[prompt] i have patience for centuries in me
Later he'll reflect on the indignity of his entrance, on how pathetically grateful he was to be alone with it, on how he'd never felt cold like that before - in the moment when he comes to, bloody and naked with a hole inside him that has nothing to do with swordfights, in a place that even his cut-off and limited ability can feel pulsing in the back of his mind, his thoughts don't form full words. (He thinks god, of course.)
Metaphors and self-pity aside, it hurts when he moves and after the first few tries he stops, lies there for a while and thinks free before he stops and doesn't think about anything, waiting in silence to see if anything happens. Surely he's dead. He died; he felt himself die. (He coughs up blood and feels what's left pounding in his ears; not dead, then, or at least not as dead as he should be. He's too tired to think too hard about it.)
When he wakes up the second time, the blood's dried to his skin and the pain's eased; he can stand, even if he doesn't particularly want to and trying it too fast makes the world (such as it is) spin and twirl around him, like massive blood loss will do to a man. (He's violently ill and feels only a little better for it.)
It's grassy, out of the way, and nearby there's a river; not ideal, but it'll do, and when he focuses, or simply doesn't focus at all, he can hear sounds of population. Distant sounds, which suits him fine for now, but there's somewhere to go. It's one foot in front of the other, and then hand over fist, his out of no where because he needs clothes and a sword and this poor unsuspecting bastard is close enough. (He does not get up again, though Martel didn't bother checking if he would.)
He should have bandages, some sort of dressing; he's a walking dead man and he doesn't care yet. (Even the dead are denied the luxury of the end.)
prompt: the end [268]
word count: 350
notes: martel's first RP appearance wasn't the first moments he spent in the nexus. tada! ...this is slightly gross, ftr.