102 - A Message Made From Bones

1

I hurl myself upright, my right fist swinging—

"Easy, easy!"

Moira.

My throat closes up hearing her voice, stifling a sob of relief.

The red-headed medic looms over me, her curly hair gilded by the flame of a candle set on the bedside table. Her hand was near my neck, recoiled now to catch my arm mid-motion. She looks at me with wide eyes, the blue-grey color looking like a clear sky trying to battle an oncoming storm.

"I was just checking your pulse." She takes her manicured nails out of my arm, leaving indents in my skin. After reading the twist in my face, she adds, "What is it?"

"Nothing," I rasp, laying back down.

Faint words, accompanied by the softest harmony, echo distantly: Jay at the piano.

Each note rings familiar, reverberating from the back of my mind as if it is trying to pull something to the surface—

"Well, now that you're awake, don't go to sleep," Moira goes on, drifting to the antique dresser in the corner. Medicines in tin containers and vials are laid out on the worn surface; I don't recognize any in particular, my eyelids growing too heavy to hold them open any wider than slits. "It was already dangerous letting you do that with a concussion..."

The room fades; her words get farther and farther away. But that song remains, a soft lull that follows me in and out of consciousness.

"Hey!" Moira barks, snapping her fingers, the red paint like smears of blood. "Stay with me, Illyria."

The demand in her tone, in my name, has me fighting harder to keep my eyes open. My lids feel like lead—no doubt swollen—as I focus on the rafters above me, where cobwebs sway with the draft whispering its way through the home while she shines a flashlight in my eyes. I vaguely hear her say something about being fine to sleep, and then her soft hands run along my legs, my arms, my ribs, examining my wounds, my healing progress. It feels like it'll take too much effort to do anything else, so I just lay there, taking in every wince and flinch as she pokes and prods—but I am too tired to really feel the pain from it.

The soothing piano notes float through the home, eddying around us, beckoning me to surrender to sleep. The last chord hangs in the air, deep and haunting, making me feel like I'm sinking deeper into the mattress before finally fading.

† † †

I don't know how long I'm laying here, how my eyes closed once more, before another, deeper voice speaks.

"Illyria."

I contemplate ignoring him, hoping he'll leave if I go too long without a response, but I end up prying open my eyes wide enough to acknowledge him.

Not immediately seeing anyone, I sweep my surroundings, a bit blurred by sleep, draping everything in a soft, ethereal glaze. It is only after a few blinks that I can make out the details of the posters around me, the dresser with gauze and ointment and tonics laid out on it—and it isn't until I feel his hand on my shoulder that I become fully aware of Jay's presence, dragging my gaze left, up his arm, and finally to his face.

Thick, black, square-framed reading glasses soften the sharp planes of his cheeks, but they don't hide the purple bruises mottling the area around his eyes, his jaw, or the bandage that lays across his nose—all those injuries he'd wiped away in the Dreamscape.

The memory of a hard blow with my knee reminds me of what happened to him, painting itself in a foggy haze before I blink it away. A dull pain accompanies every movement of my face, reminding me vaguely of the blows I took, but I don't care to think about them too much. Not yet.