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Lucian had to have been badly ill. That, or badly hungover. It couldn't have been possible to feel this bad for no reason. Things felt wrong all over his body. He raised a hand to rub his forehead, but the motion stopped short, his wrist reaching the end of some hitherto unnoticed tether.
Same with the other wrist.
He kept pulling. It didn't make sense. Why would his wrists be bound? Why would someone bind his wrists? Why? It didn't make sense!
His eyes opened of their own accord, and his restraints made clicking sounds as he pulled and pulled, and the room was white and painful and blurred (no glasses then), and it didn't make sense, it didn't make sense, it didn't make any sense.
"Lucian, Lucian!" Cynthia. She leaned over him awkwardly, brushing his forehead. That didn't feel right, either. Something sticky had dried there, and it dulled the soft warmth of her skin over his own. "Stop moving."
Stop moving? Stop moving? He pulled harder. Couldn't she see this wasn't right? He jerked at the restraints, which ran along the bedrails— bedrails? Bedrails... Everything was processing so slowly. Why couldn't he think?
"I know you're confused," Cynthia said, her voice soft and soothing and familiar. "Do you know where you are?"
He paused and inhaled, letting his hands go slack by his side. Yes. Focus, think. Bedrails. Wrist restraints. White walls. He was in the hospital, and evidently he'd been making problems. "H-hospital." His voice came thin and rasping.
That man was dying. The man who had hurt them. The man they had forgiven. He had agreed to their terms, and now he was dying in his attempt to fulfill them. A magnificent show of willpower. A magnificent apology.
What— what? That wasn't— That wasn't him. That hadn't happened to him. Lucian jerked feebly at his wrist restraints again. How curiously dehumanizing; how nauseating. Like he was some creature, some captive thing. "Cyn, I can't... I can't..."
"Hold on." She had to bend awkwardly over the bed rails to get to him, but she freed his wrists with an offensive lack of effort, given all that he had struggled. But she freed them, and that was all that really mattered.
He sat up immediately and rubbed his aching temples, or tried to. One arm refused to bend, and stung when he tried. Right. He was in the hospital. He'd have an IV line. He set his hand in his lap, resting it in the pale, soft blankets pooled there. "What did I do?"
"You were confused," Cynthia said, stroking his bangs out of his face. Whatever was stuck to his forehead made the sensation a lot less pleasant than it should have been. "You kept trying to get the IV out, and you didn't like the nurses hovering over you."
Lucian's stomach dropped. He glanced around like there might be someone to apologize to, but there was only a window with drawn blinds, a chair, and Cynthia. "Did I hit anyone?"
"No, no." Cynthia shook her head. "You were scared. The staff were crowding you, so you kept putting your arms up. That's all."
A dark presence, cold and hungry. Deep shadows touching the moonlight. Resentment.
Lucian fell back against the pillow again. Why was this happening? This was exactly like it had been with Flint, then with Cynthia. He kept waking up in the hospital with no clue how he'd gotten there. He didn't remember a thing, except for some foreign presence in his head, someone else's memories. It wasn't Spear Pillar this time. Cynthia hadn't been there.
Lucian sighed, his head throbbing. Maybe it really was just seizures. Or some latent genetic schizophrenia.
"Do you want to try to sleep again?" Cynthia asked. "The doctor said you'd be tired."
Lucian shook his head. Sleep was coming, but not yet. He looked past Cynthia, tracing the blurry shape of the window. No sunlight came through the gaps in the blinds. "I take it I had another seizure?"
"You did.
Lucian stared at the ceiling. Another seizure. Dawn's party... Had he ruined it? "In front of everyone?"
"No." Cynthia shifted her weight with a click. Lucian peered through the gaps in the bedrails. She was wearing pumps, not her usual boots. "I mean..."
"Sit down."
"What?"
Lucian gestured at the chair just a little too far away from the bed. "I'm being terribly rude," he said, forcing a smile that even felt weak. "Please, sit."
Cynthia did not return the smile, but she pulled the chair closer and sat straight upright, studying Lucian over the ugly gray bedrail. The restraint hung from it like a threat. Even though she'd said he hadn't hurt anyone, it still made his stomach twist.
"I just don't remember—" Lucian said helplessly. "I don't remember."
Cynthia sighed and leaned over the bedrail, though it looked uncomfortable, to pet his head. More of that strange dried adhesive muted the sensation under patches of his hair. "What's the last thing you do remember?"
Atone. Die. "Uh." He felt himself twitch involuntarily. Atone. Die. "I, uh..." Get it together! The party. Glass of wine. "I think I was talking to Byron."
"That's right."
"In front of everyone?" he asked again, though she had already answered.
"No." She leaned forward and touched his shoulder, rubbing little circles just above his collarbone. "I talked to Byron when we were waiting for the ambulance. He said you started to look sick, so he took you into the hall to sit down, and then you started bleeding from the nose and collapsed."
Lucian raised an eyebrow. "And what did the doctors think about that?"
"Well..." Cynthia sighed, her eyes distant. Now that he was noticing, she looked exhausted. Pale, lined, edges crumpled where they were usually crisp. How long had she been here?
"They're conferring with that psychic specialist, apparently. They wouldn't tell me much of anything, except that they don't think you're dying."
"Well," Lucian said drily, "that's good."
An anguish so deep it left an indelible mark in the air and in the ether. Pain, pain, pain. Couldn't get away. Couldn't help its kin. Could barely make a sound.
Lucian rubbed his forehead. Too much, this was all too much. He couldn't think like this. Couldn't reason out a thing. "Hey, Cyn?"
"Yeah?"
"What happened to my hair?"
She smiled a little, soft and fond, but not altogether happy. "You had an EEG done. Some technician had to glue a bunch of electrodes to your head. It'll be a pain to get out, but we all thought you'd prefer that to having your head shaved. Oh!" She gave a little start. "Do you want your glasses? I didn't offer at first because I thought you'd want to go back to sleep."
"Mm." Lucian relaxed, staring at the ceiling. Did he want his glasses? What he really wanted was to be out of the hospital, but that didn't look like an imminent reality. "I don't know."
"Well, I have them right here if you want them."
Lucian nodded slightly. The spots on the ceiling, already blurred, lost further definition. "Thank you for— for still being here."
"Of course, Lucian." She petted his hair again, soft and smooth despite the adhesive. "We'll figure this out. I'm not going anywhere."