Daewakening :tm:
(Written about a year ago. Found it again, felt like posting it here. :') )
His waking was gentle; at least, as much as it usually was. It wasn’t until he realized his mattress felt different that he sprang upwards, the motion winding him more than he’d care to acknowledge. Head spinning, he settled back on an elbow, trying to take stock of himself through blurry vision. Every joint and muscle ached though it was nothing compared to the hunger clawing and ripping its way through him. He tried and failed to wet his lips, a wild beat pounding in his ears. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, it was the way his clothing moved against him that drew his attention next. It all felt loose. Linen and cotton pooled around him, severely exaggerating his silhouette, a far cry from the emaciated man beneath.
A trembling hand lifted to examine his face. Cheeks gaunt and hollow. Eyes sunken. Just how long had he been out? What had happened? His head lifted, gazing around the room through the slits of his fingers and he felt dread wash over him with recognition.
Out.
He needed out.
Now.
Panic sprouted at his core, driving unsteady feet to meet the floor as he breathlessly stumbled towards the door, surprisingly finding it unlocked. A familiar labyrinth met him on the opposite side as he hurriedly tried to make his way through the manor, gripping at the wainscoting to keep his balance. He hadn’t even noticed the garden was different. Nor were the walls shifting. Everything was static. Calm. A stark contrast to the anxiety tearing through his mind. He found the entry parlor with relative ease and had he taken a moment to really look, he would’ve noticed something was off.
Instead, he pushed open that front door and was met by a timid, moonlit night. What comfort he thought the open air would bring him only left him in further panic. He had expected moss at his feet and the low chirp of crickets in his ears; instead he found cobble and idle chatter nearby. A canopy of banners in the sky. The scent of blood and stale piss. It hit him like a grenade of equal parts sentiment and bewilderment. His head spun around, looking at the signage of the door he had just passed through. It wasn’t Eldrin’s therapy office, but Astrid’s workshop.
He was in Auger’s Row.
His knees buckled, a shoulder cracking against the thick stone wall while he tried to catch his breath but it never came. A lump had wedged itself into his throat as he looked further down the alley, towards his old apartment door. Each footstep was a struggle and a hand remained on the wall to serve as a guide. He didn’t even bother attempting to conjure shadows as he met the front door. Without a key and lacking strength, the answer seemed simple enough. The shattering of glass plinked throughout the alley before he disappeared.
Indifferent to the black trail he was leaving, it only took a moment or two for him to realize the place had been untouched. Someone had been paying his rent but that was a question for another time. He needed food. Fuck, a glass of water. The shiplap walls made his stomach churn and that dizziness was quickly catching up with him.
He moved past the living room, his gaze lingering on the sofa for a few ticks. Sprawled across the cushions remained the blanket he had given his only friend at the time; a red headed mongrel - Krenador, when he had been too weak to find his way home.
Seven. Fucking. Years. Ago.
The kitchen was no better; an old carton of eggs, flour and a mixing bowl still set out as if it had just been used this morning, remnants of a breakfast he had tried to make for Vanya. His breath caught in his chest and he quickly tore his gaze away, staggering towards the fridge. Rotten. All of it. The freezer didn’t offer much, either. Tucked in the back remained frozen blood lozenges, distinctly labeled 'NOT CHERRIES' in his sisters handwriting, and unfortunately, he didn’t notice the actual cherries in the container beneath them.
His apartment had become a nightmarish time capsule but he had nowhere else to go.
The grandfather clock on the second floor balcony was only taunting him with each swing of the pendulum, the metallic thunk leaving his head spinning in agony. Was Vanya’s shop still there? Georgie? Georgie. Choking on his breath with the thought of his mimic, he spun to check the cupboards. Maybe some crackers? Anything. Just a bite and he could go check on him but he had turned too quickly. Eyes fluttering, he struggled to keep himself upright. A hand reached out, trying to find some leverage with the counter but it slipped between his fingers and his world tilted.
Fatigue had fully caught up with him, dragging him to the floor and as his peripherals faded into darkness, he found himself craving a hot, steaming bowl of Sophie's onion soup.
