Panic seemed the order of things as darkness descended upon Shirell, but nothing could be further from the truth. She'd no doubt others would've been shaken to their very core, but these . . . these were her children. No less loved than of Ciroc; perhaps differently, as a pet, but no less. Regardless, they'd be considered unadulterated horrors to all upon Lagoon, but they knew little to nothing of malevolence. Ever are such things are learned behaviors, dredged up from an environment utterly devoid of love. Such was not the case here. Rather, they were benevolent; wholly and utterly devoted to mother. The wraiths hadn’t come to harm, but rather to heal.

Seemingly deformed, each limb contorted with purpose. Hair, wiry, sharp and seemingly knitted from the deepest of shadow covered near to every surface and yet was feared by none who laid eyes upon them. These were devoid of the ability to speak beyond howls, but that wasn’t a deficiency. Their power was that of the mind, which was how Shirell designed them. Though not even she could've surmised, through the power of a collective or not, that they possessed the gift of healing.

Not that any effort of such magnitude was a quick affair, but Shirell was ever so slowly gaining strength. Beyond this, her ability to see through the minds of all upon Ciroc's island had never faltered. She'd witnessed everything and shuddered for how helpless she was to protect her son. That was changing, but not fast enough.

She'd sworn Ciroc would perish at the mind of Achon, though equally elated and horrified at the revelation. She needed to know what he knew. She needed to search for a possible way in which she might be able to reason with the man. There, within the damaged confines of his mind, she found far more than she'd bargained for. She'd a brother. Unbelievably, she'd a brother! Half-brother or not couldn’t matter less!

What she'd discovered, most would’ve considered a connection, for who else did she really have? Ciroc, certainly, but ever did he remain her son, not her equal. Never had she known anyone existed of her caliber, much less of relation. A deep part of her wanted to . . . know him. She'd wanted beyond all reason to heal him, thinking now, with her wraiths well at work, such a thing may truly be possible. Yet would this be before or after her brother murdered her son?

This was an unforgivable crime and yet should Ciroc die who else would she have but him? Oh, but these thoughts were beyond all measure. The sheer loneliness had devoured her mind these many years. She'd had Ciroc to thank for her sanity and no love lost to her beloved wraiths and other creatures she'd considered herself mother to, but only to Ciroc did hope lay in anything close to real communication.

Shirell had so wanted, no needed, Ciroc and Achon both, and the healing was the only way, but naught could be done. Regardless her heart ached for them both, knowing full well a kinder world would’ve bred a less malignant kin. She shuddered the thought that Achon's end might be a task thrust upon her, for how could losing them both not utterly damn her very soul?

Then Achon began to show more than a hint of wickedness. He began to slaughter in earnest that of his own kind, just as she may well be forced to do to protect her treasured son. Had he no soul? Was he truly beyond all hope? But no. She'd refused to accept that despite the fact every death, even of those she'd despised, struck her down like a knife. She could see her beloved wraiths struggling to contain it, for this wasn’t a physical wound but mental anguish they were attempting to quell.

Of course, she knew well the endgame. Her brother, like herself, would fall and soon. Beyond imagination, he proved able to withstand so much more than herself. He pretended not to slow and she knew not if he could tell, but she could. Every effort took a little longer to perform. This stretched beyond all reasoning long before he'd turned his mind towards the villagers. They’d be the end of him.

Shirell screamed a mind shear to beg him to stop, but to no avail. She remained in far too weak a state. She'd no certainty of anything beyond death and such proved incurable, even to the likes of her wraiths. Yet, Ciroc endured and amazingly so. He was such a strong boy. How could she not be strong for him in return? How could she . . . how could she . . . how could she.

The doubts rolled in like the waves for all she'd done. Of them all, her murder of the fetus reigned supreme. Oh, the anger of memory unfettered. Oh, the torture and the shame unblemished. The years could not withstand a mind such as hers! She was lost! And had forever been! How could she, indeed?! How could she withstand it all?

Then from the blackness in which she fell, more gangly shapes emerged . . . more and more and more. The wraiths formed a wall around her, claw to claw to claw to flesh. It was a sight to behold. By the power of their minds they'd no need to be so close, but they'd found the connection of flesh boosted, well . . . everything. It was as if life had come full circle and the mind now found that sheer power of touch simply lay dormant, a force to be reckoned with. Indeed such a force would be needed, for Achon had just fallen.

Instantaneously, each and every wraith was thrust backwards, some even falling to their deaths from the cliffs because of it. Still more came from the depths of the forest, which seemed a far bit larger than ever before. Not a one could let mother die. In this was an instinct, bred in or not, that told them implicitly, if mother dies, so do we. None could know if this was truly the case, but the wraiths would certainly be devoid of purpose, which many would consider no better.

With Achon's death Shirell fell unconscious, but then that wasn’t the omen it appeared. It marked an irrefutable end to her suffering and for it her healing accelerated three fold. Each second seemed to slow as if the mind, in large enough numbers, truly had mastery over the eternal passage of time. How, indeed, could things move so slowly and quickly at once? It was a mystery beyond all reasoning and certainly beyond all understanding of the wraiths that crossed the barrier.

But time had slowed. It was no illusion. The threshold of time had indeed been broken to form a new magic never again to be witnessed, much less harnessed. Such was the collective force of every wraith in existence. Sadly devoid of the traditional power of language, Shirell, nor anyone else would ever know it.

Within moments Shirell's mind was being re-knitted with surprising speed as time both reversed and then replayed itself over and over again. Reality was a thing of the past. Within a minute of time everywhere else in the universe, Shirell and her wraiths had experienced an entire hour. Then two had passed for time no longer had any measure. The wraith's were avidly manipulating it without even knowing how. It was simply instinct.

Then suddenly the job was done. Shirell's eyes shot open with no knowledge of more than a minute passing. Memory notwithstanding, what lay before her caused a deep sorrow. Many, so very many of her precious wraiths lay dead. Still some remained, though only a fraction of what once was. What she hadn't known, what she couldn't have known, was that the immense effort had killed every last one of them at least once and multiple times for most. They'd been brought back by others through the continued reversal of time, but apparently a creature could only die so many times. Unbeknownst to them, each death served to weaken future lives, repeated or not. Only those that perished the least now remained.

As the wraiths died so too did their efforts diminish and the healing slowed. Such was why so much time was needed. Beyond the crucial damage already inflicted they'd had to re-repair certain synapses numerous times. It was a harrowing thing with death permanently claiming the wraiths one by one. Still success was theirs. Truly it was, but more could've been done. They'd only stopped because they could literally do no more. The collective had been so reduced as to no longer be effective as a whole. So had they persevered and died to heal mother. It was indeed a miracle any of them survived, yet those that had would never again be the same.

This took a new massive toll upon Shirell, but things weren't as they once were. Yes, she was essentially healed, but her beloved wraiths had unknowingly bestowed upon her a new gift . . . their gift. Shirell now possessed the ability to heal. In the deepest recesses of her mind it was known, but it was, of all things, instinct that brought it about within her. For it she'd weathered this newest of storms.

With a power now building instead of draining, her mind searched and found an anchor from which to launch all manner of wonder. She was indeed the one who'd begun healing Ciroc's hand, but she'd done so much more. Deep within his veins she'd prompted his blood cells to duplicate. If he wasn't already dead nothing on this planet could make him so. Beyond even this, her power extended simultaneously to the few wraiths that remained, for though they lived, they were dying. No more. Never again, she'd silently promised. She’d not abide another of her children, or any for that matter, to pass beyond the veil.

# # #

All looked on in amazement. A solitary gasp spawned a flood of the same. The fallen seemed to writhe in the turmoil of death and yet within it an ounce of life was birthing and for a moment the terror of it all waned as the dark clouds lifted. Not only was Ciroc not among the dead, but he was being lifted from it. All who'd gathered near could see the tendons within his hand reforming. Among the throng of onlookers stood an incredulous Rethon, bloody sword in hand, and the other two of the Council who still drew breath. Naught was forgiven and likely never would be, but in this moment such trivial things were utterly forgotten.

Though life was filling him anew, Ciroc hadn’t awoken from his murky slumber. One could assume, if not completely dispelled, his nightmares now shone with a sliver of hope. Hope . . . it was such a fleeting thing. Hope could be seen in the eyes of those that watched on and yet not all had. Curiosity failed to arouse the most malignant hatred. Even those with a hint of brightness wouldn’t last, but rather fade to black. Such was the nature of things and the horror of recent events. After all, was not the witch still a threat to them all?

Some knew better. Some, such as Acissey and Diote, began to wonder in their awe. This was the longest of moments, but when it fully passed they'd all be presented with the question of not only how was such a thing done, but by whom? Those who still epitomized Shirell as the source of all things evil would not, could not, consider her capable of even the desire to do such a thing, much less possess the ability to heal. For when had evil ever done a righteous deed? Even if she’d done so in the past, what could compel her to now?

Her son, of course, but how was that not a lie told by someone saturated with wickedness? Achon made clear that, though death be theirs, he'd not lie about it, but how could that be believed? How could anyone believe someone who'd just murdered so very many? Then, was that truly his handiwork? Who else could've done such a thing but the witch? Oh so many questions and nary an answer. Yet for it all, hatred reigned in the hearts of some and within such darkened places no forgiveness could be found.

Some of these simply walked away, abandoning the scene of the crime, all the while admitting their role in the event to further something they so dearly loved called gossip. Some had good cause to mourn. The two villagers who'd fallen weren’t unknown to all. They'd had family of their own and Ciroc wasn’t the only one for whom tears ought fall. After all, Council members or not, corrupted or not, the fallen in yellow weren’t pariahs, but rather loved by families who'd cheered them forward in their dreams since youth. Some of these siblings, mothers, daughters, a scant few fathers and sons stood even now upon the beach. For all the hope sparked through Ciroc's healing, the tears rained down in what seemed an endless, hopeless flood.

Few if any knew how they'd died or who'd done such a thing, but one thing they knew for certain . . . a price must be paid. Who better to pay it than Ciroc? After all, if not for him none would've gathered this bloody morn. Even if not for that, how was it exactly he deserved this healing? How was it he deserved to escape death when so many others had fallen in his name? Was he so holy? Was he to be worshiped? Was he now on equal standing with Mother Sea?

No, was the definitive answer. Still apprehension remained. The one thing nary a one could deny was the witch did indeed possess a connection to Ciroc. How else could it be explained that not so very long ago his voice was screamed deep within every mind upon the whole of Lagoon? Seemingly, none other than Achon was willing to interfere with whatever that might be. Son or no, it wasn’t theirs to interfere with one the witch marked. That never ended well. Achon's headless corpse was proof enough of that. Even though he'd not been claimed by the witch herself, Rethon may very well have been her tool to do so.

Even had he acted on his own, what of him? What of Rethon and the other two of the Council? Had they not stepped forward upon Achon's command? Perhaps with his bloody blade Rethon could be discounted, but how had the trio not been so devoted to Achon's nefarious ideals? Had they been along for the ride and now set free? What if they weren't? Those that cared not for Ciroc assumed they'd soon find out. Achon had meant the boy's end. If too were his cronies, then he'd die or they would. Either way something would happen if they still meant him ill and were bent on acting upon it. Somehow, though, they figured the deaths of most of their ilk rendered them and their rage sterile with a terror they were wholly unaccustomed to.

Those who stood apart were looking at the larger picture; what then of the Council? What then of the future of the ruling body of Lagoon and of themselves? Oh, but this was so much more than the wayward flock imagined. Had not war ever been upon the horizon? Even now this war raged upon the open seas. True, Lagoon had been spared this bloodshed, apart from the many able bodied and able minded men who'd gone forth in their hallowed name, but should they fail . . . what then? Who was to protect them when the blood-tide washed upon their humble shores? The Council stood as the core protection in such a grievous event. So, they once again thought, what now?

Even should Ciroc be so holy, what would protect him and his followers, should he gain them, from such an onslaught? What really was his life worth? Was there some point in saving it, whoever had done so? His life was certainly a trade. All could see that. Could he now do what the Council had been designed to do? For the trade he'd be expected to. The burden was now his and nearly his alone. What indeed could a boy and three Council members do against an army?

Naturally none could speak of it, though so many were thinking it. To even think on such things was to consider loss. Now more than ever they all must have faith in the ultimate victory of their own army so far from home. None must doubt it or all would be lost. All would soon see this and their newfound hope would fade back to doubt. When that happened, their choice not to align themselves with the cursed boy would be justified. That was ultimately their hope, for what part of him should be considered so holy? Would he truly be some sort of savior? Would they then be damned . . . every last one of them? Would that mean a new death regardless of how their army fared on the high seas?

A bloody mix of doubt and fear reigned here. Within minds so easily manipulated such a comingling had always bested hope and forever would. These few took all that weighed so heavily upon them and walked an uneasy step off the beach, unable to look on a moment more.