More sessions, more screaming, more crying, and more healing broken bits that I'm finding harder to stitch back together. I can feel my own strength flaking, feel the tiredness pulling my eyelids down.
I blink furiously to try and zap some life back into them and keep them focused on the deep gouge no longer bleeding heavily on her thigh. Arkyn got a little enthusiastic today. I've already healed the other wounds, saving this for last. I stuffed the wound with herbs to help prevent infection, and the plant needed to do its job before I pulled it out and mended the torn muscle and skin. It also allowed for the nutrients of the herbs to enter her bloodstream. She's getting worse.
It's slow progress, but it's progress, nonetheless. Even if I'm yawning every few seconds and swaying in between. I might just collapse down beside her and let sleep overrun me. The cold stone would be an upgrade to the thin layer of hay they've been so gracious to supply me. They took my cot when I refused their demand to restore her vocal cords. A small punishment compared to the bones they shattered in my hands. They shook with a wrenching pain for what could've been days. All the while, I kept my power from mending them so that I could save it to heal her. That was only until the pain became too unbearable to withstand, that I healed them. Not entirely, as it would've surely drained me.
My hands still have small fractures here and there, enough to make it painful to pick up a vial. Even now there's a slight tremor in them. I try to steady them as the last small bit of cells multiply and seal the two halves of her leg together. I wipe the remaining blood off with a wet cloth, careful to not apply too much pressure and cause her to wince. I hate when she winces at my touch. It feels as if I'm the torturer, here to cause her pain.
I finish up, waving another hand over her body to clear her of all injuries. Nothing but pristine tissue echoes back. "Rest up."
I go to stand, but her hand catches my wrist. I hold in my wince, afraid she'll freak out if she thinks she hurt me. "Left," she whispers, her voice coarse and tired too.
I silently curse my tired brain. I had almost forgotten that she likes to be laid on her left side to rest. I don't know why, as it's the right side that allows you to fall asleep quicker. From day one she's laid on her left side, and if I forget to do so, she claws and moans until I roll her over. It's just about the only thing the girl can remember, though I fear it's a physical memory like a habit of biting your nails. It's harder to get rid of than the images of you laughing with someone or crying for someone else.
"Sorry. Here." I place one hand beneath her shoulders, the other under her hip, and slowly roll her onto her side.
She's too weak to do it on her own, and I ignore the pain lancing up my arm as I make sure she won't fall forward or backward. Once she's on her side her eyes fall closed, and I listen as her heart slows. Not by much, as she's losing the fight against death at the moment, but by enough to tell me she's already falling into a deep rest. Her sleep used to be a light thing. Something that would have her eyes snapping open at the first sound of the door opening. Now it takes me putting a hand on her head and shooting more signals into her brain to get her to wake.
I try standing, but my legs feel leaden. I so badly want to sleep, but if I sleep now then the guards will carry me out, and I'll be too dead asleep to wake if they decide to do anything more than put me to bed.
The thought of their filthy hands on me has me throwing whatever strength I have left into my lower half and moving as quickly as possible up the stairs and through my cell door. I take two steps into the stale room before my knees buckle and I plop down on the pokey hay. Blissful darkness sweeps over me, letting whatever dreams or nightmares run wild. I haven't had a dream in a long time, and the nightmares are all the same as when I'm awake. They're filled with the sound of her screams and the snaps and pops of breaking bones and tearing ligaments and tendons. It's all so horrific, and now it's unrelenting no matter where I go or what state I'm in.
YOU ARE READING
Fate and Destiny (The Fated Series, #2)
Fantasy{{CURRENTLY UNDERGOING EDITING}} A kingdom across the sea, a man in pain clawing at a hated king who bears two shadows who protect him. A child, born from a mother with the powers of the Gods, screaming at a blood-soaked bed. A boy, a Prince, kind a...
