Shadows 6.2
Nov. 11th, 2006 12:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
measured_wordsMan, this whole chapter is going to be something of a downer, I'm afraid :o At least this bit is short.
The room was getting cold again, but Matteo was undecided about whether or not he dared to try and get out of bed to rake the embers. His hands - what was left of them - were getting better. Sometimes they itched, but they mostly felt fine save that the skin was quite tight. It was always a shock to look down and be reminded of the extent of the damage. The little magical healing he’d received had gone a long way to repairing the gaping holes where the torturer, Geron, had hammered metal spikes through his palms, but there were still ugly scars on either side. He’d lost two fingers on his left hand, and two and a half on his right. The half was the tip of his thumb, along with the ring and middle fingers. It was still hard to pick things up, or write, or do much of anything at this point. The stumps where the digits now ended were still quite tender, and he had to be careful not to bang them against anything.
As bad as his hands were, his leg pained him much more. The southern woman who was attending him, Shuang, explained that the magic hadn’t been enough to regenerate the lost muscle completely, and that it would consequently never fully recover. His jaw also ached, especially where slivers of broken teeth were still working their way out of his gums. His mouth always felt dry, even when he felt lie he was moments way from drooling all over himself. The few times he’d felt up to trying solid food, he’d barely been able to swallow without choking. He’d never considered the total implications, besides not being able to speak or sing, of not having a tongue.
Taking full stock of his permanent injuries left the thousandth time, he also had to consider his eye and ears. The latter were primarily a cosmetic disfigurement, and he thought of them the least – only when he tried to keep his hair back out of his eyes and found there was nothing to anchor it. His right eye was permanently partially blind. Everything seemed clouded and distorted through it, and it was very sensitive to light. He mostly kept it closed, and Shuang had given him a cloth to tie around his head to cover it. Somewhat ironically, he found that he could now see better in the dark than in the light – testimonial that his bond with the Plane of Shadow was growing stronger despite his invalid status.
He was in two minds about his situation. At times it hardly seemed worth making an effort. He was utterly destroyed. He could hardly hold a pen or brush to write with, let alone exert the manual dexterity required to copy out complex symbols from his limited vocabulary of Southern pictograms. He couldn’t stand, let alone walk, without pain. He felt wretched and helpless. At other times, he rejected these limits he perceived. True, he’d heard nothing from the Loyalists, but they weren’t his only hope. If he could make it home – not to Exia, but to his family, his Elven homeland, surely someone could help him recover. He would find a way to make it back to the north, because continuing to live in this condition was not an option he could accept.
Today he wavered between despair and determination. He was sure the drink Shuang had prepared for him the night before was drugged – he had hazy recollections of dreaming, but was blissfully ignorant of the details. Ever since he’d been rescued, he’d had trouble ordering his mind enough to fall unaided into a restful meditative trance. The drugs had kept him out for a lot longer than usual last night, and he was grateful. Today he had the desire to try to do, well something, but couldn’t quite muster the energy.
Somewhere in the building, Shuang might be around, but he couldn’t call for her. He wasn’t sure it would be fair to inflict his present mood on anyone else. She was helping him, and though he’d gotten the impression that she was receiving some sort of remuneration for his care, it wasn’t coming out of his pocket. He certainly owed someone his gratitude.
The room was growing colder. His bed was close to the ground, and Matteo could feel his body heat seeping away through the mattress into the stone floor. The ambient light was fading, an indication that someone might be coming to feed him soon, but he’d decided. He was sick of lying in the cold. He might regret it, but for now he was willing to take a shot at getting out of bed on his own.
The hearth was on the other side of the room. May as well go for the gold and try and walk it, he figured. He sat up first – the easy part- then pulled himself into a crouch. It was flexing his though that caused the worst pain, and he grimaced now. Maybe in time it would loosen some and hurt less, or else he’d get used to it, but for the moment it was fairly agonizing.
Matteo took a deep breath to steady himself, and found his lungs protesting his exertions. He’d noticed this wheezing quality a few times before, but wasn’t quite sure of the cause. His lungs hurt in a way he wouldn’t have thought possible before experiencing the sensation. If the cult had done anything to his chest, he couldn’t remember and bore no scars. The latter fact meant nothing – Geron could heal as well as hurt, and he’d been through more than he cared to recall.
The longer he remained braced against the wall, the quicker it was becoming apparent that something was going to give. Probably his leg. Move or fall, then. Matteo set his jaw, not willing to accept failure at this early juncture of his effort. He straightened and stood, grimacing as he did. Lights danced at the edges of his vision, and he was suddenly reminded of how little he’d eaten in gods knew how long. His sweat felt cold against his skin.
What was he doing?
The fire, yes. Forward, not so far. It wasn’t a big room, no, just a few steps. He shifted his weight entirely onto his good leg, and slid the bad forward. Ii was a bitch, but the real trying part came now – shifting his weight again. A wave of vertigo allied with his damaged muscle, and he crashed to the ground. In a black moment, he found himself on his knees, fighting with the tightness in his chest. He wasn’t quite sure how he managed to land without injuring himself further. The pounding in his head was just subsiding when Shuang rushed into the room.
“Master Elf!”
Of course she didn’t know his name. Even if he’d been able to communicate better, he wasn’t sure how much it would be wise to share with his nurse. She was a matronly older woman with graying hair, a look of concern and surprise currently written on her features.
“You shouldn’t be up! You’ll hurt yourself.”
He nodded, not inclined to disagree, and coughed. Shuang helped him back to his bed. It was easier to maneuver with someone else to support his weight. Maybe he’d do alright with some kind of cane or staff. His nurse continues to chatter reproachfully as she settled him back onto the low mattress – seated at least, this time. Guessing at the reason for his attempted rising, she crossed the room to rake the coals.
It was comforting to have another person around, even if she was nattering on about how she was planning to try and feed him beef broth for the third meal in a row. He appreciated that she was hoping that he might draw some strength from it, but wished there was someone else around who could explain that it would just make him sick. Elves didn’t eat mean. Coastal Aldryn were considered strange by their kinsmen for including fish in their diet.
Shuang checked him over once more, prodding him in all the most painful places she could think of. Presumably she was checking the progress of his recovery, but Matteo suspected that she just liked to hear what new funny sounds she could evince. Resisting just made it worse – she was stronger than she looked. Once satisfied, she departed with a promise to return in a short while with more rice he could barely swallow and broth that would probably make him vomit if he couldn’t fight her off. At least he couldn’t taste it. Or see it.
And then he was alone again – silenced, half blind, and crippled. At least the room was starting to warm up again. Dejected at his prospects, Matteo resolved that something was going to have to give in this situation, and soon.
The room was getting cold again, but Matteo was undecided about whether or not he dared to try and get out of bed to rake the embers. His hands - what was left of them - were getting better. Sometimes they itched, but they mostly felt fine save that the skin was quite tight. It was always a shock to look down and be reminded of the extent of the damage. The little magical healing he’d received had gone a long way to repairing the gaping holes where the torturer, Geron, had hammered metal spikes through his palms, but there were still ugly scars on either side. He’d lost two fingers on his left hand, and two and a half on his right. The half was the tip of his thumb, along with the ring and middle fingers. It was still hard to pick things up, or write, or do much of anything at this point. The stumps where the digits now ended were still quite tender, and he had to be careful not to bang them against anything.
As bad as his hands were, his leg pained him much more. The southern woman who was attending him, Shuang, explained that the magic hadn’t been enough to regenerate the lost muscle completely, and that it would consequently never fully recover. His jaw also ached, especially where slivers of broken teeth were still working their way out of his gums. His mouth always felt dry, even when he felt lie he was moments way from drooling all over himself. The few times he’d felt up to trying solid food, he’d barely been able to swallow without choking. He’d never considered the total implications, besides not being able to speak or sing, of not having a tongue.
Taking full stock of his permanent injuries left the thousandth time, he also had to consider his eye and ears. The latter were primarily a cosmetic disfigurement, and he thought of them the least – only when he tried to keep his hair back out of his eyes and found there was nothing to anchor it. His right eye was permanently partially blind. Everything seemed clouded and distorted through it, and it was very sensitive to light. He mostly kept it closed, and Shuang had given him a cloth to tie around his head to cover it. Somewhat ironically, he found that he could now see better in the dark than in the light – testimonial that his bond with the Plane of Shadow was growing stronger despite his invalid status.
He was in two minds about his situation. At times it hardly seemed worth making an effort. He was utterly destroyed. He could hardly hold a pen or brush to write with, let alone exert the manual dexterity required to copy out complex symbols from his limited vocabulary of Southern pictograms. He couldn’t stand, let alone walk, without pain. He felt wretched and helpless. At other times, he rejected these limits he perceived. True, he’d heard nothing from the Loyalists, but they weren’t his only hope. If he could make it home – not to Exia, but to his family, his Elven homeland, surely someone could help him recover. He would find a way to make it back to the north, because continuing to live in this condition was not an option he could accept.
Today he wavered between despair and determination. He was sure the drink Shuang had prepared for him the night before was drugged – he had hazy recollections of dreaming, but was blissfully ignorant of the details. Ever since he’d been rescued, he’d had trouble ordering his mind enough to fall unaided into a restful meditative trance. The drugs had kept him out for a lot longer than usual last night, and he was grateful. Today he had the desire to try to do, well something, but couldn’t quite muster the energy.
Somewhere in the building, Shuang might be around, but he couldn’t call for her. He wasn’t sure it would be fair to inflict his present mood on anyone else. She was helping him, and though he’d gotten the impression that she was receiving some sort of remuneration for his care, it wasn’t coming out of his pocket. He certainly owed someone his gratitude.
The room was growing colder. His bed was close to the ground, and Matteo could feel his body heat seeping away through the mattress into the stone floor. The ambient light was fading, an indication that someone might be coming to feed him soon, but he’d decided. He was sick of lying in the cold. He might regret it, but for now he was willing to take a shot at getting out of bed on his own.
The hearth was on the other side of the room. May as well go for the gold and try and walk it, he figured. He sat up first – the easy part- then pulled himself into a crouch. It was flexing his though that caused the worst pain, and he grimaced now. Maybe in time it would loosen some and hurt less, or else he’d get used to it, but for the moment it was fairly agonizing.
Matteo took a deep breath to steady himself, and found his lungs protesting his exertions. He’d noticed this wheezing quality a few times before, but wasn’t quite sure of the cause. His lungs hurt in a way he wouldn’t have thought possible before experiencing the sensation. If the cult had done anything to his chest, he couldn’t remember and bore no scars. The latter fact meant nothing – Geron could heal as well as hurt, and he’d been through more than he cared to recall.
The longer he remained braced against the wall, the quicker it was becoming apparent that something was going to give. Probably his leg. Move or fall, then. Matteo set his jaw, not willing to accept failure at this early juncture of his effort. He straightened and stood, grimacing as he did. Lights danced at the edges of his vision, and he was suddenly reminded of how little he’d eaten in gods knew how long. His sweat felt cold against his skin.
What was he doing?
The fire, yes. Forward, not so far. It wasn’t a big room, no, just a few steps. He shifted his weight entirely onto his good leg, and slid the bad forward. Ii was a bitch, but the real trying part came now – shifting his weight again. A wave of vertigo allied with his damaged muscle, and he crashed to the ground. In a black moment, he found himself on his knees, fighting with the tightness in his chest. He wasn’t quite sure how he managed to land without injuring himself further. The pounding in his head was just subsiding when Shuang rushed into the room.
“Master Elf!”
Of course she didn’t know his name. Even if he’d been able to communicate better, he wasn’t sure how much it would be wise to share with his nurse. She was a matronly older woman with graying hair, a look of concern and surprise currently written on her features.
“You shouldn’t be up! You’ll hurt yourself.”
He nodded, not inclined to disagree, and coughed. Shuang helped him back to his bed. It was easier to maneuver with someone else to support his weight. Maybe he’d do alright with some kind of cane or staff. His nurse continues to chatter reproachfully as she settled him back onto the low mattress – seated at least, this time. Guessing at the reason for his attempted rising, she crossed the room to rake the coals.
It was comforting to have another person around, even if she was nattering on about how she was planning to try and feed him beef broth for the third meal in a row. He appreciated that she was hoping that he might draw some strength from it, but wished there was someone else around who could explain that it would just make him sick. Elves didn’t eat mean. Coastal Aldryn were considered strange by their kinsmen for including fish in their diet.
Shuang checked him over once more, prodding him in all the most painful places she could think of. Presumably she was checking the progress of his recovery, but Matteo suspected that she just liked to hear what new funny sounds she could evince. Resisting just made it worse – she was stronger than she looked. Once satisfied, she departed with a promise to return in a short while with more rice he could barely swallow and broth that would probably make him vomit if he couldn’t fight her off. At least he couldn’t taste it. Or see it.
And then he was alone again – silenced, half blind, and crippled. At least the room was starting to warm up again. Dejected at his prospects, Matteo resolved that something was going to have to give in this situation, and soon.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-11-15 05:34 pm (UTC)t!