Crush
Astral projection.
-Or that would be what the wrinkly elders sitting in their herbal shops labelled this. An out of body experience, some others would describe it as – when the soul is ejected from the vessel and the individual is forced to watch from the outside in. But regardless of the name, similar in vein with those theories was the lack of pain and stardust vision as well as the belief of a spiritual guide that soothed the shock of death.
Of course, firsthand experience more often than not lent life a real spin. And Kakashi, he would readily refute those 'crackpots' as he laid on the cold, cold frozen tundra grounds, soaked through with hot, burning blood. Because he realized, with numb fingers splayed in spastic, awkward angles, that when life was teetering on the knife-edge of death, every sensation didn't fade away; no, it amplified.
Hyperawareness.
At the forefront was the Pain. Pain. Pain. Synapses in his body were firing and misfiring, dictating the brain into jumbled decisions and propelling numerous action potentials and notions that, in his state, were difficult to accomplish (do something – get away from the cause of pain you fucking idiot). Already, his chakra system was failing and spiralling to the dredges of zero.
He could hear the crash of blood that flooded and deviated from the set paths along his body. Breath caught in his throat; his lungs fluttered helplessly – punctured organ, his clinical mind echoed belatedly from afar. Limbs numb and heavy, he grappled against gravity and the clutches of unconsciousness.
And in a sensory overload that his brain floundered to follow, he experienced – or was it remembered or will feel – shadows of inconsequential sensations too. The flavour of pomegranate, ruby flesh consumed two days ago, was still sweet and tart, smooth and bubbly over his palate. A rich, bitter aroma and citric aftertaste sparked his olfactory system and prickled his lips as blood blended the essence into a unique metallic tang.
Brief were the stings of gravel and dirt streaked into the scrapes of his arms and back; and there, that was the soft wind brushing his sweat glimmered forehead...
...Or maybe that was real? A hand, perhaps...?
'Yes it was...is,' were the brief words in his relief. A hand, an anchor in this torturous sea of hurt. The poetic light.
Then – it was then that Kakashi realized – and nearly voiced in his hysteria – that if this was truly astral projection and his spirit was floating away, he was still grounded, always, by the intense presence beside him. Helios. Between their haste and worry and words ('don't die'), he could feel the crush of fabric ('don't flinch; don't shy away from me Kakashi') and frantic calloused fingers dancing along the deep gash in his side. Through the haze of foreign yet familiar chakra threading into his weary frame, he discerned the faint figure of his sensei before the fog of darkness snared his vision.
It was an engulfing shadow impenetrable even to the domineering light of the sun.
