"That is not my Magus, I..." But she didn't sound as sure anymore, her eyes had that wide, glazed look as the memories that had returned tried to fit back in with the ones she had. "I did not... no... we were..." her words stumbled over a tongue that seemed to lose the language and certainty she had a moment ago.

"Why would you betray me so then?" The question was more filled with pain than anger.

For the first time.

"Because it needed to be done. Just like this do." Maalech was calm and collected once more as he tore up a bundle of four carefully chosen cards, as much as he could manage at once. The mixed memories should keep her from lashing out long enough for the rest to be torn..

"Ah!" The cry was one of fear/pain, and she buckled to her knees, arms cradling her head.

The four cards lay there, torn in half.

The eight and nine of swords, the devil and the tower.

The keening sound that came from her throat was neither howl nor cry.

Just misery given form and sound.

Morgan knew that sound.

It haunted his dreams and echoed in his ears.

And then he took hold of the woman's shoulder and began working, grabbing hold of that feeling of powerlessness and misery and wrapping it around those raw bits of Will in her. Wards and patterns dancing into the woman's power.

Oh, Morgan. When she gets you for this, you'll so have it coming.

Maalech was confident that Morgan knew the pattern. After all he had done the finishing touches to his own act of sacrifice, he should be able to manage this. And yet... he detested it. Somehow it should have been his hands, if nothing else because it would just have been another crime she could blame him for.

This was his burden. But he supposed that by now Morgan had insinuated himself enough already to bear some of it. They both had the scars to prove it.

And part of him was grateful that he did not have to do this. It would be more merciful in the short run to kill her. However, that would not help.

So he ignored the sounds she made and tore the rest of the deck, a few cards at the time, scarcely looking at what they depicted.

Will. Memory. Grief.

She had been on the verge of lashing out, reaching out, touching and tearing and bringing things down because around her should be ruins. The smell of dead and burnt flesh.

The loss of everything. She was dying, wasn't she? Fracturing into bits of red and black, molten black glass and red flowing lava.

And ashes. Ashes everywhere.

With every card torn she flinched as if she had been punched, breath ragged, a limp ragdoll somehow upright in Morgan's hands.

Eyes seeing ashes and dust.

Morgan held Alynealin close.

He didn't want to feel her fall, limp thing that she was. It had to be Hell. Her whole miserable life jammed into one moment while some bald old bastard tied down her ability to react.

Morgan scowled at himself, sentimental bastard that he was, and continued binding the basics down, finding those same chakras that Maalech had bound on himself and began carving the patterns out.

"For her the main physical sigils needs to be on her feet, and the secondary on her hands." Maalech's voice was steady now, resorting to the clinical detachment that served him well.

For him it had been neck and hands, but her Art drew from a different source.

He hesitated over one of the cards, then tore it in two, watching his wife impassionately.

Morgan would have to cut into her flesh as well, he hoped the man had a strong enough stomach for that.

"N... no..." The word was a whimper, a plea, a command a prayer.

On some level she felt what was happening, but could not make herself oppose it. It was now, it as in the past, it was death, rape, change, misery, suffering... she was here and everywhere.

And nowhere.

She bared her teeth and snarled, one hand reaching out to...

Morgan's stomach turned when she spoke.

And for a moment, he faltered before turning his attention down to her feet, dropping down to one knee, a small blade in hand.