It was not a shock that her mother had come to magically fix her. Like that door which had gone from shambles to saved, her darling mother wanted to wipe away everything, neaten it all up, make everything perfect.
"I. . . refuse," Payne said again through gritted teeth. "I do not consent. "
Wrath glanced over his shoulder at the Scribe Virgin, then looked back down. "Ah. . . listen, Payne, that's not logical. You can't feel your legs. . . your back's probably broken. Why won't you let Her help you?"
"I am not some inanimate. . . object She can manipulate at will. . . to please her whims and fancy--"
"Payne, be reasonable--"
"I am--"
"You're going to die--"
"Then my mother can watch me expire!" she hissed--and then promptly moaned. In the wake of her outburst, consciousness ebbed and flowed, her eyes blurring and then regaining focus, Wrath's shocked expression becoming that by which she measured whether she had fainted or not.
"Wait, she's. . . " The king braced his hand against the marble floor to steady his crouching position. "Your. . . mother?"
Payne cared not that he knew. She had never felt any pride associated with being the birthed daughter of the race's founder--had in fact sought at every turn to distance herself--but what did it matter now. If she refused "divine" intervention, she would go unto the Fade from here. What pain she did feel told her this.
Wrath twisted around to the Scribe Virgin. "This is the truth?"
No affirmative answer came back to him, but nor did a denial. And there was no chastisement that he had dared offend by his inquiry, either.
The king looked back at Payne. "Jesus. . . Christ. "
Payne dragged in a breath. "Leave us, dear King. Go forth unto your world and lead your people. You need no help from this side or Her. You are a fine male and a brilliant warrior. . . . "
"I'm not going to let you die," he spat.
"You have no choice, do you. "
"The fuck I don't. " Wrath shot to his feet and glared downward. "Let Her heal you! You're out of your goddamn mind! You can't die like this--"
"I most certainly. . . can. " Payne shut her eyes, a wave of exhaustion rolling through her.
"Do something!" Clearly the king was now yelling at the Scribe Virgin.
Too bad she felt like such hell, Payne thought. Otherwise, she most certainly would have enjoyed this final declaration of independence. Verily, it had come upon the wings of her death, but she had done it. Stood up to her mother. She had gotten her freedom through her refusal.
The Scribe Virgin's voice was barely louder than breath. "She has denied my help. She is blocking me. "
She certainly was. Her fury was directed at her mother to such an extent, it wasn't hard to believe that it functioned as a barrier to whatever magic the Scribe Virgin might seek to bear upon the "tragedy" that had occurred.
Which in fact felt more like a blessing.
"You're all-powerful!" The king's voice was a rough charge--the frantic nature of which was a tad confusing. But then, he was a male of worth who would no doubt place the blame upon himself. "Just fix her!"
There was a silence and then a weak reply: "I can no more reach her body. . . than I can her heart. "
Verily, if the Scribe Virgin was finally getting a sense of what it was to be without power. . . Payne could die in peace.
"Payne! Payne, wake up!"
Her lids lifted. Wrath was inches from her face.
"If I can save you, will you let me?"
She couldn't understand why she was so important to him. "Leave me--"