Where was she?
He heard her again, far off, singing, calling like an eternal, winged
Holy Angel of the Invisible God, and as he turned to go to her he felt
his limbs whipped by the passing branches and weighing like lead, and
he slowed helplessly, becoming tired, so deathly tired.
The siren, he thought feverishly, as he staggered and fell headlong,
unable to catch himself.
Where was the siren?!!
"Si'Wren," remanded wise old L'acoci in a hushed and quavering crone's
voice as dry as dead leaves. "Si'Wren! Come to sleep now. Your brave
Slavemaster will live."
As she ceased her crooning, Si'Wren looked up at the withered
countenance of old L'acoci by the light of the cooking fire coals with
a tired, dreamy stare, and sighed in a heedless shrug. Then she turned
her eyes softly back again, looking compassionately down upon her
precious Habrunt, who had finally stopped his thrashing, and fallen
into a deep slumber again.
Ageless Habrunt as half a man was yet even now all the more to her in
his ruin, than any ten ordinary men in their youth and prime could
possibly have boasted.
Si'Wren hummed softly to him, as he began his moaning and thrashing
again, and she wondered what chaotic dreams passed through his sleeping
mind.
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