Chapter 70 The Descent into Madness
THE DESCENT INTO MADNESS
LUELLA
Time stretched and yawned like a chasm beneath her, like standing over dark ocean waves on the bow of a ship—abyssal.
The elixir stopped working as well as it had the first few times.
She grew so sick she was barely lucid. She coughed every time she tried to speak, and the water and meager food she was forced to swallow raked down the inside of her esophagus.
The spikes cutting into the line of her throat from the collar loosened as she lost weight; it wasn’t as tight anymore, but now she could barely hold her head up.
She knew nothing but sleep and shadows, her few waking moments broken only by Caliban’s visits and the healers. Desara remained quiet. And Floris continued to talk softly with her.
Luella gave up hope of escaping. She only tried to bring it up once more with Floris, and the healer had dropped a glass bottle; it shattered on the stone.
Luella had tried to grab a larger piece—to use on herself mostly, but she didn’t want to think about that.
She pretended it was to attempt to cut Caliban’s fingers off the next time he gripped the bars of her cell…
she didn’t know. But Desara had kicked the broken glass away from Luella’s reach before her fingers even closed around a shard.
She felt as if her weak body were preying upon her sanity. She dreamed of shadows and melting flesh.
When Bastian showed back up, this time, Luella truly didn’t know if it was a shadow masquerading as her Vincire—or a true hallucination. As Bastian reached for Luella and carded his fingers through her hair, she sobbed, pressing her cheek into his lap.
She saw Graves next, then Az again.
Wrapped up in Az’s arms, Luella shook from fever. Her cheeks were flushed. Floris had bathed her with a water-soaked cloth earlier, so her skin was clean and fresh.
"It’s okay. Do not worry. It will be over soon." Az’s chest rumbled beneath her cheek as he spoke.
Luella wanted to burrow into him, crack open his chest and crawl inside and hide away.
He was sweet now, rarely rough. She didn’t fight them any longer. Was that why?
She thought she saw shadows slither across the ground, but when she blinked, they disappeared.
She must be going mad. Az’s arms felt real. His skin was cold, but so was she. She sweated out all her warmth and was now shivering.
The descent into madness was a cold and lonely journey. She tried to claw her way out—seek the light—but even light hid from her. Was the sun’s warmth that she recalled real, or another fallacy?
"How do I know if I’m crazy?" The words barely left her, more breath than sound.
Az’s hand stilled against her hair, then his fingers slowly drifted down to brush against her wings. "If you have to ask, then you do not want the answer."