Corran wasn't allowed to ride.
He spent two weeks in bed and was allotted a strict amount of time out-of-doors, for fresh air.
But his doctors did not understand that he needed to be outside. The fresh air was more vital than warmth and rest and medicine. He needed sunlight. He needed wind and cold air to clean out his lungs. And his doctors would be horrified by such a statement.
He knew what he needed. Even if he didn't want to admit it, even if he couldn't have it.
Couldn't have her.
And he was so tired. He was tired of the stuffy rooms and the stifling heat of the bedclothes. He was even tired of the books in his library.
He was tired of thinking. He was tired of dreaming.
Because it was the same dream each and every night. And as much as his heart leapt at the lingering image of her when he awoke from his dream, it reminded him of just how far away she was. Not in physical distance, mind you--farther away in mind and spirit. He knew she couldn't be thinking of him--not with a dying man to care for.
Would she ever come to visit again?
Would it matter? Does she care enough to wonder how I am? Or did she only come for the books in the library and for Pearl? He would wallow in self-pity and imagine how much more she could love his sister than she could ever love him. Self-pity was a new feeling to him and it became so habitual that he never wanted to feel anything else.
Anything else took too much energy.
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