novelraw Chapter 172: The Hand That Clutches
Chapter 172: The Hand That Clutches
The dim violet light on the Medical Room’s ceiling continued its weary pulse—a rhythmic, unending beat that felt like the castle’s own heart.
Dayat remained anchored to his chair.
The dark circles beneath his eyes had bruised into deep shadows. His eyes were bloodshot, dry, and stung with every blink. Yet, sleep remained an elusive ghost. Every time he dared to close his eyes, he saw it all again: Dola falling to her knees; her pristine white cape stained crimson with blood; her trembling hand reaching for his cheek, offering a data transfer that had nearly claimed her life.
"Your probability of survival... is fifty percent."
Dola’s voice still echoed in his mind—crystal clear, soft, and laced with a terror she had never shown anyone but him.
Dayat tightened his grip on her hand. Her fingers were still cold, but the deathly chill had begun to recede. There was a faint, burgeoning warmth returning to her skin, like a tiny ember struggling to stay alight in the heart of a blizzard.
"I’m here, Dol," he whispered, his voice a gravelly rasp. His throat was parched; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a drop of water. "I’m not going anywhere."
He waited. Usually, her fingers would twitch after a few seconds—a silent code that she heard him, that she understood. But this time, they remained still. No movement. No answering pressure.
Dayat exhaled a heavy sigh. He leaned back into the chair, staring at the pulsing violet light above. It was as if the light itself was alive, yet not fully awake.
"I miss you, Dol," he murmured. "I miss your voice. I miss you nagging me about efficiency. I miss how jealous you get whenever Lunethra comes near me. I miss how you’d suddenly burst into my room in that thin nightgown, pretending it was for ’energy synchronization.’"
He let out a short, hollow laugh—a sound that was more of a pained breath than a chuckle.
"You know, you’re really annoying. You transferred all your data to me, almost killed me, made me feel a pain I can’t even put into words, and then you just... go to sleep. Must be nice. Meanwhile, I’m the one stuck here waiting."
The silence was his only answer.
Dayat looked at Dola’s face. Her silver hair was a mess against the pillow. Her skin was pale, but the ghostly gray of yesterday had vanished. Her lips were slightly parted, showing a glimpse of her teeth. Her breathing was steady and calm, like someone who had simply collapsed into a deep, well-deserved slumber after a long day’s work.
She was beautiful. Even now, in this state, Dola was breathtaking.
Dayat reached out with his free hand, his fingers grazing her cheek. Warm. Significantly warmer than before.
"Wake up, Dol," he whispered. "I’m not asking for you to walk right away or have the power of a god. I’m just asking you to open your eyes. Look at me. Just so I know you’re still in there."
He clutched her hand with both of his now, cradling it like a fragile treasure he was terrified of losing.
"I can’t do this alone, Dol. I need you."
Dola heard it all.
Not with her ears—her auditory system was still offline, fried by the massive energy surge during the transfer. She heard him through a different medium: through the sensation of touch. Through the warmth bleeding from Dayat’s palms into her cold skin.
Every time Dayat spoke, the vibrations of his voice traveled through the bones of her fingers, through her recovering artificial nerves, straight into the core of her consciousness that drifted between the void and the light.
She wanted to answer. She wanted to open her eyes, to squeeze his hand back and tell him, "I am here, Master. I am not going anywhere."
But her body refused to obey.
The Seal of the Six Goddesses still shackled her. Her energy was utterly depleted. Her internal systems—which once processed millions of data points in a microsecond—could now only sustain the barest essentials: breathing, heartbeat, and a stable core temperature.
Yet, she heard him.
She heard every word. Every whisper. Every ragged breath.
She heard him talk about his dream. About Jakarta. About the cramped boarding house and the smell of cheap noodles. About her in a white t-shirt with her hair tied back.
Dola wanted to smile. Master Dayat dreamed of me.
She heard his hollow laugh. She heard him complain, calling her annoying, protesting that she was sleeping peacefully while he was left to wait.
I am sorry, Master. I did not mean to make you wait.
She heard him begging her to wake up. Not for battle. Not for power. Just to see him.
"Just so I know you’re still in there."
And finally, she heard the words: "I need you."
Something deep within Dola stirred.
It wasn’t a system protocol. It wasn’t a binary code processing a command. It was something deeper—something data could never explain. Something that—if she were to borrow a human term—might be called a heart.
She fought to open her eyes. She wanted to see his face, to see if he was alright. To see if his wounds had healed, if he had eaten, if he had slept.
She wanted to tell him, "I am here, Master. I will not leave."
But her eyelids felt like lead. Every attempt to open them sent a searing pain from her temples through her entire skull—the lingering trauma of the data transfer.
She tried again.
And again.
And again.
Dayat was on the verge of drifting off when he felt it.
It wasn’t a finger movement. It wasn’t a squeeze. It was something else—something that sent his heart hammering against his ribs.
Dola’s head moved.
Only a fraction. Perhaps just a centimeter. But it was enough to make Dayat bolt upright, his exhaustion vanishing in a heartbeat.
"Dol?"
Dola’s eyelids trembled.
Dayat held his breath. He didn’t dare move. He didn’t dare make a sound, terrified that even the slightest disturbance would sink her back into her deep sleep.
They trembled again, more distinctly this time. Her long lashes fluttered like the wings of a butterfly struggling to take its first flight.
And then, slowly—agonizingly slowly—her eyes opened.
Those electric-blue eyes stared at the ceiling. They were unfocused, glazed, as if she were viewing the world through a thick fog. But they were open. She was awake.
"Dol..." Dayat’s voice was barely a ghost of a sound. His throat constricted, and his eyes began to sting.
Dola blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes searched the ceiling, trying to find their focus. Then, slowly, she turned her head.
Blue eyes met red-rimmed, weary ones.
Silence.
Neither spoke. Neither moved. They simply stared at one another, like two strangers meeting for the first time, yet like two souls who had known each other for an eternity.
Dola parted her lips. They were dry, cracked. She tried to speak, but no sound emerged—only a faint, wispy breath.
"Shh..." Dayat shook his head quickly. "Don’t talk yet. Save your strength."
He reached for the tea Lunethra had brought earlier. His hands shook as he tilted a small amount toward her lips. The water dripped slowly, wetting her parched mouth.
Dola swallowed. It was a struggle, but she did it.
Dayat set the cup down and immediately reclaimed her hand, gripping it tighter than ever before.
"I’m here," he said, his voice trembling as tears welled in his eyes. "I’m right here."
Dola watched him. Her gaze was still hazy and weak, but there was something there—a spark that told Dayat she heard him. She understood.
And then, her fingers moved.
One by one. The index finger curled. The middle. The ring. The pinky.
She squeezed his hand back.
It wasn’t a strong grip. It was barely a ghost of a squeeze.
But it was enough. It was more than enough.
Dayat bowed his head, his shoulders shaking. The tears he had fought so hard to restrain finally fell, soaking into the white sheets in wide, damp patches.
He didn’t make a sound. He didn’t cry out. He just let the tears flow down his grimy cheeks, onto his hands that still held hers.
"I missed you, Dol," he whispered, his voice breaking. "I missed you so much."
Dola didn’t answer. She couldn’t yet. But her fingers remained locked with his. They didn’t let go.
Outside the Medical Room, in the shadowed corridor, Lunethra stood with a tray in her hands.
She hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. The door simply hadn’t been closed tight, and Dayat’s voice—trembling and broken—had drifted out to her.
"I missed you, Dol. I missed you so much."
Lunethra looked down at the tray—a bowl of warm soup, a piece of bread, and a steaming cup of tea.
She turned around. Slowly. Silently.
She walked back toward the kitchen, leaving the door slightly ajar. Her green gown brushed against the cold obsidian floor with a faint rustle.
In the kitchen, she set the tray down. The soup was still warm. The bread was soft. The tea was still steaming.
She sat on a wooden chair, staring at the meal she had prepared.
"I missed you, Dol."
Dayat’s voice still echoed in her ears. Pure. Sincere. Filled with an emotion she had never heard when he spoke to her.
She allowed a thin, bitter smile to touch her lips.
"I know," she whispered to the empty room. "I’ve always known."
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, sipping her tea. It was warm, but not enough to thaw the coldness settled in her chest.
In the Medical Room, Dayat remained in his chair.
His tears had stopped, though his cheeks were still stained. He didn’t care about his red eyes or his disheveled state. All that mattered was that Dola was awake.
She was still looking at him. Her gaze was weary, but conscious. Alive.
"You... smell..." Dola’s voice suddenly cut through the silence. It was hoarse, like sandpaper against wood.
Dayat blinked. "What?"
Dola swallowed with difficulty before repeating herself, clearer this time. "Master... smells..."
Dayat froze. His eyes widened. Then, without warning, a small laugh escaped him. It was a light, relieved sound—the first real laugh he’d had in what felt like a lifetime.
"You just woke up from a coma," he said, still chuckling softly, "and the first thing you do is complain that I stink?"
Dola didn’t answer, but the corner of her lips—so slight it was almost invisible—twitched upward.
Dayat squeezed her hand. "Yeah, yeah. Fine. I’ll take a shower later."
Dola watched him. Her eyes were still weak, but they held a warmth that made Dayat certain: his Dola was truly back.
"Don’t... go..." she whispered.
Dayat shook his head. "No. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere."
Dola gave a tiny nod and her eyes slowly closed again. This time, it wasn’t a coma. It wasn’t a collapse. It was sleep. A peaceful, restorative rest.
Dayat sat there, his hand never leaving hers, watching her tranquil face.
Outside, the Forest of Lamentation remained shrouded in darkness. The fog still drifted. But inside the Medical Room, for the first time in a very long time, there was warmth.
And that was enough.