With the help of our native guides, we made significant progress northwards over the following months, fighting our way through traps and ambushes lain by those who opposed our landing. We razed numerous settlements to the ground, a decision that was not easy to make. Still, all dissent must be routed out, and with fewer places to call home, these Simians, as they name themselves, will have no choice but to capitulate.
As we forged northwards, the call of Seletoth grew stronger. We were getting close to Him, this much I was sure of.
We were met with a significant setback as we reached the northern mountains of this land. The natives had occupied and fortified important paths bypassing the mountains, halting our progress. We could have attacked them head-on with a high chance of success but would have taken significant losses as a result.
One of my generals found another way through the mountains, via a valley uncharted by the locals. Our Simian informants strongly objected, naming this valley a cursed, desolate place, but refused to tell us why. This was peculiar behaviour, for I had not known the natives to hold any of their land holy or sacred. So, against the advice of their counsel, I led my men through that valley.
A valley we would later name the Glenn.
The Truth, by King Móráin I, AC55
***
Fionn walked eastwards, his back to the morning sun, leaving the village of Roseán behind. However, the young mage paid little mind to where we walked. Eyes closed, his attention was turned inwards, towards a chorus of voices that rang out in his mind.
Halfwit! You left me for dead!
Alone and dead!
No light, no light! No lighter than the Holy Hell!
The Holy Hell would be a paradise compared to this fate.
Pain! Pain! Pain! Pain!
Fionn opened his eyes and saw that he had strayed from his path. He stood alone in an empty forest of decaying browns and blacks.
The young mage looked around, trying to find his way back to the path, when a whirring sound sang through the trees. A crossbow bolt struck his chest, bringing with it a sharp, searing pain. With a wheeze, Fionn fell to the ground.
“Oisín, you fool!” called a rough voice from the trees. Gasping for air, Fionn’s vision blurred. He heard heavy footsteps along the ground.
“I didn’t have a choice!” called another voice. “He was coming towards my hiding spot. And look at his cloak. He’s a mage!”
Fionn couldn’t tell how many there were, as two, perhaps three crouched down beside him. Fighting against his falling lids, Fionn closed his eyes.
“A mage, eh?” said the first voice. “Maybe he’ll fetch himself a ransom, if we play our cards right.”
“Not likely,” said a third voice. “Oisín may be a fool, but you can’t fault his aim. That there is a lethal shot, right through the lung.”
“Ah shit,” said the second voice. “It was meant to be a warning. I didn’t mean to kill him!”
“You didn’t,” said the first voice, sterner than the others. “He’s still breathing.”
***
“Do we really need to go through this much effort?”
“The gaffer is scared shitless of him. Says he’s a demon.”
“A demon? Come on now, he’s just a lad! A mage, as Oisín put it, right?”
“No. Mages die just like any other men. This one survived a pierced lung. Then the gaffer tied him up, put a spear through his heart, and a blade across his throat. Each time he just passes out and wakes a lil while later.”
Slowly, Fionn opened his eyes. Every bone in his body ached, agony tearing through his body with each breath. His thoughts struggled to form anything coherent, and for now, he had no idea where he was or how he ended up there.
He was on a boat, rocking across a still sea, surrounded by darkness. The vessel bore no lights, illuminated only by the waning moon overhead. Two figures stood on the deck. With backs turned to him, they spoke in hushed tones. Fionn noticed now he was bound to a stool, his hands tied behind his back, his mouth gagged with a cloth. At his feet, thick chains coiled around his ankles where a heavy iron sphere fastened them together.
What’s going on? thought Fionn. Another voice in his head cried out in pain, but Fionn did not understand its source.
“If it were up to me, we’d just bury him,” said one of the figures. “But the gaffer said it wouldn’t be enough. He said that there were stories from long ago, of the dead rising from their graves at the hands of a group of evil druids. He reckons the same is happening here.”
“He won’t be rising out of this grave, that much is for sure,” said the second. He turned to look at Fionn. “Hush now, he’s awake. Let’s get it over with.”
Fionn attempted to cry out but nothing but a low gurgle escaped his dried lips. Before he could figure out was happening, he found himself being pulled, then carried, then pushed over the side of the boat.
With a heavy splash, he fell into the freezing water and sank into the darkness below.
***
Time passed. How much, Fionn did not know. He sat at the bottom of the sea, the weight of the chains pulling him down against the ocean floor. All he could do was stare up into the faint light of the sky and watch as day became night became day became night.
Until one day, the light grew brighter. Brighter and brighter that before, until it threatened to blind him. He closed his eyes tight, hearing only the sound of rushing water all around him.
“Fionn,” came a voice. It was the first time he had heard anything for some time. “Fionn the Red.”
Fionn opened his eyes, and he saw a woman. A woman dressed in dark clothes with giant, black feathered wings spread out from each shoulder. She hung in the air. Fionn still lay on the ocean floor, but the ocean itself was parted around him, with sea rushing like waterfalls either side.
Did she do this? thought Fionn. The woman was strangely familiar, but Fionn could recall little from the life that came before this. “Come, Fionn,” she said, reaching out a hand. “Lord Seletoth is waiting for us.”
***
Fionn woke with a yelp, grabbing at his throat. His heart raced. When he realised where he was, in the cave in the Godspine with Farris, Padraig, Aislinn, and Nicole, his breathing returned to a natural pace, and he started to relax.
Was that a dream? he thought. Again, it seemed far too realistic, far too intentional, for want of a better word, to be a dream.
He was walking from Roseán, he recalled. After Yarlaith had healed him. Then he was ambushed.
Something about that was vaguely familiar to Fionn. Like he heard of something like that happening before.
Of course, he realised. The Lady said that was fated to happen, but it did not come to pass. He recalled her words. “Fionn the Red. Set upon by bandits on the way from Roseán to Point Grey.”
He pressed his hand against his head, trying to recall more details.
They saw I could not be killed, so they buried me at sea….
And then Morrígan had found him. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to recall what she had said.,
Seletoth is waiting for us? That doesn’t make any sense. Sir Bearach what do you think?
But there was no response. The dead knight would never pass up the chance to make a quick comment about Fionn’s dreams, so why was he holding his tongue on this occasion?
Sir Bearach? said Fionn, standing up. Sir Bearach? Where are you? The familiar source of magic, the remnants of Sir Bearach’s soul that had always been so close to Fionn… was gone.
“No,” said Fionn out loud. He sprang up to examine the walls of the chamber.
“What’s the matter, Firemaster?” said Padraig, yawning. “It looks like your magic has saved us yet again. And the storm seems to have passed.”
“I don’t care,” snapped Fionn, pressing is hands against the stone. It was still warm to touch.
“It must have burned all night,” he whispered. “Bearach.…”
“What did you say?” asked Aislinn, gathering her things from the floor.
“Nothing,” muttered Fionn. “Just… just a dream.”
The others went to work repacking their belongings. Farris went off to fetch the mounts. All five had made it through the night in good health.
But Fionn’s thoughts remained on the knight.
Was it too much for him? To keep the fire going so long? Did it… burn him out?
Usually, if a mage was to overspend themselves, they would just require ample rest to restore their energy. For this reason, in marching armies, it was important for the battlemages to have better conditions to sleep in than the rest of the soldiers.
Perhaps that was where his mind was, thought Fionn. Thinking my rest was more important than his.
He cursed himself. Sir Bearach had already given his life to protect a family from a mountain troll. And now he had given his soul just so Fionn could get a good night’s sleep.
In a daze, Fionn ate with the others. They broke their fast with food pilfered from Hunter’s Den, though Fionn couldn’t taste anything.
They set off, back over the path Padraig had led them, and then beyond, deeper into the mountains. Although snow covered the trail, they progressed with ease, and a much faster pace than before.
After some hours, when the sun stood high in a clear, frigid sky, the path took a sharp turn south, sloping downwards aggressively. Upon seeing this, the party broke out into a fast trot, which they maintained for an excited half hour, until the trees westwards grew thin, and the wide, flat Midlands came into view.
After all the narrow roads and tight passages they had come through, this was truly a welcome sight. To the west lay the city of Rosca Umhír, with the fortress of Keep Carríga roaring over its walls. To the south, a tiny fishing village hugged the southern coast. And far to the north lay the city of Ardh Sidhe, with many tall towers and spires blurred in the distant mist.
Though these sights all paled in comparison to what lay further west, beyond Rosca Umhír: a mighty mountain that dwarfed all that surrounded it. It stood alone, in the middle of the flatlands, like a wart upon smooth skin.
The company all paused as this came into view. Padraig whooped in delight.
“I told you!” he said. “I told you we were on the right track!”
“I believe you are still mistaken,” said Nicole. She pointed northwards. “We’re far from our destination, now closer to the River Tine than Ardh Sidhe. Your path, Captain Tuathil, has taken us far further south than you had intended.”
The smile faded from Padraig’s face. “Perhaps we took the wrong path through the mountains. It would certainly explain the delay.”
“You’re admitting your wrongdoing?” asked Farris. “Well done, Captain Tuathil. That takes significant strength.”
“I’ll heed your words, Farris, and ignore your tone,” said Padraig. “Our final destination is due west ahead of us, though too far to make in one day’s travel. This road looks like it’ll take us to Rosca Umhír, though it’ll be past nightfall when we reach there. Does anyone object to walking in the dark?”
“We’re not likely to run into any trouble,” said Nicole. “Unless any highway men survived the horde.”
“Though unlikely,” said Padraig. “Any who managed to would certainly be a force to be reckoned with.”
The others laughed at this, but Fionn didn’t join in. He couldn’t help but recall his dream. What had the Lady said, that Farris had indirectly saved Fionn from this fate?
He threw Farris a quick glance. Unlike the others, the Simian was not laughing.
***
So easy for them to laugh, thought Farris, urging his mount to move. But others have survived the horde.
He put a hand to the halberd attached beside his saddle. If it came to it, he wouldn’t hesitate to defend himself, or the party. Perhaps striking down an attacker would be easier to do than stealing food from an impoverished family.
I cannot blame myself, he thought, keeping his eyes focused Rosca Umhír, far ahead. I must not blame myself.
Onwards they went, down into the hills of the Godspine. The path took them through a snow-laden forest, which was every bit as still and silent as the Hazelwood. Then it brought them into the wide prairies of the Midlands, taking them through its gentle slopes. Late in the afternoon, they took a quick break, feeding themselves and their mounts for a hard ride into the night.
By the time night came, they were riding with great speed towards Rosca Umhír. Farris couldn’t help but glance behind him every now and then, ensuring they were not being followed, but the road behind them was every bit as desolate as it had been when it was the road ahead of them.
Soon, they came towards the gates of Rosca Umhír. Although Farris had expected them to be unguarded, he did not expect to them to be in the state he found them.
The gatehouse lay in ruin, nothing more than a mass of red rubble piled up before a huge gap in the city walls. Beyond that, many buildings were destroyed: burned frames of blackened wood either side a cobblestone path littered with debris.
“The horde attacked in full force,” said Aislinn, her voice cracking into a whisper.
Of course, thought Farris. She was here when it came. She rode out to meet him, when her lord father was content with locking himself away in his keep. He couldn’t help but admire her bravery. However foolish it was.
But does bravery even come in other forms?
They walked slowly though the ruined city. The place was certainly in a worse state than Point Grey. Considering this, Farris wondered how Cruachan was faring. Though he didn’t consider it for much longer.
“We should find a place to stay,” said Fionn. “Perhaps the keep is in a better condition than the buildings here.”
“I’m sure it is,” said Aislinn. “And with a heavy heart, I can only hope the horde found a way in and left a way for us to follow.”
“If not, I’m sure Farris here can break and enter for us!”
Farris, however, wasn’t paying them any notice. His attention was fixated on a cobblestone path extending eastwards near a row of hedges, away from the main road on which they stood. A path they likely would have passed with little mind, Farris noticed now that some stones here were cracked. Cracked in a manner far more intentional than the rest of the ruined city. Elsewhere, cobblestones were broken and upturned and scattered, but here, they were in place and fractured only slightly. These cracked stones formed the shape of two circles: one within the other. Farris squinted down the path, and indeed, his initial suspicion was proven correct when he saw that beneath these concentric circles were more cracked stones made a sharp V shape.
“Cant,” said Farris. He stopped and dismounted.
“You… can’t?” asked Padraig.
“Thieves’ cant,” replied Farris, before rushing towards the shape on the ground. The two lines forming a V pointed towards a stone building, with walls that still stood, but it bore no roof, having likely been once thatched before the horde’s fires burned it away.
Above its door frame was the same symbol, scratched into its surface and barely visible.
Without hesitation, Farris pushed through the remnants of a small wooden gate upon a low stone wall and bolted into the building.
The interior was a mess, blackened with burns and void of anything of use. Farris ran through the rooms, searching every wall for more markings, but found none. Behind him, Nicole stepped into the building.
“Farris, what’s going on?”
“Thieves’ cant,” he repeated, gesturing to the symbol on the cracked stones. “A code, devised by the Guild. We mark buildings for burgling, warning or informing other thieves of what’s inside: valuables, guards, dogs, mages, children, focus-crystals, traps, friends of the Guild, enemies of the Guild… we have a specific symbol for each.”
“Is this what you mean?” asked Padraig from outside. “This symbol over the path?”
“Yes, and there’s one over the door too,” said Farris. “That one indicates a cache is here, waiting to be picked up. But it was never picked up, otherwise the glyph would be crossed out.”
“And why does it matter?” said Padraig. “What use is gold to us right now?”
Farris ignored the captain and went out through the back door of the house. He came into in a small stone alley, facing another row of burnt-out houses. Stepping backwards, Farris examined all the walls, looking for another glyph, until he spotted a scratching on the ground. Barely visible beneath the flame-scarred stone, was another symbol. This one had an image similar to the first, but instead of a V underneath the concentric circles, this one bore an X.
“Here,” said Farris, crouching. “It’s under the stone. But we’ll need a specific tool to open it.”
Fionn appeared by his side. “If its ordinary stone, I can help.” The mage rolled up his sleeves. “But I was never very good at Geomancy, so it might take some time.”
Farris stepped aside to let the mage get to work. Either Fionn was a liar, or underestimated his own skill, as he made quick work of the task. The symbol was actually etched upon a stone slab, made to blend perfectly in with the rest of the ground. With seemingly little effort, Fionn lifted this stone slab upwards, then cast it aside, leaving a square hole. Farris quickly reached inside.
He felt something at the bottom, like a heavy box. Taking more time than Fionn had opening the hole, Farris pulled the object out. It proved to be a wooden chest, bound shut with iron straps. He placed it on the ground.
“It’s locked,” he said, then turned again to Fionn. “Can you open it? If not, I may be able to pick the lock, though for that I’ll need—”
Before Farris could finish, Fionn waved an arm over the box, and the iron straps pierced the wood. With another quick gesture, the wood shattered, revealing the contents inside.
Firearms. The chest contained a dozen firearms. With wooden handles and brass spouts., they were each small enough to be held on one hand. Farris passed one to Nicole, who examined it closely.
“These are mine, alright. Argyll had me manufacture more than I can count, but I always assumed they remained in Penance, though. I wonder how they made it all the way out here?”
“There were Simians here,” said Aislinn. “Most lived in peace, but there were a group that called themselves the Knights of the Wood and claimed responsibility for a great deal of crime in the city.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” said Farris. “But the Silverback often said that he had allies throughout the kingdom.”
Nicole threw Farris a glance, with narrowed eyes. Farris considered her warning for a moment, then went on anyway.
“The Silverback was planning to attack the Seachtú,” he said, presenting a firearm to the rest of the party. “It’s possible that he had allies armed and ready here, ready to attack Keep Carríga at the same time he was planning on striking Point Grey.”
“The bastard!” cried Padraig. “So, the rumours were true this whole time.” He leered at Farris, who ignored him.
“A co-ordinated attack?” cut in Fionn. “It would have forced the Crown to either spread its resources out thin to defend everywhere at once or prioritise one Seachtú over another.”
“Essentially handing whichever one lay undefended right into Argyll’s hands,” said Nicole.
“The Silverback’s reach surely knew no end,” said Farris, carefully eying an irate Padraig. “He’d often balance so many plans and schemes at once, I never knew how he’d keep up with them all.” He reached into the chest. Among the firearms, was a small white satchel. He picked it up and rattled it. It gave off the sound of many tiny metal objects inside.
“Ammunition,” said Nicole. “We may find use for these. Take what you can. firearms. In the morning, I can show you all how to fire them.”
“That is a kind offer,” said Padraig. “But I’m much more comfortable with my sword, and what use would we have for these with the Firemaster at our side?”
Farris didn’t pay the others much mind, instead reaching into the chest for the last object inside. He pulled out what at first looked like a rock, but on examining it, he saw that, although made from stone, its surface was perfectly smooth. It felt like a ball used in some sort of sport, but it seemed too heavy for any practical use. He tossed it from one hand into another, gauging its weight.
“Farris, no!” cried Nicole, stepping forward. She snatched the ball from his hand. “Where did you find this?”
“Inside,” said Farris, nodding towards the chest. “With the others. What is it?”
Nicole held the ball in her hands, cradling it against her chest.
“A… weapon I developed, perhaps a year ago. I only made a few protypes, and I thought Argyll had them all destroyed.”
“A weapon?” asked Padraig. “A weapon for what?”
“It’s an explosive,” said Nicole. “Though more potent than anything ever conceived before. Inside is an array of compartments, filled with chemicals set to react with one another once they come into contact. This reaction takes the form of an explosion big enough to crack a mountain in half.”
The group fell silent. After a pause, Fionn spoke first.
“And why would Argyll have them destroyed?”
Nicole sighed. “I wish I could say that it was because I found their design inhumane. All it would take a single smuggler to plant one of these in a castle’s foundations to destroy the whole structure. But Argyll expressed another concern. With the surrounding material being simple stone, a Geomancer could crack it from afar in a fight, rendering it useless in magic warfare.”
“It makes sense then,” said Aislinn, “to bring it to Rosca Umhír. Keep Carríga had the reputation of an impenetrable fortress. If one of these things can destroy a castle, what better one to destroy than this?”
Nicole pulled off her pack and placed the stone object gently inside. “Help yourselves to the firearms, but I’ll keep this one safe.”
They then made their way to Keep Carríga, a steady stream of destruction leading them to the castle’s moat. The drawbridge was lowered, its wood cracked and splintered along the way.
“Why is the bridge lowered?” asked Padraig. “Didn’t you say your father had barricaded himself inside the keep?”
“He did,” said Aislinn, slowly. “It was lowered for me to ride out against the horde, but it was promptly raised again.”
“Perhaps your actions gave your father a change of heart,” said Farris. “Maybe more followed your heroic example and rode out too.”
Farris had no way of knowing, of course, but he reckoned it was what Aislinn needed to hear right now. But she gave no response either way and led them across bridge.
When they entered the keep, a great hall met them. Huge stone pillars held up a vaulted ceiling painted with an array of greens and browns, mimicking a forest canopy. On the wall of the far end of the hall hung a huge tapestry, depicting an army of green and red figures of green and red wielding spears. A banner flew over their heads, with a blue swan upon a black field, its majestic wings spread outwards.
“My father commissioned that,” said Aislinn. “It is meant to show how our family fought with Móráin the First in his conquest, even though House Carríga wasn’t even established back then.”
They left their mounts there in the hall, figuring the animals could do with some better shelter than the previous night. From there, Aislinn directed them to the keep’s living quarters, with Fionn and his Pyromancer’s torch leading the way. The mage also ignited torches in their sconces as they went. As with Hunter’s Den, the vast surplus of living space now meant each could have their own room. Farris found his in the keep’s eastern wing, looking out over the vast darkness of the Midlands.
He made no delay in preparing for sleep. The room was equipped with a thickly curtained four-poster bed with heavy, down bedding. His muscles sighed with relief as he lay down. For a few blissful moments, he closed his eyes, letting his body relax and rest… until he realised that he had forgotten to dampen the room’s torch. Reluctantly, he dragged himself out of bed. But as he did, there was a gentle knock on the door.
“Yes?” said Farris, his heart racing. “Come in.”
Nicole stepped through the door, slowly, avoiding Farris’s eyes.
“Your room is very nice,” she said. Her demeanour seemed far different from the last time she paid Farris a late-night visit, but he dared not speculate as to why.
“And isn’t yours?” he said. “They should have given you the countess’s quarters.”
“Mine’s dark and cold,” she said. “And not as large.”
“You can stay here, if you want.” Farris barely realised the words as they escaped his lips.
Nicole smiled. “You haven’t changed one bit.” She brushed passed him towards the bed and climbed in.
What’s gotten into her? thought Farris. Doesn’t she hate me?
Farris extinguished the torch, then sat on the edge of the bed.
“Do you still feel the same as you did before?” he said. “About this journey?”
“You need to sleep, Farris. We’re climbing a mountain tomorrow, remember?”
He sighed and lay down next to her, pulling the covers over both of them. He lay on his back at first, staring into the darkness, until Nicole shimmied towards him. She took his arm and put it over her shoulder, forcing him to face her. She pressed her back against his chest.
“No,” she whispered. “I’m glad you decided to go. And even gladder that I joined too.”
“What changed your mind?”
“You did.” She caressed his arm, making each hair stand on end. “I meant why I said, the night before we left. That the immortal… lad doesn’t need protecting.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I wanted to protect you. I wanted to convince you not to come. And when I saw there was no changing that stubborn mind of yours, I knew what I had to do.”
“You didn’t have to do anything.”
“No, you were the one with the choice. Not me. And each day, it’s looking more and more like you made the right one. I don’t know how you do it. In Hunter’s Den, Aislinn told me about your plan back in Penance. How you refused to choose between starving an army or starving civilians, and went to Point Grey to make sure none had to. You’ve always been one to see right through a problem to find a solution no one else could. It’s admirable.”
A breath caught in Farris’s throat. “It wasn’t admirable.”
“Of course, it was! All that food would have gone to waste there, while the people of Penance would have gone hungry.”
“There was a… family.” Farris’s voice cracked. “A… a family. In….”
Nicole’s delicate stroking of Farris’s arm came to an abrupt halt. “No….”
“F-farmers,” spluttered Farris. Tears came streaming forth, and he could not hold them back. “There were children, and we —”
“Shhh,” hushed Nicole. She grasped Farris’s arm. “You had no choice.”
“They had no choice. We ordered them from… from their home. And one….”
Nicole pressed Farris’s arm against her lips. The warmth of her breath soothed the fear that raged through his body. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s okay now.”
Farris closed his eyes tight, so tight that blurred colours formed in his vision. But those blurs took the shape of the young lad in the rafters. The one who tried to defend his family. The one Farris had killed.
Like a fever, a trembling anxiety took hold of his chest. He was openly sobbing now, in front of another person, but his fear was so great now he no longer cared who saw him. So many memories surfaced in that moment. The other starving Simians growing up in the Dustworks. Fistfights and scraps that got out of hand between rival gangs. The traitors of the Thieves Guild he killed in Penance. The lies he told King Diarmuid. Chester the Lucky floating down the canal. The Glory of Penance crashing out of the sky. The beadhbhs of the Glenn that preyed on the survivors of the wreck. The troll in the Clifflands. The horde in Penance. Morrígan opening the ground at Dromán to swallow the army of the Triad. All Farris wanted to do was close his eyes, so he would not have to see these memories again, but his eyes were already shut tight, and there was no escape. Only a voice, a soothing voice telling him that everything was going to be okay, over and over again, quelled the storm. As he focused on her voice, and the touch of her hand on his arm, Farris’s heartbeat slowed, and his breaths grew longer and full. His mind turned its attention away from those terrible memories to the Simian lying next to him, hushing him, soothing him, like a mother would a child. Something Farris had never felt before.
As if realising her effect, Nicole went quiet, and the two lay there in silence. His breathing matched hers, both chests rising and falling together. Farris’s mind relaxed now, idle thoughts winding through it. All of his attention remained fixed firmly on his heartbeat, beating loud, yet slow, and tranquil. In the silence, he could even hear Nicole’s heart beating too, sharing the same rhythm as his own.
Some time passed, and Farris found sleep setting in. But just as he was about to give in fully to slumber, Nicole whispered something. Three words Farris had never heard whispered before. Three words surely no sane Simian had ever said. Farris’s eyes remained closed as she said whatever she said, for he was sure she had misspoken. Or maybe he had misheard. Perhaps she had been asleep and spoke in the way that nonsense mutterings sometimes escape the lips of those deep in dreams. He considered saying something. He considered waking her up. For a maddening second, he considered saying those same three words back to her. But he could not bring himself to, for they were Human words for Human hearts. How foolish it would be, he thought, if he had misheard, or she had misspoken, and he was to say them back?
Hadn’t she scolded him before for acting too much like a Human? Surely it was more likely, Farris reckoned, that she had not said those words, and that he had just wanted to hear them so badly he imagined it.
Part of him pondered on the small chance he had heard her correctly, and she really did mean it, which would allow him to say those words back to her and really mean it too.
But the odds of that, he reasoned, were so infinitesimal that he may as well not even consider it a possibility at all.
No, it was far easier for Farris to pretend he was asleep and say nothing. This he did, and continued to do so, for the rest of the night.