Slowly, carefully, he lifted his hand away from the wound. The flesh beneath was torn and raw, but it wasn't bleeding anymore. Wasn't gaping open.
The edges had drawn together somehow, held in place by tissue that had no business maintaining its integrity.
I should be dead. I pulled a sword out of my chest, and I should be dead. But I'm not. I'm still here. Still conscious. Still suffering.
He lay still for a long while, too exhausted to move. Too stunned by what had just happened to form coherent thoughts. The sword lay beside him on the floor, abandoned. Dark with his blood. A tool of death that had failed to complete its purpose.
Eventually, his breathing settled. His vision cleared fully. The pain remained constant and terrible, but it was different now. The pressure was gone.
The feeling of being impaled was gone. What remained was raw tissue damage and the deep, burning ache of trauma, but those were almost manageable compared to what he'd been enduring.
The sword is out. I survived it. Now what?
He turned his head slowly, trying to make out more details of the room's layout. Shapes emerged from the darkness as his eyes adjusted further.
The interior was small, just as he'd expected. A single room, maybe twelve feet by twelve feet. Simple furniture scattered around. A table near one wall. Chairs. Something that might have been a bed frame in the corner.
I need water. Need to find supplies. Need to keep moving or I'll die here anyway.
The table was closest. Maybe six feet from where he lay. He could see it more clearly now, a dark rectangular shape against the slightly less dark wall.
Whether anything useful sat on its surface was impossible to tell from his current position.
He brought his right arm up and planted his palm against the floor. The familiar motion. Plant, push, drag. His body shifted forward a few inches.
The movement pulled at his wound, but without the sword to complicate things, the pain was almost bearable. Almost.
Keep going. Just keep going. Find water. Find food. Find something that makes this suffering worthwhile.
Plant, push, drag. Plant, push, drag. The process continued, mechanical and exhausting. He crawled toward the table, leaving a fresh trail of blood behind him.
Not as much as before. His body was conserving what little remained. But enough to mark his passage across the wooden floor.
The table leg was rougher than it had appeared from a distance. He wrapped his fingers around it and used it to pull himself closer.
Then he raised his right arm, reaching up toward the surface above. His shoulder protested the angle, but he kept reaching, stretching as far as his damaged body would allow.
His fingers brushed against wood. The underside of the tabletop. He walked his fingers along the surface, feeling for anything that might be resting on top. His reach was limited, covering maybe a square foot of the table's surface.
Nothing. Just smooth wood.
There has to be something. People keep things on tables. Tools. Dishes. Something.
He repositioned himself slightly and reached again, extending his search pattern. His fingers found cloth first. He grasped it and pulled, drawing it toward the table's edge. The object came free and fell, landing on the floor beside him with a soft sound.
Fabric. Clothing of some kind. Useless.
He reached up again. Metal this time. Cold. Smooth. Cylindrical. He wrapped his fingers around it carefully and pulled.
The object tumbled off the table, striking the floor with a dull thud. He grabbed it immediately, pulling it close enough to examine by touch.
A cup. Empty, from the weight of it.
Water was here at some point. Which means there might be more somewhere. A well outside. Or containers stored in the room.
He set the cup aside and continued his search of the table. More cloth. A wooden bowl. Something small that rolled away when he touched it. Nothing immediately useful. Nothing that would save him.
Wrong place. People don't store water on tables. Need to search elsewhere.
His gaze tracked across the dark room, cataloguing shapes. The bed frame in the corner was more visible now. Near it, barely distinguishable from the shadows, was another shape. Lower to the ground. Rectangular.
Storage chest. That's where supplies would be.
Ten feet away. Maybe more. But it represented possibility. He angled his body toward it and began crawling again. Plant, push, drag. Plant, push, drag.
Each movement cost him, but the cost was bearable now. Survivable.
I'm getting better at this. Or maybe I'm just getting used to the pain.
Time fragmented. He lost track of repetitions. Lost track of everything except forward motion. Toward the chest. Toward hope.
His hand struck wood. He'd reached it.
The chest sat flush with the floor. He ran his hand along its side, searching for the lid mechanism. Metal clasp. Wooden peg. Simple construction. He pulled the peg free and the clasp released.
Now came the hard part. The lid was heavy. He'd need to use his position for leverage. He manoeuvred himself until his right side pressed against the chest, then brought his arm up and planted his palm against the underside of the lid.
Push.
The lid rose slowly. Past vertical. Over the tipping point. It fell open against the wall behind the chest with a muted bang.
Finally. Something goes right.
He stared into the dark interior. Multiple shapes visible, but too shadowed to identify clearly. He reached in, his hand disappearing into the darkness.
Fabric first. Clothes. He pushed them aside. Hard objects beneath. Books maybe. He grabbed one and pulled it out.
Leather binding. Definitely a book. He set it aside and reached deeper.
More books. Several of them.
Why would someone store so many books in a chest? Were they valuable? Important somehow?
He pushed past them, searching for anything practical. His hand struck something that rattled. Multiple objects. He pulled them toward him.
Small cloth bags. He opened one by feel, working the knot loose. The contents spilled into his palm.
Seeds. Dried seeds.
Useless without water to cook them. Without fire. Without any of the things that turn seeds into food.
But beneath the seeds, his fingers found something else. Hard. Smooth. Rounded.
He pulled it free carefully.
A clay vessel. Sealed with wax. Heavy enough to contain liquid.
Please. Please let this be water.
He worked at the wax seal with trembling fingers, scraping it away bit by bit. The seal broke. The top came free.
He brought the vessel to his nose and sniffed.
Water. It was water. Slightly stale, but unmistakably water.
Water. There's actually water.
His hands shook as he raised the vessel to his lips. The first sip was careful, testing. The liquid touched his swollen tongue, his parched throat. Cool. Clean. Perfect.
He drank deeply, gulping mouthfuls that spilled down his chin. Too fast. He was drinking too fast. But he couldn't stop. Couldn't slow down. His body demanded the water with an urgency that overrode caution.
The vessel emptied. He lowered it, gasping, and reached back into the chest immediately. Searching for more. His hand found another sealed vessel. Then another. Three in total.
Three vessels of water. Enough for days if I'm careful. Enough to survive a little longer.
He pulled all three out and arranged them carefully on the floor beside him. Then he opened the second vessel and drank again. Slower this time. More controlled. Letting his body absorb the liquid properly.
The water helped. Not with the pain. Not with the wound. But it cleared his head slightly. Made thinking easier. Made the darkness seem less oppressive.
I have water. I have shelter. I have time.
He lay there beside the open chest, the vessels of water within reach, and felt something that wasn't quite hope but wasn't quite despair either.
Possibility. He had a possibility.
The wound in his chest throbbed steadily. His body continued its strange maintenance. But for the first time since waking up in the square, he had something more than just pain and confusion.
He had a chance.