RayClubs

A Journey Of Recovery

The mushrooms catching fire drew a surprised gasp out of Tenth. He sat up straight, ready to help but unsure how, and watched Liraeth for a few moments as the man struggled to save his attempt at dinner. It was strange, watching someone else work while Tenth’s own hands were free and no orders came his way. Then, when the meal was rescued and his companion went about preparing the rest of the meal, it was almost pleasant, the idleness comforting rather than concerning.

He carefully set the stoppered jar of medicine aside and ate, not because he was ordered to but because he liked the sound of Liraeth’s gentle suggestion. Hunger has been planting seeds of pain in his stomach for a while now. It might have been crossing a line, accepting the other man’s generosity so readily, eating from his own supplies, what he cooked with his own hands. But Tenth needed energy, even if the thought of what he may soon be using that energy for sent a shiver down his spine.

He chewed on a mushroom, suddenly surprised by how hot it was in his mouth. It tasted earthy and slightly bitter, gentle notes matching subtle scents. It… tasted.

Tenth ate quickly, as was his habit, but a shy grin blossomed on his face as he marveled at the variety of flavors. He liked the bread most of all, as it lacked both the distracting bitterness of campfire heat and the slight saltiness that served to keep the cheese fresh. He knew foods – understood them in a practical way, storage, maintaining supply, even a few recipes – but he couldn’t remember anything ever tasting so perfect that he’d finish his portion and secretly wish for seconds.

Then he asked Liraeth to apply medicine to his burned hand, like the man had said he would.

That was surely a transgression, but, his belly full and his eyelids heavy, Tenth hasn’t found the energy to care. He picked up the salve-filled jar, passed it to the mage in the way of a polite request, and held his palm open for as long as it took. Then, holding the hand close to his chest so he wouldn’t accidentally move it in a way that would graze the burn, he lay on his back, shut his eyes, and slept, trusting Liraeth to wake him at midnight, or whenever he wished for it to be Tenth’s turn to keep watch.

He slept poorly. All sorts of things roused him. Once, the moonlight was so bright he had to hide his face in the crook of his elbow. Then the stream was too loud again, making him wince even before his eyes opened a crack, glanced sideways at the fire, and slipped closed. Then he was cold, but there was nothing to be done but nestle closer to the flames, though he was mindful not to frighten Liraeth with another burn. Twice, his mind played tricks on him and woke him for no reason at all, when the moon was obscured by a cloud and the water in the creek ran pleasantly quiet.

When it was finally his turn to stand guard, he sat up with a start, rubbing his eyes, trying to shake off the feeling that was so disturbingly similar to the dull weightlessness that came with executing orders. He’d learn to distinguish it from sleep eventually, he was sure, but it’d take time. All he could do for now was let out a resigned sigh and thank fate that a cold gust of wind cleared his head quicker than panic took hold of his heart.

He was tense at first, looking around sharply, straining his ears for sounds of approaching footsteps. Soon, though, it became clear to him that “keeping watch” in this woods on such a bright night amounted to little more than tossing a dry twig into the fire every now and then. So he sat back, crossing his legs, making himself a little more comfortable, and listened instead to the now peaceful stream and the trill of crickets in the distance. And the more he listened, the gentler the sounds became, as though his ears slowly but surely got used to the unfamiliar but harmless noise.

He didn’t know if Liraeth expected to be woken up at dawn. He had no time to think about such things, and no choice in the matter – a small feathered flock just above their little camp started up a performance once the sunlight was bright enough to pierce through the morning fog. Tenth’s eyes widened as he listened to the birdsong – a cacophony, really, but he had nothing to compare it to but the melody Liraeth hummed the evening prior, and they were nothing alike. The mage would wake up to find him sitting straight, still with his legs crossed, his hands clasped over his knees, with his face to the tree crowns, where the noisy little creatures hid their nests.

A Journey Of Recovery

For a long, tense moment all Tenth could do was stare. Then, slowly, so slowly it would have been painful had he had the energy to feel impatient, he blinked once, twice, the fog clearing slightly, letting him gradually discern a familiar shape in front of him and the warmth of a hand on his cheek. There was sound, too - muffled noise he struggled to make sense of, eyebrows knit in concentration. It felt a lot like coming up from underwater, counting every sharp, ragged breath, every brush of wind against the skin, every opportunity to open his eyes to something other than the oppressive, insurmountable depths. Water always frightened him.

He leaned into the touch without realizing it. Liraeth's hand was gentle, he couldn't remember the last time he was subject to such kindness, though in the moment getting pinched or slapped would likely get his attention faster. Yet another testament to the fact Liraeth not only spoke kindly but meant his every word, too. He truly needed nothing of Tenth but for him to be alive and well. It was... confusing, but in a different way that clashed with the stifling power of the curse.

Tenth tried his voice again. "I..."

Immediately, his thoughts were a tangled mess, having him struggle for words he couldn't quite find. Liraeth was apologizing to him for gods know what. He couldn't have that. He had to say something, even if everything still felt like a fever dream he'd wake up from to the sight of his castle still in ruins and himself still trapped in a heartless armor suit - he had to be there, by the campfire, keeping Liraeth company, foolishly hoping that was enough.

"...asked you to do that... so it's... fine," he managed to get out, voice still too flat and distant, pauses still too long. At least his burned hand began to hurt - a welcome reminder of the fact that at if everything else seemed fake, at least the injury was real.

Unthinkingly, he reached forward, dropping his head on Liraeth's shoulder, wrapping his arms around the man's torso, holding onto him like he was an anchor, though even in his muddled state he'd let go if Liraeth were to bat his hands away. The wool of the mage's tunic was pleasantly soft under the knight's cheek.

He didn't cry. Would have, had he known how, but no matter how far he reached, he could find no memory of himself ever shedding a tear. So he simply shut his eyes, evened his breaths and suppressed the shaking of his shoulders as best he could, and waited for the effects of the curse to pass.

When he finally pull back, his expression was full of fear and surprise, like he's only just realized what exactly he was doing. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have, I don't know why I..." he stammered, biting the inside of his cheek as he remembered Liraeth's earlier request not to apologize. A request. Not an order. Gods, not another order. It left him so exhausted, he was barely keeping his eyes open.

His gaze drifted towards his burned hand, and he quickly dismissed it as nothing serious, barely worth worrying about.

"Thank you," he said to Liraeth, and meant it. "If you hadn't stopped me, I would've lost it."

A Journey Of Recovery

Liraeth's concern was understandable, but Tenth's confidence never faltered. Eyes shining bright with stern, decisive stubbornness, he waited for the order like an outlaw waits for the guillotine. The other man was probably right - the idea was dangerous, unwise, even foolish - but deep down Tenth knew that he wouldn't be able to live with himself otherwise. As long as there was that sliver of hope to hold onto, they had to try.

It was gone as soon as the order was spoken. Everything faded - the sounds, the colors, the scents - leaving only a dull but painless urge to raise his right hand and bring it closer to the fire. Closer. He leaned forward, face blank, eyes half-dead. Closer still, with no hestitation and no pause, until the fire enveloped the hand completely. He felt nothing.

A small part of him protested. He needed to save his right hand, or he wouldn't be able to hold a sword. More than that, he needed to prove to Liraeth - and to himself - that he could disobey if he wanted to. The small, quivering, barely present part of his conscience he was beginning to recognize as himsslf proper was screaming in agony he couldn't feel, willing himself to pull back, waiting for the sweet relief of freedom. It did not come.

He could neither hear nor discern Liraeth's order to stop, but his curse-driven body still somehow knew to obey. The hand moved slowly, so slowly, deliberately, methodically, like the singed skin wasn't there. Aimlessly, still not feeling any pain, he cradled it to his chest and waited for... Something. A sharp noise that would cut through the haze. A spark of color that would draw his attention. A sensation that would make him feel like he was still among the living. Anything.

Nothing.

He stood up, unsteady, color gone from his face in the seconds it took him to catch himself on a nearby tree trunk as he swayed. It was only a few steps to the river, a monumental effort, and then he dropped to his knees, sticking his hand into the cold stream, watching the angry red shift into soothed pink, struggling to remember how it got there.

He opened his mouth to speak, but his voice wouldn't obey him. Pale, trembling lips wouldn't move to form words. Tired, unfocused eyes wouldn't look where he wanted them to, wouldn't catch what he wanted to see. The water seemed to still under his touch - he knew it should've been moving, flowing through his fingers, but he couldn't feel it. It wasn't him who eventually forced the exhausted, stiff, injured body to stand up and return to the campfire, sitting down heavily in front of what should've been - at least in the moment - scaring him too much to approach. It wasn't him who raised his head, staring emptily somewhere past Liraeth, into a great nothing. It couldn't have been him, because he wasn't there.

Brown eyes searched for blue-green ones in a brief moment of recognition. A quiet whine was drawn from his throat, cutting off abruptly as the curse once again took over, waiting for another order. He wanted to apologize to Liraeth, to warn him not to give another command, to beg him - then, with everything gone, with no sounds, shapes, or feelings to hold onto, he wanted nothing. His liege was right to call him "Tenth". Whatever sat by the fire, pain unnoticed, shivers forgotten, was only an empty husk of a person.

A Journey Of Recovery

The humming helped. It was a strange, unexpected thing, something Tenth would never think of doing himself, but also something that didn't seem surprising at all when coming from Liraeth. Everything about him seemed so together, composed and steadying, it made sense that he would also be familiar with such a mysterious, far-away thing as music.

Tenth was distantly sure he'd heard music before, somewhere, perhaps when his duties took him into a bustling city. It was hard to remember now, he couldn't pinpoint a familiar melody or even a sound he'd recognize, but he could focus on Liraeth's voice, how soothing it was, how gentle the rustling of leaves and whispering of waves felt when it didn't cut into his head like a battleaxe. He wished it could last longer, but before the scent of food could permeate the smoke-tainted air, the song stopped abruptly, and Tenth had to hold back the urge to clasp his hands over his ears again when Liraeth spoke.

Tenth frowned, struggling to make sense of the explanation. The words "dark magic" meant little to him - he wasn't involved in the study of the arcane at all, he knew nothing of spells and curses - but the words invoked a sense of unease. It gripped his heart and twisted his stomach.

"What?" the question fell flat, not demanding an answer, echoing quiet and hollow. He felt lost. Liraeth's words carried weight, stacking on his shoulders, dragging them down as they slumped and he rubbed his eyes as it it'd clear his head. Something wasn't right with him, he knew that much, but to believe what the mage was saying, he'd have to... Liraeth would have to...

He shook his head, a crease of worry between his eyebrows, a sickly palor in his cheeks. His eyes met Liraeth's - he was searching for signs of deception, jest, or even mere uncertainty, but whatever hope he still held onto was near instantly crushed.

"But I wanted to follow them," he protested, and this time, despite his attempts to lace the words with as much confidence as he ever had in him, it did come out like a question - broken and unsure. "I know I wanted to. I remember that."

Orders have always been so... easy. Natural. The rush of warmth and a sense of belonging that came with successfully following an order wasn't like anything he's ever felt before or since. The heat of the campfire couldn't even compare. He shivered under the mage's coat, grateful for it but seemingly unable to draw any comfort from it, always on edge, always looking over his shoulder in case someone would see his transgression and admonish him for it.

"I could always... I can still..." he trailed off, searching for words. Hands reached forward, closer to the fire as he flexed his numb fingers. "If you order me to do something—if you tell me to do something I can't—swim in that river or—something I don't want to do, like—to hold my hand over the fire, I won't..."

He shook his head again, determination filling his heart. Fists clenched and chest puffed with empty confidence, he looked at Liraeth.

"Order me. I won't do it."

A Journey Of Recovery

“I–I see.”

Tenth nodded, drawing in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. With every effort to keep his voice even and his tone devoid of emotion, he still couldn’t hide the slight stutter of poorly masked anguish. The sound of running water nearby, usually – supposedly – calm and peaceful, roared in his ears like a drum. Liraeth didn’t wish to order him. Liraeth wished nothing of him. Liraeth had no need for him.

Gathering wood for the fire was a meticulous, well-practiced task. He set about it in what was intended to be a familiar way, but soon felt every scratch of dry timber on his palms, every splinter digging into his skin, every bit of weight pulling on his exhausted muscles, and then the water – always the water – rushed past so fast, so loud, he could barely hear his own thoughts. He wasn’t supposed to think, not during such a task. Not during any task. His mind wasn’t meant to wonder towards the creaking sounds of tree branches, the rustling of wind in the leaves, the uneven ground pressing against the soles of his boots, and the water…

Calloused palms scraped red, eyes focused on the slightest hint of smoke emerging from the pile, sparks flying sideways, catching, spreading, so impossibly bright, so fast in changing their shapes, playing tricks on his vision, tinted dark with tiredness and lack of sleep. Still, it needed to get dimmer, or else he was about to start tearing his hair out of his head. The water flowed on and on, steady, vibrant, colorful lines, broken circles, twirling whirlpools of incessant noise.

He sat on the grass by the fire, feeling shaky and sick. The scent of smoke broke back memories still fresh, a violent assault on the senses, a scraping, scratching, cutting feeling in his lungs, drawing a cough out of him. Even his own voice was suddenly too much. At least in Liraeth’s presence there was something to match it. A set of footsteps to echo his own. A presence to focus on, to draw his attention from the wind, and the lights, and the water – gods, that water – that whistled, whispered, whisked away the smallest, quietest, briefest of whines he’s ever allowed himself to let out.

He clasped his hands over his ears, palms pressed flat against them, so tight he could hear the blood flowing through them, but it sounded just like that damned water, and he still smelled and tasted smoke, but he only had two hands. The fire shone through even as he shut his eyes tight, a snap of orange with a dash of reds and yellows.

It felt like he’d been awake for too long.

When footsteps broke through the onslaught of noise, dimmed only slightly by the hands still covering his ears, Tenth’s first instinct was to report on his task, to let Liraeth know the fire was done. He opened his mouth but built his tongue on the well-practiced line. It hadn’t been an order.

“Should be enough for the night,” he said instead, nodding at the firewood he’d collected. His voice came out strained. He braced himself before lowering his hands in case Liraeth responded. His headache was back – not as sharp as when he tried to remember whatever it was that destroyed the castle, not as quick to appear, not as… Unnatural. The water hissed and sliced the shore so vehemently, it only made sense that it’d cut through his skull eventually, too. His shoulders shook. He waited for it to pass, even knowing that it wouldn’t. There was nothing else for him to do.

A Journey Of Recovery

Tenth nodded slowly, more in acknowledgement than in agreement, taking in the other man's strange, foreboding words. He spoke kindly, gently, and there was sincerity to it when he asserted that the knight - the former, disgraced knight - was not useless, nor owed an apology to him. And yet Liraeth did not order him. Made a point out of not doing so, which didn't escape Tenth's notice, though he wouldn't call attention to it openly. Whatever use there was to be gotten out of him, Liraeth seemed to have no need for it, and it stung.

With grim resignation Tenth focused instead on his other words, mainly the confession that he'd been concealing something, which didn't come as a surprise at all. With the way Liraeth held himself, effortlessly dignified and endlessly patient, it was easy to assume - likely not incorrectly - that he was a wise, knowledgeable man. He must've found something among the ruins that Tenth's own thorough but mindless search missed. Tenth shook his head. "You don't owe me any truths," he said with a shrug. It seemed so simple. "And worry not for my dustress. There's little else to be taken away from me."

He meant to sound reassuring, not realizing the words had come out so grim.

"I... don't have another name," he confessed, his tone still apologetic, though Liraeth told him not to apologize. It wasn't an order, was it? It didn't feel like one, but Tenth feared he might have lost the ability to differentiate whether it was his own will compelling him to do something or someone else's. "I'm neither a sir nor a knight any longer, but I have always been Tenth."

His name has never felt so... inadequate before. If Liraeth wished to call him something else, he wasn't sure there'd be anything left of him - the original him, the way he knew himself to be before the tragedy at his castle. He felt too tired to think of such things. The promise of setting up a camp sounded delightfully appealing. He wondered if Liraeth would have him keep watch. He wasn't sure he could, but if the same dull, focused decisiveness took over him as when the other man had given him small instructions earlier, perhaps he'd manage. The world was a lot less tiring when everything got a little muffled.

"The sky is almost clear," he noted, neither pleased nor displeased with the fact, merely trying to guess where Liraeth would prefer to stay the night. "We don't need much cover if it's not going to rain. The worst thing in these woods would be the wolves. A fire will scare them off."

A hesitant pause. A quick glance. A short hiss as he sucked in a breath.

"I can make a fire, but it'll be easier if you tell me to."

A Journey Of Recovery

Despite its lack of detail, the answer Liraeth gave to Tenth’s hopeful question was… comforting. It reassured him in a way he never expected. He was ready to learn of the man’s motives, of the purpose of his visit to the castle, of the traces of the tragedy that may have still been lurking in the charred halls and collapsed corridors. He was hoping to gain some hints to the events of the past few days, something that would cut through the haze that enveloped his memory, something his own search for survivors had regrettably missed.

Instead, he learned that Liraeth considered finding him a good thing.

The man didn’t really put it that way, but he said it counted for something, and whatever it counted for, it filled Tenth with the sense of purpose he so desperately lacked. His presence was wanted! Warmth spread through his chest, drawing a sigh out of him – not a smile, not yet, he didn’t know if he still remembered how to smile, but a sign of a feeling other than worry and pain, as foreign to him as the brightness of the sun and the sensation of wind on his exposed skin.

He didn’t mean to stare but couldn’t help a curious glance at the man when he removed his hood. The aquamarine caught his eye – a foreign, rare color, as beautiful as it was mysterious. It fit Liraeth well.

Tenth looked away, turning his gaze to the setting sun instead, feeling foolish and ashamed, like he’d crossed a line just then. They walked in silence for a while. He was grateful for that.

“My head works fine,” he was quick to assure, his answer confident but his phrasing avoidant. It was the same logical loop that threw him off when Liraeth asked how he was feeling. His head didn’t feel fine, but it didn’t feel like he was ill or injured, either, so the easiest way to answer was with something else, something more important, something the other man would probably like to know first and foremost.

And Tenth’s head worked fine, even if the incessant buzzing in his ears was gradually turning painful.

“I can think now. I’m sorry.”

The memory of how he’d acted earlier made him wince. Liraeth had been so patient with him then. He hardly deserved it.

“I should tell you, I no longer hold the title you call me by,” he confessed, his head hanging low in growing shame. “I called myself a knight, but I don’t have the right to, after what I’d done.”

His fists clenched, nails digging into the skin of his palms, drawing blood. He spoke with conviction and – deep, deep below it – with anger, with relentless fury directed at no one but himself.

“When the tragedy struck, my liege summoned me for a task. I’ve been trying to recall what it was for some time now, but I can’t, just as I can’t remember what it was that brought the castle down. Every time I try, it’s…”

He frowned, once again attempting to make sense of his memories, but there were gaps, blanks full of nothing, and they lit up in bright reds every time he dared disturb the stillness of ignorance. A short hiss of pain escaped him – the only hint of the agonizing headache that felt as though it was about to split his skull in two.

“…useless,” he finished the sentence with effort, taking a deep breath. “I know only that I failed – no, not failed – refused my task, and now my liege is dead. You’ve been… kind to me, but I fear that finding me counts for less than you’re hoping.”

A Journey Of Recovery

Tenth wasn’t sure how much time Liraeth spent searching the ruins. With the unfamiliar but comforting presence gone, everything else seemed to still, the deathly grip of devastation tightening around the castle halls. Even so, resting on the steps with his eyes closed, unburdened by orders and commitments, the knight couldn’t say if he truly slept.

He has slept before, of that he was certain – resentful as His Lordship was to every aspect of his servants’ humanity, he could never train it out of them completely. They were soldiers by daylight, invincible and inscrutable, never showing weakness or admitting to feeling pain, but nightfall tended to expose a different side of them, one they hid behind closed doors, where they would peel off the layers of steel that encased their bodies and give up their duty to restore their strength through slumber.

It felt different then. He would lay down and immediately feel nothing. His bed was in no way soft, and it was rare for him to spend the night in it anyway, but no matter how harsh the surface under his back was, it never bothered him. He didn’t remember feeling especially tired in the evening, nor rested in the morning. His energy would be replenished, and nothing else would matter.

Now, every sharp edge dug into his skin. Every distant noise disturbed him, every gust of wind made him shiver. Once or twice, he even thought of placing his hands over his ears, hoping it would help a little. But his tiredness took precedent, and he didn’t move.

When Liraeth spoke to him, it was careful, almost gentle, but he was still startled. It took him a moment to realize the man was addressing him, and another to parse the question posed to him – a simple one, he was sure.

“I’m…”

Tenth paused, eyebrows furrowing. How was he feeling? The answer should have come to him naturally. Good? He didn’t want to lie. His muscles still burned and his body ached – would likely ache for a long time, a familiar feeling, though, like all others, it’s never been this sharp and distracting before. No, he wasn’t well, but what was he supposed to be instead? Ready? He was always ready. Orders could come any second, one had to be prepared. Time waited for no one.

Was he unwell, then? If he was injured, it was hard to say how, exactly. There were light burns on his body where the armor provided the least cover, but none of them were quite as bad as the red spot on the side of his face, and that was definitely nothing to worry about. He’s had worse. Unwell and not injured, could he be ill? It was still hard to breathe, but the smoke in the air was as much to blame for that as the smoke in his lungs. Everything was too bright and too loud, and the dullness that came with executing someone’s commands almost seemed pleasant by comparison, but that wasn’t illness.

Neither well nor unwell, was he right at all, or was there something terribly, indescribably wrong with him? His head felt clear, but his thoughts moved at a snail’s pace. His body was fine, but if he were to throw himself into a fight, his strength would fail him. The question was supposed to be easy, but the silence hung in the air, heavy and tense. Thankfully, the second question was much easier to answer.

“I can stand.”

Tenth sat up immediately, as if to prove himself. Before standing up, though, he took the time to unfasten his poleyns and greaves. Liraeth said nothing about the armor, and in a somewhat selfish display of weakness, the knight decided to discard it completely. Once he was up, much steadier on his feet than before, though still far from being at his full strength, he removed his cuisses as well, keeping only the belt that was supposed to hold them – he’d use it to carry his sword instead. It would keep both of his hands free.

“Right,” he nodded curtly to the assertion that it would be best for them to leave the castle. The way out wasn’t hard to find, he was sure Liraeth wouldn’t need any help navigating the wreckage, so he waited for him to set the pace. It didn’t matter to Tenth where to spend the night. “Have you found what you were looking for in those ruins?” he asked tentatively as they walked. He found he was… curious about the man, with his magic staff, his odd manners, his kind but unusual way of speaking. His motives, too. Perhaps he would know something about the tragedy that brought down the castle. Perhaps he would even tell Tenth about it.

A Journey Of Recovery

The stranger masked his expression well. There was something imperceptibly powerful about it, something determined, some kind of passion driving him to act, but no matter how hard the knight tried and how diligently he looked for any signs of a hint, he couldn’t discern the source of that passion. The stranger was… odd, but not in any uncomfortable way. Even now, when the knight’s heart was still beating too fast in – thankfully receding – panic, the presence beside him was reassuring.

Despite all that, he still couldn’t help wincing when the stranger spoke again. For as long as it lasted, Tenth only had half the presence of mind to take in the words, all while struggling to brace himself for another instance of someone else’s will taking precedence over his own. Fulfilling orders used to bring with it a sense of pride and accomplishment. He missed that. Cold terror had a firm, unyielding grip on his heart. When the stranger – not a stranger, he was Liraeth of the Conclave of Magi, Tenth gathered that much even in his confused and anxious state – finished speaking, it took the knight a moment to make certain that his body wasn’t going to move until it were out of his own volition.

He nodded shakily, unsure why Liraeth was so eager to further examine the desolate ruins, but deciding not to dwell on it. The man had come to the castle for one reason or another, he must have had something in mind – to find, to learn, or simply to see with his own eyes, it mattered not to Tenth.

“Stay safe, friend,” he returned, his voice strained but filled with sincerity all the same. He searched the ruins himself just a while ago, and was sure that the danger had long passed, but they were still hard to navigate, and dust and smoke were painful to breathe. He found he didn’t wish that upon Liraeth, who smiled at him kindly despite everything, and even lay a hand on his shoulder.

He couldn’t feel it through the armor. The thought sickened him. The first act of genuine, human comfort he received in as long as he could remember, and he couldn’t even feel the warmth of it on his own skin, instead left to imagine it to the best of his pitifully lacking ability. As soon as Liraeth was out of sight, he took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and removed the pauldron forcefully, tearing the pieces of leather that tied it to the breastplate and weaved around his upper arm.

Instead of warmth, he suddenly felt cold and exposed, a shiver running through him. It was strangely freeing, making him more aware of the world around him, like waking someone up with a pinch of the skin or a poke in the shoulder. He discarded the other pauldron with a little more patience, this time actually bothering to untie the knots, but found that he wanted to put it back on even less.

He took off his helmet next. His short brown hair was soaked with sweat and felt the cold especially sharply – it felt a lot like standing under a cold stream. Next were his couters, his vambraces, his chestplate – it fastened on the sides and in the front, and, thankfully, he could take it off by himself, without assistance. He couldn’t remember the last time he needed to do so.

He didn’t get as far as taking off his cuisses, as that would require him to stand up, and he didn’t yet feel steady enough for that. Above the waist, though, he was down to a short-sleeved linen shirt that exposed a roadmap of scars on his arms and chest.

With that done, he felt both unbearably tired and uncomfortably lost. Hesitantly, looking over his shoulder first to make sure nobody was looking or objecting to what he was about to do, he lay down on the steps. They were uncomfortable under his now exposed back, and he had to tilt his head slightly to avoid a sharp corner digging into his neck, but the relief he felt was immediate – and certainly worth the transgression.

He wondered if Liraeth would request him to put his armor back on upon his return, and if he could find something to replace the torn leather pieces, but before he could give it too much consideration, his eyes slowly closed, and pleasant emptiness filled his mind.

A Journey Of Recovery

Instead of relief, a newly intensified wave of terror gripped the knight’s heart when a small, gentle presence appeared next to him, trying to steady him, urging him not to worry. He was about to open his mind in protest, to warn the small and light stranger to stay away from him for fear of taking them both down if he were to topple over, but then the stranger kept on talking, and for a moment, everything went… dull.

The knight’s eyes lost their spark, as though a cloud of grey smoke enveloped him. His expression, previously pained, relaxed into cold neutrality as he moved himself into a sitting position in one slow, deliberate motion, like a keyed automaton with its springs wound up.

The next thing he knew was that he was suddenly sat down on the steps, his pose unnaturally stiff, not at all like the relative comfort he’d allowed himself before the stranger first approached him. Vibrant colors returned to the world around him gradually, and when he raised his dark brown eyes at the other man, there was a clear tint of confusion in his gaze, as though he’s just woken up and hasn’t had the chance to get his bearings yet.

Something was pressed into his hand, the stranger spoke again, and before the knight had the chance to feel a little more like himself, his focus was gone again.

His body moved in the same mechanical, singularly purposeful way, bringing the waterskin to his lips. Cold fresh water seemed inexplicably sweet on his tongue and provided some much-needed relief to his parched throat, but every gulp turned agonizing just from knowing – from feeling with every fiber of his being – that none of it was Tenth’s doing, that someone – or something – else had him under its control.

He placed the half-empty waterskin on the cobblestone step, and his shoulders slumped immediately, like a puppet with its strings cut. “S-stop,” he muttered, discarding the remaining gauntlet and dropping his head into his hands. Then, with a long sigh of a futile attempt to steel his nerves, “gods…”

He stared at his palms for a few seconds, as if trying to judge whether or not he could trust his hands not to move on their own, then raised his eyes and glanced around, taking in the sharpness and vibrancy of shapes and colors. It struck him then that his earlier state – the dullness, the quiet, the purposefulness, the lack of need or ability to think of anything else – that was familiar. Everything else was new.