Trkasu knew what to do when he couldn’t cope, drawing into himself with dulled eyes and quiet words he would whisper to himself. No one else needed to be there, should have been there. Alone in the room was comfortable, calming. The scorpions kept their distance. Over and over he let his fingers seek the cuts on his face, tracing the marks her nails had left. He’d never know what he had done, not without her words and her accusations ringing in his ears. There was only the memory of fear and darkness and her cold hands on his shoulders. Anything could have occurred while he was gone, hiding in his own little void.
At that moment the room was his void, eyes closed and light only coming slowly through tightly pressed eyelashes. He’d pushed the pillows away from the rock floor, curled against a wall he’d thrown a blanket away from. Hard and cold, solid and calming. A place to hide eh knew wouldn’t change, no soft material to shift when he sighed or trembled.
The fear came in waves, slowly and steadily shaking his mind and body. Between realities he wavered, hands trembling and white, wrapped together around the very bottom of his cane. There was darkness and solid surroundings, grounding him in his body but not his mind. He flashed between the past and present in memories he could never quite suppress well enough. Their anger, his fear, his pain, his weakness, nothing he had ever done that went right.
There were no words he could find and use, not his or theirs. Friendly mocking that sounded cruel, real mocking that was. Meanings that mixed and melted between fear and longing. The need to be in warmth, the fear of the cold that came after and the fear of not even knowing what he wanted. Warmth was abstract, unknowable, frightening. There was no single word that told him what he wanted. Fear was concrete; hands on his shoulder, screaming voices, snarled threats and lectures on his own hopeless flaws. Warmth could have been a hand on his shoulder as he trembled or a hug meant to comfort; but neither was and sometimes only frightened him, sent him into little fits he didn’t understand. Concrete warmth blocked the cold stone, pulled him away from the wall.
Cold stone brought him back from the brink of true darkness, pulled him out of memories that had stopped making sense. With a shiver and shudder, he grabbed the blanket he’d thrown away. The soft materiel brushed his cheek, his shoulder, caught on the brace he’d forgotten was still on his foot. He didn’t bother to pull the corner; just curled into what the could gather and let out a trembling breath. Hoping the door to his dungeon was locked or perhaps just ignored, Trkasu let himself sleep there, curled in the blanket and shivering with each exhaled breath.