Chapter 14: The Silent Recovery
The notebook became my voice for five days. Medical staff had determined my vocal cords were torn beyond simple healing—too much force applied too suddenly, supernatural compulsion feedback that had shredded tissue like it was wet paper.
Even whispers produce blood.
My first written exchange was characteristically efficient:
"Eugene status?"
"Stable. Coma. Expected to wake within the week." Wednesday's handwriting was as precise as her speech.
"Your throat?"
"Torn vocal cords. Possibly permanent damage." The nurse's response came with sympathetic expression that suggested she'd seen similar injuries before.
"Worth it," I wrote without hesitation.
Enid discovered this exchange later while visiting Eugene. She read over my shoulder without permission, then started crying.
"You destroyed your voice for him," she said through tears. "You could have died, could have lost the ability to speak forever, and you write 'worth it' like it's obvious."
It is obvious.
I wrote: "He would have done the same for me."
"That's not the point!" Enid's voice climbed toward hysteria. "The point is you prioritized someone else's life over your own wellbeing without calculating cost-benefit ratios or strategic advantage. You just... cared enough to break yourself."
First time she's seen me act purely on emotional impulse.
Enid started leaving sticky notes on my notebook after that—encouraging messages and increasingly elaborate bee doodles that transformed my medical communication device into something resembling a friendship scrapbook.
"You're the nicest person at Nevermore and I have documentation to prove it."
"Eugene's going to wake up and you're going to be there when he does."
"Your shadows are still moving protectively around his bed. Did you know that?"
I didn't know that.
Wednesday treated our daily meetings like intelligence briefings, updating me on investigation progress while I provided written responses to her tactical questions.
"Tyler is the Hyde," she announced on day four. "Corroborating evidence accumulated during your unconscious period. Sheriff Galpin found traces of his son's DNA at the crime scene, though he's attempting to suppress the findings."
Of course he is.
"How certain?"
"Ninety-seven percent. The timing correlations, behavioral patterns, and physical evidence create an overwhelming case." Wednesday paused, studying me with clinical interest. "I need to know what you did in that cave. Sheriff found strange marks around Eugene's wounds—shadow impressions that continued applying pressure long after medical intervention began."
Time for partial truth.
I wrote carefully: "Cursed Speech. Can command with voice. Cost is throat damage. Told Hyde to STOP, bought enough time to move Eugene."
Wednesday's expression shifted to razor focus. "You have three distinct supernatural abilities. Shadow manipulation, presence alteration, and now vocal compulsion. That's unheard of for a single outcast."
Convergence candidate. Multiple abilities in one person.
I underlined my previous note: "COST IS THROAT DAMAGE."
Wednesday nodded with something that might have been approval. "Every tool has a price, and you're willing to pay. Good. Useful allies understand sacrifice."
Useful allies.
Is that what I am to her?
The question bothered me more than it should have. Wednesday operated on pure logic, viewing relationships as tactical assets rather than emotional connections. But something about the clinical assessment felt wrong when applied to what had happened in the cave.
Eugene isn't a tactical asset. He's family.
The distinction matters.
Eugene woke on day twenty-three at 6:47 AM while I dozed in the chair between our beds. His hand moved first—weak grasping motion that searched for connection, for proof he wasn't alone in whatever darkness he'd been occupying.
Alive. Conscious. Going to be okay.
His first words came out as damaged whisper: "Did you save me?"
I grabbed the notebook with shaking hands, wrote in letters that looked drunk: "Yes."
Eugene started crying—relief and terror retroactive now that he was safe, gratitude he couldn't articulate mixing with trauma that would probably follow him for years.
"Thank you," he said through tears. "Thank you for not being background furniture for once in your life."
His first joke post-trauma.
The words broke something in my chest that had been holding together through pure stubbornness. I laughed—silent, painful, my bandaged throat protesting the movement—but genuine. First real laugh since transmigration, and it cost me twelve hours of healing progress.
Worth every second.
Eugene reached for my hand and held it with grip that was weak but determined. "I followed Wednesday into that cave like an idiot, didn't I?"
"You followed your instincts to help someone you care about. Not idiotic. Human."
"Human." Eugene processed this. "Yeah. I guess that's what we are under all the supernatural nonsense."
Human.
When did I start thinking of myself that way again?
We fell asleep holding hands like children afraid of monsters, which was essentially accurate. Eugene's breathing slowly synchronized with mine, and for the first time in weeks, my shadows settled into peaceful patterns instead of defensive postures.
Found family. Chosen obligation.
Worth destroying my voice to protect.
Wednesday documented our reunion in her journal with unusual attention to emotional detail:
"Aron Bason destroyed his voice saving Eugene Ottinger's life using an ability he'd clearly never fully tested. The shadows that held Eugene's wounds showed more intelligence than most students. Either Aron's powers have adaptive consciousness or his subconscious continued fighting after his conscious mind surrendered. Both implications are profound."
She closed the journal and returned to the infirmary, taking the vigil shift while Eugene and I slept.
Profound implications.
My shadows acting independently to protect Eugene even while unconscious.
Powers that adapt to emotional need rather than conscious control.
What does that make me?
Outside, Nevermore prepared for the winter solstice, unaware that the Hyde had tasted fear and retreat for the first time in its existence.
Tyler Galpin knows something stopped him. Something made him hesitate.
He won't make that mistake again.
But neither will I.
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