Micolash, Host of the Nightmare (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
grantuseyes) wrote2017-12-02 10:17 pm
grantuseyes) wrote2017-12-02 10:17 pm
Entry tags:
Healing a Nightmare ((For darkpiety))
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.
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.
no subject
He smells blood. Of course he smells blood, how can he not? For what felt like ages, he was steeped in it. It was the entirety of his world and scope for the duration of the Nightmare. Unholy amounts of it poured from him, from every opening and every wound, like some macabre watering of a garden. Feeding the Nightmare with the Old Blood that dwells inside him.
It's a good thing Yharnamites have such an odd fixation with the sense of smell; he might have to rely on it in strange new ways in the coming days. But for right now, that crimson is all he can detect.
He nearly misses Abysa's kind words in this brief distraction and they do ring true. Survival abetting growth was one of the greatest lessons of the Nightmare of Mensis. Something just saw it fit for him to revisit and refresh.
"How long, Kin? How long will I be blind?"