Bearclaw Valley those lions are coming, oh they're coming.

time interminable seemed to pass. caiaphas slept. the shadow besides her never moved from her vigil.

she was awoken by touch — instinctively she made to recoil, yet her body was not hers to command. not anymore. her movements were shaky, her rheumy eyes unfocused — merrick at last came into view in twos. his figures merged in the manner of disturbed water, rippling together like a merged pool.

a groan pressed from her burning throat; she had so much to say, so much to do — and she knew she would never complete her life’s goals. she was dying — it seemed a reality she was unable to accept. how could she have reached the end of her mortal rope? she was caiaphas, the siren that mocked death — and here death had come, to collect his grim token.

it took most of her remaining strength to concentrate long enough to speak; the fever that ransacked her body stole much of her mind, too — soon, there would be nothing left in that brainbox save visceral soup. don’t— she tried to keep from the boy, a bitter laugh pressing her throat that ended closer to a needling wheeze. i have the loner’s fit.. caiaphas had heard of this disorder, once or twice in her life — and she knew the terrifying transformation in store for her. she knew to be near another was to risk them; somehow, that seemed important. she fixed her exhausted gaze on the boy, ignoring his counterpart for the time being.

i will die. her voice seemed implacably tired, and the dullness in her gaze communicated she had accepted this hostile truth. you— don’t let me close, when i go. and.. she sucked in a wheedling breath, as if the last of her strength hinged on what she would say next — and maybe it did.. caiaphas had always been driven by vengeance, even now, on the cusp of death. kill — her eyes danced, her head suddenly rocked to the stone as the muscles in her neck gave out. —them.