letsdeadaland | Wouldn't you like to use more than words?

Wouldn't you like to use more than words?

The last thing you recall is likely your own death. Whether it was fast or slow, it's over now. And you're... where are you?

One moment, you were among the living. The next - you may be one of the unfortunate ones who actually died. In which case, you've found yourself flowing in the lazy rivers of the river Styx, unfathomably deep underground. Just for a moment, mind you. It's not long before your consciousness is yanked from the waters by some scary monsters, shoved into a healed body, and pushed through a portal.

Or, maybe you were caught red-handed and sentenced to your doom. But, instead of a proper death, you were whisked down into the Veins of Tartarus. And there's really only one place that could lead to... Or is it?

You've been tossed down here by the will of the Titan, but what you find is A helping hand swooping you up - possibly literally, and potentially out of the grasp of the Titan himself.

Not a moment after, you're whisked through another rift, this one a shimmering gold. Into a realm of slightly more stable platforms and a lot more shit to look through. The area is practically littered with the ill-gotten goods of a thieving God (who is happy to note via pop-up illusion that you are touching his stuff). Here, however, you are safe; assured that Typhon cannot find or hurt you here.

For the moment, you can breathe before the next part comes.

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[Tartarus. It hasn't been long since they left this place - chased by Typhon and his beast, saved by Fenyx's sudden arrival - but somehow it feels like it's been far, far longer. Maybe that's because of everything today has been. It's hard to tell. Zvei hasn't felt this damn tired since he was alive, but there's no rest for the wicked or the dead. He has to be the one to get Seymour, because he can't let any of the others get to him first.

Fenyx is with him, of course, the goddess having guided him back down here just to find Seymour. A kindness neither of them deserve, quite frankly, but one Zvei is immensely grateful for. Perhaps she'll depart to go bring Quark back to those eagerly awaiting his arrival, or maybe she'll at least have the decency to pretend to let these two have a private conversation.

Seymour will find himself waking up here with little explanation as to how, why, or what this place even is, though at the very least all of his injuries are healed. He also has approximately one comment to himself before Zvei gets here, because he is rapidly approaching. Not quite running - not yet - though it's only barely restrained. Blood pools in his palms against his nails where they're balled up and biting into the skin again; injuries that aren't nearly as bad as anything Seymour sustained just now.

Welcome to being dead, Seymour.]

[Seymour is here, yes. But he also isn't here, because while his eyes may be open now, they're blank, unblinking, staring off at some indeterminate point in the distance. He shows no signs of being aware of anything around him, nor even the fact that he is once again (seemingly) alive and in one piece.

It is, perhaps, a small mercy that his mind seems to have simply shut down rather than attempt to process everything that's happened in the past half hour, because there's so much to go through and none of it is pleasant. What he endured was deserved, he knows that. He won't try to deny it. But what he hadn't anticipated was how utterly alone and rejected it would make him feel, how that tiny ember of hope that had been extinguished when Zvei had chosen his path would be drenched in a deluge that left no hope of ever reigniting it again.

In the end, there was no place for him in this world either, not that he'd ever expected it. But that realization hurts almost as much as his now-healed wounds did, and the worst part is that that pain isn't going away, just growing sharper as it sinks fully into his mind and bleeds into the few parts that weren't already broken and damaged.

This... this is truly suffering, to not even be allowed to rest. And if there's no escape from it physically, then he'll just have to lock himself away in his own mind, because what else can he do?

There is no salvation for the damned, after all.]

Seymour—

[He is running now, the last few steps quickly giving way as he drops to to the ground before Seymour. He catches himself on his hands and hisses out an exhale of pain - deserved pain, of course - before reaching out immediately. He doesn't touch, but immediately the familiar glow and sensation of healing magic follows. There's no need to cure Seymour's wounds as he doesn't have any. Of course Zvei knows that, but it's the only damn thing he can do, so by the gods, he's going to do it.

...Though, perhaps tellingly, he doesn't go for the spot where Seymour was impaled by Lebkuchen; instead, that healing magic flows into Seymour's hands, where his nails had pierced skin weeks ago. The wounds Zvei wasn't allowed to heal then, that he's been thinking about nonstop since then.]

I'm here, Seymour. [It's soft, dangerously close to sounding fragile.] You aren't alone. You won't be alone again. Please, just...

[He trails off then, because he's not even sure what it is he wants Seymour to do. Get angry with him? Storm off? Have some sort of reaction that isn't so, so devastating?]

[There's no response, either physical or verbal. Not from Seymour himself, at least, but a split second later there's a crackling sound and the telltale whiff of ozone before a bolt of lightning strikes the ground near where Zvei is kneeling. Whether the miss was intentional or not is impossible to say; the spell doesn't even seem to have been cast consciously, but rather as an instinctive reaction to a perceived threat.

The lack of any sort of recognition on Seymour's face is perhaps a slight relief-- he's not targeting Zvei on purpose. But the utter emptiness there is somehow the exact opposite of reassuring, because at least if he'd been striking out in anger, that would have been understandable. Rather, he's simply lashing out at anything that comes near him, since he doesn't trust that they don't mean to cause him harm. And after that battle... well, the fear is hardly misplaced.

He makes no move to do anything else, but the message is clear as day: Please don't hurt me.]

[Mismatched eyes flick to the lightning, lingering on the mark on the ground for a brief moment. He doesn't move or flinch; if Seymour were to strike him, he could simply heal it off. Sure, it wouldn't be pleasant, but he'd deserve that much, wouldn't he? It doesn't deter him. At this point, there isn't much that could deter him.]

Seymour. [Louder now. He isn't yelling; he's never yelled. But it's firm, more forceful - and more desperate.] You're safe here. I'm not going to hurt you.

[Physically, at least his traitorous mind pipes up.]

I'm here, Seymour.

[And then he decides to hell with it, and seizes the man's hands in his own. Not to stop him from casting, but to keep him from potentially hurting himself, and maybe to give him something physical to hold onto.]

[Zvei had slipped his hand into Seymour's that night that seems so long ago now, and Seymour had responded in kind, curling his own fingers around Zvei's to keep that hand right where it was.

There's no such reciprocation this time, just a burst of fire that's close enough to singe the edges of Zvei's labcoat. And then after that...

... nothing. No further attempts to attack, no more spells cast in panicked self-defense, which is perhaps the best that can be hoped for in this situation. At this point it's impossible to say whether there's some part of him that recognizes Zvei or not, though he at least seems to have tentatively written him off as a threat.

But his hands remain limp in Zvei's grasp, making no motion to grip them back or do anything at all. Well. It's a start, at least...]

[His eyes flick to the fire briefly, and some distant part of him notes that now they match. Seymour's singed robes were enough to doom him, and now Zvei's labcoat bears similar markings.

Zvei almost lets himself get lost in that anger again. His hands still hurt from just how badly he mauled them, between his own nails and his own godly powers keeping them open and bleeding. If he couldn't inflict pain on them, then he had to make sure someone was hurting. Better himself than the others here, who haven't wronged Seymour (yet).]

I'm sorry.

[He says that instead, and the anger flickers out like a candle. Back to the oppressive, weighty feeling of sorrow and loneliness, even though he's no longer truly alone.]

For so much. I'd be here forever if I were to get into it right now. Better to save it for when I'm sure you can hear it, right?

[And though he smiles, there's nothing really behind it. It's just... who Zvei has always been. An empty man hiding behind a smiling mask.]

But I'm also sorry that they did this to you. That they hurt you, turned on you, left you alone. I know I had no right to ask anything of them, and yet... I hoped they'd at least...

[He stops himself with a shuddering exhale. No, this isn't something he should be talking about right now either. Not until he's sure Seymour can hear him. Instead he moves one hand from Seymour's, raising it tentatively. Touch is something Seymour is picky about, even moreso than Zvei himself. He knows this. But he can't stop himself either, fingertips brushing against the side of Seymour's face. He doesn't dare do much more than that, worried about leaving blood behind from his own open injuries.]

Never mind all that. We can talk about it later.

[But maybe hearing something - anything - will help.]

[It's just the slightest whisper of a touch, gentle and barely there at all. Zvei likely isn't expecting any sort of response to this either, not with as cautious and as tentative as it is, and indeed at first he may not even recognize what he gets for what it is. But that something warm and wet on his fingertips isn't his own blood, not when it continues to flow the way this does...

Seymour's conscious mind may not be capable of tears, but his subconscious has no such reservations. They well up, overflowing, like they're being pushed out with nowhere else to go, eighteen years of pain that have been bottled up and locked away until they were all but forgotten. But the heart never forgets, no matter how much the mind might try to, and once a dam has broken you can't put that water back in.

From the way those tears flood out, this dam was holding back an entire ocean of grief.]

[Zvei doesn't recognize it at first.

Were his memories only that of Zvei's, he wouldn't have recognized it at all. Zvei never saw anyone cry. Why would he, when he never had reason to cry himself, and was never close enough to anyone else for it to matter?

But he isn't just Zvei, and though Ivilezlei's memories have given him nothing but grief since he reclaimed them, they shed light on this.

Ivilezlei hadn't cried, not even once in his memories. But then, of course he hadn't; he hadn't been allowed to have any feelings. Any missteps, anything less than perfection was rewarded with a beating. His earliest memories hold nothing similar to what Seymour's described - a life where the only person who wanted him chose to abandon him while he was shunned by everyone else. Ivilezlei had been a tool; raised with a purpose, and molded to fit it. He learned to give up on fighting it early on. He only barely remembers a few rebellious attempts, and the bruises left behind.

Even here and now, seeing Seymour at his absolute lowest and being unable to do a damn thing to help, Zvei doesn't cry. He's not sure he can, or if he even knows how to. Is it something that needs to be learned? Was that stolen from him too, as so much was in Ivilezlei's life?]

Seymour...

[For a moment, that's all it is. Just his name and a touch that's still far too hesitant for the situation. Zvei doesn't know how to handle this, and he fears any wrong step could make things worse somehow. The last thing Seymour would want is to be treated like he's fragile, like he can't take care of himself, and yet Zvei hesitates for too damn long anyway, with an unfamiliar feeling threatening to strangle him entirely.

It does get him to shut up, for once. And then he's moving, cutting off what little space was between them to start with. Two, then four tentacles slide out from the back of his labcoat as his arms wrap tightly around Seymour, tentacles serving only as extra arms as if that will somehow help. The healing magic picks up again, though it's no longer focused on any area specifically, instead jumping around as if it will find some open wound that needs to be sealed. As though he could solve this as easily as he's always solved physical wounds.]

[Seymour, at least, has memories of touch and kindness, of gestures of affection, though it's been those eighteen years since he last experienced anything that didn't come from Zvei. He remembers his mother holding him close when he was frightened or upset, the way she would stroke his back and hum to him until he calmed down, and as fragmented as his mind currently may be, those memories still drift within it like leaves in a stream, surfacing just long enough to be visible before being sucked back under once again.

It's enough for him to be able to recognize those arms wrapping around him as comfort and protectiveness, and on pure instinct he curls himself into that contact the same way he would when he was a child in his mother's lap. It's warm. It's warm, and safe, and he needs that particular brand of comfort more than even he knows at the moment.

The tears haven't stopped. They're coming harder now, his entire body shaking with soundless, wordless sobs. Although he may not remember how to cry, it would seem like his body does-- a small mercy, at least, because there's so much pent up that trying to stop it or hold it back would be nothing short of futility. But his body isn't even making an attempt to stem the tide, instead merely continuing to go through the motions as long as there are tears left to shed.

... and then, at last, one hand shifts just enough to grasp the front of Zvei's lab coat like a drowning man clinging to a thrown rope. It's an attempt to anchor himself against everything, unconscious though it is, because it's the only thing his instinct can think of to do.

He's drowning, still, but this time there's someone trying their best to pull him out.]

[You're absolutely terrible at hugging, Syzi had told him once, wearing one of his usual bright smiles. You cling like you're drowning. And then you wrap me up so tightly I can't move! You know it's okay to be gentle too, right?

His grip is tight, unaccustomed as he is to hugging. The tentacles are more gentle, which might have at least been one lesson Syzi imparted on him a long time ago. But his arms wind tight around Seymour; clinging like he's drowning, indeed.

Zvei feels Seymour move and it gets a sharp inhale; one that makes him ache in so many uncomfortable and unfamiliar ways.]

I'm here, [he repeats it again, as though he can never say it enough,] I'm here, Seymour. You aren't going to be alone. Not again. Never again.

[It isn't a promise he can make, for so many reasons. There's no telling what will happen to them in this strange sense of being, and even if they were to live again, where would that take them? Something he hasn't allowed himself to think about, because it just doesn't seem possible. He belongs in the lifestream. His life is over, twice now.

But he's always been selfish, and right here, right now... he's so relieved that he isn't truly dead. He gets to hold Seymour, has a chance to apologize and do right this time. No matter how painful it is right now, that's something worth clinging to, he thinks.]

I'll be right here. For as long as you'll let me stay.

[There isn't enough present in his mind right now to be able to be able to process and respond to everything Zvei has been saying to him. Most of it is just garbled, meaningless noise to him at this point, but one particular phrase is repeated over and over again until it manages to filter in through the fog and finally coalesces into something that some small part of him thinks it recalls the meaning of.

"I'm here."]

Please...

[It's barely more than a whisper, broken and desperately pleading, almost more of a reflexive response than anything else. Just a single word, but it asks so many things. Please stay. Please don't leave me alone. Please help me. He can't say any of those; even that word alone took a tremendous amount of effort to articulate. He doesn't even really know just who it is that he's asking it of, only that there arms around him clutching him tight as though he's a precious treasure, and the small and frightened sense of self that still remains wants to keep clinging to this faint bit of safety for as long as it lasts.]

[It's so soft he could have missed it, but of course Zvei doesn't. He's been desperately hoping for any reaction, any words, and even just this one means the world to him. He's not sure which part it's in response to - or if it's in response to all of it.

His grip tightens, reflexively, to the point where he's likely to hurt one or both of them. It takes a conscious effort to loosen his grip, to make sure he doesn't cause Seymour any more pain. The man's dealt with entirely too damn much his entire life.]

I'm here. [Softly, at first, then rapidly picking up in pace,] I'm here. I'm here, Seymour.

[And he'll keep repeating it, as long as it takes to truly sink in, that Seymour isn't alone anymore. A mantra, an oath, a promise - whatever it is, he can't get himself to stop repeating it.]

I won't let anyone hurt you. [Another promise he can't keep.] I won't leave you. I—

[A shuddering exhale follows and then suddenly Zvei's shaking, and he's not entirely sure how or why that started, or how to get it to stop. He still doesn't cry, but the involuntary trembling is certainly new. His hands tighten in the back of Seymour's robes, heedless of the fact that he's definitely getting blood on them now.

And then, so softly he's not entirely sure it can be heard:]

Please come back to me. Please... please don't leave me alone.

[He's being crushed, the breath being squashed right out of him, and in an instant his mind is thrown right back to pressure in his lungs, a sudden burst of pain in his chest and the horrid sensation that had followed and he shoves, panicked--

... but then the feeling of being squeezed goes away almost as suddenly as it had began, and in its wake he registers a very different sort of motion, unsteady, like the rocking of a boat.

And he hears that same word he'd just said being repeated back to him, equally pleading, and there's something familiar about it that he can't quite put his finger on--

A voice saying his name with genuine warmth and fondness. Telling him they were pleased they had met him. Making him feel for the very first time that his existence mattered to someone.]

... Zvei...?

[It's equally soft, almost as though he's afraid to voice the question. Afraid that the answer will be something else, that he's allowing himself to dare to have the tiniest flicker of hope all for nothing.

Afraid that this is all a dream, and that he's going to wake up.]

[Selfishness is what keeps him clinging to Seymour despite that sudden, panicked attempt to get free. Maybe he could lie and convince himself that he thinks the proximity and touch will help Seymour, but that isn't the full truth. He does want to help, certainly. More than anything else, he wants to help bring Seymour back. But he can't claim it's that thought that drives him to keep clinging to the man who means so damn much to him in this moment.

But Seymour settles and so does Zvei, and though the shaking doesn't stop, it seems something may have gotten through to Seymour anyway. The breath he releases is half-laugh, half-would-be sob, and he pulls back just enough so that Seymour can see him.]

Hello, Seymour.

[The greeting sounds just as casual as it would have been any day of the week before his betrayal and death, but his expression gives him away. Fear and sorrow have given way to relief and his smile is a bright, genuine one. The shaking hasn't stopped either, small tremors even afflicting the tentacles where they're wrapped around Seymour.

I've missed you and I'm sorry fight for which sentiment to express first, and he's not even sure if Seymour is fully back or not. Take it slow. One step at a time. Start with the most important thing.]

I'm here. It's me. You're safe with me, I swear it.

[And even though it isn't a promise he can keep because he has no damn idea how the others will react... it's one he'll fight to uphold.]

[Something seems to click in Seymour's mind. His eyes, which had been vacant and unfocused until now, slowly seem to regain a bit of their focus, tracking upwards until they fall on Zvei's face, and it's clear that they're seeing him for the first time since he arrived. And then, little by little, the tension begins to ebb out of Seymour's muscles as he starts to relax into that embrace.

Sentences are still beyond him. Thoughts are still largely beyond him; the shattered pieces of his mind aren't going to be put back together that easily, not after everything he's been through. But he remembers that night where Zvei had laced his fingers with his, that warmth and gentle contact, the way Zvei had clasped his hand so gently yet firmly without pulling away from his claws.

It takes him a moment to find the coordination to detach his fingers from Zvei's labcoat. It takes him a longer moment still to remember how to get his muscles to work, but at last he lifts that hand up just slightly towards Zvei. (It's trembling as much as Zvei is.)

This much, at least, doesn't need words to express.]

[Seymour's back. Not fully, not after all of that. But he's at least registering that Zvei is here and that he's no longer alone, and that's a fantastic first step. He waits - breath held like he's too damn afraid to move - until Seymour reaches out for him.]

I'm here, I'm not going anywhere.

[He frees one of his own hands to join Seymour's, pressing against the back of the summoner's hand to help guide him. Zvei leans his cheek into that touch, mismatched eyes falling closed. He won't react even if Seymour's claws do scratch him; he couldn't care less about anything like that right now. Hope you don't mind the blood, since he still has not bothered healing himself.]

I missed you. [And then, as if to make sure Seymour understands, he repeats it; it's heavy, filled with some sort of emotion he can't place with words he can't quite find right now.] I missed you so much.

[The start of an apology, perhaps. Better to wait until Seymour's feeling better, but he needs to express it now. He needs to make sure Seymour knows that, that at least one person in this cruel, uncaring world cherishes him.]

[His mind registers touch, the softness of skin against his hand and the warmth that accompanies it. Zvei's hand guides his up to rest against his cheek; his eyes follow that motion and watch as Zvei nuzzles against his palm in an evident gesture of affection. It's then that the red on Zvei's hand draws his gaze.

His thoughts churn as he struggles to process just what it is-- it isn't good, he knows that much, but...

... ah.

With a brief, dim flash of green light, the scent of grass after the rain fills the air-- an attempt at a Cure spell. Not a strong one, and it flickers out almost immediately, but the thought is there, the desire to want to try to heal those injuries. Frowning, Seymour tries again, equally ineffective.

He can do this. He knows he can, because magic has been so much a part of his life since he was a small child that it has simply become second nature to him. Yet right now, his mind is his own worst enemy; it works against him even as he tries to call upon it, and he lets out a low sound of helpless frustration.]

[Oh, Seymour... He withdraws his hand, wincing a bit at the thought of leaving Seymour's hand bloodied. Honestly, what was he thinking... It would have been far more efficient to heal himself up before this meeting. But that's just the problem, isn't it? He wasn't thinking, entirely too focused on just seeing Seymour again.

Zvei's initial thought is to heal the injuries himself, to seal them so Seymour doesn't have to worry about them any more. He almost does just that before stopping himself. No, maybe it's better to let Seymour do this - not because he needs Seymour to heal him, but because it's one step closer to Seymour regaining himself.

He holds his hands out then, so Seymour can get a better look at them. What were once welts from where his nails met skin have opened into nasty gashes across his palm, further torn by both his own nails and his control over blood. His palms are absolutely shredded, but no one knows his limits better than himself. Zvei can still heal this, even if Seymour can't - but he knows Seymour can.]

It's okay. [Soft, encouraging.] You can do it. I know you can.

[He's still leaning into Seymour's hand against the side of his face, and his tentacles still hold the summoner as close as he can while still having room to watch the other man. The shaking has subsided at some point; his emotions have evened out as well, which makes this whole thing a little easier.

One step at a time.]

[The sight of the injuries earns Zvei a sympathetic wince. Pain is something he remembers all too well (even though he wishes desperately that he didn't), and those wounds look painful indeed with how raw and torn-open they are. He wants to fix this. A part of him wonders if this is somehow his fault too. Maybe it is. It probably is, because everything seems to be his fault and he can no longer remember what truly is and what isn't. That's exactly why he needs to fix it.

The sensation of Zvei's cheek against his palm serves as a focus, grounding him. This is Zvei. He wants to heal Zvei, because he doesn't want Zvei to be hurt or in pain. Because he...

Maybe he can't rely on his own mind right now. But he can pull strength from Zvei's presence and let that emotion flow outward, and maybe that will be enough.

He closes his eyes, reaches for that feeling and sends it out towards Zvei. And, indeed, his next attempt manages to get the wounds to shrink slightly, closing themselves up from the outside in. It's not much, and it's definitely a mere shadow of his usual abilities, but it's progress, and that's what matters in this moment.]

[Zvei doesn't look down at his hands; but then, he hardly needs to. He can feel Seymour's magic working its way through the injuries and knitting them back together, closing the edges of the wounds and holding strong. There's still plenty of work left to be done on them, but it's a very promising start, especially considering the summoner was struggling with even this much a moment ago.]

You're doing well. Thank you for the help, Seymour.

[He nuzzles against that hand as if he needs to confirm it. Almost there, just a little more. Seymour's got this.]

[Distantly, barely here:]

awww

[A second time, and then a third. He's still struggling, but it grows a little easier with each attempt, and as the wounds knit themselves closed so too do Seymour's memories and conscious thought begin to knit back together as well. He's not fixed - far from it - but a vase that's been glued back together, no matter how awkwardly, is still a step above a vase in pieces on the ground.

He casts one last time, pushing everything he's capable of into it. What under ordinary circumstances would take a single spell required four, and from the look on his face it's clear this frustrates him as much as he's glad that he was able to heal the injuries in the end. It's evident this took a lot out of him, yet that doesn't stop him from craning his head to get a better look at Zvei's hands in order to ensure that everything has healed up as it should.]

[He doesn't rush Seymour; it's good for him to have something to focus on, Zvei thinks. The sharp sting of the injuries fades as the wounds knit themselves closed thanks to the spells, and once they're finally healed, he flexes his fingers a few times to make sure that the injuries are properly sealed. They are, of course - even if Seymour is still struggling to return to himself in full, he's gotten this much down.]

There, see? I told you. You did well.

[He brings one hand up to the side of Seymour's face. Zvei's touch is still gentle, as if expecting Seymour to pull back from the contact.]

I'm fine now. I'm sorry I worried you.

[But instead of pulling away, Seymour just leans into that touch and lets his eyes flutter closed with a sigh. Exhaustion is beginning to set in, making his limbs leaden, and while he doesn't know where he wants to go, he does know that he'd rather be somewhere that isn't here on the cold, hard ground of wherever this is. It reminds him too much of...

The shudder that wracks his body is involuntary.]

I... would like to rest...

[Slow and halting though it is, the words themselves come easily enough. It's a start.]

Edited 2025-08-27 00:50 (UTC)

cw: self-harm

cw: suicidal ideation

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cw: child abuse mention

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cw: self-harm mention

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