THE DWINDLING HOURS

WE BASKED IN THE SUN. SHE HAD RETURNED TO ME. HER VOICE: A SYMPHONY. HER LAUGHTER BOUNCED INSIDE MY HEART. MY SOUL AT PEACE. DAYS TURNED INTO WEEKS, AND EVERY SECOND SAVORED LIKE A DELICACY BEYOND COMPREHENSION. BUT THERE WAS THE COLD. IT FOLLOWED HER EVERYWHERE. AT NIGHT, UNDER WARM FURS AND BY A HOT FIRE, HER FLESH STILL WAS ICE. NO DOUBT, I HAD ASSURED MYSELF, SIMPLY PART AND PARCEL OF THE RESURRECTION MAGIC. I WOULD SURELY FIND CONFIRMATION OF THIS IN THE TOME FROM WHICH THE SPELL WAS CAST. BUT I COULDN’T. AND I COULDN’T IN ANY OTHER TOME. I SEARCHED THROUGH EVERY ARCANE TEXT, SPOKE TO EVERY GRAND MAGUS I COULD ENTREAT. NO ANSWERS WERE TO BE FOUND. AND THEN CAME THE VOICES. SUBTLE AT FIRST, EASILY MISTAKEN FOR AN ERRANT DRAFT IN STONE WALLS, OR THE CRACKLE OF BURNING WOOD. BUT LOUDER THEY GREW. MY QUEEN BEGAN TO RETREAT INTO LONG PERIODS OF SILENCE AS THEY WOULD COME, HER FACE CONTORTING INTO A MASK OF PAIN EVERY TIME.