Winter

Chapter Three: Recovery

The bed creaks as it sinks down with added weight.

"Are you going to at least come downstairs to breakfast?" The Sinner asks.

You don't answer, shifting your body so you don't face his direction, pulling the covers over your head to muffle his voice.

After a long, pregnant pause, the Sinner speaks again, his voice muted, as though trying to imitate someone who is much more polite. "May I see your wrist?"

You stick it out from under the covers. This is just to humor him, or at the very least, to figure out why your birthmark has decided to turn periwinkle seemingly overnight. It has to be some kind of magic thing, one that the Sinner might be able to explain. His good hand closes around your arm, gently pulling it so close that you can feel his breath.

"Do you know what this means?" He asks, almost accusingly.

"If I did, then I would have gotten rid of it." You jerk your hand back under the blankets to look it over. The veins under your skin along the mark are a dark blue, looking almost like a lightning strike.

A sigh, one that you can't connect any single emotion to. "You can't get rid of it," the Sinner says with a tone of finality that you don't appreciate one bit.

You poke your head from under the covers, glaring at him. "Care to elaborate your statement?"

The Sinner's pale skin has turned a pallid gray, his usually carefully crafted hair disheveled as though he hadn't bothered to fix it since the fight last night. His eyes hold an echo of the fear he had shown to your glinting knife, though it has evolved from a primal instinct to something much more refined. He opens his mouth as though to speak, but for the first time since you have known him, no words come out. Instead, he turns away, suddenly unable to face you.

"It's..." he hesitates, "magic. You have meddled in things you shouldn't have."

Slowly, you trace the outline of the violet-blue blob. "I was born with this, though. It just changed color."

"Yes," the Sinner responds, not really the answer you were looking for. Is he nervous, you wonder as he clears his throat, before standing up straight and flicking a bit of invisible dust off his coat. Promptly changing the subject, he says, "I think it would be prudent for you to come downstairs and at least try to eat something."

"I think it would be prudent of you to get the hell out."

He waits, just for a moment, as though you are going to flip a switch and suddenly agree. When you don't, he sighs quietly, leaving just as you asked.

Before you want to eat, you want to sleep. You don't think you've had a wink of rest while you were studying the world's greatest mysteries, because who would? With the cures to the worst diseases and ways to solve some of the Earth's more urgent issues burnt to ash, you feel like nothing even matters anymore. Slipping into unconsciousness is an easier feat than you thought it would be, your body shutting down the moment you close your eyes.

You're terribly thirsty, you realize, sitting up while your eyes droop with lethargy, body hot from the sunlight streaming in through the windows. There is a fresh glass of water sitting on the side table beside your bed. Throat thoroughly parched, you reach over and drink the cup dry, tilting it all the way up to swallow the last precious drops. Sluggishly, you put the glass back, then roll over to continue sleeping.

When you wake again, the sun has already made its premature descent, the blackness almost suffocating. Looking back over to the side table, you feel around for where you placed your sewing needle. Finding it thanks to a faint flicker of moonlight, you bring it up to your face, staring at it for a few moments. Should you try?