Chapter 53. Insane

wilight shadows flowed into his little room as he awakened alone and unrefreshed.  His throat ached from crying out in his sleep and his body fell around him like so much dead weight.  Just sitting up was a chore but he was sick of lying on his back, sick of lying down.  Sick of breathing.  He remembered pleading with Kiku to be allowed to die and regretted that she had not ended it then.

Because I’m too much of a coward to end it myself.

He rose slowly, his body still a stranger to him, barely able to carry out his meanest tasks.  It was the work of several minutes even to do anything as simple as finding the chamber pot and relieving himself.  Gods, it was a new kind of prison and he was done with it.

And by happenstance he saw a paring knife beside a bowl of fruit.  Odd that they would place that in his room when he could barely handle their bland gruel.  But he vaguely recalling the monk who shared vigil with Teleri peeling an apple and chopping it into small slices to pass the time.  He had left behind the knife.  Pendaran staggered toward the low table, the whole of his being shaking when he finally made it there.  Panting with effort, he seized the blade and carried it back to his bed.

A small cut.  That was all he needed.  He lifted his arm, barely able to see through his tears.  Just pick a place to cut, only make it hurt and then he could focus and get through another hour or two.  But he was so wasted and it was difficult to know where it was safe to make an incision.  And if he put it in an obvious place they would know.

Inside of the arm. He could hide it pressed against his body.  Small cut, just enough to burn and pull him out of his misery.  Something to focus on.  Focus.  Holding his breath, he drew the blade sharply against his bicep and gasped, swooning as blood crawled over his flesh.  Oh sweet pain, sweet pain that was everything now as he bit his lip and dwelt there, aware of nothing else, not even the door opening.

“Idiot!”

Pendaran ignored the intrusion into his mind, the whole of him curled around the sharp burn of his arm.

“You have been tortured and reduced to begging for death, yet you do this to yourself?” the voice roared angrily in his mind.

Pendaran did not resist as the knife was dragged from his slack grip.  He was pushed back onto the bed, faint now as he felt the wound being wrapped to staunch the flow of blood.

“You’re in no condition for this,” the voice snapped in his mind, “Idiot!”

Pendaran gazed up into Zhou’s grim visage.  How the man had appeared at precisely the right moment escaped him.  It seemed odd and he assumed he was now hallucinating as often happened when he went too far.

“No discipline,” the man growled at him, “Have you done a single mantra or focusing rite since you left your teachers?”

Pendaran shook his head guiltily.

“If you had, this would not be necessary,” Zhou shouted at him, “No more knives, no more unfocused mind racket.  You’re doing your exercises and I’m going to make sure you do.”

Zhou’s rage was almost palpable, rising over the pain and drawing Pendaran back into reality.  So he was there.  But how?

“I’m a mesmer, you fool,” Zhou growled into his mind, “and having someone of your talent going quietly insane under the same roof as me has been no end of joy.  That’s about to change, one way or the other.”