Morning came slowly not by the light of the sunshine as it penetrated, but with a gray dullness that oozed through the broken window. Dust was floating in the air, and it was visibly clear and Ethan James had his eyes open. He had not slept much and each time his body would relax, pangs in his ribs, soreness in his limbs and a pained ache in his head would bring him back to the awareness. Breathing was a chore as well but he was lying there, glaring at the ceiling, attempting to get used to this new, torturous reality.
This type of pain would have hardly been a concern in his former life. Shattered bones had been mended overnight, shredded meridians were nuisances, and pain was never my business. Now, the agony was personal. So that is what it is like, Ethan James muttered to himself, and he moved slightly and had to regret it immediately as a low groan came out of his throat and was suppressed only partially.
The door squeaked and Lily James was shown, with a small bundle of cloth in her hand. She stood still as she saw him move and she was instantly alarmed. You should not sit up, I would hurry up, she said. "You're still hurt." Yes, I know, said Ethan James roughly. "I just... don't like lying still." She stammered a meek obligatory nod, putting the bundle aside and revealing to view a slice of flat bread with a small bowl of thin porridge. Not much, I am sorry, I said, said she. "But it's warm." He stared at it and his gut twisted though he had eaten spirit and curative feasts in his former life that amplified healing.
He took the bowl and his hands trembled not with fear but with weakness, and drank slowly, taking pains not to move too much. Lily James waited a little then stammered, Are you different? What to say, he did not know. "In what way?" Continued she looking at him waryly. You do not seem scared any more. But you did not look scared even last night when Marcus Reed came. It was so; the fear which had haunted him in the past no longer existed. I got tired of it, admitted he to himself. She did not inquire, she simply nodded her head in a way that showed her she knew something more than he did.
As she went, Ethan James concentrated on getting his breathing under control, and then propelling his legs off the bed, which pondered his body with pain as soon as his feet left the floor. His knees shook, his teeth, and his jaw pained but said to himself, "Too early, but not impossible. He could not stand, but lying would be worse, and so he went on bit by bit, giving his body short pauses between each little activity. He did not feel triumphant, but the sweat came down his spine and his heart pounded wildly at his chest. He was a weak little fellow, but stood erect.
The world did not care about the outside. The shack was located on the outskirts of the Black Stone City in the filthy area with broken fences. People who passed turned a blind eye to him, they could not see, which befitted him very well. He walked back behind the shack, where broken stones and weeds sprang on the ground, where one could get concealed, so that no one practised a-hiding here, as no one hoped. He sat down closing his eyes, and said in his heart, I guess there is not much left, so let's see. Spiritual sense had been running without restrain in his old life, now it was as though trying to breathe water. His awareness was impeded, and almost at every turn curtailed by years of malnutrition, injury and neglect.
Bad talent this is not, He swore. "This body was never nurtured." In spite of the weakness, he reminded himself that perfection was not necessary to live. breathing deliberately, by snorting his nose, and stopping, and snorting by his mouth, and stopping, and snorting, and stopping, not to grow, but to live. He was waiting several minutes before he saw anything, a kind of warmth in the lower part of his abdomen, so little, yet so certain, a spiritual energy. The feeling caused his heart to skip. There you are, he said, and led the energy, like a maimed animal, needless to stress it. The first pain was like a lightning flash, his body spasmed as the blood poured to his head, and he could no longer see, but his heart ached.
He pitchedchedched in on his hands, and could not make out to breathe, and then gave a feeble laugh. What a way it will be, he said to himself. He had jumped ahead, had not done his preparation, and had paid the penalty. Blood drained out of his mouth, he pushed himself up again and said, No short-cuts. He was tracking consciousness in his body this time, tracing the barriers, finding where pain was, and where things were weak. It was tedious, gradual and miserable, yet it had its way. Hours went by and his body cried foul in protest but it answered, and that was change could be effected.
Even when the sun had started to drop, Ethan James pulled himself back inside, wet garments, sore muscles and sore wounds. Lily James came up bearing food, and was close to overturning the bowl in his astonishment. "You moved? Are you crazy?" she asked. "Probably," he replied lightly. When she started to dress his wounds he did not resist, but her hands were soft yet firm, and he stood in a kind of holding position. On this second night he lay awake again, the pain and the weakness still there, and still below those a certain something that was familiar: momentum. "I didn't die today," he thought. "That's enough."
City lights fluttered outside and Marcus Reed laughed somewhere and knew nothing of the conflict ahead of him. Ethan James shut his eyes and he was sure that tomorrow would be painful again and the next day and the next. But later on, the body would not just forget pain; the body would also not forget power, perseverance, denial. When this time came the world would hear. Gradually, inexorably, gradually.
The shack, which the moonlight had peaked through its cracks, made silver and dim, lighted up the city of Black Stone, and there was not a sound, save the far dog cries and that the carts squeaked occasionally. The body of Ethan James was sore, rusted ribs, aching muscles, sore head but it was no longer a kind of punishment. It was proof: he was alive. Wait, said he to himself, very slightly, and voice husky.
Patience is the way it all starts. Each movement made him remember his weakness, and also his pace, his endurance, and his obstinate insistence on not yielding. There were footsteps behind him and it was Lily James, so careful and gentle as usual, who was inquiring whether he was still awake.
"I needed to move," he said. His voice firm. "Pain isn't a wall. It's a teacher." Her hand, wiping away the sweat on his flesh, gave her a moment of warmth and a few strands of tenderness in a very cruel world. With her departure he commenced registering his trying, rebuilding the body, making the bones strong, cleaning the meridians, mastering the energy, learning the technique, training Marcus Reed, the academy, the city he had been scorned by. All the insults, blows, and humiliations were fuel. With his hands on the freezing floor, he followed energy lines, marked areas of obstruction, and mapped areas of weaknesses. The enemy was no longer pain and exhaustion but the basis of what he would make of himself.
He was seated in the gloomy light, and could imagine the slow beat of his own heart. Each ache at his heart, he thought of the weakness of his body, but he also thought of how alive he was. Suffering had been his daily companion during the past days, but it was no longer a fright. Rather it was an indicator of progress. Every pang was a warning that he was alive, every burning a notification that he was alive and must fight and survive and take everything that was stolen away. He had thoughts of Victor Hale, of the trust and loyalty with him which had formerly been so, and of the nothingness which in the wake of betrayal remained. That was a wound as keen as any. Nor would it be the soreness in his chest or his limbs that shattered him but rather it would be the loss of his purpose.
Gradually he made his consciousness pass with its fingers and toes throughout his body, feeling what was still working. Spurts of sensation jostled along the long-slumbering muscles. And every twitch, every pulse was a little triumph. He saw his fractured body as a map, every line and avenue a place to repossess. The nerves were congested, the bones soft, yet nothing had ever made his mind as clear as it was then. He was able to see the routes, smell the obstruction, and perceive the tiniest energies that had flowed through them.