Chapter 31: Survivor
The light is off. It has been off for a long time. We have rested here for a long time, hoping the light will be on. But it is off. And we wait. These chains are old and rusted. The stone floor is wet and stinks with our excretions. There is nothing to eat. And the man has not come back. He shut the door, turned off the light. But one day, we will be free. We will dominate. We will feed.
I feel something damp on my forehead. I try to move my hand, but a voice flatly says, “don’t move.” I try to open my eyes, but my eyelids are too heavy.
“wh-what happened?”
“I saved you, Jon.”
My mind races. Alad and Æther were killed in battle. Rexxa committed suicide. I killed Tyr with my own hands. Tarn fell at the hands of that bitch, Moridai. Who could this possibly be? I strain to open an eye, and the world is very bright, and blurry. A hand comes down and shuts my eyes. I feel something brush on my nose as this happens. It seems this person wraps her hand in reeds. Like Tarn did…
With that I drift off uneasily. Vivid dreams of the battlefield batter me ceaselessly, and that charred skeleton will haunt me for the rest of my days. Hours pass, and my fast, weak heartbeat spells out the time for me. When I awake again, I find I am sitting up.
“Don’t strain yourself. You lost a lot of blood out there. Your right arm may be paralyzed, and you lost your pinky finger on that hand. Don’t try to move your right arm, but try and open your eyes.”
I find they’re less heavy now. I open my eyes, and sitting before me is hooded figure. The only feature I can make out is a soft chin with a jagged scar on it. I look down at a chute by my bedside. Dark reddish brown powder clumps lie in a pink liquid, all the way at the bottom. I turn my head and ask,
“what’s that?”
Without skipping a beat, she replies,
“urine and feces. Yours. And it’s a hell of a mess to clean up. Don’t be surprised at the color. You had some internal bleeding too, and it needed to come out somehow.”
She sets before me a bowl of some unidentified light brown muck. I eye it warily, and she says,
“What’s your problem? It’s food. You haven’t eaten for three bloody days! Eat, damn it!”
I lift my left arm. It feels like it’s made of lead. And it moves like it’s underwater. There’s a spoon in the bowl for serving, and I manage to take hold of it. Moving carefully, I bend my elbow, bringing the spoon close to my mouth. I can tell my visitor is getting bored. I manage to get the spoon in my mouth, and I groan at the lack of taste. I drop the spoon and lean my head back. This had better get easier.
Several months go by, and I’m recovering. The same attendant remains with me all the time, still in a brown leather hood, which casts a shadow over her face, which is scarred by a single red line that goes down her right cheek. My left arm is back to normal, and I can at least cause a spasm in my right arm. That’s progress, I suppose.
My attendant almost never leaves, she eats my leftovers and uses my toilet, while I’m sleeping. It shows dedication, though I need time to myself.
One day, after my strength has fully returned, my attendant comes to my side and asks me if I can walk.
“I thought you’d never ask,” I sigh loudly and stand.
She says, “you had significant muscle growth before you were knocked out. The muscles in your core, arms, and legs experienced a rapid swelling, fast enough to split your skin.”
