(Awareness) In Absentia

Richard became aware of his surroundings
gradually. In the same way one would slowly lower a child into a baptismal
font, so too did he take in the blurry details of his room, cluttered with a
frenzied hoard of papers, discarded in a manner reminiscent of butterflies on
flowers. The wings of those such creatures fluttered angrily as he jumped to
his feet, alarm and panic leaping to the forefront of his mind as he struggled
to put the events of the past.. hours? Days? Weeks? The fact the his stomach
felt like it was trying to chew itself suggested one of the latter two options.

He closed his eyes to breathe against a wave of
dizziness, clicking hooves echoing in the periphery of his mind. His stomach
roiled further at the sound, a grimace springing onto the corners of his lips.

Resolving to get himself some food, he bathed
and donned new clothes, as he'd noticed he was still in the clothes from.. 'the
incident' in the library. He'd have to.. ask Elias or Lewis what the outcome of
that had been.

He stepped out the door to his room and
blinked. In a single, terrifying moment, he was now facing the door, a plate of
food in precariously balanced in one hand, his favorite teacup with some of his
father's tea sloshing in the other.

Taking a deep, worried breath as terror began
to creep through his bones with single-minded determination, Richard gently set
the food down on the trunk that doubled as his coffee table before sitting down
next to it. Taking a deep breath-

*They Saw and they knew, they knew what needed*
to be done. A deep, throaty roar emanated from the caverns of his hollow chest,
and bird and stag alike joined him in his raucous chorus. They would leave ash
and dust in their wake when He embraced his Becoming to join them and-

-He skittered back in fear and horror, pressing
a trembling hand to his face as his eyes lolled back in their sockets. *This*
wasn't happening*, not again, and certainly not here. He couldn't allow it.*
Wouldn't allow it. There were too many cherished, wonderful lives here to put
at risk.

Perhaps Lewis was right. He didn't like that
thought.

He'd have to schedule a visit to the forest
again. Later though, when he was more or less out of mind from the world. He
didn't like that thought either. He pressed the heels of his hands against his
eyes until he saw stars.

When he removed them, the soft sunlight that
had been filtering through dust-ridden curtains was gone, replaced by the
subdued glow of London at night. His panicked breathing returned, and he
desperately swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. A chorus of screaming
"No!"'s and "Not again, never again!"'s pounded against his
skull in the same way his heart beat against his ribcage and made his chest
ache, *ache*with fear and hopelessness because he knew,

He *knew* there wasn't a single
thing he could do about what was happening. He laughed, a bitter and high
whining sort of thing more like nails against a chalkboard than the tinkling of
resonate crystal that was the most common of the uncommon gesture. There wasn't
a single thing he could do. There hadn't been a single thing he could have done
the first time, or the second or third or fourth or-

Or, or, or.

With the same caution and reluctance any sane
person would treat walking through a den of sleeping tigers, Richard gathered
up the papers scattered in the uncaring embrace of the stone-cold floor.
Glancing down at the jumble of sketches, calculations, and notes in his hands,
he sighed quietly. He knew what he should do and what he really needed to do,
but that didn't particularly mean he wanted to do it.

Still, in the end, he bit the bullet. In this,
he was grateful when he lost time. Richard blinked back into reality and found
his skeletal 'Limb-smithing' arm attached to where his right forearm used to
be. He could still feel the phantom needles of pain where it's replacement had
been, though it was nowhere near as prominent as... the last time he had
removed it. Elias's fearful face flickered behind his eyelids as they closed in
remembrance.

*"Your hands are your instruments of life*
and death. You use them like a maestro of your own discordant symphony, and I
look forward to your further compositions. Now, rest." There was a warm,
calloused hand on the nape of his neck, comforting in its heavy weight. His
vision dimmed, then vanished into the inky darkness of unconsciousness.

He wrenched his eyes open and blinked back
tears and memories alike as some dark, bittersweet emotion crawled its way up
his throat, he glanced down at- and nearly dropped- the shell of his former
right arm. Its inner workings were strewn about his work table, sorted into a
system of salvageable parts and bits for the trash heap.

A quarter of the work done, and he hadn't even
been aware of it.

The watch in the pocket of his trousers (his
shirt had vanished at some point as the heat emanating from the slowly waking
forge grew too much to bear even despite the autumn chill) and the abrupt
return of sunlight to his peripheral vision hearkened the dawn, perhaps even
afternoon of a new day.

A quarter of the work done in a day, and he
hadn't even been aware of it.

Sighing, he prowled into the main part of his
room and swept the clutter off the trunk at the foot of his bed, metal clanging
against metal within. Standing over the forge like a sentinel over a castle, he
began to melt down the ores he had hoarded for so long, the pumping of the
bellows a rhythmic, steady syncopation to his fluttering heart.

It was likely he'd be in a similar state for
some time.

*Tchk, tchk, tchk.*

He closed his eyes and sighed again. The sound
retreated, for the time being. It would be back. The stag always came back.

*"I'd have you live, truly live. And live*
truly. I'd see you whole. And happy. And those you care for safe around
you."*He blinked, his tempo stuttering and*
stilling for but a handful of seconds.

Where had those words come from? He and Doctor
Weir had spent but scattered moments speaking to each other, nothing beyond a
cordial greeting and exchange at the door, perhaps an acknowledgement in the
hallway, and.. whatever had happened in the library.

Nothing so.. painfully honest and open as that.
Nothing so tempting and so trusting.

Shaking imaginary cobwebs from his head, he
retreated in his mind to the forest he would see sometime in the near future,
breathing in the scent of charred wood and pine sap.

He could deal with that when he had properly
functioning limbs again. It wouldn't do to have them break when he needed them
most.

**Jekyll1886:** Lewis
had left Richard to his own devices after the incident in the library. Elias
was obviously better suited to lending him emotional comfort, and Prince likely
needed some space to sort through all the raw feelings and revelations that
night had unearthed, Weir'd reasoned. And he'd had irons in other fires which
needed prodding. So he'd kept his distance....for a time.

That time was up.

Striding swiftly down the hallway, he soon reached the door
of Richard's room. He heard the breath of the bellows and paused, listening.
Then he gave seven quick raps, to the rhythm of "Shave and a Haircut, Two
Bits," and waited.

**Tairais:**  The rhythm
upon his door tugged at a memory weighed down by the rubble of a house long
since burned, and he struggled to keep it there. He stoked the flames for a few
more moments so that alloy he was creating would continue to mix, then crossed
the room in the blink of an eye.

Gritting his back teeth in irritation at the
momentary lack of focus, he cracked the door open, only letting his good eye
peer through. When he saw the man before him, he blinked in surprise and gently
shut the door, quietly murmuring "J-just a moment, if y-you would."

He hastily pulled on a long-sleeved work shirt
that was somehow more ragged than the majority of his wardrobe, a mismatched
pair of gloves, and the seldom-used mask that had once taken the place of his
beloved scarf.

Tying his hair back, he finally returned to the
door, constructing a mask of both weariness and courtesy before he opened it.

"D-Doctor Weir. T-to what d-do I owe t-the
pleasure?"

**Jekyll1886:**  Weir cocked
a brow.

"To what do I owe the stutter,
Richard?" He was confused, and didn't like being so. "And you know
you can call me 'Lewis'."

**Tairais:**  On the
outside, Richard's expression shifted to a politely confused frown. On the
inside, his heart stuttered in his chest as alarms began ringing in the corners
of his mind.

Something wasn't right. Something was missing
again.

"I.. w-was... born with it, and I w-was
n-not aware we w-were at that level of f-familiarity. We h-have had b-but a
handful of c-conversations."

His hands twitched behind his back, where he
stood in a sort of parade rest, shoulders infinitesimally tensed.

Something wasn't right. Something was missing.

**Jekyll1886:**  "Then
how did you miraculously drop it when we spoke earlier?" he asked. What
was this about? Richard was acting very strangely. *Perhaps I should've*
come by sooner...*he reflected. "And I can call you 'Dr. Prince'*
or 'Ričardas' or whatever you like, if it makes you feel more comfortable, but
please tell me what is going on." He held Richard's gaze as he shook his
head. "You seem off."

**Tairais:**  Richard's
frown deepened, panic battering against his ribs. He felt the emotion well,
nasty and tar-like, filling his lungs like filthy seawater.

*He woke, and there was nothing but water and*
smoke and screams in the air. He couldn't see anything, everything was either
hopelessly dark or covered with the shimmering haze of extreme heat.

*He was drowning, he was terrified, and he*
accepted the darkness encroaching on his vision with relief.

He was Richard, not Ričardas- who was this man,
digging up graves long since covered in dirt?

He forced his eyes away from Dr We- Lewis's
gaze. The lights of concern, accusation, and confusion within it felt sharp,
like blood-seeking needles and shards of glass pressing into his throat. He
breathed out some of those shards with careful, practically growled words. "I
a-am as I h-have been. T-there is n-nothing 'off' about m-me.. as f-far as I am
a-aware."

A snarl slithered behind his teeth, curling in
his throat with the single-minded viciousness of a vindictive snake, recently
disturbed from slumber by the thundering of a gun. Falling into a habit he had
thought was broken, his jaw ached as he ground his back molars.

He felt rather like a rabbit cornered by a fox,
and quietly wished he had pretended not to hear the knocks over the sound of
the bellows. Perhaps the buzzing feedback would have been muted by it.

**Jekyll1886:**  Weir was
taken aback, but then his mind caught the last clause of Richard's words,
turned it over, reiterated it internally: *As far as I am aware...* He
seized on it; the rest fell into place.

"I'm afraid that may be the problem,"
he ventured softly. "I'd come to ask how you were, and if you'd considered
my offer, but...tell me, do you even remember it?"

**Tairais:**  He's trying
to manipulate you, don't tell him ANYTHING*Something's*
wrong. He knows it, you know it. Let him help you, damn it.*Remember what happened the last time you let someone*
in?

Low, droning voices clattered in his head,
remnants from people who had no place in the present.

A snarl twitched behind his mask and he took an
involuntary step backwards. "N-no." He suppressed a flinch at his
curtness, but in all fairness, perhaps it was to be expected.

Questions swirled in his eyes covered with a
veneer of suspicion and reluctance. As so often happened, he was torn in two by
paradoxical feeling, and so elected to wait and watch.

**Jekyll1886:**  Weir sighed.

"I was afraid of that. What *do* you
remember of me, Rich--Docto--whatever you want me to call you? Do you remember
the library, at least?" He counted himself lucky to have on the same
emerald-green waistcoat he'd worn that night. Familiar sights could serve to
jog memories, after all.

**Tairais:**  He slowly
shook his head, paused, then sighed, though tension still rippled down his
spine in waves like icewater. Perhaps this was a conversation better suited
away from whatever eyes and ears the walls could have.

"R-Richard, t-then." He stepped aside
to allow Lewis in, adding. "F-for the record, I r-remember only m-my..
'apparition,' y-your stopping of i-it, and t-then Elias's a-arrival. Everything
a-after t-that feels r-rather like l-looking at a c-charcoal d-drawing
underneath m-murky w-water. I r-remember g-greeting y-you at t-the d-door, but
more t-than t-that, I cannot s-say."

He paused, turning over words in his mind like so
many copper coins in his mouth, sharp and sickly-sweet in the panic they
caused. Nonetheless, a few spluttered forth to clatter to the ground.
"F-forgive m-me, b-but w-why, exactly, s-should I trust anything y-you say
as t-truth?"

*Run away run away run away run away* Déjà vu added a wintry taste to his mouth as his vision
flickered, chains sparking into existence around his arms and legs, wrapped
around his chest, the ends of which and the key to unlock them held by the man
before him, just out of reach, always out of reach.

*Tchlk, tchlk, tchlk.*

**Jekyll1886:**  Lewis
entered and heard the door close behind him. The last of Prince's words stung him--he'd
deceived so many others, but not Richard. Never Richard. He'd thought they'd
begun to forge a real connection, a sharing of truth on the level of the
soul. But Prince was either having him on or--more likely--pulling so far
away from whatever it was he thought Lewis represented, whatever part of his
being Weir spoke to, that he couldn't consciously allow himself to remember
their exchange. *Perhaps he simply isn't ready yet*, he supposed.

He didn't bother to hide his disappointment.

"You should because it *is*, but
I know that's no reassurance," he said, followed by a weary sigh. He
couldn't help feeling a little hurt, logic be damned. "There's nothing I
can say to prove it to you." He shrugged. "You'll trust me or you
won't. And if you do, you'll likely forget this conversation as well, I assume
to protect some part of your psyche, or out of a misplaced notion that doing so
will protect your loved ones from you." He paused, then looked him in the
eye, his gaze strong but almost pleading. "What am I to you,
Richard?"

**Tairais:**  Indignation,
confusion, panic, fear, guilt, and weariness battered the inside of his skull
like so many frightened birds, scattering as a storm grew ever near. The edges
of a hidden tapestry in the corners of his mind frayed, fibers floating to the
ground to rest with the dust and ash of so many similar moments

He *wanted* to trust Lewis, but-

But what? What was holding him back?

*He stood upon a seaside bluff, the ground*
quickly eroding beneath him as he waited. There was no time, no time and still
he deliberated, without a care in the world.

*He would fall, and he would ignore his own*
screaming in favor of watching the colors of the sunset bleed together as they
roared past him.

He glanced at the chains shivering in and out
of view still, gaze noticeably lingering on them now. A hole appeared in the
tapestry, and a tiny thread of memory fluttered into his grasp.

*This had happened before. Masks had fallen,*
teacups had shattered, and the pieces had cut into his very sense of self in a
manner that could only be described as gloriously, dangerously addicting in
relief it provided.

A myriad of microscopic expressions flickered
over his face before it settled into one that simply seemed to say 'Ah.
Well...'

A few more minutes of tugging at the thread
would be all it took, and he both lauded and lamented the idea. So many things
were out of order, missing, or replaced, he scarcely knew where to begin.

Making a small gesture towards the other man,
he 'accidentally' let part of his mask flutter to the ground. "You who
would hold the key to my.. Becoming..."

*“One. Two. Three. Four. Mm, yes, the quickest*
way to man’s heart. That was to be our final lesson before your Becoming."

He shook the image from his mind, envisioned
chains constricting, stealing his breath.

"Also holds the key to my undoing, the
ability to tear down ancient castles and crush me under their stones." He
frowned, threads of memory fumbling and slipping from his hands like water in a
thimble into outstretched arms. "You could be a friend. I am not certain
yet."

The ore he was melting had probably done so
already. He had plenty to spare should the need arise. Simple thoughts darting
like minnows: he could focus on those when the shark was dealt with.

**Jekyll1886:**  "Fair
enough," Lewis conceded. "I understand both the allure and the
reluctance, the push and pull of inner currents. To sail the high seas is also
to risk the whirlpool. And to leave the presumed safety of land behind."

Concern creased his features.

"Just take care your 'castles' don't
become your tomb, Richard. Even a man behind walls can drown in his sleep when
a high enough wave crashes in."

His gaze intensified, conveying a sense of
delicate urgency.

"And I read all the signs of a rising
tsunami in you."

**Tairais:**  Richard
chuckled and smirked, both deeply bitter, fragile things.

"Warning signs? Some, myself included,
would say I have been drowning for quite some time, or perhaps I simply never
learned how to swim." He tapped the fingers of one arm against the other,
the soft pings like little metal snowflakes.

*Snowflakes caught in the eyelashes of doe-brown*
eyes, this little waif following him to the ends of the earth for the brother
she'd chosen over the one related to her by blood.

*In the end, it wouldn't matter which one she*
went with. She would have died in either of their care. His care was no less
merciless than the other's would have been.

If his complexion visibly paled (which it
certainly did), he said nothing.

"How would you have me escape the tide,
then? Skipping past the grand design, what would be the cornerstone?"

**Jekyll1886:**  "'Know
thyself.' It's as I've said before: The only true sin is self-deception. All
suffering flows from this. Keep a record of your day, your activities, your thoughts
and especially your memories and dreams, should you recall them. Carry a
notebook with you if it helps. If you're worried about anyone finding it,
simply write in a language no one here can read--perhaps that Slavic one I
heard you use earlier. Jot down the time, so you'll be aware if you've missed
any. Learn *all* of who you *are*. If you wish to
discuss any of it with me, then do so. If not, I'll understand. But review your
log each day. And the previous day's, if you find you can't remember its contents.
And so forth. Eventually, through habit, some of that self-knowledge will creep
its way into your consciousness permanently. *That's* the
cornerstone. Take a torch to the fog that blinds your mind. Let illumination
shine in."

**Tairais:**  Richard
blinked, hints of thoughts bubbling to the surface of his face at the
unexpectedness of the suggestion. (Though in fairness, what *had* he
been expecting? A suggestion of child sacrifice? He shrugged away the memory
faster than the blink of an eye.)

Would that even work? Did he want it to work?
He knew what he kept hidden from himself, it had bubbled forth during.. the
Incident with Elias.

He shoved those memories away quickly, locking
them away in their vault.

Did he want this? Perhaps he was perfectly
comfortable with his knowledge of himself as it was at present.

...

Upon further reflection, in the span of half a
minute at most, he realized two things:

1) He was not, in regards to his last thought.

2) That was entirely due to the man before him.

A dark flicker, a hint of the beast never
really caged, danced behind his eyes, and yet he found he couldn't entirely be
irritated.

Another blink, and each and every thought and
emotion was tucked away, never to be seen again. A mask reassembled, the broken
pieces repaired.

*"The teacup has come together for*
us." A conversation never meant to be overheard. Significant in all the
ways he was not.

He nodded slowly, unable to find words to
explain such a monumental decision, spurred by something so simple as
curiosity. Perhaps that was a good thing. He could practically hear his father
chiding him, away from the comfort of his mother.

*"Precision of language, son. Whole empires*
have fallen from a lack of it. Take care you do not disappoint me by doing the
same"

He stood as still as a stag in the aftermath of
some distant and great cacophony, head tilted in such a manner as to determine
his chances of being caught in the storm.

*Tchlk, tchlk, tchlk.*

**Jekyll1886:**  Lewis kept
quiet, observing the ripples play out. When the other at last nodded, he
returned the gesture. Without a word, he reached into his waistcoat pocket,
withdrew a small, brown-leather journal, and offered it to Richard.

**Tairais:**  Richard
gently took the journal, fighting back a wave of instinctual tension when he
realized he'd revealed his temporarily skeletal hand.

It didn't matter, he had to keep telling
himself that. Whatever happened, it wouldn't matter.

He traced the spine of the book for a second
before freezing, the movement as jarring and statue-like as ever. After a
pause, he smiled, adopting the full musical hoarseness of his original accent
instead of the patchwork quality of his natural one.

"Not Slavic. Lithuanian. Quite an
important distinction, given our history."

*Soldier, so many soldiers. Starving, wounded,*
forsaken by family, clutching to his little brother, doe-eyed and terrified as
screams echoed in the frigid January air.

*Almost thirty years a- wait.*

Almost thirty years ago. He frowned,
apprehension lurching sickeningly in his stomach.

The bright flash of a camera's bulb, gone in an
instant, yet the impression was left behind.

He'd need to hunt down the family records at
some point. Something wasn't right.

But that meant leaving home and going to the
ghost of one. That meant leaving Elias, meant leaving his work and Catt and
Dreamer and Lewis and all the sort-of-friends he had amassed for a journey that
could take..

Months.

It wasn't imperative. It could be dealt with
when this chapter of his life inevitably ended in the next great catastrophe of
his life.

If his grip were still flesh, his knuckles
would have been bone-white. As it stood, the leather of the journal gave a
creaking protest, mind's eye returning to one brutal image after another.

There had been so much unnecessary shouting in
his life. So much *noise*. He couldn't remember why that distinction
was so important.

He would, in time. He was chillingly certain.

**Jekyll1886:**  "I
wouldn't care if you were French, Russian, or Hindustani," Weir asserted,
"though I'm thankful for the insight. We are people first, Richard. And
war is Hell for everyone." His tone and expression conveyed that he spoke
from experience, his gaze briefly far away as his mind's eye replayed the
horrors. For just a moment, the whiff of a charnel reek returned as he fought
to focus on the room around him.

**Tairais:**  The
distinction was more a matter of national pride, though he swallowed the bitter
pill, as the course of the conversation shifted before he could say as such.

"That it is.. That it is. Man, woman, and
child alike, all fall before the wrath of their own kind."

His grip slowly relaxed, though he had had a
rather difficult time tearing his gaze from its place on the floor. Any further
words he wanted to say felt wrong, felt clumsy in their shared experience.

He sighed, and he thought, and he paid no mind
to the sounds of his ever-present companion.

*Tchlk, tchlk, tchlk, tchlk.*

**Jekyll1886:**  Weir waited
a moment, coming back to himself; he noticed, not for the first time, the
spidery framework of Richard's artificial bodywork. A question surfaced in his
mind, but would it do to ask it? At the risk of overstepping bounds, he
proceeded.

"The Uprising, Richard...is that when you
lost your...?" he ventured, giving a shallow, upward nod. From the look in
Lewis's eyes, this wouldn't be the first wartime maiming he'd witnessed.

**Tairais:**  Richard
glanced down at his arm and startled slightly, having forgotten his project for
a handful of moments. With the smile of one sharing a joke with themselves, he
shook his head. Though it pained him to talk about it, to remember even the
barest hints of those memories, (for he did remember them, though it was in the
same way one remembered a particularly ugly set of chinaware, and as such put
it in the back of a cabinet)he still did.

"No, the arms I lost elsewhere, though
I *did* lose part of a leg from the whole ordeal." He
wouldn't mention the eye if Lewis didn't. He wouldn't expand upon his answers
if Lewis pressed. Understanding would come with time, and the secrets of his
limbs were written in the map of scars across his body. Lewis could look, and would
likely know.

Though it brought to mind an excellent
question: How had he kept going?

The only answers he could think of were both
simple and not: The desire for revenge. Spite, stubbornness, and an inherent
reluctance to face what lay beyond the veil.

There were any number of other smaller yet no
less significant reasons. Some more recent than others, yes, but still there.

**Jekyll1886:**  Weir
inclined his head downward a fraction of an inch, then back up, his eyes closed
and lips pressed together for a split-second as he acknowledged the other's
loss. His own hadn't been so physical, in the end; the flesh had healed. But
internal wounds were no less damaging, in their own way. The War had changed
everyone, himself included.

His thoughts wending again to the present, he
drew in a breath, then let it out, letting the sting of the past go with it,
until it was nothing more than a dull ache in his chest and a faintly
bittersweet undertone to his demeanor. He managed a small smile, but said
nothing. No words would be adequate.

**Tairais:**  Richard
returned the sort-of-nod and offered a small smile of his own, picking at the
threads of a fraying patch on his shirt. The very air itself seemed profound in
their shared silence, though he could find neither words nor experience to
illustrate precisely how or why.

A new memory for the halls of his mind. A new
painting, a window into a shared soul. If a picture was worth a thousand words,
than the caverns of his consciousness held millions and millions within their
clutches, many tucked away into darkness, begging for a torch to be thrown over
them.

And here before him was a man willing to hold
the rope in place as he climbed and explored.

Uncertainty was too light a word for the
trepidation he felt, just as determination was too small a word for the drive
he felt to know himself to protect others from himself.

A cliff to jump off of, a gaze to meet to pull
a trigger, clutching a burning match before a pile of oil-soaked kindling.

The list could go on and on and still, nothing
would quite fit.

Distantly, his mind kept reminding him of his
temporarily-abandoned project. Still, he would not stoop so low as to ask Lewis
to leave. That would be quite rude.

*"Whenever feasible, one should always eat*
the rude."

Quite.

**Jekyll1886:**  The silence
was both profound and encouraging, and Lewis savored it, drinking its truth.
But, in time, all things must end. And so, at last, he drew the moment to a
close, the transition as natural as a peaceful death.

"Well..." he said, glancing from the
journal to the metalwork and back to Prince, "I'll leave you to it."

**Tairais:**  Richard nodded again, temporarily smoothing the
swirling eddies of emotion under his ever-ashen complexion. With a small, mischievous
glint in his eye, he mimicked the words from their last parting.

This time, however, there would be less hiding.
He would forget some of their encounter, certainly, but the terror within
himself was overruled by the tentative promise of someone to see, understand,
and reserve judgement.

He comforted the trembling man within him with
the knowledge that, should Lewis turn on him like so many others, he could
easily overpower the other man, despite his unassuming appearance.

"Bonne journée, Docteur. Until our paths
cross again."

**Jekyll1886:**  Lewis
smiled.

"Fare well, Richard," he returned,
the separateness of the first two words evident, though not glaringly so.
"Until then." With that, he took his leave.

**Tairais:**  Smiling
without mirth, Richard returned to his workshop and shut the door behind him,
muffling the sound of hammer and tongs and hooves alike.

*TCHLK, TCHLK, TCHLK, TCHLK, TCHLK, TCHL-*

He nearly dropped his hammer onto his good foot
as he gasped in pain, lurching forward with the full power of the stag's run as
it bared its horns into his torso again.

This time around, the symbolism and memories
were just about as subtle, though they were gone before he could commit them to
paper.

They seemed important, though. The taste of tea
and bright laughter tasted bitter in his mouth, like the ghosts of a
conversation that walked into an early grave.

He turned his neck to gaze at the shoulder of
the great beast and let out a wheezing laugh, imagined blood burbling in his
throat.

"I am.. n-not him. You know this,
r-right?" His vision swam with spots as the scene shifted again and again,
faster than he could blink, a horrifying kaleidoscope of sloppily amalgamated
memories, dreamscapes, and nightmare realms alike. His head ached and pounded
with the screeching cacophony of white noise that accompanied each change, the
sound increasing in volume exponentially.

It drove spkes of pain through his eyes, and he
gritted his teeth to bite back an anguished cry. "W-what, exactly, are you
trying to s-show me?"

The stag didn't answer. The stag never
answered. He supposed that was a good thing. He didn't think the stag talking
would ever be good.

The pain and images flashed out of as existence
as suddenly as they came, and he nearly fell forward into the molten metal
before him.

Slowly and shakily breathing in, he returned to
his task. There were a great many days of work ahead of him, and none were yet
behind him.