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The gentle, insistent voice dragged Martin back to awareness.
“Oh, thank heaven.” His mother leaned over him and brushed hair off his forehead. “I thought I’d lost you, Martin.”
“Still—here.” His throat felt raw, and his leg throbbed. He had lost track of how long he had been on the floor, bleeding, but he knew his recovery would not be simple—or easy. “Mother.”
“Right here, my sweet boy.”
Martin wanted to smile at the endearment. “I am—dying.”
“Yes, Martin.” She cradled his face. “There is still time for you. Your spirit is strong, and you can fight. You need to fight,” she rested her forehead against his, startling him. She felt sold. Real. That could not be a good sign. “For me, Martin. Fight for me.”
“Will—try.”
He let his eyes close. It took too much effort to keep them open. Part of him wanted to let go, leave behind the pain that seared him with every breath. But if he did, he would never see Maggie again, never hold his son. They were worth fighting for—
His muscles convulsed, and he clenched his jaw when the blade scraped against bone. He closed his hand over the hilt, and let out a raw cry as he yanked the blade free.
“Martin—Martin.” His mother’s insistent voice finally broke through the wall of pain surrounding him. He opened his eyes, found her leaning over him. “Tell me what I can do.”
“Talk,” he whispered.
“You know I could never resist an invitation like that.” Her voice trembled, but he still heard the humor behind it. His mother had loved to talk about her latest discovery—for hours if her audience let her. Martin always had, wide-eyed and soaking in every word. “Do you remember our first dig? Outside Cairo? I had to drag you away every night, promising that we would return in the morning. You were a born archaeologist.”
She brushed her fingers over his forehead, down his cheek, continuous, soothing, just as she had comforted him throughout his childhood.
“I knew your father would be furious when we returned home. You must have known as well, but you did not care. The first day on that dig, you found your path, and you were determined to walk it, no matter what obstacles you had to face. I was so proud of you, my son. I am so proud of you.”
“Mother.” He swallowed, his hand sliding across the floor. She took it, her fingers strong, substantial. Solid. “Proud of—you.”
“Thank you, my sweet boy.” She kissed his forehead. “Hold on, just a bit longer, Martin. I can sense someone approaching. Help is on its way to you.”
He managed to open his eyes, enough to see her face. Tears stained her cheeks, but she smiled as she met his eyes.
“Love you, Mother.”
Her smile faded. “No, Martin. You will not say goodbye to me, is that clear? There is too much for you yet to do, discoveries to make—Martin? Open your eyes, Martin.”
He no longer felt the pain. Only peace, and the touch of his mother’s hand.
“Martin—no, Martin. Don’t you give up on me. Don’t you dare give up—”