#but yea this is a peek into hector's post-ascian possession recovery. it wasn't good

[sealrock]

poem - or specifically, a character reading a poem that particularly strikes them as meaningful or enjoyable

{-creeps along in Sea's footsteps to deliver YET MORE prompts-}

cw: depictions of illness

(ty for the ask @thefreelanceangel!)

"I felt a Funeral, in my Brain, And Mourners to and fro Kept treading – treading – till it seemed That Sense was breaking through –" Paris paused for a moment, glancing beyond the worn and yellowed pages of their cousin's poetry book to an unmoving body as it lay in the infirmary cot in front of them, its emaciated frame swallowed under layers of itchy blankets and sensitive medical equipment to control the frayed aether reserves. Evander continues to gawk in childlike wonderment at Physis Technon's "scientific ingenuity and advancements in aetherology," but Paris sees this as inhumane. It's sickening. The monotone beeps and hums of the machines are here to keep a corpse alive, to pump fluid and nutrients into otherwise wilted flesh. It's scientific necromancy for all Paris is concerned. A growing collection of flowers and sentimental tokens sat on a dresser in the corner of the room—most of them were from the Scions, even if they didn't know this person.

It's Paris' turn to look after the body. Andromache—their mother—looked like shit after pulling an all-nighter. She's not young like Paris, but Paris refused to stand by and let her intentionally neglect her health to cater to a husk. The artificial sunlight of Labyrinthos cast Paris' shadow long and dark from the open window behind them, cutting across the body's torso in an act of pseudo-bisection. Paris couldn't look at the unruly black hair and sunken face attached to the body. It's not the gentle, smiling face they once knew, for it belongs to a stranger. The skin, once a rich shade of brown and so soft to the touch, grew pale and dry. The healthy meat, strong enough to carry Paris even after they got too big to be held, withered away to reveal dull blue veins and sinew. A lot has changed in the fifteen years of separation, but Paris continued wishing for things to return to how they were before. Especially now.

Paris had excised a tumor from the body in the same manner as they did Thancred. But Thancred wasn't down and out for this long—his friends didn't have to watch him languish away to something unrecognizable. Not even Gaia suffered this much. The tumors were phantoms feeding off of their life force, like parasites. This parasite dug too deep, it nestled in the very marrow of the husk. If only Paris had been quicker to flush out the infection. They were still a child then.

Tumor.

Parasite.

Infection.

Paris calls it many names. To be this detached helps them cope. Halmarut is dead, yes, but the destruction left in their wake resonates like thunder. Case in point: the body being kept alive with somanoutics.

The equally artificial breeze from the facility's wind turbines blew into the room. It felt temperate. Paris felt their thick hair tickle their goosefleshed nape. The body wouldn't feel it. The body hasn't felt the sensation of sunlight for a long time. Paris ran trembling fingers through their hair and shifted around in their uncomfortable chair before continuing,

"And when they were all seated, A Service, like a Drum – Kept beating – beating – till I thought My Mind was going numb –

And then I heard them lift a Box And creak across my Soul With those same Boots and Lead, again, Then Space – began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell, And Being, but an Ear, And I, and Silence, some strange Race Wrecked, solitary, here –

And then a Plank in Reason, broke, And I dropped down, and down – And hit a World, at every plunge, And Finished knowing – then –"

The poem stopped abruptly. Paris shuddered.

"How can Patroclus read such morbid stuff like this?"

Paris talked aloud to no one in particular. The body couldn't hear them. Paris carefully flipped through the pages, briefly scanning the stanzas to find something less depressing. For the half a year the stranger's been here, all but dead to the world, Patroclus would read poetry to keep it company. The lad never met this person before, but he was willing to travel from Ul'dah just to spend time with them. Paris failed to understand his reasoning, but Patroclus had always worn his heart on his sleeve.

Patroclus believed this therapeutic; he reported witnessing a smile as he read his favorite poem one autumn day—it must mean the body liked it, too. Paris could vaguely recall Evander, swellheaded as ever, brushing off his brother's excitement and saying it was an involuntary response to the environment due to the persistent vegetative state. Evander then gave an example where he recalled when the skeletal hand grabbed his wrist as he shaved the face free of patchy stubble, but he appeared too giddy telling the tale. He's no different from the Sages running this facility. Between their bickering and Achille threatening to lose his breakfast, Paris didn't want to hear anymore.

Paris doesn't expect the body to spontaneously rise and converse with them, but the fact that two people with no relation to it were present for these events settled wrong in Paris' gut. It should've been Paris. Paris let out a sigh and continued to read,

"If I can stop one heart from breaking, I shall not live in vain; If I can ease one life the aching, Or cool one pain, Or help one fainting robin, Unto his nest again, I shall not live in vain."

This poem is what Patroclus loved the most. Paris finds it ironic. They've helped ease many people's pain, but who can help Paris with theirs? Stealing another glance up, Paris felt a shriek catch in their throat as they jumped. The book fell from their hands and landed on the tile floor with a soft thud. The head had turned towards them without Paris noticing.

Black eyes, more like black holes with no visible bottom, were watching them. As the Warrior of Light, Paris has seen many things that would disturb the most hardened individual, but this is different. Hector—their dad—is watching them. Paris froze in their seat, unable to look away. Their heart hammered roughly against their ribs. Their dad blinked slowly, his weak eyes scanning their face for something to land on. His expression remained unchanged, the hollows of his face more apparent up close. He looks… so old and frail. Paris couldn't move.

Dad… Do you remember me?

Please look at me.

Paris wanted to say it, but they just sat there, mouth gaping like a fish as dread filled their belly. It twisted and roiled. Their hands gripped the arms of the chair with such force that Paris thought the metal began to bend. Before Paris could react, Hector's eyes rolled up as his eyelids fell. A soft sigh escaped his nose. He returned to being a corpse.

Paris' throat clamped shut. Tears burned fiercely behind their tired eyes, and Paris would be a fool in not letting them out. Paris isn't one to cry, they stopped crying a long time ago. Paris told themselves to be stronger than that because no one was there to wipe away the fat tears from their face anymore. But Paris reached a breaking point. They couldn't keep the façade going any longer.

First, it was one. Then two. Before long, tears drenched Paris' face. Their shoulders shook violently as stifled sobs threatened to break free from their clenched teeth. The tension fled from their body as they sagged in the chair, callous hands coming to hide their face from no one. Through bleary eyes, Paris reached to take their dad's fragile hand into theirs and squeezed.

"Please, open your eyes. It's me, dad, it's your little sprout."

Paris' voice pitched higher with each word before they finally lost it. Paris' head dropped onto the edge of the bed as they continued to sob, their tears falling at the toes of their worn boots. Patroclus' poetry book lay discarded and open next to them, its pages gently fluttering in the breeze.

"Hope" is a thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard – And sore must be the storm – That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm –

I've heard it in the chillest land – And on the strangest Sea – Yet – never – in Extremity, It asked a crumb – of me."