The stirrings of awareness were muddled warmly as if drowned in a wine of no after affects. Dots of light creaked between the struggle of heavy lids and lashes trying to part. Her eyes did not wish to participate in her thoughts. For the longest time, all she could do was look at a spot of light as golden as a tiny sun through what seemed like old, lead glass: wavy and blurred. She took a deep breath of cool air that smelled like...nothing. No trees or grass or dirt or scent or perfume or...it was an odd thing to note, what nothing smelled like. It seemed—flat. The air was flat and her eyes finally focused on the dancing, soft point of light. A single candle.

Her limbs felt heavy with sleep even as her mind awoke, processing the place where she was. It seemed nothing more than a simple stone room with rough cut square bricks that fit together in perfection. There was a table of wood, with a single wax candle that bobbed and burnt ruddy color across the stones.

She was a-bed, tucked deeply in what she thought might be swan feathers and covered in plain grey, but thick, puffy and warm covers.

Finally, she was able to rouse a twitch or two in her fingers. Soon to follow, her arm. She thought she should, perhaps, be alarmed to find herself in a room with a stone, a candle and a-bed with no memory as to how she got there.

She found she felt...calm. Rested. Nearly floating and bobbing along akin to the candle! She tried to push her elbows into the mattress and beneath her a bit to sit up more. That is when a voice from her right startled her.

"Ah, you're back," it said. Distinctly male with a richness to it she couldn't place. She turned wide eyes to seek out the source of it and saw a man in dark robes seated with an air of patience in a chair by her side. She had absolutely no idea why she hadn't seen him before the table, the candle and the bed.

This should bother her. She meant to ask about it, but instead she said, "Yes. I s'ppose I am at that."

There was no indication that the man in the robes was looking at her. She couldn't see into his hood. He reminded her of a monk...some sort of priest. Perhaps that is why she felt so calm and safe" The air of someone amused was sensed. Perhaps it was the line of his shoulders or the way he lifted his hands in an obscure gesture she couldn't identify.

The amusement faded to something else. Something that pulled the shoulders beneath the dark robes taut and proper.

"Do you know who I am?" The words were spoken with weight. A solemnity she didn't understand.

She took a few seconds to squint very hard at him. At his hands. His robes. The hood. Down at where she guessed his feet were covered and back up again. She could feel her forehead grow tight as her brows collected themselves over her nose in a wrinkle of concentration as she tried her best to recall if she did or not. After the silence stretched what seemed days, broken only by the hiss and splutter of candle, she shook her head and eased back into the pillow.

"No, I'm sorry. I don't think I do. Are you someone I should know?"

He seemed very still. Not that he moved around a lot in the few moments that passed between them, but even more so than a stone slab as he considered her question.

"No." Simply. "No, I am not. And that is good." "Is it?" She even heard the way her voice arose several notes in confusion. "Yes," replied. He didn't elaborate at all. So she decided to think about it for a while.

"You said I was back. Where was I, before being here?" "Dead," the word he spoke held a particular gravity fitting to such an announcement. "Oh."

The sputter of the candle came and went several times as she couldn't find anything else to say about it. Until: "But I'm better now, am I" I mean, I don't feel very dead anymore. Was I very sick?"

The way he held himself after she asked that question translated a myriad of subtle emotion that she simply didn't understand. It could have been laughter, anger, sadness or more.

"You...are better now. It is better now," he started, holding his hand up to stop her from speaking further. "Know this. When you leave here, you will not remember again. You will not remember me, this room, or this conversation. It will never come back. You will never be what you were before; that was my mistake and my burden.

"I am fixing that which I have done wrong. Understand, there is only so much I can do. There is no daylight without the dark, no life without death, no summer without winter. Everything is a cycle that even I, cannot break. You are part of that cycle—that pattern—as much as I am and all of us are. But I can do this one thing: I can make you a smaller string of that pattern. I can make you part of it, not the one who wove it. I can give you all that you deserved, and more—back to you. " He lowered his hand.

Neither of them said anything more for a very long time. Her eyes—her blue eyes—settled on him as heavy as bricks in chains and stayed there with nary a blink or a turn away. They studied him and tried to look through him, pull him apart perhaps.

After a time, the candle had burned half-way into itself, she sighed. "I s'ppose that's also good, then."

She did not see it, but she heard the smile in his voice. "It is." He leaned forward and caressed her white hair.

"Sleep, daughter. Sleep now, and awake in peace. Know that you were loved above all others."

She closed her eyes and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The healer old Thom brought was a stout woman with mousy brown eyes and curly hair clipped back into a bun at the back of her head. Marrium had been working along the docks as long as Thom could remember. She shut the door to Mora's little room, and considered Thom in a look he'd seen a million times.

"M'fine," he snorted. "Tell me about her," jerking his chin toward the room.

Marrium washed her hands thoroughly, wiping them on a clean cloth and began packing her things.

"As far as I know, there's nothing wrong with her." "But—" "Not a bump, scrape, sore spot. Her eyes are fine; responds well to light and can follow my finger....her balance fine. She doesn't seem the least bit foggy despite not being able to remember anything. Doesn't seem the least bit slow, she knows her name and what day it is. Doesn't feel the least bit sick or dizzy. If you want my professional opinion, old man, she's fine. "

"But she don't remember nothing?"

Marrium sighed. "You could take her to one of the clinics..." She offered. "The ones in the city."

Thom turned his head and spat. "I'd sooner wear a dress and dance with the dockmaster than do that."

The healer's mouth turned a flat, disapproving line, but spread her hands in a gesture of placating. She knew this argument well and knew better than to press it.

"What should I do?" He muttered. "Surround her with her things. Live life as it was. Give her as much as a normal life as you've been doing, Thom. I'll come by the next few weeks and check on her again, should you like."

"Aye," he said finally. "I would. Thank ye, lass. I dunno how I'll repay—"

She dipped her head then shook it. "You know better, Thom. You owe me nothing." She picked up her bag before he could be stubborn about it, then made her way to the door.

"Take care of yourself, Thom," she said softly, then left.

Ranna is the smallest of the Bells and is called the Sleepbringer.



Mosrael is the Waker. Its purpose is to call the dead back to Life, with the compromise of throwing the wielder into Death.



Kibeth is known as the Walker. It can give the Dead movement, or force them through the gates of Death; but can take control of the wielder.



Dyrim gives the Dead a voice, or removes that of the living.



Belgaer can give a Dead spirit its memories, and give independent thought, but can just as easily erase either.



Saraneth is the favorite of necromancers, in that it forces obedience from the Dead.



Astarael the Sorrowful, when rung properly, sends all its auditors into death- the ringer included.







Mora woke from a sleep that seemed to have been forever. Dust motes twirled in sunlight leaking from between slats of old Thom's ramshakle shack. The candle on the table; the table itself, was coated with a fine layer of dust. As she sat up, more dust arose in clouds from the blankets wrapped around her.

Something on the table caught her attention. Snowy head turned. A glint of sunlight on something white upon the table— Syrinx. An ivory panflute and a leather bandoleer carefully folded on an ominous looking book.

The book, the panpipes, and the bandoleer were untouched by the dust.