wolfe. (abstention) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-07-29 22:34:00 |
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The world was blurry and hazy as he finally woke, the angles of the room not quite lining up properly: like being viewed askant through a malfunctioning telescope, the lens fractured, smeared and blurry. He blinked and felt the pounding ache in his head, in his body, a rattling bag of bones that had nearly come apart. Like marking off a checklist, Wolfe went about testing his extremities and slowly settling back into himself. Arms (swathed in bandages but still functioning). Fingers. He could wiggle them. That was progress. The shift of a knee, the rustling of clinic sheets (he knew them by their thin, raspy quality, and wasn’t surprised to have woken up here). Feet, his connection to the earth and the anchor to his geomancy: still responding. Good. But there was still something wrong, and he finally pinpointed it in a tightness around his skull, a heaviness over one side of his face. And his throat was sore, as if he’d undergone a bout with illness recently—which he hadn’t. “You’re awake.” Wolfe jerked, shifting over to look at the man he hadn’t noticed before. A jolt of pain drove through his skull, as if a knife had suddenly lanced through his head, and the geomancer winced. Pain throbbed, a low beat in time with his heart. “Apologies,” the white mage said, pulling up a chair and sitting down, a clipboard resting on his knees. “You should try to move your head slowly, mister Wolfe. Shift your gaze carefully. The muscles will be painful.” “Wh—” His voice was cracked, filled with rocks, gravel on his tongue. Wolfe cleared his (still aching) throat, trying to speak around it. The last thing he remembered was d’Albis, covered in blood and his own hands smeared with it, the Archaeosaur falling. It figured: with the number of monster attacks the city had been seeing, it was time he was finally hospitalised. The other mage’s expression (so hazy, why was it so hazy?) was pitying, but his voice was even and level as he began, cutting straight to the point, lancing the issue: “Sir—” I’m not a knight, Wolfe thought blearily. I never went into the Fighters Guild. That was Mathis. “Sir, you’re in stable condition now and will recover after a couple weeks of rest. But I’m very sorry to tell you that we couldn’t save the eye.” “What?” This time, Wolfe managed to speak, his voice a low incredulous burr. The Ordalian accent came out stronger and he spluttered, instinctively, numbly: “C’est pas vrai.” The healer simply shook his head. Reached for the small mirror mounted on the side of the infirmary bed. Tilted it with a gentle hand, until Wolfe’s own reflection swam back into view. He sank back onto the pillow, averting his head from the sight.
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