into a semi-aware state an hour earlier – something that was more of a curse than blessing.
Mon Dieu. In all his life, he’d never experienced such pain. He craved a sturdy drink with nauseating intensity … anything to numb the reality of his fate. In a slow, deep burn, the pain blazed through his body with the force of a wildfire. The simple act of breathing burdened his lungs with unwelcome strain. His throat, chest, and face were plagued with mind-bending heat and discomfort. His joints screamed, his limbs were immobile, and each nerve trembled with agonizing pain. The horrors of the battlefield paled in comparison.
He could barely think. Could barely draw breath. Could barely bring anything to memory.
What could he last recall? What had brought him to this miserable fate? Had his mind left him entirely? That last thought intrigued him. Indeed, it held a twisted appeal. In a strange way, madness was a luxury. But he was far too lucid – too lucid and much too aware of himself to have succumbed to madness.
Unmerciful God, he wished for death.
With an irritated grunt, he lifted his face and battled to make sense of the foreign surroundings. Sweat trickled from his brow and blurred his vision as he struggled to sit up. It felt like sealing wax had fastened his eyes closed. He tried to concentrate on the room – on anything that might tell him where he was – but he saw duplicates of everything, and each object was superimposed over its counterpart.
How long had he been here? Hours? Days? Weeks?
Sunlight speared through the room’s sole window and slanted across his reclined form, caressing him with unwanted warmth. Vainly dodging the assault, Gabriel rolled onto his side and withered against the rock-hard mattress. Mon Dieu, even his bedroll put this contraption to shame. The plank creaked in objection, bending under the massive weight of his body. The subtle noise seemed to slam against his brain and award him with a blinding migraine. Frustrated, far too sore to draw breath, he squeezed both eyes shut, clutched onto either side of his face, and sagged deeper into the pillow. Linen – some sort of bandage – swathed his head.
Suddenly he remembered everything in vivid detail.
Standing before the River Seine. Clasping his flintlock pistol – a pistol that had been in his family for countless generations. Swallowing its barrel. Uttering a meaningless prayer. Deftly pulling the trigger …
Mixed into those memories was the recollection of a gentle, comforting touch … a sweet, warm voice … a faint ray of hope within the darkness … the impossible face of an angel …
Willing himself not to tremble, Gabriel fondled the linen – already aware of the unseen horror that lurked beneath. Two fingertips pried beneath the bandage. Rekindled pain speared through his body as the tender, gaping hole met his fingertip. Defeated, he groaned and dropped his hand back onto the coverlet. His fingers fisted the coarse material, and sweat welled in the curve of his palm.
It only took one touch. The despairing truth confirmed itself, and the epiphany was almost poetic.
Laughter bubbled inside Gabriel’s throat. He laughed until his stomach ached. He laughed until tears poured down his cheeks and dampened the bandages. Nausea overcame him as his sides grew sore from the force of his laughter. Stopping only to retch on the floorboards, he continued to laugh until those tears held no more mirth.
Really – the turn of events was all too fitting.
Now his face would match the tattered depths of his soul.
•
Two mornings later, Gabriel woke to a pair of bright blue eyes staring at him. They were wider than dinnerplates and filled with naked curiosity. Groaning in pain, he strained against the mattress and met the child’s sapphire stare. The agony had eased somewhat, though his face still felt raw – as if it had been cleaved open by a beetle hammer. He was rather lightheaded, too. A distinct, comforting warmth
Mon Dieu. In all his life, he’d never experienced such pain. He craved a sturdy drink with nauseating intensity … anything to numb the reality of his fate. In a slow, deep burn, the pain blazed through his body with the force of a wildfire. The simple act of breathing burdened his lungs with unwelcome strain. His throat, chest, and face were plagued with mind-bending heat and discomfort. His joints screamed, his limbs were immobile, and each nerve trembled with agonizing pain. The horrors of the battlefield paled in comparison.
He could barely think. Could barely draw breath. Could barely bring anything to memory.
What could he last recall? What had brought him to this miserable fate? Had his mind left him entirely? That last thought intrigued him. Indeed, it held a twisted appeal. In a strange way, madness was a luxury. But he was far too lucid – too lucid and much too aware of himself to have succumbed to madness.
Unmerciful God, he wished for death.
With an irritated grunt, he lifted his face and battled to make sense of the foreign surroundings. Sweat trickled from his brow and blurred his vision as he struggled to sit up. It felt like sealing wax had fastened his eyes closed. He tried to concentrate on the room – on anything that might tell him where he was – but he saw duplicates of everything, and each object was superimposed over its counterpart.
How long had he been here? Hours? Days? Weeks?
Sunlight speared through the room’s sole window and slanted across his reclined form, caressing him with unwanted warmth. Vainly dodging the assault, Gabriel rolled onto his side and withered against the rock-hard mattress. Mon Dieu, even his bedroll put this contraption to shame. The plank creaked in objection, bending under the massive weight of his body. The subtle noise seemed to slam against his brain and award him with a blinding migraine. Frustrated, far too sore to draw breath, he squeezed both eyes shut, clutched onto either side of his face, and sagged deeper into the pillow. Linen – some sort of bandage – swathed his head.
Suddenly he remembered everything in vivid detail.
Standing before the River Seine. Clasping his flintlock pistol – a pistol that had been in his family for countless generations. Swallowing its barrel. Uttering a meaningless prayer. Deftly pulling the trigger …
Mixed into those memories was the recollection of a gentle, comforting touch … a sweet, warm voice … a faint ray of hope within the darkness … the impossible face of an angel …
Willing himself not to tremble, Gabriel fondled the linen – already aware of the unseen horror that lurked beneath. Two fingertips pried beneath the bandage. Rekindled pain speared through his body as the tender, gaping hole met his fingertip. Defeated, he groaned and dropped his hand back onto the coverlet. His fingers fisted the coarse material, and sweat welled in the curve of his palm.
It only took one touch. The despairing truth confirmed itself, and the epiphany was almost poetic.
Laughter bubbled inside Gabriel’s throat. He laughed until his stomach ached. He laughed until tears poured down his cheeks and dampened the bandages. Nausea overcame him as his sides grew sore from the force of his laughter. Stopping only to retch on the floorboards, he continued to laugh until those tears held no more mirth.
Really – the turn of events was all too fitting.
Now his face would match the tattered depths of his soul.
•
Two mornings later, Gabriel woke to a pair of bright blue eyes staring at him. They were wider than dinnerplates and filled with naked curiosity. Groaning in pain, he strained against the mattress and met the child’s sapphire stare. The agony had eased somewhat, though his face still felt raw – as if it had been cleaved open by a beetle hammer. He was rather lightheaded, too. A distinct, comforting warmth
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