Discordant Harmonies 3: Measure of Resistance

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Everything hurt. Géta breathed shallowly once he woke enough to realize the pain throbbing in his body. Nothing had been spared. His joints hurt, his fingers, his arms, legs, and torso. Within that pain, he could feel each and every bone sending out its own waves of pain. His head pulsed with his heartbeat, and the air entering and exiting his nose sent up little spikes of pain through his nose and against the skin above his upper lip. It felt like the air he breathed burned his lungs, and he'd have sworn even his hair hurt.

He cracked his eyes open, uncertain where he lay, too much in pain to have any other feeling about his apparent survival. Yes, he had tried to kill himself, but he was in no condition for wondering how he'd survived at the moment. The view of a ceiling painted sky-blue, with wisps of clouds depicted upon it was enough to tell him he was in a private room in the infirmary. Géta closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again, trying to look around.

Across the room, near the foot of the bed, next to the privy room, he saw the top of his Mage's hair. Asthané faced away from him, bent over something on the writing-desk he sat at, concentration so complete, he apparently hadn't noticed Géta had awoken. Then again, Asthané probably picked up the pain Géta likely radiated, even in sleep.

Suspecting he should leave his Mage be and simply close his eyes and drift on the pain, Géta spoke anyway. "Why did you stop me?"

The sound of his hoarse, pained voice caused Asthané to sit up. For about a minute, his Mage did nothing else, and Géta tried not to tense up. He did anyway, and it made the pain worse, but he couldn't help it. Beneath the covers, his fingers twitched, too much in pain to knot into fists, but driven by an instinctive need to prepare for the worst.

Asthané rose and turned to face him. "I had to."

"It was my duty—"

Géta flinched when his Mage cut the air with a hand, a sign that Asthané knew he'd tried to kill himself. Trying to shrink into the mattress, Géta kept an eye on his Mage, waiting. Asthané took two paces toward him, coming along the side of the bed, expression more angry than he'd ever seen aimed at himself.

"What did you think your death would solve, Géta?"

He shook his head minutely, a frantic shudder from side to side. This was impossible to answer honestly, but he suspected Asthané's question had been at least partly rhetorical.

"Who would have been helped by it?"

Géta opened his mouth, because he did have an answer for this, but he didn't get a chance to reply, for Asthané went on, throwing words at him.

"Death is the coward's way out of his troubles, and I thought you were braver than that. From the first time I met you, Géta, you had courage." Asthané took two more stalking paces toward Géta, gesticulating wildly in his rant. "You clung to duty when that courage faltered. You never gave up, even when you were at your most hopeless. You somehow found hope, and you clung to it against all odds. What did you think your death would solve?"

Another pace, and Asthané paused here, breathing heavily, face reddened as though he'd worked himself into a fury over this. Géta averted his gaze from his Mage, biting his lower lip, unable to evade this tirade or explain himself. Asthané had figured out his intent, and he couldn't escape. But, in a way, he didn't want to escape. It was, in his mind, only what he deserved for all he'd done and hadn't done since killing those Inskiti Army commanders.

"Every problem is solvable, Géta, no matter how awful it may seem or how painful it is to endure. What did you think I'd do? Did you think I'd be glad you're gone? Did you think you're too much trouble for me to go on caring about?"