Rhidian swore softly. She grabbed him by the arm and hoisted it over her shoulder. It was unladylike to swear, but she had been hardened, and consequently had never set foot in a church for years up until this point. She dragged his limp and lifeless form down the center aisle and laid him at the foot of the steps leading to the altar. Collapsed to her knees. She sobbed. And prayed.

Prayed like a daughter in desperate need of redemption. Prayed like a prodigal child. And indeed, a prodigal she had been.

She was not one to allow herself to feel anything, much less allow herself to dwell or act upon strong emotions, but she was letting it all in now. It was like opening a floodgate.

She looked through her tears to the boy beside her, he was hardly breathing. She begged God to let him live. She had seen his soul—he was good, but it was mired. He would be damned if he departed now, and she did not wish to be the one to carry him. But she knew she would be. It was her job, and if he was to perish and be sent to hell she knew she'd have to accept it as penance for turning her back on the God she served, and she would have to live with the boy's blood forever on her hands. It was her fault he was even like this.

Her fault.

She swore again, softly. Choking on the irreverence, then scowling. If anyplace should be appropriate for baring herself and her shame, her emotions, what better place than here?

As quickly as they'd erupted, her feelings began to dissipate and she looked at the boy again.

Death, dying? Something about that didn't sound right. She could feel his soul suffering and it was all she could do to try keeping it in his body, using her shadow to keep him safe.

But her shadow was cold and cruel, not designed for comfort, and truthfully she'd never been the best at comforting. She withdrew her shadow and remained there with the limp figure, begging God to keep the boy together because she could not.