Funeral

Nicholas woke to the, antiseptic smell of the hospital room. His body felt heavy, his limbs leaden, his head swimming as if he’d been dragged across a feild.

"Well, look who decided to join us," a voice drawled from nearby.

Nicholas turned his head slowly, wincing at the effort. Olaf sat in a chair by the window, arms crossed over his chest, his expression a mixture of annoyance and concern.

"You lost your head again," Olaf said bluntly, leaning forward. "Went absolutely mad. Screamed at everyone, flung your cane, then fainted. Quite the spectacle."

Nicholas stared at him, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "Did I?" he muttered, his voice hoarse.

"You’re lucky you didn’t crack your skull on the way down," Olaf continued. "I swear, Nicholas, one of these days you’re going to—"

But Nicholas wasn’t listening. His gaze shifted to the bed across from him, only to find it empty. The disappointment that welled up in his chest was almost as sharp as the pain in his body.