I have run more tests with the bear, and my suspicions were confirmed: she fears the light of the glyphs more than she fears me. All that remains is to feed her a little bit more, enough to induce a reliable state of torpor. I have time, I have always had time. The only thing I ever had in here, besides this lapdog sword, the book and my magic, is time. Rushing to save Abeline will solve nothing, it will only result in failure. Abeline suffers each waking second, yes, but so does everyone in here, and easing the simplest of pains is only human. I should not be helping an animal if I could help a person instead, no, that’s not what I am saying. But, being we all prisoners of this jail, shouldn’t we try to help a lost pigeon find that window too small for any of us to get through? If all men are damned, because when you delete two or three details all men are one and the same and therefore my disgrace and desperation is that of humanity, why should I not use this damnation of me, of Abeline, of us, of men, to help an innocent bear?
All this moral discourse won’t matter if I cannot even help the bear. I need to go look for another limb, or maybe some entrails. But those are more nutritive, and I need every possible advantage if I am to face Scarreladai… someday. I despise the taste of liver and decaying kidney, but any sort of cannibalism is already bad enough to go and add the caprice of being a picky eater on top.
For a second, I wondered how bear tastes. I quickly derailed that train of thought, because I intend for the bear to be my friend, not my dinner… for as long as the situation allows for it, anyway.
After testing the thing about glyphs and coming up with a name for the bear, I will retire to my room and sleep. I will wake up mad once again, there is no helping it. I cannot risk sleeping with a long-lasting glyph shining below my body, or anywhere in the room, for that matter. Besides, any sane mind would have trouble falling asleep in this, my situation.
Carmela! He called The Bear Carmela. Madness, there is no other explanation for his behavior. Calling a bear Carmela! How dares he. Carmela, however, seems to have no issues with being called Carmela. She is clearly a pure soul in need of education.
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In more interesting news, Gadorprims came back this morning. He lost an eye somewhere, because he is a careless moron who misplaces his belongings.
“Who did this to you, dear? Who!” asked The Lady, worried as she worked her healing magic.
“Are you afraid that, perchance, I have a lover who likes it rougher than you?” he joked before letting out a laugh, cut short by a wince when the lady touched put her hand over the mangled eyeball.
“I wouldn’t care less about you having other mates. Were it for me, you could very well have family with all the females in the continent so long as you don’t neglect our children. I care about there being someone or something deft enough to hurt you, besides me,” she chastised him with the tone of an angry mother.
“Learn to take a joke, Scarreladai. You could learn a bit from the Pawn.” He pointed at me with his chin. “Maybe he could teach you into growing a sense of humor.”
“Answer, airhead! Who dares to take away your sight?”
“Doesn’t matter, I killed him, feasted on his entrails, devoured his vile hands.”
“What an exemplary gharial,” I commented, nodding my head. Silence settled. The Lady began laughing.
“I take it back, you do have a sense of humor, and it is as sick as you are. Does healing have to hurt this bad or are you just being… an unusual bunch of yourself?”
“A lot, a lot. Her magic is good, but painful,” I said.
“Pawn, would you bring me a barrel of wine? Please, do make haste,” The Lady asked before going back to her task, inspecting the wound closely, kissing the gash now and then, and making Gadorprims contort in pain.
“Yes, Lady Scarlet.”
Without vowing or saluting I began a sprint for the brewery, down and upstairs through the usual path, positioned myself behind the nearest filled barrel, made sure it was properly sealed and then tumbled it on its side. Rolling it into the throne room would be faster than carrying it.
After I fulfilled that petition, I came here, to my writing station to, you guessed it, write. The lady is still rubbing wine on the popped eyeball, wine which seems to have some healing properties when combined with her touch, judging by what I remember from my broken arm incident. I hope Gardorprims recovers, he seems like a good guy, despite him not liking yours truly.
I need to go clean the kennels. Write in you later, diary.