thank you harper! ♡ changed the prompt a teeny tiny bit to fit eadric more
[ dream ] for one muse to wake the other from a nightmare — eadric & d.
content warning for descriptions of vomiting/dry heaving.
May there be no peace for the wicked and the faithless; may they repent their sin in fog eternal, ever restless, never to return.
Once words of power retold time and time again, no blasphemer shall remain here, now words of exile seared into lifeless flesh, making him cough and retch and heave. He cannot tell which evil is the lesser — this, the almost dying, or the demise that did precede it, that would spark the golden flame inside his throat. It is a habit, not a need. To close his eyes, if even for a moment, to escape the bland and barren ruins of his had-been home.
It is not a fate he could forget, nor does he wish to relive the endless void that almost-death and death-again entail, only to be forced back into un-life. Still, he chooses to.
Closing his eyes for but a moment, he then awakens with a jolt, a phantom heartbeat, a sharp intake of air. Saliva begins to pool; the fire does too little to quench the sense of dread that follows up.
On his knees, at first, as though caught amid a prayer, trying to repent, forgive me, yet the burning does not ease. With vision blurred he sinks his hands into the earth, digs up the soil to make another grave to keep him there.
Vaguely, at the edges of his consciousness, he hears the creak of armor, of heavy steps coming his way. Then, cool metal pressed against his throat. My hunter, he thinks, my headsman, hangman, holy knight. Be my sentence, death-in-waiting, be all that I’m denied.
His wish stays unfulfilled. The axe is never swung, no head does roll; but the burning ceases, the sickness ebbs away. A string of spit clings to his chin he wipes away with shaking limbs; a piercing pain jolts through his being as he breathes in — perhaps a muscle torn, a rib cracked under the strain.
“This is no way to go”, the hunter says. The armor glistens in the firelight, silver melting into gold. His voice sounds hollow, dulled behind his helm, but does bear meaning. D takes his arm, heaves him up onto both trembling legs.
“I cannot take away the seal”, he reasons, “I cannot give you rest, but I can ensure no further torture will befall you. You deserve a proper death.”
His touch lingers, even after all the words that he could offer have been said. My duty, the hunter thinks.
