Work Text:
Dol—
He lets the syllable sit on the tip of his tongue. His world holds still, balanced on a point, ready to tip.
Then he swallows the unformed word, presses his hands to the rough floorboards, and thinks about ways he can get up. It’s going to hurt.
His knee went, again, on the way back from the bathroom he built in his first year here. His stick slipped, his cup spilled, and he somehow twisted round and went down on his back, sprawling in the drinking water he was bringing back to his room. Now there’ll be days of pain while the unstable joint settles down again. And every time he goes back to the bathroom he’s going to be afraid of another fall, but he can’t avoid going. Can’t avoid needing water. He is still, in some marginal sense, alive.
If he said her name, called for help, she would answer. Probably. Possibly. He’s never tested it, because he’s always tried to protect her from needing to worry about him. He’s incapable of living in silence, so he allows himself to chatter to the rats about happier things — telling them stories, or narrating the work he’s doing — and hopes it’s enough to satisfy her that he’s okay. Hopes she never thinks past the chatter to the things he doesn’t talk about, or the times when he doesn’t speak.
(For example, he hasn’t talked about food since he fell off that ladder.)
He could call. But if she saw him now, it would all be over. His protection. His secrets. All for nothing.
He bends his good leg into position. He makes sure the stick is vertical so it won’t slip again, and grips it with nine fingers, dangling the cup from the tenth. Then he heaves.
It doesn’t work. Even his good leg isn’t strong enough for this any more.
His tongue primes itself again. Dol—
No. He’s come this far. He’s managed for this long. He can do this somehow. He is strong enough.
“Stay hidden,” he mouths. “Protect Mirabel.”
He mouths it again, faster, faster, until his tongue, in a repetitive dance, shakes off the last drops of the forbidden name.