Tohr assumed the proper position, curling his hands into fists and easing forward so that his knuckles were planted on the heavier white cover that had been
laid on the floor. For a split second, all he could think about was the mosaic depiction of the apple tree that was underneath him, that symbol of rebirth that he was beginning to associate only with death.
He had buried Autumn at the foot of one.
And now he was saying good-bye to Wellsie on top of one.
As Phury stopped beside to him, Tohr's breath began to come in punches of air, his ribs jerking tight and popping open.
When you were mated, and you got your shellan's name carved in your back, you were supposed to bear the pain in silence - to prove that you were worthy of both her love and the mating.
Breath. Breath. Breath. . .
Not so with the Fade ceremony.
Breath-breath-breath. . .
For the Fade ceremony, you were supposed to -
Breathbreathbreath -
"What is the name of your dead?" Phury demanded.
On cue, Tohr dragged in a giant pull of oxygen.
As the brand was laid to the skin where her name had been carved those many years ago, Tohr screamed her name, every ounce of pain in his heart and his mind and his soul coming out on a oner, the sound shattering through the foyer.
The scream was his final good-bye, his pledge to meet her on the flip side, his love made manifest one last time.
It went on forever.
And then he was sagging so badly, his forehead was on the floor, while all across the top of his shoulders, his skin burned as if it was on fire.
But this was just the beginning.
He tried to drag himself up, but his son had to help him, because he had lost all muscle tone: With John's help, he reassumed his position.
His breath took over once again, that rhythmic, shallow panting pumping him up, restoring his energy.
Phury's voice was rough to the point of hoarseness. "What is the name of your dead?"
Tohr grabbed another hectare of oxygen and got ready to do it again.
This time, the name he screamed was his own, the pain of losing his blood-born son cutting him so deep he felt as though the inside of his chest was bleeding.
He screamed longer the second time.
And then he flat-out collapsed on his arms, his body spent - even though it was still not over yet.
Thank God for John, he thought, as he felt himself get repositioned.
From up above, Phury said, "For to seal unto your skin e'ermore, and to bind our blood with yours, we shall now complete the ritual for your beloveds. "
No panting this time. He didn't have the energy.
The salt stung so badly he lost his vision and his body convulsed, his limbs jerking uncontrollably until he fell over on his side, even though John was trying to hold him upright.
Indeed, all he could do was lie there in front of all of these people, many of whom were crying openly, his pain their own. Tracing the faces, he wanted to comfort them in some way, spare them what he had gone through, ease their sorrow. . . .