A blood-soaked giant with cobalt eyes. A nameless sister and a paid for friend. All here before a spire of ice and marble so grand that it threatened the grace of the gods. All here for her.
The giant had spared three cloaks – torn from one of his own – to better disguise the party. Her own was more use as a head scarf than a full disguise. The ashen white of her hair had been gathered into a top bun and hidden beneath.
The city bustled, despite the hour of the owl having long since passed. The giant walked a fair distance behind the party, he was too conspicuous to blend in alongside them. His hulking armoured frame left a radius where none of the crowd dared enter. Ash clung to Evara’s little hand and dragged her along, never letting her fall more than a metre behind. Her sister didn’t make it easy; she fawned and cooed over every little thing. She laughed as some children played with hoops and sticks, she gasped as some mummer performed acts of false magic, she lapped over every little thing with that either shimmered or sparkled.
It reminded Ash that despite everything, despite the danger and the fate they faced, Evara was still just a child. She barely seemed to grasp that a small army of men actively sought their deaths; or if she did, it took less precedence in her mind than simple toys and trinkets.
She should have been allowed to play. She should have found some other teenagers and stole drinks from the tavern, or laughed about crushes... or whatever girls that hadn’t spent every waking moment in the forests typically got up to.
----------------------------------------
They came upon the bridge marked as “Tosh’s.” It crossed from the market district, over to the spire’s three hundredth floor.
“Let me do the talking,” Amell whispered as they came upon the tollgate at the bridge’s base. A small que awaited permission from the disgruntled young man who sat within the booth. They stood in near silence for at least an hour before the young Tollman called out.
“Next!”
“Colin Parish,” Amell introduced.
“Participating in the tournament?” The Tollman intuited after looking over Amell’s arms and armour.
“If they’ll have me.”
“Very well, is it your first time travelling to the Forgelands?”
“Not exactly.”
“Okay, party size?”
“Three adults, one child.”
“Duration of stay?”
“In all likes, a single day; mayhaps two.”
“Very well, ser. A cultural ambassador is available upon arrival, free of charge. Please take no act to embarrass our kingdoms, and keep in mind that the Forgelands have a different culture. If any crime is enacted upon you, please report it to the embassy immediately after reporting to the local law enforcement. That will be three disks and twelve plates.”
“Lovley, thank you,” Amell smiled through his helm. He dug within his belt and drew out the coins before turning back to the others. They didn’t speak until they were far enough along the bridge to remain unheard.
“I could have paid our way,” insisted Ash.
“It doesn't really matter. Save your metal for the tavern,” Amell laughed. “I’ll let you buy the first.”
“Ser Fielder?” Evara politely called from beneath the giant’s gaze.
“Call me Amell.”
“Of course. What did the Tollman mean by tournament?”
“I have no idea,” he admitted. “It seemed like an easy way in, though.”
“It’s the international tourney,” Sujin interrupted.
“I thought that took place in the summer?” Said the giant as he slipped past a group of half-drunk travellers. They all wore uniforms of sorts, maybe a way to display nationality or support for some tourney champion?
“It usually does,” Sujin agreed, “but this is likely a smaller version; meant for lesser knights to prove themselves.”
“They don’t seem to mind a lesser affair,” Evara pointed out.
They walked onwards with the crowd of merrymakers until one of them thought to stop Amell in his tracks.
“Oy, big fella!” The drunkard hiccupped. “You fighting in the- the tourney?”
“I may do,” Amell politely said.
“Wouldn’t wanna get in- in your way. Feel bad for whichever grey has to inspect you.”
“What do you mean?”
“The... yeno’! The- the Victors, those inquisition larks.”
“The Veytors?”
“Yeah! That’s the one. They hav- they're inspecting all of the travellers. Tryin’a stop some... heretic sod.”
“I see, thank you,” Amell smiled.
“Yeah, just win your fights. I’ll be betting my house on you.”
It became immediately noticeable that the group slowed in their walk. A light panic had Sujin and Evara while Ash and Amell’s eyes skirted every window and door of the great monolith. They figured through some possibilities of plans. Some smoky wisps of an idea. Neither sprouted flame.
“They’re blocking the ports,” Sujin stressed. “How do we get past? They’ll recognise us in an instant. Maybe we should have sailed!”
“Calm down,” Ash ordered. “Is it really that surprising that they would block the port?”
“To a degree, aye,” Amell breathily pondered. “This is neutral land, but Veytors aren’t a neutral faction. To enter the tower is an act of aggression. The Forgelanders will not take kindly to this.”
“Then that’s our advantage,” Ash said with a hesitant smile.
“How so?”
“Once we get to the other side, the Forgelanders will help us. They’ll hold back the Veytors.”
“But we’d have to get to the other side first,” Ev pointed out.
“Some of us would. Evara, you and Sujin should be able to cross without issue.”
“And leave you behind?” Ev protested.
“No, warn the Forgelanders that a group of Veytors will chase us through. Me and Amell will punch through them and hope for the best.”
“How do you intend to ‘punch through’ them?” Amell questioned.
Ash considered for a moment, before settling her eyes on the enchanter. “Sujin, can you make a smoke charm? Like the ones in the woods.”
“Easily enough,” he hesitantly said.
“That’s it then, you two walk through and drop a smoke bomb in front of the portal, then we will charge while they’re blind and distracted. Right?” Ash plotted.
“It could work, it probably won’t. I love it,” Amell grinned.
----------------------------------------
There were no doors, no bars, no gates. Only men, a hundred men. Each had a blade and each blade was drawn. Each had deathly glare, and each glare slaughtered an imagined threat. They would find her quickly. They would not hesitate to kill her.
Ash ran her thumb over the little slither of silver. The rune that lay atop it had depth, texture. A bumpy cloud with a number beneath it, but it wasn’t any number she knew. It must have been a symbol unique to the Forgelands.
Evara walked up to the guardian cultist. She hopped to the tips of her toes as she handed over her entry ticket. The Veytor looked her over greedily. He tore the cloak from her head and, upon discovering the fall of white hair, took her hand and scoured it with a renewed interest. Ash nearly charged him, but Amell kept her back. It was only after the Veytor found no mark of Championship, nor the Black steel gauntlet, that he permitted her to leave.
She wobbled along, and crossed through into the great portgate without issue.
It was beautiful. Two rounded pillars of ice met at the apex. Within, a waterlike surface rippled with every entry. It reflected like silver mirror, and gave no hint as to what lay beyond. The portal at the Conclave had been very different, just a tunnel to another place. This was a barrier of liquid silver suspended in the air. Ev pressed her hand into it first, but there was clearly no resistance from the thing. She took a final breath of her native air and disappeared into the next place.
Sujin granted the passage no such gravitas. He kept his head down and quickly strolled through. She didn’t even see him drop his silver slice as he passed the threshold.
“Are you ready?” Amell whispered as they grew closer to the guards.
“No,” she whispered back. “But I’ve no choice, have I?”
“There’s always a choice, it's just not always a good one.”
One of the Veytors pointed out at Ash as the que came to an end. “You!” He demanded.
She clung a little tighter to her silver shard as she approached on unsteady feet.
“Remove the hood,” the Veytor ordered.
“I don’t want to,” Ash replied.
“What?”
“If I do that, we’ll have to fight.”
“Remove the hood,” the Veytor grimly ordered. He raised his steel and bared his teeth.
“I’m sorry,” Ash whispered.
Ser Stabby exploded forth with a thunderous bang! He caught in the Veytor’s throat before Ash retracted the tip and threw out her silver. There was no time to consider anything. Smoke filled the room, and monks swarmed around. She took up her spear and charged towards their line before they could realise what was happening. Amell got ahead of her and flipped a Veytor over his shoulder before gripping Ash’s spear and tearing her forth like an arrow. She landed within the chest of a Veytor, but didn’t have time to pull her spear free before another swung for her head. She ducked behind the silver spear shaft and drew her dirk, planting it firmly into the Veytor’s thigh.
“Go!” Amell ordered as he held a small army back. She took her chance and made for the gate. Two or three men tried to impede her, but she didn’t have time to entertain them. Using her spear to thrust herself in the air, she sailed over each of the swings and stabs sent her way. She landed with a roll and but saw a dozen more men before her. Men wearing armour, steeled and mighty. They all held out halberd to her throat and she knew she wouldn’t get past them easily.
“Ash!” A little voice cried. “Stop!”
Her eyes jolted from the armoured guards to... Evara?
She looked behind herself and saw the shimmering silver with its icy frame. She had passed through and not even noticed. These men weren’t Veytors, they were Forgelander.
Ash immediately raised her hands and dropped her spear, but jolted away again as the armoured giant fell backwards through the shimmering portal, straight atop of her.
“They’re coming!” He shouted, baring his blade to the portal. He used his free hand to drag Ashtik away while keeping his steel pointed towards the port.
The Forgelanders didn’t know whether to stop him or help him, but their decision was made easy as ten or more grey men stormed through the port.
“Halt!” The Forgelander demanded. His men moved their longarms from Amell, out into a wall of blades. “Step no further, Cultist! This is a violation of a thousand different treaties!”
“Hand over the Black Heretic,” the eldest of the Veytors quietly seethed. His brethren reared to charge as he paced up and down the line of spear tips.
“They will be held for investigation and the duke will determine if extradition is needed,” the Forgelander stated.
“We will not allow the heretic to go free.”
“You will return to your mountain and send an official extradition request. Any more hostilities will create an international incident and sanctions will be taken against your Conclave.” “You stand in the way of truth.”
“I stand in the way of chaos. I stand in the way of fanatics. I will abide by the law, and so will you. Leave, grey.”
The Veytor elder marched back and forth along the spear wall with transparent hatred. His eyes burnt into Ashtik. His gaze tore out her heart, but he knew he had to back down. He turned his back to the Forgelanders and whispered some order to the youngest of the Veytors. The boy looked up to him with almost pleading eyes, but ultimately turned back and exited the portal alone. The rest of the greys fell to their knees while the elder looked over them.
“Our goden will accept no defeat. He will not abide his own beloved men retreating from a heretic,” the eldest said as his gaze fell back to Ash. “May the lord grant his blessing upon you as he will, us.”
Each Veytor took up their own blades, and with a single musical breath each, plunged them deep within their own hearts.
“I will suffer you not, Sparrow. My brothers will avenge me, and my lord will forgive my failure. You will never be forgiven. You will never understand divinity. You will die, screaming and begging.” The elder did not draw his own blade, but walked slowly towards the line of soldiers.
“Halt!” The Forgelander captain demanded.
“I shall fear no blade, for a false blade cannot cut true flesh. I shall fear no man, for in every man is a liar, and in every lie is abyss. Lord! bless these men, that my blood might fill their abyss and bring them the truth.” He walked slowly into the blade. He did not slow as it pierced his flesh, nor did his splutter as the blood flooded his lungs. He did not react at all, until the blood loss took him, and his goden embraced him.
----------------------------------------
They were not gentle as they dragged her along. It took three guards to restrain her, despite the fact that she hadn’t resisted in the slightest. A bag covered her head and chains rattled with her every step. She had been dragged by the arms when her weighted feet failed to keep pace.
They slammed her into a metal chair and bound her wrists to the table before lifting the hood and exposing her to the overbright gas lamps that flooded the little room in a violent red hue.
She sat there alone for at least an hour. She studied over every detail of the room. The padded cotton walls, the grey scrapes where her heavy iron chair had been moved. The carved initials that covered every free inch of the strange red wood table. Four indistinct walls, one with a cracked old mirror set into it. She wondered why a prison cell would need a mirror, though she was half glad of it. She could see how wild her hair had grown after wearing the cloak, and after being black bagged.
She licked down a couple of excessively wild hairs, and wondered to herself how Evara managed a hop as long as hers.
The white windowless door slid open with a near silent squeak. A man walked in on his own and didn’t so much as look at Ashtik as he sat across from her. He marked through some papers, but didn’t say a word to her. She didn’t really mind, any opportunity for silence was welcome, even one as strange as this. She sat and looked into the mirror while he fiddled around for a while longer. A part of her wondered if she came off as terribly vain, but a larger part wondered why this man hadn’t said anything.
Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
“Whe-”
The man dropped his page as soon as her first syllable had parted from her tongue.
“You speak common?” Was all he said.
“I- I think so?”
“Do you understand the words coming out of my mouth?” He asked in an annoyed tone.
“I do.”
“So, you speak common,” he repeated.
“If that’s what that means.”
He seemed more and more angered with every breath. He asked, “Your name?”
“Ashtik.”
“Your house?”
“It’s... pretty small. A wooden door, and set into the dirt. It’s burnt down now, though.”
“No, your familial house.”
“Oh, I don’t have one of those. I’m a huntress, so Sai-Weleg is my last name.”
“A huntress wearing master quality battle armour?”
“I... thought I’d dress up?”
“Cut the cute shit. Why are you here? Why are the Veytors after you?” He demanded.
“Now, now,” a second man tutted from the doorway. “No need for all that.”
He entered the cell carrying two tankards of water and a beaming smile. “Why don’t you take a walk?”
“I can handle this,” the first man protested.
“I’m sure, but I’ll take over anyway,” the second said with a beaming smile.
The first man grunted and slammed a fist into the table before rising to his feet. “Yes, sir,” he seethed.
The door slammed shut, and Ashtik sat quietly with the new man.
“Are you thirsty?” He offered, placing a tankard before her. His warm eyes stole her confidence and her tongue along with it. She refused with a simple shake of her head.
“So, Ashtik right?” The man asked. She nodded in reply. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m captain Anh. I have a few questions, and it would be a great help for both of us if you would answer them.”
Ash nodded again, loosing an attempt at a smile.
“Okay, so as my partner so rudely asked, what brings you to our fine kingdom?”
“I need to meet the... the king,” she quietly replied, fully aware of the absurdity of a prisoner demanding an audience with a king.
“The king? Why in the world would you need to meet the king?”
“I’m...” Ash hesitated in her answer. Her eyes fell to the crystal she had, for so long, been holding shut. He noticed her gaze, and followed it.
“You’re what? I can’t help you unless I know what’s going on, Ashtik.”
She didn’t know if she was supposed to tell him. The Conclave was convinced that people knowing the truth would incite panic. That to admit the truth would destroy the world before the apocalypse could even begin. But she also knew that she had no choice. If there was any hope of meeting this Donaleaf, it was through her gauntlet.
She sighed a breath of relief as she unclenched the invisible muscle at her hand. The gauntlet sprung out and broke away the bandages that covered her mark. The captain flinched, as one would if plate metal armour sprouted from the flesh of some young girl before you.
“My name is Ashtik Sai-Weleg,” she whispered. “But people have come to call me the Sparrow-Knight. Others, those less kind, call me the Black Heretic. The Conclave and the gods have another name for me. To them, I am the Champion of Black. She of dreams and sorrow; harbinger of the apocalypse.”
“I... I see.” He couldn’t say any more than that. His eyes were transfixed on the fluttering little sparrow that danced beneath her skin. On the oily black gauntlet, and its seamless form. He seemed to fear her, dread her. What had been a kind smile, became abject terror. His eyes refused to meet hers, his hand refused to stay still.
“I need to meet your king,” Ash whispered with a dose of shame.
“And... the Veytors, they chase you? Why if you are Champion?” He asked in a tone that suggested he wanted to catch her in a lie that he knew she hadn’t made.
“The Conclave has declared me Heretic, that panic might not spread. If they acknowledge me, they would be admitting the world is soon to end,” she coldly answered.
“I-” he hesitated, “I have a son... Not a year old. If the world is ending...”
“Get me to Donaleaf, I have to do whatever I can. With his help, maybe we can stop this.”
“I- Yes, yes of course. The- the duke! I’ll arrange for you to meet the duke. Once he realises who you are, he’ll take you.”
“Thank you, Anh. What about my friends?”
“Yes... I’ll have them released now.” He rose from his seat and nearly walked out of the room before he remembered to free Ash from her own chains.
She stood up and walked behind him. He wore full plate armour and a long flowing white cloak over his right shoulder. A mace hung from his hip and a small metal shield, no larger than his head, hung the thigh below. The other guards all wore blue cloaks where he wore his white, except for one or two who wore red.
“Ash!” a little voice shouted from across the hallway. She charged headfirst past a pair of guards, straight into Ash’s arms. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Ash whispered. “You?”
“Peachy.”
They continued on into the room Ev had appeared from. Five or six desks were scattered along the room, each with a brow-beaten book keeper that seemed to desperately avoid looking towards Ash or her party. Sujin and Amell sat next to each other in what must have been an awkward silence. The larger man had kept his helm on, though she could see him sweating beneath. Only then did she remember that he was technically an enemy so far as the Forgelander’s were concerned. Here he was sat, at the centre of a massive guard post beside a Forgelander native who had made no secret of his distrust.
“Sujin, C-Colin?” Ash greeted. The two men nodded back, and Amell made no protest over the use of his pseudonym.
“What’s going on?” Ev whispered.
“We’re going to meet the duke,” she answered with a liar’s smile.
“If that’s the case,” Sujin offered, “allow me to fetch my sponsor. She will be of great political utility while speaking with the duke.”
“That won’t be necessary, journeyman.” A man entered the room at Ash’s back. Each staffer he crossed stopped in their tracks to greet him with a strange salute. One young mae even dropped a stack of papers in her respects. Sujin rose at the sight of him, and gave him the same salute as the rest.
He wore a cloak, like that of the guards, only his was a rich purple and not set over yellow plate armour, but fine blue dress robes. A ribbon of yellow and blue hung from his chest and a thin sabre with an inwardly curved hilt dangled from his hip. A fine white coronet with five extrusions made to resemble a castle wall sat upon his hairless head. The centre extrusion bore no insignia, but the other four each held a unique mark. The left two held a hammer and an anvil, respectively. The right two held what could have been a portal and what must have been a woman.
He stood no taller than Sujin, but still tall enough to look down on Ash through his finely pruned moustache.
“You are this... Sparrow-Knight, or Champion, or heretic?” He glared.
“I- I am.”
“I wonder if you’ll accrue some new moniker in the time it takes to confirm your old.” He glanced at her hand, then at her timid eyes and loosed half a sigh, half a chuckle. “Come along. I will see for myself.”
“Would it not be proper to introduce yourself first, ser?” Evara protested.
“Ser?” The man repeated, almost indignant. “Of course, you are of the Veil. You cannot be expected to know our ways, my apologies.” The bald man took a deep and courteous bow before continuing, “I have the pleasure of being duke Garret Ngyuen the second. Warden of the north, and master of the gate.”
“It is a pleasure, my lord. You speak with Ashtik Sai-Weleg, she who is called Sparrow-Knight. The Champion of Black and lady of dreams,” Evara introduced in as sophisticated a voice as she could muster. It sounded off to Ash’s ears. She spoke deeply and slowly, with great care in each noise. It was so different to the excitable and ever youthful tone she held as native.
“And you would be her announcer? Her bard?” The duke smiled. He was transparently entertained by Evara’s theatrics, but utterly confused none the less.
“I would be her sister, my lord. The Champion is a lady of action, not words. Hence my presence.”
“That may be,” he grinned, “But the Champion must accompany me alone. I ask that you wait here with your fellows.”
“My lor-”
“It’s okay, Ev. Stay here,” Ash ordered. “Colin... Take care of her.”
“Of course.”
----------------------------------------
Eight-thousand nine-hundred and sixty-three steps. That is the distance from base to tip of the marble monolith. No god, nor quest, could compel her to climb any of them. Fortunately, the duke held the same determination. They came upon a steel basket in an iron corridor, only the corridor wasn’t long; but high. It must have stretched from the dirt to the stars, though the top was either too dark or too distant to see.
The duke stepped in first, then Ash toed forth behind him. It was clear that no ground existed beneath the basket, and it was even more clear that the basket was suspended over the infinite chasm by a single steel rope. There was space enough to run laps within, but she refused to step anywhere but the very centre; reasoning that she wouldn’t be able to tip it over if she stood directly beneath the rope.
A man, who must have been an attendant, pressed a button on the wall. Another rope beneath the button lit up with a brilliant blue light and with it, the basket shifted. First it was but a little jolt, then it slowly began to rise, then it rose rapidly climbing swiftness. She struggled to keep afoot as it flew higher and higher into the tower. The duke barely seemed to notice any movement at all, yet she stood with her knees buckling beneath and her heart left on the floors below.
It didn’t last long, maybe a minute or two, before it slowed and stopped. Despite the brevity of the journey, it was immediately clear that they had travelled a great distance. She imagined that if she found a window, she might look down even on mountains. It wasn’t quite true, despite the vast height of the tower, it was still a construction of man. The tip was likely as tall as a building could be, though it held no majesty when compared with even some small formation of the gods.
The duke had no words for her as they disembarked the flying bucket and set through the near corridor. They came upon a terrible doorway. Dust caked the handle and an overwhelming sense of dread consumed her at the sight.
It was simple. White wood with a leaf pattern engraved within. She had no reason to fear, and yet she did.
“Enter alone,” the duke quietly ordered.
“What’s in there?”
“A ghost.”
----------------------------------------
The door creaked open and a layer of dust unsettled with the action. It swirled in the air before her. It caught on a sunbeam.
Ahead of her was a great circular window that faced the rising sun. A desk of old mahogany bathed in its light. Ten rows of bookshelves crossed to her right, and thirty stood to her left. A ladder near the door would take her to the upper level, where a kind of seating area was set out.
She couldn’t see too well from the ground floor, but it looked like one of the glasses had an iced drink within.
Ashtik walked carefully further into the room. Every step left a print in the otherwise undisturbed dust. She could track her every step, and was otherwise glad to see that no other tracks were to be found.
A breeze caught her hair, and stroked at her neck. How could there be a breeze?
She turned on a heel to see what could have touched her, but nothing was there so she carried on. She came upon the desk, and ran a finger along the dusty surface. It marked a line, so she marked another to make an ‘X’.
A letter rested on the table; it’s wax seal broken. She opened it, but couldn’t read the strange blue letters within.
“I don’t get it,” Ash whispered. The breeze harassed her again, but this time it stroked against her arm. The gauntlet didn’t seem to like that. A single spark of purple lightning shot out as the breeze grew stronger.
She could have sworn the air spoke. It must have said, “Champion,” but that wasn’t possible.
“Champion,” nothing repeated much more definitively.
“Who’s there?”
“Champion...”
“Come out!”
“Skin. They took my skin. You did this. Champion.”
“Who are you? What are you talking about?”
“I screamed for days, but I didn’t die. He wouldn’t let me.”
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Champion. You.”
“A Champion hurt you? Who are you?”
“Alone. Afraid. Alone. Afraid. Al...”
“Show yourself! I want to help you.”
“Help me?”
“Yes!”
“Champion. Help.”
“Yes, just come out. I mean you no harm.”
“Champion. Makes it right.”
“If I can, I will!”
“Champion gives me what he stole. I have it back.”
“What did he steal?”
“Skin.”
It was faceless, it was wrong. A spirit, and a curse. It did not linger, but lunge. It screamed with the torment of damnation through its skinless lips. A bone hand, and the tendons holding it together, reached out for Ash.
Ash couldn’t move. It wasn’t fear, but something more. A power. It held her in place as the creature caressed her cheek. The creature’s nail dug into her cheek and drew a first blood.
“I watch the window,” the thing wailed, “I watch the lights. I watch them dance and play. I watch what I will never have. I watch what you denied me. I watch and watch and watch, now you will too. You can see everything like me; can’t you, Ashtik?”
Ash couldn’t reply for her jaw refused to open and her eyes refused to shiver. She was stuck in place, stuck in terror.
“Why did you do it, Champion? If I upset you, then why did you smile as you cut me? Why is your smile burnt behind my eyes? I see it in the dark. When the night is still, and the clouds have parted, I look up to the stars and I know that you are up there, while I'm stuck here. I will suffer for so long as I must, but please... where is my skin? I’m so cold without it. I’m so bare. Was it truly so beautiful that you had to take it with you into the stars? Am I so terrible that I could not come with it?”
The creature drew its finger down her cheek and took with it, a token of blood. It came closer, close enough that Ash could see the pulsing veins behind its eyes. Close enough that she could hear the screams that ran through its heart in place of a simple beat.
It drew close enough that her gauntlet reacted again.
A beauty of power. A snowfall of purple shards, and a lightning storm of raw destruction. She could move her arm, her gauntlet, but nothing else. She raised her fingers towards the creature as a flurry of black and purple power flooded out. The strikes tore through the bookshelves and left gouged scars in the marble floor. The dust around them floated in the air without movement as a new wave of power built within her outstretched hand.
It was not some valiant effort. Her face had been frozen, like the rest of her body, in a state of abject terror but it did not matter. Fear did not matter.
The power came forth and purged the creature, and the wall behind it... and the wall behind that.
When the rubble settled, and Ash had control of herself yet again, she whispered, “I’m sorry.”