For hours, Old Ajralan guides Fassn through a re-acquaintance with his senses. By the time his jailer comes to serve the mush, Fassn is splayed on his front, taking in each abrasive inch of the stone floor, pressing its cold against his skin.
Then the mush comes.
“You’re doing great, bro,” Old Ajralan says. “Now, try and taste it.”
Fassn shakily dips a finger into the watery mush, brings it to his mouth. As his tongue reaches the slimy mush, Fassn awakens on the floor of Old Mossy’s hut, tears streaming down his face. “We were speaking,” he says. “We were speaking!”
His friends take a startled step back from Fassn’s suddenly animate form.
“Old Ajralan, may you have your fill!”