It was impossible to tell just how long Solomon slept. He had nothing with which to tell time, and his sleep was a deep, dreamless one. At first. The movement of people entering his cell made him stir, not physically but metaphysically, half aware of the ripples in the lifestream. It wasn't enough to actually wake him up, but he knew they were there. He felt it when they lifted him, placed him on a gurney, took him from the room.
His mind dismissed it and sank back into slumber. Everything after that was snatched, flashes.
He felt a pinprick in his arm. The flood of something in his veins. Maybe painkillers, maybe blood, maybe something else. It didn't matter; it was liquid strength, and he was aware of it.
People nearby. Some of them were shadows, black-on-black and visible because they made the Scream louder. Others were softer, with dim embers of light here and there, casting shadows. He let them flow past him and do what they willed. Mostly. Someone tried to take Kian from him; his grip tightened instinctively and he began to rise from the benefits of sleep, mumbling a wordless objection. The insistent tug ceased.
Someone approached, someone familiar. Quiver. Strange. The ember was still there, glowing brighter in some respects, but veiled more deeply than before. His voice resonated, that steady deadpan.
"Solomon, your hands are injured. Your bear is filthy. Let us clean it and return it to you."
There was something ... odd. A thought, a pondering, something he should question. Except that for a moment that ember was unbanked and Solomon felt warmth in it, not searing but comforting, and knew Quiver wasn't lying. He would have it cleaned and return it. His grip loosened enough to allow them the bear.
The next interminable time was spent slightly more aware, if only because the Scream was more irritating without Kian's soothing presence, but not complete enough to be called true wakefulness. Quiver was somewhere nearby, but so were others. Solomon could smell something sterile, but at a distance which made it not matter except for its vague familiarity. Someone was nearby, replacing the liquid strength which had begun to run dry. Someone else was even nearer, sponging the grime off him.
Once more unease. Once more that wondering, that question he should ask.
What's going on?
He was in the medical ward. He had to be. Sterility. His hands, stinging with the treatment. The sponge-bath. Why? What were they planning?
Too hard to figure out. Solomon observed with distant tranquillity, waiting for the moment it would be revealed. Because it would be. Of that, he was sure.
He was being moved. Naturally, he was. He couldn't do it himself, nor was he inclined to. But instead of a bed he was placed in a chair--a comfortable chair, mostly, except that there seemed to be rather a lot of straps required around his wrists and ankles, and his head.
Wait.
A fission ran through him and finally that part of him that was the survivor, the part that had collapsed with sheer exhaustion and was only now groggily waking, registered.
Still tired. Still beyond tired. But stronger, now, his aches and pains numbed, his body offered extra aids. The adrenaline helped further. Solomon forced open his eyes and found himself bound to a chair, unable to move his head, and in a room empty of nearly anything except chair, table, healer, Quiver and High Priest Tenebrae. Quiver's ember was once more veiled. The healer was an odd sort of grey, a smog to thick to penetrate. Tenebrae ... Tenebrae.
He was obsidian. Chipped obsidian, with the only highlight the radiating blue-black fracture at his heart.
Solomon's brain hadn't quite engaged yet, but his voice was only slightly unsteady with sleepiness as he said, "This isn't exactly the side of the bed on which I thought I'd wake this morning, I must admit."
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His mind dismissed it and sank back into slumber. Everything after that was snatched, flashes.
He felt a pinprick in his arm. The flood of something in his veins. Maybe painkillers, maybe blood, maybe something else. It didn't matter; it was liquid strength, and he was aware of it.
People nearby. Some of them were shadows, black-on-black and visible because they made the Scream louder. Others were softer, with dim embers of light here and there, casting shadows. He let them flow past him and do what they willed. Mostly. Someone tried to take Kian from him; his grip tightened instinctively and he began to rise from the benefits of sleep, mumbling a wordless objection. The insistent tug ceased.
Someone approached, someone familiar. Quiver. Strange. The ember was still there, glowing brighter in some respects, but veiled more deeply than before. His voice resonated, that steady deadpan.
"Solomon, your hands are injured. Your bear is filthy. Let us clean it and return it to you."
There was something ... odd. A thought, a pondering, something he should question. Except that for a moment that ember was unbanked and Solomon felt warmth in it, not searing but comforting, and knew Quiver wasn't lying. He would have it cleaned and return it. His grip loosened enough to allow them the bear.
The next interminable time was spent slightly more aware, if only because the Scream was more irritating without Kian's soothing presence, but not complete enough to be called true wakefulness. Quiver was somewhere nearby, but so were others. Solomon could smell something sterile, but at a distance which made it not matter except for its vague familiarity. Someone was nearby, replacing the liquid strength which had begun to run dry. Someone else was even nearer, sponging the grime off him.
Once more unease. Once more that wondering, that question he should ask.
What's going on?
He was in the medical ward. He had to be. Sterility. His hands, stinging with the treatment. The sponge-bath. Why? What were they planning?
Too hard to figure out. Solomon observed with distant tranquillity, waiting for the moment it would be revealed. Because it would be. Of that, he was sure.
He was being moved. Naturally, he was. He couldn't do it himself, nor was he inclined to. But instead of a bed he was placed in a chair--a comfortable chair, mostly, except that there seemed to be rather a lot of straps required around his wrists and ankles, and his head.
Wait.
A fission ran through him and finally that part of him that was the survivor, the part that had collapsed with sheer exhaustion and was only now groggily waking, registered.
Still tired. Still beyond tired. But stronger, now, his aches and pains numbed, his body offered extra aids. The adrenaline helped further. Solomon forced open his eyes and found himself bound to a chair, unable to move his head, and in a room empty of nearly anything except chair, table, healer, Quiver and High Priest Tenebrae. Quiver's ember was once more veiled. The healer was an odd sort of grey, a smog to thick to penetrate. Tenebrae ... Tenebrae.
He was obsidian. Chipped obsidian, with the only highlight the radiating blue-black fracture at his heart.
Solomon's brain hadn't quite engaged yet, but his voice was only slightly unsteady with sleepiness as he said, "This isn't exactly the side of the bed on which I thought I'd wake this morning, I must admit."