"You smell like something crawled into the sewers and died. When's the last time you bathed?"
There was no warm water in the house. The castles always had an abundance of hot water, but here, in this small slum dwelling shared between at least three or four people, the water was only cold. He wasn't sure it would matter, whether warm water would remind him just the same, but he knew this would. He dreaded it.
As the tub filled, he pondered his situation. Was this a dramatic irony? A play where he is the star, and the only one unaware of the underlying theme? He was never the star, he thought. No. He had always been a background character. He had always been the sidekick at best, and a face in the crowd most of the time. Whether he was the lead character or not, he had lived in more luxury than he ever realized. Of all the things he had taken for granted, too numerous to list, it seemed that warm water would be the one that he yearned to have back at this moment in time.
Once the tub had filled, he sat there beside it. All he had to do was step into the tub, yet here he sat. He saw the action in his mind, but his muscles were not compelled to act it out, nor was his mind compelled to command them to. How long had he been sitting there, he wondered, and how long would he sit? He wondered if he was scared of nothing, if he could just submerge his body in the water without triggering it. Perhaps it was an irony, he thought, that the man who had once been a fearless knight was reduced to cowering before a tub of water. Of all the abominations and horrors he had so confidently stood before and wielded his trusty blade and shield, it would be none of them that brought him to his knees.
Though his instincts screamed a hundred horrible things that could happen, he knew the tub could not harm him. He had looked death in the eye, he told himself, and defeated it. So he stepped one foot into the tub, and then the other. He wondered if it were better to submerge his body quickly or slowly into the frigid water beneath him. His legs had fared fine, so riding on his small bit of courage, he decided to simply get it over with.
He was wrong.
Immediately, reality was snatched away from him, and he was jerked back to that night. Though he was hardly conscious, his lungs already having given up, he could once again feel the smothering sensation as water rushed through the coarse burlap that encased him. He couldn't breath. He felt the rough burlap on his face, the water stinging his eyes and nasal cavity as it rushed in every empty space. He felt the sensation of falling, landing on water, and sinking. The shock of frigid canal water on every square inch of his body.
He didn't drown. He didn't live long enough to. He only lived long enough to feel as if he had.
He thrashed, but couldn't tell if it were part of the memory, or himself thrashing in the tub.
His vision jumped ahead. He held the handle of a knife in his hand, and the sack had opened before him. He had no breath, but his body fought to reach the faint moonlight ahead of him. It jumped forward again, and he was lying on the rocky riverbank. His lungs burned, the water within feeling ten times the size of the space it filled. He choked, and tried to cough, but the sensation was more like vomiting. There was not enough air in his lungs to even make the noises he expected.
A figure stood over him. His lungs no longer burned, all he felt was the rapid shaking of all his limbs and the cold embrace of the air on his bare, wet skin.
"By the Spirit! Are you alright, Lev?"
He looked around himself. He was back in the bathroom. Pulling himself up off of his back, he wrapped himself in the towel that was handed to him. Every hair on his body stood tall, and he shook so violently he feared his teeth would fall out. He looked to the candle that cast it's faint, warm glow on the room. It had been only a minute since the tub was filled.
He prayed to the Spirit that it would not rain that night. Should any lightning fall, the sound through the broken window beside his bed would certainly filter directly to him. He could only close his eyes as tears tried to wedge them back open, and wait for the thunder to return him to that night once again.
CRACK
He prayed to the Spirit that he would not have to look them in the eyes as the three bolts simultaneously struck his body less than half a second after the crack. Not again, he pleaded.
He didn't bathe in a tub of water. Never again, he thought, could he bring himself to enter water like that. He looked in the mirror as he bathed himself with a damp sponge. A face he did not recognize stared back. The most alien feature was the violet eyes, glowing through the dark.
In that moment, he envied death. The only remaining certainty in his life seemed to be suffering. Some moments, he wasn't sure if he had lived at all, or if this was the afterlife.
Only a folk song filled his mind. He sung quietly to himself as tears ran down his face.
"I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger,
Traveling through this world below
There is no sickness, no toil no danger
In that bright land to which I go
I'm going there to see my father
And all my loved ones who've gone on
I'm just going over Slumber
I'm just going over home
I know dark clouds will gather 'round me
I know my way is hard and steep
But beauteous fields arise before me
Where the Spirit's redeemed, their vigils keep
I'm going there to see my Mother
She said she'd meet me when I come
So, I'm just going over Slumber
I'm just going over home
I'm just going over Slumber
I'm just going over home..."
@RyriaThere was no warm water in the house. The castles always had an abundance of hot water, but here, in this small slum dwelling shared between at least three or four people, the water was only cold. He wasn't sure it would matter, whether warm water would remind him just the same, but he knew this would. He dreaded it.
As the tub filled, he pondered his situation. Was this a dramatic irony? A play where he is the star, and the only one unaware of the underlying theme? He was never the star, he thought. No. He had always been a background character. He had always been the sidekick at best, and a face in the crowd most of the time. Whether he was the lead character or not, he had lived in more luxury than he ever realized. Of all the things he had taken for granted, too numerous to list, it seemed that warm water would be the one that he yearned to have back at this moment in time.
Once the tub had filled, he sat there beside it. All he had to do was step into the tub, yet here he sat. He saw the action in his mind, but his muscles were not compelled to act it out, nor was his mind compelled to command them to. How long had he been sitting there, he wondered, and how long would he sit? He wondered if he was scared of nothing, if he could just submerge his body in the water without triggering it. Perhaps it was an irony, he thought, that the man who had once been a fearless knight was reduced to cowering before a tub of water. Of all the abominations and horrors he had so confidently stood before and wielded his trusty blade and shield, it would be none of them that brought him to his knees.
Though his instincts screamed a hundred horrible things that could happen, he knew the tub could not harm him. He had looked death in the eye, he told himself, and defeated it. So he stepped one foot into the tub, and then the other. He wondered if it were better to submerge his body quickly or slowly into the frigid water beneath him. His legs had fared fine, so riding on his small bit of courage, he decided to simply get it over with.
He was wrong.
Immediately, reality was snatched away from him, and he was jerked back to that night. Though he was hardly conscious, his lungs already having given up, he could once again feel the smothering sensation as water rushed through the coarse burlap that encased him. He couldn't breath. He felt the rough burlap on his face, the water stinging his eyes and nasal cavity as it rushed in every empty space. He felt the sensation of falling, landing on water, and sinking. The shock of frigid canal water on every square inch of his body.
He didn't drown. He didn't live long enough to. He only lived long enough to feel as if he had.
He thrashed, but couldn't tell if it were part of the memory, or himself thrashing in the tub.
His vision jumped ahead. He held the handle of a knife in his hand, and the sack had opened before him. He had no breath, but his body fought to reach the faint moonlight ahead of him. It jumped forward again, and he was lying on the rocky riverbank. His lungs burned, the water within feeling ten times the size of the space it filled. He choked, and tried to cough, but the sensation was more like vomiting. There was not enough air in his lungs to even make the noises he expected.
A figure stood over him. His lungs no longer burned, all he felt was the rapid shaking of all his limbs and the cold embrace of the air on his bare, wet skin.
"By the Spirit! Are you alright, Lev?"
He looked around himself. He was back in the bathroom. Pulling himself up off of his back, he wrapped himself in the towel that was handed to him. Every hair on his body stood tall, and he shook so violently he feared his teeth would fall out. He looked to the candle that cast it's faint, warm glow on the room. It had been only a minute since the tub was filled.
He prayed to the Spirit that it would not rain that night. Should any lightning fall, the sound through the broken window beside his bed would certainly filter directly to him. He could only close his eyes as tears tried to wedge them back open, and wait for the thunder to return him to that night once again.
CRACK
He prayed to the Spirit that he would not have to look them in the eyes as the three bolts simultaneously struck his body less than half a second after the crack. Not again, he pleaded.
He didn't bathe in a tub of water. Never again, he thought, could he bring himself to enter water like that. He looked in the mirror as he bathed himself with a damp sponge. A face he did not recognize stared back. The most alien feature was the violet eyes, glowing through the dark.
In that moment, he envied death. The only remaining certainty in his life seemed to be suffering. Some moments, he wasn't sure if he had lived at all, or if this was the afterlife.
Only a folk song filled his mind. He sung quietly to himself as tears ran down his face.
"I'm just a poor wayfaring stranger,
Traveling through this world below
There is no sickness, no toil no danger
In that bright land to which I go
I'm going there to see my father
And all my loved ones who've gone on
I'm just going over Slumber
I'm just going over home
I know dark clouds will gather 'round me
I know my way is hard and steep
But beauteous fields arise before me
Where the Spirit's redeemed, their vigils keep
I'm going there to see my Mother
She said she'd meet me when I come
So, I'm just going over Slumber
I'm just going over home
I'm just going over Slumber
I'm just going over home..."
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