The Will To Live (Sanctuary)

[Quillon Hawke]

The day had begun like any other, though Quillon should have known better. Nothing began normally in winter; not in Moscow, and not in a Sanctuary.

At first, the arrivals had been steady. A Seeker here. Another pair, eager-eyed and reverent. That was expected. But by midday, the pilgrims had stopped coming, and in their place arrived others; cold, panicked, with no words of prayer on their lips. They were refugees of the storm.

Now the main hall of the Sanctuary teemed with people. Blankets clutched around shoulders, children clinging to parents, anxious faces turned toward the narrow, frost-clouded windows. They whispered to each other, checked wallets that were struggling to find signal, and when they saw him, they came forward.

Questions.

Did the Ascendancy know? Would He send deliverance? If He had stopped the bomb, surely a snowstorm was within reach?

Quillon answered what he could, which was little. He sent someone to the kitchens for whatever food could be gathered and sent three employees to inventory the supplies, but his fingers itched with the need for order. The Luminar was unreachable. His had been messages sent but they went unread and unreturned.

He stood at the head of the hall and felt numb. Then the doors burst open.

Snow rushed in like breath from a dying beast, curling in tendrils across the floor. Wind roared behind it. Shapes moved in the white-out, staggering beneath packs and supplies, and among them was Anita.

It took three men to wrestle the doors shut again. Quillon watched, motionless, as a child’s hand slipped free from beneath a coat too large for her and then fell limp. Panic threatened to rise in his chest.

Someone beside him asked about deeper rooms where they could place walls between them and the storm. He nodded, vaguely, pointing toward the inner corridors without looking away from Anita.

Then Anita was in front of him, urgent, her voice sharp and level despite the desperation behind it.

Quillon blinked. “Um,” he said.

He could see the girl more fully now. Her skin was pale. Her skin looked waxy beneath the flicker of sanctuary lights.

He didn’t even know how to help, but then an idea came to mind.

“Okay,” he said. “Follow me this way. Hurry.”

He led Anita away from the crush of the main hall and into one of the quieter interior corridors. The noise faded quickly here, replaced by the low hum of climate systems working overtime against the storm. The walls were broken by clean lines of recessed lighting, the floor a muted composite tile scuffed by shoes and hurried feet.

The dormitories came into view. Composite doors with brushed steel frames marked each room, and Quillon’s was the first on the left. He didn’t hesitate to key key it open and stepped aside to let Anita through.

“It isn’t particularly warm, but there are blankets. Fresh clothes, a bathroom. And…” He swallowed, already turning away. Quillon hurried into the adjacent room, his coat sweeping behind him. Loric’s old chambers were empty now, but he took the bedding without ceremony. Loric wouldn’t need them.

Back in his room, he dropped the bundle beside the bed and moved to the drawer beside it. His fingers trembled slightly as he opened it.

Inside were his items for the ritual of Personal Flame. The ritual was intended to awaken warmth within oneself. He’d used it before, but always alone and slowly, not like this. Not when a life depended on it.