(no subject)
The pain in his ribs has gone down - still a sharp ache when he moves the wrong way, but he's become much better at keeping his torso stiff. The swelling of the fingers of his right hand has decreased - he can even twitch them. His tongue has almost gone back to normal, with only a few ridges of slimy flesh to remind him that it was ever bitten.
It’s his calf that hurts - the bite mark from sharp teeth in a human-shaped mouth. It was a lucky bite for him, too shallow to cut open an artery or muscle.
He feels the bite as he lies down to sleep. Every ounce of blood grinds against the toothmarks, sending little jolts of pain up his leg, into his guts and his brain. He has to walk the farm and the bunker tomorrow to create Wards. It will hurt even more after that.
Oliver used up the last of his pain pills last night. A heavy, slithering need tells him to get more.
He clasps his hands and prays, Lord, help your humble servant in his time of trial-
- my brothers will think I ran, put a black flame next to my name on the lists-
- grant me the wisdom to know your will and the grace of spirit to complete it as you command-
- how many battles have I missed? how many deaths could I have prevented?-
- I beg…I beg-
- I AM TIRED OF BEGGING! Do you delight in seeing me lost? How is this part of your plan? I was sinful once but I have been good, a dutiful son….
Oliver rants at God for a good half hour. He uses his illusionary power (a wizard’s power, a sinner’s power) to make his room in the earth bunker look like his room at the Abbey, complete with Barty snoring away in his bed across the room.
Oliver watches the rise and fall of Barty’s chest under the grey linen blankets. He looks around the room, sees his chest of clothes, his oil lamp, his toiletries, his ink pot. Simple, commonplace things that seem so foolish to miss. He looks over at Barty, makes the simulacrum get up, so that he can apologize, wish him well, do-
- Nothing. Oliver dismisses the lies. I am whole. I am in a peaceful place. I have my magic. I can serve - and service is all that matters. I ask that you forgive your wayward son, my Lord, for forgetting that.
He barely sleeps that night. His leg hurts. The need gapes, laughs - he’ll use the van tomorrow and go to the pharmacy.