Enjoy! And uh, be wary of the angst? Pretty typical weekend camp is what I went with, haha.
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A little on Aries’s past; Weekend Camp
Gwyar/Khorne, age 16
Smith(ex), age 17 (deceased at 15)
Aurora(sister), age 19 (deceased at 11)
Irene (mother), age 45 (deceased at 37)
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Gwyar followed closely behind someone, kept in line with someone else behind him. He didn’t know their names, just that they were guards. Specifically, that they were the same guards he always had. That they were probably his guards at this point, he’d gotten in trouble enough.
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Which was what had happened today, on a Friday morning during a school break. He had fought in the arena against a few people, gotten in trouble for something… He didn’t know what, they never told him. But he’d gotten in trouble, and now he was having to face the consequences.
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The rod the guard behind him was using to keep him in line, shifted and applied pressure. To the best of his abilities, Gwyar ignored the feeling. Being caught being weak would just make the consequence worse, and he already didn’t know what the consequence was. He wasn’t foolish enough to hope about what the punishment would or wouldn’t be, that would only be shattered. He did hope that they at least didn’t make him go to the medbay first. Just the idea made his skin crawl and throat tighten. As injured as he was, he did not want to go to the medbay.
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Besides, the injuries weren’t the worst he’d ever had to deal with. They turned down into a hallway, one that went away from the medbay. He almost breathed a sigh of relief, before he noticed where the hallway did head in the direction of. And as soon as he did, he had to use everything he had to not stop walking. To not panic, to not try and run, to not try and fight, to not try and apologize. Beg forgiveness that he didn’t deserve.
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He didn’t though. Instead, his vision seemed to get blurry, footsteps sounding distant but heavy, the air was thick and thin, and he couldn’t focus. Not really. All he could smell was blood, the same as what he always smelled in the arena. Blood and pain and death. He could only duly note that his nails were piercing the palms of his hands.
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This was just. This was fair. He’d messed up. They had to punish him. Make sure his actions didn’t go without consequences. A steel weapon that didn’t work was fixed through fire and being beaten. There wasn’t a difference. Consequences and punishment were necessary. To make sure everything listened. To make sure that nothing tried to step out of line, out of place, get out of the sheathes so carefully constructed.
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They reached a door in the hallway, stopping. The door was opened, and there The Room was. And… Well, he knew he should just walk in. Knew that would be better. To just listen. But- He stood there. He stood there and stared in. Into the space, into the lack of space. And he couldn’t breath, and he couldn’t move. He knew he had to, knew he had to before they made him, he’d be in even more trouble, be in there even longer but- But- He just- He couldn’t- He needed to but he couldn’t but he-
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Without noticing, one of his feet shifted backwards. The one behind him pushed him forward with the rod sticking into his back. He ended up stumbling a bit, almost losing his balance, eyes unable to look away from where he didn’t want to go. Where he had to go.
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“I think the thing forgot how to fucking walk.”
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He tried to keep from flinching, he really did. He didn’t know if he succeeded. With the display of weakness he was already showing though? He wouldn’t be surprised if whether or not he did even mattered.
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“Nah, it’s a thing. Doesn’t have a mind to remember or forget shit with. It probably just needs some help getting into its fucking sheathe.”
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This time, the flinch was certain. Even more so when hair was grabbed and suddenly he- it- it was being shoved into The Room. The door was shut as it collided with the— Something- It couldn’t tell what. The floor? The wall? The ceiling? The Room was too dark. It shifted, trying to get a grip on where anything was… It found a wall almost immediately to either side of it, and was immediately trying to stand and back up. It backed up into another wall after about three stumbling steps. It felt for a knob, for anything that’d let it out. Nothing, nothing, and more nothing. Other side? Maybe there was a way on the other side?
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Which way was the other side again? It felt around, breathing getting heavier as it stumbled into what just felt like another wall. Nothing, nothing, nothing- It couldn’t see. Everything was dark- Everything was too close- The walls were everywhere and it couldn’t get out— It needed out— It tried again, tried another wall, claws raking down them.
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At some point, though it wasn’t sure how long it had taken… It had simply ended up in one of the corners, clawing at the walls, at itself, unable to breath, unable to see, unable to do anything. It couldn’t tell if it even blinked, it couldn’t tell if it passed out, because if it did- As soon as it was awake again, if it had ever been asleep in the first place, it was the same dark place as in its sleep and it couldn’t see. And its nails would continue to scratch, continue to claw at anything and everything around it.
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The nails weren’t enough though, so it used its head too. Going every which way, trying to get more space, trying to get out, trying to do something- It just wanted out. Where there was space. Anything was better- Anything. Even just some noise. Any noise- Please- Let it out- Let it do something- Let it hear something- Anything- Please- It won’t mess up again- Please- Please- Help- Please- Just let it out- Please— It couldn’t tell if its thoughts had stayed in or out. It couldn’t tell the difference.
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It couldn’t tell how much time passed either, if it were days or only seconds, it couldn’t tell. Not until the injuries had all begun to burn and pop and it felt too cold and too hot and sticky and just way too much. And then all it knew was that it’d been long enough for the wounds to get infected. But that was all.
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Things got worse after that though. It was even harder to breathe, it still couldn’t see, it couldn’t really feel, it couldn’t tell how much time passed, couldn’t tell if it was still scratching or not, it couldn’t tell if it was still hitting its head against everything or not, couldn't tell if it slept or not, it couldn’t tell if it was still begging a nonexistent force or justifiably merciless people for something- anything, it was dizzy, it was too hot, it was too cold, and everything hurt. The smell was terrible. Blood and pain and vomit and whatever else there was.
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But eventually, there was the sound of a door opening and there was light. And it could see. And it could hear. And that was beautiful. And it tried not to cry, because finally. It’d been answered. And the ones in the doorway- They were just. And merciful. And it tried to thank them, tried to show its gratitude, tried to promise it wouldn’t disobey again. It found it couldn’t really move, couldn’t really speak. All that escaped was a hoarse, dehydrated cough of blood and spit and bile. But the door was opening, and the people were stepping in, and it was brought out. And even if the movements were rough, even if they did nothing to help the pain— It was out. And that was a better gift than anything else.
Fall 
Day 
