Embertine woke like he always did.

Which was incredibly strange, since the last thing he remembered was being crushed by a boulder.

Alright, so maybe he survived. That wasn’t impossible. But he’d be in horrible pain, unable to move, and drugged out of his mind.

Instead, he was just somewhat uncomfortable and hot. And cramped. He tried to sit up—

And smacked his head against metal.

“Ow!”

He didn’t swear a lot. His grammy wasn’t fond of excessive use of expletives. But now—trapped in a box he could barely move around in, and evidently in a body bag too—he unleashed his full arsenal, in the furious sort of panic of a man who’s just realized he’s going to die again if nothing changes.

And death, as Embertine had freshly learned, hurt.

The air was already feeling thin and hot. If he yelled and thrashed around, not only would he hurt himself, it would also be in vain. Who knew if anyone was out there, and if he used up his oxygen before someone opened the box, he’d suffocate to death. And if enough time had elapsed between his death and reawakening for his body to be put up in the morgue, then he’d be screwed if he suffocated now. By the time he woke again—if he woke again—he’d already have been cut up and then put in the dirt. Where he’d die over and over. Forever.

His palms were clammy.

He painstakingly got his breathing under control, and his heart stopped racing after a while—though he was drenched in sweat not long after that, the heat like a physical weight pressing in on him, and his heart went into overtime again to keep pushing oxygen to his muscles.

It was, he was very aware, a little ridiculous for a boy whose affinity was fire to die of heatstroke.

Embertine mentally shook himself for thinking of death again, and his attention slipped just long enough for his eyes to close. His mind went hazy, and he had the funniest thought that maybe his brain had turned into a sauna, before panic snatched him back to reality and he managed, with great effort, to reopen his eyes.

His head was still sluggish. With what little remaining sense he had, he tried to figure out about how long he’d been awake. After a lot of debate and guesswork, he arrived at the modest estimate of forty minutes, give or take maybe half? Half of him was in disbelief at the idea that it’d take them that long to yank his box out, cut out whatever magic was left in his bones, and bury his ass before he could come back to haunt them, but the other half was in disbelief that it could’ve been any shorter of a time than ten years.

While the two of them were still fighting viciously over how long he’d actually been in here, his box was suddenly pulled out.