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There is a kind of exhaustion that feels like tar. It leaks, dark and heavy, into your bones and settles there with a sodden stickiness that quietly, sullenly refuses to budge no matter what you do. An exhaustion that weighs every limb down. That, like a tar trap, ensnares you and holds you close; a twisted parody of a lover's hold. Hours pass, unnoticed. A day rises and falls without event. All time spent immersed in a suffocating embrace.
Vessel found it ironic that the only thing he could do, drowning under this exhaustion, was make poetry about it.
A half-hearted, deprecation laden laugh forced itself from him. It hurt. His throat stang and his eyes followed suit. He had been crying earlier, he remembered vaguely, before the exhaustion set in.
He sniffled and rolled over, burying his face into the other side of his pillow. Even that small movement took all of his effort.
A whimper bubbled up in his chest. He did not understand. He did not understand why he was feeling like this. He had been doing so well lately, had been so happy, so joyful. The others had noticed. II had given him a look only yesterday— the sort of look that only he could give, a look that spoke volumes without any words, that spoke of pride and love and affection and of how far they had come. Then, like a heatwave after cool rain, this lethargy washed over him and left him wrung out.
Stupid, he scolded himself, stupid to think that the happiness would ever last. That he deserved more than the exhaustion, the depression, the drowning. Stupid.
Tears pricked at his eyes, hot and uncomfortable. He flopped onto his front. He could barely breathe like this, face shoved into the mattress, but he could not find it in himself to care.
"Oh, my Vessel."
He tensed. The room filled with that slow, soft, warm feeling that only Sleep ever brang.
"My darling, darling Vessel."
A weight dipped beside him on the bed. He did not dare to look. Looking on Sleep, even when They were in a kind mood such as this, was asking for weeks of nauseating headaches, Their form, Their physical form in particular, too much for a mind to comprehend.
A hand— cold, gentle, firm— settled between his shoulder blades. His back jolted up and down as a sob rattled through him. Sleep soothed the shudder away, Their gentle whispers filling the air like wind through leaves.
"You do not deserve this, my Vessel. Never do you deserve this," They said, a light scold behind their words, "you are still healing. Still repairing. Days like this will happen. They will become rarer and rarer, but some things may never leave you. Such is the nature of the scars you bear."
"I thought—" he whispered, voice failing him before he could finish.
"I know. And you will be happy again. But, for now, my Vessel, you are in the midst of it, and you need help. Why haven't you summoned the others?"
"Too tired."
It was the truth. Most of it anyway. Even if he had had the energy, both he and his deity knew that he would not have called for the rest to help.
A pulse of reproachful sympathy exuded from Sleep. Vessel almost laughed at the mild exasperation mixed in with the emotion.
"My Vessel," They said fondly, fingers running through his hair with care not to pull at the knots, "so stubborn."
He felt Them call for the others, then heard panicked scrambles from three parts of the manor— a clattering of sticks from II's rooms, a crash of pots and pans from the kitchen where IV was, and what sounded like a cat's yowl from the garden where III expended his energy. A Call from Sleep is not something to be ignored.
"I shall leave you now, my Vessel. You are in very capable hands."
He nodded into the mattress. Their hands left him. Their presence lingered for only a moment— just to see the door open and II hurry in.
"Ves, why didn't you say anything?"
II kneeled beside the bed. Vessel turned his head to look at him, squinting through the lingering tears. II cupped his cheek and wiped away some of the dampness sticking to his skin.
"Why didn't I think to check," II dropped his voice, talking more to himself than Vessel, "should've known."
"Don't blame yourself."
"Can't help it. I want to take care of you."
"Two."
"Yeah, you're right. Doesn't help you, does it?"
II smiled, but Vessel could still see the worry in his eyes. He hates making him worry.
II rose to sit on the bed. He helped Vessel turn and sit up. Vessel tried not to dwell on the strength of II's hands and the solid comfort of his body beside him as Vessel leaned into him for support.
"Four will be up with food soon enough, I wager," II said.
A crashing sound came from the hallway.
"And there is our Third."
Vessel laughed properly for the first time. A little of the weight lifted from his chest. A little of the tar was washed from his bones. It was not all gone, nor would it be for a while. But it was enough.
They were enough.