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[gypsy_merrique]

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Though she didn't expect fortune to smile upon her, Merrique walked down to the Drow quarter to see if there was any word--even a sighting--of her son Shalcross. Along the way she encountered Bleys, who swore to help her find her son, though here too she expected no success. How many times had the elders and arcanists of the gypsy clans tell her that Shal cold no longer be felt, before she would believe?

There was no surprise as Ceinwyn told her it would be best to consider her son as dead. Was that pity in Ceinwyn's voice, as she told Merrique that it would be easier that way? Possibly. Or perhaps it was simply patronizing.

Merrique fled the city on foot, a stitch burning in her side as she crashed into the public gate to arrive in Minoc. There were few about this cold, cruel night. Her cries and calls to Maman Sabine went unanswered, until a brief encounter with a recently returned wanderer left her feeling more bereft and faulty. The man calling himself Adrian seemed to mean well, but truly he had no understanding of the chain of events and Merrique was not about to pour forth the story to someone who was a stranger to her. Even if he did have the gypsy eyes.

To her garden outside of Umbra she returned, standing at the fence line in hope of seeing any semblance of Shalcross. Exhaustion took over, and she spread the threadbare bedroll and thankfully passed into a dreamless sleep. What passed for morning in this part of Malas came, and found the woman tending her garden. It seemed any more that the plants were all that needed her now. At least, she thought, they bring needed income.

Startling her from her melancholy thoughts, the gate banged open. There stood Arahim, frowning at her as he looked her up and down. His words once would have sent her running for the nearest armoire and vanity, yet he may as well been talking about the weather for all their impact on Merrique.

"You're a mess, Aunt Merri," he said. Disgust in his voice.

On he went, admonishing her for her choices and current lifestyle. How could she make him understand? She knew she could not. Let him chastise her for her absence at gatherings and festivals. They seemed nothing to her now. Her nephew would not understand how very alone she felt.

It was his parting words that spurred her into action, as he left with the same loud crash of the gate with which he entered.

"I watched my mother kill herself off slowly. Wracked with grief and sick with worries and imagined fear and hopes."

Waiting until the hooves of his horse were nothing but a distant whisper, Merrique gathered several items into a bag and took herself to the baths. Emerging with scented skin, hair glowing and clean, her clothing tidy and more of her usual style, Merrique turned her face up to the late morning sun of Buccaneer's Den.

It was indeed time. Time for action. What those actions were she was not quite sure, but of one thing she was certain.

She was still alive and, Gods willing, had plenty of life left to live.
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. . . But the dark is very trustworthy.
It's always as dark as you thought it was.
And you don't have to work at staying there.
All you have to do is survive it.
And I've been doing that forever.
from the novel "Dark Debts" by Karen Hall