Arcaea/Dining Hall/PTSD and You
You never did realize how big a region was until you had to walk across it. Which was the exact situation had found himself in not but two days ago. His, and several others, had been ambushed by a large contingent of Cathy, and had been wiped out to the last man, all save for Richter.
He stumbled forward, on the last leg of his journey and the last leg of his strength, his right hand griped tightly to his chest in a futile attempt to staunch the blood flow from a weeping festering wound. He had blacked out several times due to the blood loss, but always awoke to find himself upright and still walking ever forward.
It wasn't until he saw one of the sign's Marking Arcaea's borders that Richter had even the vaguest idea of where he was, or where he was going. A sense of grim finality gripped him, as he redoubled his steady pace.
He was half way down the road before his legs gave out from underneath him, a wave of nausea forcing him to his knees as...the memories...came back.
Flashes of pain, brief glimpses of slaughter and mayhem, voices calling out to him, screaming in pain, so loud it was maddening...
Instinctively he reached for his tonic, usually kept hidden within the flask his brother had given him, only to remember he had run dry no less then a day ago. As the waves of pain and flashes of his past flowed over him unimpeded Richter felt a wordless scream die in his throat, as he bit his tongue, drawing blood in an attempt to make it all go away...
And suddenly it all snapped back into focus again, disappearing as suddenly as it came, unpredictable as always.
Breathless from the pain, and exhaustion, Richter wearily forced himself to his feet and soldiered on. His single eye half closed from blood that oozed its way down from a small cut at the top of his skull to partially cover his only eye.
An unknown amount of land traveled beneath his feet before he looked up again, noticing he had wondered to the foot of an encampment. He scanned it quickly, noticing he hadn't been spotted yet, finding the Arcaean colors brought a small measure of relief. He took two steps forward into view of the camp, before the ground rose up around him and crashed into his chest.
He was vaguely able to recall the name of the unit before passing out...
'...The Silver Shields...who commands them I wonder...,' he thought as he felt warm bodies gather around him, and the darkness looming on the edge of his vision rush froth to consume him.
She was sitting in her tent, writing a letter to her younger cousin Desi, scolding her for getting captured, but praising her for her recent release. A bail of twelve gold. She shook her head as she wrote. That wasn't a very high bail, and yet it was all the gold Desi had. 76 gold, to 31, to 17, to 12 gold. She sighed, and as she was giving the letter to her messenger, she heard the commotion outside her tent by the front of the encampment. She hurried out of the tent to find a man collapsed on the ground, surrounded by all her soldiers but her 3 wounded men.
She hurried up to them and pushed them away, saying, "Move! Give him space!" She looked around for a moment thinking. "Find Edith and bring her here." She turned the man over gently and sighed. He was badly beaten up, and his eye, well he was missing one. It looks like an old wound though, and she disregarded it. Soon Edith had arrived, a few other 'nurses' in tow. Edith had them set a stretcher down by the man, and they carefully set him on it. Esme followed them to the tent and helped to wait on the man and clean his wounds. She stayed with him almost constantly, waiting for him to wake up.
Esme Lisieux (Dame of Remton)
He was dreaming, he knew he was because he knew the dream had stumbled into.
Oh yes he knew this one well indeed, it had haunted him for nearly 8 years now, a lingering remnant of his childhood, clinging to him by the roots of his sub consciousness. It always started the same way...it always ended the same way...and before he was through he would be forced to make an ultimately irrelevant choice that became harder and harder to make each time...
It begins...Richter...at the least a younger version of Richter...dashes through the hallways of Massey Manor. Taking a left down a adjacent and then a right down another, no rhyme or reason to the running, just a burning desire to get away from...him...
And like the devil he appeared from seemingly the air itself, blocking the path before Richter and drowning him in a wave of awe inspiring terror, always more potent then the last. Siegfried loomed over his son, a sadistic smile spread across his face, and eyes that bore into a person's very soul glowing softly in the darkness of the halls.
Richter freezes with fear, amplified by the oppressive atmosphere of the dream world itself. His mind screamed at his feet to move, and his feet stubbornly refused to comply. Barely a yard separated him from certain death, when an instinctive animalistic fear override his fears and forced him to move.
He turned and ran faster then he had ever ran before, but it might as well of been a crawl to Richter. He risked a glance over his shoulder, to see Siegfried walking just as slowly and steadily as ever, yet impossibly closing the small distance between them. Desperation seized him as he cast half crazed looks about for an escape.
...A window...
...A table...
His mind was barely able to process what was happening before Richter acted. He barely caught sight of a small window with a table next to it, before he was barreling towards it with all the speed his young legs could give him. A casual swipe of his hand sent the table spiraling into his wake, smashing into his father with a satisfying crunch, before Richter leapt into the air, and through the window...
He rolled to his feet on the opposite side of the glass, only a few minor cuts to add to his collection...it took him a second to realize where the window had led him...it took another for a fresh wave of horror to grip him.
The Courtyard...the dogs...
The thought barely crossed his mind, before the hellish barking reached his ears. Renewed fear drove his feet to fly beneath him, towards the only source of salvation such a place held, the only way into, or out of, the courtyard besides the small window Richter had just left his father behind. A rope ladder that came down from the roof on the far side of the courtyard...
Richter caught sight of it just as the first of the dogs was upon him...leaping up on him, and scratching him with his claws, and going for the neck with his fangs. Richter was faster though, elbowing the dog in the stomach first, then throwing the stunned animal to the ground, before hurrying off...
The second hound caught him five yards from Richter's goal, but he was ready his time, turning to catch the dog at the moment of his lunge and hurled him into the wall with his own momentum. The rest of the pack loomed just outside of his vision, cutting all escape except for the ladder, as they slowly tightened the proverbial noose.
With a final burst of adrenaline, Richter reached the ladder, the fangs of the dogs nipping at his feet, angry howls cursed him as he pulled himself to the roof. He found his father waiting for him there, calmly leaned against the slant of the roof, with a seemingly bored expression on his face, not but 5 yards between them.
Now was the moment...the only moment that mattered...the moment of the choice...with death before him, and behind him what would he do...would he press his back to the wall and prepare to fight to his last breath...or would he dissolve into darkness without so much as a whimper...ethier way it did not matter, the end was death and had always been death...the decision did not matter...only the choice...
It took him longer to decide with each dream...but his decision was ultimately the same...
Feet spread, arms out in a defensive posed, he ushered his father to finish what he had started barely 14 years ago.
The two charged each other, closing the distance between faster then the space between breathes. Richter lanced out with his feet, launching a flurry of kicks alternating between the two in an attempt to keep his father off balance.
He might as well as been moving in slow motion for all the good it did him, as each one of his kicks was blocked or dodged in rapid secession...all save for the last one...which Siegfried caught...
With a quick jerk Richter was flung off his feet and slammed into the opposite side of the roof with jarring force. He was still struggling to regain his feet when Siegfried griped him and pulled him to his feet. Fist after fist made seemingly of pure iron slammed into Richter, as he stumbled about, too stunned to dodge, sliding one way with the force of one blow, and sliding the other way with the force of the other.
It always ended like this, Richter battered to the breaking point, always drawn out just a bit longer each time...On and on it went like that...until finally the blows stopped coming, and Richter collapsed against his father...the ability or will to move his limbs gone from him...
The knowledge that the end was near being the only comfort for Richter, as his father grabbed him by collar of his torn and blood stained shirt. One handed Siegfried lifted his son off his feet and held him aloft over the edge of the roof, as the hound bayed in anticipation for the meal to come...
"Tell me Richter," Siegfried said, as he always did, voice as cold and mocking as always,"...why do we fall."
"To learn...," Richter said, words coming out in between bloodstained coughs, his voice a resigned flat sound that reflected his emanate demise,"...the arrogance...of climbing...so high..."
Siegfried chuckled at his son's programed response, reveling in his role of puppet master to Richter's puppet, "You say that so confidently...but I don't think you've learned yet...I believe a larger fall is in order...hm?"
With that, Siegfried released his grip, and Richter slid from limp fingers. As he fell he did not cry out...he did not flap his arms in a desperate bid for purchase...he simply closed his eyes and accepted it...
Richter's eyes snapped open as they always did when the dream ended, casting his weary eyes about, he noticed several healers standing off to the side, gathering about a lady, possibly one of the new nobles Richter had been getting letters from recently...He pushed such musings to the side, and slowly pulled his aching body to an upright position mindful of the fresh bandages warped around his bare chest.
Sitting back, waiting to be addressed, Richter's thoughts fell back to the dream, as they usually did, and a look of deep thought settled upon him...so deep that he hardly noticed when the noble women approached him...
She saw the man wake up and sit up in bed. She saw the starched white bandage around his chest - and the bright red blood that was still staining it. She mostly hid the worry from her face as she approached him and sat on the edge of his bed. He seemed to be recovering alright, but she had instructed her healers to keep a close eye on him until he was fully recovered.
"My Lord? How are you feeling?" She reached forward to feel his forehead, and found him still hotter than normal. "You have been out for two days. My healers have been busy, though, and I think you should be all better soon."
She patted his leg gently, in a comforting manner. Do not underestimate Esme's motherly compassion. That thought entered her mind and her corners of her mouth turned up. Motherly compassion! Well there's also.... She smothered the thought; It was not appropriate for this situation. She started slightly as she remembered this man had no idea who she was. "I'm sorry Sir, I am Lady Esme Lisieux, a Knight of Remton." She gave him a comforting and encouraging smile.
Esme Lisieux (Dame of Remton)
Richter was stirred from his reprieve by Lady Esme appearing at his side. She began to say something, but Richter only partially paid attention to her, instead using their proximity to take his first good look at her. Long black hair, hazel eyes, if Richter was any other man he would have gone so far as to say she was pretty, but he had been bled dry of his concerns for such things.
He took a quick moment to take stock of himself as she finished speaking, taking into account the facts he had garnered from the moments he was paying attention to her.
“Richter Massey...,” he introduced himself as an afterthought
‘Still a bit sore...,’ he thought as he stretched his arms out and shoulder’s out, testing the range of his moment,’But the chest wound seems to have stopped bleeding at least, but still...’
“...it’s a wonder I’m still alive after all that...,” he said unintentionally a loud, his dazed mind still having trouble processing thought. He flinched slightly as a throbbing pain shot up his left temple; his hand moved itself in an attempt to rub it away.
His single eye closed as he continued to concentrate on expelling the pain from his head, when he noticed something...
His eye patch was gone, leaving nothing but naked scar tissue where his left eye should have been. Briefly he felt about his person in a vague attempt to find it, before turning to address Lady Esme, she said her name was, in hopes that she had seen it.
“I had a patch for...” said Richter, before he paused and point to the former resting place of his left eye, “...do you know where it might be?”
Richter Massey (Knight of Remton)
he stared at him as he came to his senses, just a bit more. She took in his name, storing it in the back of her mind. He seemed to be unconcerned of his whereabouts, or the fact there was a woman sitting a bit close to him on his bed. Well, not like a man would mind that. He wasn't particularly ugly - not like she was looking at him like that. Truly, she was concerned about his health. She was not one hundred percent sure he was going to make it.
'...it's a wonder I'm still alive after all that...'
She hoped the worry didn't show on her face - it would not become her to have worry lines at such a young age! He mentioned his patch. She had not paid much attention to the fact he was missing an eye up until now. Yes she'd briefly noticed, but such wounds were not unheard of, and she was busy worrying about the other wounds that might prove more fatal.
"No, I'm afraid we don't have one that you were originally wearing. But we happen to have extras - one of my men is missing an eye as well." She had a feeling that he was going to want or need one, and she pulled a very non-descript patch out of a satchel she held in her hand. She handed it to him carefully.
She hesitated, "Are you feeling alright Lord Richter?"
Esme Lisieux (Dame of Remton)
Richter managed a short sharp laugh at Lady's Esme's question, an edge of pain cutting through it, as he gently pushed himself into an upright position to retrieve the offered eye patch.
"Me, oh I'm fine..." said Richter, sarcasm lacing its way through his pain laden voice, "...if you don't count the large, probably infected gash on my side...and the severe exhaustion...the plethora of other minor wounds...I'm just fine..." he said, grunts of pain breaking up his speech as he moved.
As he reached out for the offered eye patch, he hesitated slightly, and looked up at Esme, the sharp edge of guilt stabbing into him for the first time in a long time. He sighed heavily as he took crude patch from her hands.
"Thank you..." he said sincerely, "...I'd probably be dead..."
He stopped himself as he sank back onto the bed he had been laid out on, he eyes locked intently on the little piece of black cloth held in his hands. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but Richter could of sworn that it reminded him of...
...looking down at the blood stained eye patch in his hands, Richter picked it up from the ground as he pushed his still dazed body to a crouching position. He looked about the battle field...and saw slaughter as far as his eye could see...the slaughter of his men...every single one his responsibility...and every single death just another in a long line of failures in his life.
Blood dripped down from where he had been struck in the temple, and he suddenly remembered why he was on the ground in the first place. He looked up to see a giant of a man looming over him, sword raised high, intent on taking his prize...and for a single horrifying second Richter saw his father staring down at him, poised to finish him off at last...a primal fear gripped Richter's heart as he...
...reeled back in shock, casting his single eye about in a wild crazed manner. He blinked once, then twice, before realizing where he was again. He buried his face in his hands, as he took several deep gasping breaths sweat coating his body, as he desperately tried to relax. It took some effort but finally Richter's normal look of grim resignation settled onto his face, as he fell back roughly against the bed, flinching back against the shooting stabs of white hot pain flaring up from the motion.
"I don't think...I was cut out for this..." he said to no one in particular, used to being alone, and used to musing out loud, "...but then again...I don't suppose I ever had a choice in the matter..."
His sarcasm -- didn't totally take her off guard. But it made her change her attitude a bit. She sat up straighter and withdrew her hand as soon as she could after giving him the eye patch. She tried to not make a sour face, but a hint of it may have shown. However, she relaxed a bit as he thanked her. It took the place of an apology, and she let the thought slip from her mind. Esme watched him look down at the cloth - and then....
She didn't know what happened. At one moment Lord Massey was just looking at the cloth, and the next he looked like a ghost had just passed through him - and torn him up on the way. She reached a hand forward out of concern, but withdrew it before he could notice. Esme watched helplessly as beads of sweat formed on his brow, and he gasped for air in an apparent panic. She reached over to a make-shift night stand and grabbed a small rag to dab his forehead with. When he looked up at her she was shocked to see his expression. It was so - stern, and set.
He started talking again, and for a moment Esme thought he was talking to her. But then, he wasn't focused on her, and the half-mumbling seemed to be more introspection than anything else. She caught his eye, and she couldn't help but ask, "Can I do anything to help? Do you want to talk about it?"
Richter locked his steel blue eyes, gleaming with a age that did not match his own, with Esme’s concerned hazel ones, noting absent mindly how...nice...they looked in the light of the setting sun.
A vicious shake of his head cleared it thoroughly of any such thoughts, there were many things Richter could not afford in his life right now...or ever perhaps...and that...was one of them...
He sighed wearily as he pondered her question. He never actually believed talking about one’s problems would some how make them better, talking never solved anything, he knew that much from his experience.
And yet...
Richter was no stranger to isolation...self imposed or forced upon him...but he was still only human, and the last time he had any manner of conversation outside of giving orders was...
‘Hmm...its rather pathetic when you can’t remember the last time you talked to another human being isn’t it...’ he thought, as he struggled into a slightly upright position...having already made his decision, but still determined to go through the formalities anyway...
“Its...a very long...LONG...story...,” He said, already feeling some change from those small words...as if he was somehow lighter then before, “And I am not the tale teller that my brother is...what I tell you will not make you better...it will do nothing for you other then drag you down to my level...I can’t promise you happy beginning...a happy middle...or a happy end...and by the end of it you may very well join a growing portion of this realm that despise me with every fiber of their being...”
There was nothing in Richter face, body langue, or eyes that betrayed a lie, because there was none to be had...he was telling nothing but the god’s to honest truth...or what he perceived the truth to be...
“This is your one and only chance...if you don’t wish to hear...leave now...I’ll understand...if I had any choice in the matter...I wouldn’t want to hear it either...”
It was obvious he was trying to scare her - at least somewhat. His steely blue eyes and his rough tone did not frighten her though. Although perhaps she might admit to being slightly unsettled. She settled back against his legs and crossed her own, getting comfortable. She was tempted to raise her eyebrows at his warnings, but she resisted the urge.
Suddenly Edith bustled in, prepared to fret like a mad women over the injured man. Esme let her go about her business for a moment, then waved a hand nonchalantly.
"Leave us Edith, and tell the others. I will be speaking with Lord Richter for the time being, and we do not wish to be disturbed."
The head healer left in the same hurried manner that she had entered. Esme turned her attention back to the man and waved a hand at him to continue.
Richter sighed wearily as he acknowledged her lack of fear in a rather disbelieving manner.
“Well...I don’t know about you...but it scares the hell out of me...,” he said, as he unconsciously looked about the room, licking at his lips in an attempt to dispel the dryness there.
“Got anything to...you know...” he said, as made a motion with his hands indicative of downing a bottle of alcohol. As if on cue, a twinkle to his right caught his eye as the sun light caught a clear glass bottle of pure alcohol, no doubt used to disinfect his wound.
Barely a moment of consideration passed before Richter stretched out and snatched the bottle from where it stood on a stand to the right. He popped the top of the bottle and took a whiff of the liquid inside, before slightly recoiling with the strength of the smell.
‘Yep...pure alcohol...damn...I think that burnt my nose hairs...,’ he thought as he starred at the bottle in his hands, before shrugging and putting the thing to his lips, ‘...Oh well...Alcohol is alcohol, and its not like I drink for the taste anyway...’
Richter took two deep gulps, the liquid burning the entire way down, and partially back of the way up before a second swallow quelled any such reaction...he relished every drop of it, he eyes closed in a relaxed exaltation.
The bottle firmly in hand, Richter casts his eyes to the roof of the tent, thinking back to his childhood, and all the horrors his young mind and body had been forced to endure. He didn’t realize it but he was speaking the whole time, aloud, clearly and precisely, in fact he might have over looked it entirely if he had not caught the look of horror reflected in Emse’s eyes.
He didn’t stop though, he couldn’t stop, his lips and voice had taken on a mind of their own, before he knew it stories of the endless training horrific training sessions, the times he spent locked in cages with monsters thrice the size of a man, the multiple doomed escaped attempts...the punishments that followed...
His eyes betrayed no emotions throughout, completely glazed over partially from the copious amounts of pure alcohol he had just downed and partially through sheer force of will; because Richter didn’t want to feel anything...he was too AFRAID to feel anything....
It was well into the evening before he finally began to wind down, to the last time he had seen his father alive...
“....heh...its kind of funny really...” he said without a trace of humor in his voice, as he indicated the scar where his left eye used to be, “...I think this it the closest thing the old man ever came to giving me a gift...and it wasn’t even my birthday...”
Richter Massey (Knight of Remton)
Esme was not horrified. She was not terrified. Perturbed would probably be the best word for the situation. Her jaw was only slightly slack. She could only imagine the horrors that he had managed to live through. She'd never heard a story like his, and yes, it was very disturbing. Why was she not horrified, not terrified? Because her mind repressed the images that his description conjured up. If she had a closer insight into the experience, then perhaps she would be faint with terror. He continued to take swigs of alcohol, and Esme suddenly reached out and grabbed the bottle of pure alcohol from his hand.
"What makes you think this will make life any better for you?"
She couldn't resist the impulse to hug him, and she gave him a big one. Richter didn't seem like the guy that was really 'into' hugs. Esme was especially convinced of that after hearing his story. But, that was just her nature. Hugs were supposed to cure everything. She felt like she needed to say something else, but the words weren't coming as quickly as she would have liked.
"I'm sorry for your past. At least you've made it this far, right?"
She gave an encouraging smile, hoping that her tone and expression matched what he expected as a response, besides pure horror.
Richter remained cool and unresponsive throughout the entirety of his story...
...right up to the point to where she took his drink out of his slightly numb hands...
Then he became...mildly...annoyed...
“I was drinking tha...,” he said, before he suddenly found himself encircled by her...in a show of unwanted physical contact...commonly referred to as a ‘hug’...
Richter heaved an annoyed sigh, as he brought one hand up to rub his aching temples, which she must of took as encouragement to continue hugging him...
‘This, is exactly the reason I don’t tell people this story,’ Richter thought, as he rolled his eyes, and tried to find something to distract himself until she got the hint to let go...
No matter how many times he told people about his past, or who he told it too, it always made Richter an object to be pitied...and if there was one thing that annoyed Richter more then anything else, it was the consistency of someone expressing pity...
‘Unwanted physical contact...,’ Richter mentally checked off
‘The need to apologize even though you did nothing wrong... ,’ Richter checked once again.
‘And worse of all...that look...that same damn look...the sickening glitter in their eyes that always betrayed there true intentions...the substituted empathy put in place to make themselves feel better...,’ Richter thought with a note of disgusted contempt, ‘...the selfishness...the apathy...”
The dark thoughts brewing in his head goaded Richter from annoyed in well disguised anger...barely restrained by some instinctive need not to make a scene.
He waited patiently...until she pulled back...then he would see it for himself...not that he needed to...they were all the same in the end...
Moments passed, like a seething eternity of unbetrayed rage to him...until finally she relented...he tensed up in preparation for the moment when her eyes would betray her...
His steel blue orb locked with her hazel counterparts...and he blinked at what he found...
...nothing...
Well...nothing of what he was looking for anyway...nothing but honest sympathy...it was...disturbing to say the least...and for a moment Richter found himself lost...unsure of what to do for the first time in a long time...The two of them remained stock still...both oblivious as to what to do in their own ways...
Finally Richter regained his composure...turning his head to cough into his hand as an improvised from of covering up his embarrassment...on the inside, he was still reeling from what he had just seen...or rather not seen...
‘What the hell...how...why...,’ he thought, becoming intimately familiar with the term ‘scatter brained.’
Covertly he stole a glance or two more...just to be absolutely sure...
Still nothing...it baffled him...it defied everything he knew about human nature...and yet it was still there...or wasn’t there...
Richter’s hand fell to his temples...as the over taxing of his brain finally caught up to him...again he collapsed back against the bed feeling sleep edge it’s way into the edge of his vision...
As he drifted off...an uncalled thought drifted from his subconscious mind, and spilled forth into the conscious.
“...You have nice eyes...,” he heard himself say...as his head fell back, and he fell into the comforting embrace of sleep.
She watched him cautiously, wondering at his reaction. It seemed so confused, befuddled. Esme tried to hide her concern, although she was sure he was losing his mind. It seemed he was surprised at her hug - or the fact she had true sympathy for him. Again, do not underestimate her. Sure she had the cold-hearted bitch side, complete with devious scheming. But she is still a compassionate person, capable of all the feelings of the most lovey-dovey woman out there.
And then he was really losing it, not his marbles, but his grip on consciousness. 'You have nice eyes....' It took her by surprise and, even though he might not have noticed in his sudden drowsiness, she flushed a deep crimson. It was not often that someone said her hazel eyes were pretty, or 'nice', as Lord Richter put it. And at his last words, he was fast asleep.
She sat there for a moment, staring at him. Then she used her strength to move him down the bed slightly, so he rested more comfortably, with his head on the pillow. She moved the alcohol from sight, so he wouldn't be tempted when he woke up next. She pulled the sheets and blankets over him, and tucked him in. Esme smoothed his hair gently before walked to a small chair across the tent. She sat, and continued to watch him, knowing it would not be long before he woke up.
