throbbing against the inside of his skull, mostly, which is why he makes a low moan even as he just starts to stir. something, he's faintly aware, is wrong. he shouldn't hurt this much. the surface beneath his cheek is cold, and that feels good, even if he doesn't have a ready explanation for what or why that is. but that's wrong too, he thinks. maybe. or, it's strange. if he's waking, then he must've been asleep — so says bleary reasoning, and the bleariness seems to point to sleep too — and if he'd been asleep, he might've been in bed.
or, no. that's wrong. he must've been home (why wouldn't he be home?) and fallen asleep on cold earth in the woods, or an abandoned barn along the road. (why would he call that home, when neither place is two rivers?) that makes as much sense as anything. which means mat is probably sleeping nearby, or perrin, or egwene, or nynaeve, or,
the voice is unfamiliar.
at least, the voice doesn't belong to any of them. not lan either, or moiraine, or loial. and that's strange, isn't it. so he opens his eyes slowly, recognizing nothing around him. gray, and gray, and gray — metal bars rising up further than he can see, which,
something is wrong.
his eyes land on, focus on, amos. and then it starts to come back to him: a harsh voice, an unexpected battle, and his father's blade slicked with blood. and then it starts to come back to him: amos, and desperately channeling a bolt of lightning, and,
his eyes land on those white, clean bandages. he breathes in sharply, slams his eyes shut for a brief moment, and opens them again as he reflexively tries to push himself upright and scramble backwards. but his arms don't work, do absolutely nothing as his legs spasm and scrabble uselessly against the stone floor. ]
What is this?
[where is this, he means. but also what happened to me, and why are you here? ]
no subject
throbbing against the inside of his skull, mostly, which is why he makes a low moan even as he just starts to stir. something, he's faintly aware, is wrong. he shouldn't hurt this much. the surface beneath his cheek is cold, and that feels good, even if he doesn't have a ready explanation for what or why that is. but that's wrong too, he thinks. maybe. or, it's strange. if he's waking, then he must've been asleep — so says bleary reasoning, and the bleariness seems to point to sleep too — and if he'd been asleep, he might've been in bed.
or, no. that's wrong. he must've been home (why wouldn't he be home?) and fallen asleep on cold earth in the woods, or an abandoned barn along the road. (why would he call that home, when neither place is two rivers?) that makes as much sense as anything. which means mat is probably sleeping nearby, or perrin, or egwene, or nynaeve, or,
the voice is unfamiliar.
at least, the voice doesn't belong to any of them. not lan either, or moiraine, or loial. and that's strange, isn't it. so he opens his eyes slowly, recognizing nothing around him. gray, and gray, and gray — metal bars rising up further than he can see, which,
something is wrong.
his eyes land on, focus on, amos. and then it starts to come back to him: a harsh voice, an unexpected battle, and his father's blade slicked with blood. and then it starts to come back to him: amos, and desperately channeling a bolt of lightning, and,
his eyes land on those white, clean bandages. he breathes in sharply, slams his eyes shut for a brief moment, and opens them again as he reflexively tries to push himself upright and scramble backwards. but his arms don't work, do absolutely nothing as his legs spasm and scrabble uselessly against the stone floor. ]
What is this?
[ where is this, he means. but also what happened to me, and why are you here? ]