[NOT HIS PALE SWEATY MOMTHER. He sees that, and he's worried about it, but he can barely hold onto his own conscious thoughts and it takes all of his effort just to try grabbing for her hand.]
Mother... You...
[Blacking out is a mercy nausea is so gruesome. He tries to struggle against it anyway, but eventually his grasp slackens and he KO's the fuck outtie, nightynight peanut.]
When Dahut wakes up again, he's in his bed. He still doesn't feel great, as residual nausea swims in his head, but he at least feels better than he did when he blacked out.
His hand sure is warm, though! If he looks to it, he'll see that his mother, seated by his bed, is holding onto it. Though she's currently asleep, she looks as though she's been crying.]
The residual sickness is terrible, but at least his hand is warm! He blinks back the grogginess, reflexively giving his mother's hand a squeeze. Rolling over a little in his bed is met with immediate regret OURGHHGH HIS TUMMY, but at least now he can reach out with his free hand to tug on her dress.]
Mother...? Mother... Are you okay...?
[Both because he vaguely remembers her looking unwell and also now SHE'S BEEN CRYING.]
[When Dahut tugs at his mother's dress and speaks, she awakens, giving a start when she realizees Dahut is awake as well. Clutching his hand more tightly, she leans forward.]
Oh, Dahut. I'm so sorry—I should've been more alert. How are you feeling?
[NOT HIS SWEET MOMTHER!!! As she leans forward, he does his best to wigglescoot to the edge of the bed with his stupid little body so he can hold his arm out toward her, wanting to be picked up and held even though he's still a wilting cabbage.]
I feel better... [Which isn't a full lie even if it isn't the full truth.] My belly really hurt...?
[Which is said in a disgruntled, vaguely confused way, like he can't put together why even though that little distant part of unease in him is still present.]
[She's his doting mother, so of course she'll pick him up. Her baby. ): She still looks a little pale, shaking slightly as she embraces him.]
It's okay now, Dahut. All you need to do is focus on recovering. Your mother will protect you, no matter what.
[But Dahut will hear voices beyond his bedroom door. Something feels off about them, like he can't quite tell—are there people speaking outside, or is he recalling something about the situation? Deducing?
Poison... Must find who did it. ... Terrible, but perhaps it was fortunate it showed in him first, before Her Majesty drank too much...]
[No he just clings to his doting mother, tucking himself into her arms and hiding his face away for a moment. It would be so easy to listen to her words and believe in them - to believe that no matter what, she would protect him.
But the voices - are they voices beyond the door? He isn't sure, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment even though that does nothing to block them out. Poison. He peels himself away enough to look at his mother's pale face, to really take in the slight shake to her arms.]
...We were-- poisoned...?
[But who? Why would anyone do that? It makes no sense. He doesn't even think of himself in this moment, but his precious, loving mother, who works so very hard for her people.]
[Why would someone do that? What have you and your mother done wrong, other than simply be born with royal blood? Your mother, surely, has always lived up to that privilege. Who could ask for a better queen? Why would anyone want her gone?
Are these questions Dahut has ever received answers to, in the recesses of his memory, or are there any answers he could ever accept?]
... Yes, but it's all right. The doctors worked hard to cure the both of us before it got too dangerous.
[Dahut pulls away for a moment, but his mother then hugs him even more tightly.]
It's all right. I won't let it happen again. Oh, Dahut, my son...
[There is some sort of ancient anger in him that stirs a little at the thought as he turns it over in his mind. His mother has done nothing but the best for her people, and as he strains against his lingering nausea, he feels as though she's beloved. She is, isn't she? He's seen her rally so well, with such fervent words and cheers. So who? Who? Why?
It's a flicker of anger that's quickly snuffed out, though. He hugs his mother back as tightly as he can with his small, weak arms, wishing he could do anything significant to help her.]
—What about you, Mother...? You don't look well, either... Will you rest...?
[He loves it when his mother spoils him (and she so very often does), but it's peppered with that unease and now a new, fresh concern for a threat that he's struggling to comprehend. He gives her another hug, though, and nods even if it still makes him feel a little dizzy.]
Mm...! Yes, please! I won't leave your side until we both feel all better, Mother... Even after, I'll stay right beside you! So please don't let go of my hand, okay...?
[If his mother is going to protect him, then of course he'll do his best to protect her in return.]
Heh... Why, of course. Shall I hold your hand now while we get ready for bed?
[What time is it? Well, that's not important. It seems that it's time for bed, which is what matters. She'll get up, carrying him, before gently placing him back on his bed, still holding his hand.]
[The sun doesn't work properly outside of this funhouse of fuckin weird mirrors (he didn't even look in the mirror) maybe so...
But outside of a brief flicker of bafflement, he just accepts this in the same way that a dreaming person accepts rapid scenery shifts. He holds tight as he's carried back to bed, and holds her hand just as tightly after.]
Will you keep holding my hand, even after I fall asleep...?
[NO HE DOESN'T WANT TO NIGHTYNIGHT PEANUT AGAIN!!!!
Except it's far too easy. His mother's presence is so warm and reassuring just as it's always been, and it's right by his side just as it's always been. There's the strangest feeling of weighted nostalgia in his chest, but he can set it aside, can't he? He can instead focus on the warm hand in his, without thinking too hard on why it feels like such a long-gone thing.
He is 15 years old, working with a fellow scientist at the Institute. Does he recognize this man? Does he want to? I did not mean for that to sound as mean as it came out. As he continues to dream, he goes through various flashes of his deaths, the ways he's died as a Reliver back home, or as a crew member on the Eudora. All the ways he's been hurt, and endured pain.
What were the circumstances that led to this "Dahut" existing? Surely, they cannot be worth living in, compared to the time spent with his mother.
Weren't things better when he had someone always willing to hold his hand?]
This dream is posing a very awful existential question. Dahut hates being alone, but he has been for so, so long, and every day he craves what's left in the past. That warm hand that's no longer warm, that he can no longer hold.
Naturally, the time spent with his mother is better. Why would he ever choose this life for himself? No, if he had the choice at all, he would leave the Institute and Scien Brofiise and his entire maddening life behind in exchange for the comfort of those far-away days. Good thing it's just a dream, huh?]
[THIS IS WHERE I'D LINK THE TAILS IMAGE IF IMGUR WASN'T BEING SO WEIRD RIGHT NOW
That's Dahut as he wakes up in this fuckin flower field. The second he opens his eyes and realizes he's not in his soft and comfortable bed holding his mother's warm hand, he sits bolt upright, clutching his hands over his chest - for some reason? Why? Well, he doesn't question it.]
[Yay! He hates this. He's immediately clamoring to his feet, that sense of unease that's been with him for so long surging into something closer to dread. The smell of blood out here in this field of flowers...
He sets off immediately, moving to and fro until he finds where the scent is strongest and following it that way.]
Seeing his mother like this nearly makes his heart stop. The people here-- he does know them, and it makes no sense, either. There's so much bewilderment in him, but the fear for her outweighs everything else.]
Mother?! Mother—!!
[There are multiple people surrounding her and yet his ass is still charging right for her.]
[NOOO NOT HIS TINY USELESS FIVE YEAR OLD BODY. He goes crashing to the side, and it probably hurts, or will maybe hurt later once the adrenaline wears off.
For now, he pushes himself back up right away - just in time to watch the blade go through his beloved mother's hand. Immediately, he's on his feet again and running back toward her.]
Stop—!! Let her go!! Mother—!!
[He has so much fear and fury in his tiny heart, but what the hell is he GOING TO DO.]
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Mother... You...
[Blacking out is a mercy nausea is so gruesome. He tries to struggle against it anyway, but eventually his grasp slackens and he KO's the fuck outtie, nightynight peanut.]
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When Dahut wakes up again, he's in his bed. He still doesn't feel great, as residual nausea swims in his head, but he at least feels better than he did when he blacked out.
His hand sure is warm, though! If he looks to it, he'll see that his mother, seated by his bed, is holding onto it. Though she's currently asleep, she looks as though she's been crying.]
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The residual sickness is terrible, but at least his hand is warm! He blinks back the grogginess, reflexively giving his mother's hand a squeeze. Rolling over a little in his bed is met with immediate regret OURGHHGH HIS TUMMY, but at least now he can reach out with his free hand to tug on her dress.]
Mother...? Mother... Are you okay...?
[Both because he vaguely remembers her looking unwell and also now SHE'S BEEN CRYING.]
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Oh, Dahut. I'm so sorry—I should've been more alert. How are you feeling?
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I feel better... [Which isn't a full lie even if it isn't the full truth.] My belly really hurt...?
[Which is said in a disgruntled, vaguely confused way, like he can't put together why even though that little distant part of unease in him is still present.]
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It's okay now, Dahut. All you need to do is focus on recovering. Your mother will protect you, no matter what.
[But Dahut will hear voices beyond his bedroom door. Something feels off about them, like he can't quite tell—are there people speaking outside, or is he recalling something about the situation? Deducing?
Poison... Must find who did it. ... Terrible, but perhaps it was fortunate it showed in him first, before Her Majesty drank too much...]
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But the voices - are they voices beyond the door? He isn't sure, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment even though that does nothing to block them out. Poison. He peels himself away enough to look at his mother's pale face, to really take in the slight shake to her arms.]
...We were-- poisoned...?
[But who? Why would anyone do that? It makes no sense. He doesn't even think of himself in this moment, but his precious, loving mother, who works so very hard for her people.]
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Are these questions Dahut has ever received answers to, in the recesses of his memory, or are there any answers he could ever accept?]
... Yes, but it's all right. The doctors worked hard to cure the both of us before it got too dangerous.
[Dahut pulls away for a moment, but his mother then hugs him even more tightly.]
It's all right. I won't let it happen again. Oh, Dahut, my son...
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It's a flicker of anger that's quickly snuffed out, though. He hugs his mother back as tightly as he can with his small, weak arms, wishing he could do anything significant to help her.]
—What about you, Mother...? You don't look well, either... Will you rest...?
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[Perhaps he can feel his mother smile softly.]
Would you like to sleep together tonight? I shouldn't spoil you so, but perhaps you can think of this as spoiling your mother instead.
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Mm...! Yes, please! I won't leave your side until we both feel all better, Mother... Even after, I'll stay right beside you! So please don't let go of my hand, okay...?
[If his mother is going to protect him, then of course he'll do his best to protect her in return.]
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[What time is it? Well, that's not important. It seems that it's time for bed, which is what matters. She'll get up, carrying him, before gently placing him back on his bed, still holding his hand.]
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But outside of a brief flicker of bafflement, he just accepts this in the same way that a dreaming person accepts rapid scenery shifts. He holds tight as he's carried back to bed, and holds her hand just as tightly after.]
Will you keep holding my hand, even after I fall asleep...?
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[Eventually, Dahut will fall asleep. At some point, in his hazy mind, he will feel a warm presence beside him in bed, there to watch over him.
(How long has it been, since he's had this? It's only been recently, right? And yet, it feels as though it's been so much longer.)
Then, he drifts further and further into unconsciousness...]
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Except it's far too easy. His mother's presence is so warm and reassuring just as it's always been, and it's right by his side just as it's always been. There's the strangest feeling of weighted nostalgia in his chest, but he can set it aside, can't he? He can instead focus on the warm hand in his, without thinking too hard on why it feels like such a long-gone thing.
Nightynight peanut 2 but better this time...]
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He is 15 years old, working with a fellow scientist at the Institute. Does he recognize this man? Does he want to? I did not mean for that to sound as mean as it came out. As he continues to dream, he goes through various flashes of his deaths, the ways he's died as a Reliver back home, or as a crew member on the Eudora. All the ways he's been hurt, and endured pain.
What were the circumstances that led to this "Dahut" existing? Surely, they cannot be worth living in, compared to the time spent with his mother.
Weren't things better when he had someone always willing to hold his hand?]
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This dream is posing a very awful existential question. Dahut hates being alone, but he has been for so, so long, and every day he craves what's left in the past. That warm hand that's no longer warm, that he can no longer hold.
Naturally, the time spent with his mother is better. Why would he ever choose this life for himself? No, if he had the choice at all, he would leave the Institute and Scien Brofiise and his entire maddening life behind in exchange for the comfort of those far-away days. Good thing it's just a dream, huh?]
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When Dahut awakens from the dream, he is alone, in a field of flowers.]
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That's Dahut as he wakes up in this fuckin flower field. The second he opens his eyes and realizes he's not in his soft and comfortable bed holding his mother's warm hand, he sits bolt upright, clutching his hands over his chest - for some reason? Why? Well, he doesn't question it.]
—Mother...?
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He sets off immediately, moving to and fro until he finds where the scent is strongest and following it that way.]
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She kneels among the flowers, covered in blood. Surrounding her are figures—perhaps Dahut recognizes them, perhaps he doesn't.
Weakly, his mother looks up.]
D-Dahut...!?
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Seeing his mother like this nearly makes his heart stop. The people here-- he does know them, and it makes no sense, either. There's so much bewilderment in him, but the fear for her outweighs everything else.]
Mother?! Mother—!!
[There are multiple people surrounding her and yet his ass is still charging right for her.]
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We can deal with him later.
[Meanwhile, his mother reaches for him, struggling.]
Dahut—!
[—and then one of the figures drives a sword right through her hand.]
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For now, he pushes himself back up right away - just in time to watch the blade go through his beloved mother's hand. Immediately, he's on his feet again and running back toward her.]
Stop—!! Let her go!! Mother—!!
[He has so much fear and fury in his tiny heart, but what the hell is he GOING TO DO.]
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