#derealization gets the brainworms excited in bad ways
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13: Oneirophrenia
Internal wounds leave the deepest scars.
(MAJOR CW for implied rape, m!WoLxThancred, m!WoLxHaurchefant)
The still quiet of the night hung in the air like a held breath. In the Rising Stones, the air was free of the sickly purple gloom that suffused the air of Mor Dhona, the only disturbances the noises coming from the common room and its tiny yet perpetual bar.
In his room, simple as it was, Arâtelan struggled to sleep. He lay on his side, covers pulled up around him to ward off the cold, tail coiled in a miserable pile at his legs. Each time he closed his eyes, the thoughts came back, wending their way through his sleeping mind as though aware that his defences would be down.
Most of the nightmares he could cope with. He would wake and then sleep again, a huff on his lips at the foolishness of dwelling on them. People he had seen die, the massacre at the Waking Sands, the trail of blood that their campaign had led through Castrum Meridianum, all of this was par for the course. One of the Scions he spoke to on occasion, a young elezen called Alianne who had been an adventurer once, had been learning from the Eorzean Allianceâs trained therapists, what few of them were left in the wake of the calamity. The trauma was expected - normal, even, in people who had witnessed horrific events like the ones he had seen. But there was one nightmare that he did not speak of, the reason he was sleeping alone, if he was sleeping at all. The feeling of âThancredâ catching his hands to silence his words, Lahabrea hearing his every protest with the Echo, the cruel things he had said, the things he had done, to try and crack Arâtelanâs faith in the Scions. Always, inevitably, it went back to that, as if living it once had not been punishment enough.
With a groan of frustration, he rolled over in the bed, pulling the covers over his head as if to block out the night. How easy it would be if he did not need sleep, or if he simply drank himself into a stupor every night like Thancred did, to cope with the aftermath.
Maybe Thancred had the right of it.
---
âYou look like the dodo the cook forgot about in the back of the pantry,â Yda said, Arâtelan wincing at the specifics of her description.
âI am fine,â he said, stifling a yawn as he said it. âJust a little tired.â Yda squinted at him - at least, he thought she did, the way she tilted her head towards him, but it was hard to tell through the mask.
âWhen was the last time you had a good nightâs sleep?â she demanded. Arâtelan groaned.
âI donât know. But I will be fine. Thank you for your concern,â he said. This did not seem to convince Yda, if the way she looked back towards Papalymo was any judge, but she at least left him alone for the time being.
It was Yâshtola who disturbed him, more gently than he was used to from the acerbic conjurer. A poke of her wooden wand into his arm, and he raised his head from where it lay on the table to look at her.
âAm I needed?â he asked, and Yâshtola let out a sharp sigh.
âYes. Come with me,â she instructed, and Arâtelan pushed himself out of the chair and followed her.
She did not take him to the Solar, like he was inspecting. Instead, she led him into one of the many little side rooms in the Rising Stones, which were normally reserved for all sorts of things that Arâtelan was not involved in.
âSit,â she demanded, pointing at a chair. Confused, Arâtelan did as he was told. Yâshtola mirrored the motion in the chair opposite him, folding her arms across her chest. âYda tells me you have not been sleeping enough,â she said, and Arâtelan wilted.
âI am fine,â he said, and Yâshtola let out a harrumph of disagreement.
âI am sure you are. That may have swayed me during our eventful stay at Costa del Sol, but it will not work here,â she snapped. Arâtelan would very much have liked to go back to the busywork of doing inane tasks for the Company of Heroes, in truth. At least when he was busy he did not think, and when he wore himself out his sleep was long and blissfully dreamless. âWhat troubles you? I would hope that after all this time we are friends enough for you to share it.â Arâtelan grimaced.
âIt⌠itâs nothing much. Nightmares. Alianne has been helping,â he said, trying to evade the brunt of the question. âI will improve when I am busy again. Iâm sorry for the fuss.â Yâshtola shook her head again, taking out her wand to bonk him lightly on the head with it.
âDo not apologise for struggling. We none of us are perfect,â she chastised, and Arâtelan shrunk back away from her in shame.
âNo. But⌠No,â he said, changing his mind. Too late, though, for Yâshtola was after the half-formed thought like a starveling wolf on a hunk of fresh meat.
âThis is about Thancred, isnât it?â she surmised, and Arâtelan cringed at the accuracy of her statement. Not that it was exactly difficult to piece together that the two of them were coping poorly in the aftermath of the Praetorium, Thancred through drink and Arâtelan through anything he could get that would not cloud his mind. After Castrum Centri, some part of him had hoped that it would all make sense - that he would be able to parcel it away, file the memories into neat little boxes, half labelled âThancredâ and the rest âLahabreaâ, but reality was cold and unfeeling in its truth.
âIt is fine. We have reached an understanding,â Arâtelan said, which made Yâshtola scoff.
âThey could hear your arguments all the way in Gridania. Well, Thancredâs half of them, at any rate,â she said. âIt does not have to be easy, Arâtelan. You have not failed for struggling with it. The Twelve know you are at least coping better than Thancred is.â Arâtelan was not so sure of that, but he held his tongue on it regardless.
âIt is fine. He is right-â
âHe most certainly is not,â Yâshtola cut in. âNot if it is hurting you this much. Talk to me, Arâtelan. Your words will not reach his ears, if that is what concerns you.â Arâtelan hesitated. He had kept his counsel before the Garleans had raided the Waking Sands, and what had that got him? He had been convinced that his words were meaningless, his opinion irrelevant, his worth nothing more than his usefulness to the cause. To keep his silence was what Lahabrea had wanted from him, wasnât it?
âIt is⌠it is difficult,â he admitted, and the words were hard to shape, as though he had been avoiding the revelation even to himself. âI canât⌠I couldnât⌠It comes back. What Laha- what Lahabrea did.â He hesitated over the words, his fingers shaking as he made the sign for the ascianâs name. âI canât be near him without remembering it. Canât be close to him. I tried to- tried to ease the fear.â He had touched his fingers to Thancredâs throat, content that if the tiny crystal on its choker was not there, that it was really Thancred this time, that the spectre of Lahabrea would be banished, but Thancred could only see that without it, Arâtelan thought him capable of all the things that Lahabrea had done. Of course it hurt him. Why wouldnât it hurt him? It was a terrible thing to accuse a person of, even in implicit gestures and terrified catastrophizing. But what was he supposed to do? âThancred - we - it doesnât work. And he is angry, and I am s-scared, and when I try to sleep it all comes back.â Yâshtolaâs face softened at the revelation. She was the only one who knew, aside from Thancred himself, at least as far as Arâtelan knew. He hadnât dared tell anyone else, not even Minfilia, given how stressed she was with everything that had happened to her during her time in captivity, and her closeness to Thancred. Part of him had feared that she would think him a monster to believe Thancred capable of what Lahabrea had done, even if that had been the point. It was not supposed to be easy. The ascian would not have bothered otherwise.
âItâs ok,â Yâshtola told him, gently taking one of his hands in hers, leaving him the room to pull it back if he needed to speak. âSuch terrors do not fade quickly. Maybe they never will. But we cannot help if you do not tell us.â Arâtelan nodded, knowing that she was right. She usually was. At least she was not as insufferable about it as Alphinaud. âI am not a master of the culinary arts, but I shall speak with some friends, and find you some herbs to help you sleep. I will not tell them why.â He nodded, swallowing down the rising panic at her suggestion, the thought that anyone else would know, would judge him for what had happened, for his weakness in being unable to confront it. It seemed little different to Thancredâs self-medication, still rendering him useless until the herbs wore off, but he would bear it if it meant that he could sleep.
âThank you,â he said, using only his free hand to do it. It was hard to whisper when you had no voice, but perhaps that counted. âI⌠I am sorry. For not⌠not trusting you.â Yâshtola shook her head, naught on her face but concern.
ââTwas the point of it, was it not? To make you doubt,â she said. âIt will take time, and if need be, I shall drag you off to speak with you a dozen more times ere you feel comfortable coming to me yourself. The villain is ousted, and even if he will reconstitute, you have time left to breathe and gather yourself. If there is aught you need, simply say.â
âI will try,â Arâtelan said, the best he could offer in the circumstances. Yâshtola nodded.
âGood. I shall hold you to that,â she decided.
---
Dawn filtered through the cracks in the window like the caress of a lover, rousing Arâtelan from his sleep. The bed was no less simple, and no less empty, but it did not yawn before him like a chasm that seemed impossible to cross, and perhaps that would mean something.
It was not easy. Each night he drank the bitter herbs that he had been so discreetly given felt like a stay of execution more than a panacea, and the tensions between him and Thancred showed no signs of abating. The troubles in Ishgard offered a tantalising opportunity to bury himself in the work of others, to keep his own counsel and pray that an untended wound would somehow heal, but it was not that easy. It was never that easy, not when the knife had cut so deep with edges so sharp and cruel.
He would hold his own. He had no choice but to persevere.
(And when Haurchefantâs hands touched his, though he woke still alone for all their wishes, the elezen let him run his fingers over his throat - unmarked by ascian aether, reassuring in its warmth - it felt like, one day, he might heal.)
#Lahabrea was nothing if not efficient#And one day I will talk about how all that lingers in his broken soul is a seething hatred for this light-touched soul shard#That reminds him of someone he barely remembers#But today is not that day#ffxivwrite2021#I wrote this rather than a strict definition because uhhh#derealization gets the brainworms excited in bad ways#but here we are#Warrior of Light (solo story)
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