Some days he woke up not entirely sure who he was. He'd spend hours staring blankly, sifting through a tangled mass of contradictory memories, trying to decide, trying to figure out what was real. What was really him.
Other days he thought he knew pretty well. Only…
Only, the lights hurt his eyes now. And sometimes his shadow wasn't his.
And he knew that being cooped up in this hospital should have been driving him out of his mind by now.
He supposed he owed Ebon for that much, at least.
On the days he was certain, he knew that he was Francis Stone. He hated that name, had worn so many other names trying to forget it, trying to erase it. Yet now, at times he felt himself clinging to that name like a lifeline.
He wondered now and then if the other was still out there. Was he shuffling through his own deck of scrambled cards—mingled suits of red or black written in shadow and flame.