hallowsden

Hallows_Den

652 posts

A Future To Hope(?) For/The Looming Dread Of Horrors You Cant Yet Fathom

A future to hope(?) for/The looming dread of horrors you can’t yet fathom

In which Zevlor (unwillingly) thinks through the course of his life, and fights the urge to set a perfectly innocent book on fire.

Tw. unprocessed trauma resurfacing at inopportune times, vomit + graphic nausea, inconsistent/failing memory, victim blaming (on himself,) abuse, graphic depiction of a panic attack, implied death, self hatred.

(Yall can thank @hallowsden for this btw, she had the idea of Zevlor having visions of his future that this entire fic revolves around)

The little pad of parchment in his hands taunts him. His name messily embroidered in the leather. (And the name of his baby sister below it. Guilt crawls up his spine as he turns it over, one name of too many lost.)

On its backside is a moon, the embroidery much cleaner, in the same yarn the book was bound in. It’s aged leather burns his hands, yet his calloused skin is not marred.

This first of many dream journals, and idea of his mother from when the dreams, or perhaps more accurately, visions began.

He remembered this one well, or did he? Was this truly the first? Surely not, (it is) surely he should toss it to the fire and dig up the true original. (He doesn’t)

“Momma- I had a funny dream!”

“Is that so sweetling? What was it about?”

(His head spins, he tosses the book onto his desk as he tries desperately to find the sound of her voice in the haze. It doesn’t come, only the words, flat and empty. He pushes on.)

“I was a hellrider! I had one of the big swords an’ everything!”

“Ooh you should tell your father, i’m sure he’d be more than happy to teach you to wield a sword.”

(An old scar, imperceptible under a myriad of newer ones, aches anew. The timbre of his fathers voice rings clear as daylight between his ears as an intense wave of nausea crashes over him, he cannot run. He pushes on.)

He sees himself, barely 5 years old then, running to his father. He scolds himself for his impatience, he should’ve known better than to disrupt him.

His memory jumps (thank gods) to years later, he’s almost as tall as his mother now.

“Momma I had another dream!”

Concern etched into her brow, his baby sister sleeps in her arms. (What did she look like..? The face forms slowly, older than she was then? Before he can stop it the face of her corpse is plastered onto the memory. The nausea climbs further up his throat, he swallows thickly, and he pushes on.)

“Hopefully not another nightmare..?”

“I dunno, it wasn’t a good dream, wasn’t bad either? I was old, older then you n’ dad. But I was… sad? My chest hurt like I was sad, but I couldn’t cry like when you’re sad.”

(Should he be crying? Has he not done enough?)

Her expression is complicated (she knows the word loneliness, he realizes that he did not) she reaches into the bedside table, the book now in front of him, the cover is blank.

“You remember when we found out about your sister, and I told you I might not have time for your dreams all the time?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, I think since you’ve been having so many not good, but not bad dreams you should try writing them down.”

His sister stirs in her arms. The memory falls away as her burnt flesh warps into something akin to an open mouth. He can’t look away, she cries for his help, for their mother, for peace. Her voice swallows him, and he’s out of his seat and retching into his chamber pot before he's consciously aware of having moved.

Time crawls, his entire body aches as he lets himself lay flat on the floor. He is safe here at least (he is not- he needs to run? Run where? Away, he can’t help her- he can’t help any of them. Pathetic oathbreaker he is he can’t save them.)

He wheezes, feels it more than hears it, barely even that over the thundering of his heart. It’s all a world away now. He realizes slowly that he is afraid, though he knows not what is causing it. A thick layer of mud between him and his body, he is afraid. He is afraid? He is afraid.

The book, it’s in his hand? Maybe not, his senses come to him slowly. His throat aches, has he been screaming? Or perhaps just sobbing. The nausea wanes and he sits up slowly, his body protests, he pushes on.

The acrid smell of bile hits him finally as he sits fully upright. The nausea returns. His body doesn’t have the energy to make him throw up again, does it? Hopefully not.

The book?

The book.

It used to have a latch, he thinks. One of them certainly did. A gift from a friend (don’t think about faces don’t think about faces don’t think about faces-)

His writing is cleaner than he expected, as far as expected for a child that is.

‘Momma says i’m supposed to write my dreams down. I think its silly, but if she thinks it’ll help I’ll try!’

It it silly? Maybe he should start a new dream journal, commission dammon to make the latch, he must know a leatherworker for the cover. He could bind it himself, he’s sure-

Off track. He’s off track. Flip the page.

‘I didn’t like this dream. It was so hot, I was tired, but I wasn’t allowed to stop. It was like when-’

Avernus. Flip the page.

Flip the page.

‘My chest hurt this time, it was hot again.’

Avernus. Flip the page.

‘There was a lot of screaming too, I don’t know who was screaming.’

He should flip the page.

‘A little kid with one eye was staring at me, maybe she was screaming?’

FLIP THE PAGE

‘I’ve been stabbed, it wasn’t like that kind of hurt. It was deep between my ribs, like something was missing?’

FLIPTHEPAGEFLIPTHEPAGEFLIPTHEPAGE

His chest aches

Deep beneath his ribs

Like something’s missing.

He sees himself, sitting on the floor of his office, is it his office? His room? He’s not wholly sure actually, he was so focused on the visions he’d not fully processed how far he’d moved when he saw his si-

(DON’T THINK ABOUT FACES YOU PATHETIC WHELP)

Yes, pathetic. A feeble excuse of a paladin, a worse leader, he feels his breathing get heavy again.

He flips the page, and with it he is unceremoniously stuffed back into his corpse. Again, nausea, again, he pushes on.

‘I start martial training today! Real martial training! Not just father yelling at me and hitting me with sticks and stuff, I’ll get to use a real sword! I think I will anyway.’

That at least gives him a reference for how long it’s been, did he really use this journal for that long? He was 16 that day.

‘I don’t like the commander. He reminds me of father, mother says that’s a good thing. I do hope he actually teaches me something.’

He was taught plenty, a firm hand did him wonders.

Did his father not have a firm hand?

Perhaps he did, but his father said little to help him parse his mistakes.

When did he stop calling them dad and momma?

(When did he start forgetting things?)

Flip the page.

He’s at the end of the book.

The end of the book? There were many years of visions, they only recently stopped, he thinks in passing that it’s because he’s fast approaching the end of his life. Just over a decade between him and the average lifespan of a healthy tiefling, he’s hardly healthy, perhaps kelemvor will weigh his soul sooner for that.

… of all things to ponder and not react strongly to his own looming mortality certainly is something.

Perhaps he is just exhausted.

He lays back on the ground where he sat. He is home, he may lay wherever he likes. (A strange anxiety claws at him anyway)

His visions from when he was at the grove pull themselves to the front of his mind. Did he see this perhaps? A mess of a man laid on the floor focusing extraordinarily hard on not hyperventilating (again)

He didn’t.

He saw the pod though, of being an absolute thrall. The gap in his chest “filled” (filled with deceit and gore, ripped further open with dirty claws.)

He's glad of all things, of hundreds- perhaps thousands of visions he had been able to decipher that one. The first and last one he’d been able to.

He still couldn’t save them, he knew of her lies and he still fell to the influence of a tadpole he didn’t yet have. (And would never receive)

He sighs, and closes his eyes a moment, don’t think of faces.

Who are you looking at? His face is familiar yet distant, it’s been an age since you’ve seen him. (Has it?)

Halsin? Halsin. Former Archdruid, one of the group you have to thank for your (pathetic, doomed) life.

He is sad? He has certainly been crying. You are comfortable, your chest nor joints ache, there’s a soft pressure beneath you. Like a comfortable bed, but it presses too close to your shoulders to be a bed.

You are tired.

Another looks down at you, pale as a ghost. The vampire, you think. His name eludes you. You feel guilty, it passes quickly, as does he.

You are tired.

Yet another, with a false eye, Wyll. He smells of Avernus, the smell is uncomfortable but somehow not unpleasant. Then another behind him quickly, one horn and a booming voice. You can’t hear their words, but they’re both crying.

You are tired.

More come and go, you are tired. You cannot move, cannot blink. (Are your eyes even open?)

(they are now)

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up more sore than he wanted, with an awful headache and an odd, comforting calm. It’s rare that he doent’t remember his dreams, typically they sit vivid in his mind like memories would. He stands slowly, anticipating the nausea, the dizziness, the ache.

Nothing.

He pours out his chamber pot and returns it to its usual spot. The book remains on the ground.

He considers leaving it there, before tucking it into his desk.

His ribs begin to ache, it's manageable now. He’s not sure what changed.

As usual, he pushes on.

Part of @eveningatthemoviesnetwork

Taglist: @yarnnerdally • @starrry-angel • @yuelqnn • @yeonpm

Wanna be added? Send me an ask off anon and lmk if you want to be on the sfw only list!