Ender's War

Epilogue

Dim light flickered against Ender's eyelids. He groaned, remaining half unconscious. Everything hurt. His legs felt as if they were being held down by cement, his head was full of fog, and his stomach was on fire.

As much as he didn't want to face the world around him, his senses returned gradually until he could no longer ignore the nausea growing in his core. His eyes flew open and he doubled over, spilling the contents of his stomach onto the ground.

He heaved, his breath leaving him in ragged pants as he attempted to familiarize himself with his situation. His head throbbed from the sudden movement and his vision was unfocused. The only light he could see was from a few torches that were hung securely against a far wall. A wall that he wasn't able to get to because he was in a cell.

The first thing Ender noticed were the bars. They were made of a thick metal that ran from the floor to the ceiling of a three walled room. His back ached. He was lying on a cement floor and from the throbbing in his side, he could tell he hadn't been placed there gently. Ender hissed out in pain as he attempted to move himself away from the mess he'd created on the floor. His left hip protested, a sharp pain shooting through the joint with each new shift. His head spun the more he tried to determine his location, and the nausea returned in full force.

He had to settle on leaning his back against the back wall of the room, still not able to bring himself to his feet. There, he assessed the damage. There was a gash, about a finger length in width, on the back of his head, his legs were badly bruised, his arms weren't faring any better, his ankle was all but destroyed if the bone protruding out of it was anything to go by, and there was significant bruising along his ribcage. Some of them had to be broken...again. The only thing Ender could hear were his own harsh breaths. They came out heavy and uneven as his lungs tried to work around the pain in his chest.

He was tired. His mind was disjointed and slow. There was no doubt that he had a serious concussion, if not worse and he couldn't concentrate on one thing for any length of time. Thoughts that were not of his immediate situation made him want to cry out in pain, and he couldn't bring himself to move, out of the fear that he would lose whatever his stomach had left to offer.

The room was empty. No bed, no sink, no bucket. Only Ender, and the dirt and grime that had built up over the years since it'd been constructed. This place wasn't a prison. It was a dungeon, and Ender was in no state to escape. He was in no state to do much of anything. Except breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.

A harsh cough gained Ender's attention and he listened for any other indication that he wasn't alone. Another cough followed along with a lengthy cry. The noises sounded familiar. They belonged to someone familiar. He knew it.

"H...ello?" Ender tried to speak, but found it incredibly difficult to. His tongue felt like sandpaper, and his throat was so dry he hardly had enough saliva to swallow. The word left him as nothing more than a harsh whisper.

He tried again. "Hello?" The word echoed around his space, but he wasn't sure if it could be heard beyond his immediate vicinity.

Silence welcomed him in response, and when he didn't hear any other noises, Ender found himself drifting off. He was vaguely aware that the last thing someone with a head injury should do is go to sleep, but he was tired. So tired. Maybe if he got some rest he would be able to think more clearly.

Unconsciousness began to welcome him into its folds once again. He wanted the safety of the darkness, the peaceful, quiet nature of it, and did nothing to stop it.

"Ender." It was Valentine.

She spoke to him in his mind, calling out for him to join her in what little peace this darkness would temporarily allow him. There, he was free from this grim reality. From his inevitable death which would probably come sooner rather than later, and from himself.