Survival is a state of mind

Lindsey remained silent, motionless and frightened when Verral took off his mask. His sudden aggressiveness made Lindsey understand that it was a delicate topic, she could see it made him uncomfortable. “…”

When Verral threw away his mask, a metallic rumble flooded the cell, drowning her in a sea of ​​guilt. The cell remained as silent as a tomb, and Lindsey remained absent-minded looking at Verral’s eyes.

“”Brain and Heart, essence of life. It is what really defines who you are… the body? It is just a recipient, that is what my researches concludes…

The hearts of people are easily fooled by the mind, and …“”

Verral’s breathing began to be heard more and more intensely in the cell, which caused Lindsey to be distracted from her thoughts and continue with the operation. She grabbed her cloak, folded it, and carefully took Verral’s neck gently inviting him to raise his head. He raised his head and Lindsey placed the improvised pillow so that Verral could breathe more easily. “…”

Lindsey looked at him and placed her hand on his forehead to measure his temperature. “…” She began by sweetly and carefully wiping out the sweat and dirt from his face with plenty of water. “Does that feel good?” She was still a little afraid of what happened, but she dissimulated it with coldness, as she always does.

Verral’s eyes were reddish in their sides, and showing signs of starting cataracts that didn’t let him see Lindsey’s face too well. The warm water drops escaped from the towel as she cleant him, and he shut his eyes, trying to calm down, knowing he had shaken the doctor: at least she’d try to measure her words after that scare. 

She did look like she could keep her composture coldly, though, unaffected by the look of his face. He was almost curious as why she was so interested in still treating him, as unkind as he could be, he let that down.

Lindsey checked one by one the dead bodies she maintained were in good conditions, cleaned up the blood puddles on the floor after being working all day. It was late at night.

The slow progress with Simon’s operation and the the dificulty to keep her laboratory in good conditions created a feeling of loneliness and nonesense in her, but it wasn’t about time to give up.

To play it better, and convinced of his solitude, he had taken off his mask, which was by his side. But also, in hopes his cataracts weren’t bad enough yet, so he could see the beautiful imagery the sun and the stars brought by.

Two Men Contemplating the Moon by Caspar David Friedrich, European Paintings

Medium: Oil on canvas

Wrightsman Fund, 2000 Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, NY

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Apollo e Daphne.

He stood there, looking at the man playing, quite astonished, but not being easy to tell so, as he would only show a partly opened mouth. A few seconds after the man was done, Verral was quiet, just trying to assimilate the beauty of what he had heard, an instrument he hadn’t heard in so long. His notebook wasn’t important anymore, what happened before was gone from his mind.

“…Do you play by ear? Or were you taught the instrument?” For some reason, he felt like the man could have the skill to have just learnt it from hearing what sounded good and what sounded bad, but maybe it was just do it not remembering a piece similar to what he touched.

Ω ∫ “I was mostly self-taught, but I used books by monks who’ve studied this instrument fer a long time,” Dismas said.  “Churches are the best places t’go fer learnin’ instruments.  Churches an’ trouvères––like Addinell.  I’ve only ‘eard a few cantigas from ‘im, but I like ‘em right well.”

“My reward is my service and knowing I’ve done good.” Is that enough for him? Well, Reynauld doesn’t think on it at the moment. He slowly releases the man. “I’m often wanted for battle, so there’s little time for enjoyment. I notice you’ve shed your armor. Do your lashes still ache?” It’s not so easy at their age, wounds don’t heal well. Though Verral’s musculature is likely stronger than his own, especially compared up close.

“You satisfy yourself with little, then.” Statements like these made Verral wonder if the religious folk in this hamlet hadn’t really known more than what they have, or if it was just genuine love for the fellow ones.

“It’s not so much like that, as it’s getting uncomfortable to carry it over all day…” It wasn’t like the lashes hurted more than any other wound in his body, or his own illness… but he wouldn’t confess that either. It was his third week resting: after the first three days, he didn’t see the point on going around with the full golden armour on, and besides his mask, they took it all off, just leaving the clothing and bandages on.

“Hm...” He started scratching his chin as he let the man go, thinking of activities Reynauld could be interested in. “I usually get enough money to spend at least a week recreating myself at the tavern... I don’t personally enjoy the gambling spot, but you’ll find recreational drinks and warm company if you’re into that...of any kind, really!” He tried to make it sound less... sin-y. More or less.

“But a week of pleasure is enough to bore a man, so the cathedral is always a good option to occupy your hands with...you’d know that better than me, I’ve left my good habits for a while... I also take that time to read anything I can get my hands on, and at nights, if I can’t sleep, I’ll practice some old partitures from memory. I’ve had some come to teach them to read, or played songs with other good musicians of the hamlet...”

Vanya let her head loll to the side as she watched him stand–or, rather, attempt to stand. It wasn’t exactly easy to gauge how badly his ankle was wounded when he had been lusting after pain inside the dungeon. Maybe this was the sound of relishing it. She thought it might be the case, at least until he moved to rub it and seemed to be evening out his breath.

“No more pathetic than any other time. Only a little more difficult.” Vanya pushed herself up, groaning a little at her joints still cracking after the transformation, and crawled the few feet between them. She reached out to touch his ankle gingerly. “…Can’t put any weight on it at all?”

He looked at her, funny gal, or whatever she thought that was. He’d better forget whatever he saw for the moment and focus on getting himself up, or he’d have to ask for her help again.

He pushed her hand away, trying once again to stand up, now searching for support on his sword, as some kind of cane.

“It’s really swollen, but that’s all. Can’t be worse than the many other time I’ve been back injured... I’ll get that fixed.” His own bone pain made him wonder if that “transition” left her as in pain as him, remembering just how painful it was to get your shoulder out of its place, which probably was one of the many mutilations she had to go through before.

Lindsey remained thoughtful waiting for Verral to lay down: “…”

The air of the cell was warm. Sunlight came through the small window with some rusty iron bars on it, to prevent leaks. It brought back memories, of when she used to work at the sanatoriu.

Lindsey was looking the cold stones while she heard Verral’s words. Without moving, she looked at Verral’s body and remained silent: “…”

Once Verral layed down on the stretcher, she knelt on the cold floor beside him. Lindsey looked slowly and analytically at his bandaged body and said with a cold voice: “The disease, the wounds … It must be difficult to bear with so much suffering almost steadily”

As she took the bowl with the acidic solution to burst the pustules on his face, Lindsey said: “I know what it is like to live behind a mask, too”

“…”

“Now.. let me see your face”

He’d dismiss her words, with a head shake, even when it was resting on the pillow. He just looked at the ceiling, his mask feeling heavy over his face, the metal pressing his nostrils. He could only hear her getting out the multiple tools, liquids, substance, whatever what is that she thought could calm his pain. 

Her last words didn’t go unnoticed, though.

“Oh, you must know, right?” He was being as ironic as his bad mood and the difficulty to breath well in this position allowed him. “Your face surely hides beneath that beak, hiding horrors not even your family wishes to see. Too disgusting to even be looked at without making people get nauseous...” 

No, she wouldn’t know. Whatever was under her mask would probably not compare to his deformed look he despised so much... but he couldn’t breath too well. So he ended up taking the mask off, feeling his chest go up and down, reaching for air. He took it off quickly, putting it aside, now looking at where her eyes seemed to be through her mask: she would now have to make the effort to look at his face after the request.