Interlude IV: Butterfly Effect

The last thing Canus remembers is the sheer devastation of it all—the bitterness that had seeped into his very core, the pain and regret in her eyes, the purity of her confusion as he gave her his last order.

And then there was pain. And then there was nothing.

Then, quite suddenly, there was something. There was rain, each droplet splashing down against the roof in a familiar arrhythmic patter, banging against window panes in similar fashion. There was the silken slide of his shirt against his skin, the press of firm cushions against his back.

He was slowly lifting out of his trance.

He’s always been slow to wake in the evenings, just like he’d been slow to wake from sleep as a mortal. He makes use of his grogginess well, however. Letting it dissipate as he collected his thoughts. Meditation, as he learned from a pair of old acquaintances—mystics of a rare western school of Buddhism—was an invaluable tool in the life of an immortal.

It was a habit that he’d practised since long