Amends

Chapter 8: Fix

Another nightmare, only this time Ingressus is out on his own without Nakiri to help pull him from it, and when its intensity grips him, holding him captive in his own mind, he cannot find the strength to fight it

At least until Amantius notices that something is wrong and realises that he must do something to help this mysterious red Ardoni

Author's note: a n g s t y

yeah so, as nightmares go, this is kinda angsty, but just wait until you find out a bit more about the anxious cinnamon roll and what he does with what knowledge he has

also to note: I experimented a bit with a style here. [*****] denotes a change in setting, so we swap between reality with sleepy boi and cinnamon roll and what is actually going on inside Ingry's head as he dreams. the dream setting is also written in italics to help make it seem a little more surreal, if that's possible. it'll make sense as you read. the pace also changes to add a bit more effect to it. hope it works XD

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His sore eyes ached as he squeezed them tight, scrunching his lids to creases as anguish took to his face and sweat drenched his skin. Even with the aura of cool, dewy grass beneath his disturbed body as he slept, Ingressus could feel himself burning up as though he were laying in flames, his skin itchy from under his cloak now feeling as if it had begun restraining him as he tossed in its tatters, wrapping his arms tightly by his side. He knew it wasn't right. He knew something was wrong; but deep within the confines of his mind, he struggled to distinguish dream from reality, good from bad.

He remained silent with only the occasional grunt of struggle as he turned on his side, or rolled to his back, his legs cramping and his body aching. He should have grown familiar to this feeling as it wasn't uncommon for him to go a whole night without some part of his body ceasing to feel pain – be it his sore throat still long recovering, his weakened legs having never properly regained strength after years of malnourishment, or even his stomach where he would scratch in irritability and open up one of the old scarred burn marks, causing it to sting and smart – however, there were some nights in particular that would make him want to scream had he not been locked in his mind as he was once in the cell. In being prisoner to whatever his mind subjected him to, lost in trauma, he never felt like he had escaped torment for he was barred from speaking as though his throat had been cut once more.

He knew he felt like that, for he had woken up caressing the scar on his neck from time to time, almost as if in defence – to block another attack.

Night terrors were a common occurrence – as they might be for someone who had not the displeasure of experiencing trauma – but this night, Ingressus found it to be lucid and capturing. He had woken for but the briefest of moments a handful of times during the seemingly endless night still unable to determine whether he was still dreaming or not.

And once again, it concerned the Tidesinger...

[*****]

Ingressus looked around the snowy wasteland, taking in the solemn breeze of ice that froze his features. This did not bother him. The cold was something that now brought him comfort – a breeze that did not whisper draughts through corridors, uttering words of horror; a breeze that did not bring the heat of tension, of uncertainty. To him, it symbolised freedom and he loved it all the more. He closed his eyes and loosened his grip on Voltar stood proudly by his side as his father would have been. He needed not be so on-guard.

He was free.

He was home.

And the other Voltaris knew it as they gathered behind him, pleased to see him whole and complete as if he had never left. He turned to them with a beaming smile, looking each and every one of them in the eyes, each returning the smile as they bowed their heads to him.