He took a long breath of the cold, wet air, and he frowned down at the earth over Grim's grave. He wondered if he'd know a good man from an evil, any more. He wondered what the difference was.

Grey morning time, out in the cold, wet gardens, and the Dogman was just stood there, thinking about how things used to be better.

Not What You Wanted

« ^ »

Glokta woke to a shaft of soft sunlight spilling through the hangings and across his wrinkled bed-clothes, full of dancing dust-motes. He tried to turn over, winced at a click in his neck. Ah, the first spasm of the day. The second was not long coming. It flashed through his left hip as he wrestled his way onto his back and snatched his breath away. The pain crept down his spine, settled in his leg, and stayed there.

'Ah,' he grunted. He tried, ever so gently, to turn his ankle round, to work his knee. The pain instantly grew far worse. 'Barnam!' He dragged the sheet to one side and the familiar stink of ordure rose up to his nostrils. Nothing like the stench of your own dung to usher in a productive morning.

'Ah! Barnam!' He whimpered, and slobbered, and clutched at his withered thigh, but nothing helped. The pain grew worse, and worse. The fibres started from his wasted flesh like metal cables, toeless foot flopping grotesquely on the end, entirely beyond his control.

'Barnam!' he screamed. 'Barnam, you fucker! The door!' Spit dribbled from his toothless mouth, tears ran down his twitching face, his hands clawed, clutching up Fistfuls of brown-stained sheet.

He heard hurried footsteps in the corridor, the lock scraping. 'Locked you fool!' he squealed through his gums, thrashing with pain and anger. The knob turned and the door opened, much to his surprise. What the…

Ardee hurried over to the bed. 'Get out!' he hissed, holding one arm pointlessly over his face, clutching at his bedclothes with the other. 'Get out!'

'No.' She tore the sheet away and Glokta grimaced, waiting for her face to go pale, waiting for her to stagger back, one hand across her mouth, eyes wide with shock and disgust. I am married… to this shit-daubed monstrosity? She only frowned down, for a moment, then took hold of his ruined thigh and pressed her thumbs into it.

He gasped and flailed and tried to twist away but her grip was merciless, two points of agony stabbing right into the midst of his cramping sinews. 'Ah! You fucking… you…' The wasted muscle went suddenly soft, and he went soft with it, dropping back against the mattress. And now being splattered with my own shit begins to seem just the slightest bit embarrassing.

He lay there for a moment, helpless. 'I didn't want you to see me… like this.'

'Too late. You married me, remember. We're one body, now.'