Gol finds out just how difficult writing a book can be.

And PurpleArmadillo did some more lovely fan art! Thank you so much! This time it's a headshot of Kass herself. I think the picture looks beautiful so far, and it's so great seeing someone draw an original character of mine. I can't wait to see what the finished work will look like. You can find the link to her Deviant Art page on her profile (her username is Bagasuit091), and the image is entitled "BHDP: Kassra Concept". Check it out!

Chapter 63: Unwanted Assistance

The very next morning, Gol awoke to the near darkness of dawn, finding only a misty yellow beginning to creep up over the horizon, the curtain of black that was nighttime slowly being lifted as the sun began to rise. It was the first time in months that he had actually managed to rise with the sun instead of long after, and as the chill of early morning brought goose bumps to his skin, he felt so awake, his mind clear in the cold. He got for himself a glass of gritty water, before returning to his room with loose paper and a dull pencil he had managed to find lying around. Retrieving a chair, he donned his glasses and pushed the now-lit lamp to the farthest corner of the small table beside his bed, the figurines and the pearl taking their places beside it, and he got to work, though he quickly found out just how difficult writing was with a nearly useless right hand. But, there was no way he was going to allow such a simple thing to halt the progress in his recently renewed goal in life, and so he set his right hand on the table with his left and began the slow, painful process of writing with his stiff, injured arm, barely mobile with much of the muscle stripped away. And while the state of his hand would surely delay the completion of his book, it couldn't be helped, and it wasn't as if he had any better ways of spending his time right now anyway.

The words came slowly at first, but once he decided that it would be best to just start from the beginning, his work picked up, slowed only by his arm, and he started first with an introduction of exactly who he was and why his words should be listened to, including credit to his dear sister for how much her assistance added to his studies. And then he went on to describe what he believed Dark Eco to be and not the world, what it truly was, something to be respected, but not feared, and his reasoning behind writing this book and why it was so important that people heeded his advice. And he tried to explain how valuable knowledge of Dark Eco could be and what could be gained in the study of it, how much it could help others, but it was a surprisingly hard thing to write, because while he knew deep down why Dark Eco fascinated him, and he knew it was as important as any other kind of Eco, that was one thing he had never successfully articulated before. If only he had been able to in the past, then maybe people would have understood him and not been so quick to pass judgment. Maybe this book could, at least, say what he had meant to say centuries ago. Maybe now people would understand, even if it was far later than he would have liked.

By the time the light of a fresh, new day was streaming through the window nearby, words dressed several pages in jerky handwriting, his hand cramping up with the movement necessary for such a task, made even worse when the pencil became almost too dull for use. And his coughing picked up again, wet and originating from deep within his chest, leaving him hardly able to breathe once he was through. He took a break to massage his aching hand and to drink more of that vile Green Eco, and once he realized the pain and the shortness of breath had eased about as much as they were going to, he listened to the sounds outside signifying that Kassra was now awake, as well, responding to the "good morning" she gave him through the door, and once he was sure she was gone, he left his room in search of more writing materials.

He scrounged together a few more loose pages, finding only one more pencil, with the tip broken off, and in his need to put down the next string of ideas that had begun to flow into his mind before they dried up, he took the knife Kassra used for her carvings and, gripping the dull pencil in his bad hand, he tried his best to sharpen the end into a point, not so easy when he couldn't keep it steady and had to do the task left-handed. He dropped the pencil when he nicked his thumb, and he stuck his injured finger in his mouth to suck on it until the sting had subsided.

He attempted to return to his writing, taking one more break to sharpen the pencil once again when the tip snapped off, but after a couple more hours, it became quite apparent when even these pages filled up that he would be hard-pressed to get anywhere near the completion of his book without asking the woman to bring back more supplies, a request he wanted to avoid, if possible, after seeing her reaction the last time he mentioned the subject of his book. But, with no more to write on, and with a pencil that would soon be a nub, it seemed he'd either have to give up before he really got started or talk to her, after all.

With nothing left to do but think about what should logically come next in his book and worry over what Kassra might think (though, why should she care so much…and why should he?), he killed time until her return with more of the usual, by wandering around the house or simply sitting in the main room, getting up once to water the yellowing plant in the kitchen. He knew water was scarce here, but Maia wouldn't allow a plant to wither away like that, at least, not the old Maia, and so he wasn't going to, either. Though, this thought only distracted him from his book when he was reminded of the fact that Maia's changes were more than likely a result of her exposure to Dark Eco just as his were, that it was his research that had turned her into the kind of person that killed indiscriminately and who had actually brought about the deaths of so many. He had caused her to do these things; he had driven her to murder by making her study Dark Eco with him. Well, he didn't exactly make her be his assistant; she chose that role for herself, but she still did it for him.

She did it for him, and when the Dark Eco changed her, the atrocities she went on to commit were done because of him. Indirectly, but as a result of his decisions, nevertheless. He was the reason for it all, and it was his fault he never got to hear her sing again ever since her transformation. It was one of many punishments, in a way, one of many he deserved. He could only hope now that she was gone, she wasn't going to be eternally punished for things he had made her do. He may very well be, and such a fate couldn't be far off the way his health was going. But, the difference was, he deserved to be punished, and she didn't, and he would gladly endure any suffering in her place. It made him short of breath just thinking about what might await him, but he would still do it for his dear sister. It was better him than her.

He straightened when he heard the front door open, his head having been held in one hand just now, as if the weight of his thoughts was making sitting upright difficult, and as he looked over, he was met with the usual smile, an expression he could in no way replicate right now after his thoughts had taken the turn they had. He watched her stroll by with a bag, which she set on the kitchen counter, before turning around to face him as she leaned her back against the counter behind her and crossed her arms.

"I got you what Green Eco I could, but stuff like that's a bit scarce out here, y'know. Actually," she laughed, "everything's scarce out here. Including good company. That's why you're lucky you have me."

He grunted, and her smile disappeared as she continued, "That's not to say I'm not lucky to have your company, of course."

"That's pretty depressing if I'm the best you could find."

"Stop talking like that. So," she turned her attention to the task of putting her things away, "what've you been up to while I was gone? Besides missing me, of course." She looked back over her shoulder to direct a big, toothy grin at him. "That was a joke."

"I assumed as much. And I…haven't been doing much of anything."

"No? You should take up carving or something. It's fun."

"That would be rather difficult with one hand." And he was quite certain it would definitely not be fun at all. Cutting himself once was quite enough.

With everything in its proper place, which, for her, meant dropping all the things she had brought home that day, including cactus fruit and what shriveled and stunted vegetables she could collect from her garden, along with random hunks of palm wood she had gathered up for her future carvings (which really had no place resting alongside food), into a disorganized clump on the counter, with no care for dividing them up by type or even, at the very least, lining them up into neat, little rows, she headed back over to the sitting area, where she then stopped to stare down at his bad hand, which he attempted to make retreat into his sleeve.

"You really can't use your hand?"

"You haven't noticed?"

She sat down. "It's not like I stare at you all day."

Yes, you do. "Well, no, I can't. Not without my glove."

"Ah, so that's what that contraption was for. You told me it was none of my business when I asked you about it."

"Well, now you know."

She leaned forward, squinting. "Hey, did you cut yourself?"

"No, I—" He attempted to cross his arms as best he could in his effort to hide his cut from her, but she had already risen to her feet to come closer, causing him to pull his arms around himself tighter.

"Let me see that," she said, hand out with the obvious intent on inspecting his "injury", while her other hand went to rest on her hip, the very picture of a mother looking down at a child who had just scraped their knee.

"It's fine. It's just a little scratch."

"It's not little, and it's not a scratch, and I'm going to disinfect it, 'kay?" She proceeded to march by him with utmost purpose, and he jerked around to watch as she headed for the bathroom.

"There's no need of that! Come back here!"

"I will! When I have the disinfectant!" she said in a sing-song voice.

"I've already told you…Kassra, I'm serious!"

She stopped, half-turning back to him, and he let out an internal sigh of relief.

"But…"

"Just leave it alone, all right?" he said. "When I tell you not to do something, that's exactly what I want you to do. To not do it."

She stood there, staring at him. Her lips began to move, but it was a few seconds more before actual words came out. "But, what if it gets infected…?"

"I don't care if my entire hand gets infected and falls off! It's not like it's much use to me now anyway."

"I think you'd care if your hand fell off."

"Just sit down."

She shuffled over and plopped back down in her seat, where she proceeded to watch him with her hands between her knees, her staring always more unsettling when she was silent.

"Is something wrong?" Gol asked at last.

"Are you still grumpy?"

"I wasn't grumpy, then."

She nodded, strangely solemn. "Because I don't want to be in trouble again."

"You're not in trouble! What right do I have to… I'm not your parent." And it was for this reason that he never was one. Because young people were irritating.

She snickered, and he sighed. And they thought everything was funny.

"And to avoid your next possible question…well, it's not important how I ended up cutting myself, but…don't you have any proper pencils in this place?"

"Was that how you got cut? Were you in an epic battle against a pencil while I was gone?"

His expression deadpan, he answered, "Yes."

The woman giggled and rocked forward to stand on her feet again. "Sure, I might have some lying around." She put her fists to her waist. "But, can I ask why?"

"You certainly can, but I can't guarantee I'll tell you."

She raised her eyebrows, and he stared back at her, the two becoming engaged in a staring contest during which he realized she had probably figured out exactly what it was he had been up to.

"I was working on my book."

"I see."

"And I know that you don't approve, but—"

"It's fine." She turned from him and went to open a drawer in the kitchen, before looking back with a pencil held up, showcasing the object he needed. She returned her attention to the contents of the drawer to grab something else, then, returned to him with a pile of paper in her other hand. "This what you needed?"

He took the pencil she offered him and held it before his eyes, his mouth in a tight line as he inspected the sharp point. "Thank you."

"So, lunch, then?"

His gaze lifted back up to her, and he narrowed a single eye. "I'm coming to believe you are obsessed with lunch."

She patted her stomach. "What can I say? I like food."

"You eat if you want. I have work."

She leaned forward, hands clasped behind her back. "You gotta eat. Your work can wait."

He opened his mouth to argue, but she continued, "Fine, eat while you work, then." She swung her arms before her again and dropped the papers on the table in front of him, the top few pages drifting sideways a short distance, before she lifted a hand to shake an admonishing finger at him. "I'm going to make lunch, and you will eat it. Either that, or I play doctor on your wounded thumb."

With that, she spun around to march back towards the kitchen with such a purpose, it was as if she thought he'd attempt to escape, and so she needed to prepare lunch before he was able.

Wondering what she would do if he just went to his room and locked the door, he settled for bringing his writing materials to the kitchen table, which stood at an easier height for writing than the one in the living room and which was much more spacious than the ones in his bedroom. He dropped his things down on the table and pulled out a seat, causing Kassra to glance back, a smile of victory clear on her face, to which he responded with a sour look of defeat.

Gol sat down and got straight to work, continuing from where he believed he had left off, though he didn't dare return to his room for the completed pages, just in case the woman took this as an escape attempt and decided to apprehend him. He tried to ignore her as she hummed and clattered about, eventually setting two plates on the table, the act shaking its surface and causing him to draw a squiggle across the page. His eyes traced this line before looking up as the woman sat down across from him and pushed his plate across the table to him. He found a few thick slices of mystery meat (well, perhaps he knew what it was, unless she had since found an even worse animal to eat than lizard) on it and a couple chopped-up cactus fruit.

"It's less drippy than soup," she said, "and paper and drips don't go well together."

"I suppose that is true."

"Everything I say is true." She picked up her knife and fork, dropping the smile right after as her back went stiff. "Oh, no…how are you supposed to eat this with only one hand? I'm sorry, I—"

He chuckled. "It's quite all right."

"I forgot, and—"

"And I told you it was fine. And I mean what I say. I recently told you as much." He had just started writing an entire book, a task that would be difficult even without a disfigured writing hand. If he could handle that (well, he wasn't that far into it yet, but he certainly didn't plan on giving up), then surely he could handle eating lunch one-handed. At least with the latter, there was far less pressure to do it with any actual skill.

Lunch-time alternated between eating and writing, he not having much choice but to merely pick up his food with the fork he kept in his left hand, to eat in the most barbaric manner, as he couldn't cut his food into more manageable sizes, and he refused all of Kassra's offers to cut it up for him. (At first he thought she was joking, until she lunged for his plate with enough determination to prove just how serious she really was….) And this was only until his food was forgotten entirely, only to be remembered again when the woman urged him to eat before he starved to death, a fate she claimed was not far off. He did as he was told readily enough, as arguing with her would only keep him from his work longer. Aside from her concerns about his imminent death, the woman stayed surprisingly quiet during his work, the silence welcome, but it was undermined by the fact that his ideas for what to write next far outlasted his arm's endurance. After writing several pages, he had to stop and massage his wrist and fingers when the cramps became too sharp to continue. And he didn't notice that the woman had since given up on bothering him about eating until she spoke again.

"Does it hurt?" he heard her say, voice muffled, and he looked up to find her mouth very full of food.

"My arm…yes, it does. I injured it a long time ago…mishandling Dark Eco. It…was a stupid mistake, and my arm has been nearly useless without my glove ever since." Another thing he could have avoided if he hadn't been such a fool back then.

"And you think you can write your entire story like that?"

"It's not a story, it's a book about my research. And…" He looked down at his shriveled arm, misshapen and twisted, his fingers formed more into a claw than an actual hand by a combination of the injury itself and the cramp his hours of writing had caused. "I don't know. At the very least, it's going to take me far longer to write my book with my arm the way it is. That is, unless I learn to write left-handed."

She impaled the last piece of meat on her fork and stuck it in her mouth. Removing the utensil, meat now gone, she said, "I guess that's an idea."

He winced at the view of her eating with her mouth full.

"Or…" She paused, chewing on the meat and twirling the fork between thumb and forefinger. "Or, I can do the writing for you."

"You're joking."

"No." She set her fork down. "Hey, it's a good idea! You just tell me what you want me to write, and I'll write it. It'll be much easier than you trying to do it all yourself. And if this is really so important to you, I'd like to help you with it. Plus," she stretched her arms out in front of her before withdrawing them back to herself to rest them on the table, fingers laced together, "how else will I be able to get your attention, hmm? You're going to be so busy focusing on your story, book, thing, you won't have any time left for me. So, what say you?"

"I don't know if that's going to work." How could he focus on writing a proper book if he had to think aloud to someone else? And to someone like her, of all people. He looked down and went back to rubbing his aching wrist, pressing his thumb into it and wincing at the sharp pain that shot down his hand. "I'm sure the more I write, the easier it'll be."

"I don't know about that…. Are you sure you'll be able to stand your story-book taking forever because of your arm? Because I don't think—"

His gaze shot back up to her, the sharp bolts of pain running up and down his arm refusing to relent even now that he had given up massaging his wrist. "Well, we're going to need a lot more paper, or else this story…this book won't go anywhere!"

She picked up a piece of fruit and popped it in her mouth. "So, does that mean…"

He gasped as another jolt of pain shot through his arm, quite without reason this time. "I suppose I don't have a choice. But, this will be a time of work, not pointless chattering. Understand?"

She licked fruit juice from her fingers. "Sure." And by the look on her face, he had his doubts that she meant it.

Will Gol be able to stand Kassra's efforts at helping him? Find out, in the next chapter. And please review.