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Nothing had ever hurt more than Crucifer's head did as he struggled through the thick syrup of unnatural sleep coating him. His brain throbbed, forcing him to keep his eyes tightly shut even as he strove to woke up. He fleetingly thought that maybe he shouldn't be thinking so loudly, before his next thought pointed out that wasn't quite applicable. He swallowed, grimacing at the dry feeling of his mouth. It was like cloth had been used to draw up all the moisture, leaving him with mucus membranes that didn't remember their true function and could barely pretend they were still useful. The tacky feeling of his tongue against the roof of his mouth occupied him for a few moments longer, before the rest of his body started chiming in with its own complaints. He was bound and tied—to what, he couldn't be sure, but he recognized the walls of the tent he was in. The rope seemed to be digging into his skin so deeply he's surprised he can't feel blood streaming down over his arms, every rough fiber inviting a burning sensation he's desperate to escape. His upright position put strain on his drooping neck, but the effort of keeping it up was overwhelming. He needed to lay down, more than he had ever needed anything else in his life.
By the time Ajetaj approached, Crucifer had enough of his wits about him to surmise that the Priest had found yet another way to slip yet another substance into whatever he had been foolish enough to imbibe last. Even the quiet rustle of Ajetaj's robes seemed an unrelenting din to Crucifer, who winced. Ajetaj brought several things; a lamp that seemed brighter than necessary was all that Crucifer was able to identify before he had to shut his eyes again.
"Dear lamb, you haven't had the pleasure of experiencing our more meditative rituals in your hunt for redemption. I've decided you have earned the honor of rectifying that." Even as Crucifer couldn't force his eyes open, he knew there was a wicked grin cutting across Ajetaj's face. Each word seemed to drive through his ears, splitting them open and destroying whatever part of his brain was dedicated to interpreting sounds. Crucifer tried to shrug his shoulders up enough to cover his ears, but it was unsuccessful.
"I'll walk you through it, lamb. First, I've taken steps to ensure you're receptive to even the most minute signals that Undeath may grant you." A match is struck, and it may as well have been a sword against armor the way Crucifer flinches. A scent follows soon after, some sort of incense. All Crucifer knows is that it invites an intense pain deep into the bones of his face, as though dull knives are shoving through his forehead and cheeks, leaving a brutalized path. "You're familiar with the sensory deprivation that Aethon practices, I'm sure, to embrace the feelings of Death herself. But Hesh has other ideas, ones that I believe round out ones experiences quite well."
Crucifer heard Ajetaj seat himself in front of him, could almost feel the air moving over him. Fingers landed on his face, his skin crawling under the touch as Ajetaj forced his jaw open without mercy. "Open up, or you'll taste this every time you wet your lips for the forseeable future," Ajetaj said calmly, a stark opposite to the violence Crucifer felt was being wrought upon his face. He couldn't fight it, and his jaw was successfully pried open. A single drop of oil was placed on his tongue, and that was all that was needed. A powerful mint flooded him, dragging saliva out of his glands and making the air too cold to breathe even through his nose. Against his will, his nose and eyes both began to drip, streaming with tears and snot in response to the powerful taste overwhelming him.
None of the mess seemed to deter Ajetaj though, who launched back into further speech as Crucifer began to cough and splutter, distressed noises punctuating the religious prose being presented. Each time he managed to calm himself down, ribs and gut aching with the rest of him, Ajetaj only pried his jaw open to deliver another drop of oil. Time began to bubble and distort, dragging its feet and drawing out as though Ajetaj were the one in control of it. It all hurt and overwhelmed, making Crucifer want to burst out of his skin and take his chances with putting his bare flesh to the cruelties of the world if it meant he could stop feeling everything.
"Look at me, lamb," came the instructions. Even though there had only been a brief lull in the words spilling out of the Priest's mouth, Crucifer felt as though the assault had begun anew. He knew that he can't ignore a direct command just because it hurts, though, or what followed would be worse. He turns his face towards where Ajetaj kneels, the mere act of the other man breathing enough to clue him into where he should put his faked gaze. "Open your eyes, dear one." It's a fight to comply, the pain of the light in the room driving his eyelids back towards closure. He managed, though he pointedly fixed his gaze slightly off to the side of Ajetaj's face. It's far enough that he can't see that he's soured the smile on his Father's face. "That's a disappointing choice."
The next thing Crucifer knew, the clanking of armor has filled the space, crushing in on his skull. He could not even force movement into his limbs; he collapsed to the ground as the soldiers roughly untied him. They paid no heed to that and hauled him up just enough to start dragging him out of the tent. Every bump in the ground shoots pain straight up his spinal cord, lighting up every nerve on its way. By the time he's discarded on the ground he can do nothing but moan in pain, moving torturously slowly towards curling into the fetal position.
"What is this?" Even in the complete overload of input, Crucifer's brain manages to pick out Tower's voice. It brings pain just like any other sound, but he welcomes it, craves more of it in the hopeless way he always does. He hoped Vastellan could not see, would not process the fact of seeing Crucifer spilled out on the floor like fallen grains once more. The sound of that armor is as familiar as any other sound is at this point though, and Crucifer knew immediately that Vastellan has been seized by whatever emotions this would wring out of him.
"A ritual you have not yet been permitted to see," came Ajetaj's drawl. "This is an ancient one. You must come to terms with burying your Minder. He will be safe; Undeath will protect him."
There is no noise from either Tower or Vastellan for a long moment, one where Crucifer would start this ordeal over from the beginning if it meant he could hear anything from his Knight. He's still a useless sack of flesh saturated with the input of a million nerves that cannot stop though, so his mouth makes useless noises that he didn't authorize. It seemed enough to break the silence; Tower said, "As you wish."
Gentle arms scoop Crucifer off the ground, pulling him against a chestplate he would recognize anywhere. The cold of the bronze bites at him, sinking metallic teeth into each bit of him that can feel the armor. Gentle doesn't matter when even the least amount of input feels like being in the midst of a raging battle, but Crucifer prefers knowing that he is fundamentally safe in this man's arms. It makes the other facts matter less. As heavy footsteps move through dirt and rocks, he hears whispers from within the expressionless helm. "I have you. I'll bring you back up myself the moment I can. You'll be okay."
Crucifer grabbed onto each word, greedily bringing them in closer to himself even as they felt like torture in his ears. The meaning was soft, the intent was tender, and Ajetaj had no ability to tarnish those facts. There was no potion that could turn such care against him. As he's lowered into the grave still curled up, he's got a warm feeling of—well, it's not an emotion he can identify, but it provides solace. The moment he's no longer protectively encased in Tower's arms, though, panic comes over him at the renewed sensations from his environment. The grounding smell of freshly turned earth is no longer a comforting scent from his childhood, but instead launches the same drilling attack on his facial bones that the incense had. Each rock is pressing into his flesh, digging hard as though they all yearn to break through the skin and make their way inside to weigh him down into his new resting place.
It all worsens when a shovel scraped into dirt, a harsh noise biting out just before projectiles rained down on him. He cried out, tightening down into the protective lull of his fetal position. There came a pause, before the shovel settled into a rhythm. Scrape, followed by an ungodly pattering of dirt and rocks, scrape, and it was like arrows striking down on him, scrape, and he knew he was in hell, he was in hell and he couldn't escape.
It isn't until the weight of the dirt is a comforting crush of suffocation on top of him that he calms.