Five days. Five days of hard fighting, no sleep, the screams and sobs of frightened children. Five days of his body attempting to heal itself of a succession of mortal injuries while poison from the goblin crossbow bolts he’d taken in the first day continues to course through his body. Five days of icy rain and impenetrable fog, chilling him to his core.
Five days of looks of fear and disgust from the ones he’s supposed to be protecting.
By the time they finally reach their goal, Joscelin is at his limit. He attempts to hide his shaking hands as he barks orders to the children, eyes fever bright, but he’s close to collapse. He’s too tired to complain and doesn’t bother correcting anyone when, some hours after they arrive, he finds himself shepherded around with the children, having been mistaken for one of their number. Someone who looks very much like she ought to be the matron at a boarding school in some Victorian novel sits him down with a plate of something gooey and steaming that doesn’t, on the balance, taste all that bad.
He’s vaguely aware of the doors opening, of more people being admitted to the hall but it’s so hard to tell when black spots keep dancing in front of his vision faster than he can blink them away
He sets down his spoon, folds his napkin, and then topples backwards out of his chair in a dead faint.
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Five days. Five days of hard fighting, no sleep, the screams and sobs of frightened children. Five days of his body attempting to heal itself of a succession of mortal injuries while poison from the goblin crossbow bolts he’d taken in the first day continues to course through his body. Five days of icy rain and impenetrable fog, chilling him to his core.
Five days of looks of fear and disgust from the ones he’s supposed to be protecting.
By the time they finally reach their goal, Joscelin is at his limit. He attempts to hide his shaking hands as he barks orders to the children, eyes fever bright, but he’s close to collapse. He’s too tired to complain and doesn’t bother correcting anyone when, some hours after they arrive, he finds himself shepherded around with the children, having been mistaken for one of their number. Someone who looks very much like she ought to be the matron at a boarding school in some Victorian novel sits him down with a plate of something gooey and steaming that doesn’t, on the balance, taste all that bad.
He’s vaguely aware of the doors opening, of more people being admitted to the hall but it’s so hard to tell when black spots keep dancing in front of his vision faster than he can blink them away
He sets down his spoon, folds his napkin, and then topples backwards out of his chair in a dead faint.