Amputate

The dream begins and ends in darkness, not even a wisp of candlelight to form shapes in the Haze, only whispers shared within...
Chamas: "Hey—"

Abelina: "Shhh. Don't talk."

A deep breath, a shuffle of bandages and blankets. A low groan.
Chamas: "Bad?"

Abelina: "Yeah."

Chamas: "Annabell?"

Abelina: "We're safe, for now. She made it."

A sigh.
Chamas: "Crow?"

Abelina: "Gone. We don't know where."

Chamas: "Isra."

Abelina: "More than likely. If he fails there, Anastasia thinks—"

A pause. A cold smile.
Chamas: "Warden."

Abelina: "Yeah."

A long, haunting silence.
Chamas: "Moscaroth... No. I—"

Abelina: "I know. But you're in no condition. Chamas... Um."

Chamas: "Yeah?"

Abelina: "We had to amputate part of your left arm. From the elbow down."

...
Chamas: "Right one?"

Abelina: "Chamas..."

Chamas: "Abelina."

Abelina: "It'll stay."

The ever-subtle, all-consuming, low-wind-to-a-tidal-wave that was Hope.
Chamas: "Gonna sleep. Love."

Abelina: "I love you too."

The groan of an old chair. The squeaking of a handle. The closing of a door.
The second hand of a clock, ticking by the minutes, until all fell quiet in the house again.
Chamas: "...Nicodemus?"
Silence.
Oh terrible, horrifying, disappointing silence.
A slow-rising, increasingly-sickly, bubbling-tar-pool-turned-flood came to swallow Hope.

Nicodemus: "...I am here."

Hope refused to be swallowed.