At dawn we rise to an apocalyptic paradise

Where we take our fill

Where life is killed

Where death lays his bones

Where we hang the rope

Where we take our toll

Where we dug our hole


Doing as he was instructed, the gangly Scandinavian kvetchingly stormed from the barren hospital, heading in the direction of the band's bedrooms, determined to get as far away from those two assholes as he could - and hopefully avoid anyone else while he was at it. It was an embarrassment to be seen in such an unnatural state. So dirty and unkempt and emotional. For him, at least.

He left his guitar behind, gently setting it down on his bed, and after a lengthy deliberation, decided at least a brief shower would probably be best. He felt filthy, and he didn't particularly wish to be reminded of how terrible he looked, or how horrid he smelled. He knew it'd probably help to clear his head too... Give him time to think. Hopefully.

besides, he'd be lying if he said he wasn't starting to smell his disgusting body odour himself...

Skwisgaar did, albeit begrudgingly, have to admit that having a shower was relaxing; not that he would disclose that openly to Nathan and Pickles. It didn't take much to imagine their smug, shit-eating grins if he were to relay such information to them. Still, the hot water did wonders to soothe his aching body and abolish the tangled knots of stress that had become embedded so deeply within his muscles.

At least, it had been peaceful and relaxing.

Until Toki once again began to plague his mind...

Even then, he couldn't get the thought of lugging his practically lifeless body through the desolate streets, attempting not to throw up at the stench of sweat and gore and stale piss that clung to the younger male; attempting not to jerk away as warm blood began to seep from wounds unseen to stain his pale skin.

Taking longer than originally planned, Skwisgaar stood beneath the blistering stream of water; rinsing the dirt and grease from his wheat-gold tresses. He picked and scratched at his dirty fingers, scrubbing every crevice and expanse of skin until the pale flesh was left red and angry, raw in places even.

He had to. It was the only way to get his blood off.

Fucking Toki.

Always having to ruin whatever peace he could find solace in...

There would be no rest tonight, not after such a gruesome reminder of his guilt. Regardless, sleep had been the last thing on his agenda anyway. It hadn't been entirely peaceful, or useful, but he's recovered a few hours of sleep in the hospital hallway, and for now, it was good enough for him.

He had other things he would rather do than sleep anyhow...

The door eased open with an eerie creak, and Skwisgaar timidly tarried across the invisible threshold; the heavy mahogany door closing with an echoed chirr and a gentle click. The air was musty and stagnant from weeks of silent stillness, trapped in a room with near to no airflow. It was malodorous really, but he paid it no heed. Skwisgaar was close to being used to it by now. Not entirely. But almost.

Slipping into Toki's bedroom had become a sort of daily ritual for him now. It was calming, in a way. The way he could imagine him, jittery and excited as he sat at his desk, marked with paint stains and clear globs of long-dried glue; a half constructed plane clasped delicately in one hand, piecing the miniature replica together with the joy of a child.

It worked well to dull the aching throb and seething guilt in the past few desolate months...

Blue eyes wandered inquisitively around the tiny bedroom, seemingly sized for a child, and littered with nearly toy-like models of planes and ships; spindly fingers trailing lightly over the propeller blades of what appeared to be a miniature of the Red Baron's plane. A weary smile twisted up Skwisgaar's lips.

He remembered that plane. He'd been out shopping with Toki. He remembered Toki's childlike excitement as they had passed the hobby store, and could recall how his fingernails had dug deep into the flesh of his wrist as he begged Skwisgaar to just 'haves a look with mes'. The distinctive smell of dank must and paint thinners that wafted though dark store burned at his nostrils in recollection of the memory, and he swore he could even hear the disembodied voice of the cheerful old man with a white comb-over and thick glasses that greeted had them from behind the counter, cluttered with papers and tubes of glue and Odin knows what else.

He remembered being dragged mercilessly through aisles and aisles of replica models and tubes of paint and brushes and various tools, and he remembered the silent awe Toki had been entranced in when his bright eyes befell the brilliant red plane. Skwisgaar could even remember, in vivid detail, the unceremonious little jive that the younger man had performed after making his purchase; the blue box nearly crushed against his chest. It still brought a small, veiled smile to his face, as it had when they were in that stupid store.

It has seemed so stupid, and completely un-metal at the time. Still, it was nice to see how happy a small relatively insignificant, inanimate craft project made him...

It seemed to bring him nearly as much joy as cats did, actually...

"Dumb littles dildos..." Skwisgaar sighed softly, shaking his head as he warily wandered around the tiny room; flicking uninterestedly through a dust coated collection mangled comic books, and tattered colouring books in various stages of completion. His finger tips trailed lightly over the half-coloured images, before finally returning them deftly to their rightful places within the disorganised bookshelf.

In all honesty, to Skwisgaar, it was almost... Concerning; how innocent and child-like the rhythm guitarist really was.

Another sigh slithered through the blonde's scantly chapping lips, smile falling away as he eased himself down onto the tiny bed; mattress springs whining beneath his weight. How the hell was it possible for someone, surrounded by such slander and filth, someone surrounded by death as a daily occurrence, to be so damn innocent?

Toki didn't deserve this. He didn't deserve any of it. He didn't deserve the childhood abuse that left him naive and emotionally - perhaps even mentally - stunted. He didn't deserve the shit he received from fans or those who simply wanted to crush his happiness beneath their grimy fingertips. He didn't deserve the shit he copped from the band; from him.

And he sure as Hell didn't deserve whatever demented perdition that the malevolent fuck Magnus had put him through.

He didn't deserve to be trapped in that shit-stained abyss for...

A year.

It has been a year.

It had been a fucking year that they had all left him - and Abigail - down in that festering to rot while they smoke and drank and fucked literally everything up.

A year that they had partied, while Toki was waiting.

Dying.

A choke sob tore its defiant way from his dead vocal chords, his head falling heavily into his calloused hands.

Very few times did Skwisgaar believe he had been that fucking scared in his life. And never had that fear ever been for the well-being of another person.

He'd voluntarily been the one to yank Toki from that hell hole, with little regard for the others, as the building began to crumble. He'd been the one to hold up the emancipated man and support his weight after finding the Norwegian unable to walk of his own accord; no matter how hard he tried to fight against his injuries and malnourishment. It had been he that found out, to his absolute consternation, to what extent the man had been tortured.


"It ams okej, liten Tokis. Just takes it slows. We amn'ts far from de Dethcopter. Just a couples of miles." Skwisgaar murmured encouragingly, though finding himself struggling to repress the disturbed grimace that contorted his features at the feeling of blood beginning to seep onto his skin, through his clothes; unable to hide the horror of feeling the protruding ribs beneath the battered flesh of the rawboned guitarist.

"Sos thirsty... Needs water..." Came the gravelly response from the younger man, so hoarse and weak that the Swede couldn't help but cringe painfully. "It hurts sos much..."

"I knows, Tokis. Just hangs in there, ja? When we ams ats de Dethcopter, we gets you a nice bigs glass of waters, and den yous cans lays down and gets comfortskables whiles we gets you homes, eh?" Considering how terribly he was struggling to push on already, the older man greatly doubted whether he'd be able to even make it to the helicopter at all...

And it seemed it didn't take too long for his fears to become reality.

They had only made it about another hundred feet or so, and even then Skwisgaar had noticed how much weaker the rhythm guitarist had become. The person he had seen reduce a man's face to a pile of putty with just his fists, now so lethargic and bulimic that he no longer retained the strength to stand of his own accord. Someone who hardly seemed to possess the ability to shut up, so horribly dehydrated that he could scarcely speak.

Quite frankly, it was frightening.

"S-stop. Please! I-I needs to... I can'ts... I needs to stop..." Toki croaked out, struggling fitfully beside Skwisgaar, attempting to retract the arm draped over the taller male's shoulders. "It hurts toos much... I... I can'ts..."

Skwisgaar's brows furrowed deeply, mouth open to question seemingly incomprehensible utterances as he rounded on the young man.

Just in time to catch those blood-filled eyes roll back into his skull.

"Fuckings hell Tokis, don't does dis toos me now!" He snapped, lunging forward to catch the battered brunette, just before he hit the bitumen like a stone dropped in water. Lowering his dead weight gently to the grown, Skwisgaar knelt down aside the limp body, coarse fingers pressed against his throat.

"What'sch happening?" Murderface squawked out, with his usual lisp, before uselessly lumbering over as the others stopped to gawk; Abigail already shoving her way out of Nathan's arms

"Yeah dood, what's wrong with 'im?"

"Does it looks like Is a fuckings doctor? How de fucks ams I supposed to know what de fucks ams wrong with him! He just fuckings passed outs and almost smashed hims face on the ground!" Skwisgaar barked back at the two of them, his panicked gaze meeting the glassy jade eyes of Abigail.

"He's breathing, but there's no way in hell we'll get to the dethcopter soon enough. I'll admit that I'm starting to struggle as well..." She stated, her own voice rough and scratchy as she struggled to her knees beside him, a bloodied hand outstretched upon the Norwegian's chest, drifting with the insignificant rise and fall of his breathing.

"Nathan, call the pilot and tell him to get his ass here now, before things start to go downhill further." She called out, rubbing at her raw eyes before bending down; lips pressed to Toki's ear.

"Don't you go dying on me now, honey. Not after we survived all that. You can't let him win, sweetie. You gotta wake up and live your life and spit that right in that lunatic's face... You promised me, and I'm not going to let you back out now, Toki..."


Three times.

Three times Toki had almost died on that excruciatingly lengthy flight back to Mordhaus.

Two times Skwisgaar witnessed the medical klokateers jump on top of him and pound down on his protruding sternum to keep him breathing.

One time Skwisgaar witnessed, to his complete abhorrence, as the doctors had charge up a defibrillator to shock the life back into Toki's broken body.

All of them had stood, like bystanders at the scene of terrible car accident, as the medical team worked to keep their bandmate alive; filling him with needles and tubes and everything else seemingly known to man, shocked into deathly silence as the tag team of doctors rattled off their assessments verbally. Acting as if the others didn't even exist.

"Multiple penetrating trauma injuries, showing possible signs of sepsis... Two broken digits on the right hand."

They'd lost Nathan then, whose vivid eyes were glazed over; all colour sucked from his face as he muttered something about going to look for Abigail, and needing to vomit.

"Severe blunt force trauma to chest and head regions. Multiple facial lacerations... Displaced nasal bridge, subconjunctival hemorrhage..."

Skwisgaar had walked off after that, unable to listen to whatever other grievous bodily harm he had been subjected to, swiftly followed by Pickles; who looked to be on the verge of simultaneously crying and throwing up.

"Gawd, that's... That's so fecked up. I ghetta say, it's pretty damn amazing that he's still alive. I mean, who knows what else thet crazy fucker did to 'im..." Pickles whispered in a state of awe, after a few eerie minutes of dead silence. Skwisgaar could only nod curtly, and attempt to swallow down the asphyxiating lump that had risen within his throat, threatening to suffocate him; his own icy eyes burning with the raging fire of encroaching tears.

"Pickle, ifs you amn'ts mind, I woulds... I woulds likes to be alones right nows..." He'd managed to choke out, his eyes locked on the approaching red glow of their fortress home; attempting desperately to drown out the medical jargon he could hear being shouted from the main area of the aircraft.


A dreary sigh crawled through the Swede's lips, eyes once again aflame with blinding tears as he slumped over heavily, breathing deep the scent of Toki that clung to the fibers of his pillow; lithe fingers twisting nervously into the plush body of the rhythm guitarist's beloved Deddy Bear.

It seemed that now, even if he were to wish for sleep, his mind would now no longer grant him the luxury of a few, brief, guiltless hours of peaceful blackness.

A defiant tear dribbled down a gaunt cheek.

God fucking damn it...