She couldn’t escape. All of Sanria’s limbs had withered while in
stasis – her legs and arms were so thin they could scarce support her
weight, and even that was dangerously low. “Please… make it stop… Make
it stop!” In her mind, flashes of Visha’s ship combined with flashes of
her own ship and flicked back in time to flashes of her own ship. None
of it made any sense – only that this certainly had to mean danger.
Throm carried her into his ship amidst her protests. She tried
to chant herself into believing it would all be alright – but it was
barely working. Panic sat at the edges of her mind, toying with the
threads of her sanity. Amidst Throm’s questioning – his face became
mixed with so many from her past. She couldn’t keep any of it straight…
he was Throm, then Tarran, then Colin, then Visha, then Thasmudyan,
then Havok, then Sandorin…
“What is this dimension of which you speak?” Throm and his voice cut into her mind’s dissimulation.
“No. No. I won't tell you. I won't have anyone go there. I
won't. You'll die. If you don't have Colin... or Visha...” And it was
true, without a guide, Throm would be as good as lost.
They both argued until Sanria could take no more. There was no
further discussion as Throm led Sanria to the bathing hall and the
healer on the ship. Throm excused himself as Sanria dropped her robes
to the floor. She had no shame, no cares of how she might appear. In
the water she watched the turbulent bubbles as the healer looked her
over in absolute silence. In her mind, Sanria was here, then in the
Illuminati clan Jacuzzi, then home in her tub, then here again…
