Counting Shadows (Duplicity)

inability to feel pain. He doesn’t react at all to the needle, or to my fingers tugging the torn flaps of skin back in place. He just stays stock-still, his eyes squeezed shut.
    “Do you feel anything?” I ask after a moment. “Any sensation at all?”
    His eyelids relax just a little bit, and I know he’s considering an answer. “All my senses are intact,” he finally says. “But the pain is gone. All I feel in its place is pressure.”
    “I’m sorry,” I say. And we drop the discussion after that. I continue suturing his wound, taking my time and completing the task properly. And also taking the time to examine his tattoo again.
    It’s not charcoal, and it doesn’t disappear when I lightly run my fingertip over it. The tattoo is real, and just like I remember it. I pause every minute or so to stare at it for a few moments, wondering how I should approach its topic with Lor.
    Ashe never told me much about his tattoo. He told me he hated it; it was a reminder of his past, the past he couldn’t remember a single thing about. And he told me that, like the rest of his life before being captured, he didn’t know anything about it. Where he had gotten it, who had completed the intricate artwork, what it meant… It was all a mystery, both to him and to me.
    I finish suturing Lor. He hesitantly peeks open his eyes when he doesn’t feel my hands for a few moments and glances down to his chest. He gives an approving nod at my work.
    “You really are experienced, aren’t you?”
    “Mostly on pot-roasts.” I stand from the bed and walk over to my dresser, searching for a cloth to wipe the blood off his chest.
    He gives that little humming growl, and I begin to form a theory that it’s his version of a nervous laugh. He doesn’t know what to say, or how to respond, so he makes that sound.
    I pick up a washcloth from my dresser, and dip in in the basin where I usually wash my face in the morning. There’s only a tiny amount of water left, most of it having evaporated during the day. But it’s enough to wet the cloth. “Where did you get that tattoo?” I ask. “It’s beautiful.”
    “I was born with it,” Lor says.
    I walk back to him, cupping my hand under the cloth to keep it from dripping on the carpets. Not that it matters much, anyway, since Lor has already covered them in blood. “That’s a strange thing to say,” I reply as I sit on the edge of the bed. “No one is
born
with a tattoo.”
    “I was.” He smirks at me and winks.
    I ignore the flirtatious gesture and offer him the washcloth. “Here. Get rid of that blood. And tell me more about this tattoo.”
    He takes the washcloth and begins wiping at his chest. It mostly just smears around the blood; he’ll have to take a bath if he wants to actually get clean. And, even if he doesn’t want that, I’ll still force him to take one. He stinks from his time in the prison. Apparently, baths are just as rare as beds in there.
    “Why are you so interested in my tattoo?” Lor asks.
    I shrug. “I’m just trying to make small talk.”
    He freezes, and his gaze turns up to mine. I swear his eyes have actually darkened; they look more like blood now, and less like the soft clouds of sunset. “Don’t lie to me, sweetheart. I know you didn’t save my life on a whim. You want something from me. And I’m not just going to hand anything over. I’m
never
going to.”
    I swallow hard. My heart pounds again, and for the third time in one day, adrenaline takes control of my body. I stumble away from the bed until I reach the far wall. Somehow, I know I have to get away from Lor.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I’m telling him the truth before I can stop myself. And then I realize that it probably is my best option, after all. “I… I just wanted to know about the tattoo because of a friend.”
    He raises an eyebrow and glares at me from under it. Even lying on the bed, seeping blood, and covered in grime, he looks intimidating. “A friend? A friend wants you to get information about my tattoo? Where can I find this friend?”
    I shake my head. “My friend, he’s… dead.” That word sounds so hollow, like it always does. How can you describe something so horrific with one tiny word? “He died ten months ago. Someone accused him of treason, and my father killed him for it. But he was innocent.
    “I’ve been trying to find his killer ever since. My search led to you—you look just like the man who got Ashe killed.