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After he'd gotten past the first few days of shock and blind rage, Anders' largest problem in his cell -- and it was a cell, no matter how pointedly anyone else called it a "room" -- was the sheer tedious boredom of confinement.
Senior Enchanter Wynne had stopped by a few times to discuss spirit healing and actually treated him as a person, Maker bless her. And he had been given a few of the dullest and most intensely religious books about the Fade that could be found in the Tower library to study. (He was mainly using them as a sleep aid.) Then there was the intermittent excitement of a meal, to be swiftly followed by the disappointment of realizing Tower food might as well have been cardboard next to the delights of Fandom, as well as the occasional intense, suffocating grief that had gotten him into this situation to begin with.
These occupied his time. But the sad truth was, the best part of most of his days came with visits from the cats-- Lachlan, and the tower's mouser Mr. Wiggums. He found himself almost counting the minutes until they'd slip back into his cell each time they left.
Which was what he was doing now, with occasional failed attempts to read the book he thought of as Mother Somebody's 87th Treatise on Why Demons Are Bad.
Soon there'd be lunch, and then an attempt at an afternoon nap that hopefully wouldn't be interrupted by one of his terrifying Fade dreams. Then a disappointing supper and more sleep. And then 51 more weeks, give or take, of much the same.
To him, it might as well have been 51 years.
[OOC: NFB, NFI due to logistics.]
Senior Enchanter Wynne had stopped by a few times to discuss spirit healing and actually treated him as a person, Maker bless her. And he had been given a few of the dullest and most intensely religious books about the Fade that could be found in the Tower library to study. (He was mainly using them as a sleep aid.) Then there was the intermittent excitement of a meal, to be swiftly followed by the disappointment of realizing Tower food might as well have been cardboard next to the delights of Fandom, as well as the occasional intense, suffocating grief that had gotten him into this situation to begin with.
These occupied his time. But the sad truth was, the best part of most of his days came with visits from the cats-- Lachlan, and the tower's mouser Mr. Wiggums. He found himself almost counting the minutes until they'd slip back into his cell each time they left.
Which was what he was doing now, with occasional failed attempts to read the book he thought of as Mother Somebody's 87th Treatise on Why Demons Are Bad.
Soon there'd be lunch, and then an attempt at an afternoon nap that hopefully wouldn't be interrupted by one of his terrifying Fade dreams. Then a disappointing supper and more sleep. And then 51 more weeks, give or take, of much the same.
To him, it might as well have been 51 years.
[OOC: NFB, NFI due to logistics.]
