BOON

Written on October 6, 2024 (♏︎)

Author's Notes: Written for Whumptober 2024 for prompt No. 6: Not Realizing They're Injured (Healing Wrong).

Balk had not expected to reawaken when he fell–not to paradise, not to hell, not to anything. He was no true believer, even if his heresies remained limited to the confines of his heart.

Balk had quite thought himself given over to oblivion until his eyes opened once more to the dusty Mullonde stonework. Even then, he had thought it some phantasy–the last traces of memory fleeing the dead. It took Cletienne’s appearance for him to acknowledge to himself that he remained, his thoughts still tethered to his body.

"They were right in saying you might be reclaimed, Fendsor." Cletienne was unemotional. "Even with the killing blow unmended."

Balk found himself able to sit, to turn, to press his hand against his chest and find the cold edges of an open wound. His throat moved as if to gasp, but he could not draw air into his lungs. He realized that there should be more than detached curiosity at these facts: that they ought carry the weight of some horror.

"Your ambitions, if I recall, didn't need much by way of warmth to carry them forward." Cletienne lips curled slightly. "You might even consider this turn something of a boon."

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