Chapter 54: Willpower isn’t enough when your body rejects you.

Chapter 54: Willpower isn’t enough when your body rejects you. The room was silent. It should have been the peaceful kind of silence but no, it was suffocating. The kind that settled in the air like dust and pressed down on everything like an invisible weight. Aramith stood before the mirror, barely recognizing the figure that stared back at him. His breath caught in his throat. His reflection was... hideous. The eyes that stared back at him were deep, soulless, and with heavy darkened bags underneath. A stranger, gaunt and sickly, mirrored his every movement. Sunken cheeks, skin stretched too thin over sharp bones, dark hollows under his purple eyes. His already pale complexion was nearly corpse-like now, an eerie shade that made him look closer to the dead than the living. How long had it been? His once well-fitted clothes hung off his frame like they belonged to someone else—someone bigger, healthier. His fingers trembled as they brushed over his collarbone, now jutting out prominently, before trailing up to his face. Is this... really me? His stomach churned. He took a step back, gripping the edges of the dresser as nausea twisted his insides. That’s when he noticed the plate of food sitting beside his bed. It had been left for him earlier, untouched. His body was screaming for sustenance. He knew he needed it. But looking at it made something twist uncomfortably inside him. He swallowed. Eat. He sat down, dragging the plate closer. His hands felt oddly weak as he picked up a spoonful of the meal. The scent of warm food filled his nose, yet his stomach gave a threatening lurch, rejecting it before it even touched his tongue. Still, he forced the bite into his mouth. Eat Chewing felt foreign. Like he had forgotten how to do it. He swallowed. The moment it slid down his throat, a violent shudder ran through him. His body lurched forward—his vision blurred. A second later, he was hunched over, coughing, choking, and then— It all came back up. The sound of retching filled the room, sickening and raw. His arms trembled as he barely caught himself from collapsing onto the floor. He gasped, panting heavily, his fingers digging into the floor as sweat beaded his forehead. I can’t even... keep it down. The reality struck him like a blade. His body wasn’t rejecting the food—it was rejecting him. How long had he been running on nothing? How long had he ignored the signals, forced himself to push past limits no one should push past? His body had adapted—to starvation, to exhaustion, to neglect. And now, when he finally tried to fix it— It won’t even let me. Aramith clenched his fists. He refused to accept this. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed another bite. He chewed slowly this time, breathing through the nausea, swallowing cautiously. Again, his stomach rebelled. His throat convulsed. No. No. Keep it in. Keep it down. He pressed a fist to his mouth, swallowing down the rising bile. The effort made his head spin, black dots dancing at the edges of his vision. Then his stomach lurched violently. A sharp gag tore through him before he could stop it, his body doubling over as everything came back up again. He barely caught himself on the edge of the bed, heaving with painful, wracking spasms. His arms trembled under his weight, his nails digging into the sheets. The acidic burn seared his throat as he gasped for breath. "No... I have to..." His voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and weak. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his fingers shaking uncontrollably. He wasn’t done. With a deep breath, he forced himself upright, forced himself to grab another bite, forced himself to chew despite the way his body begged him to stop. He swallowed. His stomach twisted into knots, but for a moment, it seemed to hold—until the nausea slammed into him harder than before. His chest seized. His throat tightened. "No—" A ragged gag tore through him. Then another. Then he was retching again, harsher than before, his entire body convulsing with the effort. His stomach, empty yet rebellious, refused to cooperate. Dry heaves followed, each one more agonizing than the last. His vision blurred, his body shaking violently as he slumped forward, forehead pressing against the cool floor, completely drained. He could taste blood now—his throat raw from the abuse. WHYYY? Aramith gasped, shivering. His limbs felt disconnected like they weren’t even his anymore. I can’t... keep it down. It took everything, but he forced himself up again, his fingers barely gripping the bedframe. His breaths were ragged, uneven, but he wouldn’t stop. He downed the water. He had to win. Even if his own body was against him. He was finally able to keep it down. Barely. The mess on the floor disgusted him. His fingers twitched with irritation. He wouldn’t leave it like this. Couldn’t. He forced himself up, each movement sluggish, unnatural. A bath. He needed a bath. Somehow, he managed to strip and step into the tub, the warm water shocking his freezing skin. He scrubbed himself down methodically, washing away the filth, the sweat, the stench of weakness. Once he was clean, he pulled on fresh clothes. Then, finally, he turned to the disaster he had made. The second he knelt down to clean, however, his vision tilted. The room spun. His stomach lurched again, but this time, he didn’t even have the strength to move. His arms buckled and his knees gave out. His body collapsed into the mess with a sickening thud and the world faded to black. Kethra expected to find him resting. Mozrael told Him he was responding. He finally responded. Instead, the moment she stepped inside, the smell hit her. The overwhelming stench of vomit. Her breath caught. Her pulse spiked. Then she saw him. Aramith—motionless on the floor, his body crumpled in a heap. His long black hair was sprawled messily, his pale, frail form half-submerged in the mess he had created. For a moment, her mind froze, then terror ripped through her. "ARAMITH!!" She lunged forward, falling to her knees beside him. Her hands shook violently as she grabbed his face. "Wake up! Wake up!" Her fingers patted his cheeks, her voice rising in pure desperation. Mozrael said he responded well. What was this? "Please—please, no—Aramith! Look at me!" But he didn’t. He didn’t move, didn’t respond. No. No. No. First Lia. Now him? The thought was too much. Terror crushed her chest, her heart hammering wildly as she clutched him, rocking slightly. The ache in her soul roared, threatening to consume her whole. The scream that tore from her throat was raw and the sound brought people rushing in. Servants, healers. The room exploded into chaos. They moved him, cleaned him, and forced pills down his throat to help his body stabilize. But Kethra barely registered it. She sat beside him, holding his hand, whispering prayers, waiting—waiting. Henndar was busy with other affairs. She had to deal with this alone. Outside, Mozrael heard the chaos. She heard the servants, the rush, the panic. Then she stepped out of her room. "What’s happening?!" No one answered. She followed the commotion, dread clawing at her. The moment she saw people leaving Aramith’s room, she knew. Someone tried to stop her. "You shouldn’t go in—" She ran past them. Then she saw him. Aramith, lying in bed, unmoving. Kethra sitting beside him, clutching his cold hand. Mozrael didn’t understand. He was okay, he told me he was. She ran to Kethra, throwing herself into her arms, sobbing violently. She couldn’t look at him. "What happened?! Is he—" she choked, afraid to look. "Will he be like Lia?! Will he never wake up?!" Kethra wrapped her arms around her, holding her tight. "No," she whispered, though her voice shook. "He’ll wake up. He just... lost too much energy. But he’ll wake up." Mozrael clung to her, pressing her forehead to Aramith’s hand. "Please..." she whispered. "Please, wake up." The Next Morning... Aramith’s fingers twitched, and his breathing deepened. Slowly, painfully, his eyes fluttered open. The first sound to make it to his ears was a voice he knew too well. "I don’t want to be alone." Mozrael’s voice. Soft. Fragile. Barely above a whisper. Aramith sat beside her, his fingers still loosely entwined with hers. She was asleep now, her breathing soft and even, her body curled slightly under the covers. He didn’t want to disturb her. He stayed still, his thumb absently running over her hand, tracing small circles against her skin. It was a quiet, grounding motion—something to tether him to the moment, to her. Her grip was tight. As if letting go meant losing him forever. The previous night’s events were a blur to him. But he knew it was time to change - Recover. Time slipped by in silence. Eventually, Mozrael stirred, her fingers twitching in his grasp before her eyelids fluttered open. She blinked sleepily at him, her expression shifting between grogginess, shyness, and quiet concern. He looked tired, but there was something different about him. Then, for the first time in what felt like too long, Aramith smiled. A real, genuine smile. It was small, almost hesitant, but unmistakable. Mozrael’s chest tightened. "Aramith..." she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’m sorry," he said softly. His grip on her hand tightened, just a little. "I’ll... recover. I promise." She held onto his words, searching his face, and finally nodded. The morning light seeped through the curtains, painting the room in a quiet glow. The day was beginning again, but this time, it didn’t feel quite as heavy.