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In the hours when they wake, the past cannot catch Bloodhound. They pour every spark of strength into the hunt, finding consolation in the canopy and dappled light it casts onto the hard earth. The tired ache in their bones is familiar and close to them, and they can fall into the routine of battle and brief rest like they always do. But lately, such rest has eluded them. When they finally lay down their head and close heavy eyelids, sleep does not find them.
They begin to see ghosts out of the corners of their eyes, apparitions that dart in and out of their bleary sight. Hazy and blurry silhouettes of once comforting forms, almost certainly of their own conjuring. Such hauntings typically reserved for unconsciousness bleed into waking reality; in the rare moments when they are downed in combat, figures swim in their vision as they blink the sun and blood from their eyes. They are as familiar as the soreness that clings to their frame and runs them ragged. They begin to lose the edge needed in battle, their toughness and sharpness worn blunt by exhaustion, and their teammates take notice.
A hot bath, one suggests kindly. Self care will soothe the aches that keep them up.
A warm cup of tea before bed, chimes in Anita, a smirk playing on her lips.
Not a single suggestion helps until someone lightly offers meditation. Simply being present in one's body and mind.
As they settle in on the floor of their room, nestled onto a swath of soft buckskin and furs, the exhaustion settles in too. They close their eyes, shoulders slumped in release as they brace their knees with their hands. Be present, they think. One with your body and mind.
No sooner do they close their eyes that they see him. A ghost that was once blurry in their view, now crystal clear, from the black mane of his hair to the piercing green of his eyes. A sharp inhale fills their lungs and their eyes fly open. A shudder escapes them and they clutch a hand to their chest, feeling their heart hammering away under the layers of leather beneath their fingertips. It was too much to bear, too quickly. As much as they tried to outrun him, he was almost always in the corner of their psyche. As if he was coyly dancing just out of reach, waiting for them to face him at last. At one time, he would have been a welcome sight. Now, they couldn't stand to confront him, to have to meet his eyes once more.
After this encounter, sleep finds them much easier, along with it, the hauntings. Like a dog circling for comfort, they tuck themselves into their bedding fitfully. A tense mixture of excitement and dread swirls in their head as it meets the pillow, and as soon as their eyes close, sleep takes them.
This time, they are standing alone in a forest clearing, the scent of the soft earth and crisp air filling their nose and lungs, unencumbered by a respirator. The dream gently unfurls before them, relief and respite washing over them like the sun from above. Warmth filters through the trees and lightly kisses their skin; in their dreams, it is soft and unmarred by trauma. Their lungs are free to expand in their chest fully. In their dreams, they meet Boone.
He's there, as solid as he was in life. Tall yet unimposing, and almost catlike with his lean muscle. A sage green shirt hugs his frame, sun bleached and oil stained. It was his favorite to wear in their time together. Right now, he's tangible, and his voice purrs in their ears as they embrace. His scent floods their senses, and he smells like the moss below their feet and cracked black pepper, somehow spicy and earthy at the same time. He smells like freedom and temptation, and his eyes gleam with a mischievous and lively familiarity. Before Hound can speak, his lips meet theirs. He's gentle at first, and his hands on their back speak of the longing he felt after his departure. There's a greediness to the kiss, like every second away from them is being made up for all at once. It feels like it lasts forever and not long enough, and by the time he pulls away there are tears rolling down Hound's face. There's no words for the pang of sadness they feel, or the flicker of recognition in Boone's eyes. Just a shared, fragile understanding. How can words describe such violent loss, accompanied by great guilt and shame? There's no way to articulate the storm roaring in Bloodhound's chest. They can only hope that their hands gripping his, almost imploringly, will let him know. This isn't real. It's just a dream. And yet, please stay.
They stand holding each other and drinking in every second that passes for what feels like a thousand heartbeats. It would never be enough time, even if Hound spent eternity like this. Soft, golden light slowly begins to leak in through the trees and the corners of their eyes as morning creeps in. Hound fights to submerge themselves into the dream once more, but consciousness' claws have already sunk in and begun to drag them back to the waking world.
An exhaustion heavier than the ache of battle stretches into their muscles as they roll themselves out of their bunk and prepare themselves for the day. Their head swims with the vivid technicolor, the vision of Boone still playing on loop behind their eyes, and their performance in battle reflects their mental absence. It's not until they take a Kraber shot to the head that they see a ghost again.
This time they stand at the bottom of a light stone staircase, facing a long hallway, warmly flooded by torchlight. The moment that they recognize the figure at the top of the stairs, they surge forward to embrace him, and feel the smallest they have ever felt in their entire life in his great strong arms. Instantly they are a child again, scared and freshly abandoned, clinging to the only familiarity left to them.
"Artur," they breathe.
"Halló, barn minn." He replies, his voice as warm as aged leather.
At the sound of his voice they clasp him ever tighter, tears welling up in their eyes. A thousand questions burn their tongue but they hold them. Instead they search his face, scanning his eyes and the soft creases of his skin as if they could burn the lines into their memory forever. Pressing their face into Artur's shoulder with eyes squeezed shut, they remained there, as if their beloved uncle would slip from their grasp yet again at any moment. It isn't until he gently strokes their hair, cradling the back of their head in his palm, that he speaks again.
"I'm so proud of you, barn minn. Though I worry for your health and they way you work yourself to your death. It would do you well to rest more often…"
They sigh into his chest. "Sleep escapes me, uncle. It feels I cannot rest until I'm assured that I'll meet him here, with you. It seems I will not." Artur nods and rests his head atop Hounds, giving them another squeeze before taking a step back with his hands on their shoulders.
"What will be, will come to pass, in it's own time. Fight hard until then, and the Allfather will bless your path. Perhaps in time, it will meet with his again, barn minn."
Hound nods and blinks, before realizing that the light in the hallway behind their uncle is growing.
"Artur-"
"We will meet again when it is time, my child."
"I have so much I want to tell you-"
They blink and they are staring at the ceiling of their bunk. The room no longer spins beneath them when they open their eyes, and their ears no longer ring with echoes from their dreams. Instead, there is the deep hum of the dropship, and the faint murmur of voices up and down the hall. Despite the distant hustling and activity, they find calm at being in their room once more.
Blinking away the last threads of the dream, there is a lightness in their breathing now. The weight off of their chest is soon replaced by a white hot bolt of grief that expands to wrap around their ribcage. No amount of seances or dream-walking can mend the tremendous ache they feel, but now it is as if they can smell the warm amber and leather of Artur's presence still. Minutes pass before they bother to stand and stretch, pausing to look at the time. It's nearly noon, and thankfully they are not scheduled for a match today. For once, they feel well rested- no figures lurking in the corners of their eyes. No apparitions standing in the shadows.
For now, they have laid their hauntings to rest.