Entry 07 - A Worder By Another Name
Title: "A Worder By Another Name"
Entry Number: 07
Author: saraste_impi
Fandom: Original
Rating: G
Genre: Fantasy with romance
Word Count: 1056
A/N: This is the sixth part of what I'm for now calling the ReWording 'Verse.
Pain.
White hot, pulsing, unending. It drags me into consciousness, even when if this is being awake, I would rather be unconscious.
The pain is burning through me, too bright flashes of light bursting in my vision as I flutter open my eyes. I try to breathe. Try and try but it isn't... something is wrong. I feel like drowning, like I can't get enough air, like there is something between my mouth and my lungs, stopping it, suffocating me and robbing me of precious oxygen.
I open my eyes fully even when I feel they're better closed, which is the absolute truth as pain laces through my head when I part my lids as wide as I can. Dark spots dance in my eyes around clear bright flashes.
I have no idea where I am.
The ceiling straight above me is hazy as I struggle to breathe and my lungs burn when I try to get in enough air. I try to ask but not a sound comes out. I forgot. Nothing can come out. Not even a wail even when my mouth is stretched as open as it can be as I gulp for air. My vision is shaking, unfocused, blurred.
A hazy face swims into my line of vision and I suddenly realize that someone is holding my hand.
Niamh.
It is Niamh and the thought alone gives me comfort, like her name is woven with it, laced with it so the very thinking of it makes me feel better. And it is true. She has given me a part of herself in parting with her name, even when it is one of many, it has unlocked and rewound, rewritten, a strand of the magic which holds us betrothed, making it stronger, binding us closer.
I'll never see it formed fully. Never feel its power. True potential. Never see what our wills could do together. Not like this.
That I have such cohesion of thought when my body is fighting to stay awake is a small miracle in itself. It cannot last. I am choking.
“Audrey,” she whispers the name which I have chosen for myself, not the one I was named with after I was born. I suddenly feel bad that it is the only name she knows. That the name of an actress dead long before my birth is the one I have given her. But I cannot tell her now, cannot give a real name... and yet. She must know. She must. Otherwise the betrothal would have no real pull. No real force.
If she hadn't, didn't know my real name, I would not be in this state.
Why didn't I tell? I should have trusted her more? My death is on me... I don't want to die... Please don't let me die. Does she know or is it...
Yet, I notice how even when the pain remains, my panic does lessen when she speaks. My eyes just will not focus nor my lungs fill with enough air, of course, but the panic is less. I cannot deny it. I don't have long, my head is throbbing with the lack of air as I slowly suffocate.
“Calm breaths,” she instructs me, her hand suddenly a cool weight on my forehead. “It's the wound in you neck. It's...”
Panic surges again as she grapples for words, trying to think what to say. I wish I could speak, there are a thousand questions on my tongue and I cannot get them out. A thousand words and only one name which can help. I try and focus on her but my eyes refuse to work properly. Even moving my head feels all too much, dark and bright spots dance in my eyes as I feel like fainting in place, even when lying down. I want to scream, ask why she is letting me die, letting me suffer. I want to scream my name at her, my full name, which would give her the power to kill me but also to save me.
But she has to. I cannot focus. I don't know what to think. Don't know what is true and what isn't.
Why if she knows my name she cannot grasp the source of my pain, the reason behind my loss of voice, loss of breath.
Say it. I know you know it. You have to say it. SAY IT.
“There are words bound into the substance, the... poison. We are trying to unravel them,” Niamh tells me as I move my head away from her even when it makes the pain shoot back, even when part of me wants to lock eyes with her, let her mesmerise, be-spell me, re-Word me so she can rob me of the pain and lull me into death, which I fear is coming. “You're not... dying.”
Even as she says it, it feels like my life is slipping away, as wave after wave of pain shoots through me, making my back arch and my mouth hang open in a cry of pain I cannot utter. It feels like a knife being stabbed into my neck over and over, white hot pain lacing through me. My head swims and there are no other thoughts but pain pain pain.
Why must my Words need a voice, why do they need to be uttered aloud, to be effective?
“Breathe,” she whispers, suddenly close, the word a command, coaxing my strength out of me, telling my will not to let go, and she kisses me, breathing into me, forcing air into my lungs, helping me cling to wakefulness. Keeping the darkness at bay for a moment, at least, driving away the shadows. Giving me some coherence of thought.
She draws away too soon, murmurs something, something akin to my name, which it must be, cursing and cajoling, trying to reWord my future, my very near future. But she can't. She can't even take the pain away so what use is it?
Then she does and I succumb to the darkness eddying around the edges of my conscious thoughts, willingly, eager for a moments respite from the pain, from everything. Even when I cling to consciousness with all I have, fearing it could be my last, my last moments when I'm thinking anything at all...
Entry Number: 07
Author: saraste_impi
Fandom: Original
Rating: G
Genre: Fantasy with romance
Word Count: 1056
A/N: This is the sixth part of what I'm for now calling the ReWording 'Verse.
Pain.
White hot, pulsing, unending. It drags me into consciousness, even when if this is being awake, I would rather be unconscious.
The pain is burning through me, too bright flashes of light bursting in my vision as I flutter open my eyes. I try to breathe. Try and try but it isn't... something is wrong. I feel like drowning, like I can't get enough air, like there is something between my mouth and my lungs, stopping it, suffocating me and robbing me of precious oxygen.
I open my eyes fully even when I feel they're better closed, which is the absolute truth as pain laces through my head when I part my lids as wide as I can. Dark spots dance in my eyes around clear bright flashes.
I have no idea where I am.
The ceiling straight above me is hazy as I struggle to breathe and my lungs burn when I try to get in enough air. I try to ask but not a sound comes out. I forgot. Nothing can come out. Not even a wail even when my mouth is stretched as open as it can be as I gulp for air. My vision is shaking, unfocused, blurred.
A hazy face swims into my line of vision and I suddenly realize that someone is holding my hand.
Niamh.
It is Niamh and the thought alone gives me comfort, like her name is woven with it, laced with it so the very thinking of it makes me feel better. And it is true. She has given me a part of herself in parting with her name, even when it is one of many, it has unlocked and rewound, rewritten, a strand of the magic which holds us betrothed, making it stronger, binding us closer.
I'll never see it formed fully. Never feel its power. True potential. Never see what our wills could do together. Not like this.
That I have such cohesion of thought when my body is fighting to stay awake is a small miracle in itself. It cannot last. I am choking.
“Audrey,” she whispers the name which I have chosen for myself, not the one I was named with after I was born. I suddenly feel bad that it is the only name she knows. That the name of an actress dead long before my birth is the one I have given her. But I cannot tell her now, cannot give a real name... and yet. She must know. She must. Otherwise the betrothal would have no real pull. No real force.
If she hadn't, didn't know my real name, I would not be in this state.
Why didn't I tell? I should have trusted her more? My death is on me... I don't want to die... Please don't let me die. Does she know or is it...
Yet, I notice how even when the pain remains, my panic does lessen when she speaks. My eyes just will not focus nor my lungs fill with enough air, of course, but the panic is less. I cannot deny it. I don't have long, my head is throbbing with the lack of air as I slowly suffocate.
“Calm breaths,” she instructs me, her hand suddenly a cool weight on my forehead. “It's the wound in you neck. It's...”
Panic surges again as she grapples for words, trying to think what to say. I wish I could speak, there are a thousand questions on my tongue and I cannot get them out. A thousand words and only one name which can help. I try and focus on her but my eyes refuse to work properly. Even moving my head feels all too much, dark and bright spots dance in my eyes as I feel like fainting in place, even when lying down. I want to scream, ask why she is letting me die, letting me suffer. I want to scream my name at her, my full name, which would give her the power to kill me but also to save me.
But she has to. I cannot focus. I don't know what to think. Don't know what is true and what isn't.
Why if she knows my name she cannot grasp the source of my pain, the reason behind my loss of voice, loss of breath.
Say it. I know you know it. You have to say it. SAY IT.
“There are words bound into the substance, the... poison. We are trying to unravel them,” Niamh tells me as I move my head away from her even when it makes the pain shoot back, even when part of me wants to lock eyes with her, let her mesmerise, be-spell me, re-Word me so she can rob me of the pain and lull me into death, which I fear is coming. “You're not... dying.”
Even as she says it, it feels like my life is slipping away, as wave after wave of pain shoots through me, making my back arch and my mouth hang open in a cry of pain I cannot utter. It feels like a knife being stabbed into my neck over and over, white hot pain lacing through me. My head swims and there are no other thoughts but pain pain pain.
Why must my Words need a voice, why do they need to be uttered aloud, to be effective?
“Breathe,” she whispers, suddenly close, the word a command, coaxing my strength out of me, telling my will not to let go, and she kisses me, breathing into me, forcing air into my lungs, helping me cling to wakefulness. Keeping the darkness at bay for a moment, at least, driving away the shadows. Giving me some coherence of thought.
She draws away too soon, murmurs something, something akin to my name, which it must be, cursing and cajoling, trying to reWord my future, my very near future. But she can't. She can't even take the pain away so what use is it?
Then she does and I succumb to the darkness eddying around the edges of my conscious thoughts, willingly, eager for a moments respite from the pain, from everything. Even when I cling to consciousness with all I have, fearing it could be my last, my last moments when I'm thinking anything at all...