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Jaron’s cold.
That’s the first thing he notices -a bone deep chill that runs through him, leaves bumps running over his skin and a chatter in his teeth. He can’t feel his teeth or his skin, and some part of him notes that that should be concerning. It’s buried under layers and layers of fog though, his fingers just brushing the sides and yet unable to grasp onto the feeling.
What he can feel though, is the wrongness that grasps at his chest beneath the chill. He contorts his face into a frown.
He shouldn’t be cold. That, at least, he knows for sure. Cold means danger, means pain, means death. Death is, unsurprisingly, not good! So by that logic, Jaron is either dying, or dead.
Neither seem quite right.
Jaron’s died before, enough times to fill a book cover to cover and still have some left -it’s imprinted into his code; a smudge against his core that announces itself to anything within stabbing distance. Dying hurts. Jaron’s had his turn with naive hope that a sword through the ribs would be quick -hadn’t time to enjoy it before it was ripped from his chest, curled tight around the hearts that were taken with it. It throbs and pulses and leaves you gurgling as you collapse. There’s no flash of peace; just the desperate hope that this can’t be it. You refuse.
He’s not dead though -clings to that fact with everything he has. The cold that’s gnawing its way through his bones, cramping his fingers and locking his knees, is all the evidence he needs. He doesn’t remember dying, doesn’t know what season he’s on nor how long it’s been, but those are questions for a future Jaron to answer; anything that’s not concrete fact (he’s not dead. he’s not alive yet either) is useless at the moment. Discard it, pick it up latter.
He drags himself to his feet -grimaces when he’s knees buckle and his hand goes through where his thigh is supposed to be. The universe has either yet to pick up on the fact he’s alive, or it just thinks it's really funny to keep him here.
He starts walking.
There’s a faint light against his eyelids -burns through the flesh and his cornea. There’s no other place he can go. His feet ache -body still half dead and his bones fragile. It’s no worse than the pain that's started to blossom beneath the skin on his shoulder. It throbs with every step -heat flaring when he so much as nudges it. It aches and aches and aches, and Jaron grits his teeth and clings -the cold the heat the ache all mean he’s alive.
He can imagine Planet and Bacon poking fun if he complained -fingers stuck into his sides and skin warm as they bicker.
It appears he is now future Jaron because the moment he thinks of Planet and Bacon it feels as though he’s been hit by a crane with a massive wrecking ball attached.
There’s no good time to die, Jaron’s discovered, but he can’t help feel bitter when he remembers Mapic shoving a sword through his shoulder. He didn’t even get the chance to die amongst his pigs.
He’s mulling over this -sorting all the pieces of his scrambled head back together into something that resembles the Jaron that died- when, between one step and the next, his body begins to burn.
Just like death, Jaron knows revival. Knows the tingling heat that claws it way through your body and into your heart and kicks it back into beating.
It’s with a grin and a shout that the universe pushes him back into Lifesteal, blood coursing it’s way through his veins and dirt under his fingers.
It's good to be back.