16 August 1892 — Mulciber Home, Wellingtonshire
He ought to have noticed it earlier than he did, but his sense of feeling below the waist had never been the same since the Ministry accident. As it was, by the time he noticed there was no time left to save himself.
Ernest wasn't one for lounging in the garden, typically. He wasn't one for idling, regardless of the location. Once he'd made his upstairs study accessible for the chair, he spent most of his time at home there, with his nose buried in a book, at the dinner table, or asleep. Not that he spent much time at home at all; he worked long nights whenever he could, eager to remain in the sanctuary of the Department of Mysteries. There he was surrounded by the tools of his trade, and could only possibly be bothered by a dozen people all told, none of whom made the effort, generally. Today he was home relatively early, and he'd caught the servants in the midst of their weekly dusting of his study. He considered turning them out, but the air was already swirling with dust — he'd spent the next few minutes sneezing if he forced his way in. Better to get some fresh air and give them time to go about their business.
Before the accident he'd spent more time out of doors (and more time elsewhere in general). Now the cobblestones, though relatively smooth, still presented a maze of pits and traps that caught his wheels as he tried to navigate through them. He didn't like being so confined, either; the path had never felt oppressive when he'd had functional legs, but now that it represented the whole range of possible movement in the garden he could find a thousand faults with it. It was too narrow; there were only a few spots where he could turn around, without running his chair into the edges of the shrubbery that encroached from every side.
He sat in the garden considering whether Rufina would be much put out if he asked her to get rid of some of these ridiculous grasses near the path. Probably she would. He didn't think she particularly cared about the grasses one way or another, or about any of the plants in the garden, but she would care on principle if he made demands over what was meant to be her domain. Better to just avoid it and stick to his study, except when prevailed upon to leave it.
Something rustled, and Ernest turned his head to catch sight of something in one of the hedges along the fence line. He pushed his chair that direction, curious, but the closer he came to the disturbance the clearer it became that there wasn't anything there at all. Perhaps one of the neighbors had done something on their side of the fence and caused the leaves to stir? Perhaps a bird had flitted through? He'd seen nothing fly away, but there was certainly nothing here at the moment.
Ernest had just decided to go back towards the house when he first felt the discomfort in the pit of his stomach. It was difficult to recognize what was happening at first. He reached a hand down and pressed against his gut, thinking it was an oddly timed stomach cramp, but the feeling continued up until his entire chest felt stiff. Was this what a heart attack felt like? Something was happening. He ought to move closer to the house — but in order to do so he first needed to go forward, to find a good spot to turn the chair around, or else he'd have to wheel himself backwards all the way there. He glided forward a few feet, and that was when he noticed that something was happening to his legs. They looked different, and the wheels of his chair met more resistance as he started them forward, as though he had become heavier. His legs were turning to stone. It was up to his thighs already, and the stiff feeling in his chest had spread out across the rest of his body, making it harder to manipulate the chair. The magic that was impacting his legs could do serious damage if it moved much higher, assuming it effected his insides as well as the outsides. This was quickly becoming a dire situation.
He was, absurdly, gratified to see that it was impacting his legs but not the chair below him. Whatever magic this was might kill him, but it at least recognized that the wheelchair was not an intrinsic part of him. It was treating him with some degree of dignity.
"Rufina!" he called, hoping she could hear him from the house. He was losing hope that he could make it back there before he lost mobility entirely, given the difficulty he had now in moving his arms to work the chair. "Meriweather! Rufina!"
His wand — stupid. He ought to have been reaching for his wand and stopping the progress of this attack, rather than trying to work this foolish chair; no one who came to his aid would be as capable as he was, anyway. Unfortunately by the time he reached for it, he was having difficulty closing his fingers enough to even grasp it. He certainly couldn't cast like this. His hand trembled and the wand fell the to garden path. Everything felt heavy and he was moving slowly. He tried to reach for his wand but half of him was already stone, which fixed him in space. With his reduced flexibility, there was no chance of his being able to reach it. Accio, if he could cast Accio his wand might respond even without being in his hand — but it had reached his tongue now, taking away his last chance of combating this spell.
If he'd known that he might go out like this, he might have made arrangements for them to keep him around as a garden statue — if the position he was stuck in wasn't one of abject helplessness.
Ernest wasn't one for lounging in the garden, typically. He wasn't one for idling, regardless of the location. Once he'd made his upstairs study accessible for the chair, he spent most of his time at home there, with his nose buried in a book, at the dinner table, or asleep. Not that he spent much time at home at all; he worked long nights whenever he could, eager to remain in the sanctuary of the Department of Mysteries. There he was surrounded by the tools of his trade, and could only possibly be bothered by a dozen people all told, none of whom made the effort, generally. Today he was home relatively early, and he'd caught the servants in the midst of their weekly dusting of his study. He considered turning them out, but the air was already swirling with dust — he'd spent the next few minutes sneezing if he forced his way in. Better to get some fresh air and give them time to go about their business.
Before the accident he'd spent more time out of doors (and more time elsewhere in general). Now the cobblestones, though relatively smooth, still presented a maze of pits and traps that caught his wheels as he tried to navigate through them. He didn't like being so confined, either; the path had never felt oppressive when he'd had functional legs, but now that it represented the whole range of possible movement in the garden he could find a thousand faults with it. It was too narrow; there were only a few spots where he could turn around, without running his chair into the edges of the shrubbery that encroached from every side.
He sat in the garden considering whether Rufina would be much put out if he asked her to get rid of some of these ridiculous grasses near the path. Probably she would. He didn't think she particularly cared about the grasses one way or another, or about any of the plants in the garden, but she would care on principle if he made demands over what was meant to be her domain. Better to just avoid it and stick to his study, except when prevailed upon to leave it.
Something rustled, and Ernest turned his head to catch sight of something in one of the hedges along the fence line. He pushed his chair that direction, curious, but the closer he came to the disturbance the clearer it became that there wasn't anything there at all. Perhaps one of the neighbors had done something on their side of the fence and caused the leaves to stir? Perhaps a bird had flitted through? He'd seen nothing fly away, but there was certainly nothing here at the moment.
Ernest had just decided to go back towards the house when he first felt the discomfort in the pit of his stomach. It was difficult to recognize what was happening at first. He reached a hand down and pressed against his gut, thinking it was an oddly timed stomach cramp, but the feeling continued up until his entire chest felt stiff. Was this what a heart attack felt like? Something was happening. He ought to move closer to the house — but in order to do so he first needed to go forward, to find a good spot to turn the chair around, or else he'd have to wheel himself backwards all the way there. He glided forward a few feet, and that was when he noticed that something was happening to his legs. They looked different, and the wheels of his chair met more resistance as he started them forward, as though he had become heavier. His legs were turning to stone. It was up to his thighs already, and the stiff feeling in his chest had spread out across the rest of his body, making it harder to manipulate the chair. The magic that was impacting his legs could do serious damage if it moved much higher, assuming it effected his insides as well as the outsides. This was quickly becoming a dire situation.
He was, absurdly, gratified to see that it was impacting his legs but not the chair below him. Whatever magic this was might kill him, but it at least recognized that the wheelchair was not an intrinsic part of him. It was treating him with some degree of dignity.
"Rufina!" he called, hoping she could hear him from the house. He was losing hope that he could make it back there before he lost mobility entirely, given the difficulty he had now in moving his arms to work the chair. "Meriweather! Rufina!"
His wand — stupid. He ought to have been reaching for his wand and stopping the progress of this attack, rather than trying to work this foolish chair; no one who came to his aid would be as capable as he was, anyway. Unfortunately by the time he reached for it, he was having difficulty closing his fingers enough to even grasp it. He certainly couldn't cast like this. His hand trembled and the wand fell the to garden path. Everything felt heavy and he was moving slowly. He tried to reach for his wand but half of him was already stone, which fixed him in space. With his reduced flexibility, there was no chance of his being able to reach it. Accio, if he could cast Accio his wand might respond even without being in his hand — but it had reached his tongue now, taking away his last chance of combating this spell.
If he'd known that he might go out like this, he might have made arrangements for them to keep him around as a garden statue — if the position he was stuck in wasn't one of abject helplessness.
