Rude Awakening

cw: death mentions, threat of death / bone breaking / myiasis

He wakes as if drenched in ice-cold water.

His body lurches forward, leaving his mind behind for just a moment before it races to catch up with his bodily reaction to revival. His chest is heaving, and his eyes are wet, yet no sound escapes his mouth as his body fights to express its shock.

‘Welcome back.’ Alethea’s voice is monotone, almost bored, and she watches him with icelike eyes, monitoring his reaction to the reawakening. 'Any luck?’ If she’s at all concerned by his flushed skin or the trembling of his entire body, she doesn’t show it.

'No.’ His jaw clenches suddenly, and he’s struck with a sudden burst of insolence. 'There never is, and there never will be, because-’

Her knife is pressed to his throat once more, still sticky with his blood, and he swallows against it, falling silent once again. Alethea doesn’t speak yet, only pressing the edge of the knife slightly further as her cold eyes meet his.

'You should be very careful with what you say to me.’ Her breath is cold on his skin, still slightly blue-tinged and numb. 'I will not hesitate to kill you again, break every single bone in your corpse, and let it rot until it is more maggot than human.’ The knife twists slightly, and a small run of blood pools in his collarbone. 'Then I’ll bring you back, but only to keep you just alive enough to feel the pain. You will be a broken shell of a man, and you will wish that I granted you the mercy of being able to writhe in your agony.’

The silence stretches between them, only punctuated by the grinding breaths forcing their way through his chest. She doesn’t blink, even as he twists under her blade, looks for a way to peel himself from the stone table he finds himself pressed against, tries to still the quivering of his jaw.

'No,’ he finally says, barely more than a whisper. 'No luck yet.’ The blade leaves his throat, and he exhales a shaky sigh as Alethea’s black boots leave his field of vision.

'Better.’ She watches him bring his knees to his chest, pulling his body together in an attempt to do the same for his mind. The reawakening takes a toll on the mind; it always will, but she contemplates the effects of repeated awakenings on the consciousness for a moment. Seeing him wrap shaking arms around a paper-delicate torso, she wonders to herself if he will survive the next awakening.

The irony is not lost on her; dying in a revival is nothing short of comic, but she is aware that his mind is fragile now, and that what comes back the next time may not be him at all.

If that happens, she can always find a new subject.

It does intrigue her to ponder if others would react so well to dancing so close to the touch of death. If she were to have to find another subject, would they crumble in the first reawakening? She doesn’t know, and doesn’t care to find out yet: he is still of use to her, and she doesn’t need to consider what will happen when he isn’t until the situation arises.

She leaves the room to return to her piles of notes, and hears Servius let out a shuddering sigh as the door closes.