Will Stutely (sly_stutely) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2020-08-25 11:08:00 |
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Entry tags: | clio, will stutely |
WHO Will Stutely and Clio
WHERE Clio’s house
WHEN The wee hours of Tuesday morning
WHAT Night terrors again, and confessions
WARNINGS TBD
He was drowning again. The water overwhelmed him every time, didn’t matter how hard he fought. It filled his nose, flooded his lungs, and the torrent swept away all reason, all pretence of strategy, leaving only pure, animal panic. His body wasn’t his own in those times; it thrashed and heaved, searing light exploded behind his eyes, and when his desperate lungs sought air the wet cloth pressed down on his mouth and nostrils as heavy and implacable as grave dirt. His throat worked desperately, choking on water, and he felt it as a noose around his neck. The Sheriff took especial pleasure in looping the rough hemp rope over his head. They’d taken him three days prior; his own stupid mistake had given him away in the Blue Boar and the Sheriff’s men had swarmed him in force. One of them had landed a glancing blow to his skull, and the dried blood clung stiffly to his skin, matting in his hair, giving him a savage look that probably only further served the Sheriff’s purposes. He was battered and bone weary, but he wouldn’t let the Sheriff see him bowed. He looked the bastard dead in the eye as the hangman's rope scratched against his throat. The Sheriff only smiled. “Any final requests?” “A sword. Let me die with a sword in my hands.” His sword was less than useless when the Russian musket ball shredded his gut. The force and the shock of it threw him from his horse and he landed hard on the packed dirt. Nobody stopped for him. And somewhere, Robert was dying and it was his fault. And somewhere, Robin was running headlong into a trap and it was his fault. And Tuck was lying dead in a bath and Marian was chained to a metal bed frame and Clio’s back was slick with blood and Ella was screaming and it was his fault his fault his fault— Will gasped awake, dragging in desperate, rattling breaths. He tried to sit, flailing, discovered he was tangled in the sheets, and that in turn brought the lurching realisation that he was in a bed, not the couch at John’s, and the panic crashed over him like a wave. No John. No Robin. Nobody at all to remember him, to anchor him if he went under. With a strangled sound he thrust away the sheets, and his hand brushed bare skin, brought his awareness the sleeping form next to him. Clio. He was at Clio’s. This was her bed. His breath was still coming too fast, too shallow, and he made a noise in his throat that was something nearing a sob, relief and horror washing through him as one. Get it together. You’re going to wake her, for god’s sake, get it together. Why couldn’t he remember how to breathe? |