September, 1883 — St Mungo's, Creature-Induced Injuries Ward
As he slept, Ephraim Belby dreamed of fur, of claw, of fang, of pain. It was this sharp pain that roused him in his hospital bed, though when he woke, the pain was duller and more manageable, still muffled by the same drug that had allowed him to pass into slumber as the healers worked at him. For a moment, Ephraim wondered if the rest of it had been a dream as the pain had been, but one look down the length of him—though what wasn't covered by blanket was largely covered in bandages—was enough to crush that last lingering bit of hopefulness.He knew what had happened.
He knew what it meant.
He took in a deep breath, resisting the urge to cry.
Did Lou know, he wondered, the children? Had they even heard yet that there had been an incident at the hospital, that he had been injured? And besides the healer himself, what had happened to Cox? To Fawcett? To the young Miss Scott?
The private room in which he had been placed was a blessing to most, but served to isolate him now; Ephraim did not feel as though he could move from the bed, and there were no healers, nurses, or even visitors in the room with him to ask for information.
The shock of red hair as the door to his room answered, however, answered at least one of his questions.
"My dear," he greeted softly, a small smile at the sight of her in spite of himself.
— MJ is pretty nifty @ graphics, if I do say so myself! —