Mrs. Strathe traced a finger along her daughter's red cheeks gently. Twenty years felt like a drop in the bucket to Kestrel's mother. "She's just so young... can it really end this way?" she murmured now, her voice quivering.

Mr. Strathe put a hand on his wife's shoulder. "Liz, we've seen her pull miracles before."

"Yes, and every time she pulls through, the next bout gets a little worse! How long do you really think she can keep this up, Stanley?"

Mr. Strathe was silent for a long moment, shaking his head. "If I could give you an answer, you know I would. I just... I'm out of answers, Liz. I don't know what to do anymore, except try to make her comfortable. As hard as it may be, we need to start thinking about saying goodbye."

Mrs. Strathe's kind face pruned at that, and she buried her face in her husband's shoulder, tracing her fingers through Kestrel's hair. Mr. Strathe, distressed himself, cooed to her softly, bending down to give his daughter a kiss on the cheek before helping his wife from the room.

All through the talk, Kestrel had been listening. She had never told her parents, but even in the worst of her fevers or illnesses, she could hear every word they spoke at her bedside. A few years ago, she'd stopped thinking that was a bad thing. She was going to die. The sooner she could accept that, the more comfortable she'd be in death. And perhaps, by encouraging this distance with her parents, who really were the best of people, she could make her leaving a little easier on them, too. Logically, it all made sense. There was just one small problem - that nagging voice in the back of her head, the pathos which cut through her logos. I don't want to die.

Kestrel felt a flicker of irritation at the voice, which manifested itself at the absolute worst of times. She didn't have much time to focus on it now, though, as a wave of dizziness hit her. It was time to sleep. She opened herself up to her exhaustion and fell asleep almost at once, looking forward, as she always did, to a night filled with dreams.