Healing a Nightmare ((For darkpiety))

[grantuseyes]

So much of the ordeal blurred together. The time spent speaking with the likes of Faris, April, Tina and others at a party was a lifetime ago. Did it even happen at all? What if this is him truly waking up now? What if everything before was another reality, another Dream, one that's broken under the strain of frenzy and now he, having gone through the grueling process of adaptation once again, has surfaced someplace entirely new? What if it was all a figment entirely, one crafted by a consciousness untethered from the physical body, lost and searching, alone in the darkness and desperate for stimulation, for sense?

The realest thing to him right now are the sensations of his searing blood, the culmination of it reaching its crescendo marked by forming into a stone-like spear and punching up through his skin. Piercing him with the unusual properties of the godsblood he still holds in his frail and human veins when meeting mind-melting truths of thought.

His blood sings and flows stronger now, stabilizing Micolash's punished body. The Old Blood injected into him, once, twice, thrice, working its near-magic on keeping the man living and breathing.

Our thirst for blood satiates us, soothes our fears...

There are memories of fleeting moments, visions. The young man from the Nexus, the dreamwalker, speaking his name. A woman grasping his hand in hers. Messengers crowding around his body. The seated Amygdala statue presiding over his torment.

Red and black. Black and red. Beams of orange streaked over it all. Swallowing it all.

Wet. Always dripping wet. The floor, the stone, his body. An unpleasant stickiness in the rare opportunity it was allowed to dry. Under his nails, filling his mouth, flooding his nostrils, streaming down his face from the eyes.

The pain. The pain. The tearing, the shredding, the piercing, the burning, the cutting, the screaming.

He remembers screaming. He remembers screaming until his throat tore itself raw and then he screamed again. And again. And again.

He remembers pain most vividly and at first Micolash cannot be certain if now it is just the deep-seated, close-by memory burning bright against his skin. Or if it is the one thing he carried with him wholly through the end of the Nightmare.

Micolash cannot stir. There is no way to move himself under his own power. He hangs limply in Abysa's arms and whimpers. He is awake in the barest sense of the word and he wishes dearly that he was not.

It hurts.
It hurts.
It hurts.

Comments

[darkpiety]

"Very good. I am sure you will find some improvement when you wake next. May your dreams be gentle, dear Micolash." With that, Abysa uses his free hand to press his fingertips gently to the scholar's forehead. He mouths a few silent words, going over the spell in his head before it takes form. The sleeping spell appears like a soft cloud of dust, or perhaps soot, due to the shadowy nature of Abysa's power, which dissipates as it falls onto Micolash's body. To the human, it might feel like a puff of cool mist has fallen onto one's bare skin, before all goes dark, drifting into sleep.

As much as he feels lonely now that Micolash's consciousness is drifting in the realm of sleep, Abysa knows that now is the time to prepare properly for his patient. He nudges Henry awake, (Henry responds with a whine and a wide yawn), checks Micolash one more time to assure the spell has taken, and sets about to work.

Much of the night is spent cleaning, as the poor scholar's body is caked with dried blood. Abysa works patiently, opting to clean him with a cloth and basin rather than dip him in the bath. Something pleasant like a bath is better left to when he is awake, and requires comforting. He has to refill the basin more than once, the water becoming cloudy and dark with old blood being rinsed from the hand-cloth (which will now not likely resemble its old colour ever again, stained a sickly rusted colour even after a washing).

The bed is then prepared with new sheets and blankets. Though soft, they are of a special fabric woven expertly by demonic hands to account for messes efficiently (that is, absorbing much and dampening little), which will be handy, considering the amount of blood Micolash is prone to losing. The embroidery is white on black, depicting various demonic designs, mostly stylized depictions of native underworld plantlife.

Abysa also spares no expense drawing up an order for more supplies from his home realm, scrawling it on parchment as he occasionally looks to his sleeping charge. It is then rolled up into a tight scroll, which Abysa affixes to Henry via a handsome ribbon around his neck. The nice thing about Hell-born cats is that they understand how to navigate through the portals and channels needed to reach their destination. This makes them perfect messengers, if one corresponds often with demons.

Once Henry is sent on his errand, Abysa seats himself back near Micolash, who is now significantly cleaner, and tucked in with new and clean blankets. It is an improvement, at least by looks alone, yet the human still looks so frail and wan. It still feels too much like a deathbed, and not simply his bed. With some time before Henry returns, and before the scholar will wake, Abysa sits himself cross-legged besides him, bows his head, and begins to pray.

It is rare for him to pray seriously in this manner; clothed and chaste, rather than reveling in the pleasure of a ritual, but his spirits are low and his drive similarly so. Instead, he prays with all his might that one of his dear Lords will take the chaste and solemn plea of their betrothed with seriousness.

It feels like hours pass as he remains in that spot, begging for a merciful blessing. He is about to weep from feeling dejected before he senses an answer. There are no words, no visions, but the echo of his loves' affection and well-wishes. It is a soft, encouraging warmth that fills him from within his skull, and down his spine, until he feels refreshed and relaxed.

He wonders if they called each other first to discuss what the problem might be before their answer. It had happened before. Oh, they better not send an entourage with Henry if that is the case...

[grantuseyes]

Sleep is such a funny thing with Micolash. He rejects it and avoids it while in the Waking, the realm mortals know simply as reality. But in the Nightmare, awakening is the one thing he reviles and rejects hardest. Awakening cost him dearly the last time it had happened, the pain of losing his revelation hugely dwarfing the loss of life when a hunter hacked him to pieces. Death itself was distressing, yes, but only because it meant an end of his attempts at ascension. And that fear was assuaged entirely, if mysteriously, when the scholar awoke in the Nexus instead. A bizarre blessing, even moreso now that he and Abysa know the mechanics and particulars of his arrival. (With still plenty of mystery as to the hows and whys.)

To think this night nearly put a sudden end to Micolash's unlikely second chance at life.

The magic works as Abysa hoped it would, keeping the human asleep through all of the priest's tasks. He does not wake during the cleaning, turning, changing of the sheets. Instead, he dreams strangely. Very strangely. Images that make little sense and are entirely unfamiliar.

A striped tent with a straw carpet and empty, broken cages.
A dustbowl, the land gone arid and fallow. The distant sound of gunfire.
A party of white-dressed people, silently mingling amongst themselves, hiding their faces.
A small hamlet gone deadly silent. A building burns bright and unchecked.
A metal building, the material making up every surface, awash in red light.
A dark dungeon, the floors stained with old blood. A lone, bloodied knife the only thing there.
A vice-like cage lined with inward facing spikes. Already sprung and closed.
A grander version of his Nightmare of Mensis, resplendent with staircases and fog.

It is two days before the scholar awakens.

He stirs first, attempting to raise an arm that's underneath the covers, wanting to bring it to rub at his face. The inside of his mouth tastes like copper. Hesitantly, he opens his eyes.

Nothing.
He sees nothing.

Micolash rushes to tug his arm free now, yanking it from under the covers. His muscles ache but he doesn't notice. His hand touches his face, his eyes, feeling for a bandage or a covering.

There is none.

His fingers are soon shaking when he feels closer. Ensuring that, yes, his eyes are open. He is touching his eyelids and they are open fully. He is staring upwards from his bed.

And he sees.
Nothing.

Micolash screams.

[darkpiety]

Since Micolash is unable to see, he does not spot Henry immediately jolting awake and puffing up when he screams. Abysa is not far; having stepped out to go about a few chores as he waits for his patient to awaken. He hears the scream too, and floats past Henry in the opposite direction of the cat's escape to investigate.

"Micolash! I am here! What is the-" Abysa, even as a demon without eyes, knows right away that Micolash's eyes look very, very bad.

"Oh, no no no. Micolash, dear, close your eyes again, do not panic. They are very sensitive right now. Let me explain it to you." He floats over to the bed to land, sitting neatly next to his distressed friend.

"I am right here, now. I am going to put my hand on your arm, so that you know I am." He puts one hand to Micolash's thin upper arm gingerly.

[grantuseyes]

Bad is an understatement. The sclera is a horrific solid red streaked with black veins. The irises are swallowed by his pupils widened completely in a failed attempt to let in light and allow sight. And said pupils are glowing. Bright enough to cast slight beams of terrible orange light...

Abysa's presence does little to calm Micolash. In his horror, he's rolled over and pushed himself up with his other arm. His hand continues to feel and grope desperately at his face, frantic to see anything. Anything. Pushing his lids open, pulling them wider, panicked for his sight.

He hasn't stopped screaming in horror and fright, even when Abysa comes near and touches him. Instead, it makes Micolash jump in surprise. And then he's clawing and grabbing for Abysa instead. All with those awful eyes still wide open and still unseeing.

"I can't see!" his voice cracks. "Kin! I can't see! I can't see!" The horror of this situation continues to creep upon him, sinking in deep enough that he finally gasps a ragged sob.

[darkpiety]

Abysa does his best to pull Micolash close, attempting to hold him still like one might try to calm a squirming Henry. It might be easy to mistake Abysa for one of weak physical inclinations, but he is a demon, for one thing, and Micolash is a greatly underfed, anemic, injured human who cannot see. He puts one arm around him, and holds the back of his head with the other, hoping to keep him held to his chest.

"Yes, Micolash, but please calm yourself! And close your eyes! Focus on being close to me instead. Let me explain." The physical contact is not just an emotional salve, but the demon's calming aura is strengthened with proximity and touch. This makes subduing the frenzy much easier.

[grantuseyes]

Indeed, it's not hard to contain a human so sickly and frail, especially a being of considerably powerful heritage like Abysa. Micolash does attempt to thrash or wriggle free in mindless panic, his outcries growing increasingly frantic. "I can't see! I can't SEE!! I can't SEE!" His words are sobbed, screamed.

Only when the demon's hand rests on the back of his head as well does Micolash's struggles start to subside. His eyes are still open wide and staring straight forward at nothing with his cheek pressed to Abysa's chest. His breathing is rapid, loud, ragged. Hyperventilating and whining in abject terror. His eyes! His eyes! What happened to his eyes!?

"Kin, I can't see. Where is-...Where are my eyes! Kin, I can't see, I can't seeee-hee-heeeee..." The last of it drags out and hitches in helpless sobs. Tears are streaming from this tortured man's eyes now and, perhaps predictably, they come in the form of crimson blood.

[darkpiety]

"Your eyes are in your eye sockets, as they should be. But please, close them! They are radiating that frenzy that pains you!" Abysa tries to sound urgent without sounding cross, not wanting Micolash's odd condition to manifest after two days of rest and healing.

Should he fail that, Abysa will simply clap one hand over the scholar's face to obscure the orange light emanating from his pupils.

"I know you are frightened, but all will be well. I need you to calm yourself, so I may tell you what will happen."

[grantuseyes]

Finally, finally hearing Abysa's pleas, he squeezes his eyes closed. Better this than staring blindly. At least this is limiting his sight under his own power. Although covering his face might be a good idea still, to prevent any further attempts to see.

Micolash is shivering and whimpering, his hands grabbing onto Abysa's robes as best he can with his arms pinned as they are. His red tears stain the cloth his face rests against, similarly pinned there as well.

[darkpiety]

"Yes, just like that. Eyes closed, now breathe slowly..." The hand that holds the back of Micolash's head now moves lower to pet down the human's back. Abysa is keenly aware of how easy it is to feel each bump of the spine, how sharp his shoulderblades are, how the flesh there is still mending even after two days of steady healing. Even so, the act is meant to help soothe the one being petted, not the petter, as it were.

"Of your many injuries, which I am treating carefully, your eyes have certainly suffered the worst. I suspect it is on account of their proximity and direct connection to your brain, as well as their significance in your world's mysticism. They have become extremely sensitive, and the tissue is badly damaged, the majority of your eye is engorged with blood, while your pupils appear to be projecting that awful frenzying light. My best guess as to the reason is that, the optic nerve has taken a sort of metaphysical blow from your ordeal that is causing it to bleed that light out through the lense of the eye." Abysa pauses for a moment, just to lean down and give the top of Micolash's head a kiss. Ah, his hair still smells of blood, though he had carefully untangled out dried blood and combed it thoroughly. It will take a proper bath to fix that.

"While it must sound terribly frightening, paired with your inability to see, I believe that this injury is treatable. I cannot stress enough, however, that you should avoid having your eyes open or pupils unobstructed as much as possible for this process. I am using my healing abilities to mend your body and soothe your mind, and this means I am expending as much of my energy that I can spare, for every day that will pass from now, until possibly days or weeks, maybe even months, hereafter." Which also means Abysa is spending some fraction of his strength keeping that frenzy under wraps at all times, rather than let Micolash wear his cage. (The cage is now nowhere to be seen, hidden as is the demon's way.) While his naturally-occurring aura is normally enough on its own, Abysa is taking no chances now, while recovery is still unpredictable.

"In the meantime, I was to propose when you awoke, that you become acclimated to wearing a blindfold. In fact, I will even gift you some that I personally have worn! This next while will be difficult while you adjust to the temporary loss of a sense, but Henry and I are here to aid you. Oh, well, Henry is not here right now, but he will return."

[grantuseyes]

His mind is racing, burning, struggling to make sense of this all. His voice still a worried whine from his crying, Micolash asks, "H-How did this happen? How did this happen to meee..." Soon dissolving into weeping and causing his breathing to hitch. Sobbing uselessly against Abysa's chest like a child.

That additional kiss continues to work its uncanny magicks upon Micolash's mind, tamping down even further the frenzy inside him. Removing another layer of that seething fire, or at least burying it for now. It does the same in calming Micolash's state of mind. Less frantic and confused, but still beside himself with fear and dread.

"You ha-...You have to," he chokes out as he turns his head to rest his forehead against the demon's chest instead. Pulling at his clothing to be held closer still, to be picked up and kept in his lap. "You have to fix them. You have to, Kin. Without my eyes..." Oh gods, he can't even dwell on the implications. The mere thought of losing his sight, his eyes. Everything his studies ever centered around, gone...

[darkpiety]

"You will see again, Micolash. I will ensure that you will. I promise it, in fact. And a demon's promise is binding."

Abysa does as Micolash wordlessly wishes, and pulls him to be seated on his lap. One needs no arms, nor does Micolash need to strain his weak and torn muscles to move, he is simply swept into a more comfortable position by the priest's psychic manipulation. Abysa finds this arrangement much more comfortable for him as well, able to pull a blanket up to wrap around the human's shoulders, before holding him close.

"Do you understand? I will heal you every day, if you wish it. Every minute, every second that passes between now and your sight's return, I can give a portion of my own spirit's vitality to ensure that not a sliver of time passes where my magic is not flowing through you. This is how deep my promise goes. Say it, and it will be done. Our bond has become strong enough to facilitate such a spell." Indeed, Abysa has taken notice, ever since the night they spent gazing at the stars, that the connection between their beings has become more potent. Certainly, the rituals and offerings had something to do with it; but that is what the priest had claimed all along, much to Micolash's disbelief.

"And, should even the power of a High Priest of Hell fail you, one need only find new eyes. Humanely, of course. I know all the right connections." He adds, trying to be reassuring.

"Not that you will need thus! Am I not a being of great power?" He's trying.

[grantuseyes]

"You are," Micolash agrees meekly. His words are strained and cracking still from his outburst and the fear has yet to subside. He certainly should put nothing but utmost faith in Abysa, who has not once let him down since being taken in as his charge. But that pervasive, black-veined dread still slithers through the cracks, whispering what if, what if, what if.

What if Abysa DOES fail?
What if he's separated from the demon and it disrupts the process?
What if only one eye is restored and the other a lost cause?
What if his eyes are never quite the same and only for the worse?
What IF...

"...I must. I must take that offer. Please, Kin. Give me back my sight..."

[darkpiety]

"It will! I will grant you sight, but it will take time. But since you have accepted my offer..." And really, even for a scared mortal, it was a fairly quick decision. Abysa does have a little voice in his head that tells him when something is a foolish idea, but he ignores it for this situation. Micolash's whimpering is heartbreaking, not to mention the state of his physical form, not to mention that the demon does still blame himself a little for allowing such a catastrophe to happen.

"Ah, keep in mind, this means part of my magic, generated by my soul, will be siphoned to you in the form of a healing mark. It will be as so until your eyesight is restored, in whatever way that is accomplished. We could seal it with a kiss, if you like. I do not think a blood pact will be necessary or a good idea." Actually, it's a good idea to keep as much blood in Micolash as he can.

[grantuseyes]

Sealing a demonic deal with a kiss. It's so absurdly trite, faerie tale-like. And likely from one of those tales that's of the cautionary bent. After all, isn't everyone warned away from making deals with devils?

But Micolash has never been one to balk at unwise risks or questionable choices. It's one of his finest qualities. And every second ticking past is another second the man is left without sight or not actively working towards regaining it. And besides, he's of the same mind as Abysa. Him shedding anymore blood is the last thing he cares to do right now.

"This is more than amenable to me." He tilts his head upwards now, looking towards Abysa. He's in no condition to try and be the one to initiate this pact. That's a good way to get your skulls clonked together: by a blind man trying to land things. Micolash does however, unwisely or unthinkingly, opens his eyes again. Those horrid pupils are looking sightless and directly into Abysa's face.