Chapter 2: The Weight He Carried
The second morning was more painful than the first.
Leon hardly succeeded in propping himself up. His shoulders throbbed, his thighs hurt with each movement, and his wrists seemed as if nails had been driven through the joints. He rotated gradually in bed, his arms quivering, and stretched towards the jug next to his table. Half of it dripped onto his chest before he could bring it to his lips.
He did not swear. Didn't complain.
He simply inhaled.
The pain indicated that yesterday was not a dream.
That idea encouraged him to rise.
This time he got dressed more slowly—simple tunic, snugger sash, boots that no longer fit properly. His body wasn't accustomed to being held intact. The gentleness rendered everything seem unfamiliar. However, he showed no reluctance as he entered the hall.
The attendants attempted to hide their astonishment.
They continued to observe.
Leon's boots struck the stones more forcefully than necessary. He walked past the shiny windows, glimpsed his reflection once—round face, swollen eyes, hair partly damp from sweat—and continued on his way.
He reached the courtyard before the sun had completely risen.