Aemon's head felt like it was being split in two. No—ripped apart by invisible claws, tearing through every thought, every memory, every breath. He slammed his eyes shut against the pulsing light that radiated behind his eyelids. It offered no relief. Instead, it danced cruelly in his vision, making the pain worse.
He couldn't scream. He couldn't even curse. His mouth opened, and only a dry rasp escaped. It was as though the resonance had crawled inside his skull and was now expanding, pushing out every ounce of sense he had left.
He stumbled out of bed, barefoot, nearly tripping over the loose corner of the rug. His hand reached out blindly for the wall, fingers brushing the cold plaster as he used it to steady himself. The floor swayed beneath him like he was on a ship in a storm. His breath came fast, too fast, and sweat soaked the back of his shirt.
Resonance, he thought faintly, the word echoing like thunder inside his broken mind.
He hadn't known the awakening would feel like this.
Another pulse of agony surged through his skull, sharp and immediate, and his knees buckled. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself up again. The bathroom. He needed to get to the bathroom.
He barely made it through the hallway before bile surged up his throat. He dropped to his knees, dry-heaving so violently his ribs felt like they were splintering. His vision blurred further, not just from the pain but from the tears welling up in his eyes. He couldn't tell if they were from nausea, emotion, or the sheer torment of what was happening to him.
He crawled the last few feet to the bathroom, slamming the door open and collapsing against the toilet. His body convulsed again as he vomited—yellow-green acid spilling from his mouth, staining the water below. The retching didn't stop. It came in waves, one after another, like his body was trying to expel something that wasn't physical.
His mouth tasted of metal. Blood? Maybe. He couldn't tell.
The room spun.
He clung to the porcelain rim, breathing in shallow gasps. Sweat rolled down his forehead, dripping into his eyes. He tried to wipe it away, but his arm didn't move. It just hung there, heavy, useless.
Then came the high-pitched ringing. It drowned out everything—his breath, the sound of his retching, even the beating of his own heart. He opened his mouth, maybe to scream, but no sound came out.
He collapsed sideways onto the cold tile floor, the chill biting through his damp clothes. His body trembled violently. He thought, for a moment, he could see veins of light running under his skin—silver and blue, like lightning trapped inside his flesh.
Then everything went dark.
—
White. Endless, blinding white.
Aemon blinked. There was no pain here. No sound. Just light that went on forever. He stood—not sure how or when he'd gotten to his feet—and looked around.
He was alone. Or so he thought.
"Aemon."
The voice came from behind him. Gentle. Warm. He knew it instantly.
He turned.
There she was.
His mother.
Her hair was as he remembered—dark and curled at the ends, pulled back into the loose bun she always wore when she cooked. Her eyes were kind, glowing faintly in the lightless void, and her smile was the one he'd tried to remember a thousand times and never quite could.
"Mom?" His voice cracked.
"Yes," she said, stepping closer. Her hands reached up to cup his face, and somehow, she was real. Her touch was warm, realer than anything he'd felt in the last six years.
He hadn't seen her since the car crash.
"You're not… you can't be here," he said, voice trembling.
"I'm always with you," she said softly. "Especially now."
He choked on a sob, unable to hold it in. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I couldn't stop it. I couldn't stop what happened to you."
She pulled him into a hug, and for a long moment, he simply wept into her shoulder. The warmth of her, the scent of cinnamon and lavender, the feeling of safety—it was like being a child again.
"You didn't have to stop it," she murmured. "It wasn't your fault."
"But I—I lost you. And now…" He pulled back, his eyes red. "Now I'm changing. I don't know what's happening to me. It hurts so much. I can't take it."
"You're awakening, Aemon. The resonance is becoming a part of you."
"It feels like it's killing me."
"It isn't," she said, her smile sad but proud. "It's remaking you. It's the pain of becoming."
He clenched his fists. "I didn't ask for this."
"I know," she said, brushing hair from his forehead. "But the world doesn't always give us choices. It gives us moments. And in those moments, we decide who we are."
He looked into her eyes, lost in the quiet strength there. "I'm scared."
"So was I," she said. "When I first held you, I was terrified I'd mess everything up. But I still held on. You must do the same."
"But I'm not strong like you."
"Yes, you are. Stronger, even."
The white around them pulsed gently, like it was breathing.
"Why are you here?" he asked.
"Because you were on the edge. Because I couldn't let you go without telling you… it's okay to hurt. It's okay to be afraid. But you must keep going. You have something ahead of you that's worth it. I believe that. I believe in you."
Aemon's lips quivered. "Don't go."
"I never truly left," she whispered, and kissed his forehead.
The world began to dim. The whiteness faded, like fog being pulled away by wind.
"Mom—wait—!"
"Wake up, Aemon."
—
His body hurt.
That was the first thing he noticed. The pain wasn't gone—it had just… dulled. Like embers instead of wildfire.
His eyes cracked open, and he blinked against the soft light spilling in from the bathroom window.
He was lying on the cold tile, cheek pressed against the floor. Dried vomit clung to the edge of the toilet, and his whole body stank of sweat and sickness.
But he was alive.
He exhaled slowly. His breath shook. He didn't move—couldn't, not yet—but his mind was clear in a way it hadn't been before. Beneath the pain, beneath the exhaustion, there was a thread of something new.
A presence. A hum deep in his chest, just below his heart.
The resonance.
He reached a trembling hand to touch his ribs. His fingers felt warmth there—no longer feverish, but… powerful. Like something ancient now lived within him.
He wasn't sure what would come next. He wasn't sure who he'd be when this was over.
But for the first time in a long time, Aemon wanted to find out.
He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, and whispered her name.
Then, slowly, he rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling—alive.
And changed.