An AU of an AU. The main AU is the Price of Forgiveness universe (written by Birchbow), and the secondary AU is one submitted to their blog about a version of POF wherein the game happened and Birchbow’s Grand Highblood was isolated in the game bubbles for an extremely long time and descended into madness. Time for some ReaderxGHB one-sided paleness (or maybe reciprocated? left open ended) hurt/comfort! : P
When you come across him in a dark, seemingly abandoned hive, he is wide-eyed, pupils huge and dark and his hair in a matted tangle. His paint is smeared, his clothes disheveled and ripped and the first thing you think is that it's a harsh sentence on him. You wonder why he was ever made to do penance this way, why he was made to be alone. What's worse is that you wouldn't have noticed him if you hadn't heard him knocking something over loudly; you assume it's the broken bookcase nearby that took the damage. Imagining that he wouldn't be found...
The next thing that you notice is that you are woefully unequipped for this, because his eyes have a look to them as though someone was holding a glass of dark red faygo up to the light and letting the ruby colors tint them. It wasn't a natural bright red of a holy rage, but the darker and longer-lasting sign of, at the least, something having gone terribly wrong. Usually you'd think to kill a troll in this state, but even if you brought weapons to hand you know he'd be faster. Even in this horrific state he is tense as a coiled spring and you know that if you move he'll be on you faster than a drone. You don't know how well that'd go down; at best his unstable mind sees fit to give up, or at worst you end up his chew toy for the rest of however long you have left.
You barely dare to breathe, for a long moment. Then you eventually have to, and you draw it in through your nose as quietly as you can. Another few moments pass, with him relaxing his guard from tense all the way to extremely tense. Oh, did you say relax? Hahahahahaha.
It seems breathing isn't enough to get you in deep shit with him, so perhaps he'll stand for you talking, and you wet your lips nervously before speaking in a soft hush.
"Honkelou, big brother," you say in your best approximation of a soothing tone. "It's okay. I'm kin, do you remember kin? The family, the fleet? You must have been here alone for a while, Messiahs bless, and you made to be without.. It's okay. There's those as care for you, you're not alone I swear."
Well, he stares at you more intently, but you really don't know how much is getting through. You end up just murmuring gentle words at him, trying to remind him of home, of family, of love and clan and righteous Church. You're not sure how long you're there, trying to jog his memory.
"So I said to him, Uderak, you're being silly, of course that's not the case, but lo and behold, you all and confirmed it, and we were all so shocked. How you ever managed it, we'll never know! But it was the best of jokes, big brother, and the little one you liked so well, he-"
You're cut off by a snarl and you freeze, cutting off the ramblings you'd fallen into. You aren't sure if the color in his eyes has shifted; hell, you don't expect it to. It's been far, far too long since any of you (the ones that managed to find each other anyway) had seen him. Time had lost meaning to most of you by now, and you can only imagine how bad it must have been for him without friends to ease the passage of it. Even as he stalks towards you, filling your heart with fear, you pity him truly and deeply for how much he's had to endure all on his own after all his love for all of you in his family.
"Sh- ss-shtopp," he growls out, voice rattling as it struggles to shape words, and Messiahs above you are so utterly fucked. The sound of his voice breaking so badly from disuse makes you wish you could reach out and croon and pap him; how far he's fallen. You remember when he was tall and proud and warm and had a hand in everything, taking care of you all, and now he's on all fours and hurting so badly that any sane troll in his place would be begging to be culled. It's as much fear as pity that makes you shush.
As he nears you he stands clumsily, and pushes you towards a corner of the hive, where he's built a ratty and pathetic pile-like nest of blankets and rags and pillows, and nudges you down hard. You're worried that he'll attack you if you resist, so you let him do it, and he sits nearby, staring at you intently. Now and again he jerks his head out to stare at the rest of the empty block, a soft growl coming up in his throat, and you think you understand.
"Oh," you murmur, something sharp in your chest as you realize he's not trying to kill or imprison you; he's trying to protect you. Something in him recognizes you as kin and even now, he's...
"Big brother," you get out, weak and soft, and he turns to make eye contact with you so fast you're surprised you caught the motion. You swallow hard as you look into those dark eyes and let out a soft soothing noise you can't begin to describe that just... sort of instinctively burbles out of your throat. He makes a mistrustful move to back away, and you clamp down on the noise. Don't get your hopes up, you remind yourself, he isn't going to be fixed (if that's even possible) this soon.
You aren't sure how long you're with him like this without any true changes. Sometimes he allows you to speak and others he hisses at you to be silent, sometimes a little more coherently than others. You think you're starting to notice a pattern; the more he stares and growls at the empty places around you, the more agitated he is, and as a result the least likely he is to let you speak. You wonder, not for the first time, what visions make themselves known to him that he has to stay on such near-constant vigil over you, and even though you suspect any kin with the smarts to not get attacked would receive the same treatment you feel something for it all the same.
Once you pick up the patterns in his behavior it's easier to fill the tenser silences with soft noises, just quiet enough to avoid him getting agitated by it, and sometimes you sing hymns or recite prayers when you're clear to be louder. Sometimes you just curl up in the nest, missing the days when you could sleep.
It takes you much, much too long to notice that he's started edging closer to you, so slowly that you don't notice it happening until you realize you could reach out and touch him if you tried. Your big brother keeps himself between you and the rest of the hive, and you wish you had something to call him other than "grand", "highblood", or brother.
"Hey," you say, "Brother, come here? Let me fix your hair?"
He glances at you sharply, and you can see his eyes so well now. You pat the blanket you're on, right next to you, doing your best not to be threatening. When he doesn't move towards you, it sends a bolt of disappointment through you even though you hadn't expected him to.
A quiet shuffling noise later, you're suddenly mere inches from his face. You're not sure when he moved, you were looking away, but damn, looking into his eyes like this is taking your breath away. He's so big, and his presence feels like that of a large animal, some large predator. Before you even know what to react with, you lift a slightly shaky had to his cheek; he makes this low, pathetic noise not unlike a trilling cry, and any guard you still had is struck down.
"Oh, shoosh," you murmur without thinking. "Shhh, shhhh." Your fingers lift away and you begin to move your hand in a series of gentle, smoothing paps that handled the side of his face. The dark, dangerous red of his eyes doesn't lift him, but you think maybe it's lifted a little bit. "You're okay," you reaffirm. "Do you remember paint, brother? I'd like to do up your design again after I fix your hair, if that's okay."
If he notices what you say, he doesn't react to it, but you gently move around to sit behind him (he looks confused, worried) and he turns so that he's facing the hive behind you. You get the hint and move behind him again, and this time he lets you sit close against his back.
Reaching for his hair, you realize that this is going to be a hell of a job. It's long and wild and such a horrific matting tangle of hair that you don't know how to start. Still, you need to do this, so you gently take hold of a small section near the bottom and start to untangle it strand by strand, infinitely careful. He doesn't seem to like it, though he tolerates it, at first. You braid the small section once you're done and reach for another, then another. It's when you're halfway done that he's finally stopped jerking every five minutes to react to something nearby that you don't see. By the time you're almost done, he starts to relax and lays down with his head in your lap. You are so overcome at the show of naked trust that you almost swoon over it, but you know that it's unlikely this will last after he's finished recovering. Big Brother isn't in his right mind, and he may not remember any of this, and if he does, he might never appreciate it. It hurts to think about that part, but you don't let it stop you. Having unrealistic expectations is the last thing you need.
After you finish his hair, you just stroke at it a little bit, playing with the tip of his ear. The peace doesn't last too much longer before whatever he was growling at before makes a reappearance. With a sad sigh, you lean down to shoosh him some more.
After a time, you manage to convince him to sit up, and you show him paints and the special towels used for washing off paint. You're not sure how much he recognizes, but he starts when he sees it and you hum a soothing noise under your breath as you gently hold out the wet cloth (thank you, bubble magic) and begin to smooth away the paint. It doesn't take much for what's left of it to come off, and once his face is clean (oh, your ears are burning, how dare you look upon his face like this uninvited, what right do you have) you begin to lay a first layer on his face. You work in bursts and snippets of time, but you eventually recreate his design as best you can, and when you do you sigh in relief. He's covered up again now, much better; and he's already looking better, at least physically (he could use a fucking shower but you're not touching that yet, not until it either affects his health or until he's of a mind to consent to it). It's just his self image that needs a shower, anyway.
You spend another small eternity like this, soothing him, speaking to him, never leaving his side. You don't know if you're even helping him most times, but he seems less distraught with you standing guard against his living nightmares with him. You eventually give up on him ever recovering, but you can't bring yourself to leave. There's nothing that would destroy you more than knowing that he'd be without anyone again, especially when he makes the most pitiable keening noises of despair whenever you get up and make as though to go towards the door to check out the rest of the hive. If you left... well, you won't. He doesn't deserve to be alone anymore, damnit, even if you never get through to him.
You like to influence the dream bubble a little from time to time, making it go from day to night whenever you think of it to simulate time actually passing. That's why you know it's in the middle of the day, in the middle of a story from a sermon he'd preached, that the highblood gazes up at you from his spot with his head in your lap. You're smiling down at him, playing with his hair fondly, murmuring warmly about how you remember how he'd stood, powerful and booming loud as he gave speeches that made all of you rowdy as fuck, whooping and stomping feet in agreement.
He actually seems to see you for once, his eyes brighter and clearer, and he gives you a weak little smile and lifts a hand to your face, and you catch your breath, eyes widening.
"Little one, where the Messiahs-blessed fuck did you come from?" he asks, his voice a little stronger than it used to be, and you can barely speak for the sudden tears.
"Brother-- big brother, I," and you can barely breathe for the grateful tears as he shifts and scoops you into his arms and runs his hand up and down your back to ease their passing.
"Cool it, wiggler," he says, a little fond, but mostly concerned. You sense more than see his expression shifts a little, becoming a little distant as something calls to him. For all that he's still with you, he's losing lucidity again. It's the first time he's thought right though and you're grateful beyond belief even for this short time that you've brought him back for, and you struggle to get your words out in time.
"The Messiahs didn't leave us be in punishment, we ain't been rejected from the carnival, we just aren't done our work here yet," you stammer, "You ain't done anything wrong, you're precious to us, there's more kin out there and we can go to see them."
The peaceful, painfully relieved look that comes to his face makes the time (you don't know how to begin to count it) that you've spent tending him worth it. Even as you watch his eyes darken again, you can still see yellow, and you know now without a doubt that things are going to be okay. You can't wait until he's well enough to bring back to the family.