MILO WOKE COVEREDin sweat, legs aching from an active dream. This was the nightmare that plagued him most, after the incident. Not the fight, but the reminder Usher had defied their father to save Milo’s life.
It didn’t close the gap Thatcher had created between them, but it helped. While he’d taken great joy in telling Milo that Usher’s ill-advised rescue?to rush him to the pack doctor for treatment?had made his condition permanent, Milo refused to hold a grudge. Usher had acted on instinct, unaware checks should be made before moving someone suffering a spinal injury.
Something Milo only learned later.
How was Usher to know medicine, weeks in a brace, and a half-dozen shifts could have cured Milo’s injury, if he hadn’t been moved? He wasn’t a doctor, and he’d only been thinking of getting Milo to help quickly.
No, Usher held no blame for his condition. That lay solely at their father’s door, and Milo would never forgive him.
Throwing off the covers, Milo sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He couldn’t sleep, and there was no point having a mental battle with himself. He grabbed his self-made Willow-carved crutches by the side of the bed, leaning against the bedside table, and tucked them under his arms before heaving to his feet. With effort, he made his way into the living room, grabbed a book and his notebook, then sat in the armchair to get comfortable.
It wasn’t too late to get work done, but late enough some reading should tire him enough to get a full night’s sleep.
“Chronic fatigue syndrome is often associated with peripheral neuropathy. Those who suffer from the latter condition, tend to experience the extreme fatigue of CFS,” he read, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at the obvious.
“Peripheral neuropathy is a condition where the nerves of the body misfire or miscommunicate with each other, at the extremities,” Milo read under his breath, annoyance wrinkling his brow. He knew this from his initial research, after the injury that left him with the condition. What he wanted to know was how to treat or cure it. “Typical nerves affected include: sensory, relating to pain and touch; motor, for controlling muscles; and autonomic, which regulate autonomic functions in the body, e.g. blood pressure.”
He skimmed over the passages on pain, numbness and tingling sensations, loss of balance or coordination, and random shooting pain for no obvious reason. He knew that, from experience. It was something he’d lived with, since the day he woke up thinking he’d been paralysed. Milo had been relieved when sensation returned within hours of waking from the initial injury. But being left permanently disabled?a term Vihaan didn’t acknowledge or accept?his life had changed drastically.
His father, Alpha Thatcher, was an unforgiving man, and had sent members of their pack through the doorway to Dnara for far lesser crimes than being a burden, as Milo had become. Some had fled to Dnara just in fear of Thatcher discovering their secret. Being gaoj,having a physical deformity, injury or weakness, could see them killed if Thatcher couldn’t be bothered with the hassle of banishing them. Banishments needed to be documented in official pack records, whereas a cowardly m’weko who ran from responsibility looked better. Not even the Meskli could question him, if a pack memberchoseto leave.
Milo prayed to the Mother every day for a way to leave, but feared the only freedom he would find from his father was in death. And if his condition continued to deteriorate?causing extreme fatigue, in a sign he may have another condition he hadn’t diagnosed?Thatcher may make that happen.
As much as Milo longed to escape, death wasn’t the answer. He had so much he wanted to do, to see, and still needed to rescue his younger sister, Haley. If possible, help his elder brother, Usher, escape the overbearing brute.
One day soon, Usher would be expected to become Beta to one of his elder brothers, by one of the higher-ranking wives their father had taken over the years. When that happened, Milo feared he would fail, because Usher had been raised to value brawn over brains, and succeeded perfectly. If he’d been allowed to live as a guard or warrior, he would flourish, but their father had high expectations for all his children. Too high, and often contrary to their wishes.
No, escape was Milo’s only hope. If he could leave, he could travel to another pack or region within Vihaan, plead for sanctuary and request the Meskli?the one Alpha who oversaw all m’weko packs?help save his family from a tyrant.
First, Milo needed to better understand his condition, and how to live with it. If he couldn’t remain useful to his father, it wouldn’t matter what his conditions were called or what herbs might ease the ache. He wouldn’t live long enough to feel any benefit.
Thirsty, and realising he’d been sitting on an uncomfortable armchair for nearly an hour, Milo put his book onto the side table and stood. Today was one of those ‘worst days’ he kept reading about, though he wished the ‘good days’ would kick in soon. His legs wobbled as he stood, leaning on the arms of the chair for support until he could grab the crutches against the wall. He tucked one under his right arm, secured his arm through the leather strap to support his elbows, and lifted the second crutch under his left arm. With unsteady steps, he crossed the room towards the sideboard where a jug of water and clay cups waited.
Propping the right crutch under his left arm, he freed one hand to pour a drink, and stayed at the table to take two sips. Milo knew he shouldn’t be pushing himself, with the injury only seven months old, but didn’t have a choice. There was no one else willing to help, and the pack doctor didn’t know enough about the condition to be of use. The best thing he’d done for Milo was to give him medical books from Dnara.
It took a month to get out of bed. Another two weeks to realise rest probably did more harm than good, as he hadn’t been exercising his muscles or reminding the nerves of their purpose. Though there was no cure for his condition, and it could get worse with time, Milo had found enough research to indicate he was lucky. His condition was caused by a physical injury, meaning it was less likely to progress quickly. With rigorous exercise and effort, he could maintain what mobility he’d fought to regain.
The crutches were the first aid he’d made, followed by herbal painkillers, for those days when he could barely move without the nerves in his legs screaming. Then came a sleeping potion to aid restful sleep; a concoction he’d taken weeks to perfect, but which was a mixture of herbs, a Dnaran tonic, and meditation. Something Milo used rarely, for fear he’d come to rely on it.
With a final sip of water, Milo returned to his chair. The process was laborious, but another small exercise to force himself to move, even when he felt like death. Small things?tasks he would have taken for granted before the accident?now took all his effort.
The sooner he found a treatment for the fatigue, the quicker he could regain some semblance of his normal life. If he didn’t, he would be relegated to a useless asset Thatcherwantedto utilise, but felt required too much time and resources.
Halfway to his chair, the crutch swung to the left, catching on his bare foot. The pain of the contact was nothing compared to the panic, as he lost balance. Sweaty palms had the right crutch slipping through his fingers, and an attempt to tighten his grip proved fruitless. The world spun, as the crutch clattered to the stone floor. Milo’s attempt to use the second crutch to brace his fall failed miserably when his ankle gave way to the inevitable.
In what felt like a flash, with barely time to register anything beyond the shock and pain, Milo’s body dropped. The painful, but strong, grip of a hand on his arm was the only thing stopping him from falling into a heap. With the aid of the unexpected assistance and strength, Milo sank into an only-slightly painful seated position.
“It broke,” Usher said, a disinterested tone belying the fact he’d saved Milo. If he’d truly been the heartless older brother Thatcher wanted, he would have let Milo humiliate himself, then gloated.
A smile emerged in relief, as Milo realised Usher wasn’t yet the irredeemable bastard their father wanted him to be.
“Stop grinning like a lunatic. If Father saw that, you’d be through the doorway in a flash,” he grumbled, using the hand around Milo’s upper arm to lift him to his feet. The effortless strength was a reminder of all he’d lost, but Milo buried the unwanted thought and clung to Usher’s arms as he tried to secure his feet under him.
“I know.” Milo wasn’t unaware of the risk, but he had time. He had something his father wanted, that no one else could provide, and that would keep him safe. But only a short time. Soon, his usefulness would wane, and Thatcher would find another way to get what he wanted.
Usher gave a single, sharp nod, accepting Milo wasn’t stupid or oblivious about his place in the pack. “I brought you these,” he said, gesturing to the doorway. He must have set them aside when he saw Milo fall, freeing his hands with the express purpose of helping.
Milo said nothing about the kindness, aware Usher fought every good thing about who he truly was, in the hopes of impressing their father and becoming the man Thatcher tried to mould him into. Milo hoped the day never came.
