The Body That Waited

Chapter 13 - The Body That Waited

Zio lay neatly on the wooden bed of the elven clinic, covered with a thin, pale cloth. There was no blood. No heavy bandages.

Martha sat on the low chair beside him. Her hands rested on her knees, fingers loosely clasped, cold despite the room being warmed by the soft glow of ambient magic drifting near the ceiling.

She watched Zio’s breathing.
Even. Steady.
No pause. No effort.

As if the body required nothing from itself.

His hands lay open at his sides. His skin was neither pale nor warm. Around his neck, a thin chain rested quietly along the line of his collarbone. It did not glimmer. It did not respond. It was simply there, present but uninvolved in whatever state his body had entered.

Martha swallowed.

This was not a fall.
Not training fatigue.

She knew that even before a healer laid a hand on him.

Zio was always silent when he was in pain. Always standing longer than he should. Always saying “I’m fine” in the same flat voice.

And she had let it continue.

Martha leaned forward slightly, close enough to feel the faint warmth of his breath against the back of her hand. She did not call his name. She did not touch him.

She only sat there, watching, waiting for something, anything that could prove the body before her was still truly here.

The elven healer arrived a short while later, his steps light, nearly soundless. His pale green robes were clean and orderly, their hem barely brushing the wooden floor as he stopped beside the bed.

He did not speak at once.

His hand lifted slowly, palm hovering a careful distance from Zio’s chest. A thin sheen of light formed, clear and calm, like reflected water. It was not a spell, only the routine diagnostic magic used by elven healers.

Martha did not watch the light. Her gaze stayed on the healer’s face, searching for even the smallest change.

The healer shifted position. The light followed, moving from chest to neck, then lower. This time he lingered longer, his brow faintly drawn, as though waiting for a response that never came.

Several seconds passed before he withdrew his hand. The light faded without ceremony.

“Physically, there is nothing fatal. Only minor injuries.
As for internal flow, nothing appears disrupted.”

He lowered his hand.

Martha glanced at Zio once more, then shook her head slightly.

She rose from the chair, movements restrained, as if sound itself might be a disturbance.
“Then,” she said, her voice steady, “why hasn’t he woken up?”

The healer paused. Not uncertain, more as though searching for a precise answer.

“We should be able to sense it,” he said slowly. “Whatever form the problem takes.”

He folded his arms. “But here, nothing responds. The body is present, yet it signals no need.”

Martha’s jaw tightened. “And if he doesn’t wake?”

The healer looked at her briefly, then lowered his gaze back to Zio.
“We will continue to observe,” he said. “But for now…”

He stopped, exhaled quietly.

“We do not know what there is to heal.”

No one spoke after that.

Zio’s breathing remained even, too controlled for someone who should be ill. And in that quiet, Martha began to understand that this was not something waiting alone would resolve.

The clinic emptied again after the healer left.

Martha remained seated, unmoving. Her hand rested at the edge of the bed, fingers brushing the cloth without pressing down, as if afraid to disturb something fragile she could not see.

Zio did not change.

His chest rose and fell in a slow, measured rhythm, unlike someone in pain. He lay there, expression calm, almost peaceful, and that calmness was what made the room feel wrong.

Martha looked away for a moment, then back again, checking herself. No small movement had been missed. His fingers stayed still. His breathing flowed without interruption.

She remembered Zio standing on the narrow path, his body angled forward, holding himself upright for too long without saying a word. His face had been neutral, as always, but his steps had lacked certainty. She had seen it then and had not stopped him.

The memory surfaced briefly, then faded, replaced by another. The way Zio only nodded when questioned. The way he never explained further, as if what he felt did not need to be shared.

Martha took a breath.

Only now did she realize how long she had allowed it all to continue. Zio’s silence. His lack of complaint. The way he always answered “not yet” when asked if he was tired.

Her hand moved, this time truly touching his wrist. Warm. Normal. Nothing felt wrong, and that was what tightened her chest.

“I should have known,” she murmured, barely audible.

There was no answer.

Only Zio’s steady breathing, and the room growing smaller as time passed without change.

Martha stood before she could justify it to herself.

She left the bedside only after she was certain Zio would not move.

In the corner of the elven clinic stood a low wooden desk with sheets of paper, an ink bottle, and a pen used for patient records. Martha pulled out a chair and sat, not reaching for anything at first. She spent several seconds staring at the surface, as if making sure her hands were steady enough to write.

She glanced back at the bed.

Only then did she take the pen.

She wrote no greeting. No introduction. The words went straight to the point, plain, factual, like a report that left no room for misunderstanding.

Zio collapsed.
He has not regained consciousness.
The elven healers found no wounds.

She paused there, the pen hovering, ink nearly falling. She knew the sentences sounded strange, impossible even, and she did not try to soften them.

She added another set of lines, pressing slightly harder.

They cannot sense anything.
No sign of blockage.
No response detected.

The name came last.

Trod.

No title. No explanation.

She added one final sentence.

I need help.

Martha read the letter once more. Nothing was changed. She folded it neatly and slipped it into a simple envelope prepared for urgent use.

When she stood, her knees felt stiff. She handed the letter to a clinic attendant passing by.

“Please send this to Greyhollow,” she said.

The attendant nodded and left.

Martha returned to the bedside, sitting in the same chair as before.

Zio remained still, as though nothing had changed, despite a decision being made without his knowledge.

Once the letter was gone, there was nothing left to do but wait.

Changes within the clinic came without marking the passage of time.

At first, sunlight entered through the window beside the bed, falling across the wooden floor and reflecting faintly against the sheets. Martha noticed only because her own shadow slowly shifted. She could not recall when she had last stood to move it.

Healers came and went at irregular intervals, sometimes one, sometimes two. They spoke softly, always beyond Zio’s hearing.

Martha watched the small things.

The rise and fall of his chest. The slight coolness of his fingers, not stiff. His expression, unchanged, like someone resting after a long day.

She touched his wrist once, not to confirm anything, but to remind herself that the body was still warm. Still there.

Time moved without permission.

Afternoon light crept lower, softer, until it faded and was replaced by a small lamp in the corner. The scent of remedies shifted, thin but constant.

Martha stopped asking questions.

She remained in the same chair, her posture more slumped than before. When her eyelids grew heavy, she resisted. When they finally closed, it was only for a few breaths before she startled awake again.

Zio was still there.

His condition unchanged, as though the moment he fell had not yet passed.

And it was there that the unease lingered, not because something was happening, but because nothing was.

The air in Greyhollow shifted, leaves unmoving as if the wind had chosen stillness.

The forge was warm from a fire kept too long to be called fresh. Metal on the anvil glowed faintly. Trod stood before it, hammer in hand, his movements steady and repeated.

He knew the man was there even before the hammer stopped.

Not by sound.
Not by shadow.
Only a subtle change in the air, something he had felt before.

Trod set the hammer aside and wiped his hands.

“You arrived sooner than I expected,” he said without turning.

The man stood near the wall, posture unchanged from the last time.

“Later would have been worse.”

Trod finally looked over. Their gazes met briefly.

“He hasn’t returned,” Trod said.

The man nodded. “I know.”

The fire crackled.

“Then,” Trod said quietly, “this isn’t a casual visit.”

The man did not argue.

“No. And I hope I’m wrong.”

Seconds passed.

Trod picked up the hammer, weighed it in his hand, then set it down again.

The afternoon passed with little change.

Light shifted across the forge floor. The fire was lowered. The metal left to cool.

Trod was putting away tools when footsteps stopped at the doorway.

A village boy extended a rolled piece of paper.

“From the east.”

Trod took it, opened it without hesitation.

He read in silence.

His shoulders eased slightly.

“He collapsed,” Trod said.

The man nodded.

“We leave.”

A decision.

And far from there, the elven clinic remained wrapped in the same quiet.

The wooden chair beside the bed had shifted slightly.

Martha slept there, not comfortably, but in surrender. One hand rested atop the sheet near Zio’s arm.

She did not hold it.
Her hand remained where it was.

Zio did not move.

His breathing flowed evenly, no sign that his body had lost control. His chest rose and fell in the same rhythm.

His body was warm.

Neither fevered nor cold, only stable, without signs of struggle or recovery.

The thin chain at his neck lay still. No light. No vibration.

Yet between two breaths, there was a pause, brief enough to vanish almost as soon as it appeared.

Then the rhythm resumed.

Martha did not stir.

And the clinic remained silent, holding something that had not yet awakened, and had not yet chosen to be known.