Whumptober Prompts:
No. 7: Silent panic attack
No. 9: Tossing and turning
No. 28: Headache
No. 31: Comfort
The utter darkness does not feel so bad. Maybe this is death? Deep, undisturbed sleep forever and ever. Could be worse. Lots of worse. He feels like he is floating in this numbing, almost soothing sea of blackness. Weightless, bare of any emotions or conscious thoughts, just existing. Or perhaps not existing? Was that a thought? It is already drifting away, dissolving in the inky darkness of his mind. Or of the universe? Who knows? Not he, he is far too tired to know or to care. And why would he?
Unfortunately, this almost welcome state of limbo does not last. It is getting cold again, freezing cold. And hot. A desert bleached and blighted by the searing sun. The pain creeps back onto him, too, slowly at first, like a snake soundlessly slithering toward its prey. Then with a vengeance. Every breath he takes radiates with intense agony, and his head does not feel any better than his chest. On the contrary. He whimpers and moans, tosses and turns in his feverish sleep. Then, exhausted to the core, he is dragged down again into an abyss deeper and darker than the howling chasm that opened up before him not far from the burning Cintra.
All of a sudden something is grabbing him. Hands. On his shoulder, his hip, tearing him from his heavy, death-like sleep. His eyes shoot open in boundless panic. Please, not her, let it not be her! He gasps, then starts to shake, to cough. Violently. His chest is on fire, his lungs ripped to shreds by the relentless, burning cough attack. He cannot breathe. He is suffocating, desperately fighting for air. Then, through half-open, fever-bright eyes a blur of red and yellow leaning toward him. A face? Not her face, no, nor her voice. A woman with flaming-red hair. What she says, he does not comprehend, but it sounds friendly, soothing, not threatening. Not asking questions he cannot, will not answer. Her hands are soothing, too, not mercilessly digging into his scalp like raptor claws. A comforting touch, not torture. No magic attacking his mind, making his world explode with excruciating pain. She feels safe. Like she wants to help. Why? He cannot say. Does it matter? Too tired to think, he sinks into her embrace, falling deeply into an exhausted sleep as soon as the worst of the coughing fit is over.
Through the hazy daze of his mind the friendly voice again. Something is pressed against his lips, her arm cradled around his head, holding him up a little so he can drink. His eyelids are too heavy to open, but he swallows the viscous, tasteless fluid obediently. And the tea. Before the soothing blackness of sleep envelops him like a warming blanket.
