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Pain found its way even into his dreams. It was him in the jail cell, then, and the Bastard free on the outside. The Bastard did not smile, just bared his teeth wolfishly, before his face turned into a snake's and struck at him, right through the bars.
The dream didn't show him the mercy of ending then. He knew enough not to confuse it with reality; the power he now knew as the Skill had always gifted him that awareness. But perhaps without that knowledge, the shock of the attack would've woken him. Instead, he lay on the grimy, cold floor of the cell, dazed and blinded with agony. It seemed endless.
Yet something else entered the dream as well. The sound of an old Buck lullaby floated to him, sweetly reminding him to fear not the storm, nor the waves, for Eda had embraced their home. His body lost its tension, even in the dream's torment. Then, he heard footsteps and Regal's voice, cold and harsh, “That tool is broken. Discard him.”
“No!” Will gasped. He was desperate to look at Regal, to prove he was still worthy, was still useful, still alive. Even knowing it was a dream, the fear of Regal abandoning him cut through him even deeper than the pain and woke him.
Will opened his eye and winced, as always, as habit tried to open the other one as well. It was bandaged, but at least the pain had dulled. The singing stopped, then, and at once he recognised its source: Molly.
“Awake again? Then you should drink this,” she told him gently. He saw she'd been cleaning, even though his room was more spotless than it had ever been.
“More medicine from the healer?” Will asked doubtfully.
Molly smiled at him. “No, it's just water. And not from the ‘Keep's well, either.”
“How did you manage that?” Will asked, admiringly, as he carefully sipped at it. He was glad he was strong enough to do this by himself, at least, even if he was still largely bedbound. There had been a high demand for water and food that wasn't poisoned with tales of curses in the Castle ever since the omens’ appearance.
Molly shrugged, unusually bashful at the praise. “I just went there to get some.”
Will closed his eye again, embarrassingly exhausted already from the strain of keeping it focused. “You should be more careful.”
“It's not a long way. And you should focus on your own health, you know.”
Will snorted and immediately regretted it when it sent a fresh wave of pain through him. “Are you calling me selfless, Mistress Chandler? That would be a first.”
“No. I am calling you careless.” Her tender fingers taking the cup from his fingers and straightening the sheets around him softened the sharp edges of her words. “It's dangerous to focus so much on what you want that you forget what you need.”
“And what do I need?” Will matched her gentle tones with his own. He wouldn't have thought he was capable of it without lying, before.
But then, he'd followed her, to keep an eye on her, after his return from Bearns. Usually, he could talk right to people and their eyes would just slide over him, forgetting him before he'd even left their sight. He didn't even have to consciously use the Skill for it, unless he was dealing with a particularly sharp mind or a fellow Skill user. It came naturally. Nobody wanted to notice somebody who appeared as ordinary as could be; and so they didn't. But she had been different. When he'd handed her a wooden plate she'd dropped, she had met his eyes and smiled at him with actual sincerity. It had surprised him enough that he changed his plans and kept running into her enough times to strike up an unlikely friendship.
The Bastard didn't deserve her. Nor did he treat her as she deserved. It essentially rendered her irrelevant to both Will's King and Will's plans if she wasn't connected to the Bastard, but he had been privately, selfishly glad, when she had eventually confided that if there had ever been anything between them, it was over now. He was less glad when he'd heard of her plans to strike out on her own.
“Your own woman?” He'd asked, mockingly. “That sounds all well and good. But you're not some naive noble girl, Chandler. Are you turning into an El-struck fanatic on me, leaving into the woods or sea to live off only what you kill or make with your own hands?”
She'd glared at him then, which he'd expected; the glinting tears in her eyes he had not. “What do you expect of me then, oh high and mighty Skill wizard? I'm not like you, I don't have any special powers to elevate me, I don't even have any family left. You call me Chandler, but I don't even have a chandlery left to my name! I can't stay here, so what else is left for me to do?!”
Will didn't consider himself a particularly compassionate man. But something about this woman just kept piercing straight to his heart. He'd known she liked being reminded that she'd been a Chandler once and intended to become one again. It was why he used the name for her frequently. He'd also known she knew how to be self sufficient. Any rumors he'd heard of her relying on the Bastard to rise to a higher station couldn't have been further from the truth. But hearing it all from her mouth hurt more than he'd thought possible.
She was all alone in this world and still had the courage to keep trying; she knew her own precarious position all too well and yet had the strength to look into his eyes and truly see him.
So, of course he'd offered to bring her along to Farrow. She could decide for herself there if she would stay with him in Tradeford or go on to chart her own course in the Inlands. Until then, he'd find quarters near his own for her, a room where the Bastard would not find or reach her. Not that it even made a difference now that he was dead.
He didn't tell Regal about it. It was not treason, he’d told himself. It just wasn't important - what did this simple woman matter without the Bastard, in the grand scheme of things? Not at all. Regal would not care and he hated to be bothered with meaningless prattle.
Back in his painful present, Molly stilled at his question for a moment, then left his bedside. Will cracked open his eye again, enduring the effort to keep her in his sights as she wandered to his desk and lit the candle on it. It was a new one and he tried to place the pleasant citrus-like smell as it slowly spread through his room.
“What do you want me to say to that, Will?”
Her back was still to him and there was an exhaustion in her voice he hadn't heard before. He hated it. He wanted to get up, to look at her, take in all of her with functioning eyes, to take her into his arms and make it all better. He could do none of it.
“The truth,” he said softly. “I have never asked for anything else from you.”
“The truth,” Molly repeated bitterly. “I think I might've forgotten what it is. Men can say they speak truth one day and change their mind the day after. Or think they speak truth while fooling themselves with falsehoods. Truth! Would that I had it and knew only truth.”
The part of Will that could still think was alarmed, but the rest of him was too foggy to parse through what she'd said. He must've sighed or made some kind of noise, because Molly turned around then, rubbing at her eyes and returned to his side.
“I'm sorry. You're not in a state for this. I will be back soon and bring back porridge for you.”
He was both glad to be left alone again and sad to have her leave. He closed his eye again and focused, instead, on healing. He sought out Burl, still all the way in Tradeford. But distance was nothing for the Skill. Burl didn't notice him riding along as he calmly issued orders on where to place the new delivery of furniture from Buckkeep. Eda, Will couldn't wait to leave this shithole and join him there. But for now, he subtly drew on Burl's Skill as he saw through his eyes. It was such a relief to join his awareness to someone whole who didn't hurt like he did. But Will had no interest in giving up his body, so he never left it completely.
He'd read in the scrolls that coteries had used to do this naturally, freely. Sharing both thoughts and power like any one of them had the right to it. Their coterie was certainly different, but Will had found the instructions on drawing on his coterie members’ strength very educational. He just didn't bother to let them know he was doing it.
Molly returned just as he finished. He was feeling much more present and energised now and smiled at her as she entered. “Thank you. If the healer had even half of your touch, we wouldn't avoid him like we do.”
That startled a smile out of her, just like he'd planned, but it was disappointingly halfhearted. He became more and more convinced that something had happened during his convalescence. What could it be? He was often tempted to rifle through Molly's mind or to shift it in his favour, but thrillingly, he'd never had cause to do the latter. Her natural state was already- well, he hated to sound like a trite minstrel's love song, but there was no improving perfection.
“If only all his patients were half as charming, maybe he would be,” she told him eventually, settling the porridge down on his bedside table. It smelled good, hearty and honey-sweet. “It's not hot anymore, you can dig in.”
But instead of eating, Will reached out for her arm instead. “Won't you tell me what's made you so unhappy?”
Molly's lips trembled. “You don't want to hear it. Trust me on this, Will. And don't ask me that again, please, or, or I will tell you.”
“Try me,” Will whispered, his hand still on her arm. “Tell me.”
Molly rubbed at her eyes again furiously and Will wished, again, that he was well enough to stand up and do it for her. “I didn't just go to get you water when I went out. I went to visit- I went to- the Fitz's grave.”
Will drew in a sharp breath. “Did anyone see you?”
He felt a moment's disconcert that his first thought was to worry for her rather than doubt her. If she was still loyal to the Bastard, she could've slit his throat in his sleep long ago.
“No. It was almost dark and everyone avoids it. Well.” She laughed bitterly. “Anyone sensible, that is.”
“I'm sorry,” Will told her and she shifted her arm so that he held her hand instead. He wasn't, really. Or at least not that the Bastard was dead. He'd wanted his power for himself, but after the Bastard had blinded him, he just wanted him to pay. But he was sorry for Molly's tears.
“I loved him, you know,” Molly said, her voice cracking. “He's the father of my child.”
“He's- what?” Will couldn't believe he'd never noticed it before. He couldn't even blame his injury because suddenly he was sure that Molly had been pregnant when she'd decided to leave Buckkeep. It all made sense when he looked back, but he'd been too blinded with his own schemes and infatuation to piece it together.
Molly started to withdraw her hand, so he squeezed it and added, “I see. That puts you in a very dangerous position, my dear Molly.”
“I know. I've thought about it for so long- and maybe it would've been smarter to keep it a secret from you especially. But,” her breath hitched, “I trust you, Will.”
Will's heart suddenly felt lighter and heavier all at once. He'd never known this kind of light-headed sensation and it was almost as addicting as the Skill. He couldn't turn away from this strong, vulnerable, sincere woman. She turned his head as no one else had before. Regal commanded his attention, his loyalty, the centre of his life and all his plans. But Molly's regard was like the warm sun he kept turning to.
He dared to bring her palm to his lips and place a kiss against it. “I promise I won't make you regret it."
“So where do we go from here?” Molly asked wonderingly. “You still want me. Knowing all the baggage. But what kind of future can we have when anyone might recognise the Farseer in my child's features in Tradeford?”
“Trust me.” Will smiled at her with all of the love he was capable of. “I will figure something out.”