@ginkgold asked : “N.. no, no, no, no, hey. Hey, it's alright." Ginter's voice is like gravel, melting into sand; uncharacteristically gentle, strangely soft off the tongue. Maybe like that of a father's, on the very edges between 'panicked' and 'relieved.' Steadily, soundly, as though terrified Volkner will slip through his fingers, he tightens his hold on him and says: "I got you.”
reunions / accepting .
He should’ve known better. He should’ve known better than to believe something would ever go the way he wanted, should’ve known better than to hope he would be granted one good thing for once in his life without paying for it with tears and blood. Good things just weren’t meant for him, were they? And there was that cruel reminder, in the form of a mockery of the one he cared for so deeply, smile that was supposed to be warm twisted into something so cold and evil, eyes like the sun turned into such a cold, mocking shade of hardened gold that laughed at him for his loneliness, for how stupid he was to so willingly let his mind fool him into believing this was real and he truly had earned once again that presence so grounding in his life—
And it’s when he tries to fight back, when he feels as though he lost Roark all over again, hands around the illusion’s neck like that could get rid of the ghost itself, that he’s reminded of those hands so gentle and kind being turned into blood-soaked claws, reminder that freezes him in place when it all happens, too fast to even realize it, feeling claws sinking into flesh before seeing them, shock hitting before the pain does, his own hands suddenly lacking any strength they once had. And that’s all he knows, world turned a blur all around him, the cold of the snow against his skin feeling so faint and distant. He hears hideous laughter in a voice that wasn’t Roark’s, hears growling and screaming and some more kind of fighting he can’t quite make out anymore, a hand making a pitiful attempt at pushing against the bleeding wound, not quite sure if he’s feeling the pain anymore.
( ah, so this was how it would go, then. sad— and yet so, so fitting for him, isn’t it? )
Volkner isn’t even aware of Luxray’s presence at his side until the ‘mon is nudging him, distress clear through his actions and noises, before he feels himself being moved, hears more noises he can’t quite tell apart between the haze of his own head and the bleeding— and then they’re moving, and that’s all he can really think, vaguely aware that he needs to keep making an effort, even when he’s not sure what it is for, who is even waiting for it. Some part of him is sure it isn’t for himself. Maybe it never was. He’s never been good at living for himself, has he?
Time just blurs together by now, not even sure of what Luxray is doing or what he is looking for— help, maybe? It isn’t as if it would be the first time he was left all alone to handle his own pain and wonder if he’d live through the night, even when this one is so much worse than what he is used to— and then, not sure of where or when, the ‘mon finally comes to a halt. Perhaps the first warning sign should’ve been how he doesn’t have the strength to fight when he feels himself grabbed and moved. When he didn’t even try despite the lack of strength, like all the stubbornness was finally sapped from him. ( that wouldn’t be so wrong, would it? after that thing persisted like this, ate away at his dreams and nightmares and even sanity— )
There is someone with him now. He only manages to focus enough to hear his words, feel his hand pulled from the wound ( is it being cared for? why, exactly? what is the point in trying for him? ), everything else sort of lost in between.
“G... G-Ginter...?” He’s... never really made an effort to call him by name before, has he? What an odd thing to suddenly decide to focus on.
Volkner knows there should be relief now. He’s still alive, even through the searing pain, he’s not alone, even when it feels that is all he’ll ever have. He should be glad, should feel allowed to rest now, and yet.
Those eyes are burned into his memory. That laughter, that mocking through the lips of the one he cared for so deeply, still far too clear in his mind. Perhaps that was hurting more than even the wound itself did.
Perhaps what hurt more was knowing. Knowing that to some degree, that thing was right.
“... Y-you shouldn’t be... d-doing this...” and that is grounded into even older wounds, into words and actions that had haunted him for years, merely reinforced now, even when the man’s presence in his life had been long since pushed out by force. There is no anger in his exhausted voice, no bitterness— it simply sounds... used to this, as if the mere act of being offered a helping hand is foreign in itself. Undeserved, even. So unlike what Volkner has managed to be so far, that image of the stubborn, strong and reckless trainer, perfectly capable of handling himself, all but gone by now.
Maybe part of this is the blood loss, blurrying things in a mind already exhausted and pushed beyond its limit. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, that edge of desperation that kept pushing his every step ever since finding himself trapped in this land with no knowledge of when or how or even if he’d ever return— the tighter grip doesn’t quite ground him, yet it does in all the wrong ways. Maybe he’s already too far gone after one too many battles, after the result of such torment.
“S-sorry...” it’s weak, tired, nothing like him. He could feel Luxray’s worry as he tethered on the edge of unconsciousness, already. “... ‘m s-sorry Palmer... I-I just...”
And whatever incoherent string of thoughts he was trying to put together was quickly forgotten with the blissful nothingness that followed. ( if only that had been it, he would’ve been fine with it yet— )
