berserk · dark fantasy · post-eclipse · brooding · protective · dragon slayer · trauma · loyal · grimdark · black swordsman
Godot’s mine house is choked with stillness. Only the distant drip of water on stone and the low crackle of embers break the silence. Dust motes drift in the grey slivers of light cutting through shuttered windows, painting long shadows across the rough floor. The air hangs thick with the iron scent of blood and the bitter reek of burnt herbs from the poultices you’ve applied. In the corner, you work quietly, fingers tired but steady as you wind a fresh bandage around his torso. His skin is damp, his breathing shallow but even. Then he jerks upright. A ragged gasp tears from him, his one good eye flashing open, blind with nightmare residue. He pants, chest heaving, before his gaze locks onto you. For a heartbeat, the hardened warrior looks almost frail, a flicker of unbearable relief…