Chapter 34
Lowering the Noise
Lucan
I turn away from her and walk down the corridor, my footsteps measured, controlled.
I return a minute later carrying fabric instead of tools.
A black sweatshirt, oversized, heavy cotton worn soft with use.
Thick socks, folded together, the kind meant for cold floors and long nights.
Jogging pants, darker than the light, loose enough not to cling, structured enough to feel real.
She looks up when I come back, surprised, eyes still glossy but focused now, tracking the objects in my hands.
“Let’s start here,” I say simply.
I set them on the table beside her, which feels odd. She doesn’t reach for them. She doesn’t ask. She just watches, like she’s waiting for instruction or permission.
“May I?” I ask, and I nod to the clothes. She can easily do it herself, I know that, she knows that. Yet I want to be the one to do it.
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away. After a beat, she nods.
“Yes.”
I start with her top, fingers careful, precise. I don’t rush. I don’t linger. I lift the fabric up and away, guiding her arms without force, without haste. She lets me. Her skin is cool beneath my hands, and I note it clinically, already adjusting the environment in my mind.
I slide the sweatshirt over her head, settle it over her shoulders, tug the hem down until it swallows her frame. The weight of it changes her posture immediately, her shoulders drop, her spine eases, like her body recognizes safety before her mind does.
I crouch and pull the socks onto her feet, one at a time, my movements methodical. I keep my focus where it belongs. Ankles. Heels. When I reach the band locked around her ankle, my hands still for half a second.
It is a fact. A reminder. A boundary I have not removed yet.
I don’t comment on it. I finish adjusting the sock carefully around it, not hiding it, not drawing attention to it either. Just accommodating its existence.
“Stand,” I say quietly.
She rises, unsteady but compliant. I guide her hands to rest lightly on the table for balance.
I loosen her pants and slide them down, my finger traces her skin as I do so, she shivers.
I help her step out of them, then guide the new ones up, settling the waistband at her hips, adjusting the fabric so it doesn’t twist or bind.
All the while, I’m aware of her watching me. Not with fear. With something closer to trust, tentative and fragile.
When I’m done, I step back.
She’s wrapped in warmth now. Grounded. Less exposed.
“Better?” I ask.
She nods once.
I straighten slightly. “You don’t need something to knock you out,” I say. “You need something to slow you down.”
She looks skeptical. “Isn’t that the same thing?”
“No,” I say. “One erases you. The other gives you room.”
She studies my face as if searching for deception. She doesn’t find any. I don’t offer her false assurances. I don’t tell her everything will be fine. I offer her precision.
“I can help you sleep,” I say. “But not like that.”
Her shoulders drop, just a little. “How, then?”
I move to the cabinet and retrieve a small vial; not one of the dangerous ones, not one that would frighten her if she knew its contents. I don’t show it to her yet. I set it on the counter and turn back to her. “First,” I say, “you’re going to eat.”
She groans softly. “Lucan—”
“Not a meal,” I clarify. “Something small. Enough to remind your body that it exists.” And I’ll watch you closer, because you would have eaten if I paid more attention to it. The thought makes me want to punish myself.
She looks unconvinced, but she doesn’t refuse. That in itself feels like a small victory.
“And then?” she asks.
“Then we address your head,” I say.
“Are you sad,” I ask, “or are you grieving?”
She blinks. “What’s the difference?”
“Sadness is about now,” I say. “Grief is about something that isn’t here anymore.”
Her mouth trembles. She swallows hard. “I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe both.”
“What do you feel you’ve lost?” I ask.
She opens her mouth, closes it again. Her hands twist in the blanket. “I don’t know,” she repeats, more desperately this time. “That’s the problem. I feel like I lost something, but I can’t name it.”
I nod slowly. “That’s not loss,” I say. “That’s transition.”
She scoffs. “That’s not comforting.”
“It’s not meant to be,” I reply. “It’s meant to be accurate.”
She looks at the vial on the counter. “So… you won’t give me something to make me forget?”
“No,” I say. “I’ll give you something to rest.”
Her eyes soften, just slightly. “You sound like you care.”
The words hang between us, fragile.
“I do,” I say, and I don’t soften it with qualifiers, “You must come to understand that by now.” I don’t explain myself. I don’t take it back.
She looks at me for a long moment, searching for the trap. When she doesn’t find one, something in her seems to give way. Her shoulders slump fully now. Her chin dips. She looks… young.
“Can you stay?” she asks quietly. “Just until I fall asleep.”
The request is small. It is also enormous.
“Yes,” I say immediately.
I pick up the vial then, finally, and let her see it.
Clear. Unremarkable. No ominous color, no theatrical weight. Precision distilled down to a few milliliters.
“This isn’t sedation,” I tell her. “It won’t shut you off. It lowers the noise floor. Enough that your body can do what it already knows how to do.”
She watches my hands closely. The fact that she’s trusting a chemical serial killer to inject this into here shows enough how desperate she is.
“How fast?” she asks.
“Minutes,” I say. “Not seconds. You’ll feel it arrive, not hit.”
She nods once. Consent, clear and unforced.
I draw the dose carefully, my movements exact. When I look up at her again, her eyes are steady, trusting in a way that lands heavier than fear ever did.
“Sit back,” I say.
She does, leaning against the table, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, sweatshirt sleeves hiding her hands. Rolling them up, I disinfect her arm, my touch brief, professional. She barely flinches when the needle goes in. Her attention never leaves my face.
“Breathe,” I instruct quietly. “Slow.”
She follows immediately. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Her compliance isn’t obedience; it’s relief. Someone else is holding the sequence now.
I withdraw the needle, press gauze gently against her skin. “Good,” I say, because reinforcement matters. “You did fine.”
Her eyelids flutter once. “I feel… warm,” she murmurs.
“That’s normal,” I reply. “Heaviness will follow. Don’t fight it.”
I move before she can argue, stepping close enough to steady her as she slides off the table. Her weight leans briefly into me, trusting, unguarded. I adjust without comment, one hand at her elbow, the other at her back—anchoring, not restraining.
“My bed,” I say. “Come.”
She frowns faintly. “Your—?”
“Yes,” I cut in calmly. “You’re not staying in here.”
I guide her through the corridor, lights dimmed automatically as we pass. Her steps slow, coordination softening but not lost.
When we reach the sleeping quarters, I pull the blanket back and help her sit, then lie down. I don’t crowd her. I don’t climb in. I adjust the pillow, draw the covers up to her shoulders, tuck them in with care that borders on ritual. Something I have learned in the last week.
She turns to her side. Her eyes are half-lidded now, lashes heavy. “You said you’d stay,” she says, voice already drifting.
“I am,” I reply.
I sit on the chair beside the bed, close enough that she can hear me breathe if she listens. I keep the light low, the room still.
“Lucan?” she murmurs.
God, let her say my name again, and again. “Yes, Elara.”
“You’re not what you want people to believe you are.”
Yes, I am. You’re just the only exception, little scribe.