hand to ride the crest and fall of Neirin's sunken chest, thumbing the faint pulse at his neck, noting that both breath and beat were to the slightest degree less labored, Gareth silently thanked his Brighid for Her kindness. He would need this time to take stock of the situation. In order to focus his thoughts, he chose to seek his own calm in the familiar patterns of studied observation. Pulling paper and pen from the drawer of the bed table, he pulled his chair closer and began to examine the items taken from the wizard's vanished robes, jotting notes and commenting aloud, as though in consultation with a learned colleague.

Picking up one of several small objects, smooth and misshapen, he cocked his head to one side, a slight smile playing across his face.

"Now then, are these bezoars we have here? I've used these as well--very helpful in most cases of poisoning. I learned about them in Crete, many years ago. Stands to reason they're so fond of them there, what with all the goats running about. Lumps of charcoal, and terra sigillata, too... the Healers of Egypt and North Africa prefer those, don't they? Effective under certain conditions, that's true... but trifles against anything as potent as what's attacking you."

There were over a dozen small bottles and boxes, some of shimmering glass or glazed porcelain, others of carved stone or matte silver. Gareth perused each one, noting the precise labeling and the meticulous care with which all were stoppered. He recognized the names of several of the tinctures and unguents, others he could surmise, but more than a few were mysteries, their apparent components and purpose surpassing even his extensive knowledge of traditional medicines, potions, and alchemy.

The rolled leather case, supple and soft from years of use, revealed a compact onyx-handled silver knife, its gleaming blade honed to a precise and deadly edge, along with varied measuring implements and other tools bearing curious symbols. The worsted pouch, which was roughly the size of a man's clenched fists, appeared too small and light to contain much, but he carefully loosened the drawstring and peered inside, stunned to discover it actually contained a great many objects, each in seeming miniature. He faltered for a moment before reaching in to extract them and was greatly relieved when his hand came out holding each item in actual size--and with all his fingers unharmed. He did, however, feel pain in his fingertips for several minutes that reminded him of a bee sting, and his temples throbbed, as though he'd held his breath underwater a bit too long.

Not only did this seemingly bottomless receptacle contain a flawless milk-quartz mortar and pestle, a diminutive set of gleaming copper scales, a small iron cauldron, and numerous empty crystal vials, thin as tissue, but also a compact case of reddish leather, yielding a myriad of labeled bottles arrayed in tidy rows, containing all manner of things, some exotic, others quite mundane.

There were dried leaves and petals, both fragrant and pungent herbs and barks, whole and crushed minerals and gems, translucent shells, the wings and carapaces of insects, feathers and scales of birds and reptiles, bits of bone and horn, assorted teeth and claws, hardened globules of what appeared to be secretions and blood, sticky saps and stringy roots, velvety mushrooms and spongy fungi, slimy scums and glistening molds, fetid flakes of dung and spittle, packets of damp soil, shimmering dusts and ashen powders--a veritable pharmacopeia of colors and scents, textures and densities--in short, the traveling kit of a Potions master.

Gareth could scarcely contain his exhilaration upon seeing these things. He knew so many of these plants and minerals, these elements of earth and sky. They were the familiar stuff from which he composed his own medicines. He'd used such things for years, his shelves and cupboards were crammed with them, yet retrieving them from the personal effects of a wizard made them seem the rarest treasures.

"Neirin, this is a grand thing you've got here! All of this in one tiny pouch, and no heavier than a loaf of bread? You must show me how to make one for myself, though I could do without the stinging and the headache! How practical to have everything fit so neatly into such a small space... I wonder just how much you could carry in such a bag... Wonderful, truly wonderful! When I'm collecting for my medicines and the like, this would be such a fine thing to have along!"

Ignoring the momentary discomfort, he reached again into the pouch and was delighted to discover several texts, apparent writings on potions, brews, and medicines, with spidery-handed notations scribbled in the margins. Again, there was a fleeting sense of kindred with Neirin when he realized a well-worn copy of one of the books, the "Herborum" of Otto Brunfels, was in his own library. Two other volumes, however, were certainly not to be found on his shelves. Their titles and the letters on the pages swam in a shifting fog before his eyes, leaving him dizzy and disoriented by the attempt to read them.

"Not for the untrained eyes of a lowly Muggle, eh? Odd name, that... Muggle... not very flattering, really. That's what the Professor called me, you know, though she did soften the blow a bit with kind words about 'Knowing Ones' and 'Healers with deep understanding'." He chuckled softly. "All well and good then, Wizard, I'll leave these books to you. Perhaps someday you'll be so kind as to lift the charm so I could read a page or two? We might call it payment for services rendered?"

The last book was a slim one, bound in vellum with near-translucent pages, Dante's "Inferno" in Italian, a braided cord of green and silver serving as the bookmark. Several passages had been underlined, translated onto sheets of paper slipped between the pages, and one drew Gareth's attention, reminding him of Minerva's words about this man's shrouded and convoluted life.

"To tell us in what way the soul is bound within these knots; and tell us, if thou canst, if any from such members e'er is freed."

Gareth held the translation in his hand, trying to read the man through the tightly constrained shapes of his handwriting. Clearly, this Potions master respected, perhaps even cherished, the tools and elements of his craft, and was a man of keen intellect who apparently was not adverse to pursuing knowledge in both realms of study, Magical and Muggle.

Finally only two items remained to be investigated, one a small bottle of yellowed ivory. Reading the label, "Cruor Recidivus," before removing the stopper, he inhaled the scent of the remaining drops.

"Now, here's something useful... yarrow and nettle, certainly... Alchemilla and Bach flower, perhaps... something else I don't recognize. You must have kept this handy always, what with this war of yours going on. Was this what slowed your bleeding long enough for someone to find you? That was your intention, I expect." He put the bottle carefully back on the table. "I was able to get a drop or two of something similar into you a moment ago. If you don't respond well to my medicine, I could wish for another bottle of this in that wondrous pouch of yours."

Gareth hesitated for a moment before picking up the final item from the table. A box of aged bronze with a deep patina, oblong and flat, small enough to be concealed within a man's palm, adorned with the classical Greek symbols of the Alpha and the Omega--the Beginning and the End--the label, "Virus Eternus," written in the same precise spiked hand as all the others. The Healer translated the words aloud with dread, an icy premonition wrapping around his heart.

"The Venom of Eternity."

Opening the box gingerly, he noted a layer of thick, odiferous paste, a harsh melding of sweet and bitter scents, marred by fingerprints where countless small amounts had been pinched away. Snapping the lid closed, Gareth flung the box back onto the table and in great agitation bolted from his seat to pace the room, torn between amazement and anger.

"Blessed Mother, what have you done, Wizard? Theriac? The Beginning and the End, indeed! I've read of this potion in the old texts, but I didn't believe it actually still existed, or that anyone now had the knowledge to make it."

His voice shook with scorn.

"King Mithridatus, and his unholy quest for the absolute antidote to any poison... Thousands of his slaves sacrificed to its perfection, so that he could live. All of that innocent blood shed for his ambitions... enough to curse his potion for all eternity... and those that brew it. Over two hundred rare ingredients, isn't it... and only the most skillful of you Potions masters who can achieve the making of it?"

Gareth's compassionate eyes were darkened with disgust as he turned back to stand at the foot of the bed, his hands clenched tightly against his emotion, his voice drained of gentleness, an arid waste of rage.

"Vipers flesh, swine's bile, powdered scorpion... terrible things... and opiates so strong they're said to drive men mad with the craving of them. Did you brew what's in that box... and worse yet, who have you been dosing with it? Is it yourself? And for how bloody long? Five years, it's said, just to make it, five more for it to ripen and be ready. Are you truly that arrogant, Potions master? You'd have done better to leave me something I might use against the damn snake that's bitten you. This muck may be what's keeping you alive, but you'll soon wish it hadn't, given the toll it's said to demand. From the look of you, I'd say that's already begun, hasn't it? I didn't take you for the fool... You're supposedly a brilliant man... Did you think yourself more powerful than this devilish stuff... or did you just not care? I'll not touch it... no Healer of conscience will."

His angry outburst subsiding, Gareth fell into the chair, fixing on the empty face of his unconscious patient.

"May Brighid have mercy on you, Neirin Maldwyn. The scar of darkness on your arm, and this cursed brew in your pocket? And yet, good people care for you... They grieve for you... ask me to protect and heal you. I hope I don't come to regret my vow..."

If anyone had questioned Gareth in that moment, he would have been inclined to admit that he was torn between exhilaration and dread at the prospect of knowing this man. His small illusion of some faint kinship between them was tinged with doubt. He sensed his skills and beliefs were about to be tested almost beyond endurance, and he was not eager to initiate the struggle.

Gareth's innate empathy had guided him for years, enabling him to save many who might otherwise have been lost. His encounters as a young Healer were so devastating he had prayed for his gifts to be taken, had fled from the responsibility they imposed, but as he had grown older, he had achieved a careful balance. He could enter and share the suffering of a patient, offering comfort and compassion, yet maintain a separation from their affliction. He had the will to fight tirelessly for any still clinging to life, but was prepared to guide and cherish the final breath of the dying. Both life and death were honored in his work, and in his faith.

Yet now, he hesitated. The first foray into the mind of this enigma of darkness and light had been excruciating, far more than he had permitted Minerva or Hagrid to realize. In all his years, through all the traumas and sorrow he had experienced as an empathic Healer, there had been nothing to approach what he had felt in those brief moments joined with this wizard's body and mind. The man's physical torment and pillaged consciousness had been almost too much to bear. To join with him without preparation had been reckless. Even though Minerva had expressed regret for allowing him to proceed without prior warning, he knew much of the blame was his own. He must not make the same mistake again.

Pools of saffron sunlight, heather scented air, and lyric birdsong filled his infirmary now, countering the shadow of desperate pain and malignant magic that hovered near, waiting for its moment. As the sun began to move across the sky, leaf shadow blurred the harsh lines of Neirin's face as he drew breath... in, out... in, out... For the space of nineteen of those precious breaths, Gareth sat in silence beside him, receptive to this simple blessing of life affirmed, centering himself into a place of serenity until, with the exhalation of the wizard's twentieth breath, he rose and crossed to Brighid's altar.

"Bright and Blessed One, it is time. Protect us both and give us courage for this fight."

Anointing his hands with oil of myrrh, he picked up the rowan-wood athame and dipped the point into the bowl of saltwater. Calling upon the Guardians of the Four Directions to aid him, he drew a circle of protection around the perimeter of the room, offering the petitions of a Knowing One about to enter into battle with the darkness. When he had finished his casting, he took a drop of the oil and blessing the tip of the wooden knife, gently traced Neirin's forehead with the runic eolh.

"There is protection for us both now within this circle, and we are in the Lady's keeping. I have given you the mark of the blessing hand to show you are in my care. Even though there is no one to grant permission, I must try again to touch your thoughts. I hope you will allow it. My first attempt was clumsy, and for that I do ask your forgiveness."

Steeling himself against what he knew he would encounter, he repeated the ritual of Accord and stepped across, along an envisioned bridge of glass, into their joined reality. He emerged into clouds of cloying blackness, swirling in vortex on every side, engulfing him in oily suffocation. He was assaulted by an icy blast made terrible by its absolute silence, draining away all warmth in the span of a single heartbeat. The cold pierced his lungs, snatching the breath from his mouth, and he gasped as he felt his heart pounding, the layers of reason beginning to tear away, leaving only panting mindless terror. Gareth shuddered, biting back a groan of fear. He forced himself to remember Brighid, Her flame, Her guidance and protection, and holding Her image in his mind, he summoned a vision of a sphere of light, holding it high against the clutching darkness. Its brightness comforted him, but the glow penetrated only the distance of one step as he inched forward, with the impenetrable miasma closing in behind him.

Always before, no matter how withdrawn into sickness or anguish his patient might be, he could extend himself far enough to seize at least some thread of connection, some faint fragment of their essence. Perhaps their face, their eyes, a memory of a long forgotten place of safety and peace...enough to give him footing, to steady his advance into their desperate need. But here there was only the silent, punishing wind, foul with the stink of decay, bitter as ash and blood in his mouth. The tide of suffering that swept over him was staggering. Focusing his will, Gareth pushed back against the nauseating pain and wrenching panic the cloud evoked, shouting into the void.

"Wizard, know that I am here. If you are able, help me to find you. If you are near, show me your face... Reach out your hand and touch me. If you are somehow bound and cannot come to me, call out... let me hear your voice."

Though in his mind, he called full-throated into the darkness, his shout was absorbed and deadened by the smothering cloud into little more than a hoarse croak. He stood motionless upon his bridge of thought, senses keen for any image, straining to hear an answer. He no longer felt the raging, desperate force of will he'd touched in the first joining. The emptiness around him seemed absolute, final. Gathering his resolve, Gareth cried again into the void, his throat raw with the effort.

"Wizard, do not fear me. I am Gareth Islwyn. I have said that I am not your enemy and that I hold no power over you. Your wand is guarded, and your true name is kept from me. I know you only as Neirin Maldwyn. Will you answer?"

He waited, straining into the void. Had he been heard? The silent tempest swelled, pressing against him in protest of his intrusion. Pain as violent as hammer blows slammed against him and he fell to his knees, clawing and clutching for the edge of his fragile bridge. Though his sphere of light was failing, he struggled to rise and began advancing again across his tenuous expanse, halting suddenly as a ragged shard of whisper brushed past him, surfacing out of the abyss, slicing across his senses on another surging wave of agony.

"There is no one..."

The cruel wave swept inexorably forward and the whisper died.

"Wizard... Neirin Maldwyn, where are you? Call out again... show me where you are. I am here..."

If even the faintest echo had sounded, the slightest image appeared, he would have fought to remain, but there was nothing more, and the sickness of body and spirit that enveloped him was devastating. He dared not continue, knowing he risked plunging into the same chasm of mind that imprisoned Neirin. If he fell, he knew he would not rise. Exhausted, Gareth backed away, the bridge beneath him brittle, cracking, falling away into the abyss, his light guttering ever weaker, until at last he plunged through his portal of union, heartsick and shaken, tottering into his chair, shuddering with the memory of pitiless cold and pain. Soaked in a clammy sweat, he fought to keep the gorge from rising in his throat.

"This is not venom or wounds, or even the Theriac... this is the Unknowable..." he whispered. "You are profoundly cursed, past all measure of reason. Who hated you so much, Wizard, that they would condemn you into such darkness? This is an old and dark Magick, powerful beyond my understanding."

His mind was spinning with unresolved questions. Minerva had said the snake was the tool of an evil master, that Dark Arts had fortified its venom. The trauma to this man's body from such a poison, that could be challenged and overcome, but the curse that bound him? Gareth felt ill prepared to combat magic of such magnitude without guidance.

The immediate need was to strengthen the body. If Neirin should die, there would be no hope of ever freeing him, for a curse of such power would not relent, but would follow its victim always, even into death. Whatever this man's sins might be, Gareth was a Healer, sworn to do no harm, to shelter and sustain life. He had seen the best and the worst in many a man, had seen them fall from grace, and rise again. It was not his place to pass judgment, and he had made a vow.

Allowing his thoughts to drift back in memory, Gareth remembered another man, with guilt-stained eyes and battered laborer's hands, who had knocked at his door years ago seeking shelter in the night on his way to find work in the mines. Though Gareth had offered food and whiskey, he had refused, desiring neither solace nor conversation, seeking only a place to exist upon the earth until the morning. Leaving at first light, he had flung a bitter challenge over his shoulder.

"Consider this, if you want so much to help me. I've left my child behind, to fend for himself. Most likely, I'd have somehow killed him, given half a chance, and now I know I'm damned for it. Pray for me... if you can. There's no one else... Heaven surely won't have me, and even Hell won't take me."

He had said nothing more, and was not seen again in the Valley, but Gareth had never forgotten him.

This man in front of him now was no different, caught between Heaven and Hell. In this moment, there was no brilliant master of Potions, no powerful wielder of magic, but only a man in pain and torment, as human as any other. Gareth took one of the beautiful scarred hands in his own, recalling the echo of the ragged whisper that had struggled from the depths of suffering to reach him.

"There is no one..."

The Healer bowed his head, mourning all the broken souls that roamed the Worlds, and then he spoke, affirming aloud his nature and his vow.

"There is someone."