The psychiatrist returned fifteen minutes later with a wooden box.
"The gloves are in here. There's quite a few pairs. We had cotton ones, but I thought you'd like these ones more." He clicked his tongue. "They're of better quality and more comfortable. Try them on. I'll return them immediately if you don't like them."
She waved her hands, giving him a lethargic smile and weak thumbs up, hoping to suggest these worked fine. The exact type didn't matter to her. She'd just asked for cotton because they were cheaper.
He nodded, clicking his tongue again, and turned to leave. But before he could, she asked how long she'd be bedridden.
The psychiatrist rubbed his chin, its deep wrinkles reminding her of how her fingertips looked after stepping out of a pool.
"Hmm. Well, it depends on how long it takes to reinflate your lung, you see."
"But if all goes well, a few days. Probably. Usually, it would take a few weeks, but your mana is expediting the recovery process, so it'll be much quicker before you can join some physical therapy sessions." he spun his hands in a cyclic gesture.
"After that, we'll transfer you back to The Capital or a rehabilitation center depending on how you're feeling."
"Oh! Of course! Yes. And I just talked with the camp's nutritionist," he continued. "You'll be getting your food and water via tube feedings since swallowing is such a struggle."
His fingers flicked toward the various tubes burrowing in and out of her. Small stickers wrapped around them. One was labelled "TPN" and the other "NG."
After an encouraging thumbs up, he took his leave, promising to bring her a pen and paper next time. Eirlyn paid his assurances no mind as she turned to open the box. The sound of an awed rasp filled the room as she peered inside.
Black foam cradled a dozen pieces of white cloth, each folded into neat triangles. She reached inside, grabbing one triangle and watching it unravel into a pair of gloves. They were buttery soft and much smoother than cotton. Luxurious. Delicate. Ethereal. The gloves looked expensive even without a price tag.
She let one fall onto her lap as she fiddled her left hand into the other. It was elastic, airy yet tight, perfectly outlining every contour of her petite hand. Eirlyn's pinky and ring finger were completely numb, and her dexterity reduced to uncontrollable trembles, yet a delighted grin clawed up her face as she wore them.
Her eyes shone like polished jade, relief reflecting across its ivory surface. It was as if a great burden had slipped off her shoulders. Immediately, like she was sealing a casket, she slipped her other cold, pale hand into the second glove.
She stared at them, flipping her palms every few seconds.
These were… nice. Too nice. Eirlyn almost wanted to return them, but she also didn't. Scratching her nose, she vowed to give the psychiatrist a lengthy thank you tomorrow, no matter how much it hurt.
To Eirlyn, these white gloves weren't just gloves. They were the manifestation of a barrier she'd raised since she'd woken up in this clinical hell. No. Longer than that.
Eirlyn shivered, the image of his stare flashing in her mind. The moment that hill lodged itself between them, she'd wanted to lodge something between herself and the world.
She'd needed something to separate her and MSD, her and the blood on her hands, her and her own fragile, pathetic body. That something was these gloves: soft enough to forget, firm enough to protect.
It was a silly way to bring some comfort to her life — stupid and delusional, even — but she couldn't bear the texture of the blankets, or her own icy skin, or the cool air on her fingertips. Who knew what any of them carried.
Her smile wavered, her mood souring. She was paranoid about touching anything too. Because of MSD.
But she didn't want to think about that right now, so she didn't. Instead, she tensely lay down, closing the box and placing it on a nightstand. Resting her head on a thin pillow, feeling the mattress beneath it, she closed her eyes to her stark white room.
Fatigue overtook her, and the world went black.
Eirlyn Sorrowind finally concluded the day that, in retrospect, would come to define the rest of her life.
…
Recovery was slow. One day bled into two, two into four, four into eight.
Life in The Empire had never been so excruciating. Time worked ironically that way, crawling by for those who wanted it to race, and racing by for those who wanted to take in the moment.
Such was life for Eirlyn — slow, torturous, and betraying. She woke up too much, erratic bursts of energy pleading her to escape her confinement only for the fatigue to pull her back into the same nightmare. She laughed, thanked, screamed, cried — got into an argument with the psychiatrist when there was no argument to be had, only worsening her larynx.
"You don't even care, do you?!"
"Eirlyn, I do. I promise I do. Please calm down…"
They had a lot of talks after that.
Well, half talks. He spoke, she wrote. Eirlyn was left handed. Unfortunately, her left hand also had nerve damage, her previously momentous, elegant handwriting nothing more than shaky lines that only reminded her of how fickle her health was.
Even something as little as being able to write properly would've cheered her up, but she still had a long way to go.
They had conversations about her anger. About her guilt. About her health. About her future. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to go to The Capital or a rehabilitation camp. There were people in the capital she wanted to see, but she also wanted to get better as soon as possible.
Healing took a long time. The lung that was supposed to reinflate in a few days took eight days.
The delay had destroyed her.
She wanted nothing more than to run away, or at the least use her mana to allow her to stand up. But one way or another, the doctors convinced her not to.
Noticing that she spent most her time watching the birds outside even when provided other entertainment, they got ahold of a book on them and gave it to her. Birds were free. They had the entire sky to explore. She wanted to be a bird.
Or maybe even the birds weren't free, they just thought they were, only to be imprisoned like the rest of them. In any case, she finished that book, and didn't ask for another. She just slept, letting her emotions grow distant. This was how she spent the latter half of her days until the psychiatrist informed her one morning she was approved to leave her room.
"Mm?!" She straightened, not opening her mouth but not containing her excitement either.
"Yes, yes," he held up his hands. "But you'll be on supervision… and in crutches."
She grabbed her blanket, already ripping them off and squirming to her feet.
"Woah woah woah!" He laughed. "Calm down there. Slow and steady now."
I'll go grab your supervisor and crutches. Sit and wait here until then, otherwise the trip's off." He pointed at her as if she were a child, then gave a thumbs up — a habit of his she'd learned — and scurried off.
Immediately accepting that she was being bossed around by her health provider, Eirlyn obediently put her hands in her lap, feet rhythmically tapping against the chilly wooden floor.
A minute later, he was back. A young girl, no older than sixteen, stumbled into the room behind him, hugging two metallic crutches to her chest. Her hazel eyes darted about the room before landing on Eirlyn. As if looking at a museum piece, her mouth formed an o shape.
Eirlyn furrowed her brows, not so much offended as confused.
The psychiatrist quickly tapped the girls shoulder, and her posture and face immediately straightened. She stepped forward, laying the crutch pads on the edge of Eirlyn's bed.
Eirlyn swiped the crutches, feeling them press into her arm pits as she recklessly rose to her feet.
"Eirlyn, this will be your supervisor from now on. She has volunteered to be here. Her name is— woah!" He rushed forward, catching her just before she hit the ground.
"Careful now, careful now! Whew…" he sighed, genuinely troubled. "We can't have you falling." He looked Eirlyn in the eyes, a bead of sweat running down his forehead. She looked back, deadpan.
Her face was pale — corpse-like — translucent and ethereal. Someone dead, yet somehow living. Eerie and wrong, yet magnetic and captivating. It was as if her skin were made of moonlight.
Her hair, a cascade of all-consuming ebony so dark it drank all the light around it, flowed to her shoulder blades. It was thick yet fluid, straight sheets that skillfully framed her soft face. The rounded curve of her cheeks, the subtle contour of her chin: she looked delicate. But that softness was offset by the sharp definition of her features.
Eirlyn's brows were razor and expressive, cut in a way that made her every furrow resonate with intention. Her lips, almost entirely devoid of pink, were set in a thin line with angular edges.
To some, she looked enchanting, to others, an artificial human animated by mana, which truthfully, she halfway was.
Death, and then life. There were bags under her eyes where deep grays and purples hid, but they were juxtaposed by big round eyes that flickered with vitality.
Dozens of greens sharply filled each iris, holding the clarity of stained glass — cool, observant, and untouched — yet let warmth shine through like sunlight breaking gently across color. They glowed like a light in the night.
She was distant yet endearing, soft yet sharp, dead yet alive: a living contradiction. That contradiction tilted her head cutely and smiled innocently, as if she'd done nothing wrong making the old man run to catch her.
The psychiatrist squinted his eyes.
"This girl…" he grumbled under his breath.
This time, Eirlyn was the one to squint, and he to smile innocently.
"Anyways! As I was saying…" he continued, introducing the supervisor and Eirlyn to one another.
They waved, gave a curt smile, and moved on. Eirlyn was too interested in leaving the room, and the girl too busy fighting for her life trying to teach her impatient patient to properly use crutches before she broke a rib. Again.
The psychiatrist looked at them, a wry smile forming on his lips.
"I need a raise…"