Juimei closed his eyes and wished the bloody healer would leave him alone. Every day for two weeks she had come and every day they went through this pointless routine. She insisted that with time, there would be some improvement if he kept doing the exercises she prescribed—but nothing could disguise the fact that his left side was permanently ruined. Not quite paralysed, but as good as. All the exercises in the world wouldn’t change that.
“Your highness? It’s important you keep doing this.”
“Go ‘way,” he slurred. “Ti’ed.”
“Say it properly. ‘Tir-ed.’ Make your mouth form the word correctly.”
He glared at her, and ignored her request. To add insult to damn injury, no one did anything he asked them to do any more. It was as if his words—formed correctly or not—had no importance. He had no importance. He was just a patient to be pushed around and ordered about.
Finally she sighed. “All right. Enough for today. I know this is hard, your highness, but this is the only treatment we have for your injury. I’ve seen people recover from worse, but it takes time.”
“How lon’?”
“A while. Maybe even years,” she admitted. “Perhaps never, not perfectly. But you won’t improve if you don’t try.”
He waved his good hand at her in dismissal. She shook her head at him, pulled up the sheets and blankets, bowed, and then left. Immediately, Neime rose from his silent vigil at the thermal vent and came to his side.
“Do you want anything, Juimei?”
Without being asked, Neime helped him sit a little higher, and tucked the blankets around him better. He knew what Juimei wanted almost before he’d decided it himself. It was about the only good thing about his situation now.
“Mi’i?” Juimei asked hopefully.
“No word yet.” The lad’s face was pinched with sadness—he’d taken Juimei’s injury almost as hard as Juimei himself. “There’s been heavy snowfall in that region—it might take longer than he’d planned anyway. You should just concentrate on getting well.”
“Ne’er ha’en.” He picked up his useless left hand with his right, then let it fall. “Bro’en.”
“That’s not what the healer said.”
“Lies.”
“I don’t think so. Her majesty wanted me to let her know when you were ready to see her again. Are you?” Juimei shook his head. She would only fuss. “Jui, you have to let her see you. You’re her son, she worries.”
“No!” He thumped the covers with his good hand. “Da’ it! Leave me a’one!”
Neime bit his lip, then bowed. “As you wish, your highness.” He retreated to his seat by the warmth, and stared at the tiles as if they were suddenly fascinating.
Juimei felt he should apologise, but then he would apologise a hundred times a day if he was fair. He thought about calling Neime back, but what was the point? Neime would get sick of looking after him eventually—he hadn’t planned on looking after an invalid when he signed up for this post.
He closed his eyes again, wishing his head would stop hurting, that his vision would clear, that he would wake up and be able to walk and talk as he had done before that stupid bloody game, just a bare month ago. He couldn’t remember a thing about it. The last thing he recalled was a meeting that morning with his father and the council—after that, it was a complete blank. He’d been told he’d fallen and been kicked in the head—twice—and had been knocked out briefly. It was only later that the healers had realised his injury was more serious, and indeed, his life had been despaired of. He couldn’t remember anything about that either—just waking up and not being able to move one side of his body hardly at all, or speak. His face, his mouth, weren’t under his control anymore. His body had utterly betrayed him, and now he was trapped in its rotting hulk for whatever was left of his miserable life.
There was a knock at the door—he huddled down under the covers, determined to feign sleep. He heard Neime speaking to whoever it was, and then footsteps coming back into the room.
“That was the lady Lekwinu. She was hoping you would see her. I...told her you were exhausted. She sends her best wishes.”
Juimei grunted but refused to look at his page. At least Neime was following his orders—no one else was. He heard Neime come closer.
“Are you going to hide forever, Jui? I know you’re tired now, and in pain, but people are worried. You should let them help you.”
“Ca’t. Jus’ go ‘way. I....” His breath hitched in a sob. “No one ca’ he’p,” he whispered. “Sca’d.”
Scared and ashamed of his fear, and only to Neime could he reveal this weakness. He felt Neime take his bad hand. “I know you’re scared. I’m scared too, because I thought you were going to die. They said you might—I prayed so hard. And Sephiz answered my prayer. If he did that, I believe he’ll answer this one too—that you will recover, learn to walk again, learn to speak properly again. But I think you need to give it more time, and more effort.”
He turned to glare angrily at his friend. “You thin’ I wa’ to be li’ this? You thi’ I’ no’ try’ng?”
“Yes, you’re trying. But you need to keep trying. Please, Jui. Don’t give up. Please.”
To Juimei’s shock, he saw tears in Neime’s eyes. He reached out with his good hand to touch the lad’s cheek. “So’y. Jus’...ti’ed.”
“I know. Would you like a massage? The healer said that was good for you.”
He didn’t much want one, but Neime was so desperate to help, and wanted so much to see some improvement—any improvement—that Juimei didn’t have the heart to refuse. He nodded, and Neime smiled in relief. “Let me warm the oil and open the vent a bit more. We can’t have you getting cold.”
Juimei caught his arm. “Don’. You’ wear you’sel’ out. “
“It’s my job. I’m sure it’s harder for you than it will ever be for me.”
Juimei released him, and Neime went to fetch the oil. Juimei was rather humbled at the kindness being shown to him by someone he had been contemplating setting aside for the sake of his lover, however gently he’d planned to do it. He might have expected consideration and care, yes—but this devotion went beyond what might be expected of a servant, even a page. He resolved to try and keep his temper in check, at least where Neime was concerned, even if only for selfish reasons. Driving him away would mean he would have to get used to someone new, and right now, the last thing he wanted was a stranger touching him and being disgusted by his weakness.
The apartments had grown dark and Neime lit candles. It was very quiet now—Juimei gathered that people had been told to keep their voices down near his rooms, and to otherwise not disturb his rest—so the careful massage was carried out in an almost sacred hush. Neime didn’t speak as his hands worked his magic on Juimei’s body, the warm scent of lightly spiced oil pleasant in the room. It was nice, relaxing, and for a few moments, he could even forget why it was being done. With his body limp anyway, he couldn’t immediately tell that one side was unresponsive for more reason than the massage—he tried to concentrate on the feel of Neime’s strong fingers, and let the soothing sensation flood through him, pushing away the persistent ache from the concussion. He drifted off to sleep, and in his half-awake state, he dreamed that he was whole and well again, and this was just a temporary illness, to be recovered from like any other.
A knock at the door woke him, and he was confused for some moments as to where he was and why he couldn’t seem to move. The room was dark again, but already a candle was lit—a blurry glow moved towards the door, and he heard Neime speaking.
Moments later, another voice. “Jui! By the benevolent god, you’re alive!”
Juimei’s heart lurched, and he struggled to sit, Neime coming to his side immediately to help. “Mi’i,” he sighed, reaching out with his good hand. Neime stepped back, and he must have lit more candles for the room grew brighter.
Miki grasped his hand and sat on the bed, bending to kiss him. “Oh, my love, are you still hurt? Tell me—you’
re worrying me.”
Juimei swallowed, and forced himself to speak as slowly and carefully as he could. “I ca’ mo-ove my lef’ side.”
Miki’s eyes widened. “You’re paralysed?”
“Your grace, it’s not full paralysis—a severe weakness. It may improve with time.”
Miki didn’t even glance at Neime. “So, a temporary injury. Thank Sephiz—they told me you nearly died.” He nuzzled Juimei’s hand. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here. How long will it be before you recover, did they say?”
Juimei glanced at Neime, who cleared his throat. “Your grace, the healer says it could take some time. Even as long as several years.”
Or ever, Juimei amended silently, though he was grateful Neime had decided to omit that detail.
“Years! I had no idea....” But then he squeezed Juimei’s hand. “Then I shall just have to look after you until you’re well again,” he said, smiling.
Juimei sagged with relief. “Tha’ you.”
Still holding Juimei’s hand, and without turning around, Miki announced, “That will be all, Neime. His highness and I need some privacy.”
Juimei blinked a little, and Neime stiffened. “Are you sure, your grace? His highness—”
“Will be well cared for this evening. I’m sure he’s grateful for your devotion, but he and I require some privacy.”
“As you wish, your grace. Your highness?”
“Tha’ you, Nei’.”
Neime bowed, though he scowled briefly at Miki who ignored him. He sent a worried look over his shoulder as he left the room. Juimei felt absurdly sorry to see him leave, but Miki was right—they had things to discuss, even in his wretched condition.
“You look as if you have a headache.”
“Co’cussion.”
“Of course. I presume your speech will improve with time too?”
Juimei shrugged. “Ho’ so.”
“So do I—it will be difficult to announce a betrothal otherwise.” He smiled, but Juimei was suddenly a little uncertain exactly what he meant by that. He wasn’t up to asking, and he certainly didn’t want to speak more than he had to, since his lover minded it so much. He could hardly blame Miki for not liking to see his future bond mate so helpless and voiceless.
Sephiz’s beard, it felt good to have Miki hold him again, though it was frustrating to have to lie in bed and only be able to respond in such a limited way. He felt so pathetically useless, and was sure he must look dreadful. Miki didn’t seem to mind though, stroking his hair and telling him of when he had got the news, a rider meeting him on the road, and how worried he’d been. “I want another opinion on your treatment—we should have the finest minds from the academy. Even write to the Darshianese, if we need to.”
“She’ goo’,” Juimei slurred. The healer, Keraminze, was his mother’s own personal healer and was highly trained.
“I don’t care—we need as many opinions as possible. I want you to be able to dance with me at our betrothal feast.”
Juimei stared at him helplessly. What if that could never be? “I’ try,” he whispered.
“Good. I’ll speak to his majesty when I ask for a place on the council—it’s the ideal time with Darnwei retiring.”
His head throbbing, Juimei didn’t much want to talk about the council, but he smiled and let Miki explain his political ambitions, and his plans for them both. Perhaps Miki was right—this was only a temporary thing, and they had to plan for their future together. Just because he was laid up, didn’t mean the world stopped turning. He didn’t really need Miki to take over his medical arrangements but was touched at the concern. This was what mates did, of course. Miki was only being a proper spouse-to-be, more proof of the excellence of Juimei’s choice.
He wished he had more energy though, and his headache and weariness could not, finally, be ignored.
“Ah, and I’ve been selfish,” Miki said ruefully, kissing his forehead. “You should rest. I’ll return tomorrow and we’ll get started on putting you on the road to recovery. Really, I’m not impressed by what I’ve seen so far—you deserve better. Good night, my love.”
Miki kissed him again, and Juimei smiled as brightly as he could, but inside, his heart sank. If his lover wasn’t impressed, then it had to be him Miki was disappointed with. He would have to try much harder to overcome this blasted weakness—no matter how tired and angry he got.
He realised he was helpless with Mikinze gone.
“He’p? Nei’?”
He tried to get up, but the covers were as effective as chains weighting him down. He almost started to panic before he heard the door open again, and Neime came in, holding a tray.
“Oh, he left you alone? I’m sorry, I just went to get your supper.”
Juimei slumped back, ashamed. “He thin’s I’ll ge’ be’er. Soo’.”
“Yes, I know. So you’d better get better, right?”
He tried to smile, but Neime’s encouraging expression didn’t reach his eyes, and Juimei knew as well as his page did, that it might not be possible to recover from this as fast as Miki wanted—or at all. And if he didn’t—where did that leave him?
Home Ground: 4
Things got rather busier after that, starting the very next morning. Miki ordered a whole team of healers in from the academy to examine him, and Keraminze was replaced by not one but three physicians, who were ordered to do nothing but attend to Juimei’s needs and see to his rehabilitation. A strict regime of exercise and diet was put in place, and Miki said he would come by three times a day to check on Juimei’s progress and receive the report of the healers himself.
Eager to please his lover, and with Miki’s energy giving him hope that perhaps he could beat this, Juimei allowed him to do whatever he wanted, though Neime scowled the entire morning. His page wasn’t the only person put out—Juimei’s mother came to eat lunch with him, and expressed, in the politest way, that she thought dismissing her own healer might not have been necessary.
“He jus’ wan’ to he’p,” Juimei explained.
“Yes, I understand that.” She sighed. “Well, perhaps he’s right—Keraminze said she was planning more vigorous treatment once you were over the concussion, so this is likely not to be a bad thing. He’s a very devoted friend to you, I must say.” Juimei concentrated on spooning soup into his mouth without spilling it, and avoided her eyes. “Is there something I should know about your arrangement with him?”
Juimei stared down at his bowl. It was the perfect time to tell her about the betrothal—but he didn’t feel he should do that without speaking to Miki first. “No,” he muttered, feeling Neime’s eyes upon him.
“Ah, well. So long as you’re content, dear, and the treatment helps, I won’t interfere. You know your father and I will do anything we can to get you well. We both expect to see you at the mid-winter feast.”
Juimei scowled. His father had had the best carpenters in the palace construct an elegant and comfortable chair with wheels for him to use but so far, Juimei had steadfastly refused to sit in it. “Whe’ I ca’ stan’.” The feast was three months away, held on the shortest night of the year. It was possible he would even walk by then, if he pushed himself to the limit.
“Of course. Though it would be a shame to deprive people of your company just because of your accident, dear. No one would think any less of you.”
“I wou’.”
She tsked. “Such a stubborn child, you always were.” She bent over and kissed him. “I’ll come back tomorrow. You look tired, Jui. You mustn’t overdo things.”
Neime carefully didn’t say anything—Juimei knew his views on the subject. “I wan’ to wa’k. I ha’ work to do.”
“Yes, of course.” Neime bowed as she stood. To Juimei’s surprise, she chucked his page under the chin. “He’s a lucky man to have you too, dear. His majesty and I are very grateful.”
“Thank you, your majesty. I consider it an honour to serve.”
“You are such a good lad. Tomorrow, J
ui.”
Juimei pushed the bowl away as she left the room. “Sto’ sco’ling,” he said to Neime.
“What do you expect me to do, Jui? He just marches in and takes over, when we’ve been working so hard for you for weeks—he acts as if none of us have any idea what will help you.”
“He wan’s to he’p. He lo’s me.”
“But he’s not the only one who loves you.” Neime frowned. “You can’t blame me for worrying.”
“I don’. Jus’ wan’ to ge’ be’er.”
Neime took his hand and smiled at him sadly. “It’s what we all want. Very well—if this is what you want to do, then I’ll do my best.”
Juimei smiled crookedly. “Tha’ you. Can’ do wi’out you, Nei’.” Surely with the support of a good friend as well as his lover, he could overcome this.
The weeks that followed were punishingly hard. Every day his apartment was invaded by healers, masseurs, or one of two actors from the theatre that Mikenze had hired to put him through long and rather tedious vocal exercises. His inability to speak clearly troubled his lover most of all, so Juimei was willing to put any amount of work into improving his slurred, weak speech, afraid of driving Mikenze away through disgust. He was desperate to reward his lover’s efforts on his behalf by showing him progress, and every advance, however small, was carefully demonstrated to him on his daily visits. The healers had quickly insisted on reducing the number of those visits from three to one to give Juimei time to rest, and he felt this was also for Mikinze’s benefit, since he detected some impatience with the business of illness and sick rooms. Hardly surprising, when Miki had hardly ever had a day’s sickness in his life, and was still vigorously engaged in the real world, while Juimei lived a life of isolation and tedium, shut away in his apartments. He hadn’t left them once since the accident—but he was determined to do so for the winter feast. He would stand at his lover’s side and announce their betrothal in his own voice. It gave him something real to aim for.
Neime worked as hard as he did, and without complaint, at least on his own behalf, though he protested Juimei was working too hard on those frequent occasions when he fell asleep over his supper from pure exhaustion. “S’no diff’rent from trai’ing. Train-ing,” Juimei said as Neime scolded him for overdoing it.
Home Ground (Darshian Tales #4) Page 24