Chapter 11
He stared sullenly at the bed his companion lay in. After Artemis had made that thrice damned request for his dagger that I refused things had devolved into a massive argument. An argument that had strained his already impossibly fragile health. After the hacking and wheezing coughs had finished wracking their way through his failing body, the man had slipped into an unrestful slumber. An unnaturally long slumber. It had been 3 days, and he still had yet to wake back up.
He watched the agonizingly slow rise of his friend's chest - trembling and minute in its effort – and the equally tremulous exhale that followed. Nothing. Kimmuriel had found nothing, not even another shade to drag to his bedside. Jarlaxle dropped his head to glare at the floor. Artemis looked so…skeletal. He hated that word, hated its implications. The once deadly strong muscles that wrapped his frame had withered, his cheeks and eyes sunken, the lips pulled taught and thinned. Nearly every tendon and joint was visible to see, his skin so thin their raised impressions like some great map over his body.
The drow's hand curled tighter around the jewelled dagger in his hand.
One more time. Let him wake one more time and I'll- He hated this. Hated giving in, giving up. This wasn't right! Surely they could fix this - his eyes strayed to the struggling form of the man that grew to mean so much to him.
He stared sullenly at the bed his friend lay in.
.
.
.
Let me say goodbye, at least.
His fingers trembled in their grasp around the dagger's grip.
