07-09-2023, 02:32 PM
Days passed uneventfully. He caught snatches of excited conversation from time to time, but whatever caused the furore wasn’t centred around his own tests. Those continued on schedule, also uneventfully. Visha did not return, nor did anyone seem inclined to share with him what had happened to her. Alone, Raffe felt his thoughts begin to spiral again. He wondered what Nox was doing. Whether he’d left Kallisti entirely and not just long enough to give Raffe the space he’d asked for. The voice-message had had the tones of a goodbye. Either way he was fairly sure Nox would be punishing himself for what had happened. Raffe didn’t feel glad about that; he knew too much about the other man’s past to feel any true vindication, even if he’d been hurt in the process. But he also knew there was nothing he could have done about it. Not without sending mixed messages. He didn’t know what he wanted.
When he replayed things now he only felt numb, and he couldn’t tell if it meant the pain had gone or if he’d simply come to terms with how it had imploded everything. He’d spent his life without roots. Connections came and went, and Raffe accepted what befell him eventually. He didn’t even know why he’d expected fidelity, but clearly he had. That dream had gone, he realised. And it had been a dream.
DAY 6
This time he woke up because he was hot. A swipe against his face found it slick. Raffe’s pulse was burning in his ears, and his chest felt crumbly, caving in with every exhale. It was hard to lift again with a new breath, and it roused him in panic. When his sticky eyes opened, he realised it wasn’t night at all, and he shied from the blurring pain of lights overhead. The soft beeps of the machines were familiar. People milled around the bed. Something pinched a vein, and then he floated back down. It was nicer there.
Later he came round, exhausted, but a little cooler. He should have been alarmed to recognise Ephraim Haart himself at his bedside, but the realisation only fell like a stone beneath the waves. He understood then that he was Sick. Understood too what it meant, this time. Peace sank him heavy when he felt Ephraim’s kindly gaze, and the soft words: “I’m sorry, Raffe.”
He’d never wanted this power. Not once. It didn’t seem fair, yet he didn’t regret acting to help Visha. He didn’t ask, but he knew that was why. He’d channeled before the tech had the chance to do its job fully. And now he was going to die for it.
Half a smile twitched, about as much as Raffe could muster. He would have shrugged if he could, but honestly his bones felt like liquid. There was a line in his arm, deadening the pain at least. Most who went this way died screaming. His eyes fluttered shut.
“...can make you comfortable if you wish,” Ephraim was saying. His voice was low, comforting. “...final thing we can offer… experimental…”
Somewhere distant Raffe was aware of other voices. Time had passed again. They were arguing about consent and science and the future. He recoiled weakly from the hands on his body soon after, confused as it wrenched him the fragile peace of drifting somewhere too deep to rouse. He just wanted to sleep. But whatever dulled the pain of fever now receded. His veins flooded with fire, and he began to scream.
DAY UNKNOWN
The world bloomed dull. He’d been here too long to remember the sun. When consciousness returned, Raffe was reluctant to acknowledge it, curled on his side, face buried. Memories bloodsoaked and dark with what he could only guess were fever dreams cooled in the back of his mind, discarded. He focused only on breathing. Ignored the nurses who came to attend to him. He didn’t feel ill. He didn’t feel anything at all.
When he replayed things now he only felt numb, and he couldn’t tell if it meant the pain had gone or if he’d simply come to terms with how it had imploded everything. He’d spent his life without roots. Connections came and went, and Raffe accepted what befell him eventually. He didn’t even know why he’d expected fidelity, but clearly he had. That dream had gone, he realised. And it had been a dream.
DAY 6
This time he woke up because he was hot. A swipe against his face found it slick. Raffe’s pulse was burning in his ears, and his chest felt crumbly, caving in with every exhale. It was hard to lift again with a new breath, and it roused him in panic. When his sticky eyes opened, he realised it wasn’t night at all, and he shied from the blurring pain of lights overhead. The soft beeps of the machines were familiar. People milled around the bed. Something pinched a vein, and then he floated back down. It was nicer there.
Later he came round, exhausted, but a little cooler. He should have been alarmed to recognise Ephraim Haart himself at his bedside, but the realisation only fell like a stone beneath the waves. He understood then that he was Sick. Understood too what it meant, this time. Peace sank him heavy when he felt Ephraim’s kindly gaze, and the soft words: “I’m sorry, Raffe.”
He’d never wanted this power. Not once. It didn’t seem fair, yet he didn’t regret acting to help Visha. He didn’t ask, but he knew that was why. He’d channeled before the tech had the chance to do its job fully. And now he was going to die for it.
Half a smile twitched, about as much as Raffe could muster. He would have shrugged if he could, but honestly his bones felt like liquid. There was a line in his arm, deadening the pain at least. Most who went this way died screaming. His eyes fluttered shut.
“...can make you comfortable if you wish,” Ephraim was saying. His voice was low, comforting. “...final thing we can offer… experimental…”
Somewhere distant Raffe was aware of other voices. Time had passed again. They were arguing about consent and science and the future. He recoiled weakly from the hands on his body soon after, confused as it wrenched him the fragile peace of drifting somewhere too deep to rouse. He just wanted to sleep. But whatever dulled the pain of fever now receded. His veins flooded with fire, and he began to scream.
DAY UNKNOWN
The world bloomed dull. He’d been here too long to remember the sun. When consciousness returned, Raffe was reluctant to acknowledge it, curled on his side, face buried. Memories bloodsoaked and dark with what he could only guess were fever dreams cooled in the back of his mind, discarded. He focused only on breathing. Ignored the nurses who came to attend to him. He didn’t feel ill. He didn’t feel anything at all.
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