“My wife is gone,” Gerald lamented, attempting to hide his grief from the prying, ever-attentive eyes of the red witch. She felt the impulse rise within her to gently touch the necromancer, to lay a comforting hand on his own or his shoulder, but she knew that he would want nothing less and that it would afford him no consolation. She thus settled for a mellow gaze in the others’ eyes. This was one of the rare glimpses of emotion that Gerald would afford her, for he almost immediately – and abruptly – continued by recounting the things he’s learned about necromancy, how resurrection was possible, if not necessarily by humans, and how at the very least communicating with the dead was a very real option to the trained necromancer. But then he imparted one last detail that changed everything: it was the Withering that had taken his wife. It took a few instants to dawn upon her, but she had realized the implications that this death carried before Gerald explained them. It was her turn now to hold her composure and Gerald would find her eyes gently widening in horror as her breath remained trapped in her lungs for a few, eternal heartbeats. Her unflinching eyes were absorbed by his stony mien to the point where she did not notice Omni’s pulsating light.

He indulged her earlier request and spoke of his goals in life, admitting that not all of the things he wished to come true would be at all possible. Even so, his words reflected a stern determination that, while intended to do good, was borne out of anger and grief, to Jillian’s eyes. She wondered how long he would keep it up. Essentially, he wanted three things: make the world a better place. Return his wife, if such a thing were at all possible. And, lastly, to survive. His motivations were awfully altruistic for somebody who acted out of negative feelings, someone whose successes brought him no joy and only eased the suffering. How long could he keep doing this until even that would subside? This world they lived in was impossible to render perfect. Judging by its current state, it might even be impossible to make it “good”. He would never reach a point whereupon he could come to rest and behold a world of peace and prosperity. How long could a man chase the impossible until his will would falter? How long could the rage against injustice keep on burning inside that stone-encrusted heart of his?

Would he ever rediscover the taste of untarnished happiness?

[i]I’m sorry[/i] burned on her lips. She took the breath to speak the words, but didn’t. Again, she knew he would only hate her for saying it, because her pity likely meant nothing to him and he would be loath to indulge in an emotional moment any more than he already had. She respected it.

“Thank you, Gerald,” she finally produced, no longer resisting the temptation to move her hand from Omni onto his own feeble hand. “You’ve been very honest to me when you didn’t have to be and I’m glad you were. I’d rather we were open about ourselves.”

She rather hastily removed her hand from his again, realizing that she had virtually subconsciously put it there. Her voice remained unperturbed, hoping to gloss over this misstep. “It’s easier to trust and depend on someone when you know who they are, isn’t it, Remdal?”