Chapter 13
“Fringe experiments in chronomancy aside, time is the one resource that none of us will ever get back. Through study of magic and the ensuing improvements to our bodies, we can prolong our lifespans far beyond what is considered natural, even maintaining the appearance and capabilities of youth as the centuries pass, but none of that is relevant when the specific moment that you need has already passed you by. Eyes are ever turned to the future, to what we shall build and what we shall become, and in so turning our gaze we blind ourselves to the present and all that is most vital.”
—Loving Life: A Mage’s Guide To Calming Down, Hingle Bootheel
It took five days of recovery before he was discharged.
All of the time that he should have been using to work on his advancement before the tournament, had been eaten up with the endless boredom and a constant slipping back and forth between consciousness and sleep. If he had just been laid up and unable to move, then all the work that he had to do in his mind would have been enough to occupy him, but the medicine being used to treat him took its toll. As usual, it hadn’t been the physical damage that the Eidolons had dealt that caused the majority of the issues, but the overuse of his own magic.
His internal channels may have been toughened by his second embodiment to minimize the damage of regular use, but this had been so far beyond regular use that they had ruptured. Stabilizing his core when he’d been unable to cycle mana had been an arduous process involving repeated and painful probing by the medic, who had now put up a wall of professional indifference between them after his mumbling idiocy while too hurt to think clearly.
They hadn’t been the five worst days in Sylvas life only because he had been through so much already, but they were definitely ranking highly in his estimations.
Even now that he’d been released it was with strict and explicit instructions to return the moment that anything felt wrong, with an outright ban on any casting. More than that he was also given a modified version of an ardent crest attached to his hastily replaced uniform that was meant to alert the medical staff if there was the slightest change in his condition. He was able to cycle a small amount of mana into his core through meditation so that he was no longer teetering on the brink of collapse, but any attempt to draw in more or use any other technique for drawing in more would result in him being hauled back to the medic for another week in bed. If only for that reason, it had him realizing that he’d enjoyed the brig more than the medical bay and if he never saw the inside of that room again, it would be too soon.
Beyond magically inflicted injuries, the physical damage to both his body and his equipment by the eidolons was substantial. At some point, his staff and orbitals had been retrieved by someone and returned to his locker by the bedside; he suspected it had been a guilt ridden Vaelith that had done it, but he had no way of being sure. He kept the staff out now, because accessing his Cold Storage was an exertion that he was barred from, but it actually came in pretty useful as a walking stick, keeping him upright when a wave of dizziness and nausea washed over him.
It was only when he emerged into the blazing daylight of the twin suns that he realized why he hadn’t encountered anyone else. They were all fast asleep. He hadn’t been abandoned by all his friends, they were just all still in their beds.
By the time he reached the Blackhall, he was ready to join them, sweat was pouring down into his eyes and every step was exhausting, and that was before he had to deal with the stairs up to his room. He had to stop to take a breather on each landing, cursing himself, Vaelith, the medic and anyone else that he could think of. All of the hard work that he’d put into building his body up into something that he could use had started fading while he was laid up in bed. It wasn’t fair to his mind that something so hard wrought would fade away just after a few days of injury. But what made the problem both worse and yet better at the same time, was that his exhaustion wasn’t atrophy. Or at least it wasn’t wholly so as there were spells to protect against that.
Rather it was an entirely separate condition, Mana Burn, one that scrambled the connection between his magic and his body. During his trial mana had flowed through every part of him and as a result had seared everything in its wake. Now as a result his body had protectively closed parts of itself off to its flow restricting not only his use of it, but also its own ability to function. Until his body healed, he was going to be slow, weak, and sore.
Finally he made it to his floor, with darkness encroaching around the edges of his vision and a rasping sound coming with every breath. He’d been cleared to leave the infirmary, but he suspected now that it was just to get him out of sight, not because he was actually in any fit shape to be back in the world. He had consoled himself when he was being told that he couldn’t actually use his magic that he’d at least be able to exercise and get his body into top condition while he waited for the healing to be finished, but there was no possibility of that. Even making his way downstairs for meals was going to take all his energy.
At least I’m used to suffering. It sounded melodramatic to even think it, but it was true. He was accustomed to some degree of pain and discomfort at all times, but it had always served some purpose, he had always been pushing forward towards some goal. Now his world had shrunk down to the size of his body, and he couldn’t even rely on it.
He reached his room, opened the unlocked door and then stopped dead. His wards were gone, deactivated so that he could gain access himself without his magic, and someone had taken advantage of that to let themselves in. His aching mind rattled through the possibilities. He was in a weakened state, unable to defend himself, it would be the ideal time for some ambitious recruit with flexible morals to ambush him and climb the ranks. He tightened his grip on his staff. Right now it wasn’t anything more than a length of metal, but in a pinch, if he was lucky, he might get a swing in before whatever spell they were using killed him.
Inside, hanging across the ceiling of his chamber was a tattered looking banner that said “welcome home, stanzbuhr” in dwarvish. He stared up at it in the dim illumination, blinking. Then turned his gaze across the rest of the room. On his bed there were a heap of Ardent recruits, piled up on top of each other and snoring. At the bottom of the heap he could make out the red hair of Kaya, but in the upper layers were Gharia, Ironeyes, Bortan, Havran, Luna, a tangle of other limbs and faces. As many as could fit on the bed uncomfortably had piled up on it, but yet more had spread onto the floor around it, most snoring with the kind of volume that wouldn’t have been out of place in an industrial setting. The only one of his friends who hadn’t fallen asleep in a heap while waiting for his release from the infirmary was Bael, who had seated himself by the desk in the only other piece of furniture. While he was still bolt upright with perfect posture, Sylvas could see that even he had fallen asleep, and a little bead of drool was running down the elf’s cheek.
Sylvas had felt his heart stop while he was out fighting Eidolons, but now he felt it doing something entirely unfamiliar. There was a deep ache in his chest, heavy enough that for a moment he almost panicked and called out for help before he recognized it as sentiment. They’d all come here when they heard he was being released. Even Veltrian, who had every reason to hate him, was here, hugging Gharia’s tail like it was a pillow. Strangely, despite her sonic affinity, she was possibly the only one not aggressively snoring.
He was in no mood to party, despite how heartwarming their presence was, and they were occupying the bed which he so desperately needed. He took a few moments to catch his breath, then tried clearing his throat.
It was singularly ineffective in the face of the snoring.
Still a little too breathless from climbing all the stairs, he didn’t try shouting, but he did maneuver his staff into the crook of his arm so he could try clapping. The sound echoed in the small chamber to little effect. Nobody on the bed stirred, and it made Sylvas wonder just how late they had all waited up for him. When he glanced away, he was startled to notice that Bael was now awake, and in the brief moment before his usual good breeding took over, there was an unmissable smile on his face. “Ah, good evening.”
“Late… to my own party.” Sylvas managed to wheeze out.
Bael folded his hands over his lap, before thinking better of his current position, hopping up and guiding Sylvas to the seat. “It was not made entirely clear to us when you were being released.”
After catching his breath from the exertion of sitting down, Sylvas managed a smile. “Me neither.”
“Perhaps it would have behooved us to inquire more directly, rather than simply taking the date listed on your personnel file to heart.” Bael looked around at the desolate un-experienced party. Someone had smuggled snacks and drinks up from the mess, and it seemed that there had been some intention of music being played judging by the musical instruments propped against the wall.
“Wasn’t allowed visitors.” Sylvas tried to explain. “Can’t use sendings.”
Bael contemplated the problem for a moment, as he did usually. “The slates then.”
“We’ll know… for next time.” Sylvas had to struggle to keep his eyes focused on the elf.
“Well, welcome back regardless. It appears that you’re still a little worse for wear, so allow me to just…” Whatever spell Bael cast dislodged all the residents of the bed in a singular tide. It looked like some variation of kinesis, but Sylvas couldn’t be sure without his second sight, and he couldn’t use his second sight with his mana stilled in the way that it was.
It seemed that the only thing louder than the snoring was the sound of a heap of recruits being shoved off the bed on top of the other Ardent recruits already laying there. Apparently whatever good cheer they’d managed to muster for Sylvas return had been dampened a bit by their long wait and sudden awakening. Kaya managed to amble over and give him a half-hearted pat on the head that hit mainly face, but the rest of them just gave some variety of a nod or wave on their way out the door. Yet through it all, Bael had somehow managed to maintain his composure. He gave Sylvas a polite nod of the head, and then set off for his own chambers.
Crossing the room after everyone had gone took an eternity and the prospect of hauling the furniture over to block the door in case of an actual attack in the night filled Sylvas with such a bone-deep tiredness that he didn’t even attempt it. Setting the staff down on the bed beside him, Sylvas collapsed into it, and the sweet relief of sleep washed over him in record time.
