awashlogs | Event Six.

[ there’s no helping it. dextera’s purification will hurt. it’s like pouring a solution over an open wound—even if it’s meant to heal, there’s nothing calming about it, but the release it offers afterward is cathartic, divine.

so he’s heard, anyway. ]

…

[ it’s not the first time dextera has heard a plea for him to stay away—him, specifically, with this cursed power and a guilt that could crush the world, so he does, for a moment, stop. stay back, and he hears it in eliza’s voice. he lets the light of his hands dim, but he knows that he can’t turn back now. he can’t leave anyone like this, let alone someone he knows.

he shakes his head. ]

I’ll leave. [ a careful, earnest promise, if damian really doesn’t want him to stay. ] But first, let me help you.

[Dextera gets another, sudden growl, but it tapers off into a low whine. The ears are still flat, but Damian is watchful until he turns the wolfish head back forward. The light is dimmer, better. A sour comfort.

All of his muscles feel raw and tense against his bones. There's no way for him to be able to push himself into the tree, to disappear into it. He's not afraid of Dextera killing him, hurting him. He hurts already. The muzzle lowers; he doesn't snarl or jerk away even if his eyes watch all of Dextera's movements.

More than anything, he's terrified he's going to hurt Dextera instead.]

It’s okay.

[ it’s not okay, really. none of this is okay—the last thing they had to deal with was a cakewalk, compared to werewolves, compared to the threat of death and gore looming over all of them.

but he says it anyway. ]

You’re scared. [ a pause. ] Me too.

[ all the same, he tries to push that reassurance into his body language—that it is okay, somehow, and he’s finally close enough that he could touch damian, if he wanted to. he crouches. ]

[Over the wave of desire to taste flesh, Dextera's me too is reassuring. The lips of the muzzle peel back slowly, but Damian still doesn't growl. The dropped ears stay until Dextera crouches, and then, as if Damian thinks Dextera "has something," they rise into an alert stand.

He smells the air at the hands, testing the glow; there's nothing but Dextera, a strange and ethereal scent peppered in chicken and--Guren? Damian leans back. In the crackling voice, he says:] ...Shouldn't...

Be here...

[ that’s nearly all dextera spends his time with, anyway—his chickens and guren. it would make sense.

regardless of his scents, though, he tries not to shudder away when damian sniffs him. he’s just testing. just doing what any animal would do, to figure something out. his heartbeat quickens, but he otherwise tries to remain outwardly calm. ]

I’ll help. [ definitive, this time. ] Then I’ll leave.

[ the hard part now is warning him. ]

It will hurt.

[The reaction seems involuntary. Damian, tense, recoils just a little against the tree behind. Again, both ears fold back in the fur, and he lowers his head. A part of him screams to take a bite out of Dextera. Bite before being bitten. Taste the blood and the flesh on his tongue.

Another part reminds him Dextera is his... friend. The one with the chickens--he can smell them, right? The gently and quiet one who told him D and Bird for Damian.

The teeth, clenched together, shine when his lips pull back. One clawed hand digs a handful of dirt, the other a handful of bark and splinters, rattling the chains. In a rough voice, he growls:]

Do it.

[ while he has this semi-lucid permission, dextera reaches out to place his hand over damian’s heart. he’s putting himself right in the line of danger here, he knows, but this is the most effective place to purify someone. then, his hand glows, a white-hot jolt of pain that will spread through damian’s body in an excruciating, cleansing instant.

whatever keeps them all changing night after night can’t be undone, but the mind, dextera can soothe. he can give damian a few peaceful hours and take him down from these chains, and even if he promised to leave, how can he really make himself do that? ]

…

[ he watches damian carefully, grimacing in apology when he pulls his hand away. ]

[In the end, Damian thinks he's felt this before. Feverish dreams remind him of something he doesn't think he should remember, being dead. Apokolips. A world like Hell. He had been there, feeling the heat of it, even if he was only a corpse. Maybe that's why he remembers.

This kind of cleansing isn't like being there, though; it's like returning. It's the feeling of the Chaos Shard dipping inside of him, piercing the essence of his spirit, yanking him back through white-hot fire to the living.

His clawed hand clamps around Dextera's wrist. The howl in his throat is sudden and full of pain, not something he gave before when being resurrected. His whole body burns. The curse stretches him, reverting half back, and his howl turns into a boyish scream then dies away as he loses consciousness. His hands and feet are still gruesome nails, but for now while he's out, he is mostly Damian, sagging against the tree and the chain and Dextera's arm.

It feels as if his soul is lying in a field of soft grass and softer flowers, with a bright sun that's cool and soothing rather than warm. He thinks he rolls over, and then he closes his eyes to rest.]

[ dextera should take him to his father, or someone who knows what to do. dextera should do a lot of things, but when he sees damian in front of him, like this, hurt but asleep—his scream still echoing in dextera’s ears—then all he can think is that he has to protect damian, for when he couldn’t protect his own brother. ]

…

[ he’ll risk everyone, everything, if damian happens to wake up hungry and in need of the feeling of prey under his teeth, but now that it’s occurred to him, dextera can’t stand the thought of leaving without recklessly helping. it’s a need that drowns out all the paranoia, all the fear, all the lunacy that the moon threatens the town with.

he carefully pries damian free of the chains, and hoists the boy into his arms. stupid, he knows. he knows! but he hears his brother, remembers that soft voice begging to be saved, and so he carries damian out of the woods back to his home in bluo. ]

[It's a long sleep without knowing. It feels like he just closed his eyes. It feels like he's been sleeping for decades.

Damian wakes up much like when he had been resurrected--slowly, eyes opening. For a long time, he lies there without moving, blinking instead, breathing. Listen. Distantly, he can hear the clucking of chickens, and he feels no bloodlust for the thought of them. It's day time.

All of him aches, tender and bruised. Something in his chest is sore, but he doesn't think it's his heart. Maybe it is? Carefully, he raises one arm. The hands are normal, the arm too except for the raw skin from trying to escape. He's relieved, enough to make his eyes burn. He touches his face--all skin, soft.

Very slowly, he sits up.]

[ dextera keeps strange hours, and it’s hard for him to sleep alongside someone. it’s ingrained in him, to be awake to watch, and although he dozed through the night, his need for vigilance over damian and the birds pecking around were enough to keep him conscious. he’ll crash later, but for now, he’s awake. ]

…?

[ when damian stirs, he notices immediately, and he breathes out a sigh of great relief—if his purification had killed damian, he would have known because there would be no body left, but it’s still hard to wait it out. ]

Awake?

[Focusing, Damian's head snaps up when he notices Dextera. All of him pulls taut, and then he relaxes. Neither of them are werewolves. He's human. It's fine. There's little danger at the moment--as soon as his eyes drop over Dextera to make sure there's no injuries.]

Ye...s...

[He swallows, touching his throat. His voice is incredibly hoarse. He makes the sign for pain and hurt, but under his chin at his throat.]

Sore. [A pause.] Last night.

?

[ dextera almost tells him again that there’s no need to sign, but his mind catches up with damian’s meaning a moment later. it makes sense. it must be hard enough to try to talk as a werewolf, and that scream—no one shrieks like that without coming away from it sore. ]

You’re safe.

[ that’s all that matters. dextera doesn’t know how much damian remembers, and dextera doesn’t like to talk about his powers. it’s enough that he helped, isn’t it? ]

I can’t heal. [ he adds this, a moment later, his brow furrowing. ] Sorry.

[His brows furrow. There's a lot of questions, naturally, but the thought of using his scratchy voice deters him from speaking. He's not sure where or how to start with his hands. It's almost like they still thrum with the energy of changing, of being claws.

Breathily, he sighs.] You--

--helped. [Thinking back on it is strange. Surreal. If he wasn't so messed up today, he would've thought it had been a dream.] Your hands were like fire. Light. [Is this how... Man-Bat felt? To change?]

It felt--familiar. [He glances up slowly.] The same as when I died. [He shakes his head--no. He already felt how he did when he died, fighting the Bogeyman. A Heretic shape, impaling him again on a sword.] The same as when I came back.

[ “the same as when i died.”

dextera’s eyes widen at that, and then his gaze turns downward, at his own hands. these hands, that have killed. these hands, that countless lives before him have used, too. death is a familiar figure to him, but it’s never easy to hear the way other people react to it.

but then damian is saying something else, and dextera’s attention is up again—and the tension in his chest eases, somewhat. it’s not like death, then. it’s like coming back, which he hopes is better. ]

Purification. [ he spells this out. ] Rebirth.

[For a moment, Damian touches his chest. The powers given to him by the Chaos Shard have long since disappeared, but he still remembers the fullness there after he had woken.

Hm. Purification and rebirth. Dextera named a chicken after something angelic. The powers worked on this kind of--curse? The whole town is based on folklore. His fingers hover, the question there, the assumption. Again, he swallows, and his eyes lift.]

Are you an angel? [Even asking with hand signs sounds ridiculous. He spells the next word out, not knowing any sign for it:] Nephilim?

[ dextera doesn’t want to talk about this anymore. he’s a false angel, but a false angel is no angel at all. desperately, he wants to call himself just a man, but the more he remembers of the blaze, the less sure of himself he becomes. ]

…

[ he squeezes his hands into fists, since he’s sure that if he says anything but the truth it will be clear he’s holding things back. even his coat has a cross on it, marking him as associated with an abrahamic religion, whether he wants to be or not. ]

No such thing.

[Damian can tell Dextera is dodging for a reason. But he's perceptive enough to read the body language of a person who relies a lot on body language already. It's not something Dextera want to discuss.]

Angel or-- [There's no sign. He spells it out: M-E-T-A-H-U-M-A-N. He makes the sign for power, adds an S.] Powers. Doesn't matter.

You stopped it. You can stop it in the others. [He spells the word lycanthropy. He signs the word for "were," even if it's a state of being, and then he signs the word for wolf. Then he signs L and then wolf. Lycanthropy. Werewolf.] Disease. [He makes the sign for veins, but he means in the blood. Logically, it's a disease. Illogically, running on this town's "magic," it's a curse.] Don't get bitten.

[Reaching back, he pulls the tattered linen shirt off one shoulder to show the bruised and red bite cutting into skin where his shoulder meets his neck.]

Need an antidote.

[ dextera follows damian’s signing, and he understands what’s being suggested—that’s what his powers are for, after all. he cures, he heals, he repairs.

it sounds so nice, and he would think the world of it from anyone else, but in his hands, it feels too much like a weapon to properly appreciate. god herself gave him this purification, but he’s no god. all he can seem to do with it is hurt people. ]

…it isn’t gone.

[ damian will turn back tonight, unfortunately, and dextera can’t make everyone listen to him the way damian did. he’s not that useful. he’s not. he wishes he were.

he moves closer, though, to see the mark on damian’s shoulder. it’s not that it looks infected, but it feels wrong. it’s a corruption. that’s why his purification works. ]

I can—make it sleep. [ an improvised way of describing his effect on the curse. ] Nothing else.

Doesn't matter. [It's only a little funny--his signing is as tonal and as frustrated he feels. His movements are sharp, jabbing.] You pushed it back.

That's all we need. So we don't bite others. You don't have to stop it alone. We work together. Like with the quests.

We'll find a cure. [Now that Dextera is closer, he gives the boy a Look, and then he pulls the shirt back up to hide the bite.] You can make others feel better or sleep. Like me. [Pointedly, he lifts one arm and showcases the nibbled flesh in the dip of the elbow.

He was going to try to chew his own arm off to get out of the chains.] You made it go away for a while.

[ dextera can hear his voice, when damian signs like that—sharp and confident, much more sure of himself and the things he’s saying than dextera could ever be. he doesn’t want to imagine what kinds of things damian must have been through, to become like this at his age. ]

…

[ he looks for a long time at the marks in damian’s elbow, frowning now. how many others are putting themselves through the same things, denying their inflicted nature in an attempt to keep everyone else safe? dextera almost feels guilty, for not being bitten. for being a burden, to the werewolves.

he nods, without taking his eyes off that bitten flesh. ]

I couldn’t leave you there.

[Slowly, Damian frowns. He watches Dextera’s face, and then he drops his chin toward his chest, turning his head down. For a moment or two, he stares at the floor between his feet. This is ridiculous, he thinks. What was happening. Werewolves? They should have expected it.

He sighs, eyes closing.]

I... was stu...pid. [His voice is still rough. He swallows gently.] I... miscal...culate...d. I sh...ouldn’t have... been bi...tten.

You should... have left... me.

[ dextera should bring him some water, or some of that hot chocolate he gained from the quest. it’s warm outside, but a hot liquid down a sore throat can only help, can’t it? he’ll ask later, whatever he decides, and he takes the moment to listen to damian scold himself. ]

I couldn’t have.

[ that’s all there is to it. dextera scoots just a little closer, again, and offers out his hand—he doesn’t know if damian will take it, but he always feels better when he touches someone.

damian wasn’t stupid. no one can be perfect all the time. ]

[The hand gets him to lift his head some. He peers at its offering, unsure. Damian isn’t use to touching, even after three years. He’s gotten better. His mother never touched him really unless it was to punish him.

But his father, Grayson—they do this sometimes. He thinks, before himself, maybe Dextera needs the touch. Hesitantly, he puts his hand into Dextera’s almost like he thinks the scorching white light will consume him again, like he thinks he might suddenly transform and rip the hand off.

His eyes lift to look at Dextera’s face. For once, he doesn’t seem all that certain of himself.]

I gu...ess... I owe... you m...y th...anks.

[ dextera covers damian’s hand in his, holding it there gently—it silences him, in the process, but that’s fine. there’s nothing urgent he needs to say, nothing that would convey his feelings better than this moment of connection.

he wants his hands to be like this—a place of comfort, of communication. he doesn’t want to think about the feeling of a neck under his thumbs, of murder and mercy, when he can try to hold someone’s hand and make them feel better in such a small, simple way. ]

…

[ so he shakes his head. there’s no need for thanks. ]

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go to bed mary???

IM GOING

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