Page 77 of Envious Of Fire
And Brock still won’t answer a single question.
Would you like to rest a bit longer?Tristan offers.Perhaps you are exhausted? I can’t imagine what you must be feeling like.
Brock says nothing. Continues to drool. Continues to stare.
Is he even breathing?
Tristan sucks in his lip, thinking. He decides to perform a test. He rises from his chair. Brock remains staring forward, not tracking him with his eyes at all. Tristan takes a step. Brock still doesn’t move, doesn’t react. After a moment of thought—and bracing himself with undeserved courage—he takes one more step, now within range of Brock.
Brock doesn’t move.
Another step.
Now Tristan stands in front of Brock, close enough to hug him. Tristan crouches down, brings his face in front of Brock’s, directly in his line of sight, where Tristan could almost believe Brock is now staring right into his eyes, even as he drools.
Tristan changes his tack.Do you remember Kyle?
Brock’s eyes flicker with life.
Tristan nearly falls back, just from that subtle yet entirely discernable change. Has he reached him? Was Kyle the trick all along? Really? Or is it just a coincidence?
Do you remember Jessica…the God girl?
Brock’s lips move, attempting a word. The strand of drool wiggles like a plucked guitar string. Still, no sound comes out.
Go ahead, speak, Tristan gently coaxes him.You did it before, when you first woke up, when I found you in the hallway of the clinic.You asked me to help you find something.You even knew my name.
Brock’s lips quiver. His eyes well up, tears emerging.
Is it your wife and son?Tristan smiles when he sees Brock’s eyes react again. His gaze doesn’t quite lock onto Tristan’s, but the words certainly reach him at last. They’re making progress.You miss them, I bet.Yes, that makes sense.You want all of this to be over with.You want to return to your family.
It is as if every happy memory of Brock’s life swims before him. He keeps trying to smile, but each attempt crumbles too soon, falling away like dust.
Tristan doesn’t give up.Yes, yes, I see it in your eyes…Do not worry.In time, you will be returned to your wife, to your son, to your boring routines you will come to cherish like long-lost treasures…as soon as we know you aren’t a danger to others.
A voice booms from the door. “What in dead heavens is this?”
It is George, who has quietly crept in.
And the moment Brock’s eyes fall upon him, he lets out a terrified, animalistic yelp, tries at once to get away, yanking on his chains with unnerving force, eyes crazed, howling. It is a fast and worrying reaction, which causes Tristan to step back, afraid of his own arms being ripped from his body. After Tristan tries many times to sedate Brock with his voice and soothing words and calm gestures—and with absolutely no help from George, who just stands there at the doorway wearing a blank, gawping expression—Tristan finally resorts to brushing fingers down Brock’s face. At once, Brock’s efforts cease, his eyes rock back, and he slumps down into his chair, suspended only by the chains as if hanging in a metal spider web.
Tristan sighs.And we were making such lovely progress…
“Again I ask, what in dead heavens is this?”
What did it look like? I was chatting with an old friend.
“He is alive. How is this possible?” George takes a step into the room, rethinks, steps back. “Is this a wicked effort of illusion, I dare ask? But our Lord Markadian is not here. Is he aware?”
I think it best our dear Lord is kept out of the loop on this one.
“Then he does not know? This is not a wicked illusion?”
No, just the wicked truth. Tristan rises, struts up to George, yanks his handkerchief out of his breast pocket, returns to Brock and uses it to wipe up drool and blood.I am cleaning up your mess.
“That is my handkerchief you are adulterating.”
And in maybe four days’ time, optimistically, Brock may be ready to return to his life,and no one will be poking around us anymore.See? Everyone will get what they want.Even him.
