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It'll get better. That was the mantra his sanity clung to right now. It would get better. It had to get better. The monotony of his entrapment at the heart of Veranar's lair, playing some less than abstract role in providing said heart to the landscape around him, had reached what felt like a crushing summit. Felt like something that should be a crushing summit, because he could not conceive himself any further uphill. It'll get better. The crusted, salty tracks of the tears Adrethyrian had imperfectly wiped from his face effortlessly symbolised the battle he was losing with his own psyche. The animal he was normally so proud to be had been carefully restrained the days prior, told to bide its time, to endure the nightmare upon nightmare. Then the difference between nightmare and reality had started to smear into an indiscernable blur. Panic had gripped him as images grasped at him like a fever dream. Panic, something he'd not managed to quell twice now, all within the last twenty hours. 'It'll get better. It always gets worse before it gets better. It's okay, you're almost done. Another day and it's back down this arduous climb and you've earnt your freedom.' A reality check cynically intervened: That was not for him to decide. 'Another day and you've earnt your psychological freedom,' he clarified, swallowing a lump in his throat, conceding a point to that sliver of venom that dominated clear thought. Please let it get better. There was nowhere to run if it got worse. |