C'lusi was sick and tired of being in the infirmary. While he was no longer drugged at all hours, his arm was still at risk of infection, and the toll that the entire affair had taken had kept him there longer than he would have preferred. While he had thought they'd let him back to his weyr at least a sevenday ago, he was still weak, and still coping with the sudden injury. He had been weaned off most of the fellis, though now and then asked for it when the pain was particular rough. Sometimes it was the only thing that let him sleep. The skin was beginning to grow back, but changing out the bandages was a struggle and something he often needed help with. There were phantom pains, there was forgetting he had no arm at all, and there were healing pains. At best, all he could do was take it day by day...

And that was the hardest part of all. It just didn't seem to get better, or easier. He spent half of his time sleeping, a good portion of his awake times faking it, and quiet times a mix of tears and anger. Emotionally, there had been talk of sending in a mindhealer, but he'd thus far denied it. He was fine, perfectly fine, so fine. Fine. Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine. Honestly, he couldn't help but pretend to be fine. He didn't want Nadry or R'shahar or his mother, or his sisters, or anyone to worry any more than they had. He'd never been one to open up about serious-stuff for long, and he certainly wasn't about to start now.

Besides which, part of him was still too focused on Macuith to really let himself grieve. His blue had luckily managed to survive his phosphorous poisoning, but was still in a weakened condition. The blue slept a lot, was just as weak as his rider, if not more so, and had no strong inclination to move. The burns on his chest and neck were ugly, terribly painful, and much of C'lusi's pain was simply from sharing Macuith's. The blue tried hard not to complain, often trying to force himself to be of good cheer when others were around, but to have the dead skin removed, the new skin stimulated, and the bandages changed hurt. The healing process hurt. Like his rider, his days were met with much pain, and the rehabilition to come was sure to upset the sheer amount of skin that had been seared off. The damage meant Macuith would be subjected to treatment for some time, and C'lusi could do nothing but encourage his blue to be strong and fight through the pain.

Honestly, the blue was a shadow of his former self. His color was still muted, his body thin. Though he ate, his appetite was not what it used to be, and a lack of exercise and movement meant the blue was not looking his best. On top of it all, the dragon struggled with the near-constant aches and pains... Ah, but if C'lusi If he could ease the burden to his beloved, to take it all himself, he would do so in a heartbeat. But even sharing his turmoil wasn't enough... Wouldn't be enough until he was more fully healed.

So, Macuith often slept. He was not awake often, and when he was he did yearn for his rider, Viandarth, and Menankith, and any company that might help distract him from the pain; but his body still had a long way to go, and the risk of infection was still high. So, the healers kept the dragon near and C'lusi struggled on in a quiet world.

He hated it.

He hated not hearing his dragon's banter and usual colorful commentary; hated to reach out and feel him sleeping restlessly, or whimpering in his sleep. He hated it as much as he hated his lack of arm. He hated it as much as he hated the smell of tinctures and numbweed and redwort. He hated that he hurt at any given moment; he hated the phantom pain; he hated having Macuith so far away. He hated not having his lovers near--sure, they visited, but they were still stuck in the Infirmary, and not the comfort of their weyr. He hated how bad Macuith hurt; hated that one of his clutchmates had been the cause due to a mistake He hated... a lot right now, but most of all, he hated himself.

Oh, he'd never confess such words to Nadry or R'shahar; he burrowed his thoughts when Macuith was awake. But in these quiet moments, now that he was settled upon his cot, alone, he couldn't help but hate what had happened. He felt ugly. He felt untouchable. He felt changed in a way he never thought he would. How would Nadry and R'shahar feel about him once he was back up? He didn't know how to write using his left hand; he didn't know how to do much one-handed. And how would they feel if they had to help change his bandages? How would they feel when they saw the ugly scars or the stupid little nub that was left? Would they still find him attractive? Would they still love him?

Oh, it was just an arm and yet... There was much he didn't know. As self-centered and terrible as it felt, C'lusi's vanity had been an integral part about the man. He had always been confident in his body, had always loved himself and took care of his appearance. But this was not something he could hide; this was not something he would ever get back or change. A piece of him was long gone, and he simply didn't know how to cope

Logically, he felt it was stupid to cry about it... And yet, sometimes, the grief of no longer having an arm overwhelmed him. He didn't want to look weak, didn't want Nadry or R'shahar to worry...

And yet. Surely, things had changed. If Nadry or R'shahar were disgusted with him, then what? Intimacy, love, physical affection were also integral to the blue rider, and he'd never had to deal with notion of being ugly or unattractive. In fact, sometimes C'lusi felt his looks were all he had; he was no great harper, and now, without an arm, he couldn't even fall back on that. Who knew that one arm, or lack there of, could cause such emotional pain and yet.... for one vain bluerider, it was a nightmare he would never wake from. He couldn't bear to look at himself in a looking glass; couldn't bear to see how awful he must look. Wouldn't look at himself, if he could help it.

A strange noise escaped his lips, the start of a heaving sob; a noise he quickly tried to suppress even as his throat tightened, and hot, bitter tears rolled down his cheeks. He didn't want to cry, hated himself all the more for doing it; and yet...How could he not? He wanted to reach up, to rub at his eyes, and yet, only one arm could touch. He wanted to hug his legs to himself, to burry his face into his knees, and yet, only one arm could reach. Perhaps the only blessing was that he was, thus far, alone and no one was there to witness such an ugly display. He wouldn't show red-eyes to any visitors that might show up; and he certainly wouldn't let Macuith feel his vanity getting the better of him.

But wounded pride wasn't something C'lusi had ever thought he'd need to battle, and right now, within the infirmary, it was a fight he was sorely losing. Thankfully, nobody needed to know. So it was, in those early hours, he wept, hating himself all the more for his weakness.