Daria ran to their mother, her knees sliding on the polished floorboards. She reached her first, her hands already checking for a pulse. Jemsie was right behind her, a soft, ethereal glow radiating from her fingertips. She placed her hands over Jerter's chest, her light magic attempting to mend a wound it couldn't find, a sickness it couldn't see.
Leasie, her young face streaked with tears, grabbed Doren's hand. She buried her face in his arm, her small body trembling with fear. Doren put a hand on her head, his eyes fixed on his sisters' frantic attempts. The sight was a chilling replay of his nightmare. Their magic, their power, was useless against this.
"Doren, get a wet rag! Run to the well! Go!" Jemsie cried out, her voice a desperate plea.
Doren felt a surge of adrenaline, his mind finally snapping out of its horror. He was a rock. He was a shield. He was the one who could find the answers that his sisters couldn't.
Doren's mind, a whirlwind of fear and panic, snapped back to reality. He let go of Leasie's hand and grabbed a clean rag from a hook by the hearth. He didn't waste a second, bursting out of the cottage and racing toward the well. The cold night air hit his face, a shock that cleared his mind and focused his thoughts.
His mind went to Jemsie, her light element a beacon of hope. Her power was a part of the greater whole that was within him. He had to trust it. He had to trust that he could find the answers that his sisters couldn't.
He reached the well, its cold stone a familiar presence against his hands. He took the bucket, lowered it, and then hoisted it up. He dipped the rag in the cold water, his mind racing, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to be quick.
Doren burst back into the cottage, the wet rag clutched in his hand. He found his sisters already in motion, their fear now channeled into action. Daria, her face a mask of determination, was carefully lifting their mother's upper body. Jemsie, a soft glow of light on her hands, was at their mother's feet, helping to move her. Their silent teamwork was a testament to their strength, a strength Doren had underestimated for so long.
He watched them carry Jerter into her room, their movements gentle and precise. Doren, however, felt a surge of panic. He had to do more than just get a wet rag. He had to try to use his power.
He quickly grabbed his mother's camping stone from its hook by the hearth. It was the same as the Focal Stone, a polished gray stone. He ran into his mother's room, the wet rag in one hand and the camping stone in the other. He saw his sisters trying to make her comfortable.
Doren knelt beside the bed, placing the wet rag on Jerter's forehead. He then took her hand and placed the camping stone in her palm. Her fingers, cold and limp, didn't move. He took a deep breath he placed his own hand over his mother's, the Focal Stone still clutched in his palm, and closed his eyes. He wasn't going to just watch his mother die. He was going to use the power that had been given to him to save her.
He tried to reach for the light, for Jemsie's element, for the hope and clarity he had seen in her. But the power was a slippery thing, a phantom he couldn't grasp. The light flared and died in his mind, the chaos of his emotions a thick fog he couldn't see through. He was a vessel for all elements, but he was a master of none. The fear of his own potential became a paralysis, and he failed.
He opened his eyes, the bitter taste of his failure a sharp sting on his tongue. He looked at Jemsie, her face a mask of worry, and saw in her what he lacked—a clear purpose, a singular strength. He took his hand off his mother's and placed the Focal Stone in Jemsie's palm.
"Grab the stone I put in mother's hand," he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. He felt weak, a helpless observer in a moment that demanded a hero. "Use your light powers to try… something."
Jemsie, without a moment's hesitation, did as he asked. She took her mother's hand and held the camping stone, a soft glow of light magic emanating from her fingertips. She closed her eyes, and the glow intensified, a gentle, soothing warmth that enveloped their mother. For a long, silent moment, nothing happened. Then, their mother's eyes fluttered open, her breathing heavy but steady.
She was awake. She was alive.
Doren felt a wave of relief wash over him, followed by a profound sense of shame. He had the power of a god, but it was his sister who had saved their mother. He had tried to be a hero, but in the end, he had just been a boy with a secret, a boy who had to rely on his sister's strength.
Jerter's eyes, still hazy and weak, fluttered open. She looked at Jemsie, then at Doren, her gaze lingering on the Focal Stone in his hand. Her lips, dry and cracked, parted, and a single, whispered name escaped her.
"Oh, Sophron..." she murmured, her voice a fragile ghost. "I know you're still out there..."
The words hung in the air, a final confirmation of her quiet strength and her unwavering hope. She had carried the burden of his absence for a decade, and now, even in her moments of greatest weakness, her first thoughts were of him. Her sickness was a physical manifestation of a spiritual wound, a wound only his return could heal.
Jemsie, still holding her mother's hand, smiled, her light magic a warm, comforting presence. Daria, her face a mask of relief, let out a deep, shuddering breath. Leasie, her tears now dried, simply watched, her presence a peaceful stillness in the room.
Doren, however, felt a new kind of weight settle on his shoulders. His mother had been clinging to life, waiting for a man who might never return. He had the power to be a god, but his mother's heart was a wound his power couldn't touch. His father's return was the only thing that could heal her.
After Doren and Jemsie ensured their mother was resting comfortably, her breathing even and her color slowly returning, they quietly left the room. Daria and Leasie were waiting outside the door, their faces still etched with the fear of the last few minutes. Jemsie, her own light power depleting her, looked exhausted but relieved.
Doren looked at his sisters, his gaze filled with a new kind of purpose. He clutched the Focal Stone in his hand, its presence a stark reminder of his father and the secret he had carried for so long.
"What if Father is still out there?" he asked, his voice low and filled with a quiet certainty. The question was not a plea for an answer but a statement of his intent.
The girls looked at him, their expressions a mix of confusion and wonder. They had never heard Doren speak with such conviction, such fierce purpose.