The Runner (Part I of the Runner Series)

Chapter 44

My shoulder hisses and spits, spewing fire. I scream and thrash on the bed, my hands flailing blindly and sometimes connecting with one of the faceless figures hovering over me.

Someone places a hand on my brow and I bat them away. My every sinew calls out for escape, urges me to run, but my traitorous limbs feel strangely heavy and weak. My legs kick and tangle in the sheets, dampening them with my continual sweating.

I exist between fits of terrifying consciousness and burning darkness. From somewhere in the recesses of my mind, memories stir. I fight to grasp onto them while I sleep, slowly piecing myself back together. I wake, and for the briefest of moments I am aware of Meg's voice, or of Will's touch. I remember my friends, our fight. I remember why I have to wake up.

Gradually, the fear recedes and the haze clears. I briefly register someone spooning food and water into my mouth, rubbing my back when I cough and murmuring kind words as I drift back to sleep.

When I finally find the strength to ease my eyes open, the light is almost piercing in its brightness. I try again and eventually, the room swims into focus.

I am still in the bed Meg tucked me into, though I am clean and someone has changed my clothes. White, breezy curtains are tucked around my cot, blocking my view of the infirmary. I try to raise myself into a sitting position and groan when my shoulder protests. Collapsing back onto the soft cushions, I ease the neck of my shift down, poking at a thick, padded bandage before I examine the rest of my body. A cursory check reveals that my entire torso has been swathed in linen bandages but my various bruises have already begun to fade. I throw the covers aside and find that my left knee has also been wrapped heavily and is propped up on a cushion.

I hear the curtain being pulled back and look up. Will steps through, his eyes widening when he sees me looking at him. A smile breaks out over his face, both sides of his mouth lifting simultaneously.

"You're awake," he says simply, keeping his voice low. There must be more patients outside.

"I think so."

He sinks onto the edge of my bed and helps me sit up, offering a glass of water once I'm comfortable.

We sit in companionable silence while I drink; at some point I realize that Will has taken hold of my hand. A small part of me wishes to pull back, but I remain still, content to just have him with me, alive and whole.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, eventually.

I sigh contentedly. "The best I've been in days."

"I'm glad to hear it. Some people have been extremely concerned about you."

"Some people?" I tilt my head, raising an eyebrow. "Not you?"

"Not for a moment. After everything you've been through, I refused to believe that you'd be taken down by anything as ordinary as a fever." He smirks but I notice the unsightly shadows bordering his grey eyes.

"So long as I have your vote of confidence, Will Cain, I shall remain standing," I tease.

He laces his fingers more securely with mine and squeezes my hand tightly.

"How long was I out?" I ask, wrinkling my brow as I try to remember.

"Five days," he replies. "I had to stitch up your shoulder and parts of your back, so you're going to feel some tenderness back there."

I grimace, suddenly remembering the ugly network of scars that will surely mark my body forever. Deep in the gaol, it didn't matter, but out here it is difficult to keep at bay the anger I feel, knowing the King's cruelty will always be a part of my skin.