Three days, five hours. It had been exactly three days, five hours since the rescue at the cave. Eight days, two hours if you were counting back from the moment he’d been ingloriously thrown off a balcony.
Silas couldn’t remember much. The cold stone of the cave had transformed into plain white walls and soft beds; the scent of damp rock, decaying vegetation and the acrid reek of his own charred flesh had been replaced with disinfectant and pine; the dull yellow light of the torch-bracket now over-bright, sterile ceiling lights.
Hospitals. This was a hospital. But it was no hospital he recognised. Where was he?
He couldn’t focus. It took him a moment to realise he wasn’t even breathing for himself. A strangely dulled sensation of pain was starting to creep back up every nerve while his throat uncomfortably seized around the tube in his throat. Something nearby began beeping furiously and a machine hissed, flooding coldness into his wrist. His consciousness was lapsing again. Darkness prevailed.
----
Six days, four hours and ten minutes since rescue.
His surroundings were no longer a mystery. The Coven personnel running the building had the same kind of personality as their hospital rooms. Cold. Clinical. He had the facts, but nothing more. He knew what he was allowed to know.
He knew that he’d been rescued and brought here for ‘his own safety’. He knew they’d decreed him ‘too irrational’ to make decisions about his own health and were forcing treatment on him. He also knew that was just fancy talk for prisoner.
But most importantly, he knew that Dacian was alive.
Why they’d let him live was a fucking good question. The bastard was here, in the same building, and although he’d been assured Dacian’s lodgings were far less comfortable than his own, Silas didn’t care. The fact Dacian was here at all was an insult. Something about awaiting a trial. He’d been too busy yelling at them to pay proper attention. Trial? What fucking trial? Since when was WHETHER or not Dacian had kidnapped him up for debate? It didn’t take a fucking GENIUS to figure that one out.
Fuck. He hated it here, propped up on the bed attached to wires and tubes and beeping boxes like a side show or an experiment. He was allowed to breathe on his own now - even though it was a struggle to do so - but the rest of the equipment had to stay. This ‘medical’ treatment they were giving him was backwards. Barbaric. The wizarding healers were only allowed in for a few hours at a time. The vampires didn’t seem to trust them.
At first the vampires had tried allowing Silas to self medicate for the pain once he was lucid. Pain was something that was present in spades now. It was all he had to remind him he hadn’t died. Of course, they’d realised their folly the moment they’d come back in the room to find him completely out of his mind in a drug induced stupor. It was either that or stay awake for hours upon hours with nothing to entertain him but more pain, the dark thoughts in his own mind and the glowing of that fucking clock.
That. Fucking. Clock. The room was painfully bare, absent of creature comforts save for one clock on the wall. It wasn’t like a clock he’d ever seen before, showing the month, date, year and time with little glowing letters and numbers instead of hands. If he didn’t know any better he’d say they’d put That Fucking Clock in the room for his own personal hell. All it served was as a constant reminder of how much time had been wasted, how long he’d been here and how desperately he needed to get back.
Get back to what? To Scores? Definitely, but Scores carried other negative associations. Specifically one big fucking negative association with its own glowing CAUTION sign. Jacaranda Mulciber. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to strangle the bitch or shake her hand for having the biggest set of (figurative) balls he’d ever seen. The one thing he knew was that he didn’t want to think about Jacaranda Mulciber.
Thinking. Thinking gave him a headache. It was more stress and annoyance he didn’t need. He couldn’t drug
himself up any more, but it wasn’t like he was out of options. He could scream. He could yell and tear the bits of metal out of his skin. He could swear. He could throw things and struggle to stand. It hurt to do so. It hurt to talk. It hurt to
breathe. The exertion hurt so much it felt like he was going to kill him. But then nurses came, all glares and frustration and bared fangs. They’d hold him down and stab more sticks of metal into his arm to push fluid into his veins. He didn’t know what it was; all he knew was what it did. It slowed his mind; and made things go away. Made the time, the pain and Jacaranda lose meaning. It achieved the same as overdosing on pain medication. He’d take his victories where he could get them. He always got his own way in the end.
----
Nine days, four hours, twenty-three minutes since rescue, courtesy of That Fucking Clock.
He could walk now. Not far, but enough. His knee had been a mess, the bone mangled beyond comprehension when he’d arrived. Magical healing could work wonders when the vampires actually decided to allow it, but despite everything the joint still wasn’t working as it should. Reconnecting the snapped tendons in his foot had been harder. He still couldn’t move his toes.
The nurses were encouraging him to take movement easy. His body had been through too much stress, they said. So naturally the first thing Silas did was push himself to breaking point until he finally collapsed in an undisclosed hallway. They’d locked his room after that, save for when he was allowed out for (monitored) physiotherapy. You’d think they’d have learned not to trust him after the painkiller incident, but apparently not. It was like he was getting a perverse pleasure out of doing exactly the opposite of what they told him to.
It wasn’t until he managed to make it to the hospital bathroom for the first time to stare at his own gaunt, unrecognisable face in the mirror that it hit him just how much the ordeal in the cave had taken its toll. He’d guessed how bad he looked already, but it was something completely different to actually be confronted with his own reflection.
He’d lost an extraordinary amount of weight, his sunken features and the receding swelling on one side of his jaw made more noticeable by the fact one of the nurses had been forced to shave off his beard to get to a particularly nasty looking cross-shaped burn on his chin. Most of his face was discoloured, like a macabre artwork of swirling colours from faded bruising. More than a week had already passed since he’d been brought in, so he could only imagine how he must’ve looked when he’d been dragged in covered in dirt and dried blood.
The rest of him didn’t look much better, and not just because of the extensive bruising. The myriad of third degree burns carved into his body were healing, but no less painful for it. Every movement, every stretch, every breath of air and every rub of fabric hurt. The ligature marks on his wrists and ankles and the torn and bleeding skin around it had almost recovered, but nothing could be done about the nails ripped off all his hands save to apply some magical sludge and wait for them to regrow. The knife wounds were getting along nicely, but every now and then he’d be careless and stretch in a way that would cause them to reopen and bleed. The nurses always showed up in less than two minutes when he managed that. He swore they could smell it from the other side of the building. Fucking vultures.
But for some reason, it wasn’t being crippled or stabbed with burning wood and metal or being trussed up like a sack of potatoes and left to starve that bothered him most. It was the state of his throat. To an outsider it may have looked like Silas’s neck had been savaged by a particularly wild dog. An animal had done it, yes, but it was no dog. That was Dacian’s own doing. Used as a method of control as well as to nail in Dacian’s point that Silas been his to do with as he liked. It was the bite marks that bothered Silas most.
No. That was a lie. It was Jacaranda Mulciber that bothered Silas most. But he didn't want to think about that.
An angry shout and a loud CRASH made the Coven official outside the room sigh and make a mental note they'd have to budget for a new mirror.
----
Twelve days, eight hours and three minutes.
God, he could really use a drink.
Hell, there were a lot of things he could use. A wand, for one. The Coven had denied that little request. He didn’t even know if it was beyond their capability to procure one or if they just didn’t trust him within ten feet of one. Wise. First thing he was planning to do upon getting a wand was blasting his way out. Maybe the Coven weren’t idiots after all.
Alcohol was also a firm ‘Under No Circumstances’ on the list of ‘Items Silas Rosier Is Not To Be Given: Ever’. Something about it impeding his recovery and that his addiction had almost killed him in the first place and he really should get off it anyway because it was a miracle he’d survived at all and yadda yadda. Screw that. Trust him to land in the one hospital where the nurses didn’t hide a bottle of rum under the surgical equipment and no amount of money was going to convince one to smuggle the stuff in either. Fuck. Maybe he should have been nicer to them at the start. In the mean time they were giving him some drug to stop his body melting down from the lack of ethanol in his system. It stopped the symptoms, but not the cravings. If the pain didn’t drive him completely insane first, the cravings were going to finish the job.
Still, they had allowed him a few minor trinkets. Magazines that he’d gone through in less than an hour. Proper hospital blues rather than an over-glorified sheet. They’d left some kind of electric shaving equipment in the bathroom he’d decided to learn to use tomorrow. Goddamn muggle technology. What was wrong with a straight razor? He’d considered asking them to get rid of That Fucking Clock as well, but with no other way to tell the time the cons of removing the stupid thing outweighed the benefits. Pity the hospital food wasn’t getting any better either.
Apparently the Ministry and the Coven had also been negotiating behind his back and a decision had been made to keep him here longer despite his (frequent) protests on the matter. Awesome. With this new announcement, he now had choices to make:
Were the press allowed to be made aware of what had happened? Hell to the fucking no.
When did he feel strong enough to attend Dacian’s trial? Yesterday would have been fantastic.
Did he want to visit Dacian at all? Let the bastard rot.
Did he want any personal visitors? No.
What friends and family members did he want to inform of his were-abouts? No one.
Really? There was no one out there that would be worried for him? No… Possibly… Maybe.
… Fuck.
Did Jac care? She certainly knew how to act like she did. But that didn’t mean anything. Every word out of that woman's mouth since the day they’d met could have been bullshit for all he knew. She’d already proven herself to be a shrewd, ruthless cunt who’d stoop to any level to get what she wanted. And yet, he didn’t want to say that it had
felt real, because that was the point of the potion, but a small niggling sense of doubt was--
No.
This line of thought was ridiculous.
Jac wasn’t allowed
anywhere near here. And that was completely, utterly, and irrevocably final.
----
It’d only taken him an hour to change his mind.
According to That Fucking Clock, it was now fourteen days, eight hours and three minutes. If he ever needed a drink more than ever, it was now. Jac was due in another hour or two, and for some reason he was more uptight now than he had ever been in the hour preceding his first goddamn wedding.
Why did she decide to come? One word and he could have her thrown in jail. He could ruin her life. Destroy everything she’d worked for. Why hadn’t she taken the money and fled? What was her endgame in all of this?
There was only one way to find out.
Grudgingly, he’d also allowed Abe to be told where he was and be allowed visitor rights. Silas figured at least that way if these jokers ended up serving him as an appetiser and throwing him in a ditch, someone might at least call to complain about it. Even if only because Abe’s stripper pool might dry up without him.
Thankfully he was healing better since he’d first looked at himself in the mirror. Not that he going to be doing any modeling any time soon, but the swelling and discolouration had gone down enough that face was managing to look less like a Picasso. Being able to shave helped. His goatee was growing back, while the blue hospital clothing hid the full extent of the damage and weight loss. All the clues anyone had to go off were the stumps of some new nails punching through his fingertips and the occasional black, charred burn marks sitting grotesquely on his arms. The one on his chin was fresher and responding better to the combined treatment, having graduated past the black-oozy stage quickest and was now just an angry bright red mark.
For the record, yes. He’d asked for nicer clothes to wear today, but the answer came back as a definite no. Saying it was his birthday and could he please have some absinthe to celebrate didn’t work either. These morons were completely humorless.
It was now fourteen days, eight hours and five minutes.
Fourteen days, eight hours and seven minutes.
Fourteen days, eight hours and eight minutes.
Fourteen days, eight hours, eight minutes and fifteen seconds.
… Screw it.
He needed to get out of here. Anything but more time sitting around, staring at That Fucking Clock, wondering what the hell he was going to do with himself. But there was nothing else to preoccupy himself with in this god-damned hospital room. There was only one reason they’d let him out, and that reason was--
“Where’s Dacian?” he demanded of the vaguely surprised looking Coven official/body guard/prison keeper that had taken up vigil outside Silas’s ward. Although his tone was the same sharp authoritative clip from always, it just seemed... weaker somehow, like everything else about him these days.
The vampire looked taken-aback with the suddenness of the demand.
“Dungeon level, lower floor,” he answered, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Saddle up Jaws, we’re going on an adventure.” “What brought this on?” “You try sitting in a room with nothing to do for fourteen days, eight hours and ten minutes.” There was a hesitant pause before he spoke again.
“Are you sure you can handle stairs?” Silas frowned at the implication that he was anything less than fully capable.
“Didn’t know you cared, I’m flattered. Trust me Sparky, I’ll be fine. Move.” It turned out Silas’s definition of ‘fine’ was more than a little bit skewered. The leg brace under his clothing was making knee flexion difficult, and it didn’t seem to matter how many painkillers he took, every step still sent a vicious stab of pain through each bandaged and broken toe up to the shattered remains of what had once been a working knee.
Broken bones weren’t his only adversary. Silas, of course, was too proud to ask for help or use a crutch, so he made his own way as best he could, using the walls and railings for support when required. His arm ended up having to take most of the slack for his injured leg, and soon he had a burning pain in his shoulder to add to the growing list of reasons he needed to petition for a stronger drug cocktail. The prolonged alcohol withdrawal in the cave had sapped more of his strength than he’d like to admit.
And, of course, even through all of that, he couldn’t shake the niggling thoughts of Jacaranda Mulciber.
Hell, he couldn’t even tell if he was pissed at Jac for drugging him in the first place or himself for falling for it, which was bizarre enough in its own right because he never blamed himself for
anything. When he thought about every good memory they’d ever experienced it was like someone had clawed away the rose-coloured film and revealed the ugly truth for what it was. As much as he tried to disguise it with anger, the reality was, he was hurt. Probably for the first time in his life.
But now wasn’t the time to think about that. He’d avoided thinking about that as best as possible for fourteen days, eight hours and - approximately - twelve minutes.
He could manage that a little longer.
To the best of his ability he turned his attention to making a mental map of the Coven grounds. Judging from the interior, it looked like it used to be an old manor-house retrofitted for their needs. How perfectly fucking cliché. Still, if there was one thing England had in spades, it was old buildings from God-knew what century. Georgian, by the look of it. It didn’t seem like the kind of thing you’d find in central London either. That said, he knew full well that when magic was involved in construction, nothing was as it seemed. ie; they could be anywhere. Awesome.
“Down here,” his guide instructed, disrupting Silas’s thought process.
Hrumph. Stairs. Moment of truth then. How the hell was he going to handle this one? It felt a bit like approaching a logic puzzle.
“Need help?” the vampire asked uncertainly.
“I’m fine,” Silas insisted grouchily, sounding a little too out of breath for anything that constituted ‘fine’. He rested his hand on the wall again and attempted to start with the broken leg first, keeping it as straight as possible and gingerly lowering it onto the first step before hopping down quickly with his good one. Predictably, it hurt. One fuck of a lot. The bone didn’t crunch and grind as it had in the cave, but that was only a small comfort.
Fuck. Okay. He could do this. The stairs weren’t tremendously long, only one dark flight of stairs that had been folded into two to conserve space. The room below was dark, so his vampire helper walked down ahead to fiddle around for a light-switch, eventually revealing what looked to be a servants quarters and... fuck. Another flight of stairs.
“You’re just making it harder, you know,” The vampire frowned when Silas finally reached his level, expelling a multitude of curse-words under his breath as he did so. He could hear Rosier’s heart-beat, and it was sounding disturbingly erratic in a way that probably wasn’t medically sound.
“And I really hate to repeat myself, so please,” Silas snapped.
Still, he made it down eventually. If he had to guess he’d say he’d found his way into an old, dark wine-cellar. Except wine-cellars didn't usually have the sound of clinking chains from it’s black depths, nor the sound of shuffling and hissing. His guide was preoccupied with the wall near the stairs, and before Silas could squint to try and peer through the darkness, the vampire flicked another switch and the dungeon flooded with light.
The reaction was instantaneous - it sounded like the whole room had come alive with snakes. Hissing, snarling from every direction in a way that was far too human to be completely animal.
He couldn't see much, aside from the fact the passages between the cells were narrow, made of limestone and full of archways. The place reeked like cold stone and decay and he wrinkled his nose against it.
“How many vampires do you have down here?” “Enough,” came the grim reply.
“Careful, they’ve been down here for a while. Most of them are probably half-starved.” Glorious.
Dacian’s cell wasn’t far. The biggest danger seemed to be that occasionally he’d walk past an occupied prison and the frenzied creatures inside would try and throw themselves at the bars of their cells, hissing and spitting like deranged lunatics, their faces and bodies in varying states of what looked like mummification or decay. Was this what happened to a vampire when you didn’t feed it? Disgusting, but strangely fascinating. Dacian deserved it, and worse. It was only a pity Silas wasn’t able to orchestrate the affair himself.
A few more cells down and his guide finally came to a halt.
“Next one to your right.” “That’s fine. There’s places to sit in the servants quarters if that’s more comfortable.” The vampire paused to consider.
“Alright. I’ll get a runner to let me know when your visitor arrives.” Jac. He didn’t want to think about Jac.
“Fantastic. Thankyou.” As the sound of the vampire’s footsteps faded, Silas approached the cell. His shadow had barely fallen over the barred door when there was an explosion of movement from inside. Dacian lunged at him, only to be brought up short by the chains that suspended him from the ceiling. The vampire snarled in pain, making another attempt before settling down to strain against the chains and gnash his teeth in Silas’s direction.
Silas smiled with satisfaction.
Hell, if it was possible, he could have sworn Dacian was looking worse than he did. Although he didn’t look as dessicated as some of the other inmates, his cheeks were decidedly hollow, and his eyes flashed with a ravenous undertone that suggested that if Dacian got ahold of him, he wouldn’t spare any banter before draining him dry. The vampires clothing was ragged, and the sight of his bare feet suddenly made Silas feel better about his own pathetic hospital slippers. There was fresh blood all down his forearms, his hair shaggy and unkempt, teeth and jaw stained with blood from God-knew-where. The cell was empty, no seating, just Dacian alone with his own mind and the chains holding him by his wrists.
Silas didn’t make a move until Dacian settled, opting to lean against the bars in a location he knew the vampire couldn’t reach. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t getting a perverse pleasure at the sight of this. Sometimes there was justice in the world after all.
“Hello Love.” 
