when you bury your pain
Finn drifts.
Occasionally he awakens to remember that his left hand is bound up and plastered in a cast, that he’s broken it, that he’s sick and there’s nothing that can be done for him until they find a cure.
Other times the morphine in his blood is far too heavy to stir him to wakefulness at all, and whilst it’s not a great thing long-term, it would be remiss to say that the Spyglass isn’t desperately benefiting from so much dreamless, healing sleep.
Then there are the times where he does blink his eyes open, but he’s riddled with fever and unseeing of the world around him.
There’s no telling which side of the coin he’s about to fall upon. Either way, it doesn’t stop him from starting to stir anew now, laying in clean, crisp sheets, his other injuries carefully cleaned and bandaged, a cool compress on his brow. Blinking his eyes open, Finn looks around in a haze. His cheeks are hollow; he’s becoming a skeleton in this bed. Maybe it’s for the best.
Occasionally he awakens to remember that his left hand is bound up and plastered in a cast, that he’s broken it, that he’s sick and there’s nothing that can be done for him until they find a cure.
Other times the morphine in his blood is far too heavy to stir him to wakefulness at all, and whilst it’s not a great thing long-term, it would be remiss to say that the Spyglass isn’t desperately benefiting from so much dreamless, healing sleep.
Then there are the times where he does blink his eyes open, but he’s riddled with fever and unseeing of the world around him.
There’s no telling which side of the coin he’s about to fall upon. Either way, it doesn’t stop him from starting to stir anew now, laying in clean, crisp sheets, his other injuries carefully cleaned and bandaged, a cool compress on his brow. Blinking his eyes open, Finn looks around in a haze. His cheeks are hollow; he’s becoming a skeleton in this bed. Maybe it’s for the best.
THE SPYGLASS
you only strengthen its roots
