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It hadn’t happened in a while.
That was his first thought, lifting his eyelids only to catch the new stitches circling his wrists. The room was coated in dark blue shadows, bleeding out the color, but they stood out regardless. Dark thread weaving tightly in and out of glossy pale skin, like a reconstructed corpse. Maybe the comparison wasn’t too far.
A familiar feeling of sickness bloomed like a flower in his stomach. Nothing in his face expressed it, continuing to stare blankly. He was too tired to try and lift the hand off the pillow to see his control of it, but the answer would reveal itself soon enough.
Thoughtless tears slowly brimmed his eyes. A few droplets rolled down his already puffy eyebags and seeped through the pillow. Inane. What kind of Olympian would weep over this.
The only sound was the Olympian in question burrowing his face in the pillow.
He didn’t remember when his hands were stitched back on. He didn’t remember the time when they were detached or the moments leading up to it. He couldn’t remember why it had happened in the first place. He never could. All he ever remembered was waking up the next morning.
But he hadn’t woken up like this in a while. He hadn’t in a few centuries. He was doing everything he was supposed to. He was doing good. The King and Father were happy with him. What happened now? What slip up did he have for this? Why could he never remember?
Blinding rays of the sun pierced through the curtains. He needed to get up.
Pushing himself up only worked on the second try, having to use elbows after falling on hands. Annoying. Just doing that small action drained more of his energy than desired. His legs dangled over the bed, trying to brace himself with his hands.
Control was just starting to give back into them - but they still felt more like sewed on rags.
Eyelids flickered randomly. The sunlight laying on them didn’t help with the burning. Although the sun was fighting to make itself known, it couldn’t wipe away the heavy shadows that overhanged the walls.
He should be getting up quicker. Unfortunately - the second he stood up a wave of dizziness suddenly washed over him. Hands uselessly came up before near desperately dragging himself to the floor. His head hurt. The missing memory of yesterday stung in his mind, like a gaping wound.
Annoying. This didn’t usually happen. Considering how much control he lacked in his hands he likely had to get ready using his essence as well, further draining it.
…no matter, he just hoped the King didn’t have much for him to do today.
He got up after a considerable amount of time on the floor.
Another day passed. He still remembered the first time it happened. Waking up in a fit of sweat wasn’t pleasant.
He hardly processed what was happening. His entire focus was centered on the sickness inside his stomach that was trying to viciously get out, and how it was sharp and pointy and eroding at his very core-
He stayed in bed an hour later than he was supposed to - trembling, unable to claw at his sides yet curled up as tightly as possible regardless. He wasn’t aware if gods could actually vomit, and never had before, but he was getting damn near close to it. Tears streamed nearly unashamedly. By that point he had figured out the problem as well as the likely cause. It didn't help.
He still remembered Ares' question - ‘if he had found a new mortal to be obsessed with’ - due to his abnormal lateness and the larger quantity of gold decorating his wrists that day. Not a single sound could leave his mouth. The only response Ares got was a tilt of his head and a smile. As if it was anything near the truth.
He spent the rest of the day avoiding everyone, hiding his face behind feathers if he wasn’t near the few who could recognize that signal of distress. Vile.
At the time, he hadn’t captured George and Martha yet. They would only find out of this reoccurring event around a century or two later. He couldn’t recall exactly when.
It has been two days since the newest occurrence now.
His hands were just barely starting to rejoin. Unusual, it normally took quicker, but not alarming. He didn’t care for the reason why, but his wounds had started healing slower recently. It didn’t matter. Inconvenient, but nothing of care.
The feeling of bones and flesh grinding into each other was never pleasant though. Neither was feeling meat intertwine together. It almost made him vomit sometimes.
He was always one of the weakest.
Three days.
For being a god who had been zapped multiple times and worse, he had a low pain tolerance. He supposes not particularly remembering any of those instances doesn’t really let him develop one, but still. That fact didn’t make impulsively twirling around a pen or slamming his hands down feel any better.
Few times he ponders the memories that don’t exist. Unnecessary. Most gods have already brushed off the fact he can’t remember entire decades or more. “Memory of a goldfish”, the others mock in recent times, and who is he to correct the convenient lie they’ve told themselves. Maybe it’s not a lie. He doesn’t really know the norm for immortals, as much as he’s tried to examine.
He’s aware he doesn’t really fit whatever it is anyways. Maybe he is just weaker, unable to stand anything slightly uncomfortable mentally or physically.
Maybe it’s not completely bad. Low pain tolerance means he doesn’t need to claw very deep into his skin whenever he needs a distraction. Sometimes that isn’t enough- but that's not important.
Four days.
George and Martha had noticed by now. He had been ignoring their gazes for a while recently, but they felt more sharp all of a sudden. Judgmental. Disappointed.
He doesn’t blame them. Not new, just more prominent nowadays - but he sometimes feels the same way looking at them as looking at all the others he couldn’t be enough for. May, Luke.
Crocus. Peitho. Apollo, Father, Maia-
A sharp breath was taken from where he was sitting. That's besides the point.
Every so often he wondered if he could detach the snakes from him - if they could remove themselves as part of his symbol of power and go wherever they choose. It likely wouldn’t be here. They deserved better instead of dealing with his unpredictable moods.
It had been getting worse lately. Everything, really. The snakes just had to be dragged along without a say. Dragged along watching him everything deteriorate. They deserved more.
He wasn’t sure if he could handle being without them. He wasn’t sure he cared about that matter either. Them being in this situation was his fault anyways-
Five days have passed.
He has to clip his wings. Again. Such nice timing.
He really hoped they would hold out for longer - but no.
He hated having to preen them. He hated when pin feathers decided they wanted to bleed. He hated when old feathers rotted and fell off - as if he wasn’t already helping with that.
He hated how his wings would always heal and regenerate no matter what he did to them. Unnecessary, completely pointless. No matter how many times the feathers would come back he would only continue harming them. He just hoped they would give up.
It was hard willing himself to the chair. Everyday felt longer and longer than the other, dragging himself along while every step and every word felt more exhaustive than the last. The same cycle, the same routine, what should’ve been comforting, piercing down into his every movement. The very same place he had grown up in suddenly feeling sharper and constrictive.
His hand pressed onto his face trying to will away a headache. By the fates - how did he ever get through the day. The memory completely eluded him.
The memory of doing this before did not however - and it wasn’t too long ago either. That was annoying. Why did the cycle repeat itself much quicker than it normally did. It would be plausible to think it would slow down just as all his other healing did, but it was the opposite. Inconvenient.
He raised the scissors up, observing vaguely in the mirror. The stitches were still cutting into his skin. They were supposed to have healed by now.
Nothing of matter - it wasn’t what he was here for anyways.
He hoped he would cut one of the feathers that bleed.
Day six.
He doesn’t want to get out of bed.
A common feeling, really, but the pull was stronger today.
His hands had nearly fully healed back. Essence had reconnected. It brought back the feeling of weakness and other uninvited guests, confining him.
The King won’t be happy. Neither will Father.
He can’t bring himself to care. They’re the same person, anyways.
He passively felt trapped. There wasn’t a clear line of if it was about the bed or his role in Olympus. His role in life.
Haha, god of loopholes - feeling trapped. It would be amusing if he could bring himself to care. Maybe it would be amusing to other people. He wasn’t necessarily in the mood to entertain them though. He was-
Tired.
He sunk further into the bed. The morning rays of sun kept trying to stain his room in bright light. He didn’t care. Couldn’t bring himself to care if he wanted to.
He started slowly nicking away at the stitches. There was a better way to remove them, and he honestly shouldn’t be removing them this early too - but he wanted them off. Wanted rid of the other uninvited guest that had stayed far past its leave. It didn’t matter if it was a rash decision - if it would cause problems later, he wanted it off.
There was scar tissue. Repulsive. Immortal beings did not get scar tissue - they were supposed to heal exactly as they were before. Pristine conditions, nothing like mortals.
Had he really fallen this far? He couldn’t imagine what his mother or aunts would think. How they would react seeing that the nuisance who ruined their lives can’t even-
He still doesn’t remember what he did. He has nearly never known what he did. He never knows what exactly happens to him. Where it happened. The time. The aftermath. If Zeus takes him to bed or if he passes out there himself. It's all so nauseating. Disgusting. Vile. Shameful.
What sort of Olympian can’t remember the simplest things? What sort of Olympian nearly can’t get himself out of bed daily? What sort of Olympian cries so easily? What sort of Olympian can’t be enough-
It makes him want to tear into his skin. It makes him want to tear something else apart too - rip out every painting and every photo and every poster in this stupid pointless gilded cage and-
He doesn’t know what the fuck he wants.
…
With a sudden yet fleeting start of energy he pushes himself off his bed and out. Out of this bed and out of this room and out of the building - kickstarting the eventual cycle that he won't even remember a quarter of again and again and again and again-
Whatever.
He doesn’t want to remember.