Four days, and still he does not wake, her Lord. Her Other.
The nurse dwells on this, remembering another time, long ago, when her Lord had drifted in another kind of coma.
A coma of desperate, creative vision. He had stood over his many forges for days… crafting his great works of subtlety and molten metal.
“Mamlaurea… I have a task for you… you are to be my special envoy to the Pythia and her Consort, to spy as you will -per my suspicions- upon the Pythia’s servant Meghudi. She desires power.”
Then he had given her the two gold rings, carved in the viney lines of roses. Carved through some unknown art by his hand.
How they had gleamed on the fingers of their chosen bearers.
With luck, and her task to-day, they might again.