Agamemnon's Dowery

Chapter 6

Agamemnon awoke with a jolt, his chest tight, heart thundering as if it might burst. Panic surged through him, filling every corner of his mind. The apartment, small and dimly lit, seemed alien, its quiet corners mocking him in the midst of his hysteria. He sprang from the bed, his legs shaky beneath him, every step heavier than the last.

"Where is she? Where is she?" His breath was ragged, sharp gasps, as if the air had turned thick and impossible to draw in. A sickening taste lingered in his mouth—metallic, bitter, something foul. His hand clutched his chest as a sharp, burning pain shot through him. His body felt strange, every movement slow and clumsy, like he was trapped in someone else's skin.

His vision blurred as he stumbled, disoriented, around the apartment, searching for his sister. His limbs felt weak, the world spinning, and the ground beneath his feet seemed to lurch, as if it might crumble away. He was drowning, suffocating on the weight of his own panic.

A painful cough wracked his body, and when he wiped his mouth, his fingers came away stained in red. His breath hitched, sharp, rattling in his chest, as his knees buckled beneath him. He hit the floor hard, the edges of his vision dimming to blackness, his body aching with every breath.

"I have to find her," he rasped, forcing himself to stand, though his legs threatened to give way beneath him. With each desperate step, his body screamed in protest, but his mind—the voice of his sister, the image of her—pushed him forward. The stairwell felt like a chasm, each flight a monumental task. He threw himself down the steps, barely able to keep his balance, his thoughts spiraling into a blur of frantic urgency.

Out in the streets, the world had turned into a chaotic maze. Faces blurred past him, but none of them held the answer he needed. The city seemed to mock his search, a never-ending stream of unfamiliar streets and people. His chest burned, and the weight of exhaustion clung to his limbs as if he were being dragged through quicksand.

At last, he stumbled, collapsing in the middle of the street. His breath came in harsh gasps, his head spinning as the world closed in. Just as everything seemed to fade, a familiar figure appeared—a small figure in a soft bunny robe, their presence almost otherworldly in the midst of his delirium. Without a word, they knelt beside him, and with a gentle but unyielding strength, they lifted him up, cradling him in their arms and carrying him away.

...

He awoke again, the world coming into focus in slow, reluctant waves. It was as though the universe itself hesitated to draw him back into consciousness, as if not wanting to disturb the fragile barrier between him and oblivion. The first thing that greeted him was the familiar, weathered ceiling of the vase shop—its cracks and stains a quiet testament to years of dust and decay. The faint, earthy scent of clay and dried earth lingered in the air, grounding him in reality even as his mind still struggled to keep up.

A cool rag was gently pressed to his forehead, and for a fleeting moment, it felt like a distant, soothing memory—something from a time before all of this chaos. He let it linger, trying to focus, to bring his thoughts together, but the fog of delirium clung to him like cobwebs.

His heart still pounded in his chest, though the rhythm was no longer a frantic drumbeat of panic. The sensation was muted now, distant, as if his body were waking up just as slowly as his mind. Every breath came shallow and slow, each one harder to catch than the last, and his limbs felt like they belonged to someone else—heavy, unresponsive.

"Aggy, my boy, you've awakened." The voice was slow but steady, a deep, familiar timber that calmed the frantic pulse in his neck. It was Kothar-wa's voice—aged and measured, yet carrying a weight of something more. Aggy turned his head toward the sound, his thoughts a haze, struggling to make sense of the shifting world around him.