Everything hurt. 'Lendel stared at the ceiling, his fingers curled against the blankets. Even his fingers hurt. There wasn't a joint in his body that didn't ache, the very physical effect of magical backlash. He could handle that, but --

You are not my chosen.

There was hole in his mind. A ragged, empty gap where Stav should be, and he couldn't help tonguing it. Like a missing tooth. He couldn't just leave it alone. It dug into him, constant and nagging. He couldn't close his eyes and pretend. Stav was gone.

And on the other side -- a wall. He'd tried to reach for Gala, and his mind calls echoed back. He remembered watching, as the wyrsa tore into her. He knew she hadn't died. She might as well have. She'd gone from him, just like Stav. Gala was gone, Stav was gone --

He was alone.

He let his head fall to the side, closing his eyes and pushing back the sting of tears. Why hadn't they just let him die with them?

[He hadn't thought that he would still have to dream.

The grove keeps flickering between the way it was before and the way he made it after, and he realizes that if he concentrates he can force it into one form or the other. It seems he can affect almost everything here, but he can't summon people. Gods know he's tried. If he could speak to Gala, or Savil, or Van -- Gods, Van -- even for a few minutes...

Frustrated, he pulls back and puts his fist through one of the semi-solid trees. It crumbles.]