With a choking gasp that rattled of death, Derek's eyes flew open as he jerked violently awake.
Wakefulness had crept upon Derek in the moth-ridden bed he was stashed away in. A flicker of the eyelids, a twitch of the hands, coming out of one of the most lethal draughts of Living Death a person could barely survive on after being forced to choke it down. The abrupt jostling shocked him from its gradual waking, and nausea roiled within him immediately.
His body jerked out of control as he attempted to roll over too suddenly, sure he was going to sick, and violently so.
Though he did not know it, a benefit of being half-dead for two weeks was that nothing remained in his stomach to vomit up.
Magic had kept him alive, but now that he was awakening, his body ached in so many painful ways. His throat screamed for water, his muscles to stretch against their forced atrophying. His eyes were unfocused, and his memory still hazy as he struggled to recall where he was and who he was with.
What remained sharper than a pin, however, was his acute feeling of betrayal, and as the unwelcome vision of Caradoc's face swam into view, Derek remembered his last few moments all too clearly. The dagger Rachel had all but stabbed in his back, and the short struggle that had ensued once Caradoc had shed his adamantine chains and grabbed Rachel's wand. How long had he been unconscious for? How long had he been kept in this dank room?
"Going—to—" he rasped, clawing for purchase to drag himself closer to Caradoc, and thusly illustrate his point. "To kill—you."
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