Concept stuck in my mind:
The Host, bleeding alone as the universe shatters somewhere far away. From the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, even old scars opening up. He is so, so deep in his power, leaned over the sink, trembling like a leaf. Between desperate, scrambling narrations he is panting, heaving, barely ever stopping for a breath. So many stories are coming through and out of him at once that he doesn’t even remember what world he’s in.
Dark comes to his room to ask about present business, but by the time they find him in the bathroom, he’s pale as a ghost, like all the blood is drained from him, only being held up by his tight, stiff grip on the sink. Dark tries to snap him out of it any way they can, but he doesn’t stop. He looks into their eyes and tells them their own story, Host’s face contorted with grief and fear. Dark is taken aback by this, momentarily frozen in the reliving of it.
But once they recover, they shake away the anger and ear-piercing ringing, the encroaching void around the bathroom. They choose to hold him instead, picking up his waxily catatonic body, carrying him to his bed. They pull out his spare bandages, and swathe every injury and most of his head in them. Host still mutters out stories, but he is no longer panting or gasping for breath.
The Darkness keeps vigil beside his bed as the bandages slowly refill with blood, only to change them out as soon as that comes.
“Old companion, old ally, I know how power can consume. Rest yourself, let it have its hold until it tires. I will get back at him for this. I will.” Dark prays over him, holding his hand softly in a distant attempt at comfort.
By the time The Host fully wakes from his delerium of power, the only sign left of his leader is clean bandages and a lingering bout of tinnitus.
