'Arthur' felt like his head was on the verge of exploding. Was he taken to a hospital? He doesn't remember much after passing out due to that weird mushroom he ate. He opened his eyes and felt dizzy. He saw a blurry ceiling. It did not look like any hospital he knew. Maybe it was a private hospital? The more he thought about it, the more it made sense.
He tried to look around but only one of his eyes moved. His right eye was stuck looking at the ceiling while he tried to look around with his left eye. The more he tried to move his eyes to look around, the more he started to feel dizzy. It seemed like the dizziness was accumulating the more he tried to move his eyes so he just closed his eyes and laid there waiting for anyone to walk by him.
Soon he heard a door open. He tried to raise his neck to take a look at who entered but found himself unable to take such a simple action. He tried again but failed. It felt … What would be the best way to describe it? Hmm, you know when you stretch after waking up? Then imagine that last moment of just before your muscles tense, just enough to make you feel good but uncomfortable and even painful when done longer. Now imagine that feeling but it happens every time you try to move your body.
Not pleasant.
While he was thinking that, the person who entered his room stood right next to his bed on the left side and spoke in a gentle voice "Master, it seems you didn't need my help waking up today"
Master? I guess it's a private hospital so it makes sense?
"Huawo?"
What? That's not what he said. He had clearly tried to say 'Hello'. Was my hearing ability also affected by that mushroom? No, he clearly understood what the person next to him had said. At least from where the person was standing. He tried to speak again.
"Waahirime?, uah?" Was his tongue swollen? He couldn't seem to feel the right side of his mouth. It seemed like it just wasn't there. He seemed to notice a pattern, his right side of the body, he couldn't feel anything. Even on his left side of the body, all he could do was twitch the fingers on his hand a little bit.
He suddenly started getting worried. What was wrong with his body? Was he paralysed? If so, was it temporary or a permanent thing? If it was the latter, he would prefer to die. He could not imagine living his whole life laying on his bed unable to do anything left with only his thoughts.
The person who was next to him suddenly bolted out of the room in a hurry, leaving the door open. Arthus felt like the world was spinning around him? Or maybe he was the one being spun? Soon he became too dizzy to stay conscious and passed out.
He didn't know after how long he woke up again but he did. The sound of hurried footsteps returned, this time steadier, accompanied by the slow clack of hard-soled shoes on polished wood. The man who had addressed Arthur as "Master" earlier stepped back into view, accompanied by another figure, older, sterner, and carrying the quiet authority of someone used to grim news.
The new man wore a tailored frock coat, a clean collar stiff at the neck, and round spectacles that gleamed faintly in the gaslight. He carried a small black case in one hand.
"Doctor Aberforth," said the first man, his voice calm but tight with concern. "He woke briefly. Tried to speak, but it was… slurred. Only moved his left hand"
Aberforth gave a curt nod, already stepping to Arthur's bedside. He placed the case on a side table and opened it with a smooth motion, revealing instruments, vials, and a mechanical device with tiny spinning gears.
He leaned over and examined Arthur in silence: checked the pupils, lifted his arms one by one, and observed the way the right side of his face drooped ever so slightly. When he raised Arthur's right arm, it flopped down with no resistance.
"Hemiplegia," Aberforth murmured. "Speech center affected. Limited motor control. Reflexes diminished. He's aware, but can't act"
He straightened, turned to the first man, and spoke more formally. "It's a major cerebral infarction. A massive ischemic stroke, likely caused by a blockage of blood flow to the left hemisphere. The damage is irreversible"
The older gentleman's expression tightened. "Then…?"
"He won't recover," Aberforth said without preamble. "The paralysis is permanent. His right side is lost to him, and his ability to speak will remain compromised, perhaps entirely. He may be able to write with his left hand, eventually, but movement will be minimal. He will not walk again. He will never live unassisted"
Arthur's breath caught in his throat. Inside, he was screaming.
Aberforth continued, unflinching. "The mind is intact. He understands us. That is both a blessing and a burden. But there is no cure. Only care"
He began placing the instruments back into the case, the soft clicks of glass and metal punctuating the heavy silence.
The older gentleman looked down at Arthur, his voice quieter now. "Then I'll take care of him"
Aberforth nodded. "Good. He will need you Mr Sebastian"
And with that, the doctor left, leaving only 'Sebastian' and the still, broken man who had once been whole.
…
Tuesday.
The day Arthus woke was the day Sebastian stopped sleeping properly.
He had rushed from the hallway to fetch Doctor Aberforth, and returned just in time to see the flicker of recognition in Arthus's left eye. That single blink, slow and deliberate, haunted him. It meant Arthus was still there, trapped in a body that had betrayed him completely.
Sebastian spent that night in the armchair by the bed, one eye open at all times. When Arthus stirred or groaned, Sebastian was already reaching for the cloth to wipe his brow, the water to moisten his lips, the pillow to prop his neck just a little higher.
Wednesday.
Aberforth returned with charts and instructions. A strict schedule of meals, stretches, changes, cleaning. Everything had to be done at precise intervals. Sebastian learned quickly that forgetting even once meant Arthus would suffer. A feeding too fast caused choking. A delay in moving him led to cramping. One wrong angle and he would moan in discomfort, unable to even cry out.
By evening, Sebastian's hands were raw from scrubbing linens and his muscles ached from lifting dead weight. But when he looked down and saw Arthus's left hand twitch faintly, reaching, not at anything in particular, just reaching he sat down and held it in silence.
The worst part was the silence. Arthus could not speak, and Sebastian found it difficult to speak to someone who could not respond. But he tried.
He started narrating his actions. "Warm compress now, Master. This will feel cold at first"
He asked questions, even though the only answer would be a blink. "Would you prefer the sunlight left as it is?"
Arthus blinked once, twice. Then once again.
Thursday.
They tried the communication board. Letters drawn on a wooden slate. Sebastian recited them aloud one by one. "A… B… C…"
Blink.
"C. Alright… Next, A… B…"
It was slow. Torturous, almost. But by noon, they'd managed to spell "cold" The window had been open. Sebastian shut it at once and brought the woolen throw.
Arthus blinked again. Thank you.
Friday.
A coughing fit in the morning sent panic down Sebastian's spine. He called for Aberforth, who examined Arthus with furrowed brows and a stethoscope pressed to his ribs. Fluid in the lungs, a risk for the bedridden. Instructions followed. Elevate his head during meals. Clear his throat manually if necessary. Turn him every two hours, not three.
Sebastian didn't leave the room that day, even for meals. He took broth standing, always with one eye on the bed.
That night, Arthus blinked slowly. Sebastian thought it was fatigue. But then it came again, more deliberate, one blink, pause, another blink.
I see you.
Sebastian sat down and wept, quietly.
Saturday.
The house fell into rhythm. Sebastian moved like a ghost, his world shrinking to the four walls of Arthus's room. He brushed Arthus's long, silver white hair carefully each morning once, something Arthus had done with absent grace, now an act of preservation. It had grown past his shoulders, fanned over the pillow like a veil.
They spelled out the word "paper" Sebastian brought a quill and parchment, guided Arthus's left hand. It was barely a line, just loops and jagged lines. But it was an attempt.
They were learning.
Sunday.
Arthus had begun to sleep more, drifting in and out for hours at a time, his body barely reacting, his mind somewhere unreachable. Aberforth said it was normal. Healing. But Sebastian didn't believe it was just rest. Arthus wasn't healing, he was waiting.
That afternoon, while dusting the study for the first time in days, Sebastian found a parcel on the desk unopened, wrapped in brown paper with the merchant's stamp still intact. It was addressed in Arthus's handwriting. Inside: a newly published book by Fors Wall, bound in dark blue linen, the title etched faintly in silver: Whispers Beneath the Veil of Dreams.
Sebastian brought it to the bedside and sat. The cover creaked as he opened the first chapter. The ink was fresh, the pages stiff. Arthus's left eye shifted toward the sound. He was awake.
"I thought you'd want to hear this one," Sebastian said gently, and began to read:
"There is a place behind sleep—deeper than dream, where memory folds upon itself like paper drowned in oil. Those who walk too far into that place do not wake as they were. Their names remain, but their voices echo as if borrowed. They hear things in the silence—soft, patient things."
Sebastian paused. He looked at Arthus, whose gaze remained steady, unmoving. But there was something strange in his stillness, focus, intent. Listening more closely than he had in days.
He continued:
"I met a man once who said he'd seen the bottom of the sea, not with his eyes, but with his soul. He said the ocean did not speak in waves, but in thoughts. That it pressed dreams into his mind until he couldn't tell what was his anymore. He wept salt when he slept. He didn't remember how he'd learned to weep that way."
Sebastian looked up again. Arthus blinked once. Slowly. Deliberately.
Sebastian hesitated. The words lingered in the air like smoke. "Odd book" he murmured.
Arthus blinked again.
Monday.
One week.
Sebastian stood in the morning light, tying the curtain back as the fog rolled off the rooftops of the city beyond. He had not left the estate in seven days. His coat was wrinkled, his fingertips cracked from handling basins and leather straps.
Arthus was awake, as he always was now, staring upward, his left eye turning slightly toward the sound of footsteps.
"Good morning, Master," Sebastian said softly, placing a warm cloth on his brow. "It's Monday"
Arthus blinked once.
…
Above the gray fog stood the palace, lofty and towering like the home of a giant. It was as though it had been there for millions of years.
All Klein did was will it and he disappeared from where he was, reappearing at the Seat of Honor at the long bronze table with twenty-two high-back chairs.
"The effect of the ritual is definitely fixed..." Klein muttered. He tapped his glabella gently and allowed the fog to engulf him, ones thicker than before.
According to the description of The Hanged Man, if Justice had become a Spectator, it would be best not to reveal any of his tics before her. He was also curious as to what happened with Mr Priestess's situation.
Without wasting any more time, Klein extended his right hand and formed an invisible connection, connecting him to the three familiar crimson stars.