#salt in wounds

[crimsonlyinglilly]

Day 15: salt in wounds / phobia / revenge

Still days behind but here’s day 15 for @augustofwhump. Would help if i stuck to my plan outlines but youtube fed me Saving Hope clip and this was born.

Also thanks to @theotherworld97 for listening to me ramble about this.

Spoiler for season 3 finale Saving Hope.

Saving Elijah - as a working title, after having his memory wiped instead of going to France, Elijah ends up becoming a surgeon in Toronto.

That was going great until something forced him to remember everything, leaving him missing his years without the weight of centuries crushing him.

—--

He had been happy, he had been good, a dick but good; saving people, helping, making things better.

He was human.

He had almost had a family, there was a little boy he should have gotten to raise, a woman he loved.

It was everything he wanted.

Dying had been quick, sudden, boom! and he was gone, far quicker than father’s blade in his heart or that damn thorn.

Waking up is worse.

His body regrowing because few things could kill him, but there was no escaping the damage that had been done.

He couldn’t scream or move, no air in his lungs or working vocal cords and his muscles were shredded.

Shrapnel was a bitch.

So he was awake as he slowly remembered why he wasn’t dead.

What he was.

Who he was.

Remembering is salt in the wounds.

And giving his complete body is a wound, raw and charred, that was saying something.

Because Joel Goran had died years ago, a stupid accident ending a life that should have brought hope to people, a bar fight ending in a knife to the heart.

Like his first time.

He didn’t appreciate the irony.

And Amalia, the brilliant loyal friend she was, who had been keeping something from him, a witch because magic and the supernatural were a thing apparently.

It had to be through luck that she just happened to find a vampire who looked like him, her lost friend and decided to use them, to give her friend another chance.

Why not? A Dr was better than a bloodsucker, helping people instead feeding and killing them, an improvement.

She hadn’t expected her victim to volunteer.

But what else was the amnesiac vampire going to do, after months of not knowing who he was, struggling with hunger and an ache in his chest he didn’t understand. If he couldn’t remember who he was, he’d take being someone else, someone better, who clearly had someone to miss him.

Elijah remembered now.

Everything.

He wasn’t truly Joel Goran, just given all his memories and skills, or maybe he was, for her to be able to interfere with him, an Original Vampire tainted by a piece of the Hollow. She was an exceptional witch, who's to say she hadn't brought her dead friend's soul back and placed it in the basically empty body, because that's what he had been. 

No memories, no desires, just a name that had meant nothing.

Now he was both Joel and Elijah and Elijah Mikaelson.

He would prefer the nothing back now than Elijah Mikealson. Nothing instead of the craving to check on his sibling knowing he couldn’t, instead of the hatred in Marcel’s eyes and the fear in Hayley’s.

He wanted just to be Joel again, with Alex’s love, his friendships in the hospital and a future.

All Elijah had was the loneliness and the crushing weight of his past.

Joel who felt worry for every life placed in his hands, who was haunted by the death that happened to him.

Elijah who felt nothing, nothing but self loathing and guilt, who killed as easily as breathing.

---

He’s not sure how long he had been trapped silent in his body as he healed-regrew but it was poor timing that it was after he heard the door open that he felt his muscles start to twitch.

He had enough thought to pray the person would leave before it spread, they hadn’t.

He couldn’t have stopped the noise but he managed to stifle it to a choking wheeze instead of the full scream.

He’s not sure how long he had been trapped silent in his body as he healed-regrew but it was poor timing that it was after he heard the door open that he felt his muscles start to twitch.

He had enough thought to pray the person would leave before it spread, they hadn’t

He couldn’t have stopped the noise but he managed to stifle it to a choking wheeze instead of the full scream.

There was a muffled swear as the person jumped and realised where the sound had come from, he focused on the sound of them coming closer to try to ignore the feeling of his muscles twitching as they woke up.

The cover- body bag because of course he was in a body bag, he pitted whoever was the one to gather him up, was unzipped and he found blue eyes staring down at him in shock.

What the hell! He should be with Alex and the baby. He thought in anger before he reminded himself that out of everyone Charlie Harris was perhaps the best person to find him.

Joel-Elijah used his twitching muscles to sit up getting a glimpse of his still healing skin, he shivered despite himself and hand caught his shoulders gently before he slumped back.

He had been blow up before- no Elijah had blow himself up to get at Finn, he had managed before, walking to find Cami and Hope, in the cold night ignoring the stinging pain of the too sensitive-all new skin.

He could manage now.

“How??” Charlie asked, looking shocked but not as shocked as most people would be, but then there had been something off about him since he woke from the coma some of the rumours had said.

He looked up at the older man- no he was a thousand years old, unable to even think of how to explain, wincing as he felt the skin of his cheeks heal, nerves suddenly awake to the cold of the room.

Charlie’s hands tightened on his shoulder digging into regrowing nerves that he couldn’t stop the groan of pain, causing Charlie to let go and Joel-Elijah fell from the table to hit the floor, body bag following to present what little dignity he had.

He wheezed a muffled whine as everything in his body struggled to adjust, various areas of his body fighting for the attention. He had been human for years, this level of pain and awareness wasn’t natural and the centuries as a vampire were reacting too slow.

He didn’t want to become used to it again, he wanted to remain human. 

“Shit! Joel?” Charlie swore, crouching down in front of him.

“Give me a minute.” he managed to gasp, before Charlie could touch him again, sounding much like the corpse he still pretty much was.

He stayed there for a moment ignoring the others’ eyes on him as he thought.

He was hungry, he needed blood considering how much he had healed.

He needed to know how he had been human.

How he hadn't needed blood for the last few years, how he had managed to walk under the sun without a daylight ring.

He had his one in a box back at his place, the only thing he had kept from the nothing Amalia had met and remade-

He needed Amalia, she could fix this, return him to just Joel, wipe away his rather more public death this time, he’d again start elsewhere.

Safer for Alex and the baby to be away from him. It would have to be Charlie’s anyway since he couldn’t have- 

He was human, somehow, no hunger for blood, no weakness to sunlight, slow healing, scarring. It could be, he could have had a child after a thousand years, thankfully Dahlia was gone but that would mean they would be in danger, if his blood was ever discovered.

He really needed Amalia.

“Phone.” he demanded, not sounding as gruesome, but the effect was likely ruined as he was still laying on the floor.

“Are you going to explain how this is happening?” Charlie asked, still sounding far too calm.

“After I make a phone call, ” he said, “and blood.” he added. For a brief moment he thought about explaining and compelling it away afterwards but if the child was his then Charlie would need to know everything to protect them better.

“Blood?” Charlie cocked an eyebrow at him, annoyingly unflappable, Joel wanted to be annoyed but the sight was helpfully calming, Charlie, like Alex, Maggie and Zach was Joel’s not anything to do with Elijah.

‘You're a thousand year old vampire, you shouldn’t need a human to calm you down.’ half his mind snapped at him

‘I don’t want to be.’ he snapped back

“Bag of it and my phone- from my locker.” he explained, ignoring how pitable he likely looked, staring up at Charlie from his position laying on the fall. 

—

By the time Charlie returned most of his skin had healed leaving him feeling raw and over sensitive, but he had managed to sit himself up leaving him curled on the floor with the body bag wrapped around him as he set the remains of the bomb that had been embedded in him to the side.

He returned with the asked for blood and phone as well as a set of blue scrubs.

Elijah-Joel had never been more happy at the sight of them, nine thousand dollar suits could burn for all he cared.

He had lived without the need for that armour, he preferred his jeans, shirts and scrubs.

[baubeautyandthegeek]

Salted Blood - Allison Kerry/Amanda Young

A/N: Day 15 for @augustofwhump

It’s easy, at first, to enjoy pouring salt into wounds. It’s easy because she’s not going to feel connected to anyone she’s punishing… until Allison. Allison who is barely alive by the time she frees her, Allison who yelps with pain even as she scoops her up. This time she doesn’t want to pour salt in the wounds, she wants, desperately to protect Allison, hating the way Allison sobs as she washes and cleans and wraps her hands, hating the way Allison winces when she picks her up again. Blood stains will remain forever but, she hopes, Allison’s wounds will heal.

[between-myself-and-me]

boygenius - Salt in the wound / Pukkelpop, Belgium / August 18, 2023 / source : mattyhealysmellss tiktok

[jacksnotmyname]

“I’ll save you the pain of watching your demon b die”

Lute thinks it is a mercy to die rather than see the one you care for most die.

Vaggie let Lute live.

Lute saw Adam die.

[formulanni]

Daniel Ricciardo as Judgement:

The Judgement tarot card symbolizes the arrival of absolution and the culmination of a significant undertaking, often related to past and life lessons.

Judgement indicates the cusp of rebirth.

In order to achieve that, you must look back upon your deeds and come to an honest evaluation of yourself. This leads to the awakening that signals a new way of life.

Tag list: @st-leclerc @rubywingsracing @saviour-of-lord @three-days-time @the-wall-is-my-goal @albonoooo @ch3rubd0lls

[daddiesdrarryy]

Draco: I’ve got everything I’ve ever wanted. I got a manor. I got a closet full of expensive robes. I got my parents who love me and my ginormous inheritance!

Pansy: Haven’t got Potter yet

Draco: I’m trying, Pansy!

[scalpho]

you'd think fabian would catch a break after bill's death but the second bill clocks out of giving fabian intense ominous speeches (sometimes borderline threats) embedded between "my darling boy"s and "i love you"s, hallariel comes out of 16 years of perpetual drunkenness into sobriety to clock IN to doing the exact same thing. first time we see her sober she threatens to duel fabian to the death. AND gilear is his stepdad. just L after L on the parental front for fabian aramais

[milktea-grn]

mom im tired

[keepin-it-on-the-d-l]

Is now a good time to post these drawings of them that I did literal months ago or

[painsandconfusion]

Squick-worthy things to do with skin

(tw: idk how to tw for prompt lists besides just re-stating the list but there's a lot of skin ripping, twisting, burning, and subdermal things, so I wanted to mention it)

Sandpaper. Rub.

Peel it back a little bit at a time. See how big of pieces you can get.

Cheese grater. Get some longggg strips. Like noodles.

Rub ground glass into it.

Put out cigarettes in open cuts.

Shove a prong under it.

Toothpicks. Let the splinters catch on flesh as they shove under, parallel to the surface.

Burn it until it melts and warps and drips away.

Superglue it to other parts of the body, a wall, the floor, etc. It’ll tear off.

Inject salt water under it.

Stitch cuts shut after shoving things inside. Razors, broken glass, screws, etc.

Melt hot tar onto it and rip it away. See how much skin comes up with it.

Carve the face away from the skull. Tan the skin into a mask.

De-gloving.

Tattoo gun. Acid. Make the scar pretty.

Liquid nitrogen burns.

Add suspension piercings. (Hook slipping under the skin of the back and whumpee hanging by that alone)

Piers. Pinch tight and twist until that spot rips away.

Thread a sharp wire under the skin and send electricity through it. (this one courtesy of wormwriting)

Carving whumpee’s tattoos out to make them ‘perfect’ again.

Cut parallel stripes, filet them away from the flesh underneath (still attached on both sides), then crochet it into a pretty braid straight up like it’s an early 2000’s ripped tshirt.

Visuals:

(tags: @prisonerwhump @whumpawink @mabledonut @happy-little-sadist @paleassprince @distinctlywhumpthing @wibbly-wobbly-whump @batfacedliar-yetagain @suspicious-whumping-egg @meowsikbox @villainsvictim @throwawaywhumper @wild-selenite-caffine @whumpasaurus101 @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpworld @michaeltalks @pinkieglitterheart @whumpberry-cookie @rainbows-and-whumperflies @astralrunic @cursedscribbles @shywhumpauthor @cyberneticwhump @bumpwhump @hold-back-on-the-comfort @veyroswin @whumping-seven-days-a-week @whumpingisfun)

As always, lmk if you want to be added or removed from any tag lists!

[crimsonlyinglilly]

Day 18: came back wrong / unavoidable / muzzle

Day 18 for @augustofwhump.

Saving Elijah - still a working title, after having his memory wiped instead of going to France, Elijah ends up becoming a surgeon in Toronto.

Charlie went to the mortuary for closure, he got something else.

—----

Charlie had come down here for closure, after Zach had returned to the hospital in shock and with a tale he shouldn’t have been surprised by, because of course that that reckless fool would manage to get himself killed. 

At first he had waited expecting Joel to come by and say something; a goodbye, a threat to look after Alex and Luke but nothing.

Nothing but watching Alex’s heartbreak on what should be one of the happiest days of her life and the tiny perfect baby who had no idea what he had lost.

Charlie hadn’t really thought it would happen, that it would just be him. Some part of his mind he had thought they would just keep going on the way it had been, him and Joel both there for Alex, no matter who she chose in the end, and the baby.

Luke.

Joel was meant to be showering the baby in gifts and showing off how much more prepared he was.

Raising a child took work, accidents happened all the time they all knew that, more parents couldn’t hurt, and yet there Joel went proving it by getting blown up before he ever got to meet his-their son.

The mortuary is just as empty of a shouting Joel, he hadn’t thought Joel would just move on without a final word, it didn’t seem like him. 

Yet here he was alone with a bodybag.

He had tried not to look at it too much, he was familiar with death, it came with medicine even before his coma but this was different, Joel was too loud and annoyingly there, to be left in pieces in a bag.

Maybe if he had looked more he would have noticed something different instead of having a near heart attack as the bag jolted suddenly letting out a gasping scream.

After a moment of hesitation he had moved and unzipped the bag to meet wide pain filled dark eyes, but awake, a somehow alive Joel Goran.

“How??” he hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking as Joel sat up, wincing as he could see muscles move though the absence of skin, and then realising Joel could be just as much in the dark as him. 

He had thought for a brief moment this was Joel’s ghost but he had reached out and met bare skin- not skin, most of his body still showed signs of the explosion-  but the shoulders under him were warm and alive somehow, his tightening grip then pulled a noise of pain making him let go.

And watched as Joel toppled off the table, still tangled in the body bag.

“Shit! Joel?”

He would like to say he has grown to be accepting since his coma but this may have been toeing his line, apparently moving past ghosts and onto zombies, but he followed Joel down to crouch in front of him.

Within brain-eating reach, a little voice warned him but he ignored it, because somehow Joel wasn’t dead, Alex didn’t need to be in tears upstairs and their son had a chance of having Joel in his life.

Three parents are better than two, he hadn’t been this fixated on this idea before Joel had died but now he was.

“Give me a minute.” the not-dead groaned, pushing the chance of being a zombie down and Charlie had watched as the man or whatever just breathed as his skin and more slowly regrew.

Because he had been blown up, it just seemed whatever he was didn’t die that way. 

“Phone.” Joel demanded after some time apparently having grown more himself even while still missing much of his skin and hair.

“Are you going to explain how this is happening?” he asked as he realised Joel wasn’t freaking out as much as he should, meaning he knew at least something.

“After I make a phone call, ” Joel replied, adding more before he could argue, “and blood.”

“Blood?” he asked as he stood up, not a zombie then but vampire? Oh he hoped not he wasn’t getting into whether any of the fictional vampires were real, he was fine with just ghosts and the afterlife.

“Bag of it and my phone- from my locker.” Joel explained looking up at him.

Joel had never looked small but curled in the body bag looking up at Charlie, lost, in pain, he looked so young.

He had died, been blown up recklessly saving someone else, trying to do good and almost lost out of the best things in his life, Charlie had left before he let himself think too much more of that.

Joel wouldn’t appreciate the pity.

It took him about twenty minutes; going to get the phone, refusing to think about it when he collected a bag of blood and picking up a pair of scrubs on his way back. The sooner Joel was out of the bodybag the sooner Charlie could stop thinking about how he died.

Then he was hoping Joel had a way of dealing with the fact everyone knew he had been blown up, this was far more complicated than waking up from a coma, this was regenerating from brunt and bloody pieces.

When he returned Joel looked almost normal, right down to his hair, if not for the wide eyes shock which had quickly narrowed as he caught sight of the blood bag, he tossed it to him without another thought and watched as his face changed.

Blood red eyes, dark veins spreading from them and a parted mouth that revealed fangs before he sunk them into the blood bag.

Vampire, Charlie thought as he blinked down, as Joel drained the blood bag within moments, Joel Goran was a vampire, because they were real now.

Joel looked up at him as dark veins faded and dark brown replaced the inhuman red eyes that had been there for a moment, he pulled the empty bag away giving it a glance of distaste as he put down and held his hand up for the phone.

Right this was his new life now, at least he wasn’t alone and Joel seemed to have some idea what was going on.

“So you're a vampire?” he asked, withholding the phone and dropping the scrubs on him. “Get dressed first then you can have the phone.”

“I’d rather not.” Joel told him, making him blink as he noticed a complete shift in his accent.

“Why not?” 

“My skin’s still sensitive and i’m feeling things like a human.”Joel confessed,

“Like a human,” he raised an eyebrow, “How long haven’t you been?”

“That’s the complicated part and the reason I want the phone.” he punctuated the sentence with his hand returning for the phone, normal accent back. “I need to make a call to see if she can fix this.”

“One answer and you get the phone, this isn’t new to you?” he gestured to Joel.

“Still not simple, but no this isn’t new to me,” Joel sighed, taking his hand back to straighten the creases in the body bag covering his waist, barely a trace of New Zealand in words, “A thousand ago my mother cast a spell and my father stabbed me in the heart. Then four years ago after having my memory wiped, for my family’s safety from me, I was found by a grieving witch who somehow made me human and Joel Goran, but today I blew up and woke up remembering everything.”

Charlie stared, looking between the phone in his hand and Joel- or not Joel, and placed the fact Witches were a thing to worry about now somewhere to think about later, after bringing Alex in on this.

“So you're not Joel?” he said, refusing to touch anything else.

“I am,” the vampire snapped, as Charlie watched him twitch, “that's why I want the phone, fix this, go back to what i was.”

“And the thousand years of memories before the last four?” he asked out of pure curiosity.

“Better off gone,” Joel snapped, “I was helping people as Joel.”

“And it got you blown up.” he countered, unsure why he was arguing besides the fact Joel looked far more himself half glaring at him than lost and confused.

“At least I didn’t blow myself up this time.” Joel said bitterly.

“You’ve blown yourself up before?” he repeated incredulously.

“I was trying to kill my older brother, he was trying to kill our niece.” Joel explained “Is it any wonder I'd prefer those memories gone?”

Charlie just looked at him there wasn’t anything to say to that, besides it sounded like something from a gothic novel so maybe vampire fit, even if it didn’t with the Joel he knew.

“And the person you are from them?” he questioned after a pause, only to be met with a wide smile.

“Trust me, I prefer the womanising bastard over the ruthless monster that destroyed everyone around him.” Joel shrugged.

He passed the phone and watched, he could almost see the flicker between centuries old vampire, all stiff sharp movements and Joel, loose limbed and nervous as he looked through the phone for whoever he needed.

Charlie decided then that it wasn’t a hard choice, in the end Joel was Joel, a few changes could be expected after being blown up.

Whether it was centuries of memories or just coming back wrong and trauma, he’d take what he could get.

[shakespearean-simp]

exboyfriend!mattheo watching f!reader clean up her new boyfriend instead of him

when mattheo beat him up after hearing him say to his friends that he was using her and that she was a slut

m: *why doesn't she look at me like that anymore? he doesn't deserve her. i love her. i love her? i love her. i miss her. please come back. i need her. yeah i need her. why does she look at him the way she used to look at me? she deserves someone better. like me. he should eat shit. he looks like shit too. good job mattheo.*

[strawberriesinmoominvalley]

like yeah maybe logan wasn't the second coming of christ but he wasn't that bad. bloody hell

[swagglessmoth]

Just read this

It only has two chapters rn but it’s looking good

Ty for the food @ohai-there 🙏🫡 good luck with uni 💪

[silverskye13]

Helsknight showing up bloody at Welsknight’s base please I need suffering 🙏

There was something to be said about the stupid things he was willing to do in the name of self preservation. Damn his fears, and the unfairness of the universe, and the uncertainty of living [and dying] and everything else. The unknown had always been his greatest weakness, his greatest betrayer. Pity it was also one of the few inescapable things about living in general.

To say Helsknight stepped into Hermitcraft would be a terrible injustice of what stepping normally, let alone gracefully, looked like. What he actually did was stagger and drag himself into Hermitcraft on unsteady and shaking limbs. There were holes in him. He hadn't really taken inventory of them yet. Admitting he had a wound [or several] was enough. The minute he admitted the wounds were bad, in certain terms his mind could comprehend, was the minute shock would steal his senses. He was on Hermitcraft for the specific reason of dodging death, and it seemed to him shock, on any level, meant dying. If he wanted to die and roll the dice of respawn, he would have died in hels, in the alley he'd been jumped in, where he could at least take comfort in familiar cobblestones and the knowledge he'd dragged all his attackers down with him. But he didn't want to die, so he was here.

It was dark. He was inside a building. He was bleeding. Wels was nearby. Those were the only things he needed to know for certain. Helsknight looked around, trying to ignore the sluggish tilt his vision offered when he moved too quickly. The double vision of trying to parse memories of a place that weren't his battled with his wounded animal double vision and together they made him feel nauseous, more so than his wounding already did. Helsknight balled a fist against his sternum, like he could hold himself together that way, and concentrated very hard on walking and nothing else.

Helsknight didn't like being this close to Wels. Not while he was this injured. He could feel the awareness of his other half like a spider on his skin. There was a reflex-like urge to shout and try to shake it off, the instinct-like certainty that if it rested on him long enough it would find a reason to bite him. And he knew, in the way only experience could teach, that if he could feel Wels, Wels could feel him. Helsknight had the sensation of walking a tightrope: his body insisted speed was the only thing that could save him, while his mind insisted he must stay unnoticed. He must balance necessity with making his thoughts and emotions small, and it was hard work to do when he was losing blood.

Helsknight blinked slowly, tiredly. He picked a direction and walked, a hand pressed to the wall, keeping himself upright. Wels's potion room was nearby, a borrowed half-memory informed him, he just had to get there. He searched his drifting thoughts for a poem to repeat in his head, to keep fear and uncertainty from rising. His heartbeat was quickening, a symptom of something; panic, or fear, or blood loss, or all three combined. He was fixing one of those things. He needed to carefully manage the other two, before Wels felt them. The only poem he could think of was in Middle English, and mostly gibberish to him, which told him it came from Wels's memories somewhere.

Why have ye no routhe on my child?

Have routhe on me ful of mourning;

Tak doun o rode my derworth child,

Or prik me o rode with my derling!

[Rhyming child with child was a lazy, but this was written back when one could convincingly spell "down" as "doun" so he supposed he shouldn't be overly critical. The real trick was figuring out if "derling" was supposed to mean "darling", or some other archaic word lost to time. He could only figure out so much from context clues. "Mourning" apparently transcended centuries, and that seemed fitting. Everyone knew mourning, in some form or another.]

An ache opened up beneath his clenched fist, or it had always been there, and his body was only just now reinforcing the fact that it was important. It felt like the mother of all cramps in his muscles, and he stubbornly pretended that's what it was. He needed more potassium in his diet or something, and the gods would forgive him the smear he left on the wall when he leaned on it, waiting on the intensity of his pain to ebb. The doorway he was walking towards seemed close, but also very, very far. Closing distance with it was going a lot slower than he thought it would, and it was only one short hallway. He was glad he'd decided to do this, instead of his other half-considered option of attempting to walk across hels to the Colosseum. He wouldn't have made it.

Dread pooled in his stomach. Dread, and other more physical things, like blood, probably, but he pretended the dread bit was more important. He could feel Wels pricking on his skin again, an insistent spider twitching at a breath on his web. Helsknight breathed out the steadiest breath he could manage.

More pine ne may me ben y-don

Than lete me live in sorwe and shame;

As love me bindëth to my sone,

So let us deyen bothe y-same.

[Sorwe. What medieval idiot thought "sorrow" was spelled like "sorwe"? Maybe it had something to do with inflection. Poetry was half words, half rhythm. Maybe "sorwe" was supposed to indicate they wanted the reader to pronounce "sorrow" as a single syllable, so it sounded more like "sore". That's also probably why "bothe y-same" was sitting there like word vomit. They meant "both the same", but wanted it read without a pause between the first two words. It was really the method for the madness that mattered with poetry.]

Helsknight blinked. He was in the potion room. He couldn't fully remember the walk down the hallway, but that didn't matter. What mattered was there should be health potions in here somewhere, his salvation. Relief edged his vision in stars, and he once again felt Wels's attention cant in his direction, confused and curious. Wels didn't associate feelings of relief with Helsknight. It wasn't an emotion they felt in each other's presence, and it was far too strong to be muffled by the distance to hels.

[He knows I'm here.]

Helsknight opened a chest and rifled through it. His vision was protesting. Stars and tilting that would turn to spinning soon made a clutter of his eyes. It got hard to distinguish the colors of the stoppered bottles. He picked up one that felt overly warm to his cold and shaking fingers. He was pretty sure it was a health potion. It felt too hot, but he reminded himself he was cold from losing blood, so it should feel hot. Hesitantly removed his fist from where it was balled in front of his sternum, and let his eyes unfocus when he grasped the bottle's stopper. His hands were so unsteady, it took a couple tries just to grab it, and when he pulled on the cork, his fingers slipped off weakly. He tried again, eyes closed with concentration, pouring every ounce of his strength into the act of pulling a stopper out of a bottle, only for his hand to slip right off again.

Frustrated, nearing desperate, he looked down at himself for a clean place to wipe his hand on his tunic. It was a mistake. He knew it as soon as he did it. His eyes were inexorably drawn from the fabric to the poke-holes in it, to the wine-dark stain that flowed down his front and still dripped tak-tak-tak slow and inexorable onto the floor. It was a woeful amount of blood. He was honestly surprised he wasn't dead yet. Chalk it up to fortitude, and ignorance, and size. He had more blood to lose than some people did.

Helsknight's world suddenly gave an awful twist, vertigo and the crescendoing, cramping agony of his wounds, only staved off by how his now shattered ignorance, kicking him off his feet just as surely as a horse could. He slumped against the wall, and then to the floor, and the awful jarring of it hurt him worse. Half a dozen other wounds on him aired their grievances, and the big one near his sternum pushed blood onto his fist when he clutched it. Helsknight sat pinned, unable to breathe for many long seconds, feeling a bit like he'd been struck by lightning. The pain was blinding and numbing and overwhelming all at once.

Why-- have no-- have ye no-- something something...

[Words. Breathe. Think of words.]

[Gods... But it hurts......]

Why have ye no routhe on my child?

Have routhe on me ful of mourning;

[And what the hels did "routhe" mean, anyway? He knew the word "route". He knew the name "Ruth". Neither of them fit, unless his bloodless brain was missing something. There was a chance "routhe" was supposed to be read like "bothe", as a double word slurred together, but that still left "routhe the" which made less sense in context than "routhe" did.]

Right. He was supposed to be doing something other than bleeding to death on the floor. Helsknight blinked, looked down at his hand and realized the health potion he'd grabbed was gone. He must have dropped it when he slumped over. Looking around, he spotted it just to the side of his left boot, unbroken, thankfully, but it might as well be a lifetime away for all the good it did him. Helsknight knew without a shadow of a doubt he couldn't reach it. The idea of tensing his muscles and dragging himself forward to reach was exhausting, and he hurt so much he knew the movement would feel like tearing himself in half, and there were just some things a mind couldn't power through. Helsknight laughed dismally and let his head fall onto his chest. Both motions were white hot agonies, but all his pains were starting to blur together into a smear of overwhelming sensation that took thought away. It occurred to him he was breathing too fast, like he'd run too far too fast, and his fluttering heartbeat agreed.

[... It hurts...]

[Gods and saints it hurts.]

[I'm dying.]

A feeling he could only describe as doom fell on his shoulders, a cold grasp of fear that wrapped stony hands around his heart and squeezed. He'd heard of this. Never felt it himself. The utter sureness that if he didn't do something now, he would die. All the unconscious bits in his body in charge of keeping him working all unanimously agreeing they needed divine intervention, preferably right now, before they started shutting down. It wasn't something he often had occasion to feel, though he had heard people tell of it after particularly grizzly matches and bloody tournaments. Death was normally too quick in the Colosseum, or else he'd won his match, and even if he was falling to pieces there was a health potion too close to hand to let him dwell on his harms. This was so terribly different. Death stalked toward him unhurried and unbothered, waiting on him to finish drowning in blood. He might panic, if he wasn't already so cold and scared.

"Ah. This makes some sense, anyway."

Helsknight, who had stopped seeing the world in front of himself without really closing his eyes, refocused his vision on the open doorway. Wels stood there, an angel of death in azure and silver, his sword in his hand. His eyes were the ruthless blue of hels freezing over and lifeless corpses, and Helsknight thought there was no one else in the world he would rather not watch him die. But the universe hated him, so here Wels was, just as surely as if he was fated.

"I didn't think all that fear could possibly be for me."

Helsknight tried to reply, but all he managed was a dying-animal noise that strangled itself out when he tried to breathe a little steadier. He tried again, and this time managed a very weak, but vaguely defiant, "Fuck off."

"Rude," Wels said chastisingly. A glow of something like smug satisfaction prickled Helsknight's skin. The feeling came from Wels. "Especially given I'm the only person who can save you."

Helsknight chuckled, and then stopped when his body seized painfully around the motion. "We both know you don't want to save me."

"No," Wels admitted. "But I don't want to do a lot of unpleasant things I agree to do anyway."

"How... charitable."

"It is a virtue."

"Sure."

Wels didn't move. Well, he did move, but only to sheath his sword. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame, the image of patience, as though they had all the time in the world.

[Hungry spider. Waiting on a web for something to struggle.]

"If you're waiting on me to beg," Helsknight informed him through staggering breaths, "I won't."

"Too prideful?"

Helsknight searched himself momentarily for pride, and came up short. Pride would've dictated he die in the alley, instead of here where Wels could lord it over him. This was something different than pride.

"No."

"Then why not?" Wels asked, raising an eyebrow. "It's easy. Just say, 'Welsknight, please give me a health potion'. Or if you're feeling monosyllabic, just 'please' will work."

Helsknight managed a smirk. "Why not help me out of the kindness of your heart?"

"I don't have any kindness for people like you."

[People like you. What a loaded phrase.]

Have ye no routhe on my child?

There was an entire philosophical debate that could happen in the phrase 'people like you' that Helsknight had neither the time or the energy to bother with. Besides, it was all words Wels knew. Wels pretended to be a chivalric knight. Chivalric knights helped the weak. Chivalric knights saved the defenseless. Helsknight, for all the grievances of his existence, was both right now. Then again, the chivalric knights were also supposed to make war against their enemies mercilessly, so he supposed Wels would be in his rights, as a chivalric knight, to walk away and let him die slowly and painfully on the ground.

As if sensing his thoughts, and likely because he could actually sense his thoughts a bit, Wels said, "You are always going on about how I need to be a better knight. There's something ironic here. No matter what I decide, I think you'll owe me an apology regardless."

The feeling of doom, of bone-deep, agonizing dying mantled over Helsknight again and Wels stopped existing to him. His sense of urgency, of desperation to live clawed its way up his throat. He tried to move his arm, his leg. He got his fingers to twitch. He tried to lean forward, to drag himself with willpower alone towards that stupid potion just out of reach. The potion he wasn't even strong enough to open. His vision collapsed in quickly, and he only knew he'd cried out because he was breathless. But he hadn't moved, besides managing to lull his head forward onto his chest again. Cold fear crawled around in his empty guts, a relentless, caged animal that refused to stop squirming.

[I'm dying.]

[Breathe.]

[I'm dying.]

A shadow fell over him, a presence freighted with hate, and deserving, and dissonant guilt. Wels had come forward, only to stop short when Helsknight's terror swept over him like a wave, and he stood baffled by it, and guilty for it. The fool knight probably thought Helsknight was scared of him. If only. Helsknight thought he would prefer that. At least then he could manage to die gracefully. Wels's fortitude bricked itself up against him then, a bitter soul trying to will itself to be cold and cruel, and Helsknight was thankful for it. It staved off his fear, if only a little.

"What did you do to bring this on, anyway?" Wels asked breathlessly, trying to recover his resolve. Looking for a reason to hate him.

"I was... walking home."

"That's it?" He sounded so skeptical, it was almost funny.

"I committed the terrible sin..." Helsknight laughed out a breath, "... of being fearless when I should have been cautious."

"Hubris."

"Habit."

"Yeah right."

"If I got stabbed like this every day, I wouldn't have come crawling here."

Wels glowered, parsing this statement for truth. Helsknight might have mustered some hate in him for it, if he wasn't so scared. His vision had taken on a permanent blur, and he was getting cold. He hadn't gone numb yet, which was something he found profoundly cruel. He wanted to be numb. To stop hurting. To stop fearing.

[Breathe.]

Why have ye no routhe on my child?

Have routhe on me ful of mourning;

Tak doun o rode my derworth child,

Or prik me o rode with my derling!

[Derworth... "Dearworth", probably. Beloved. So "derling" was probably "dearling", which turned into "darling". Middle English was strange. Just slightly to the left of normal. He didn't think "tak" was a word anymore, except where it existed as pieces of words. "Tak" to "take", to take hold, maintain, maybe. "Tak" to "tack" like a nail. "Prik" also, like "pricking" flesh, like a point digging.]

"Hold down the road, my dearworth child," Helsknight muttered. "Or pick me a road with my darling."

"What?"

"Stupid poem."

"How much blood have you lost?"

Helsknight laughed, and his whole body flinched, and for a moment he couldn't breathe because his pain was so alive and electric it almost stopped being pain. The concern from Wels was laughable. He wished Wels would make up his mind about whether or not he cared. Then he could get on with dying, and the terror would stop, and the universe would take him or it wouldn't, and if it didn't, he would respawn and sleep for a week. He felt Wels's hand on his wrist, which was its own kind of hilarious.

"Trying to figure out how many heartbeats I have left?" Helsknight asked.

It would be nice to know. If Wels figured it out, he hoped he would share the information. Then Helsknight could keep count.

"Your heart's too fast."

"That happens."

Wels stood up and paced, all nervous energy, back and forth across the room.

"You don't deserve my help," Wels told him scathingly, angry for how conflicted he felt. "You don't. You've been nothing but cruel ever since we met."

More pine ne may me ben y-don

Than lete me live in sorwe and shame;

["Pine", like pining. Or pain. More pain? Punishment maybe. "Don" to done. Something like: More pain to me could not be done than to let me live in sorrow and shame.]

Helsknight decided whoever wrote this poem had never been stabbed. He'd felt both sorrow and shame, and neither of them packed quite this amount of punch, in his opinion.

"It probably goes against my tenets anyway," Wels continued, still pacing. "And yours too. Aren't you the one who follows some crazy death god?"

"... Saint... of Blood and Steel."

"He probably thinks dying in a puddle on my floor is glorious."

"... they."

As love me bindëth to my sone,

So let us deyen bothe y-same.

[Maybe he was just getting better at this, or maybe this part was just easy. "As love I'm bound to my son, so let us die, both the same." It didn't flow very neatly when it was simpler. Maybe Middle English wasn't that stupid.]

"I can't help but think you did this on purpose to... I don't know. Test me somehow. Prove you're better. Weak again, Welsknight! For helping your enemy when you should have let him die, or speed him along. Don't you know knights are supposed to be cruel?"

Helsknight tried to call up his own tenets, or Wels's tenets, or anything to do with knights and their duties. He got a little lost on his way, his thoughts meandering and dying, and gasping back to life again when they remembered they were supposed to be searching for something. Something he was scared of. Dying. A wave of fear crashing over him that made Wels flinch, and bid Helsknight keep breathing, because any agony was worth not confronting that one, great, crippling unknown.

"What would you do in my place?" Wels asked him suddenly. "Answer me that, perfect knight. What would you do if the person you hated most showed up one day bleeding on your floor?"

That... was an excellent question. Helsknight searched briefly for the answer, and found it wasn't very hard to find.

"I would help."

"You're lying," Wels said guardedly.

"I... can't lie."

"Then you're dodging the truth. What would you do?"

"I would heal you if I could. Or I would kill you if I couldn't." With strength he didn't know he even still had, Helsknight leaned his head back against the wall. It was easier to breathe that way. To talk.

"Why?"

"No creature is deserving of dishonor or pain."

"That's not a tenet."

"It's not a chivalric tenet." Helsknight shrugged one shoulder weakly. "Chivalry states you can hang my guts from the ceiling if I'm your enemy."

"It does not."

"It might as well."

Wels didn't seem to have a ready reply for that.

"What is routhe?"

Wels blinked down at him, guarded and confused. "Routhe?"

"Routhe." Helsknight repeated, as though it were helpful. "Middle English."

"As in?"

"Poetry."

"Use it in a sentence."

"Why have ye no routhe on my child?"

"Ruth." Wels said, a bit too quickly, like he'd known what Helsknight was asking and was trying to avoid the answer. "We don't use it as ruth anymore. It shows up in rue, like regret, or sorrow. And... ruthless."

"Merciless."

"Yes."

Why have you no mercy on my child?

"Why are you asking about Middle English while you're bleeding to death on my floor?"

Helsknight let out a breath. It hurt, but everything did. "Stupid poem."

"Can I hear it?"

"I'm busy bleeding to death on your floor."

"Tell me and I'll heal you."

There it was again, asking for an excuse. That was Wels's real cowardice, his failing as a knight. He was scared of making decisions. Scared of dealing with the consequences of his actions. Paralyzed by indecision. He wanted to hate Helsknight because it was justified. He wanted to watch him suffer, because hatred allows suffering. He didn't want to label himself cruel, nor be accused of weakness, or softheartedness, if he showed mercy. And he didn't want to pick up his sword and kill, if it meant killing someone defenseless. He wanted Helsknight to give him a reason to act, so he could blame it on him later if it turned out wrong. Given it would likely be Helsknight rubbing his nose in it later if it was wrong, he couldn't really blame him for that.

Helsknight closed his eyes and counted his heartbeats, and pretended he wasn't scared.

"Do what you will."

An hour long minute ticked by. Helsknight felt the time moving like it was physical, like he was falling through it and he couldn't catch himself, and he was nearing his limits. He thought the only thing stopping him from begging for it all to stop was the crushing weight of his fatigue, the exponential strength it took to take his next breath, and that stupid poem, skipping in a circle in his head. It kept his thoughts away from his fear, from bearing the weight of the unknown that came next. It was still there, a nameless, formless anxiety that formed the undercurrent of his thoughts. But he didn't have to think about it when he was busy being annoyed about a poem stuck in his head.

Wels moved. He stooped to pick up the potion Helsknight had dropped and unstoppered it deftly. He was surprisingly gentle as he helped him drink, aware that every movement could cause pain. Helsknight could feel Wels's caution in the air like wings, like a bird hovering before it lands. The first potion wasn't enough to heal him completely, so he got a second from his chests and helped him with that as well, one hand hovering over Helsknight's wounds, waiting on the skin to knit back together. Helsknight got to his feet, shaky, and feeling like he'd been wrung dry of all vitality. There was no pain to speak of, but he was thirsty, and hungry, and exhausted.

"You should rest before you go anywhere," Wels said, words of pragmatic care that sounded stilted coming from him. "I can get you some water."

"I'll be fine," Helsknight told him, allowing himself some hesitant pride now that the smothering pain was gone. Even exhausted, he could think so much more clearly now -- think at all, really. And he thought the longer he stayed here, the higher the chance Wels would come to regret his decision to heal him. They were not made to like each other. They didn't even respect each other as enemies. And Helsknight knew if they fought now, he would lose, and he might lose very badly, if Wels decided to leave him to bleed out again. It was something Wels had never done before, but if he could convince himself Helsknight deserved it, he would.

"Do what you will, then," Wels said, bitterness creeping into his tone. He probably thought he was being coy and ironic. Helsknight mostly thought it was annoying.

"The poem isn't mine," Helsknight said. "It's one you've read before. Middle English. Why have ye no routhe on my child. I don't know the title. It might just be the first line. I think it's a lament."

"... I see."

"Next time you find yourself bleeding out on someone's floor," Helsknight snorted, "Pick something stupid like that. It makes things... manageable."

"Right... manageable."

Helsknight gave a helpless sort of shrug, as though what he'd just said were perfectly normal.

Wels mustered an enviable facsimile of concern when he said, "I've never felt terror like that before."

Helsknight felt his already parched mouth somehow go drier. The sympathy he felt rolling off of Welsknight was sickening. Literally. He could feel himself becoming nauseous.

"What are you so scared of?"

Shame, red hot and searing, clawed at the inside of Helsknight's ribs. He wished so badly he could hide it. Distract himself from it. At least turn it into anger. But he was tired, and he didn't know how to bring his emotions back to heel, and Welsknight was already giving him an open, piteous look like maybe they'd stumbled onto something significant. He could feel hope there, like maybe there was a reason they hated each other like they did, and if Wels could figure out where that fear came from, they could find common ground -- or at least the leverage Wels needed to make Helsknight relent.

"I don't need your pity, white knight," Helsknight snarled. "Go sate your savior complex somewhere else."

Wels scowled. A cold wall of loathing, resigned and inevitable, closed itself around anything else he could possibly feel.

[As it should be.]

Hours later, home and safe, Helsknight cracked open his journal and wrote:

Why have you no mercy on my child?

Have mercy on me, so full of mourning;

Take down the road my dearworth child,

O give me a road with my darling!

More pain to me could not be done

Than to let me live in sorrow and shame

As with love I am bound to my son,

So let us die then, both the same.

[aashiqeddiediaz]

do you ever think about how much it hurts eddie when chris expresses how much of his mother he's beginning to lose. because we know that he does his best to keep her memory alive, that they go to her grave and they talk openly about her. but there are things that eddie will never be able to replicate for him - her voice, the way she smelled, the way she'd walk towards him, how she felt when she held him close, etc - and chris will continue to lose those details even if eddie talked about shannon 24/7 for the rest of his life.

that is a sort of helplessness that i don't think anyone talks about enough, and that makes eddie's expression when he overhears chris talking to buck all the more wounded