30th of Saun, 716
11th Break
The screams of pain and the sound of wails, the march of hasty footsteps and alarmed yells, and the unscented disinfectants mingling with the thin smell of clove oil was how one could find the overrun Midtown hospital. The wounded had came in great masses, for many of them laid on the street rather than in the stone hospital itself. The limited room for every patient encouraged the proliferation of disease, helped greatly by the never ending heat of summer. Those lucky enough to be in the shade, despite not having to worry about severe sunburns, were instead overrun by the humidity that slowly overran their already damp flesh. Perhaps the heavens too wished for the demise of all those caught in the pointless war.11th Break
In the top floor there was one room with only one bed, and only one patient. Even in the humble and moist stone room with wide open windows, one could see luxury; the medical equipment were the decorations, and the two nurses that stood watch were the servants. The rest of that room was saturated with papers. Someone had tried to organize them, at least at first, yet they kept coming, and now they were merely piled in the corners of the room. In them, horror stories were told in the names of the deceased, in field reports that spoke of casualties, of tactics, of events that seemed so far away even if their timestamp was dated from bits ago. Nobody read them, in truth, for nobody truly cared about the details of the ruined kingdom. The dead count lost its meaning with every new figure added to the already lenghty sum.
[indent=30Instead, these few papers meant for the eyes of Peake Andaris were, instead, repurposed into something else. Through folding and bending the paper, the nobleman had found an entertainment into an activity only practiced in his childhood. It was a simple practice, and its mysteries were almost null, yet its beauty remained nonetheless - at least in the Baron's eyes. As he pulled the tail of the bird, the paper contracted, and its paper wings flapped. Once he released the tail, it returned to its original positions, and so did the wings. Certainly simple, yet it was that same simplicity what made it so compelling to the eye and mind, and just like a child, the Commander pulled and released that tail every few thrills.
The Baron's situation was not as simple as the paper bird. His wounds were grave, and their damage could be easily seen in his frame. The missing lower leg was missing from the whitish blankets in which he laid, now a thick bandage coated in blood waiting to be changed. The wheezes that accompanied every inhale and every exhale spoke of the shattered ribcage, which was also covered in damp red bandages. The same dressing was present around his head, covering his ear and some parts of his bare chin. However, the distress of all the blood and all the pain felt was unseen in his features, or in the attitude drawn in them. Instead, the Baron looked towards the folded paper quite neutrally, as if whatever maladies befallen upon his frame had met not his mind. Be it discipline what controlled his mind, the morphine provided on a regular basis, or the lack of sleep he was not allowed to have, one could not know.
The trials were uneventful for him, for the same routine repeated itself at timed cycles. Every two breaks, a new batch of reports would arrive, and they would be added to the pile. Between those two breaks, a small dose of morphine would be shot into his arm, and the sting of the needle was not felt. The door would then close, and the window would open. The breeze would be nonexistent until noon, but in the afternoon it'd roll within the window and flick the papers. This breeze always smelled of the ocean and of smoke. He would be fed every two hours in small and unimaginative portions, consistent mostly of some sort of jam-like meat and vegetable paste, which tasted disgusting. His bandages would be changed for new ones every so often, being bathed with a rasp and cold sponge in between. Once the night came, the windows were closed, his wounds began aching, and he was given drugs to prevent him falling asleep. They feared the severity of his wounds would send him into coma, and, sometimes, when the pain bound him to his bed, Peake fantasized with the end coming for him at once.
Nobody came for him. Not his father, not his brothers nor his sister. Not his soldiers, nor the King whose kingdom he had saved. He craved for conversation at times. Most times, however, he simply enjoyed being lost in the silence of his own making, for the dead visited him regularly, and their visits were unpleasant. He’d spot them in the corner of the room, late at night, in the form of a golden haired boy starting towards him. He’d feel the breathing of his mother right behind his head, or the scratching of nails against the window. Peake cowered then, and shook his head, frowned his features, and panted hastily, and not even the presence of the nurses nor their speech managed to snap him out of his fears. However, he would never close his eyes, for in the void he only saw the red eyes of the beast and hear its paws thumping on the stone, coming for him to finish the deed.
The paper bird with its flapping birds was simple to understand,, a memento of sorts of what has been and what could’ve been. It flapped its wings without thinking, and it could surely take flight were it released from his prison. It could enroll in the moist ocean breeze and fly away, migrating to warmer lands, far away from this hell or the scent of smoke that crept over Andaris city.
Perhaps, one day, the paper bird would be free to leave through the window.
