15.0

Zyrdicia coughed, gasping for breath. Unconscious, she mumbled something that sounded very much like "I win."

Everyone in the room had believed she was dead for a brief, scary moment. Her pulse had stopped while she was listening to Dirk whisper to her. What he had said, no one knew. At that instant, they all had understood that she had expired in his arms. He had set her back down on the couch, his face an inscrutable mask devoid of emotion. He had simply stared at her a long moment, then he had stood up to leave, saying nothing and meeting no one's gaze. The room had been heavy with a silence of disbelief.

As Dirk had turned to leave, Zyrdicia's cough caught him by surprise. Her raspy breathing returned. Lost in a fog of opium, injury and exhaustion, she had not subsequently regained consciousness.

15.0.1

Dirk stirred in his chair, awakening. He had fallen asleep, sitting in front of the fire again. It was becoming an unfortunate habit. He frowned as he remembered the unpleasant dream. He had dreamt Zyrdicia was dead, and seen himself lighting her funeral pyre.

He rubbed his eyes, blinking. He was stunned to find tears clinging to his lashes. Of all the irritating, involuntary effects she had on his body in his dreams, this one was by far the most offensive. It was utterly repugnant. He cursed Astaroth, certain the damned demon was using magical trickery to invade his dreams. The prince had not even shed tears at his own mother's death; he certainly would not shed them at Zyrdicia's.

Nevertheless, the dream disturbed him. The dream was much too near reality for his comfort. He knew she had died earlier tonight. He had felt it, felt the last breath leave her just as in the dream. But unlike the dream, she had started breathing again an instant later. Then she had then shivered and groaned, leaving no doubt that she was very much alive.

It had been a vicious exercise in the teasing game at which she excelled. He would not have been any more surprised if she had sat up and laughed as though it were all just a bizarre jest.

15.1

Portia and Philip sat with Zyrdicia all night. After the prince left, several guards had been posted outside the door to the quarters; there were no further visitors.

Each time Portia checked on her during the night, the change in condition was stunning. Bones moved of their own accord, righting themselves and fusing back together. Bruises and cuts already had begun to fade. As she slept, her breathing became less ragged while her lungs healed. She always healed quickly, but the speed of it this time amazed her companions. Philip documented each change in a small notebook, every quarter hour. He noted the process seemed to gather momentum, speeding up as it progressed. The first changes had been gradual. Now they were dramatic.

"Her metabolism is changing with the Sephiroth energy," the old elf commented gravely. "It's exceptional."

Near dawn, Zyrdicia stirred and wriggled uncomfortably in her nest of blankets, moving for the first time in hours. She freed herself from the covers. In half-consciousness, she moved from the couch to the bed. She settled comfortably into a mass of pillows, returning to her near-comatose state. There were no more cries of pain. If she was in any discomfort, she gave no indication.

Philip followed her, leaning over the bed to pull up her eyelids gently. "The red glow is fading from her eyes. I think she's through the worst of it."

Still asleep, Zyrdicia reached up and batted his hand away with shocking strength, very nearly shattering the bone in is forearm. The force of her movement sent him sprawling across the room. She snarled, "Kiattar sokubu! Dakaemeh sim."

"What did she say?" Portia demanded.

Philip rubbed his head where it had hit the wall and frowned. "In Tenaebran it roughly means 'touch me again and I shall devour your soul.' Then she summoned the Dakaemeh."