The earliest lesson that Ethan James found on the morning following that weak conquest was the fact that progress was costly, and the body never failed to make interest on it. He rose earlier than day, not because he was fatigued, but because his flesh was too taut to remain quiet. All the internal parts of him were swollen inside as though his flesh had been stuffing into often-filled cases whose sides were no longer made to fit it. As he attempted to turn over on his side, a severe drag ran the length of his back, and pushed the air out of his lungs in a painful reluctant hiss.
He lingered there long, eyeing the gloomy ceiling, breathed out a couple of times before the worst of it had got down into something one could confront. This was not the same pain as in the previous days. It was not the pure pain of the hurt, or the sunken emptiness of the infirmity. It was deeper, more weighty, as though, indeed, his body was objecting to change as such, to the novel pressure he had exerted upon it. that discovery seemed nearly to make him smile, but the movement pulled his ribs and swept away the expression before it could become quite clear.
You saw so, that I noticed, he said to himself. "Good."
He put himself up step at a time, and his progress was made very very painfully. His hands were trembling, his arms were trembling, his hands were pressing down into the thin mattress, his arms were straining to receive weight which they were not yet used to supporting. When he sat down the sweat was already condensing at his temples, in spite of the coldness of the morning air. He stood still there with his head down, breathing slowly and deliberately, to remind himself that haste would do him no service this time.
It was a creaking door that would not allow him to make another movement. Lily James slipped in, and walked very lightly yet dashingly, as though she were afraid of the sound of her footsteps to shatter him. She stood still at his sight, and his eyes were opened with relief and alarm of which no longer was disguise.
You are already awake, she said to herself as she laid the little bowl she was carrying aside. You would have called out had you needed some assistance.
Ethan shook his head, to be on the safe side not to move at once too much. I had to work it out myself, he answered. His face was coarse, and withal constant. When I get assistance in every step, then I will never make a step on my own.
She was frowning, obviously disappointed, but she made no objection. Rather she gave him the bowl and stood and looked on as he received it, her eyes lingering over the manner in which his fingers increased the hold. It was a thin plain porridge, little more than warm water and grain, but his stomach knotted at the odour. He ate very slowly, and rather he dwelled on his balance than on the flavour.
You are even worse than you were yesterday, Lily said after a minute in a low voice. "But somehow... calmer."
Ethan looked up at her, in surprise. "Calmer?"
She nodded, and hesitated, puzzled how to say her words. "Like you expect it to hurt. Similar to that you are not scared anymore.
He thought as he swallowed another mouth. She was right. The agony was still aching, but no longer startled him. It was no longer able to control his brain, to force it into panic and desperation. Fear consumes energy, he replied at last. "I don't have enough to spare."
She did not comprehend it all, but she appeared to be content with it. When she picked up the bowl she lingered a little longer, then went away leaving him to himself with a promise that she would come back later. As the door shut, Ethan exhaled slowly and leant back against the wall and the coarse wood pierced his shoulders.
It took me more time to stand than it had done the previous day. His legs complained greasily, and the muscles contracted and disengaged in uneven jerks, but he stood his ground, and the spasms had to have worn out before he moved. Every inch of the way to the door was like dragging his body through deep mud, but he did not mind. Pain meant engagement. Resistance did not indicate the shutdown of his body, but an action of his body.
The sky was still colorless and pale outside, and only the city was awakening. Ethan relocated to the back of the shack like the day before him, and sat down on the chilly dirt with a suppressed sigh. The ground seemed to be unforgiving on his legs but he embraced that as well. Comfort dulled awareness. He needed clarity.
He shut down his eyes, and did not at once turn inward, as he had formerly done. Rather, he was interested in his breath and the enlargement and contraction of his ribs, the irregular beat of his heart. He listed feelings of sensations without evaluation: the pain in his lower back, the tight feeling in his thighs, the slight heat in his abdomen where that slender strand of power had been.
It was not until his breathing taught him to stop that he started.
This time he was not in pursuit of the warmth. Nor did he implore it along or seek to steer it along broken ways. Instead he permitted his consciousness to rest about it, and perceived without meddling. The feeling had flashy appeared, as an ember under the ash, and not struck at him as formerly. His body tensed with an anticipation of pain, but none came.
Minutes passed. Then more.
His spine was dripped by sweat, his legs were shaking due to the effort it is taking to maintain the position, yet he did not move. He held himself in that precarious position and his body manages itself. The next time the warmth made the same impact, but this time it was a little more intense, he did not experience it as pain, but as pressure, as the extension of a muscle beyond the range to which it is accustomed.
His cheeks grew tighter and he stood his ground.
There it is, he said to himself, and a quiet content of being was making its way to his concentration. Not strength. Not yet. But adaptation.
By the time he opened his eyes, the sun had become higher, and as long as the shadows on the dirt. His limbs were tired, and he hungched himself forward and took himself up before his face bumped the ground. He gave a hoarse laugh, which he could not restrain, and which was brutal and gasping, yet it was real.
As he pulled himself inside again his limbs were so heavy like stone. Lily was waiting, and the fact that she gave a sharp intake of breath upon seeing him proved what, to himself, was no secret: he was a dreadful-looking man. His skin was paler than ever, his clothing was so dirty and wet and his movements were slower than ever. She reproved him and cleased his wounds, her hands were quick and skillful and there was a peculiar light in her eyes too, a kind of pride.
Your stubborn fool, you are, she said, tying a clean towel around him. "You know that, right?"
He nodded slightly. "I have to be."
His body protested in good earnest that afternoon. Hot blood followed, and his muscles pained him with a soreness that was gnawingly deep, and caused him to find it difficult to think. He sank into a deep and shallow sleep and dreams with glimpses of his old life. He was taking a glimpse of Victor Hale, not as an adversary, but as he had been: smiling, self-confident, reliable. The betrayal was still painful, but it was no longer a blaze of revenge, blind and frenzied. Instead, it was heavy and cold, something that complacency cost.
In waking towards evening the pain was not lessened, and he had a clearer head. He put his limbs to the test, but this time the pain was not so sharp, it was more spread-out. Healing, but very gradual, was taking place. His body was learning, the next day was worse.
All the movements were too slow, as though his muscles reacted a second slow too his desires. Twice half had his legs sunken him underfoot ere he gained the door. It was colder outside, and the dirt was more painful to his skin. He sat down in his place and with a frown resumed, breathing, gripping, waiting.
The warmth this time was earlier.
It did not surge. It did not tear through him. And it just was, constant and dim, a silent presence which would not disappear. The breath was arrested, and panic, the urge to hold on to it, would flash through Ethan. He pushed it in, remembering that there was a difference between control and force.
Gradually, deliberatingly, he broadened his consciousness, following the boundaries of that warmth without forcing it along. Suffering succeeded, but it was dulled, far away, almost like a scream of pain. His physique trembled, but it did not fall down.
By the time he got to a halt, he was trembling with fatigue, his eyes were dim at the periphery, but something within him was certainly different. Not stronger. But steadier.
At this moment he was about to rise when some shadows fell upon him.
Well, said a familiar voice, which was heavy with amusement. "Look at you. Still pretending."
Marcus Reed was a few steps away, with two others by his side, and his face showed that he was incuriosity and scorn at the same time. Ethan did not start about. He completed his breath, low and leisurely, and raised his head.
At that composure Marcus tightened his eyes. You are making an effort, eh? he continued. Training in the dirt as some lost foundling.
Ethan gazed back unawkwardly. He did not speak. Words would but only leave Marcus something to twist.
Silence was even worse than defiance itself bothered him. Marcus came up and kicked Ethan on the side unintentionally. And the pain went flying through his ribs, and was instant and sharp, and forced the air out of his lungs as he fell on his shoulder. His mouth was full of dirt and his teeth were grating.
There was laughter, and loud and careless.
Ethan waited a little, breathing shallowly gasping. The agony was most severe, yet it was a pain accustomed, in a book. As Marcus caught his shirt and dragged him half up, there was no flinching of the eye.
That look unsettled him.
Marcus hit him once, and once, each blow was heavy, but not concentrated. Ethan did not fight back. He allowed his body to receive it, to be transmitting the pain without a fight. As Marcus at last made a break and strained his breathings Ethan sank back to the ground.
Erm, remember your place, spat Marcus. "You're nothing."
They left laughing.
Some time after the sound of their footsteps had died, Ethan still stood there. Painstakingly, agonizingly, he scrambled himself to his feet and sat again in the dirt. His body protested and he shut his eyes and breathed.
He continued. He slept that night with no dreams.
As he awoke sore and bruised and exhausted there was no welcome to him. The memory of it, dim, but undying. He smiled despite the pain.
The body had already started remembering rather than languishing and it would not forget.