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morgynleriTitle: But He Will Always Hear Me
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Edges of madness, sensory deprivation
Summary: When a strand of music is heard, faint and haunting, he's sure he's going mad.
Note: Follow-up here.
There's nothing here to feel but the endless cold, the bite of metal into his wrists where soft leather and slightly scratchy fabric should be. Pain sent tendrils of fire across his shoulders when his knees buckled under the stress of endless hours, uncounted, unknown, of supporting his weight.
Nothing to see, either, the darkness absolute and infinate. Some days he thinks he can see a flash of teeth in the blackness, a hint of a smile in the dark, but he shakes it off. There is no light to reflect from enamel and the darkness is a state of lightlessness, not a sentient being capable of mocking him with a gleeful expression.
Silence adds another layer of madness, and he swears he can hear faint hints of voices, though he knows there is nothing. Silence that gives him the chance to refine thoughts abandoned for lack of time to examine them. Every thought in his head, every emotion in his heart, debated in a soft voice to keep from going mad in the silence, the darkness, the cold.
When a strand of music, faint and haunting, is heard, he's sure he's going mad. It doesn't go away, doesn't get any stronger or any weaker, and eventually, he begins to think it's really there. Sometimes he even hums along with it, trying to figure out where it comes from, when it comes from. Not something contemporary, he thinks, but he doesn't know all the latest music. Even immortals can't keep up with all the changes.
Beneath it, he begins to hear the insidious drum-beat. Da-da-da-dum, da-da-da-dum. It comes and it goes, but the interruption to the other music, the discordnant beats of the two makes his head hurt, and isn't it enough that he hasn't eaten, or even sat down in... he doesn't actually know how long it's been.
He's died, more than once, he knows that, but that still doesn't tell him how long. Not when he's forgotten how many times he's died. More than he cares to, no matter how often it really has been.
Whispers. Whispers of things that are, that shouldn't be, that can't be. Of things he knows, of things he fears, of things he loves. Nonsense and babble, sometimes comforting, sometimes frightening.
The edges of madness, and he grits his teeth, and tries to focus on the here and now. The dark, the cold, the silence that has abandoned him to this strange mix of words and drums and music that tangles in his head, and slowly wears him away, water etching a channel in stone.
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Edges of madness, sensory deprivation
Summary: When a strand of music is heard, faint and haunting, he's sure he's going mad.
Note: Follow-up here.
There's nothing here to feel but the endless cold, the bite of metal into his wrists where soft leather and slightly scratchy fabric should be. Pain sent tendrils of fire across his shoulders when his knees buckled under the stress of endless hours, uncounted, unknown, of supporting his weight.
Nothing to see, either, the darkness absolute and infinate. Some days he thinks he can see a flash of teeth in the blackness, a hint of a smile in the dark, but he shakes it off. There is no light to reflect from enamel and the darkness is a state of lightlessness, not a sentient being capable of mocking him with a gleeful expression.
Silence adds another layer of madness, and he swears he can hear faint hints of voices, though he knows there is nothing. Silence that gives him the chance to refine thoughts abandoned for lack of time to examine them. Every thought in his head, every emotion in his heart, debated in a soft voice to keep from going mad in the silence, the darkness, the cold.
When a strand of music, faint and haunting, is heard, he's sure he's going mad. It doesn't go away, doesn't get any stronger or any weaker, and eventually, he begins to think it's really there. Sometimes he even hums along with it, trying to figure out where it comes from, when it comes from. Not something contemporary, he thinks, but he doesn't know all the latest music. Even immortals can't keep up with all the changes.
Beneath it, he begins to hear the insidious drum-beat. Da-da-da-dum, da-da-da-dum. It comes and it goes, but the interruption to the other music, the discordnant beats of the two makes his head hurt, and isn't it enough that he hasn't eaten, or even sat down in... he doesn't actually know how long it's been.
He's died, more than once, he knows that, but that still doesn't tell him how long. Not when he's forgotten how many times he's died. More than he cares to, no matter how often it really has been.
Whispers. Whispers of things that are, that shouldn't be, that can't be. Of things he knows, of things he fears, of things he loves. Nonsense and babble, sometimes comforting, sometimes frightening.
The edges of madness, and he grits his teeth, and tries to focus on the here and now. The dark, the cold, the silence that has abandoned him to this strange mix of words and drums and music that tangles in his head, and slowly wears him away, water etching a channel in stone.