Chapter 17
On, on I go, (open doors of time!
Open hospital doors!) The crush'd head I dress,
(Poor crazed hand tear not the bandage away,)
The neck of the cavalry-man with the bullet
Through and through I examine,
Hard the breathing rattles, quite glazed already the eye,
Yet life struggles hard.
.
—Walt Whitman, The Wound Dresser
.
MIKHAIL
"Mikhail!"
I bolt upright, my sword drawn to smite the lizard at the door. I strike at the phantasm, but my sword clinks against the wall, knocking me onto my back until I realize I am dreaming. I press my hands into my face, my heart rattling against my chest.
"Máthair." I shiver uncontrollably, even though the dream has already faded. I can't remember anything about the woman who birthed me. She is a huge blank spot in my subconscious. Al
