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You're on the floor, there's a sickening crunch, and the world is darkened by the black mist that pours out of your mouth. Your first thought, alarmingly clear, is this is the worst it's ever been.
You're sure you're better at it than the others; Merle has outgrown the time of his life where physical agony can hit quite that deep, and you wonder if Magnus has ever truly felt pain at all. That kind, anyway. He's numb in all the ways you aren't, and visa versa, if you were delirious enough to start wandering that road again. Not quite yet.
You have something decidedly troubling happening to your own body before you think of his. There's a shape your last few ribs should not be in, a deadness in your right leg, and a white hot crescent where the feeling of your shoulder should be. Something sharp is sticking into your back, and your next thought coils nauseously into your stomach. You almost call their names. Magnus. Merle.
No. Not them. You. You swallow down something coming up your throat, clench your fists, and blink. Finally you can breathe, but that's almost worse, because there is something very sharp and very wrong inside of you and it comes back out in an awful, awful sound you're very glad you get to make in privacy, and you cough, and it's hot and wet and red and out with it billows another dark cloud of mist and you think; oh God.
It's not so bad. You haven't been through worse, so you just lie to yourself, and get up on your palms. There's a lot going on, and by the time you're aware of all of it it's basically happening at once; tons of those white eyes all scurrying away, then Magnus swings at the bear and whiffs so hard he nearly goes falling over, and either in delirium or optimism you laugh, and the fucked up bullshit going on in your torso is just as fucking awful either way. Hell, fucking hell.
You blink out, stagger up onto your good leg, clutch your middle and straighten your spine with pride and a little bit of righteous indignation, and you freeze the ever-loving shit out of that fucking dire bear. Take that. You must look better than you feel, because Merle and Magnus take a minute to celebrate the victory. You're starting to hope they didn't even see the thing come down on you, until the uncomfortable fullness in your middle turns into a mouthful of blood, and you fall to your knees and vomit down onto the floor.
You can breathe, sort of, and you can move, sort of, but you're about the fuck done with both and either and by the time Magnus' hands are on your back and forehead-- keeping your hair out of your face while you continue to spit up, you're not even sure why he bothers-- you're starting to think it might be nice to just lie down and let it happen. You had a good run. Okay, you had a shitty run, even counting some of the last two years. You hear it in your head; Why are you in such a dangerous line of work? You wish you hadn't answered him honestly. If you die, you're going to have to look at the face of a man who knows at least one of your secrets, so you won't even be able to brush off the fact you're going out of this world fucked up and unloved, just like you feared.
Magnus rubs your back, and encourages Merle to do something. He's already been channeling some kind of spell, but it's not working like it should, or at least that's what he says over the din of your breathing. Fuck, it's loud. It's an entire elven street band of snare drum bones and whistling bloody flutes in your throat and if you go daring to remember your childhood in your last moments you swear you're gonna--
It gets better. A little. Whatever's filling your insides up with blood seals up and you think the break in your femur seals in, and for a second you're hoping it's all going to stop and you'll stop hurting. The black smoke pours from your nose, practically, though you can't feel it at all. But it's just that, and then it's done, and Merle glares down at his hands like they've betrayed him. Magnus' grip tightens in your shirt and his fingers in your hair shake. He was hoping for the miracle almost more than you were. Yeah yeah, big guy. Sorry.
You don't like hurting Magnus. You don't think you could hurt Merle if you tried, and you like that about the guy. He's savvy, never quite trusted you, not since the two of them picked you up for that first mission outside Hammerfel, and he's kept it cool. Professional. A pat on the shoulder here, a "pretty slick, kid," once. Barbs and dirty jokes and best of all, absolute negligence. Merle's chill is impregnable.
But Magnus....
"Now hold on there. What do you think you're doing?"
The relief is short lived. Your insides open back up and your body reflexes a vomit, and you stay curled there over the red puddle until somebody moves you.
---
"No healing," says Magnus, like his throat is dry. He's watching you in a way you wish he wouldn't. You try to find a way to recline against the counter that looks casual and doesn't dig your broken rib further into your soft parts. Hey, on the plus side, you're starting to lose your head.
That makes it easier to smile. You're scared as shit, and you think there's no way it's gonna pass for calm with blood all down your front and your hair slick to your face with sweat, but the big guy does seem to relax a bit. What you can't hide is the pools of black smoke coiling up out of you with each breath; it shows how they're too fast, too small. Merle watches you thoughtfully, his fist curled up against his mouth.
"Is there anything we can do to..." Magnus pauses, looks to Merle. "Make him feel better?"
"You better play the long game if you go down that way, my guys," Cam says from the potter's wheel. You don't think you like him very much, but maybe you're projecting. If they were you, you'd wring yourself empty of all you've got left and leave yourself all just like that, now wouldn't you? It's a thought that's barely coherent, but that's about all you've got to give, and you tip your chin back and try to resist a growing urge to vomit. You hate the look Mags gets on his face when you do it.
"I'm just sayin, it's delayin the inevitable." Cam sighs in something sort of like pity, and you decide yeah, yeah, you hate him. He repeats himself; "I'm just sayin-- just sayin. This is not a good place for that guy to be. Not good. Seen it before." He licks his lips, which is weird to watch, somehow. "Not good."
"We can splint the leg and relocate the shoulder," Merle says. "And I think I can do something for the guts. But he's not gonna like it."
"Yeah, and I'm not gonna like dying much either, old man," you say, unleashing a flurry of smoke. Cam winces, and oh Mags, don't fucking look at me like that-- don't look at me at all, don't be here. "Whatever it is, do it fast. I'm fucked up. This is-- this is fucked up."
"Yeah yeah," Merle agrees, in a tone way too fucking soft and you hate it, so you decide to just shut your eyes and lower your brow and wait it out. Whatever's gonna happen, you're gonna just wait it out. Eyes shut. Get through it. You laugh bitterly. That ain't new. "Magnus, you do the leg and shoulder. I'll get this ready."
That chills you, which you also bury. He starts with your leg, feeling carefully along the muscle for the break, and when you wince in and shudder back out that's where he finds to set the splint straight and start wrapping. "Don't--" you struggle, because being horizontal is causing you all kinds of problems right now. "Fuck it up, I don't wanna be bow-legged the rest of my damn life. Elves live-- six hundred years, you know... that's a long time to be hobbling."
"That's fake," Magnus says, all quiet and shaky. You squint through one eye to see he's not smiling. But his hands are perfectly still and stable, like this is him at work, and you know he sets it right. That's what he does. He makes things right. And through the haze of pain and smoke you look at him and let yourself think some really stupid shit, like you should have at least tried to get him in bed, just once. Either you're dying or he's a gorgeous, infallible paragon of benevolent masculinity in a bleak and shitty world or maybe it's both things, and that's when he goes and without any warning whatsoever pops your shoulder back in with a sickening crunch.
"FuckfuckFUCKyou fuckyou, you peice of shiiit oh my God, Mags--" and nope, nope nope nope, you're gonna burn a spell slot to turn this guy into a ham sandwich or something as soon as your head quits spinning and you stop sobbing, you're all bloody and snotty and your eyes are wet and you can practically feel him shaking and muttering Sorry. sorry. He's not talking about the shoulder, not at all.
You might as well cry now while you can. You put your face under your sleeve on your good arm and pretend you're alone, because you can't handle anybody seeing you like this, not at all, fucking hell-- you're gonna write this all down and feed it to the voidfish-- no, fuck, that's not even how that works...
"Sit him up. There you go."
Mags is following instruction with cool precision and stern focus, now, like his sympathy is turning into anger. When you open your eyes, Merle is holding a flask of something dim and pale, and you snarl up a corner of your lip.
"I'm not drinking your weird dwarf jizz, dude."
"Hold onto that sense of humor, pal." He's weirdly stoic. At least you tell yourself that, opting not to recognize his eyes watering. "This is Hornberry sap. Freshly squeezed from the mercy of Pan. Old dwarven trick to gum up the works."
Your stomach feels full again, and it churns unpleasantly. Magnus' hand hasn't left your back.
"It's gonna taste like shit and burn like hell, but it won't kill you, and it'll keep you from bleeding out into your stomach until we can get outta here." You nod vaguely. Merle reaches around and braces a hand to the back of your skull, which is troubling. "Wish I could give ya some pep talk, bud, but we're thin on time."
"Just do it," you say, in sort of the same tone where you turned around and fell back into Magnus' arms. Let's get it over with and move on with our lives. That's the mantra you stick to.
"You've gotta puke first. Empty it out all you can. Then chug all of this and keep it down for a while. Just like bad wine. Fast, okay bud? You're not gonna want to do this twice, promise."
By now you're a little pissed off at being coddled, and shaking all over, and gross and bloody and sweaty and so you dig your fingers back towards your throat with something almost like gusto and keep puking until you're sure you're hollow, until you're sure you've given them both a scare with how damn easy it was for you, and then Merle is shoving your head up and pouring that crap down your throat and Aw hell, he wasn't kidding, and you somehow get it all down. You try to gag, or you don't but your body does, but he's got his hand over your mouth so back down it goes. This time it stays.
Satisfied you're not going to hurl right away, he has you roll onto your stomach for a bit, then has you try to puke the rest of it back out. It's so thick and gross, like horking up a pint of snot, snot if you're being charitable, but it's only faintly red and-- you're seriously upset you got familiar enough with the sensation to recognize it-- you don't think you're bleeding into yourself anymore. Not your stomach, at least.
"Good work, kid." He claps you on the back just firm enough it steels your convictions. You might make it out of here. Not that you really believe it, you just need to not to be completely deadened with misery. "Just a warning, you're gonna have some real interesting trips to the can this week."
You have it in you to moan something vague and acidic in his direction, then you're sitting up-- Merle tells Magnus in no questionable terms not to let you lie down-- and they wrap you up in your cape and set you there. You're drenched in your own sweat, and bitter, and tired, but your body's stopped screaming either out of weariness or some actual good all this shit has done you. You're half worried you're gonna crawl out of the pocket dimension and they'll see you splinted up and full of gunk and set you back right the way you came, but clouds still billow out of your mouth with each exhale. Smaller. Maybe enough, for them. It has to be; they could be doing so much worse, if they really wanted you to scream.
You watch Mags and Merle talk, and offer smarmy contribution just to be disarming to the little gray puffs that work out of Magnus's mouth. You'll forgive him for the shoulder, if you ever get to walk out of here. Blood loss you may owe it to, but you're not lying down, and you're not giving up. You even manage a lazy smile, when you stumble out of here clinging to the back of Magnus' curiass.
Worse than it's ever been, maybe. But not for as long.
Suffering is your fuckin' deal. It's your bread and goddamn butter, it's the arms that are always under your trust fall. These punks-- the ones that jingle the bell tauntingly through the intercom-- get from you a smug, angry, delirious grin through the fog that slips between your teeth. They don't know the first damn thing about suffering. But you've made a life career out of it. You are the goddamn king of suffering, and you hope you get the chance to teach them.