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witchcraftandburialdirt · 2 months ago

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𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 / 𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐄 : 𝚁𝚘𝚋𝚒𝚗 𝙰𝚕𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝙱𝚊𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚎 ━ Triggering Content Ahead: Please Proceed with Caution ━

As the firstborn son to Bran and Palila Baudelaire, Robin was born on the fateful day of June 28th, 1788, amidst torrents that drenched Suffolk ( it was, after all, the wettest day ever recorded in the city). However he was not to stay here within the bustling world of man but in the quietude of a small, unnamed town in the open fields of Northumberland. The world was the same as it always was, and men like Bran rarely found the comforts of family; the Baudelaire household was an oddity to say the least. It was even more infrequent for men of Bran's occupation to ever settle and marry; Sin Eaters were the dredges of society after all — vilified but needed — a necessary evil in the eyes of many within the Northern English countryside. Most would not want to marry a monster. Yet the boy's days were painted with the colors of nature and the woodland — gardening beneath the watchful eye of his mother, hunting in the trees along his father's side, and nurturing a bond with his siblings, Wren and Linette. He did not understand, in his young age, why the world gazed upon them with such scorn.

A sin-eater is a person who consumes a ritual meal in order to spiritually take on the sins of a deceased person. The food was believed to absorb the sins of a recently dead person, thus absolving the soul of the person. Many funerals were attended by a professed "sin-eater," hired to take upon him the sins of the deceased. By swallowing bread and beer, with a suitable ceremony before the corpse, he was supposed to free it from every penalty for past offences, appropriating the punishment to himself. Sin Eaters were not often the study of academia due to their shrouded and often reviled existence; Abhorred by the superstitious villagers as a thing unclean, the sin-eater cut himself off from all social intercourse with his fellow creatures by reason of the life he had chosen; he lived as a rule in a remote place by himself, and those who chanced to meet him avoided him as they would a leper. This unfortunate was held to be the associate of evil spirits, and given to witchcraft, incantations and unholy practices; only when a death took place did they seek him out, and when his purpose was accomplished they burned the wooden bowl and platter from which he had eaten the food handed across, or placed on the corpse for his consumption. ( Funeral Customs by Bertram S. Puckle ; 1926 )

As was tradition, Robin Altus Baudelaire learned his destined profession at the tender age of innocence, when his eyes were still round with light and his cheeks like apples. Bran was a man of unwavering faith and often spoke of the virtues of piety and mercy, imparting the belief that to sacrifice oneself for the sake of others mirrored the divine compassion of Christ. Martyrdom became a beautiful thing to the boy, and while the townsfolk remained blind to their struggles, Robin's heart held firm to the conviction that when the world crumbled beneath time's weight, they would understand the grace that had granted them passage into Heaven’s hold. Perhaps then they would be able to look upon the family without such reckless hate. A lofty dream. Still, despite the leers and glowers, nestled on the fringes of a quaint village, their small home stood as a refuge against the wild forests just beyond the horizon of the ebbing grass sea, of their neighbors' contempt.

Life was peaceful, despite its hardships, and Robin's heart never emptied, even if some days his stomach would. However, a brutal winter in 1800 swept through, and with it came an unseen terror — almost certainly the greatest calamity of his time — riding upon the winter winds was Father Death cloaked in white. One night, Linette, Robin's beloved sister, coughed blood across her pillow. It was the beginning of the end. She would be the first to fall, and as the silver moon waxed and waned, the Baudelaire family succumbed one by one to the relentless grip of the disease, decaying from the inside out. All except their eldest son, who was now tasked with the perilous journey into the town they served — a place buzzing with life and commerce, and worst of all, man. He was instructed by his father to venture forth to the apothecary to fetch cod liver oil and turpentine, remedies with the potential to stave off consumption. For as long as it could, anyway.

But aged only twelve and without the ability to read the delicate labels of the vials lining the shelves, Robin found himself at a loss when crossing through the apothecary's aisles — and in a moment of desperation, he asked the owner for help. But the moment he spoke, the atmosphere shifted and icy fingers crawled their way up Robin's spine. The Baudelaires were a family marked by grief, their hair shimmering like moonlight-woven thread, and as such horrible rumors clung to their presence and haunted their steps. Chatter coursed through the two other clerks quickly, suspicion twisting their gazes as they recognized the boy’s lineage. Unease simmered; for now the question was why the Robin had truly traveled into town. His kin oft came in the wake of death; so what foul omen was he? Fear was always eager to fester within men when confronted with the unknown, and upon hearing the medicines he requested, it ignited within the shop and spread like flame to dry grass. The apothecary provided the boy with the necessary ailments, as he'd very politely asked, but not without paying a heavy toll. For now the men within the village knew that Father Death loomed over the Baudelaire home, ready to ride their gasping moans further into the town and poised to claim what was rightfully His … and such things could not be ignored.

Ultimately, their home was a mere transient stop on the Grim's remorseless journey — a stepping stone marked by the stench of a lingering malevolence; they were diseased rats who had come to chew festering wounds along the shire's wintry and pale pastures.

During one cold December night, the young Baudelaire bairn awoke with a start — but not due to the chill. No, no, something was wrong; he could tell that much, but the specifics were lost on him in the dark. However, a ghostly whisper tugged at his consciousness, urging him to listen closely and to keep quiet, and in his panic, he did.

Outside Robin could hear the hushed and hurried murmurs of men echoing through the thick veil of night, mingling with the soft rustling of hay. He couldn't make sense of it at the time, and being a polite young lad, he quietly went to greet these sudden strangers — but panic seized him when he realized the door was barred. Something, or rather someone, had jammed it shut, but once again … why? A tender chide of the same voice from earlier told him to flee, nevertheless cruel and ravenous flames began to snake around the doorframe, their flickering tongues illuminating the planes of Robin's young face as he recoiled in terror. Each crackling ember seemed as a thousand eyes to reflect the devil's wickedness, soon rolling together to transform the entrance into a gaping maw eager to consume everything within its reach.

Hastily he dashed to his family, trying to rouse them from their infected dreams, but they remained ensnared in a slumber far too deep to wake now. Only little Linny opened her eyes, and Robin practically threw himself at her to try and lift her out of her blankets. Yet, as he grasped her frail form, the weight nearly crushed him. He was not a strong boy — and he struggled, weak and trembling … what little strength he had waned as the choking smoke filled his lungs. With a final, desperate effort, he dragged her halfway from the bed, only to slip and fall to the floor, where the searing heat began to lap at his hands and ignite the fluttering edges of his nightshirt.

The bright orange beast roared to life, and Robin's will to live fought to bring him to his now calloused and bubbling feet; with one final glance towards his weeping sister, he left her screaming and reaching for him. Each step was walking on embers, and the sharp sting of her cries were glass shards in his ears, but he gritted his teeth against the pain and summoned every ounce of endurance he had to reach the rear of the house. His bloodied fingers clawed nothing short of a frenzy on the splintered window frame of the storage room, his nails breaking and his hands raw from the relentless struggle against the cruel timbers blocking freedom from this hell. Each jagged edge tore at him, but in his mindless adrenaline fueled high, he carved a path out, determined to escape the fiery grasp of doom lingering just behind. With each wooden creak Robin felt the delicate breath of winter kiss his scorching skin through the cracks, and with a final surge of will, he shattered the remaining glass and tumbled into a world blanketed in pearlescent shimmer. Each snowflake swirled like a thousand daggers against his burning skin, and the merciless cold gnawed at him and nearly stole his life away, but his body forced him to stand once more — to finally flee from this wretched place. The towering trees looming ahead offered a haven from the hunting dogs and their whistling owners; there were far too many trees and dense underbrush to bother … And so once everything fell silent, Robin went the only way he could: forward.

But for all of his determination, Robin had seen too few winters to withstand the savage bite of the icy chill and decided instead to quietly nestle within the dense thicket, content to surrender to the exhaustion that clawed at his aching limbs and burned in his weary eyes. As the frost crept insidiously into his flesh and bones, he felt a warmth beckoning him, a promise of rest that whispered sweet and soft. Teetering upon the brink of sleep, the familiar comfort of his mother’s arms enveloped him, lifting him up as she had done in his childhood and cradling him against the safety of her chest. The ground beneath him transformed into a soft bed of snow, each flake a delicate touch against his numbed skin, inviting him deeper into dreamless slumber. Yet, a gentle sound stirred the soupy lull of his brain, and the world blurred around him as Robin urged himself to peel open his heavy lids. When he finally managed to lift his gaze, he saw what he thought to be a cloaked man seated on a horse emerging from the swirling white. Fear and fatigue battled within him, but he could no longer run nor resist, and with nothing left, he closed his eyes.

Father Death had come … He should have known better than to run.

He reached neither Heaven nor Hell that day, and by the following evening the boy’s fatigued body, once frozen stiff, began to thaw like the first light of dawn breaking through dense clouds. He awoke to the soothing purr of a small cat snuggled against his chest, and Robin's eyes fluttered open and stared into the glow of a crackling hearth — relaxing as he saw its contained and crumbling state. For a fleeting moment, a fragile hope blossomed within him which momentarily banished the thoughts of despair threatening to stain his mind. Perhaps, he dared to dream; all of his trials were nothing more than a cruel fantasy — a nightmare he was glad to be free from. But as reality seeped back in, it bore the weight of bittersweet truth: his father’s familiar silhouette did not grace the threshold of the room in greeting, and as his vision cleared, he was soon to find that he was not in his home. Still, Robin could not bear to lift his body from its resting place, and with a reluctant heart, he gave in to the gentle lull of his surroundings and let the veil of sleep wash over him again.

It was here, amidst flickering candlelight and aged parchment, that Robin's life would change; whether for better or worse, one could not yet say. The lost child was nursed back to health by that same figure who had found him in the woods that day. His name was Abel. He was a compassionate young priest with a gentle heart who had just come to town to bring a new dawn to the church. Upon his trek through the forest, he had miraculously spotted the boy collapsing into the nearby brush, and once he had bundled the bairn up in his extra jackets, he took him home. Robin learned that he was tasked with filling the shoes of their beloved but long-retired clergyman, and he also learned that Abel's wisdom and kindness knew no bounds. Many people warned the priest of his ward, of the cursed blood in his veins, but it mattered little to Robin's new guardian. He saw the Sin Eaters not as devils but as souls burdened by suffering, deserving of understanding and redemption.

To give oneself for another was Christly.

Under Abel's dark and watchful eyes, Robin found refuge and purpose over the long span of ten years, and he blossomed into a learned young man. He stood proudly beside Abel, acting as an acolyte and loyal aide, delivering assistance to the townsfolk who came seeking guidance from them. To hear their sins and forgive them, but he never once heard anyone over those ten years confess of that night. Regardless, those fickle villagers were touched by his dedication and began to see him not just as a cursed boy raised in the church’s shadow; he was even invited to birthday celebrations!

For once in his life, he truly felt human. For one decade Robin dwelled in peace; he thrived under the azure skies and reveled in the patterns that led his daily duties. The laughter of children oft bounced through the town like a chirping bird, bountiful harvests painted the fields in hues of amber and crimson, and the caress of breezes stirred the vibrant blooms adorning every garden. It was perfect. It should have been perfect, but the Baudelaires were a family marked by grief, and one evening, when the setting sun drenched the sky in a shade of lavender, Robin had to wonder if his nightmares had crawled to life. Winter had come again and brought with it the worst thing to ever meet his ear. It was a soft interruption, something that would not usually stir such dread, but for the Baudelaire boy, it brought him back to being small and scared.

A cough.

With one simple sound, Robin's vibrant world began to fade into a haunting echo of its past glory. As the weeks dragged on, Abel's illness deepened, and the villagers were quick to recall that strange family that had vanished into the woods long ago. Gossip fluttered like moths around the village hearths, spreading tales that spoke of an insatiable White Death. Consumption had come again, and it seemed that even with Abel's blessings, Robin would never be able to escape the horrors festering in his own blood. This was his fault … and he knew he would never reconcile what he had done; he had betrayed Abel to his death, and all those who had given him kindness were, surely, deceived. As that darkness seeped into him, Robin grappled with the agonizing truth: hope was a distant shore, and forever he would wade alone on an empty sea of sullen waters.

On the night of Abel's passing, Robin felt a piece of him die too — and he wept until his eyes were red and his voice was hoarse.

Mercifully, the church granted him one week to pack his things and go — for another priest had come, and this one was eager to reignite the strict mortal ethics of the time. Abel's leniency had caught the eye of the papal, and now it was time to return to proper teachings. The heavy mahogany doors that once swung open to greet him now stood resolutely locked, leaving him in a world of shuttered windows and drawn curtains. Through the streets Robin went, and he spoke to no one; he ventured from the village's edge into the depths of the forest alone. No one even asked where he was going. The only willing company the tears in his eyes and the weight of Abel's rosary that hung around the pale column of his throat. His feet moved instinctively along a well-trodden path, winding through the underbrush until the ground under his soles felt familiar and his body carried him to its desired mark. The very place his mind had begged to not be forced into for the rest of his days; yet here he stood.

A soot-covered monstrosity whose wooden edges jutted out like the waiting claws of a great beast; its looming presence instantly lifted a warning in Robin's heart as he gawked in its great shadow. For ten long years he had avoided this forsaken place in both the realms of his dreams and God's blessed green earth. Nevertheless, he beheld its unwavering grim loyalty as if it were waiting for him to return all this time. It welcomed the Baudelaire heir inside peeling, rotting walls. Within this loneliness he stayed, allowing misery to fester and act as a poison to slow his heart; light drained from the world, and in the hues of each lonely dusk he could see the reflections of his old life. But hunger, in its stark apathy, stirred him from his sorrowful reverie to remind him of his mortality, and he knew there was only one path left to tread if he wanted to continue living. And so, Robin damned himself to don the mantle left behind by his late father, a heavy cloak of duty he was sure to suffocate under.

This was to be his fate: ever to dwell underneath the fading trees bound to his mourning, ever to rot.

But fate seemed uneager to arrive. Despite how swiftly his world had turned to sorrow and despair, Robin clung tenaciously to his duty — his silent vow to survive, to continue on. And soon enough the heavy grief that had shrouded his existence so heavily began to lift, and shortly thereafter he found an unexpected vibrancy in the new world around him. Just as in the days of his childhood, Nature's indifference welcomed him; finally there was a place to rest from judgment.

Cool water greeted him in the sweltering grasp of summer, gentle breezes carried the sweet fragrance of wildflowers in spring, autumn draped itself in golden magnificence, and even dark and cold winter seemed to offer him a reluctant mercy. Status mattered not there, where the rabbits looked upon him no differently than they did the petunias in his garden. He was not without burden, however, for when the Death Knells summoned him to town, Robin shuddered and shook. It was a difficult thing to travel into that place and be amongst those people … The world of men had become somewhat lost to him in his seclusion, and their murmurings in his presence brought little in the way of comfort. Robin ignored them, or tried to, in order to remain steadfast in his mission to the deceased. While not undimmed by bitterness or resentment that would otherwise cloud his purpose ( yet ), he did find a strange fear of those he served. Nonetheless, he knew that judgment was not his to wield; it belonged solely to their heavenly Father; and once his duty was fulfilled, he would retreat back into the forest — now quite content with the lack of visitors.

So one could imagine Robin's jolt of shock when, without warning or letter, a stuttering knock hit his door. If it had been only once he would have assumed it to be a trick of the wind, but twice, thrice! Each one more insistent than the last! Curiosity piqued and caution tossed aside, Robin rose swiftly with a racing heart to open the door — perhaps a foolish decision, but the earlier mead with his dinner evinced itself to be very talented in lowering his inhibitions. Now to deal with the fallout of such an action: for standing on his doorstep was a ragtag group of young men from the village. Maybe four or five in number, with movements unsteady and huffing breath like taxed horses. Anxiety skyrocketed, and without thinking, he began to take a step back. One of the boys, his words slurred and tangled, began to explain how they had lost their way, but Robin’s senses were overwhelmed by the cloud of whiskey-laden breath that had wafted toward him. It curled into his nostrils, sending a thousand shivers racing up his spine; he'd never liked the smell and now was not proving to be an exception. He had no idea what to say to remedy how awkward everything had become; and frankly, he was afraid he would gag if he tried to speak.

However the drunken lisps dwindled into a whisper before fading entirely, leaving behind a suffocating silence that summoned the Sin Eater’s attention back. Surely they had not intended to trespass upon his land, nor had they come to him with benevolent hearts; those were reserved for their intended host, which he was most certainly not. As Robin's gaze swept over the group, he became acutely aware of the transformation that had overtaken them. Their eyes, once sparkling in their delirium, now widened in disbelief, reflecting a dawning horror as if they had gazed upon some grotesque abomination from the depths of a sickly nightmare. Mouths hung agape and faces drained of color, each man now a canvas painted with shades of ashen pallor. In that instant, Robin found himself no longer being looked at as a fellow human being, but a manifestation of their most profound fears — a creature born from the dark recesses of Lilith's mind, a descendent of snakes and demons! Robin wished to reach out, he had once known each of them by name, to bridge the yawning chasm of misunderstanding that lay between them but ...

In their eyes, he caught the unmistakable reflection of their revulsion; a mirror to his own self-loathing, for in their horror at him he, too, found reason to recoil.

In the crisp dark night, he stood within the doorway of his weathered home, half bathed in the warm glow of flickering candlelight behind him that danced across his hair and skin. The golden firelight crackled a warning, transforming his moonlit-touched locks into a halo wreathed in a shriek of hellfire. But, o' his eyes, it was his eyes that truly unsettled. They glowed like sickly green lanterns, piercing through the darkness with an unnatural sheen that belied their hollow depths. It was now of little wonder to him why the townsfolk spoke of him in hushed murmurs and chided their children to stay close and avoid the woodland.

Everything was quiet between the accidental gathering, and Robin's soul yearned to escape this suffocating atmosphere; he wanted to leave, to break free from their unrelenting stares, but he found his feet rooted to the spot. He didn't know what to do; he didn't even feel as though he could breathe! With a heavy heart and trembling fingers he silently reached for the door, the brass handle suddenly felt so cold and foreign in his grip. Robin turned the handle, the creaking of the door echoed like the mournful wail of a lost soul, and shut out the uninvited throng that had rendered him a husk. He did not sleep that night, nor would he likely ever rest comfortably again. The weight of the gazes that had followed him pressed down atop his weary shoulders, but he supposed he could not cast too much blame upon them. He now saw that he was too far removed from humanity to seek refuge in companionship.

The next few days offered him no solace from his maddening delusions. Each rustle of a branch, each flutter of a bird, felt like a portent of doom, little reminders of the unseen eyes lurking just beyond the tree line, ever watchful, ever patient. With every reluctant step away from the welcoming hearth of his abode, a frigid tendril of dread tightened about Robin's heart, constricting with a merciless grip that threatened to squeeze the very life from his lungs. Unable to ignore his heart's thrumming admonitions that cautioned him not venture too far; for to do so would invite the abyss, and he would never come home again. Every sun-drenched afternoon melded into endless loops of fevered paranoia. Visions of the men from the night prior loomed large in his mind, their faces twisted into malicious grins as he replayed the encounter in his head over and over again. Were they still out there, ensconced in the shadows, biding their time? Robin found himself checking the handle frequently; once at night and once in the morn, grateful for each time the door was not barricaded. His fingers held too many scars already.

Still, with winter fast approaching, it was becoming more and more difficult to maintain his isolation while the persistent rumble of hunger echoed in the cavern of his stomach; it was the only companion in his solitude. The passing weeks had turned into a monotonous cycle of silence, broken only by the occasional crackle of distant frost, but the sinking dread never left. All the same, that fateful morning had to arrive; an inexplicable urge stirred within him, something far beyond mere hunger, igniting a glint of determination that had long lain dormant. It was a call that resonated deep within, reverberating through the very marrow of his bones — he could not hope to resist it. So, with that single stride, he left his home behind and stepped into the murky depths of a thousand towering trees.

And Robin Altus Baudelaire never returned.

#✧ ── 𝐑𝐎𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐀. 𝐁𝐀𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐄 ... 【 ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ-ᴇʏᴇᴅ ᴍᴀɢᴇ 】#── 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 #── 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐆𝐇𝐒 𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐄 - 𝐌𝐀𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐒 - 𝐀𝐒 𝐘𝐄 𝐑𝐔𝐍! ...【 ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴛᴜᴅɪᴇꜱ 】#brozi warning #mother death #familial death tw #blood tw #horror tw #grief tw #parental death tw #implied murder tw #death tw #injury tw #fire tw #tw sui ideation #alcohol ment tw #angst tw #no happy ending #if I missed any please let me know!

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i-eat-worlds · 9 months ago

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🔪👨‍⚕️🧽🪣🔫🧤 for the ask game

thanks for the ask, nonny!

set during Alex’s time undercover with Zorland

cw: medical whump, pain, gun shot injuries, medical abuse/neglect, nausea, needles, narcotic mention, graphic depiction of surgery w/o anesthesia, probable medical inaccuracies

Alex watched the lights of Zorland’s back room as she was unceremoniously dumped onto the cold metal exam table. Her leg was throbbing, icy-hot pain emanating from the bullet burrowed in her thigh. It must’ve been bad, since they’d taken her straight to medical instead of Zorland. The room cleared out, and she waited for the unforgiving touch of the healer’s hands as he strapped her down to the table.

It didn’t come. Instead, someone else she didn’t recognize stepped into the room.

Was this some new test? Zorland poking and prodding further to see if she would break? Only time would tell.

“Did they just fucking leave you here?” They asked incredulously, eyebrows furrowing. There was a tired sigh, and then the sound of a stretching latex.

A face appeared in her vision. “Can you tell me what happened, sweetheart?”

She laid there in silence for a moment, words caught in her throat. Normally, the healer didn’t ask questions.

“Shot. Left thigh,” she said, trying to keep the emotion out of her voice.

“Anywhere else hurt?” They patted their hands down her body, feeling around for other injuries.

She shook her head, resisting the urge to flinch at all the little touches. It would be over soon.

“Great. I’m going to take a look at your leg now, hun.” There was a firm hand on her ankle, and then her pants started to be cut away.

It took everything she had in her to not rip her leg away from the healer’s hands. Just because they weren’t the usual guy didn’t mean they wouldn’t report every whimper and wail back to Zorland.

“Bleeding’s stopped,” they noted in a tone that was almost upbeat. “I’m going to look for an exit wound now.”

Alex grit her teeth as the healer’s hands slid closer to her inner thigh, trying to ignore the deep feeling of wrong that rolled through her gut. They quickly inspected her leg, and she did her best to not inch away.

“I’m gonna start an IV, and then I’ll sort your leg.” The smell of alcohol wipes burned the air. “Any allergies, sweetheart?”

“No.” Not that she knew off, anyway. Still, it was odd that she was even asking. The normal guy rarely gave her anything, with the occasional exception of saline.

“I’ve no controlled, but I’ll do what I can for the pain.” They sunk the needle into the top of her hand.

Pain medication. What a fantasy that was. Zorland, apparently, drew the line at illegally acquiring narcotics.

“I’m also going to give you an antiemetic. My powers tend to make people feel nauseated, so it’ll help.” After the explanation, the healer quickly pushed the meds and moved on.

A blanket was spread across the upper half of Alex’s body. It wasn’t thick, nor was it very soft, but it was something. The back room was always freezing, so it was still appreciated. They let Alex down four ibuprofen, and they also set a bucket by her head, “just in case.”

How nauseous did her powers make people?

There was an awkward lull of activity while the healer prepared for the procedure ahead, setting out their tools, scrubbing their hands, and sliding on a new pair of sterile gloves.

Alex did her best to keep still while the healer worked. For some reason, the lack of restraints was jarring. It wasn’t that she liked them, it just felt wrong for them to not be there. Her wrists felt too light, and the lack of pressure across her hips made it feel like she was going to float away.

The ibuprofen started to kick in, though it barely made a dent. “This is going to hurt, there’s no way around it,” the healer said, almost apologetically. “It’s alright if you scream. If you need a break, just let me know, yeah?” As they spoke, they gently used a sponge to wash the dried blood away, then swiped betadine around the wound.

Alex wasn’t stupid enough to fall for that particular trick. At least the guy was nice enough to give her the rod, but she’d probably be able to pull through without biting her tongue off. Probably.

“I’m going to have to remove the bullet before I can heal you.” They spread a drape over her leg. “It’s going to suck but you’re going to be okay.”

In preparation, she wrapped her hands around the sides of the table, trying to steady her breathing. She’d had worse. She’d had so much worse.

The healer made the first incision, dragging the scalpel along the edges of the wound to widen it. Alex grunted, face twisting in pain as she dug her fingernails into the metal. Two fingers plunged into the wound, scissoring it open.

She just wanted it to stop.

Cold metal forceps dug into the wound, searching for the bullet. Her leg twitched on the table, a useless attempt to throw the healer’s hands o of her. “We’re nearly done,” they said, but Alex couldn’t really hear them.

They pushed further, until they finally stopped. “Got it.” They said, yanking the bullet out of the wound and dropping it on the floor. “All that’s left is to heal it.”

Darkness glimmered in the corners of her vision. It would be all too easy to just let go.

Fire ared in her leg as the healer started to work. “You’re doing great, sweetheart,” they said as Alex’s flesh slowly started to knit itself back together. Bile burned the back of her throat, and she reached for the bucket.

“I gotcha, just a little bit longer,” they said, voice soft. The sentiment was nice, but it was overshadowed by the absolute agony that was tearing through her. Her vision was lled with stars and spots, and she didn’t ght them as they clouded over and pulled her under.

The emptiness was home.

Taglist: @pigeonwhumps @rainydaywhump @painful-pooch @rainbowsandwhumperflies

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