Page 112 of Malady

Still, when I finally move towards the bed, Iscairn comes with me, keeping his hand against my back as I lean over the frail figure. The man's mouth hangs open, his chest barely lifting beneath the blanket, and I search his face for any sign that he knows we're here.

There's nothing.

“What do I do?” I whisper, glancing back at the old man. “Do I just…” I hesitate, then make a rather helpless little gesture towards my mouth. “Suck?”

He moves around to the other side of the bed and takes the old man's hand, resting it between his own. “First, you must make him comfortable. His mind may no longer be aware of you, but that does not mean he should spend his final moments alone. Speak to him.”

I look down at the weaver, whose face has grown so thin that there's hardly any flesh left around his cheekbones. Cold sweat clings to his forehead, and his jaw moves faintly with each rattling breath.

I've done this part before. More times than I care to remember.

My hand settles against his forehead, smoothing a few damp strands of grey hair away from his eyes, and the familiar words come easily enough.

“It's all right,” I murmur. “You've done enough now. There's nothing more you need to worry about.”

His chest rises beneath the blanket, followed by a long, wet breath that seems to take an age to leave him. I keep my hand against his brow until the next one comes, quieter than the last.

“There,” Iscairn says softly. “Now I want you to look at him properly. Allow the membranes to cover your eyes.”

I glance up. “You mean the black ones?”

“Yes. Do not force them. You need only allow them to move.”

I've no idea how I'm supposed to allow something to happen when I don't even know which part of me is responsible for doing it, but I close my eyes briefly, trying to pull them down, and when I open them again, something thin and slippery moves across my vision.

Oh, that's horrible.

There's a faint pulling sensation near the corners of my eyes as the membranes slide into place, and I blink several times before realising that I can still see. Rather better than before, actually.

The room is no longer quite so dark, and the old man's face has taken on a strange clarity, every little crease around his mouth visible beneath the grey light filtering through the shutters. But it's his chest that catches my attention.

Something is coming away from it.

Hundreds of impossibly fine blue threads rise from beneath his shift, drifting slowly upwards as though somebody has taken a handful of silk and begun pulling it apart. They're brightest near his breastbone, where they gather and twist together, but farther up they grow thin enough to disappear into the gloom.

I lean closer, following one little strand as it lifts away from the others.

“Good Lord,” I whisper. “I can see it. It's coming out of him.”

“Yes. His soul is beginning to depart.” His voice remains quiet as he leans towards me across the bed. “You must not pull at it, Ophelia. Let it come freely. Bring your mouth close enough to catch the first thread, then draw it towards you with a gentle breath. The rest will follow.”

I swallow, keeping one hand against the weaver's forehead as another fine strand unwinds from his chest.

He’s still breathing, but the pauses between each breath are growing longer, and it takes a considerable effort to remember that I'm not here to examine his lungs or fetch him something for the pain. There's nothing left for me to mend.

And beneath my ribs, that dreadful hunger is getting worse.

I bend towards him, stopping when my face is only an inch or two above his. The blue threads drift between us, brushing against my lips with a warmth that makes my whole body ache to draw them closer.

“Just breathe?” I whisper.

“Just breathe,” Iscairn replies. “Gently, Ophelia. Let him go in peace.”

I part my lips and draw a careful breath.

The first few threads lift towards me, brushing against my tongue with a sweetness so lovely that my eyes nearly close of their own accord. Then the rest begin to follow, gathering into a stream of brilliant blue that slips between my lips and down my throat, warm and smooth as honey.

Oh, Christ.