Twelve years Asher's lived this life, and this is how he goes.
He's not good with it.
Drifting in and out when his body doesn't listen to him when he wants it to, when it's breaking down on him from something he can't fight no matter how angry he gets, no matter how many aborted escape attempts that leave him wheezing. He can argue with every healer, he can scratch at the poultices until a hand slaps them away. He can down the potions that dull the worst aches or make him sleep.
(That isn't how he wants to go, so he turns away more now, pretends he's asleep already. If he has to die here - he can admit that, in his own head - then he'll do it himself, in his own mind, not drifting away without some say in it.)
The world comes into focus slower, the sound of the needle loud as he turns his head to squint at Gwenaëlle, the smile not sharp the way it should be.
"Thought they'd lopped bits off me." It's meant to be a joke, but it doesn't come out like one since a man knows where all his wounds are and how bad some of them have been. "Will you thank her? The one making me not look like...like what I am." Since he might not have time, since even thinking that has an awful lump of panic and grief and anger catching in his throat.
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He's not good with it.
Drifting in and out when his body doesn't listen to him when he wants it to, when it's breaking down on him from something he can't fight no matter how angry he gets, no matter how many aborted escape attempts that leave him wheezing. He can argue with every healer, he can scratch at the poultices until a hand slaps them away. He can down the potions that dull the worst aches or make him sleep.
(That isn't how he wants to go, so he turns away more now, pretends he's asleep already. If he has to die here - he can admit that, in his own head - then he'll do it himself, in his own mind, not drifting away without some say in it.)
The world comes into focus slower, the sound of the needle loud as he turns his head to squint at Gwenaëlle, the smile not sharp the way it should be.
"Thought they'd lopped bits off me." It's meant to be a joke, but it doesn't come out like one since a man knows where all his wounds are and how bad some of them have been. "Will you thank her? The one making me not look like...like what I am." Since he might not have time, since even thinking that has an awful lump of panic and grief and anger catching in his throat.