#so self-indulgent that not only do i mention the biphasic sleep patterns humans apparently used to naturally practice

[ampleappleamble]

hey fuck it, y'all wanna see what i got so far

—

Vatnir woke up in his berth on the Watcher's ship, and he felt terrible.

Honestly, this came as little surprise to him. He always felt terrible, especially after waking. Over the course of his whole life, he couldn't recall a single night's sleep from which he'd woken feeling "refreshed" or "energized" or any of the other crisp, peppy little adjectives so often applied to the freshly roused. Probably, he figured, because he'd never enjoyed a night of uninterrupted sleep. Of course, for one's nightly slumber to be split into two separate phases was natural and quite common amongst kith all over Eora– he'd recently learned that the Aedyran word for the short period of wakefulness between these two periods of sleep turned out to be the nonsensical and ridiculous-sounding "midderlings"– but his tortured and broken sleep patterns were a different matter entirely.

More often than not, it was pain that woke him prematurely, in his head or his chest or his joints, or if he was particularly unlucky, his bowels. Other nights he'd startle awake only half an hour or so after drifting off, his snores catching in his throat as he choked on the viscous mucus that constantly collected in his sinuses. Certain peculiarities of his physiology necessitated sleeping on his back, and so the horrible gunk would ooze down into his throat as he slept, blocking his airway, and he would damn near pull a muscle in his haste to sit up, hacking and retching in an effort to clear it again. And to add insult to injury, getting back to sleep would then be cruelly waylaid by his traitorous body demanding that the next few minutes be spent expelling more foul, thick sputum from his facial orifices. It was a bit like certain forms of worship, actually– a sort of ritual purification to be performed on a regular basis, dutifully, meticulously, consistently, as penance for the blasphemous act of being alive.

And so, as liturgy dictated, Vatnir sat up as soon as he realized he was awake, swung his legs over the edge of his bunk, and began his sacred ablutions. First, the Scourging of the Throat– violent, body-wracking coughs that ripped up through his chest like a flaming lash, bringing up great gobs of greenish-grey phlegm streaked liberally with blood. Fortunately, this was always the most difficult and painful of his labors, and once it was over he could move on to the next trial secure in the knowledge that at least it wouldn't be getting any worse from here on out. Although his nose was but a distant memory, his nasal cavity was not, and neither were its contents. So, that was next– the Purging of the Sinus. He patted his pockets in search of a scrap of parchment or a length of dirty linen bandage into which he might deposit his burden, and finding none, elected to simply slip his bare hand beneath his mask while clamping the other tightly over his mouth and exhaling as forcefully as he could manage. The resulting mess was discreetly smeared across the underside of his bunk– no one would look there, he was certain– and he repeated the process a few times, the pressure in his ears and behind his eyes easing up with every loathsome handful. Finally, he made sure his hands were clean (or clean enough by his standards, at least) before completing his cleansing rite with the Scouring of the Lashes– scrubbing vigorously at the dried muck encrusting his three sighted eyes with the side of his fist and then picking the bits out of his long, white eyelashes. The remaining eye beneath the bandages on the other side of his head got little more than a cursory swipe, blind and useless as it was, and the two empty sockets on that side– well, those had a cleansing ritual all their own, a more intensive and arduous one that he could put off until later. That's what he kept telling himself, anyway.

The onerous task finished at last, Vatnir sat on the edge of his bunk for a long moment, catching his breath and letting the fresh pain ebb throughout his body until it receded to the familiar dull, throbbing ache that served as his baseline. The ship was much quieter now that the Duskspeaker had set a course back to the Dyrwood, half her crew having elected to remain in the Deadfire or else head off to new adventures in other distant lands. For better or for worse, she captained a skeleton crew now. Gone was the constant din of the formerly lively ship– the shanties, the clatter of tin plates and pewter tankards in the mess, the shouts and laughter alike of sailors working the ropes or gambling on dice and cards. Gone were Serafen's dirty jokes, Edér's incessant whistling, Tekēhu's booming ballads. All gone, and replaced with the gentle crashing of the waves against the hull, the steady creaking of the boards, and the furtive whispers of what few crew remained, speculating about the fate of the world now that Ukaizo and her secrets had been laid bare and the Wheel torn asunder. What would they do now, they wondered?

The unnatural silence made Vatnir's ears ring, and for the thousandth time since they'd departed from Ukaizo, he wondered what he would do, now that he'd cut his Harbingers loose and the Duskspeaker– the Watcher– didn't need him anymore. And once again, just as he had since the first time he'd asked himself that question, he came up empty handed. He heaved a heavy sigh and stared into the middle distance, his throat and lungs still raw and burning.

Gods, I need a smoke.

Yes, yes. That would be a good start.

me: finally the stars have aligned and i have the motivation, the inspiration, and the time to start writing again! i'm gonna write that super self-indulgent sappy steamy corny horny ot3 slowly budding romance fic i've been wanting to write for like a year now!

also me: okay so i'm thinkin i'll start this tender love story with a paragraph or two about one of the main characters suffering a big wet painful coughing fit and blowing his nose into his hand