86 Winter 517 AV
642
Starting with a shout, Gomer jerked himself up into a seated position, vision blurry and mind addled. His whole body ached, and his tongue felt incredibly dry. Bare chest covered in a thin film of fever sweat, he glanced around groggily before a cool hand was gently placed upon his shoulder. "Up late, Mister Gomer."
His voice was familiar, comforting, and he let himself be gently pushed back down onto his bed, sighing quietly as he stared up at the vaulted ceiling. Unsure of what he'd been dreaming about, but feeling the residual ache of fear in the pit of his stomach, he found himself wondering, in his drowsy, languid thoughts, what it might have been. Nothing really came to mind, and he turned to ask the man beside him if he had any ideas, but there was no one there.
A bit more awake now, Gomer frowned, brows knit in confusion. Once more sitting up, he winced at the dull pain in his side, staring down at his stomach to find his torso had been neatly bandaged. Blinking in the murk as the moonlight peeked through the arched, multi-hued windows, he noticed that his arms and chest were covered in small scrapes. Little by little, the events of what brought him to where he now sat came back to him, and he set his head into his hands and let out a weary groan.
Having no idea how longed he'd been asleep, nor even what day it was, he set his hands back into his lap, careful not to bump his fingers on his right hand, and glanced around. He knew - remembered - he was in Ionu's mercy. The ever-changing healing house currently looked very similar to a temple with its airy arches, massive glass mural windows, and smooth stone floor. From what he could tell, his cot was one of several, tastefully carved wooden dividers on three sides of his separated him from what he assumed to be other patients.
With a tired sigh, he laid back down, wincing as the bruises along his back throbbed in protest, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts that had very quickly begun to gain traction. Unable to avoid them, and a bit too battered to be roaming around the halls, Gomer grit his teeth and drew a slow breath in through his nose, letting it out even slower through his mouth.
He was almost certain that he hadn't killed anyone. Though he couldn't be sure, he was able to recall that the smaller man, Nobones, had been spluttering on the ground, half-suffocated, but he'd been alive. He couldn't bring to mind the exact details of the condition the larger man, Crusher, but he was able to very vividly recall the feeling of his fingernail clearly tearing at something soft. The sensation, even relived in memory, was more than enough for him to need to take a moment to breathe again.
When he'd calmed down, and even before that, all he could see was the hissing woman's crumpled, screaming body. Though the memories became hazier the longer he'd run, he imagined that he'd heard her screams long after she had disappeared behind him. Not willing to face the alternative, that he had indeed ended someone's life, he chose to believe that none of the three had perished. Somehow, the knowledge that he had severely disabled two of them, effectively ending their lives in the Streets Below anyway, was far more bearable than thinking he had been directly responsible for their expirations.
As it wasn't even a lie, as far as he knew, and repeating it over and over in his head seemed to helped. A more timid part of him wished his brother was there, to help him put the memory where it belonged and assuage his doubt. Godric had a knack for those sort of things - for most things, really. On his own, however, he managed well enough, shutting his eyes and letting the words "wounded not dead" echo in a steady chorus through his thoughts.
His voice was familiar, comforting, and he let himself be gently pushed back down onto his bed, sighing quietly as he stared up at the vaulted ceiling. Unsure of what he'd been dreaming about, but feeling the residual ache of fear in the pit of his stomach, he found himself wondering, in his drowsy, languid thoughts, what it might have been. Nothing really came to mind, and he turned to ask the man beside him if he had any ideas, but there was no one there.
A bit more awake now, Gomer frowned, brows knit in confusion. Once more sitting up, he winced at the dull pain in his side, staring down at his stomach to find his torso had been neatly bandaged. Blinking in the murk as the moonlight peeked through the arched, multi-hued windows, he noticed that his arms and chest were covered in small scrapes. Little by little, the events of what brought him to where he now sat came back to him, and he set his head into his hands and let out a weary groan.
Having no idea how longed he'd been asleep, nor even what day it was, he set his hands back into his lap, careful not to bump his fingers on his right hand, and glanced around. He knew - remembered - he was in Ionu's mercy. The ever-changing healing house currently looked very similar to a temple with its airy arches, massive glass mural windows, and smooth stone floor. From what he could tell, his cot was one of several, tastefully carved wooden dividers on three sides of his separated him from what he assumed to be other patients.
With a tired sigh, he laid back down, wincing as the bruises along his back throbbed in protest, not wanting to be alone with his thoughts that had very quickly begun to gain traction. Unable to avoid them, and a bit too battered to be roaming around the halls, Gomer grit his teeth and drew a slow breath in through his nose, letting it out even slower through his mouth.
He was almost certain that he hadn't killed anyone. Though he couldn't be sure, he was able to recall that the smaller man, Nobones, had been spluttering on the ground, half-suffocated, but he'd been alive. He couldn't bring to mind the exact details of the condition the larger man, Crusher, but he was able to very vividly recall the feeling of his fingernail clearly tearing at something soft. The sensation, even relived in memory, was more than enough for him to need to take a moment to breathe again.
When he'd calmed down, and even before that, all he could see was the hissing woman's crumpled, screaming body. Though the memories became hazier the longer he'd run, he imagined that he'd heard her screams long after she had disappeared behind him. Not willing to face the alternative, that he had indeed ended someone's life, he chose to believe that none of the three had perished. Somehow, the knowledge that he had severely disabled two of them, effectively ending their lives in the Streets Below anyway, was far more bearable than thinking he had been directly responsible for their expirations.
As it wasn't even a lie, as far as he knew, and repeating it over and over in his head seemed to helped. A more timid part of him wished his brother was there, to help him put the memory where it belonged and assuage his doubt. Godric had a knack for those sort of things - for most things, really. On his own, however, he managed well enough, shutting his eyes and letting the words "wounded not dead" echo in a steady chorus through his thoughts.
