The (un)beautiful mind.
The confusion seems appropriate, considering the fog in his head and the full body ache. Still, in more than a century of warden duties, he'd never been attacked in such a way.
The scene replays in his mind. Cornered by two imposing demons, they only get close enough to splash him with that black ichor. The filth is as thick as tar and smells like infection. It makes his stomach do somersaults.
One foot in front of the other. The left and then the right. The slime gets under his clothes and drips over his skin, some of it has accumulated in his boots and there's a squelching sound that accompanies each shuffling step.
It shouldn't take this much concentration to move forward, he thinks to himself. His fragmented concentration lost count of his paces ten minutes ago, but the route through the nevernerver is familiar. The nausea he's fighting is further aggravated by the realization that he can't make it home in this condition.
This ichor, whatever it is, is making him smell. More importantly, it's making him sick and he knows the half hour walk is too much for his rapidly fading strength. He needs a place to clean himself off and rest. A few hours of sleep would be sufficient to slough off the fluish symptoms.
That's what he tells himself, but something, which he can only describe as an itch in the back of his mind is warning something far more sinister is happening to him.
He has to stop suddenly, his upper body curls into the fetal position and he narrowly avoids putting more fluid in his boots. For a moment he remains completely still, lest a sudden wave of nausea brings more, but his stomach steadies. He spits the filmly bile taste out of his mouth and stands upright again.
***
He can't remember most of the trip through the nevernever, nor does he remember approaching his eldest son's home, but the image of his daughter in law's face does stick with him.
It's not quite shock on her face, she's seen and seen far too many gruesome things in her time as a healer to be shocked by anything ... but he's never seen her look over him with a look of worry like that.
He opens his mouth to speak and then he sways, as if pushed by an incredible gust of an imaginary breeze and his knees buckle. He unconscious before his head hits the ground.
The scene replays in his mind. Cornered by two imposing demons, they only get close enough to splash him with that black ichor. The filth is as thick as tar and smells like infection. It makes his stomach do somersaults.
One foot in front of the other. The left and then the right. The slime gets under his clothes and drips over his skin, some of it has accumulated in his boots and there's a squelching sound that accompanies each shuffling step.
It shouldn't take this much concentration to move forward, he thinks to himself. His fragmented concentration lost count of his paces ten minutes ago, but the route through the nevernerver is familiar. The nausea he's fighting is further aggravated by the realization that he can't make it home in this condition.
This ichor, whatever it is, is making him smell. More importantly, it's making him sick and he knows the half hour walk is too much for his rapidly fading strength. He needs a place to clean himself off and rest. A few hours of sleep would be sufficient to slough off the fluish symptoms.
That's what he tells himself, but something, which he can only describe as an itch in the back of his mind is warning something far more sinister is happening to him.
He has to stop suddenly, his upper body curls into the fetal position and he narrowly avoids putting more fluid in his boots. For a moment he remains completely still, lest a sudden wave of nausea brings more, but his stomach steadies. He spits the filmly bile taste out of his mouth and stands upright again.
***
He can't remember most of the trip through the nevernever, nor does he remember approaching his eldest son's home, but the image of his daughter in law's face does stick with him.
It's not quite shock on her face, she's seen and seen far too many gruesome things in her time as a healer to be shocked by anything ... but he's never seen her look over him with a look of worry like that.
He opens his mouth to speak and then he sways, as if pushed by an incredible gust of an imaginary breeze and his knees buckle. He unconscious before his head hits the ground.