Keeping Zianna in the dark about any knowledge of the potion being administered to Garroth, Garte had to manage making sure any hope having to do with their son's life stayed away from her.

The couple had taken Garroth home on certain hospice care. With Garroth being unable to play or be awake long enough to even speak, Garte and Zianna were forced to explain to their other two sons what their older brother dying truly meant. Vylad hardly had a grasp of understanding, but Zane understood just enough to be visibly upset.

Except, the hope that Garte was trying to keep away from his wife was quickly dwindling from him as well. Michael was incredibly hard to contact, and Elizabeth and Zack evaded nearly every question they were asked.

There was a lull in the Ro'Meave house. Amidst the caring calls and visits from family and friends, there was hardly a moment of silence within the family. Garte sat in the dark living room, listening to Garroth's labored breathing and hating his own lungs for drawing in air so easily.

Vylad ran into the living room. Even in the shadows of the dimness, his eyes were still their prominent green. His face was dotted with the freckles that he shared with Zane.

The toddler raced over to his sleeping older brother with a small matchbox car in his hand. He nudged Garroth's arm with a sort of urgency only a two year old would have to play.

"GarGar, GarGar!" Vylad edged on.

Garte gently pressed himself out of his seat in an effort not to startle Vylad, or take part in waking up Garroth. He wrapped his hands around Vylad's little shoulders and pulled him away from the son nearing death's doorstep.

"Shh, Pea," Garte pressed his finger to his lips. "Let's let Garroth sleep."

"GarGar play, please," Vylad expressed with a forming tantrum.

Garte silently sighed and brought Vylad into the adjacent room. The two year old was already pushing against his father, demanding to be let down from his grip. Garte offered the idea to him of playing with Zane, to which Vylad quickly rejected.

Garte pressed his lips together. It was so easy to forget how confusing the entire situation must have been to a two year old whose only previous concerns were his nap times and what color cups he had gotten for lunch.

"Okay, buddy," Garte glanced back at Garroth, who was still in his sight. "Let me see how fast your cars can go."

Vylad, purely ecstatic that his dad had agreed to play with him, practically jumped onto the floor and raced the car he held across the wooden surface. He grabbed more cars as Garte sat on the floor along with him. Vylad quickly began using Garte's arms and hands as race car tracks, giving the toy cars sound effects as he led them up and down.

"Your cars go so fast, don't they?" Garte said to Vylad.

"Mmhm," Vylad uttered in response, too focused by his toy vehicles to pay much attention to anything else.

"Are you fast?" Garte asked the two year old.

"Mmhm!" Vylad said, more excitedly this time.

"Are you as fast as your cars?"

"Mmm, no," Vylad shook his head.

Garte laughed, "Oh, you're just fast like normal then, huh?"

"Mmhm!" Vylad nodded and continued using his father as a racetrack.

Their playing with cars continued for about ten minutes more, up until Garte's phone rang. Garte sprang up, leaving a disappointed Vylad. Garte felt two emotions: one level of exhilaration because of his hope that it was Michael, or even Zack or Elizabeth calling, and one level of worry that the phone ringing was the one thing to wake his ailing son.

Garte first reached his phone, only to realize Garroth was beginning to stir in his sleep. Garte grabbed his son's hand, and then immediately answered the phone, not even looking to see who could have possibly been contacting him.

"Hello?" The businessman answered in the voice he had practiced for years.

"Garte," For once, Michael's voice was soothing. "How soon can you bring Garroth in?"

"Um," Garte stammered. "Early tomorrow afternoon?"

"We can arrange for that. Make sure you just bring Garroth, nobody else-"

"Wait," Garte quickly interrupted. "Can Derek come?"

There was a brief pause. Unbeknownst to Garte over the phone, Michael violently rolled his cold, grey eyes.

"Sure," Michael gave in. "Nobody else, though. Not a single person."

"Got it. Not a single person," Garte agreed. "Thank you."

The two hung up with hardly a goodbye, and Garte quickly began planning. He found a way to convince Zianna - not even he knows how - to leave for a certain number of days with their other two sons. He promised that if something was happening with Garroth, he'd call her in a matter of seconds. Once Zianna had agreed, Garte immediately contacted Derek.

So, the plan was set in motion. Early that morning, after he hugged his sons and kissed his wife goodbye, the silence settled into Garte. His mind began freaking out.

What was he thinking? What could he possibly be doing? What if Derek was right, and this just ends up being the worst imaginable thing?

Even with the questions running through his mind, Garte slowly lifted Garroth off his bed that was set up in the living room and settled him into the car. He made sure he had extras of everything, and triple checked that Garroth had the blanket he held so sacred.

As the car started up with a dull roar, Garroth's eyes fluttered open. He looked around, and then up at his father.

"Where are we going?" He asked faintly.

"Doctors, buddy," Garte half-lied. "You don't have to worry, go ahead and rest."

Garroth nodded subtly, and then was pulled back into sleep. As he drove down the road, Garte kept his worried glance on Garroth through the rearview mirror. At red lights he made sure that he could hear Garroth's breathing. He made sure his turns were anything but sharp, out of paranoia that even the sharpest movement could make his beating heart stop.

Eventually, they pulled up to Michael's laboratory. A sketchy, quiet part of town just outside of the city, Garte felt uneasy just viewing the outside of it. But Zack and Derek were outside, ready to meet the father-son duo as they walked into the building. Garte held Garroth tightly as they walked into the building, while Zack offered to help carry the heavy bag that was loaded with pain medication and extra sterilizing supplies.

The laboratory was gray, silent, and had a potent smell that didn't quite smell like a sterile doctor's office. It was a smell that was relatively new to Garte and Derek, but Michael, Zack and Elizabeth had become so accustomed to it that they were most comfortable being around the stench.

Garte subconsciously kept track of Garroth's breathing on his shoulder. His grasp on his son tightened once they had walked into the room where Garroth was to actually be subjected to the potion. He stumbled back with a protective hand on the back of Garroth's neck.

In the room there were monitors, computers, an IV with the striking green liquid, and a bed with a surgical appearance. But, there were straps. Straps that would encase Garroth around his chest, head, legs, and arms.

"We're ready whenever you are," Elizabeth urged Garte.

"What's up with the straps?" Garte asked, double checking to make sure Garroth wasn't awake enough to hear this conversation.

"Just a safety measure," Michael commented.

"It's common for procedures such as these to have children this little strapped onto the bed," Elizabeth interjected again.

Garte gave an anxious glance to Derek, only visible in his eyes. Derek looked away for a moment at the bed, but then nodded, without looking back at Garte. He then glanced at Zack, who gave a much more affirming nod.

Garte walked over to the bed slowly, but then picked up speed as his steps brought him closer. He laid Garroth down with extraordinary gentleness, as though he was scared of breaking the small child like he was a porcelain doll.

Immediately as Garte laid Garroth down, he was forced away by the two doctors who began strapping him tightly to the bed. So tightly, that Garroth woke up and began to resist the efforts. Unfortunately, his strength was but a mouse's compared to an elephant's.

"Wait, he hasn't had his pain meds yet," Garte interjected.

"We can't give them to him," Michael said. "It won't show the true effects of the potion."

"You're not even going to sedate him?" Garte inquired desperately.

Garroth was beginning to resist the efforts to contain him more. The little one was in more pain than he could remember. He could hear his father's voice distantly, but the ringing in his ears caused by the bone aching pain distracted him too much from calling out for his dad.

"Do you want us to save him or not?" Michael questioned.

"Of course I want you to! But please, he doesn't need more pain than he's already had," Garte begged.

"Take him out," Michael waved a hand to Derek.

Derek glanced down at the floor, then to the man he called his brother. He gently grabbed Garte's shoulder as a signal for his intent to lead him out.

"We should go," Derek commented.

"But he's..." Garte trailed off.

"Let's let them do what they need," Derek said after a moment, and then whispered, "Trust them. He'll be okay."

Garte, with furrowed eyebrows, left the room, not taking an eye off of Garroth until that door was shut. It was a thin door, with a small window at the top that only allowed for the briefest peering in. There was no way to see when the process began, nor to see when it ended.

Derek could see all the pent up anxiety and fear in Garte. He wanted more than anything to take it away. He agreed with Garte: Garroth, above all things, should have been sedated. However, he was not going to put up a fight about it. Michael was powerful, too powerful to fight with, regardless of his still yet uncontrolled Ultima powers.

"I'm sorry I dragged you here," Garte mumbled, somehow feeling the guilt sink in as he continued to stare at the door.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Derek replied. "He's going to be okay."

"Fuck, I hope so," Garte shook his head and began pacing back and forth in the hallway.

Derek sat in an uncomfortable chair and stared at the floor as Garte paced, back and forth, back and forth. His shoes gave an occasional squeak, and then returned to silence.

That's when the screaming from the room began. It started with the first whimper, a sound that was only audible because Garte and Derek were specifically listening in a looming, awkward silence.

"What was that?" Garte snapped his head to the door.

"It's probably nothing. Nothing other than that they maybe just injected the potion," Derek tried to explain assuringly. However, the conflict came in that he wasn't so sure himself.

Garte sighed, nodded, and continued pacing. Derek tried to make small talk here and there, but the responses the other businessman gave were short and courteous. It was almost like they had just met in some business affair, and hadn't been friends since high school.
The screaming increased, both in volume and frequency. They were clearly and distinctly child screams, painful screams that didn't even come when Garroth was in the hospital bed as the fentanyl was no longer in his blood.

They were blood curdling cries for help. They were the type of cries that a person would only hear in a horror movie that was too vulgar to show to the public. Mixed with sobs of hardly being able to contain himself, Garroth's screams were consistent and became increasingly louder as the seconds ticked by.

Eventually, Garte couldn't handle hearing his son's agony any longer. At first, when he tried to burst through the door, he felt a hand on both his chest and shoulder stopping him. He was too full of adrenaline to really listen, but he could hear Derek's voice amidst the screaming.

"Don't go in, G," Derek told him. "Just wait it out, if something's wrong they'll take care of him."

But, as Garroth's sobs got increasingly more helpless, Garte's blood churned with epinephrine. He eventually found himself free of Derek's grasp and burst through the door without even caring to peer through the window.

As the door was forced open, the screaming stopped. The only blaring, obvious sound was from a machine with a single, high pitched hum.

"No," Garte stood in utter shock, feeling the weight of the world crash above, below, and around him.

Derek took one look at the situation. Garroth's veins were glowing green, he was strapped so tightly to the bed that the skin which only barely covered his bones at that point was pulled and bunched. He looked at the doctors, at the wizard, and then at the machine.

"My fucking Irene, you've killed him."