Soren woke with the distinct impression that something in him had been awake long before he had.
The thought arrived fully formed, not as alarm but as recognition, and he lay still with his eyes open, staring at the ceiling as he tested the feeling. There was no jolt, no abrupt return to consciousness. Instead, awareness had settled gradually, like a tide that had crept in during the night and now refused to retreat.
His head hurt.
Not sharply, not violently—there was no stabbing pain, no pulse that demanded immediate attention. The ache was broad and encompassing, pressing inward from behind his eyes and along the base of his skull, as though his head had been wrapped too tightly in something he could not remove. When he shifted against the bunk, the sensation did not change.
He breathed in slowly.
The pressure remained.
Warmth followed soon after, blooming beneath his sternum and spreading outward with a heaviness that felt different from the days before. This was not the contained heat he had learned to anticipate and manage. This was weight—deep, saturated, as though his body had been engaged in steady labor without his consent.
His muscles ached.
The sensation was familiar enough that he recognized it immediately: the dull soreness that came after prolonged exertion, when the body had been pushed beyond its usual thresholds and had not yet been given time to recover. It was the ache of overuse rather than injury, diffuse and persistent, settling into his limbs with an almost impersonal thoroughness.
He lay still and waited.
Waiting had become part of his mornings. Not out of fear, but out of habit—a necessary pause to let his body declare itself before he asked anything of it. He counted his breaths, noting how the ache in his head neither worsened nor receded, how the warmth remained present but did not surge.
This, he decided, was manageable.
Unpleasant, certainly. Unusual in its intensity. But not dangerous.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bunk.
The movement sent a brief flare of pressure through his temples, sharp enough to make him pause with his hands braced against the mattress. The sensation crested, then subsided into the same dull weight as before. His muscles protested the shift more than he expected, thighs and calves aching as though he had walked far the day before.
He sat there for a moment, feet flat against the floor, head bowed slightly as he assessed.
No vertigo, he noted. No loss of focus.
He straightened slowly, testing his balance. The room tilted just enough to register, then steadied. He placed a hand against the wall until the sensation passed, then withdrew it and stood on his own.
The air felt warm.
He crossed the room and adjusted the environmental panel down by a fraction. The system responded, but slowly, and he waited until his body registered the change before moving again. When the warmth beneath his skin did not recede as much as he expected, he adjusted it down another increment.
Better.
He dressed carefully, choosing loose layers and avoiding anything that pressed too tightly against his shoulders or waist. The ache in his muscles made efficiency feel indulgent; instead, he moved deliberately, allowing each motion time to settle before attempting the next.
As he keyed his door open, the headache pressed again at the edges of his vision—not blurring it, not dimming it, just reminding him of its presence.
"This is new," he murmured, quietly, as if speaking the words might help him place the sensation into an existing category.
The corridor outside was quiet, the ship's hum steady and reassuring beneath his feet. He stepped out and sealed the door behind him, pausing for a heartbeat to orient himself before moving on.
The thought of returning to bed crossed his mind, unbidden and practical.
He dismissed it just as quickly.
This felt like an episode. A convergence of factors that could be explained with sufficient distance: prolonged illness, poor sleep, accumulated strain. It did not feel like a warning. It did not feel like failure.
He chose the interior route toward the mess, favoring the cooler air and the familiarity of the path. His pace was slower than usual, but even, each step placed with care. When the warmth beneath his skin threatened to rise, he shortened his stride. When it receded, he lengthened it again.
The adjustments were automatic now.
Halfway down the corridor, the pressure in his head intensified, tightening briefly as though someone had drawn a band around his skull. He stopped, one hand braced against the wall, and closed his eyes.
He counted to five.
The sensation eased.
He resumed walking.
Near one of the junctions, he heard footsteps approaching from behind and shifted slightly to one side to make room. Nell came into view, her stride brisk but unhurried, a slate tucked under one arm.
She slowed when she saw him.
"Soren," she said, tone easy. "You're up early."
"Morning," he replied.
Her gaze flicked over him—not scrutinizing, not alarmed, but attentive in the way of someone who had grown accustomed to registering his condition as part of the day's landscape.
"You heading to the mess?" she asked.
"Yes."
She nodded once. "Take the left corridor past the maintenance bay," she said. "It's cooler today. The central route's running warm."
"Thank you," Soren said.
Nell hesitated for a fraction of a second, then added, "Rysen's on mid-deck if you need him."
Soren met her gaze. "I'm alright."
"I figured," she said, and that was that.
She continued on her way without further comment, leaving him alone in the corridor with the faint echo of her footsteps. The exchange felt ordinary. Familiar. Comforting in its lack of urgency.
He adjusted his route as suggested and continued toward the mess.
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By the time he reached it, the headache had settled into a constant, manageable pressure. The warmth beneath his skin was contained, though it required more attention than it had the day before. His muscles ached with every movement, but he told himself it would ease once he was seated and fed.
Inside the mess, the usual sounds greeted him—voices layered gently over one another, cutlery clinking, the hiss of dispensers along the far wall. He took a seat near the outer wall and sat carefully, allowing his body time to adjust to the change in posture.
A tray appeared in front of him moments later.
"Morning," the crew member said.
"Thank you," Soren replied.
He picked up his utensils and began to eat.
The first few bites went down without issue. The food was familiar, bland enough to be safe, warm enough to be comforting. He ate slowly, giving his body time to respond, aware of a faint tightness low in his abdomen that he dismissed as residual discomfort from the headache.
He paused, breathing evenly, then continued.
The tightness did not go away.
It deepened, rolling slowly through his stomach in a way that made him set his fork down and wait. He swallowed, noticing the faint metallic taste at the back of his mouth, and told himself to give it another moment.
He took another bite.
The nausea arrived fully then—not violently, not suddenly, but with a certainty that made his hands still. His stomach clenched, and a cold sheen broke out along his neck and shoulders, the warmth beneath his skin flaring in response.
He stopped eating.
For a long moment, he sat there with his hands resting on the edge of the table, eyes unfocused as he assessed the sensation with the same care he had applied to every other symptom over the past weeks.
This was not part of the pattern.
He knew that with an unexpected clarity that cut through the pressure in his head and the ache in his muscles. The discomfort did not recede when he adjusted his breathing. It did not ease when he sat still.
It lingered.
Soren pushed the tray away from him, slow and deliberate, and rested his forearms against the table as he leaned forward slightly. The room seemed louder now, the layered conversations sharpening at the edges as his awareness narrowed.
Something is wrong, he thought—not with fear, but with certainty.
He did not move yet.
He sat there, letting the realization settle, feeling the nausea roll and subside without fully passing, feeling the headache press steadily at his temples.
This was no longer something to be managed quietly.
He drew in a careful breath and straightened, already aware that the next decision would require action.
Soren remained seated for several seconds after the realization settled.
The nausea did not surge further. It hovered, heavy and insistent, as if waiting for him to acknowledge it properly. His stomach tightened again, a slow, deliberate contraction that made him draw a careful breath through his nose and keep his gaze fixed on the far wall of the mess.
He did not want to stand too quickly.
The thought came with the same measured clarity as the one before it. He had learned, over the past weeks, that haste rarely improved his condition. Instead, he waited until the pressure in his head steadied, until the warmth beneath his skin receded just enough that he felt in control of his movements.
When he stood, he did so slowly.
The room tilted anyway.
It was not dramatic—no sudden spin, no loss of vision—but the sense of imbalance was unmistakable, a delayed response between intention and execution that forced him to grip the edge of the table until the sensation passed. He straightened carefully, testing his weight, and took one step away from the seat.
The nausea worsened immediately.
It rolled through him in a thick wave, leaving his stomach clenched and his throat tight. He swallowed hard, jaw setting as he waited for it to ease.
It did not.
Alright, he thought, calm but firm. This is no longer something to ignore.
He turned slightly, scanning the mess for a familiar face. Most of the crew were occupied, bent over trays or engaged in quiet conversation. He caught the eye of a crew member near the service station and lifted a hand.
When they approached, Soren kept his voice level. "I need to return to my quarters," he said. "Could you ask Rysen to meet me there?"
The crew member's expression shifted—not into alarm, but into attentive professionalism. "Of course," they replied. "Right away."
"Thank you."
Soren inclined his head and turned toward the exit. The act of walking required more concentration now than it had moments before. His steps were careful, deliberate, each one placed with intent rather than habit. The corridor beyond the mess seemed longer than usual, its length stretching subtly as he crossed the threshold.
He took three steps before his foot caught slightly against the seam in the floor.
It was a small thing—something he would not normally have noticed—but his body failed to compensate quickly enough. His weight pitched forward, balance slipping just beyond his reach.
A hand closed around his arm.
"Easy," Atticus said.
The captain's grip was firm, settling at Soren's elbow with practiced certainty. There was no hesitation in the movement, no pause to assess whether assistance was wanted. Atticus adjusted Soren's balance as easily as he might have adjusted a misaligned chart, guiding him upright with minimal force.
Soren did not comment.
"Your quarters," Atticus said, already turning them toward the corridor.
"Yes," Soren replied.
They began to walk.
Atticus did not release his hold. Instead, he shifted it slightly, his hand remaining at Soren's arm as they moved, steady and unyielding. The contact was not tight, but it was constant, providing a fixed point against which Soren could orient himself as his perception lagged behind his movements.
The nausea surged again, sharper this time, and Soren focused on breathing evenly as they progressed down the corridor. The pressure in his head intensified, a steady clamp behind his eyes that made it difficult to focus on anything beyond the next few steps.
Atticus adjusted his pace without comment, matching Soren's stride precisely. They passed several crew members along the way, none of whom remarked on the arrangement. The sight of the captain escorting the memoirist through the ship did not draw attention. It was, apparently, unremarkable.
The corridor felt warmer than it should have, and Soren was acutely aware of the sensation of his own skin, of the way heat seemed to cling to him no matter how he shifted. His muscles ached with each step, the soreness deepening into something that felt dangerously close to weakness.
They reached his quarters quickly—faster than Soren expected, though he suspected his perception of time had begun to distort. Atticus keyed the door open and guided him inside without releasing his arm.
The room felt too small all at once, the familiar space closing in as the headache spiked sharply. Soren's vision blurred at the edges, and he drew a shallow breath as Atticus steered him toward the bunk.
"Sit," Atticus said.
Soren complied.
The moment he lowered himself onto the edge of the bunk, the strength left his legs entirely. His muscles gave way with a suddenness that surprised him, and he folded forward, breath leaving his lungs in a sharp exhale as the pressure in his head surged violently.
Atticus was there immediately, one hand steadying his shoulder as Soren struggled to remain upright. The nausea crested, overwhelming and insistent, and Soren barely had time to register the shift before his awareness fractured.
He was dimly aware of Atticus calling his name.
Of another voice responding—Rysen's, perhaps, or someone relaying instructions.
Hands eased him back, guiding him onto the bunk as the world narrowed to sound and sensation. The ache in his muscles flared one last time before dissolving into a heavy, all-encompassing fatigue.
He heard voices overlapping now, words blurring together as his focus slipped.
"…pulse is—"
"…pressure—"
"…keep him flat—"
The ship's hum seemed louder here, resonating through the bunk and into his bones. He tried to speak, to reassure them that he was still present, still aware, but the effort was too great. His thoughts slowed, drifting apart as the headache dissolved into a thick, featureless darkness.
The warmth beneath his skin flared briefly, then receded, leaving him cold and distant.
The last thing he registered was the steady, familiar vibration of the Aurelius beneath him—a constant, grounding presence even as his consciousness slipped away.
And then, morning came to rise.
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