Morning came to rise.
Soren was aware of it before he opened his eyes.
Not in the way he usually was—through discomfort, through heat or pressure or the careful inventory of pain that had become habitual—but through absence. The absence of weight. The absence of ache. The absence of that dull, persistent resistance that had settled into his body over the past weeks like an uninvited tenant.
He lay still, eyes closed, waiting for the familiar sensations to return.
They didn't.
His head felt clear. Not light, not floating—simply unencumbered. There was no pressure behind his eyes, no tightening at his temples when he shifted slightly against the mattress. He took a deeper breath, testing, and felt his lungs expand easily, without the faint resistance he had learned to expect.
His muscles were quiet.
That, more than anything else, made him pause.
He flexed his fingers slowly, then his toes, bracing himself for the ache that usually followed even the smallest movement. It never came. His limbs responded cleanly, smoothly, as though they had rested properly for the first time in days.
For a moment, he wondered if he was still dreaming.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling of his quarters came into focus immediately—no lag, no blur at the edges of his vision. The light was steady, neither too bright nor too dim, and when he shifted his gaze toward the side of the room, the world moved with him, responsive and intact.
He pushed himself upright.
The motion was easy.
Too easy.
Soren sat there, hands resting loosely on the blanket, and waited for the delayed consequences of the movement to announce themselves. He had learned to expect them: the sudden heat, the tightening in his chest, the faint roll of nausea that followed exertion.
Nothing happened.
He frowned slightly—not in confusion, but in careful reassessment.
The room felt cool, comfortably so. He could feel the air against his skin without it registering as either relief or discomfort. The balance between internal and external sensation was… even.
That wasn't normal.
Not after yesterday.
He glanced down at himself, half-expecting to find some sign he had missed, some lingering evidence of the collapse that had brought him here. His hands were steady. His breathing was calm. His heartbeat, when he focused on it, was unremarkable.
A sound drew his attention.
He turned his head toward the chair beside the bunk.
Rysen sat there, slumped slightly forward, arms folded loosely across his chest, chin dipped toward his collarbone. One foot was braced flat against the floor, the other angled outward, as though he had shifted position at some point and never quite corrected it. His breathing was slow and even, unmistakably asleep.
Soren stared at him for a long moment.
The sight rearranged the previous night in his mind—not through memory, but through implication. Rysen's presence, his posture, the way his coat hung loosely from his shoulders suggested hours rather than minutes. He had not simply stopped by to check on him. He had stayed.
Soren swallowed.
Careful not to disturb him, he shifted slightly on the bunk. The mattress dipped under his weight, and the movement was enough. Rysen stirred, blinking as he lifted his head, eyes unfocused for a beat before sharpening as they landed on Soren.
"Oh," Rysen said, straightening. "You're awake."
"Yes," Soren replied.
Rysen was already on his feet, movements efficient despite the stiffness in his shoulders. He stepped closer to the bunk, one hand reaching out automatically to rest near Soren's wrist, fingers hovering for a moment before making contact.
"How do you feel?" he asked.
Soren considered the question.
"Fine," he said finally. "Well."
Rysen's brow furrowed—not with concern, but with concentration. He took Soren's wrist properly now, fingers pressing lightly as he counted under his breath. His other hand rose to check Soren's forehead, then the side of his neck, movements practiced and impersonal.
"Any headache?" Rysen asked.
"No."
"Nausea?"
"No."
"Muscle pain?"
Soren shook his head.
Rysen stepped back slightly, studying him with an expression that was difficult to read. "Stand," he said.
Soren did so immediately.
The floor felt solid beneath his feet. His balance was stable, his posture unstrained. He rolled his shoulders once, experimentally, and felt nothing more than the faint pull of unused muscles.
Rysen circled him once, checking reflexes, asking him to follow a finger with his eyes, to take a deep breath, to bend and straighten his knees. Soren complied easily, aware of how unremarkable the movements felt.
"That's… better than I expected," Rysen said at last.
"Better than normal?" Soren asked.
Rysen hesitated, just briefly. "Better than after last night," he corrected. "I'd have expected you to feel worse this morning. Not… like this."
He gestured vaguely at Soren, as though the state of him defied more precise description.
Soren glanced down at his own hands again. They looked the same as they always had. "Is that a problem?"
Rysen exhaled slowly. "Not necessarily. Bodies do strange things under stress. Sometimes they overcorrect."
He stepped back toward the chair, rubbing a hand over his face. The fatigue he had shaken off earlier settled back into his posture now that the immediate task was done.
"You stayed," Soren said.
Rysen waved the comment aside. "You collapsed. I wasn't going anywhere."
The words were practical, unadorned. He reached for the small kit he had set down nearby and began repacking it with methodical care.
"You're stable," he continued. "Clear. Responsive. Vitals are all where they should be. If I hadn't seen you yesterday, I'd say you were fine."
Soren absorbed that in silence.
"And yet?" he prompted.
Rysen paused, then shrugged. "And yet I did see you yesterday."
He closed the kit and straightened. "I want you to eat. Properly. If that sits well, we'll take it from there."
"I'm hungry," Soren admitted.
That, too, felt strange.
Rysen studied him for another moment, then nodded. "Alright. Let's go to the mess. Slowly."
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They walked together through the corridor, Rysen keeping pace beside him without crowding him. Soren was aware of the sensation of walking in a way he hadn't been before—not because it was difficult, but because it wasn't. His steps were even, his breathing unlabored.
The only thing that felt slightly off was… timing.
It was subtle enough that he almost missed it. A faint hesitation before each turn, as though his body waited a fraction of a second longer than his mind to confirm direction. It wasn't disorienting. It didn't slow him meaningfully.
It was just there.
He dismissed it.
The mess was quieter than usual, the morning rush having passed. Rysen guided him to a seat near the outer wall, watching closely as Soren sat, then as he accepted a tray and began to eat.
The food settled without issue.
No nausea. No heat. No discomfort.
Rysen relaxed visibly as the minutes passed. "That's good," he said. "Very good."
Soren nodded, finishing the meal without incident. If anything, he felt more alert by the end of it than he had upon waking.
"Well," Rysen said, standing. "Let's go give the captain his report."
Soren rose with him, the ease of the movement still faintly unsettling.
As they left the mess, Soren glanced down the corridor ahead of them and noticed a small cluster of crew paused near a doorway, waiting for the cycle to open.
He registered it.
The cluster of crew near the doorway dispersed by the time they reached it, the door cycling open with a soft hiss as though nothing had delayed it at all. Soren passed through without breaking stride, the earlier hesitation already receding from his awareness.
The staircase up was quiet. Rysen took it at an unhurried pace, one hand resting lightly on the rail, the other still carrying his kit. Soren followed a step behind, noticing again how little effort the movement required. His breathing remained steady, his muscles responsive.
Recovered, his body seemed to say.
He did not argue with it.
At the top of the stairs, the corridor opened into the upper hallway, light filtering in from the broad panels set along the outer wall. The ship's hum felt slightly different here—less enclosed, more expansive—but Soren's body adjusted to it without protest.
They stopped outside Atticus's office.
Rysen knocked once, firm and precise.
"Enter," Atticus said from within.
The office was as Soren remembered it: orderly, sparse, functional. Atticus stood behind his desk, hands resting flat against its surface, gaze lifting as they entered. His eyes moved first to Rysen, then to Soren, assessing without obvious reaction.
"Captain," Rysen said.
"Medic," Atticus replied. His attention returned to Soren. "How are you feeling?"
"Well," Soren said.
Atticus studied him for a moment longer, then nodded once. "Report."
Rysen stepped forward slightly. "He's stable. Fully conscious, responsive, no lingering headache, no nausea. Muscle fatigue has resolved. Vitals are within normal parameters."
"And the collapse?" Atticus asked.
"Likely cumulative strain," Rysen said. "Prolonged illness, lack of proper rest. His system appears to have… reset."
Atticus's expression did not change. "No cause for concern at present?"
"Not at present," Rysen confirmed. "I'd prefer he take today light, but there's no indication of ongoing risk."
Atticus inclined his head. His gaze returned to Soren. "You feel capable of that?"
"Yes," Soren said.
Atticus accepted the answer without comment. "You'll rest for the remainder of the day," he said. "No formal duties. Tomorrow, you'll report in as usual."
Soren nodded. The instruction felt reasonable. Expected.
"I'll inform Everett about the ledger," Atticus continued. "You'll receive it when you resume."
"Understood."
Atticus shifted his attention back to Rysen. "If anything changes?"
"I'll bring it to you," Rysen said.
"Good."
The exchange concluded without ceremony. Atticus did not linger on Soren, did not ask additional questions, did not soften his tone or his posture. The report had been delivered. The decision had been made.
"Dismissed," Atticus said.
Rysen turned first, opening the door and stepping back into the corridor. Soren followed, the office sealing behind them with a quiet click.
They walked a short distance in silence before Rysen spoke again.
"You really do look fine," he said, not accusing, not skeptical. Simply stating an observation.
"I feel fine," Soren replied.
Rysen nodded. "Good. Then do exactly what he said. Rest. Eat. Don't decide today is proof of anything."
Soren glanced at him. "You're not convinced."
"I'm cautious," Rysen corrected. "That's my job."
They paused at the junction where the upper corridor branched toward the interior decks.
"I'll check in later," Rysen said. "If you feel off again—anything at all—you find me."
"I will."
Rysen hesitated, then added, "And Soren?"
"Yes?"
"Don't push yourself just because you feel better. Recovery isn't always linear."
Soren nodded. "I know."
Rysen seemed satisfied with that. He turned and headed down the corridor, his footsteps receding until they were swallowed by the hum of the ship.
Soren remained where he was for a moment, then continued on alone.
The corridor ahead was clear. He walked at an easy pace, letting his thoughts drift without focusing on any one thing. The ship felt steady beneath his feet, its rhythm familiar and unobtrusive.
At one intersection, he slowed briefly as a crew member stepped into his path, then shifted aside again, clearing the way with an apologetic nod. The exchange was ordinary, unremarkable.
Further down, a service panel along the wall blinked once, then settled.
Soren noticed it.
Only because he was looking.
He paused, watching the panel for another second, then shrugged inwardly and moved on. Systems fluctuated. The Aurelius was large, complex. Minor inconsistencies were inevitable.
He reached the inner corridor and turned toward his quarters, steps still light, body still cooperative. Whatever had happened the day before felt distant now, contained neatly in the past.
As he walked, he became aware again of that faint hesitation in his movements—the fractional pause before a turn, the slight delay between decision and execution. It was subtle enough that he might have missed it entirely if he hadn't been paying attention to himself so closely over the past weeks.
It didn't impede him.
It didn't worry him.
He adjusted to it without conscious effort, his body compensating naturally, and the sensation faded back into the background of his awareness.
Residual fatigue, he thought. Nothing more.
By the time he reached his quarters, the thought had already lost its weight.
He keyed the door open and stepped inside, the room greeting him with its familiar stillness. He closed the door behind him and stood there for a moment, hands resting at his sides, simply existing in the quiet.
He felt… clear.
Not energized. Not fragile. Just present.
He moved to the bunk and sat, intending to lie down but finding no immediate need to do so. His body did not demand rest the way it had before. Instead, it waited, receptive.
For now, that was enough.
Soren leaned back slightly, letting the hum of the Aurelius fill the room, and allowed the day to continue.
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