Children of Terra

~The senses twist~ ~The mind bends~ ~Sanity bleeds~ ~Vykan yet remains~       At some point along the senseless -- more apropos, sense-saturated -- journey between worlds, he closed his eyes.  It wasn't affecting him in the way Pruflas seemed to imply, and nothing coherent, could be drawn through paying attention.  Better then to sleep it off.  Wonderful things in the mind replaced the madness in the now-closed eyes.  It was like being carried along a soft bed of the perfect firmness, the temperature just right to sleep, and he felt in his subconscious the soft tardigrades return.  Those joyful little pups that bring a pure, hypocritical happiness.  For some inexplicable pain in his heart, he found himself tear-up at the feeling.        They little tardigrades reminded him of something lost.  Of himself.  Of what he can never be again.  All his family is yet human.  So, how did Pruflas do it?  How many centuries of this?  Think none of it.  Please, brain, think no more of it.  I just want to sleep.  And how easy it is then to fall into insomnia.  How easy to never again get rest.  Such is the source of self-hatred, but what else is there to do?        Just distract.  Vykan opened his eyes again.  His senses tore between reality and unreality, then he felt the curious tug back to earth.  Thump.  "What, the fuck?"  He was laying in a forest, and only then did normalcy return.  His skin tingled in pins, needles prodding unseen all over.  The rush of musky life of underbrush, the crisping green leaves in wind, and the peeking of blue sky through canopy, all of it washing all at once.  Quick to sit up, he looked around to gain a bearing.  "Pruflas.  What the hell was that?"  Nothing but trees and forest around.  Why wasn't he responding?  Surely this is an appropriate time?        With a grunt, Vykan rolled to his knees, hands bracing his unsteady body.  Nausea.  God, feels like a hangover.  I hate portals.  A faint stirring in his mind at least told him Pruflas was present, and he then figured Pruflas was as sickly, if not more, after whatever the hell trip that was.  He pushed off into a stand, immediately afterward staggering into a tree trunk.  His vision swam almost in time with head pulses, body flushed weak.  It had been so long without the feeling, that it being present was all the more peculiar.  Weakness.  Vykan almost laughed.        It took all too much willpower to simply muster his hand and push off the tree trunk down the forest way.  Seemed to be lush hills all around, and being the most stark difference.  Vykan had not been in a place so green in months on months.  He tripped on a rock, right as a strong gust blew his clothes in waves, the feeling cooling his body save the forehead.  From a kneel on the earthy soil, Vykan spoke again.  "Pruflas."  A stir in the mind carried the undertone of annoyance, but conveyed what it needed.  His throat watered in that curling disgust before vomit, Vykan's core forcing him into dry heaves on the ground.        As soon as the reflex was gone, Vykan yelled, swinging a balled hand into a nearby tree.  The ground below trembled at the force, leaves falling in the wind.  Vykan regretted it immediately, as a fresh bout of headache and weakness hit him, pulling him down to a crawl.  Malaise.  The sickness was suffused in his entire body.  Joints inflamed, guts twisted, mind ravaged, skin afire.  He simply did not have the strength to rise from the earthen forest floor, letting the damp musk slowly seep into his front, while pulling his head to his shoulder for support.  He was familiar with sickness.  He knew not to think much more than just letting feelings wash over him, and right now was resigned spite.        The thought of survival instinct toyed with him, which he weakly chuckled once at.  It didn't matter, now.  He closed his heavy eyelids and settled as best he could for infirm.  There were no consequences in doing so.  Absolute worst case scenario is Pruflas hitting the escape button by popping his heart.  Vykan fell asleep immediately.        It could have been a while, but it wasn't long enough.  Would there ever be a time long enough?  What awoke him was the knocking of his psyche by Pruflas.  Feelings of pure annoyance forced the heavy eyelids back open, and Vykan knew then that Pruflas was also sick, otherwise the demon'd be outside again.  Same spot, tucked in a forest valley, by a stone and tree.  The sky was darker now, air sweeter.  Wind had brought a storm head, and if cloud movement was anything like Terra, Vykan had a handful of minutes before it hit.  Goddamn it.  Not even the energy to say it, but he forced himself up nonetheless.        His heart was beating in its cage enough to draw some concern.  Vykan closed his eyes against the tree and felt the arteries under both arms pulsing in rhythm.  Death is no barrier.  He pushed his shoulder against the tree, hobbling in staggers down the forest in path of least resistance, which unfortunately was toward the storm.  Going backward would be an incline away, and that was simply too taxing.  His limbs would flare up in random pain at the walk, him grunting in increasing annoyance.  And this was all before the first drops flecked his eyelids.  By the time Vykan's shoulders had soaked through in cold rainwater, he knew he made a miscalculation.  The reason why Asia proper is as lush as it is . . .         Hearing was drowned out in minutes with heavy pattering, leaves and wind beating in the heavy storm.  Vykan thought his heart stopped, every time the pealing sonorous boom of thunder waved the air so hard rain abated in the wake.  Moments of this, and the ground softened firmly muddy, his boots squelching in centimeter thick top-sludge.  By this point, he was thoroughly aggravated, and soaked like out of a fresh dive.  So thick was the rain mist he lost bearing against any landmark.  Only the silvery darkness of early evening all around.  He fell against the slippery ground, elbows sinking in before he pushed to the side of a tree bough.  The testy thoughts from Pruflas tried to get him moving again, which he drowned out with his own feelings of 'absolute fucking done with this shit' energy.        Vykan was out of breath.  A feeling he hadn't had in, months?  Thinking through the headache was too much, his cheeks and ears hot in false warmth.  He could tell the clammy shivers from the rest of the body.  Fuck.  Perfect conditions for ailments.  Despite pains in his wrists and knees, he forced himself up again, heading downward.  Thank for that at least, he could travel down hill.        It was this Vykan, the sickly, the tattered, muddy, and drenched Stygian; that was beset hours later.  Hours of trudging through muddy forest under frigid rains had weakened him to the point of near catatonia, and he failed to heed the first words of hail given his way.  It was the pangs of Pruflas which pulled his attention back outward, along feelings of sayings and idioms and literal translations.  What?  Vykan's own brain was too tired to unveil what Pruflas meant, but he got it after a bit.        The rain had let up enough for the edges of the valley to regain visibility.  Only then did Vykan notice the shadow movements behind trees.  Mountain bandits.  He was too tired to do anything more than lean on a tree for support, limbs sapped under wet, cold clothes.  Eventually, the sight of archers filtering all around with a swordsman in front set before him.  They didn't even hide the smirks looking over his trembling body.  "A wet dog with heavy burdens appears at our doorstep!  Let us help poor brother by relieving these burdens."        Idioms.  Great.  His brain hurt from the translations by Pruflas, along the work in nuance lost between that and English.  He grit his jaw in reply.  "Bald monkey with tiger claws, how stupid a sight as snake with feet."  His temple lit in half-shame and half-indignation, but before the thought formed, Pruflas' own 'yeah, I get it' drowned him out.        The bald bandit visibly reddened, unsheathing blade with a flourish.  "Little brother has shit in his mouth, spewing such foul things in our house!  He must pay for this injustice!"  Many of the archers menaced in gleam in response.        Goddammit.  "Even through beautiful rains I smell fart in your breath, baboon-faced baldy."  Vykan hung his head after that.  You've got to be fucking kidding me.        The bandit threw scabbard aside, roaring forward with blade high.  Archers behind him were split between righteous indignation and humor.  Is he seriously that pissed?  Vykan watched the sword come down, before he let the blade hit his clavicle, hand flying out to grab the bandit's throat.  'Senior brother!'  An archer fired, loosing an arrow that hit Vykan right in his invulnerable throat.  He fell back against the tree, focusing solely on gripping the swordsman's throat.  The bandit wrenched the arm in a twist, slipping Vykan off due to rain and slickness.  With a kick to Vykan's head, he flourished backward, anger on his bald face.        That was the first seizure.  Vykan felt his arms stiffen to the point of lock, his eyes spasming and chest tight.  He slacked against the tree, hand curled in a fist before slipping into unconsciousness.        The sword bandit had gathered his blade, stepping forward to beat Vykan's body, when an archer came to grab his shoulder.  "Wait, senior brother!  He is clearly some orthodox clan disciple.  Those strange clothes, but more importantly, brother; look!"  Grabbing Vykan's head, he faced it up to show the neck.  "I know I hit his throat.  The arrow is here, see?"  The tip was dented.  Showing it first to the swordsman, then around, he continued.  "He is clearly following body strengthening arts.  Even your kick, senior.  See his cheek?"        The bald man spit to the side.  With an all-too-grim expression, he countered.  "He disrespected me.  He must pay dearly!"        "We will take everything off him, even his clothes, senior brother!  Then we ransom him to the sect he hails from."  With a point to his argument, the kneeling archer drew the arrowhead across Vykan's cheek.  Nothing.  "A sect with such secret arts will give us money to hide the shame!"        A slow light of realization before the swordsman followed the plan.  Lightning flashed right as he nodded.  "Strip him for his valuables."       ~Later after~ ~In the camp of mountain bandits~ ~Stripped of his valuables~ ~Vykan, the sick~     It was fitful rest, the kind that you wake from in aggravation, at some slight you can't even remember; but feel in the bones of your core.  Vykan's slights scratched his throat, sharp pains forcing him from slumber to awareness.  Bleary-eyed, he grumbled to the now-day-light burning his vision.  A cough tore his haggard throat, which made him wince, which made him cough, which made him wince, all working to his latent fury.  He realized his arms and legs were bound to a washing board-thing just as a guard threw ice-cold water on him.        "Wakey, wakey, little brother!  We leave you with your shame to the heavens!"         It was a trilling voice, grating on Vykan's ears, magnified by sickness.  He tried to focus on the source, alas it was indistinct.  Pulling on one wrist, then the other, he panted already and still in place.  "B-bastard."  The word barely left coherently.        The blur of the bandit danced around Vykan, before taking a seat in front of him with a laugh.  "Brother, it's been many days, many shichens.  You have not eaten, drank, pissed, or shit.  Your bowels must be in disarray.  Give us your sect name and we can help."        Vykan failed to summon the strength to speak.  The ice water had sapped what strength he had.  He hung his head, the feeling of being underwater nauseating.  The sounds of conversation beyond his eyelids kept him from falling asleep, but with his ears filling in with wax, he failed to appraise any words.  Just as he drifted off, a second bucket of ice water was doused over him.  "Bitch-mother!  I'll have your heads."  He struggled in the restraints to their laughter, before they left him to do other things while he softened to break.        More days passed, with him losing track quickly.  He only realized during a cold night later they left him naked to the elements.  They also hadn't fed him shit, and whenever one tried to feed him water, he sneered and rustled as best his energy allowed.  It must have been concerning to mortals, seeing him be as . . . indifferent, to the elements like that.  For some odd reason, they insisted about him not taking a shit or a piss as some kind of tortuous way to get a crack in his psyche.         When was the last time I took a dump?  Night had fallen again in the mountain camp, skies clear now to the stars above.  The cluster of the galactic plane bisected the sky like blue-and-red sand, twinkling away as guides to the ancient men.  Vykan looked up to it with muted reverence, knowing intellectually the sight was beautiful, but through the sickness he didn't have the fuck to give.  Since he's been sleeping so much, he couldn't find the mind to rest even more, and had to contend with staring as best he could the details of the camp.        The problem was his memory.  That fucking hippocampus seemed to be out to lunch, Vykan knowing he would forget details just as soon as remember.  The emotions made his heart flare up in palpitations, as the cold night air bumped his skin into pebbles.  Increasing blood pressure beat his temples, him reflexively tugging on the restraints once more.  Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow stopped his fervor.  He looked to see the swaying of torchlight grasp his attention.  Up, left, down, right, back.  Up, left, down, right, back.        It slacked him.  His body slumped into the washing board, gravity tugging his limbs down.  What?  He couldn't lift his head back up.  Or straighten out.  Or control; or, or wait a minute, he couldn't feel . . .         The spasms started in his feet.  They curled tight.  Tighter.  Painfully folding down the center of the arch.  The calves followed before he could register.  Muscle sheathes fired without care to the tendons, like single piano keys; causing him enough pain to wince.  His mouth wouldn't open.  The seizure slowly gripped him over; the abs, the back, his obliques feeling like they wanted to tear his ribcage apart.  His temples pulled his jaw tight, teeth straining against force.  The arms fired, biceps fighting triceps, curling and spasming in turns.  Eyelids fluttered.        Then the shaking.  Vykan began to convulse over his entire body, breath chattering through teeth as spittle forced in and out like rabid foam.  All while he was fully cognizant, unable to do anything.  His heart skipped beats, and it all forced him into a blackout after an hour of it.        He awoke from another douse of ice water.  Before the sun had risen, when dawn was still blue-black and the roosters had yet to crow.  Trepidation.  Just the thought of what happened made Vykan break into cold sweats.  When is the next one?  What will set it off?  How long?        Why?        The guards had left before he could even turn his head up.  Isolation.  Powerful, yes.  No more than the ice and nakedness.  Vykan coughed, his cold skin tightening over the raw chest as it forced phlegm up.  The throat bled as inflamed skin rattled with exhales, driving more coughing, then pain, then coughing.  Why?        The week became two, if not more.  Every day within a douse of water, a joke at him, sometimes a meal to drive jealousy, or slapping to infuriate.  The worst days were the ones he coughed.  Once it started, it became a cycle of heaving and heaving until his chest emptied of air, and wheezing failed to suck in, and coughing had yet to end, and . . .         Why?        It was getting worse, somehow.  He didn't even know when the nosebleeds started.  He just looked down one day and saw the trails on his belly.  And he was so weak the rope was enough to bind him.  Hair had disheveled to the point it scattered his vision constantly, the headaches near constant anymore.        He no longer knew time.  Just day or night.  One day, cold as ever and he wet from the morning douse, a familiar man entered his blurred vision.  The bald one.  Taking a seat at a stool, the bandit planted the blade between them.  "Little brother.  We got a nice pay from those clothes off your back.  Strange they were.  Yet you have eaten nothing, drank nothing, shit nowhere, pissed not.  It has been over a half-moon cycle."  He looked at the lashed Stygian before continuing.  "I was going to duel you, but my brothers have convinced me to take only a hand.  Choose.  Sword or off hand?"        "Take my hair."  Fuck.  Damn near reflexive.        The bandit stood and turned.  He spoke while walking away.  "I've decided.  I'll cut your manhood off and cook it in a stew for you.  Then I'll send you to the Blood Night Palace as an offering."        The rest of the day was uneventful in the mountain camp.  Vykan arrived at the conclusion that the bandits were discussing the most valuable way to pawn him off, or something.  He had a stomachache which interrupted more thoughts, now forced to mouth breathe since blood and snot clogged him.        It was evening when the first struggles happened.  Above the wild sounds of nature came distant shouts, booms of some kind of low-tech explosions.  Vykan pulled his head to look in the direction, noting with off-hand fatigue that dust was being kicked up somewhere beyond the canopies of tents, on the far side of camp.  A wind had picked up then, the breeze freezing his naked skin.        Tent after tent slowly curled from a fire.  With every gust of wind, the roar of flame rose in intensity.  It was getting closer to his side of camp.  Vykan was too loopy to care whichever way, simply watching.  He watched as a shadow inside a near tent struggled against a sword wielder, as it ran through the bandit's outline, as blood spattered on the tent fabric.  Then the smoke of flame before the blossom.  Pricks.        Vykan leaned back against the board, knowing he would be fine.  Well, freed.  He let the sounds of the fire paint his imagination as he watched the orange sun nestle in the peaks beyond the valley, contented but still sick-aggravated.  Fuck.  It took massive willpower to overcome the pains of his neck and arms.  The inflammation of joints nearly maddening with their insistence.        Movement took his vision back to the bonfires of the once-camp.  It appeared as though bandit-survivors were led in a chain-gang by a warrior.  There were words between him and another, before the other jogged over to him.  Vykan sneezed right as the figure entered clarity, the warrior sidestepping with measured grace flying snot.        Vykan then realized the warrior was a woman.  She had her hair in a braid about her shoulder, it red hue like velvety wine.  Her eyes . . . same red hue as the hair.  Matte-blue robes that matched her partner's, and right then Vykan thought:        Fuck.  It's cold out.