#injury ment

[spamsandsuch]

my revised notes for dark worlds in my fanon (based off canon evidence toby has provided thus far)

[oceanremnants]

dark cyan pearl - the first of logs from a troubled doctor over his disturbing dreams

---

i think it was dark, which is always a great start to dreams, obviously.

it was impossible to see the walls, or anywhere at all past where my hand could reach. but, there were enough clues of context to tell me i was in a puppet room.

relics was there, for one.

his face was blurry, obviously considering i, haven't actually seen it yet. he was green, though. green and white, and everything around him felt... warm.

xey opened xeir arms, and i practically fell into them. even in my dreams i forget how voiddamn tired i can get, i, guess..

after a while of warmth, and silence, i looked up at xem, and xey looked down at me. xey were expecting something, although xey didn't mind if i couldn't give it,

but i could, and i wanted to, so,

i smiled, as much as i could make myself smile, more than i have for ages, actually, even in my dreams, and i tried to sign,

the second i started, though, i felt spikes along my back. poking into it, even.

cold. blue and black and gold sprang to mind, for some reason. dreams can be pretty funny.

they were confused at my hesitancy, and pulled away a bit. i knew that they were just trying to be respectful, but i was

i begged them to let me try again, in a way significantly more pathetic than it was in reality. in return, they just nodded, smiling again,

with each finger i moved the spikes just got closer to puncturing my skin. then they punctured, and got closer to stopping each one of my hearts. and then

i did manage to sign it,

"i love you!"

but the spikes decided it would be better to go for my head, instead,

i think that,

i felt my eye had been forced out of its socket, and i saw it had become squished into

uselessness, i think, considering even with all the wires connecting it to my head i couldn't see

out of it specifically, at least, and my voicebox was completely ruptured, and my mouth had been stabbed from the inside-out,

and everything was blood, for the most part. actually, the backdrop of this dream turned from a solid black to a deep red, getting lighter. maybe that was just me, though, since all relics did was smile

and

i don't think that writing this helped at all.

[as-the-stars-foretold]

ooo cael you wanna ramble about all of your ocs to me ooooooooooo

oooo I am being hypnotized ooooo

so I was thinking about vesper right. ves my boy. and like I know how scars heal right. scars, especially visible ones, are generally weaker tissue and have completely different collagen arrangements and properties. and then I was thinking about how much he had to work with chemicals with his hands, without gloves. and that brought me to caustic scars.

caustic scars heal fairly similarly to fire scars, but that's beside the point. the more important thing to focus on is that he has scars on his hands. now, keep in mind, they were probably relatively severe scars. and he wouldn't get proper care because fucking ujhhh mafia. and heavy scarring on the hands can lead to the formation of contractures, or thickened areas of scar tissue that make flexing and extending your hand difficult.

now with all of that anatomy out of the way, I was thinking about him, after getting away from the mafia and as a now 18 y/o interning in a chem lab, finally getting the PT and surgeries he needs to help his hands. I imagine some lab tech saw his ungloved hands and immediately referred him to a doctor.

of course, this won't ever return his hands to normal, but it'll make working with caustic substances and fine motor tasks sooo much easier. so yeah. vesper and injuries and healing.

[electroboo]

pain up my wrists and hands and fingers in general but im on that writing grind

[algolstare]

it feels so silly to plan for bandages specifically, i say "silly" but really it is just that i dont have a word for the feeling at all and it makes me feel like i am about to cry. ive just made do without. if it's too big for a bandaid, tough shit. even when my rapist split my knee with a brick, i made do without - i had to walk on it, go to school like usual, it kept bleeding through the fabric of my uniform pants every day and i kept trying to keep at least tissue paper between it and the dirt and stuff, tanking my grades on purpose worked out for the best anyhow cuz there's no way id have been able to run the mile on it after that, im so lucky it didnt get infected. but i went without. it is the same for every other injury and sickness and hurting, the concept of not just forcing the body onwards because life is more important than limb and the future consequences don't matter if you don't make sure you have one, it is surreal.

[chibitantei]

@epitomees sent:

" i'm so… tired… " (time for the sisters!)

Dying from injuries for you and me

Murphy’s law. Anything that could go wrong would go wrong.

Assess, rationalize, observe. Except it was currently difficult to do so, with blood seeping into her clothing and the weight of someone who could no longer stand on her own two feet. Kazuki stared into the distance, seeing rather than observing. The danger had passed, all was quiet, yet the blood in her veins kept running in its infinite loop, her heart threatening to break her rib cage.

“Don’t... say that...” She tried taking a page out of Satonaka or Hanamura’s book—a light, joking tone that easily passed as casual reply for conversation, not for reassurance as she piggyback-carried a currently dying alternate.

Keep talking. If you didn’t want someone to die from hypothermia or blood loss or anything else that was life threatening, you talked to keep them awake and so you didn’t lose your shit. Probably. She wasn’t sure how true the latter was supposed to be, but for her frayed nerves, she assumed it was.

“You’ll be fine.” Kazuki was sure Chihiro was knocked or currently investigating the Sanzu River, but she decided thinking positively would do wonders for her mind. “We’ll find a TV, get you out of here and then call the hospital. Or your grandfather and Yakushiji will take care of you. Yakushiji always patched up my cuts when I did something stupid.”

She kept moving forward. The fog still lingered in old, neglected areas of the TV World, but only in the corner of her eyes. It was like she was wearing Teddie’s glasses, a possible side effect of defeating Izanami and evolving her Persona.

Within the thick grass flowing in the nonexistent wind and under the cloudy night sky, there was a single TV. Kazuki unloaded her cargo, then slapped Chihiro’s cheek. “Get it together. Man.” Hanamura would have said it was forced, but giving the invisible him the time of day wasn’t all that important.

Her fingers were slick with blood, so turning the stubborn dials was much more difficult than it needed to be. The screen flickered to life, static snow lighting up the nearby gloom. If anything, something, was here, the light was a signal flare.

“You’re going to have to smile more after this,” said through gritted teeth. “Appreciate your life and all of that.” On screen was a desolate Tokyo, abandoned and blown up buildings surrounded by a wasteland of sand. She turned the dial again. “What am I even saying. You’re not conscious, are you.”

[grrrrriffin]

oh btw (burnt my mouth and something gross happened)

[solidwater05]

I dreamed that I was in a library and there was someone with a service dog, but the dog was huge and barely fit between some shelves. Later more people started bringing their non service dogs too?? It was a mess

I lead one of the dogs out because their owner said that I could walk them but there was some sort of weird squirrel outside that the dog started chasing? But these types of squirrels were known to have HUGE claws so nobody should ever get so close to them, let alone try to fight them. But the dog's owner was convince that their dog was super strong and could beat anything so started a whole emergency protocol

So, for the protocol I had to go indoors, inside a hall. The hall was curved around a circular area and it had doors and windows to look at that area. The outer walls lead to the rest of the structure

So I walked around until I reached the place where I was supposed to be, and I don't really remember what happened next.

At some point someone said that they smelled rotten pizza? So now the whole building was tasked with finding the source

The place where I was was abandoned, and it was built in a way that the structure itself served as the stairs to the main area. There were exposed pipes along the corners in some places

So me and a friend go to the main area, which was a rectangle shaped second floor with a hole in the middle that let you see the first floor. We decided to investigate the shorter sides first, my friend went to the side that used to sell food, and I went to the other side but I can't remember what it had. My friend found no pizza so we kept looking elsewhere.

The longer parts of the rectangle were on a higher floor, the one me and my friend decided to check out first was like an auditorium? There wasn't anything interesting to watch on the other side

There was a wooden bridge connecting it to the other side, which was a playground of sorts. The bridge was unstable on purpose, but it didn't have any railings. The wood was also rotten and it broke under my foot, so I had to lay there until my friend could help me

I got out but I kept trying to figure out how to save the trapped person even though the person was me and I was already out. I thought of slowly lowering the bridge to the ground, but there were children approaching to play and that would kill all of them somehow

Then my main focus was saving the children from the terribly built playground, and I don't remember how I did it but I made the playground go from 'certain death' to 'you'll break a bone but that's part of the design' and somehow that was acceptable

[disparate-traveller]

oughf. leg hurts too bad to sleep. which is fine. cyn needs to rest, i can take watch.

...really hoping i didn't break something though. that would be a death sentence wouldn't it.

...i know it's what got me into this mess, but... i think i'm going to try and stay awake talking into the little broadcast radio.

hope someone hears me.

[ritties-moving]

i bit my tongue so hard it’s bleeding :(

[bcnes-archived]

@calmlythrilling sent masked mirror for a memory

You're a doctor. You've known you would be a doctor since the age you were old enough to figure that's what you really wanted - the day you dismissed the childish notion that maybe you did want to be a mechanic or a coal miner or a moon shuttle conductor instead. And because you are a doctor, you've seen death hundreds of times over, felt it keenly on more than one occasion. Patients and men you loved dying under your hands.

This is your first time experiencing it from the other side of the table. Your pulse is threadbare and slow in your ears. You can hear nothing else, but you feel blood dripping down the side of your head, out your ears and your nose, pooling in the back of your throat. You've spent the last god-knows-how-long observing your body as though outside of it, trapped in your own mind for whatever brief moments of lucidity you still have left to experience, documenting numbly as your veins collapse and organs slow to a shut-down. Only the occasional changing of the scenery, what little there is, blurred and darkened, indicates that you have been in and out of consciousness; at some point, someone must have maneuvered you onto your back, though your wrists are still raw and chafed, the skin peeling away with too much ease. The pain is unbearable. You realize this is the goal of their test: not the dying, but the pain. Someone grabs at your hands, firm, but gentler than the Vians. Scaphoid, lunate, triquetrum, pisiform, trapezium... even the most time-tested methods of distraction can barely keep your focus away from the feeling of it all.

It's Jim. His voice is the only thing you recognize. You feel relieved, could cry that you won't be spending the last of your time alone - and then guilty, because he shouldn't have to watch you die. He's already seen so much of it. He should have escaped already, should have left the moment he'd realized what you'd done to give him an out. Spock is there, too, because where Jim is Spock follows. You're not a doctor, Jim is insisting, as though the Vulcan's diagnoses are ever incorrect. At another time, it might have been funny to think that some of your last words will be spent agreeing with Spock of all people. But you feel disinclined to poke and prod at him - when his face comes into focus he is bent over you, his hand on your face. Not melding, which you are grateful for. The last thing you would want is for him to experience this much pain. As far as diagnosticians go, he has a far better bedside manner than most. You tell him as much. It must not have been as comforting as you'd imagined it would be. Comfort isn't part of the test, either.

What is part of the test is this: a young girl, maybe Joanna's age, being expected to suffer and die for men she has never met before and will never see again. You wonder what logic there is to measure the worth of a species against one woman, what makes it a fair weight to place on her shoulders. Why can compassion only be learned through pain? You have never experienced pain on a level quite like this before, but that has never stopped you from putting your life on the line for others. You'd just done as much for Jim, for Spock; you can't let them die, but more than that, you can't let them suffer. You love them enough to understand how much their lives are worth compared to yours. You can't let her die, either, though you do not even know her real name. To push her away is cruel, but allowing her to save you would be crueler. You are coherent enough, for a moment, to understand this.

You pray Jim will be just as understanding, though you know in reality he will never forgive you for this. There's equally little logic in worrying about the memory you will leave behind - you have no control over that. You have frighteningly little control over anything, but at least you had enough to take the decision out of their hands. For that, you can live - well, die - without being forgiven, leaving them with the memory of anger. The least they deserve is to live long enough to one day meet someone who will be just as worth dying for as they were.

[sollilua]

also oh no today i was planning on staying the entire day at uni to study and have some cool dinner there but i got into so many almost-accidents that i decided it would be better to just go back home

(like???😭😭 i hurt my ankle, got a season allergy thing AND almost broke my arm??? i have literally no idea how it didn't break??? even a professor and my family are like "nahhh how is your arm okay???". it still hurts SO MUCH but i can move it)

[luckyduckydyke]

Justin O. Schmidt in The Sting of the Wild:

My sibling: You know, the tendon ripping wizard

[bcnes]

"That's not at all the word I was going to use for it," McCoy hisses between his teeth, and spares the briefest of glances to the Vulcan's handiwork before rolling his eyes skyward with near-immediate regret. Passing out seems like an increasingly appealing option were it not for the obnoxious knowledge in the back of his mind that that's mostly just the blood loss talking. "In fact, I've got a list. And that one was right at the bottom."

Barbaric, for one. Unsanitary. Startlingly ineffective... though, when he's finally certain the job is done and he can examine the patch job without being treated to a front-row seat of medieval torture, it's pretty damn close to the best he could hope for under the circumstances. He knows better than to prod at them, no matter how tempting it is to fall back into the habit of hands-on medicine, but the stitches relatively uniform and slack enough to not prove problematic.

God, at this rate he's gonna die of old age before he finds a single damn thing Spock's not good at.

"It'll do," is the only assessment he offers, however, head halfway between his knees and thoroughly preoccupied with trying to work up the willpower to get to his feet. It's not an attractive prospect given their circumstances; he instead tilts his gaze sideways to watch Spock seemingly deem his work - or whatever it was he was studying so long just then, McCoy's never claimed to know what's going on in that head of his - acceptable enough to abandon in favor of studying the environment. The doctor is of the opinion that there's nothing out there worth seeing (in fact, if you ask him, he's seem all he needs to see already, thank you very much), and every extra minute spent only looks bleaker. Even on two perfectly healthy legs he'd never typically allow himself within half a mile of cliffs like these.

"You make me climb on this and I can't promise I won't kill us both. That's not even a threat, not this time," he adds, because god knows he's made that an actual threat on more than one occasion (though he's yet to really mean it all too much). "Just an observation."

Spock glanced up from his work briefly at the 'bedside manner' remark, a brow shooting up, before he stuck the make-shift needle into McCoy's skin again, pulling the thread through after.

'As fascinating as this outdated practice is, Doctor, I am, in every regard to your comfort, attempting to hurry it along.' He stated coolly, despite the circumstances. Upon finishing, the science officer promptly tied a knot, biting off the access string with his teeth. The two were very limited on supplies, after all. Using bits and pieces from his own dismantled tricorder to fashion a needle and tearing off parts of his uniform for not only thread, but to also ease the blood loss of his injured companion. Thank the stars the Vulcan was innovative just as much as he was logical. '...There, this should be sufficient enough for the time being.'

Whether or not Leonard would ever believe him, let alone, if Spock ever dared to admit it, this was not the first time he had dealt with stitches. Remarkably, his previous experience had him in a similar position to the one the doctor was in currently. The young science officer had suffered from a nasty wound on his leg while on a ground mission, he had nearly bled out, only snapping back into consciousness at one point to witness none other than Captain Pike attempting to sew him up. Overall, it had left him with a rather irritating limp for months on end.

The blue-shirt proceeded to stand up after checking Bones' over with a few searching looks proving he was rather concerned for the man, even with his handiwork. Then, he moved towards the edge of the nearby ridge they were settled on, looking out into the unforgiving environment beyond. 'We need to get off these cliffs.'

[multiversal-pudding]

ep 6 spoilers-

In the cannibal Alice scene, it’s implied Uzi bit off the uppermost segment of Alice’s index finger- we see that’s the joint she fiddles with and the part she replaces

After replacing it, Alice then goes and cuts the exact same finger at the exact same joint off Uzi with the boltcutters, actively pausing so Uzi can see what she’s doing before doing it

Alice wasn’t doing that for oil (mostly), she did that because she was being petty about Uzi biting her-

[witchcraftandburialdirt]

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 / 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄 : 𝚁𝚘𝚋𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚕𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝙱𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚎         ━ Triggering Content Ahead: Please Proceed with Caution ━

As the firstborn son to Bran and Palila Baudelaire, Robin was born on the fateful day of June 28th, 1788, amidst torrents that drenched Suffolk ( it was, after all, the wettest day ever recorded in the city). However he was not to stay here within the bustling world of man but in the quietude of a small, unnamed town in the open fields of Northumberland. The world was the same as it always was, and men like Bran rarely found the comforts of family; the Baudelaire household was an oddity to say the least. It was even more infrequent for men of Bran's occupation to ever settle and marry; Sin Eaters were the dredges of society after all — vilified but needed — a necessary evil in the eyes of many within the Northern English countryside. Most would not want to marry a monster. Yet the boy's days were painted with the colors of nature and the woodland — gardening beneath the watchful eye of his mother, hunting in the trees along his father's side, and nurturing a bond with his siblings, Wren and Linette. He did not understand, in his young age, why the world gazed upon them with such scorn.

A sin-eater is a person who consumes a ritual meal in order to spiritually take on the sins of a deceased person. The food was believed to absorb the sins of a recently dead person, thus absolving the soul of the person. Many funerals were attended by a professed "sin-eater," hired to take upon him the sins of the deceased. By swallowing bread and beer, with a suitable ceremony before the corpse, he was supposed to free it from every penalty for past offences, appropriating the punishment to himself. Sin Eaters were not often the study of academia due to their shrouded and often reviled existence; Abhorred by the superstitious villagers as a thing unclean, the sin-eater cut himself off from all social intercourse with his fellow creatures by reason of the life he had chosen; he lived as a rule in a remote place by himself, and those who chanced to meet him avoided him as they would a leper. This unfortunate was held to be the associate of evil spirits, and given to witchcraft, incantations and unholy practices; only when a death took place did they seek him out, and when his purpose was accomplished they burned the wooden bowl and platter from which he had eaten the food handed across, or placed on the corpse for his consumption. ( Funeral Customs by Bertram S. Puckle ; 1926 )

As was tradition, Robin Altus Baudelaire learned his destined profession at the tender age of innocence, when his eyes were still round with light and his cheeks like apples. Bran was a man of unwavering faith and often spoke of the virtues of piety and mercy, imparting the belief that to sacrifice oneself for the sake of others mirrored the divine compassion of Christ. Martyrdom became a beautiful thing to the boy, and while the townsfolk remained blind to their struggles, Robin's heart held firm to the conviction that when the world crumbled beneath time's weight, they would understand the grace that had granted them passage into Heaven’s hold. Perhaps then they would be able to look upon the family without such reckless hate. A lofty dream. Still, despite the leers and glowers, nestled on the fringes of a quaint village, their small home stood as a refuge against the wild forests just beyond the horizon of the ebbing grass sea, of their neighbors' contempt.

Life was peaceful, despite its hardships, and Robin's heart never emptied, even if some days his stomach would. However, a brutal winter in 1800 swept through, and with it came an unseen terror — almost certainly the greatest calamity of his time — riding upon the winter winds was Father Death cloaked in white. One night, Linette, Robin's beloved sister, coughed blood across her pillow. It was the beginning of the end. She would be the first to fall, and as the silver moon waxed and waned, the Baudelaire family succumbed one by one to the relentless grip of the disease, decaying from the inside out. All except their eldest son, who was now tasked with the perilous journey into the town they served — a place buzzing with life and commerce, and worst of all, man. He was instructed by his father to venture forth to the apothecary to fetch cod liver oil and turpentine, remedies with the potential to stave off consumption. For as long as it could, anyway.

But aged only twelve and without the ability to read the delicate labels of the vials lining the shelves, Robin found himself at a loss when crossing through the apothecary's aisles — and in a moment of desperation, he asked the owner for help. But the moment he spoke, the atmosphere shifted and icy fingers crawled their way up Robin's spine. The Baudelaires were a family marked by grief, their hair shimmering like moonlight-woven thread, and as such horrible rumors clung to their presence and haunted their steps. Chatter coursed through the two other clerks quickly, suspicion twisting their gazes as they recognized the boy’s lineage. Unease simmered; for now the question was why the Robin had truly traveled into town. His kin oft came in the wake of death; so what foul omen was he? Fear was always eager to fester within men when confronted with the unknown, and upon hearing the medicines he requested, it ignited within the shop and spread like flame to dry grass. The apothecary provided the boy with the necessary ailments, as he'd very politely asked, but not without paying a heavy toll. For now the men within the village knew that Father Death loomed over the Baudelaire home, ready to ride their gasping moans further into the town and poised to claim what was rightfully His … and such things could not be ignored.

Ultimately, their home was a mere transient stop on the Grim's remorseless journey — a stepping stone marked by the stench of a lingering malevolence; they were diseased rats who had come to chew festering wounds along the shire's wintry and pale pastures.

During one cold December night, the young Baudelaire bairn awoke with a start — but not due to the chill. No, no, something was wrong; he could tell that much, but the specifics were lost on him in the dark. However, a ghostly whisper tugged at his consciousness, urging him to listen closely and to keep quiet, and in his panic, he did.

Outside Robin could hear the hushed and hurried murmurs of men echoing through the thick veil of night, mingling with the soft rustling of hay. He couldn't make sense of it at the time, and being a polite young lad, he quietly went to greet these sudden strangers — but panic seized him when he realized the door was barred. Something, or rather someone, had jammed it shut, but once again … why? A tender chide of the same voice from earlier told him to flee, nevertheless cruel and ravenous flames began to snake around the doorframe, their flickering tongues illuminating the planes of Robin's young face as he recoiled in terror. Each crackling ember seemed as a thousand eyes to reflect the devil's wickedness, soon rolling together to transform the entrance into a gaping maw eager to consume everything within its reach.

Hastily he dashed to his family, trying to rouse them from their infected dreams, but they remained ensnared in a slumber far too deep to wake now. Only little Linny opened her eyes, and Robin practically threw himself at her to try and lift her out of her blankets. Yet, as he grasped her frail form, the weight nearly crushed him. He was not a strong boy — and he struggled, weak and trembling … what little strength he had waned as the choking smoke filled his lungs. With a final, desperate effort, he dragged her halfway from the bed, only to slip and fall to the floor, where the searing heat began to lap at his hands and ignite the fluttering edges of his nightshirt.

The bright orange beast roared to life, and Robin's will to live fought to bring him to his now calloused and bubbling feet; with one final glance towards his weeping sister, he left her screaming and reaching for him. Each step was walking on embers, and the sharp sting of her cries were glass shards in his ears, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and summoned every ounce of endurance he had to reach the rear of the house. His bloodied fingers clawed nothing short of a frenzy on the splintered window frame of the storage room, his nails breaking and his hands raw from the relentless struggle against the cruel timbers blocking freedom from this hell. Each jagged edge tore at him, but in his mindless adrenaline fueled high, he carved a path out, determined to escape the fiery grasp of doom lingering just behind. With each wooden creak Robin felt the delicate breath of winter kiss his scorching skin through the cracks, and with a final surge of will, he shattered the remaining glass and tumbled into a world blanketed in pearlescent shimmer. Each snowflake swirled like a thousand daggers against his burning skin, and the merciless cold gnawed at him and nearly stole his life away, but his body forced him to stand once more — to finally flee from this wretched place. The towering trees looming ahead offered a haven from the hunting dogs and their whistling owners; there were far too many trees and dense underbrush to bother … And so once everything fell silent, Robin went the only way he could: forward.

But for all of his determination, Robin had seen too few winters to withstand the savage bite of the icy chill and decided instead to quietly nestle within the dense thicket, content to surrender to the exhaustion that clawed at his aching limbs and burned in his weary eyes. As the frost crept insidiously into his flesh and bones, he felt a warmth beckoning him, a promise of rest that whispered sweet and soft. Teetering upon the brink of sleep, the familiar comfort of his mother’s arms enveloped him, lifting him up as she had done in his childhood and cradling him against the safety of her chest. The ground beneath him transformed into a soft bed of snow, each flake a delicate touch against his numbed skin, inviting him deeper into dreamless slumber. Yet, a gentle sound stirred the soupy lull of his brain, and the world blurred around him as Robin urged himself to peel open his heavy lids. When he finally managed to lift his gaze, he saw what he thought to be a cloaked man seated on a horse emerging from the swirling white. Fear and fatigue battled within him, but he could no longer run nor resist, and with nothing left, he closed his eyes.

Father Death had come … He should have known better than to run.

He reached neither Heaven nor Hell that day, and by the following evening the boy’s fatigued body, once frozen stiff, began to thaw like the first light of dawn breaking through dense clouds. He awoke to the soothing purr of a small cat snuggled against his chest, and Robin's eyes fluttered open and stared into the glow of a crackling hearth — relaxing as he saw its contained and crumbling state. For a fleeting moment, a fragile hope blossomed within him which momentarily banished the thoughts of despair threatening to stain his mind. Perhaps, he dared to dream; all of his trials were nothing more than a cruel fantasy — a nightmare he was glad to be free from. But as reality seeped back in, it bore the weight of bittersweet truth: his father’s familiar silhouette did not grace the threshold of the room in greeting, and as his vision cleared, he was soon to find that he was not in his home. Still, Robin could not bear to lift his body from its resting place, and with a reluctant heart, he gave in to the gentle lull of his surroundings and let the veil of sleep wash over him again.

It was here, amidst flickering candlelight and aged parchment, that Robin's life would change; whether for better or worse, one could not yet say. The lost child was nursed back to health by that same figure who had found him in the woods that day. His name was Abel. He was a compassionate young priest with a gentle heart who had just come to town to bring a new dawn to the church. Upon his trek through the forest, he had miraculously spotted the boy collapsing into the nearby brush, and once he had bundled the bairn up in his extra jackets, he took him home. Robin learned that he was tasked with filling the shoes of their beloved but long-retired clergyman, and he also learned that Abel's wisdom and kindness knew no bounds. Many people warned the priest of his ward, of the cursed blood in his veins, but it mattered little to Robin's new guardian. He saw the Sin Eaters not as devils but as souls burdened by suffering, deserving of understanding and redemption.

To give oneself for another was Christly.

Under Abel's dark and watchful eyes, Robin found refuge and purpose over the long span of ten years, and he blossomed into a learned young man. He stood proudly beside Abel, acting as an acolyte and loyal aide, delivering assistance to the townsfolk who came seeking guidance from them. To hear their sins and forgive them, but he never once heard anyone over those ten years confess of that night. Regardless, those fickle villagers were touched by his dedication and began to see him not just as a cursed boy raised in the church’s shadow; he was even invited to birthday celebrations!

For once in his life, he truly felt human. For one decade Robin dwelled in peace; he thrived under the azure skies and reveled in the patterns that led his daily duties. The laughter of children oft bounced through the town like a chirping bird, bountiful harvests painted the fields in hues of amber and crimson, and the caress of breezes stirred the vibrant blooms adorning every garden. It was perfect. It should have been perfect, but the Baudelaires were a family marked by grief, and one evening, when the setting sun drenched the sky in a shade of lavender, Robin had to wonder if his nightmares had crawled to life. Winter had come again and brought with it the worst thing to ever meet his ear. It was a soft interruption, something that would not usually stir such dread, but for the Baudelaire boy, it brought him back to being small and scared.

A cough.

With one simple sound, Robin's vibrant world began to fade into a haunting echo of its past glory. As the weeks dragged on, Abel's illness deepened, and the villagers were quick to recall that strange family that had vanished into the woods long ago. Gossip fluttered like moths around the village hearths, spreading tales that spoke of an insatiable White Death. Consumption had come again, and it seemed that even with Abel's blessings, Robin would never be able to escape the horrors festering in his own blood. This was his fault … and he knew he would never reconcile what he had done; he had betrayed Abel to his death, and all those who had given him kindness were, surely, deceived. As that darkness seeped into him, Robin grappled with the agonizing truth: hope was a distant shore, and forever he would wade alone on an empty sea of sullen waters.

On the night of Abel's passing, Robin felt a piece of him die too — and he wept until his eyes were red and his voice was hoarse.

Mercifully, the church granted him one week to pack his things and go — for another priest had come, and this one was eager to reignite the strict mortal ethics of the time. Abel's leniency had caught the eye of the papal, and now it was time to return to proper teachings. The heavy mahogany doors that once swung open to greet him now stood resolutely locked, leaving him in a world of shuttered windows and drawn curtains. Through the streets Robin went, and he spoke to no one; he ventured from the village's edge into the depths of the forest alone. No one even asked where he was going. The only willing company the tears in his eyes and the weight of Abel's rosary that hung around the pale column of his throat. His feet moved instinctively along a well-trodden path, winding through the underbrush until the ground under his soles felt familiar and his body carried him to its desired mark. The very place his mind had begged to not be forced into for the rest of his days; yet here he stood.

A soot-covered monstrosity whose wooden edges jutted out like the waiting claws of a great beast; its looming presence instantly lifted a warning in Robin's heart as he gawked in its great shadow. For ten long years he had avoided this forsaken place in both the realms of his dreams and God's blessed green earth. Nevertheless, he beheld its unwavering grim loyalty as if it were waiting for him to return all this time. It welcomed the Baudelaire heir inside peeling, rotting walls. Within this loneliness he stayed, allowing misery to fester and act as a poison to slow his heart; light drained from the world, and in the hues of each lonely dusk he could see the reflections of his old life. But hunger, in its stark apathy, stirred him from his sorrowful reverie to remind him of his mortality, and he knew there was only one path left to tread if he wanted to continue living. And so, Robin damned himself to don the mantle left behind by his late father, a heavy cloak of duty he was sure to suffocate under.

This was to be his fate: ever to dwell underneath the fading trees bound to his mourning, ever to rot.

But fate seemed uneager to arrive. Despite how swiftly his world had turned to sorrow and despair, Robin clung tenaciously to his duty �� his silent vow to survive, to continue on. And soon enough the heavy grief that had shrouded his existence so heavily began to lift, and shortly thereafter he found an unexpected vibrancy in the new world around him. Just as in the days of his childhood, Nature's indifference welcomed him; finally there was a place to rest from judgment.

Cool water greeted him in the sweltering grasp of summer, gentle breezes carried the sweet fragrance of wildflowers in spring, autumn draped itself in golden magnificence, and even dark and cold winter seemed to offer him a reluctant mercy. Status mattered not there, where the rabbits looked upon him no differently than they did the petunias in his garden. He was not without burden, however, for when the Death Knells summoned him to town, Robin shuddered and shook. It was a difficult thing to travel into that place and be amongst those people … The world of men had become somewhat lost to him in his seclusion, and their murmurings in his presence brought little in the way of comfort. Robin ignored them, or tried to, in order to remain steadfast in his mission to the deceased. While not undimmed by bitterness or resentment that would otherwise cloud his purpose ( yet ), he did find a strange fear of those he served. Nonetheless, he knew that judgment was not his to wield; it belonged solely to their heavenly Father; and once his duty was fulfilled, he would retreat back into the forest — now quite content with the lack of visitors.

So one could imagine Robin's jolt of shock when, without warning or letter, a stuttering knock hit his door. If it had been only once he would have assumed it to be a trick of the wind, but twice, thrice! Each one more insistent than the last! Curiosity piqued and caution tossed aside, Robin rose swiftly with a racing heart to open the door — perhaps a foolish decision, but the earlier mead with his dinner evinced itself to be very talented in lowering his inhibitions. Now to deal with the fallout of such an action: for standing on his doorstep was a ragtag group of young men from the village. Maybe four or five in number, with movements unsteady and huffing breath like taxed horses. Anxiety skyrocketed, and without thinking, he began to take a step back. One of the boys, his words slurred and tangled, began to explain how they had lost their way, but Robin’s senses were overwhelmed by the cloud of whiskey-laden breath that had wafted toward him. It curled into his nostrils, sending a thousand shivers racing up his spine; he'd never liked the smell and now was not proving to be an exception. He had no idea what to say to remedy how awkward everything had become; and frankly, he was afraid he would gag if he tried to speak.

However the drunken lisps dwindled into a whisper before fading entirely, leaving behind a suffocating silence that summoned the Sin Eater’s attention back. Surely they had not intended to trespass upon his land, nor had they come to him with benevolent hearts; those were reserved for their intended host, which he was most certainly not. As Robin's gaze swept over the group, he became acutely aware of the transformation that had overtaken them. Their eyes, once sparkling in their delirium, now widened in disbelief, reflecting a dawning horror as if they had gazed upon some grotesque abomination from the depths of a sickly nightmare. Mouths hung agape and faces drained of color, each man now a canvas painted with shades of ashen pallor. In that instant, Robin found himself no longer being looked at as a fellow human being, but a manifestation of their most profound fears — a creature born from the dark recesses of Lilith's mind, a descendent of snakes and demons! Robin wished to reach out, he had once known each of them by name, to bridge the yawning chasm of misunderstanding that lay between them but ...

In their eyes, he caught the unmistakable reflection of their revulsion; a mirror to his own self-loathing, for in their horror at him he, too, found reason to recoil.

In the crisp dark night, he stood within the doorway of his weathered home, half bathed in the warm glow of flickering candlelight behind him that danced across his hair and skin. The golden firelight crackled a warning, transforming his moonlit-touched locks into a halo wreathed in a shriek of hellfire. But, o' his eyes, it was his eyes that truly unsettled. They glowed like sickly green lanterns, piercing through the darkness with an unnatural sheen that belied their hollow depths. It was now of little wonder to him why the townsfolk spoke of him in hushed murmurs and chided their children to stay close and avoid the woodland.

Everything was quiet between the accidental gathering, and Robin's soul yearned to escape this suffocating atmosphere; he wanted to leave, to break free from their unrelenting stares, but he found his feet rooted to the spot. He didn't know what to do; he didn't even feel as though he could breathe! With a heavy heart and trembling fingers he silently reached for the door, the brass handle suddenly felt so cold and foreign in his grip. Robin turned the handle, the creaking of the door echoed like the mournful wail of a lost soul, and shut out the uninvited throng that had rendered him a husk. He did not sleep that night, nor would he likely ever rest comfortably again. The weight of the gazes that had followed him pressed down atop his weary shoulders, but he supposed he could not cast too much blame upon them. He now saw that he was too far removed from humanity to seek refuge in companionship.

The next few days offered him no solace from his maddening delusions. Each rustle of a branch, each flutter of a bird, felt like a portent of doom, little reminders of the unseen eyes lurking just beyond the tree line, ever watchful, ever patient. With every reluctant step away from the welcoming hearth of his abode, a frigid tendril of dread tightened about Robin's heart, constricting with a merciless grip that threatened to squeeze the very life from his lungs. Unable to ignore his heart's thrumming admonitions that cautioned him not venture too far; for to do so would invite the abyss, and he would never come home again. Every sun-drenched afternoon melded into endless loops of fevered paranoia. Visions of the men from the night prior loomed large in his mind, their faces twisted into malicious grins as he replayed the encounter in his head over and over again. Were they still out there, ensconced in the shadows, biding their time? Robin found himself checking the handle frequently; once at night and once in the morn, grateful for each time the door was not barricaded. His fingers held too many scars already.

Still, with winter fast approaching, it was becoming more and more difficult to maintain his isolation while the persistent rumble of hunger echoed in the cavern of his stomach; it was the only companion in his solitude. The passing weeks had turned into a monotonous cycle of silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of distant frost, but the sinking dread never left. All the same, that fateful morning had to arrive; an inexplicable urge stirred within him, something far beyond mere hunger, igniting a glint of determination that had long lain dormant. It was a call that resonated deep within, reverberating through the very marrow of his bones — he could not hope to resist it. So, with that single stride, he left his home behind and stepped into the murky depths of a thousand towering trees.

And Robin Altus Baudelaire never returned.