2020-02-03 - The Eye of The Maelstrom

It's not a good night for Addington Memorial Hospital, and most people aren't quite sure why. Patients rest uneasily in their beds, and the nurse call buttons go off like fireworks throughout the night, with the more sensitive folk waking up with a scream on their lips. Even the residents and nurses who try to catch naps between shifts are affected. The dreams are chaotic and indescribable, just twisted amalgams of fear and dread that bring about a cold sweat.

On first look, Alexander seems to be suffering from much the same malady. He's sweat-soaked and sleeping, his head and arm bandaged up. It doesn't stop him from tossing and turning as he lays in the narrow bed, his face twisted in a haunted expression as he fights against the monsters in his mind. Only someone who Glimmers would have a chance at realizing that he's not just a sufferer of the strange phenomenon, but actually its origin.

Her hackles are up when she arrives because the moment she steps in the waiting room of the hospital, Isabella knows that something is wrong. Unlike extrasensory threats when they simply manifest on the skin and rising hairs, these can be heard - from the cries of nurses and napping residents waking up from nightmares, to patients screaming in their beds. Doctors are baffled, and she can hear the call buttons and the alarms they produce. She doesn't know what's happening, but she currently has one singular priority.

One thing at a time.

She takes a deep breath and heads towards the front desk to determine where Alexander Clayton has been checked in, before she moves for the elevators - and when they are too slow, she bites back a snarl and a door opens with a bang. She knows how to get in and out of this building - he taught her how, his mother's knowledge had been passed to him, and then to her in the day he acted as her accomplice to her escape. Who knew that a flight of lighthearted fancy would be so useful now? She takes several steps at a time, and enters the floor where he is kept. The chaos, contained as it is, for now, seems more prevalent here somehow.

Isabella manages to barely duck a rushing nurse, before she enters his recovery room. Green-and-gold eyes find his twisting form on the bed, her senses picking up the uncontrollable flood of power from the man upon it. It's enough to set her teeth on edge and for a moment she does nothing. Worry wars with fear, but she needs to be able to think, and she suddenly realizes this is probably the reason why doctors do not operate on their own loved ones. Why they do not treat them.

"Fuck me," she whispers, trembling fingers moving to lock the door behind her and make a beeline towards Alexander's chart. She doesn't touch him, not yet. She needs more information, so the first thing she does is try to collect some.

The medical chart is fairly simple - Alexander has only a couple of wounds of note - there's a ragged cut in one of his arms, but that's minor. The nasty part is the concussion coming from getting hit very hard by something on the back of his head. But as long as he's not bleeding inside his skull, he should be fine. And if he IS bleeding inside his skull...well, that'll be fun.

As she approaches the bed, though, Alexander's roving mind picks up a familiar feeling presence, and he reaches out by instinct. But he's unconscious, so what actually happens is she can feel a pressure on her mind, see the flickering of horrific, incoherent shapes at the corners of her vision - but it's not enough to suck her into the nightmares he's imposing on others. Her mental defenses, as always, are formidable.

She spent over half her life intrinsically bonded to a powerful reader, who taught her through nurture and nature how to shore them up - it was only by chance that she managed to fall in love with another one.

Isabella's expression tightens and grows white with fury at the worrisome head injury that she manages to read from the data, before she returns it in the small shelf at the foot of the bed. She nearly reaches for him, but she grits her teeth when she feels his art press into her psyche, demanding to be let in. She shuts her eyes and takes a breath, and manages to push it away. "Later, darling," she murmurs softly in an attempt to soothe. "I need to take a look at you first." Her fingers reach in an attempt to take one of his hands, and give it a squeeze if she's able.

She has to wake him up - it's the only way this will stop, but not in this volatile state. She doesn't know what could happen if she does this violently, while his mind is open and with patients nearby ensnared by his influence. She will never be an able healer, so she doesn't even try, but she will attempt, at least, to detect the state of his brain and see if he is bleeding there. "Come on, give me something," she whispers, brows drawing down as she attempts to concentrate.

Good news: Alexander is not bleeding inside his brain. He's taken a nasty knock, for sure, but he's a hardheaded sort, and it looks like there aren't any serious fractures. There's swelling and bruising, but that'll go away over time, as long as Alexander can avoid getting beaten about the head again. His arm wound is minor. He does seem to have a higher heart beat and his adrenaline is still high, likely a consequence of the nightmares he's stuck in.

The fact that there is no internal bleeding in his skull draws some, but not all, of the tension out of Isabella's shoulders and she takes her time to feel it; the relief is overwhelming enough that she nearly sags on her feet. "Okay, love. You're not bleeding in there. That's good. Otherwise, I would have had to strap you down and maybe do something you wouldn't believe," she mutters as she hunts for the morphine or painkiller drip around his bed; she knows what it looks like, she's been a nigh-near regular visitor here since the summer. And when she doesn't find one, she bites back a curse. The plan had been to give him just enough to calm him down and rouse him from sleep gently once it was in him.

She rolls her head back and shuts her eyes. She knows how to do this in theory, but practice is another story - she doesn't know what sort of risks she's opening herself up to when Alexander's in this state, considering just how quickly he tried to reach out for her. So what she does is grip his hand tightly and digs deep into the part of herself that she accesses while diving - the cool, drifting calm, the awareness that she shouldn't be panicking underwater, or the other people with her might die. She gives herself the time to be careful, to immerse herself in it and remember, before she slowly tries to feed this to him.

It could go either way. She might still have to breach his mind and pull him out, she doesn't know, but she won't be able to do anything unless she finds an opening. He needs to calm down a little.

What sort of risks is Isabella opening herself up to? Well.

Risks like this: She reaches out with calm purpose to try and soothe him from his nightmares, and at the touch of her mind, he stiffens. And reacts. Maybe he's reaching out for help, maybe he's instinctively trying to protect his fragile mental state. In the end, though, it doesn't matter because either way, he reaches out with horror. It's a swamping feeling of terror, of shame, of rage. Phantom voices taunt Isabella at the edges of her hearing - they're going to find her, and get her, and lock her away from everything she loves, because she deserves to be locked away. And they're going to hurt her. Flickering illusions of her skin peeling away, of glass grinding in her wounds, of breaking bones and phantom knives slicing deep into her muscles.

It's a fun time.

At the very least, she manages to keep herself from screaming.

Her nails dig into his knuckles, threatening to draw blood, and her head snaps back as all the terror fills her brain in a black, viscous flood. It's a strange feeling, to want to strip all of her own skin off her in an effort to be rid of this, while at the same time fearing that someone else would be willing to do that for her. Tears spill from the corners of her eyes, because the idea of losing her precious freedom is one fear that she shares with Alexander, albeit for completely different reasons, and for a moment, she floats suspended in whatever volatile ether this is, splayed out and dissected by her own imagination. The terrified sounds she makes choke into the back of her throat and she nearly lets go. The fear is so real, so bitter and intense that she nearly embarrasses herself on top of everything. Thankfully, she has a strong bladder, too, on top of having a castiron stomach.

"Alexander, please," Isabella whimpers, hanging on for dear life and her shoulders curling in from the strain. "You have to let go of these people and wake up, okay? You have to...you have..."

But the way is open. The connection is active. Her head lifts, but she's not looking at him anymore. She is, instead, staring at the writhing darkness that encompasses his nightmares. She doesn't know what's beyond it, but does she dare? Gritting her teeth, she unchains herself, and takes the opportunity when it's presented before her. The dragon rips from its bonds and surges through the established path, her throat working in an attempt to stave off her nausea as she sets this part of her loose to dive into the filth and look for him.

The darkness in Alexander's dreams has teeth, and as she surges through, it reaches out to rake and claw at her, and each time it touches, a new horror is inflicted on her. But there IS a beyond, and Alexander's sleeping mind can be found at the center of the maelstrom of terror. As usual, he doesn't project himself as a person, even in his dreams, but as a flickering, spiky star of glass, pulsing with some strange light from the center of its being. He is stronger than he was - as if the knock on the head cracked something open within him. Sometime he has yet to figure out how to control. So with each pulse of that light, the darkness spirals out, reaching for minds to infect, to fill with fear and terror.

When she arrives, there's a momentary stuttering pause in the pulses, and she can see herself dimly reflected in the deeply shadowed glass. There's the sense of contemplation, like a hawk who has just spotted rustling in the grass and is trying to decide if it's hungry enough to dive or not.

The Nightmares' fangs sink into her wings, snap at the shackles left on her rear legs. They strip off the outer, fiery layer of her comet tail and it leaves her screaming silently as the beautiful end of it goes spiraling into the abyss, to be consumed; the experience is not unlike those grinding saws that nearly obliterated Anne when she failed to reach her on time. More horrors fill her brain, but she keeps moving forward, because she doesn't know how to stop. She doesn't know how to quit, or let go, even when she knows she should. It is intrinsic in her nature, so much so that it is not surprising that the half-blind dragon that tears into the maelstrom and surges out of it and into calmer, but infinitely more dangerous waters doesn't understand the occasional necessity for it.

Isabella alights - the shape of this form is vague, undefined by actual lines and more elemental as opposed to scale and sinew. The dragon's single working eye burns green, the other a duller shade, unable to see from that side even now, and the remains of the tail flick warily sideways. The head cocks, and takes in the crack - and being in range of all this power is suffocating, too, pulsing out of the spinning star's center, and threatening to bring her to heel.

She almost succumbs to it - tired, battered, shaking with every remembered nightmare, she nearly sinks on her knees, to beg him to stop. But she remembers almost everything he tells her, and he already told her once: Don't. You were never meant for that, Isabella.

Her teeth grit, and the torn-up dragon moves. She stalks forward towards the spiky star and all of its defensive spines. A clawed foot reaches out, and unless stopped, she will drive those coruscating flames into one of those dangerous javelins, if she gets close enough - effectively stabbing herself with it. She doesn't even hesitate, staring at her reflection in the eye.

Alexander doesn't stop her from impaling herself on the sharp, cutting manifestation of his mental power. In fact, lost in his nightmares, he barely seems to even notice. Her pain and horror are just incorporated into the darkness around them, drinking in her fears and remembered nightmares, and then reflecting them out. Somewhere in a room down the hall, a car accident victim starts to sob in her sleep, struggling against her own dreaming mind until she can wake up with a gasp.

In the star, her wounds are reflected, shown to her from a dozen different angles. The scrutiny isn't indifferent; there's sorrow and horror in it - but Alexander's sleeping mind doesn't realize that it's actually Isabella, and not just another phantom nightmare to be endured.

It seems suicidal and needlessly masochistic. But it's the only way.

Because Isabella can't talk to someone mind-to-mind without help; these days, only Alexander manages to do so because he's circumvented that psychic disability, navigated her mind and found the ruins underneath the blackened caverns of Isidore's hurried and cataclysmic break - and with that map established, coupled by his strength in that particular arena, he can do it easily. She has no such guidance, and so seeks out the most direct connection she can make, no matter what that means for her. It is painful, excruciatingly so, she has not recovered from flying through the black and horrific storm lurking in the surface of his mind, but fiery talons grip into the glass and holds on tight.

There's no blood, because...well. It's all fire. That would be kind of ridiculous.

<<Alexander.>>

Her mental voice is confident, at least - it doesn't reflect the pain or whatever trials she had endured to get here. Its usual bold sensuality, however, is gone, and nor does it sing. His name uttered at the moment sounds like a blunt object hurled right through the glass he represents.

<<Alexander, it's Isabella. You've changed, darling. You've grown...and I hope you'll grow further, but not like this. You need to call them back, and come out with me.>>

The mental voice echoes here, in the heart of him. The churning black chaos writhes, and there are flashes of light that concentrate on her, on that voice that is well-known and well-beloved. There's a hesitation. Then, in a flash of power that could knock someone off their feet if it were physical. <<ISABELLA>>

Regret in the next moment, shame, and the voice fades into something that's barely a whisper. <<sorry dont mean to hurt. where am i where are you im lost>>

It's all power, unchecked, and the syllables of her name streak across her mind like crackling lightning; nearly enough to snap her physical head back, as if he had actually punched her. Delirium starts to seep in, but Isabella's grip on his hand tightens and she simply refuses to let go. The physical world that she so loves has washed away, leaving her in a place where she doesn't have as much facility as others she knows.

But as she's fond of saying: I don't know, I'm just making this up as I go.

<<You're in the hospital. Something hit you over the head badly, and you're...you've changed. It's incredible.>> Ribbons of relief, affection and envy spill from her wings when they spread and curl halfway over the spiked star impaled into her. <<It's alright. Don't worry about anything else. I'm right here, and you're not lost. You're right here, where you should be. But I need you to try and call back your power. There's so much of it that you have to, as much as you can, and then I can try and help pull you out.>>

Sweat mingles with her tears, trickling down her temples and soaking into the dip of her collarbones.

Alexander tries. It means he has to pit his will against his own power, and there's a tumult in his mind as the battle rages. On the bed, he twists in place, fingers gripping the sheets. But, slowly, his will brings the power to heel, and bit by bit, the nightmares he's projecting to helpless patients and staff retreat, sucked back inside his mind, his walls coming back up. They're cracked and weakened, unprepared for the power he's been pouring out, but for now, they're holding.

His breathing is harsh and heavy, but his mind reaches out and gently, carefully, winds around Isabella. <<thank you. hello. did i hurt you>>

It's the state of these walls that concern her; deep within the well of him, she can see their present state, and for a moment, he'd feel a flash of frustration - she'll never be how she was, and maybe if she was still, she'd be of more use here. To help him shore up those walls, rather than to rely on the strength of others to do the work for her, relegated to the role of an architect when all she wants to be is an engineer. Isabella's fingers clutch tightly on one of Alexander's hands.

His gentle touch mollifies her, and she turns her attention to the mind she's linked to. The dragon doesn't let go of the star, but her flames fan outwards, breathing light and heat into the darkness with these occasional crackles of green to mingle with crimson and gold streamers - the wildfires and hurricanes of her coiling protectively around it, and baring fangs at every nightmare that slips back in through the stygian maelstrom swirling above them.

<<You didn't hurt me. I hurt myself.>> The words are emphatic there, her passionate affection sweeping in to meet him. <<Oh, darling, you're tired. What do you need? Tell me what you need.>> That single green eye casts back to the crumbling walls again. <<Other than a way to relieve the pressure on those.>>

<<is anyone dead?>> Alexander's voice comes immediately, along with a flash of memory, a screaming man falling to the floor and jamming a rough glass shard into his own eye. <<did i kill anyone?>> A pause, a flicker. <<no. not me. I didn't. i know that. there was...>> Another flash of memory, blond hair and screaming, <<someone else. Did anyone die?>> He's gradually finding a new balance between his power and his desire not to cause her pain. And, as he tries to focus, he's forced closer to waking, the nightmares fading out, or at least retreating to the less controlled part of his subconscious.

The memory makes her wince, but she's gone this far, what's another? The dragon's green eye fixes on it, her own power rumbling in displeasure when she witnesses the shard enter Chad's eye. The question, though, gives her pause, searching the endless landscape of him with this extension of her senses, and as the reel continues to unfold, she follows the blurry wake of a blonde person as she runs, and the screaming - the disembodied voices echo like banshees in the dark.

<<There was a fight in the Pourhouse. The hospital called me because I was listed as your emergency contact. The Gazette article said that someone's in a coma, probably the man who's blind in one eye, now. And quite a few were admitted to ICU, but nobody's dead, Alexander. At least, no one mentioned in the article.>> She keeps a laser-focused bead on the nightmares as they continue to retract further into the distant darkness.

<<Okay, I think we can start to try.>> The tattered wings unfurl, flames spilling out on either sides of her, another taloned foot moving to take a more delicate grip on the other side of the glittering, spiny star. <<This is your mind. Tell me where to go.>>

<<Good.>> Relief flows through Alexander, helping chase the nightmares further into their vault. <<I didn't want anyone to die.>> That's not true, and yet it is true. In the moment, he wanted the violence, wanted to kill someone (the flash of a man's face, haloed in rage), but also didn't want it at the same time. Either way, he's happy there hasn't been death. The star sinks as she grips him, and there's an exhausted fondness there. <<Out. You go out. I sleep.>> He's clearly not ready to wake up, just yet, but the nightmares have broken - at least for the moment - and so he and the others around him should be able to get something like actual rest. <<I love you.>>