Chimera

03|Three

Time had long turned panic into a buzzing undercurrent beneath the numb. Still there, still setting his heart ablaze in a frantic flurry, but dulled by a wash of unfeeling that left Hemlock immobile and helpless atop the duvet. He hadn't even bothered with covering himself for some semblance of belated modesty. Movement felt too draining; it dragged him further down the spiral and beneath the suffocating waters. Breathing, too, almost became too laborious to bother with. Not for the first time, Hemlock wished to drown beneath it all.

The softest whisper of footsteps roused Hemlock from his half-asleep state just enough for him to recognize the pattern—scurrying, with just enough echo to betray the existence of two pairs. He settled back down and heaved a sigh. Even that pulled at his wounds to an uncomfortable extent. "One of these days I won't be bare-assed in front of you two," he mumbled into the pillow, already allowing himself a genuine rest.

Feather fingers ghosted over his back before combing through his hair. His exhaustion had overridden the instinct to flinch ages ago. "You men and your dignity," Mora tsked. It was a gentle sound, with something akin to a motherly hush hidden within the words. Venette circled around to kneel to his level, chin and folded arms resting on the edge as she smiled and tapped his nose. Hemlock scrunched it mostly for her sake just to see her smile sparkle.

"Sleep, Hem," she said, just as gentle as her twin, "We'll take care of you."

Hemlock hummed and closed his eyes, once again submitting himself to the hands of another besides himself. "You always do."

**

While he slept, the twins worked their magic to patch him back up. Some part of him still felt the phantoms of their touch even in his dreams, which threatened to drag him down into an abyss that he'd never wake from. Claws and teeth sunk into his flesh and demanded he give more more more, give everything he had and then some. To give up his very bones and soul like he owed a debt he never asked to receive. They caressed the delicate stretch of his skin with nails sharpened into daggers and whispered for him to obey their unsaid demands under threat of peeling him open cut by cut.

Hands, all over his body. Grabbing and pulling and twisting him how he was wanted. Demanded. They held him down and lifted him up and power loomed over him like a shadowed threat all on its own. His fangs sunk into pillowed feathers in a bid to not scream, and hunger no longer stayed a priority. Only agony.

Then, he dreamt of blood. Smeared across the floor like a ritual and spattered inside bowls. Tinged the musty air with iron and crimson. Flickering torches lit up the room and painted stone walls in ever-shifting shadows and light. Claws continued to skate down his back as he kneeled over those bloody sigils, but these ones counted the bumps of his spine and kept their touch to a mild sting as they skimmed over his scalp. He dreamt of distant screams, the chill of fear—and the warmth of a hearth. The crackle of power more potent than even Dregan possessed.

A feral hiss chased the demanding whispers away until they skittered off into an unseen void. Hemlock trembled in place where he knelt. Evidence of cruelty splayed itself out in front of him, as if proud, and he would be next. His place on the smeared whirls of blood told him that, because what else could he ever be but a sacrifice for someone else's wants? No binds held him down, though, and the clothes draped over his body were fine silks with glittering embroidery. He held out his hands and his wrists were bare of bruises and blisters. Not a fleck of blood stained him. "Where am I?" he croaked.

A torrent of voices flooded his mind, all screaming and whispering and speaking at once and converging into one overwhelming voice. Hemlock bowed under the force of it and clapped hands over his ears as if that would muffle the deafening onslaught as it spoke to him. "Blood-drinker. You sit at the site of slaughter."