Alain didn't run, either - but nor did he stop to stare. He'd felt a sharp twinge of what was about to happen, and with it, the places had fallen into place.
He hadn't known why he'd brought the book with him. It hadn't been a conscious thought; it had been a passing gut feeling, but he'd learnt long ago to trust those. And so there it was, buried in his pack behind the wall, wrapped in oilcloth and carefully stored. He cursed himself for being so careful now... and yet it seemed to jump into his hand as easily as his guns did, and just as drawing his guns did, opening the book made everything else fall away, not gone but distant. He had time. There was always time.
"Cry pardon, Bert," he said quietly, and began to read. He'd cautioned Kaine against saving Bert, said she didn't know what it would cost him. Well, nobody knew what it would cost more than Alain did. But their tet had always been destined to break today. Jamie's cold body was proof of that. Let it be in anger, if it had to be. Only let something of it survive.
That was what he was thinking, heart and soul, as he aimed the spell at them both. Pull Kaine away, take her home, hope she would be reborn. But leave Bert here to die? Now that it came to it, he couldn't.
He'd never felt magic like this before. It wasn't the Touch, wasn't even the Prim-strength of Marten or the orb. This was something older and more delicate, something that wove with him and responded to him, not with brute force and strength, but with an echo of himself that seemed to grow stronger, until it was the voice and he the echo.
He wouldn't remember it afterwards, and wouldn't have understood it if he had, but the last thought to go through his mind before he pitched forward, letting the darkness take him, was It sounds like roses.
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He hadn't known why he'd brought the book with him. It hadn't been a conscious thought; it had been a passing gut feeling, but he'd learnt long ago to trust those. And so there it was, buried in his pack behind the wall, wrapped in oilcloth and carefully stored. He cursed himself for being so careful now... and yet it seemed to jump into his hand as easily as his guns did, and just as drawing his guns did, opening the book made everything else fall away, not gone but distant. He had time. There was always time.
"Cry pardon, Bert," he said quietly, and began to read. He'd cautioned Kaine against saving Bert, said she didn't know what it would cost him. Well, nobody knew what it would cost more than Alain did. But their tet had always been destined to break today. Jamie's cold body was proof of that. Let it be in anger, if it had to be. Only let something of it survive.
That was what he was thinking, heart and soul, as he aimed the spell at them both. Pull Kaine away, take her home, hope she would be reborn. But leave Bert here to die? Now that it came to it, he couldn't.
He'd never felt magic like this before. It wasn't the Touch, wasn't even the Prim-strength of Marten or the orb. This was something older and more delicate, something that wove with him and responded to him, not with brute force and strength, but with an echo of himself that seemed to grow stronger, until it was the voice and he the echo.
He wouldn't remember it afterwards, and wouldn't have understood it if he had, but the last thought to go through his mind before he pitched forward, letting the darkness take him, was It sounds like roses.