It had been another fruitless night. Tolten awoke with heavy heart and dragging feet. Physically he felt better - sore and aching from wounds not yet healed, but far better than he had been for a stint - and emotionally he was on an even keel...

But it was so draining, to make no progress night after night. To feel so utterly useless and incapable, to wake every morning with nothing new, no fresh hope...

Ah well. He'd promised himself he would not fall into some dark fugue because of it. He was a king. He was the golden son of Uhra. He had survived worse than this, truly he had! Though at this point he suspected that perhaps he was only trying to convince himself.

Not wanting to deal with God this morning, he asked to be taken to the Sun Room instead. He couldn't face any god, and certainly not his own. He was dimly aware that he was likely letting his great ancient ancestor down. At least his mind had been clear.

But perhaps he'd had the thought too soon. His eyes scanned the sun room without really seeing at first, but...

No. He was having some mad fit, this place was making him see things. Tormenting him. Torturing him. He felt a cold hand squeezing his heart and he made a small noise of sorrow and fear mixed together. He stood, staring, eyes wide and face pale.

Locke was dead. He had seen him die....