The mockingbird and the raven met one day and talked of wisdom.

“Wisdom is broad,” stated the raven. “To be wise is to survey the vast landscape, and see all possible answers from on high.”

The mockingbird disagreed. “Wisdom is narrow,” he argued. “For there is only one answer needed to any question. To be wise is to know how to find it.”

The two argued in this manner for some time, until the sun rose and fell once. Finally, as it rose again, they saw the boar walking nearby. Eager for a fresh opinion that might lend weight to their own, they approached him.

“What is wisdom?” the raven asked. “We have been discussing all day and all night, and cannot settle upon an answer.”

The boar considered the question for a moment before replying. “I ate from the forest’s bounty all day,” the boar said. “I slept all night, and thought nothing of wisdom. Now that I have, and have heard of your day, it seems wise to think no more of it.”

Pre-Gharic Ardan manuscript, vellum, c. 500 PE

The world slammed into Michael with pitless force. There was no sight, nor sound; everything simply was

EVERYTHING

in every instant of every moment in every facet of his being, with no space for thought or breath. A deluge washed him apart and away. Where there had been a self, a being, there was no more than fragmentary color shining from the current. He was nothing but lost, and even that faded against the horrid impermanence of each transient, mercurial eon hammering away in simultaneous fury.

When the first spike of pain lanced into him, Michael almost wept with relief. He clung to it, dug every part of his will into that solid and personal sensation. It was his; it was him. And it was not part of the vast and churning other that still ground away at the foundations of his being, which made it all the more welcome.

No less problematic, though, because it remained an excruciating pain. It burned nearly as bright as the chaos without, and before he had truly regained his equilibrium Michael was forced to turn to it, to confront it for what it was.

Isolde.

The remnants of her flared incandescent, horrified, betrayed, bleeding pustulent anger against the walls of her confinement; Michael could scarcely turn his attention to her, so brightly did she rage against him. So he did not. Concepts were still filtering back into his head, modes of behavior more suited to a being of time and space, and he took stock of his tools. His souls.

A myriad of low and bright lights swarmed around him, buttressing him, immersing him in solidity. He breathed - breathed! - in ecstatic relief, taking his bearings against the storm.

The rest of his souls came next, a roiling sun of power that shrank Isolde’s fury to no more than the sputtering of a candle beside its light. It still burned, though, still disrupted the firmament of Michael’s being, so he gathered that power together in his grasp and held it against the recalcitrant soul - then paused.

Words were needed.

It was another effort to reorder that part of himself, to stretch his tortured mind around abstract and twisting thoughts, but this was important, this was killing a friend-

That notion detoured his pursuit of words for a moment as he stumbled upon it, spiraling into branches of conflicting emotion. Isolde was an enemy, she was making herself understood quite well on that front. But - she had been a friend. A champion. A lifesaver, in fact, without whom he’d have joined his mother in death at his father’s hands. And for all her misguided rage, her pain, her loss, and her insidious corruption of those around her-

It cost Michael nothing to stop now, in the instant before the end, and regard her with kindness.

He spoke, or did something very much like speaking.

I’m sorry this is how it turned out, Isolde. I’m sorry this is how you end.

And then, in a twist of light and power, she did. Immediately, Michael’s mind cleared up, the pressure of her dissonant pain lifting away. It was far from normalcy, but he drank it in, regaining more of himself from the maelstrom. When the tide of changes calmed, he took stock of his position.

He was still Michael, which was an encouraging sign. The endless assault of the world upon his mind had not lessened in the slightest, but his thoughts were clear and his awareness unbroken; he was able to think, to plan - and to remember that there was one more hurdle to overcome.

A calmer light shone beyond where Isolde had been, deep and multifaceted, splitting light into whorls and rainbows that refracted into untold infinity within its depths. He drew it closer to him, looking at Sibyl’s soul - at Sofia’s soul.

More than Isolde, the notion of destroying her filled him with dread. He had tried to avoid this end, tried every way he knew. Yet - here he was, tentatively reaching for the coruscance before him, looking within.

It slipped into him as easily as a sigh, quiet and resigned.

He did not have time for bewilderment. The world broadened, stretched, deepened. What had been infinite became more so, what had been uncountable multiplied again and again. Once more the world poured into him, seeking to dash him apart against its panoply, but he had the benefit of awareness this time; Michael pulled upon his souls, high and low.

He did not fly apart against the spray of light and motion, but neither did it relent. Instead it fractured into a shattered mess of impressions that crowded for space in his mind, branching and forking away into infinity-

Michael’s mind jarred as he found a familiar shape in those branches. It was Stanza’s golden lattice, but broader and deeper than he had ever seen. Layers upon layers crowded together in their infinite complexity until he could not tell one from the next, and he teetered on the edge of senseless confusion once more. Panicked, he called upon Stanza, feeling the light flood into him - and out, out into the web.

Mirror shards spun and locked together until all was flat, whole, reflecting infinity. Blue and silver stretched away. Clouds spun in mighty vortices, mountainous flows of air shifting aside; Luc stood upon the mirror, whole and smiling sadly, his hand outstretched-

Michael shook himself and reeled back from the images. He could see sense in them, but they were disjointed, insane. Michael. They were in the lattice, but not together, not part of the same whole. He tried to orient himself, to-

Michael.

He paused in his frantic struggles. It had been his name, spoken in Vernon’s voice. He strained, listening-

Michael.

This time he was ready. A section of the lattice rang with Vernon’s voice - and something more, something intoxicating and unique and present in a way that he had not seen elsewhere. Focusing on it felt like slipping on an old shoe, a comfortable glove. Michael. The voice came again, calm and measured, and with a dizzying shift in perspective Michael’s mind caught the shift and flow of time properly. Here was now, here was here-

Michael was suddenly, uncomfortably aware of his body, the thundering of his heart, the coursing of blood through vessels large and small. He felt where each of his organs lay, saw the curve of each hair on his skin. He took a gasping breath and nearly retched from the sensation of his lungs filling, fractal tubules pulling apart in the black abyss of his form.

But he did breathe, then forced himself to do it again - and again. Like untying a vast knot, his mind began to pick away at the minute details thrust gracelessly into his awareness, categorizing them and stuffing them away into preconceptions that were now far too small to contain the cascade of reckless existence shattering through them.

Exhaustion wore at him, and frustration; existing for fractions of a second felt like ceaseless torment. It was endurable, but he had to do more than endure. He had to stand, to fight, to fix everything with this new and horrible way of being. He had to be better than he had ever been, stronger, more capable.

This thought was horribly ineffective at combating his exhaustion, but it did spur him to grab once more at his low souls, at the sheer human mass of them swirling around his being. They buoyed him, cemented him in the present moment that he had rediscovered-

Michael.

Vernon’s voice was a lifeline; he hauled at it with desperate force. A coherent impression swam into being of his own body, being carried through the woods around Raven House. Zabala was lifting him as though he weighed nothing, moving with grim determination out of that unhappy property. Vernon walked beside him with his face turned down in concern, while Sobriquet dogged his other flank. Her face was white, expressionless-

Michael focused too long on her face and the image fell apart, devolving into a nonsensical arrangement of meat and blood and hair sliding against itself. He struggled to regain the proper perspective, pushing hard, and found himself standing astride Calmharbor, the vastness of the city spread below him like a carpet. Even from this height he could see the damage to the streets, the pall of black smoke rising up from fires near the Assembly - and he did recognize the Assembly, and the government district, and the south district with his father’s house, his old house.

His sight fell and twisted as his attention dwelled on that house, and he was looking at the chaotic pile of bricks from every angle at once. The familiar lines and corners of it were tantalizingly close, yet always out of reach. He paused deliberately, grasping at calm, and called on his low souls once more. His presence swelled with them, and his perspective solidified at a more human scale.

He was in his father’s study, all dust and books and leather. Light filtered in from one of its windows to shine across the floor, illuminating Karl Baumgart’s outstretched hand. His body was splayed across the carpet, face-down, surrounded by dark stains frozen into the cloth. Michael had seen enough death to recognize what a body looked like when it lay undisturbed for days.

His chair lay empty near his feet, soiled and crusted in unmentionable ways. Gashes marred the floor, the ceiling; the glass in the windows had shattered. The marks wrote a story upon the study, one of a man lashing out with his soul in a blind rage. A servant’s bell lay mangled against the side of the room, cast aside when it had failed to summon any aid.

And then, some time later, when his rage had guttered out, when he understood that anyone who might have helped him had long since gone away, Karl Baumgart had fallen from his chair onto the floor, crawled a few paces - and died. Michael stared at the tableau, at the edges of his father’s face, feeling the entire thing blur into surreal and formless impressions. He had feared this ever since he knew the truth of his soul, that his father would inevitably find his way to Michael in death, but there had been nothing. It might have been that his death was in some way tied to Luc, his sickness arising from a cruel twist of Stellar’s power, but that was not the explanation foremost in Michael’s mind, then, at that moment.

Staring at Karl Baumgart’s quiet form, he could not dismiss the idea that his father had never held one mote of honest regard for him. Affinity was made where one being defined the shape of its life against another, and it was just like Karl to resolutely deny any other that would make such an impression. Spite forbade it. And perhaps it was unrealistic to think that his father could have escaped all influences that Michael unwittingly exerted against him, but it was the explanation that rang the most true.

Vernon’s voice intruded into his silent contemplation once more, calling his name. Michael pulled his sight back, or tried to, the familiar exercise made impossibly complex by the sheer quantity of information Sibyl thrust upon him. Frustrated, he used his low souls to still the lattice once more, infusing it with Stanza’s light, and searched for the ineffable familiarity that had marked the present place and time.

Michael!

Vernon’s voice came tinged with urgency; Michael was drawn to it as lightning, crashing into the space around his body with a terrible weight of presence. Their small group had drawn back towards the boundaries of Calmharbor and found the men from their last trip waiting - roused, if somewhat bleary-looking, and with a mob of reinforcements. Some of them bristled with the telltale energy of a soul. Michael found that he no longer had to look carefully to see it, nor to guess at its function - this one was a durens, a bonifex - and there was a fortimens in the center of the crowd, along with a scattering of potentes.

Zabala had set him down, braced and ready to fight; Michael’s body was lying on the street with Vernon knelt beside him, looking worriedly at the crowd. It felt unreal to watch himself there, like a moment from a dream; the wash of detail swept him away, bound him into rapt observation of the scene unfolding on the street.

“I’m not going to be able to take them out like before,” Sobriquet warned. “I can hide us, and we can slip away by another route-”

“I’ll disperse them,” Vera said, her voice dull. “I’ve kept them from the house, this is little different.” She spread her arms, taking a few steps forward. “Leave now,” she shouted, infusing the command with the weight of her soul. “Do not block our path-”

A shot rang out from the crowd, and Vera lurched backward; Zabala winced and staggered. She straightened up, unbloodied, staring at one of the potentes working the bolt of a heavy rifle. Yet more military weaponry, and as the crowd shook off her momentary command Michael saw that it was far from the only firearm present.

“Move back!” Zabala grunted. “I’m not going to be enough against all of them-”

Sobriquet’s veil fell around them as more shots rang out, and though some let the barrels of their weapons drop, others kept firing into the empty air - used to fighting ensouled, or at least clever enough to realize what was happening. Vera was hit again, and another bullet caromed off Zabala’s shoulder; he cursed and dropped down to tear a cobble free from the street, throwing it with lethal speed at the nearest gunman.

Yet the street did not afford much cover where they stood, and the gunshots filled the air. Vernon reached into his pack, pulling out a worn-looking pistol, but made no move to fire it; he continued to talk to Michael in low, urgent tones.

“I’m pretty confident you can hear me,” he said. “Michael. Michael. Focus on my voice, on the intent of it. Cut away the other sounds - or whatever else, you know what I mean.” He licked his lips, jerking away as a shot cracked against the street beside his foot; another struck Brant in the leg. “It’s easy to get lost. Concentrate on the people, on their actions, their intent-”

“Go away!” Vera shouted, her voice hoarse and raw; her cheeks were still streaked with tears, her face a blotchy mess. She staggered forward with her soul pouring out in waves across the crowd, striking them with damaging force where her command fell. Some did run, dropping their weapons and scrambling away in blind panic. Others dropped to their knees, clutching at their ears - but those near the fortimens held firm, taking aim at Vera with whatever weapons were among them. “Go and never come back, turn and run, flee-”

The potens with the rifle fired at her, striking her in the gut; another shot hit Zabala in the head. He staggered back, dazed, just as the crowd by the fortimens let loose a volley of fire. Two shots hit Vera, and she dropped with fresh bloodstains spreading on her dress. Sobriquet dropped to one knee as a shot grazed her thigh, and Vernon fell sideways with a hand clapped to his side.

“Michael!” Vernon gasped. “Not to rush you, but this is bad-”

Michael felt a spike of adrenaline jolt through him as his dazed fascination with the moment unraveled, the reality of their peril snapping against him with every gunshot. Yet he was still not truly present in the moment, his mind swimming in an endless sea of sensation and possibility. It felt tiny, insignificant, disconnected from the vastly greater whole of himself.

He felt it slipping away even now. Desperate, he flared his low souls, sharpening his mind on Sobriquet, on Vernon and Zabala, on Vera lying bleeding in the street-

The crush of his body descended on him once more, a surging, twitching mass of flesh that threatened to drive him into insensible madness once again, but he held the low souls against his breast like armor, bright, surging, radiant. Concentrate on the people. Stanza lit the weave around him with light, steadying him, coalescing the storm of mirror-light shards into an unbroken plane once more. Luc stepped onto the mirror, smiling, beckoning, backlit by a great light-

“No,” Michael rasped, pushing away the insistent image of things not yet seen. There was only the present, only the danger he had to address. It puffed away like so much fog, and he saw the spread of men pushing closer. Vernon’s face was pale, though a smile grew on his lips as he heard Michael’s voice.

“That’s it,” Vernon said, grabbing Michael’s hand and squeezing. “Find your center, stick to it.”

Michael fought relentlessly against the press of branching possibility, crowding close and seeking to draw him away from the bright center of the present. It was taxing in a way he had seldom felt before, like trying to stay awake when sleep beckoned irresistibly, every quiet moment robbing his focus and drawing his eyelids inexorably downward.

“I - am here,” Michael said, struggling for each word. He drew an image in his mind of roots growing up from the soil, binding his feet to the present. “I’m here, I choose to - to be - to be here.” He felt his awareness solidify against the illusory roots, spreading out to take in the plaza. One or two of the men attacking them paused, feeling something shift in the air; the rest pushed forward. Michael saw their advance written in bone and sinew, in every rough stitch of their clothing and the rust clinging to their weapons. It was too much detail, colossal in scope, yet he dared not pull back lest he lose the tenuous focus he had gained. Instead he pressed his mind against it, accepting the mad rush of impressions until they swirled around him like an echo to Luc’s storm.

“I am here,” Michael repeated, softly, feeling the truth of it amid the hostile tide of blood and flesh. It filled his vision, surging forward. “You.”

“Are.”

“NOT.”

Everything fell apart. Sever raced through the world, flickering at the boundaries of his awareness - but the borders of that land had grown vast, today. Flesh failed. Blood spilled. What used to be a crowd of men fell to the ground in gobbets and splashes, crimson droplets overwhelming Michael’s vision in their multitudes. Blood coated the stones, pushed there by the mindless flailing of dead mens’ hearts. He saw it all, it all, in every red detail-

Michael’s vision swam, and he reeled back from it. With your soul pressed close against their dying flesh-

“Ghar’s blood,” Sobriquet coughed, a rare note of shock in her voice. “That’s done with - shit, Vera.” Footsteps sounded against the cobbles again, but Michael was already slipping away. He couldn’t focus on the blood laid against the blood, the dying laid against the dying. His head swam with elsewhere and other, and the roots holding him close to the moment failed; he slipped free once more.

Calmharbor burned. For a city famous for its brick, a surprising amount of wood remained, and fires had raged through the closely-packed rowhouses and tenements that crowded near its core. It had not been all at once, no catastrophic blaze doomed the city in one night, but each little fire claimed more of what it had been.

Michael sympathized. He felt torn apart, spread thinly over an ever-shifting tapestry that was bigger than he could ever hope to be, even with his souls pulling frantically on the threads of his being. He was a mote in the ocean, storm-tossed. He saw all the fires and none, all the bodies lurking in forgotten dark corners of that dying town.

Occasional glimpses of something more real flashed across his vision. The narrow streets near the harbor. Sobriquet’s face staring grimly ahead. Lekubarri’s face locked into a grin, slamming the throttle forward; Amira screaming her defiance into the storm. Luc’s smiling face against an endless mirror, the sky above and below-

Light flashed bright, pain grounding him in the moment once more. It was dark around him, the floor swaying gently in time with waves, vibrating low with the hum of an engine. The boat. Michael let himself yield to relief for a moment before fear snatched it away. Was he on the boat, or was the boat yet another of the shifting images that intruded from some distant moment? He tried to grasp onto the present, to find the telltale feeling that marked it.

Michael felt a pressure on his hand. Someone was holding it, loosely. He almost got lost in the interplay of muscles and skin, there, in the flecks of blood and dirt covering both hands, but he stuck himself to the moment - to his body, and his own mind. With an effort, he gave the hand a gentle squeeze.

“Hello,” Vernon murmured. “Nice to see you’re back among the living.”

“Am I?” Michael slurred. “I’m not sure if - is it now?”

“An odd question.” Vernon gave a sharp laugh that devolved into a cough; he winced and clutched at his side. “I’m pretty confident that it is, but as I’m not sure what other answer I might give - I feel like I’m failing to appreciate the question, more than answering it correctly.” He paused. “Or rambling. I’m - lightheaded. We could use some help, if you’re feeling up to it.”

Michael managed a nod, hauling more of himself into the present awareness. It felt confining, close - a sensation not helped by their surroundings. They were in one of the ship’s cabins. Michael was on a thin mattress shoved against the bulkhead, while Vernon sat slouched against the wall. His face was deathly pale, though a slight smile still bent his lips upward. Across the cabin, Michael saw Vera’s hand hanging down from a cot, flecked with red.

“Vera-” Michael’s mind was faster than his words, rushing over to Vera and filling the world with slowly-seeping blood, with shattered ribs and lungs struggling against dark red that threatened to drown them. He backpedaled quickly, quashing his dismay before it could swell to dominate his mind, drawing him further into the gory world atop the cot.

He retreated back into the horror of his own, functional body, which looked little different from most perspectives. Muscles strained, tendons drew taut; it accomplished little more than shifting his position on the cot.

“Help?” Michael grunted. “Not - moving well.”

Vernon gave a weak laugh. “It’s going around,” he said. “I’m not going to be much good, but if you wait a moment-”

Michael saw what Vernon meant before the other man finished speaking. The metal of the deck vibrated with more than the engine. He didn’t dare let his sight stray beyond the room for fear of how far it would go, but in a few endless moments Sobriquet burst through the door.

“You’re up,” she said, breathing hard. “Was wondering if we’d get you back. You’ve got to-”

“Heal Vera,” Michael grunted. “I know. Help me to her.”

Sobriquet’s brows knit together, as if she had been about to say something else entirely; Vernon gave a small wave of his hand. She sighed and shook her head, bending down to haul on Michael’s arm. “Come on, then,” she grunted, helping him upright.

Michael managed to be more than a dead weight, staggering over to Vera’s bedside with Sobriquet’s help. It was easier to keep his sight constrained to something more normal if he kept its origin near his useless eyes; Michael surveyed Vera’s injuries as he knelt unsteadily near her.

She was in a bad way, her face colorless and her breath coming in short bursts. Michael knew that the gunshots had done terrible damage to her chest, from his earlier glance through her, but struggled to put that into useful terms. This was beyond anything he had ever attempted to heal, even with a temporary fix. Still-

He forced his hand up to touch her skin; it was slick with sweat, her pulse weak against his fingers. The contact made the pull of her body irresistible. His sight dove into it, rushing once more through the dark and tangled ways. Michael flared his low souls, fighting hard for stability before he gingerly extended Stanza into her.

Her reaction was immediate; her back arched as she took a gasping breath, fingers clawing at the cot in pain. Michael knew why. Wherever his soul touched he could see the flesh writhing, growing, sealing, but not in a way that seemed right to him. Blood stilled where it ought not, and flowed where it should be still. His mind flashed to Clair, clutching at her throat as her flesh surged over the open wound there, cutting off her air.

Michael let out a frustrated growl. “I can’t - make it work,” he spat. “There’s too much. Too many things to look at. I’m just hurting her.” A pang of guilt flashed through him as Vera gasped again, her eyes fluttering half-open.

“You can’t use your soul at all?” Sobriquet asked, her eyes narrowing. “Or can’t use it with Vera specifically?”

“Can’t do anything,” Michael said, his voice wavering with frustrated effort. “Can’t move, can’t help her, can’t keep my - damn mind in the same place. She needs a real anatomens.”

Sobriquet gestured to the room’s solitary porthole. “We don’t have one,” she said. “We’re at sea, and there’s no friendly port until the continent; we’re not even out of the bay yet. It’s you or nobody.”

Frowning, Michael raised his hand towards Vera again, grabbing at her wrist - only for her hand to twist and grab his, her grip surprisingly strong for a wounded woman.

“It’s fine,” she panted, her voice wheezing and barely audible. “Fine. I lived with Isolde long enough to know when an - anatomens is no good.” She gave a pained, shuddering laugh. “She couldn’t have fixed me. I’m done.” She patted his hand. “Not your fault.”

Michael slumped against the cot’s rail disconsolately, holding on to Vera’s hand. “Feels that way,” he mumbled. “All these souls - I should be able to save one person.”

Vera gave another laugh, barely a strong breath; the strength was fading from her grip. “Saved me months ago,” she said. “Only wish there was time for Sofia, too.”

“There was,” Michael said. “Sofia didn’t force a confrontation. Was expecting one, but she came in quietly. I know it would have gone differently if you hadn’t changed her view.”

“Ahhh - couldn’t ever change her view,” Vera mumbled; her head lolled to the side, but there was a delighted smile on her face. “You know that. Views everything. She always looks. Just had to help her - see. See what I saw.”

Vera’s eyes slid open halfway, the milky white glinting in the dark of the cabin. Her smile grew; her mouth opened partway as if to speak again. Only a rattling breath came out.

Her hand dropped away from Michael’s, but his sight stayed on her - on a brightness gathering within her, coalescing into a lambent star that shone within her chest - then, an instant later, within Michael’s own. It was painless, immediate.

Michael dropped to his knees next to her cot, feeling the fresh warmth in his chest. He felt like screaming, crying, punching the wall, but forcing his body into action was an insurmountable effort. He stayed still, and after a moment he turned away. Sobriquet guided him back towards where Vernon sat against the wall.

“Can you try with-” she began, but Vernon raised his hand.

“I’ll keep,” Vernon said. “No sense in rushing things.”

Sobriquet gave him a furious look. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I think it’s only prudent to wait a bit, considering the risks.” Vernon gave a wan smile. “Don’t worry about me. We’ll talk through it, and try when the time is right.”

She stared at him for a long moment before shaking her head and helping Michael to sit back down next to Vernon. The auditor’s hand grasped his, as before, and Sobriquet kissed Michael on his brow, then Vernon.

“I’ll be back once we’re past the mouth of the bay,” she warned. “For both of you.”

Vernon maintained his smile as she walked out, then turned it on Michael. “You’re having trouble,” he said.

The observation wrung a laugh from Michael, a strangled noise devoid of merriment. “I’d say so. I feel like a child, an invalid.”

“We all have that feeling,” Vernon said. “For most of my adult life I’ve been ensouled, but where most ensouled gain great power, I gained a great intolerance for loud noises. Following in your footsteps has been a humbling experience; now that it’s your turn to follow in mine, my ego may recover somewhat.” He chuckled. “Have you managed to find what I was talking about? The intent?”

“I think,” Michael muttered. “There’s a different feel to some moments - to here, and now. I’m not sure if it’s the same thing. Even now, it’s hard to keep myself focused on this conversation.”

“You’re doing remarkably better than you were just a bit ago,” Vernon pointed out. “Evidenced by the fact that it is a conversation, and not me babbling to you while you lie senseless. A marked improvement.”

“I’m not sure how I’m going to face Luc like this.” Michael shook his head, stopping at once as the effort threatened to overwhelm the fragile balance he had made. “Maybe in a week or two, but - Vernon, we don’t have the time. I have days.”

Vernon patted his hand. “You’ve come this far in hours,” he said. His next words were lost to a fit of coughing; Vernon grimaced and clutched at his side again.

Michael frowned and tried to shape his sight around Vernon; it came easier this time, a human perspective constraining the torrent of impressions to something more useful. What he saw was a bloody hole in the man’s gut, straight through his right side.

“Ghar’s bones, Vernon,” Michael said, half rising from the floor only to stagger sideways. “You’re hurt, you should have said something-”

“Was waiting for the right time.” Vernon shrugged weakly. “I don’t think that’s now. You need help first, or you’re of no help to me.” He tugged on Michael’s hand, guiding him back to a seated position. “Tell me what you’re hearing, what you’re seeing.”

Michael sighed, trying to quell his sudden anxiety about his friend; the wound occupied his mind, drawing his focus towards blood and less-healthful things seeping into Vernon’s gut-

“Michael,” Vernon said gently, squeezing his hand. “Talk to me.”

“I see everything,” Michael retorted. “Everything. And I don’t just see it, I know it, but my mind is too small to hold all the - the pieces and when I focus on one it expands to fill all of my attention. There’s more detail in a damn pebble than I can wrap my mind around. Jeorg told me it was near-impossible to know everything about an apple; I know what he meant now. It’s too much.”

His words ran dry, and he gave a frustrated shake of his head. “I can’t do this, Vernon.”

“Do you know,” Vernon mused, leaning back against the wall. His voice was very quiet. “When my ears were damaged, and my soul became - unmoored, let’s say - I had trouble following conversations. People. They don’t make much of an impression next to the vastness of the world.” He laughed, barely a gasp of air, then closed his eyes. “But that’s a - a simplistic view. People are - are.” He coughed, weaker this time. “Are everything. Remember that.”

His eyes closed, and he let his breath out slowly; Michael clutched at his hand. “Vernon?” he asked. “We need to finish talking. Stay with me, at least until Sera gets back.”

For a horrible moment Michael felt a twinge in his chest; his focus on Vernon’s body became absolute-

And then Vernon’s eyes were open, his smile bright once more, golden in the dark cabin. “I’m here,” he said. “I haven’t given up on you just yet.”

“Ghar’s blood, don’t scare me like that,” Michael grumbled.

Vernon waved his hand airily. “You’re stuck with me,” he promised. “Until you get yourself back in order, and that means learning to filter out what’s important, and what’s not.”

“I get what you’re saying,” Michael groaned. “But Sibyl’s soul may not be something I can master so quickly. There’s too much, and too many ways to get lost.”

“Not if you listen for the marks other people make upon the world,” Vernon countered. “There is a difference when a person acts, rather than some natural process. A different quality to the sound. Likely not the same for you as for me, but I’m willing to wager that it’s there if you went looking. A brightness, a depth.”

“I’ve felt some glimmers of it,” Michael muttered, gingerly extending his soul outward. The world was infinite around him, and he teetered on the edge of losing himself. There was a dark sea below, and bright sky above; in the middle lay a ship.

He focused on Sobriquet, when he found her. Her eyes were red, distracted; she had been crying. It was easier for him to keep a human perspective with her, since her face was one that filled his days. He drank in the moment of normalcy in his sight, relishing even her disheveled, exhausted appearance, even the resonant grief that poured out from her-

Michael stiffened, and drew more deeply upon Spark. The grief gained color, texture; it was joined in harmony by other notes from Zabala, even from Amira. Anger, mostly, but not even anger was the same between people. Each was a unique feeling, a reverberation of the world passing through a person and back out again to Michael’s senses. As he marveled at the realization, that resonance became stronger, more coherent, as if he was hearing clearly for the first time.

“That’s it,” Michael breathed. “What I felt from the present. I can see forward, outward, but there’s not - people. It’s only my sight and not theirs, and they - focus, and change, and the world changes in response to them.” He shook his head, feeling his words running away from him. “Or something like that. That’s what it is, Vernon, it’s their presence in the world, their definition of it. It’s part of what Spark feels from them.”

Vernon gave him a happy smile. “That sounds revelatory and entirely comprehensible, and I agree completely with whatever you just said,” the auditor laughed. “Honestly, I never thought about it to that degree. The world does change around people, and it doesn’t take souls to see it. We all know that a little bit, instinctively.”

“From thought experiments and dusty philosophers,” Michael replied, still engrossed in his newfound understanding. The world slid easily into perspective, now that he was able to use the impressions of the others as a sort of lighthouse amid the chaos. They gave scale and focus to everything around them, solidifying it, rendering it coherent-

Michael drew in a slow breath, and let it out. “I might actually be able to do this,” he laughed. “Thank you. I was despairing for a bit there.”

“Happens to the best of us,” Vernon said, stretching his arms above his head. He held it for a long moment, then closed his eyes happily. “I have every confidence in you, Michael. Always have. You get used to ignoring the little flaws you learn about people, when you can hear everything - and that’s advice, by the way, ignore the little flaws. Nobody likes being spied on.” He smirked. “Never had to ignore much with you.”

“Much?” Michael asked. He was smiling, but it was becoming hard to focus again; even with his new trick of using Spark to orient himself, he felt his awareness sliding sideways, away from his conversation with Vernon. Sobriquet’s grief stood out with an odd prominence, swelling in his perception.

“You snored a bit, but then you solved that by never sleeping.” Vernon chuckled, cracking an eye to look at Michael. “You seem calmer. Feeling more centered?”

Michael nodded. “I am,” he said. “For the moment. I should get to fixing you up before it passes.”

“No need, I’m not going anywhere,” Vernon said, waving his hand dismissively. The grief pulsed stronger, pulling at Michael’s focus. “It’s like I said. You’re stuck with me.”

He smiled broadly, crinkling his eyes at the corners; Michael felt another dizzying wave of grief rush over him - then his own horror as it pulled him into the here and now, returning his focus to the cold confines of the ship’s cabin. Sobriquet was there, crumpled over Vernon’s body; the auditor stared glassily upward at the ceiling with a faint smile.

Michael’s focus slipped again, this time threatening to send him wider, farther, out into the black depths of the ocean below - but he held on to the warmth in his chest, brighter than before, and followed Sobriquet’s pain home, to its source.

He slid his hand from Vernon’s and put his arms around her. She sobbed and returned the embrace, burying her face in his shoulder. They stayed that way for a long while, crouched together in the darkness, until she eventually pulled away to wipe furiously at her eyes.

“You bastard,” she murmured, glaring at Vernon through her tears. “I knew you were lying. I knew.” Her scowl crumpled back into anguish, and she pressed her face into Michael’s chest. “He was the only one left. Clair, Gerard, Charles, Vernon, I don’t have - I was trying to make Daressa for them! For them! And it’s all falling apart now.”

Her fingers curled into the cloth of his shirt. “Tell me you’re not going too.”

Michael kissed the crown of her head, feeling the touch of her hair against his lips, the damp of her tears on his shirt. Her grief and pain, pulsing bright against the vast sweep of reality. He breathed in the air of the room, slowly.

“No,” Michael said. “I’m here.”