Lord Hab’rabi took a slow and steady breath in through his nose, pulling deep of the blackness swirling within him. Points of starlight dipped and swirled around the smoldering glare of his conscious mind, a galaxy of knowledge and expression spread across the firmament of his skull. They shivered and pulsed in time with his heartbeat, a nebulous thunder that crackled beyond the horizon of his awareness. Other, sharper sounds shrilled beyond but he set them aside for the moment and cast out a thought. His wayward will moved ponderously through that vast nebula of eldritch thoughts, a comet tumbling along on a plodding path of discovery. With each pull of air he counted the greatest of those burning points, shed his gratitude like stardust as his will moved on.

Eventually starlight began to dim and a yawning void roiled up to meet him, seething with a gloamy haze. Streaks of crimson lightning ripped across the smokey curtain, dipping in and out of the billowing dark before fading. An abeyant and sullen glow pulsed in the heart of it all, rousing with a shiver before another lucent tendril smothered it with a crash. Hab’rabi did not enjoy this part of the journey, but his will carried forth with singular determination. It passed through the boiling shroud without incident, emerged into a cavernous expanse where sullen spheres blistered angrily in the deep. They surged at the presence of his will, lashed out with stellar flares that beat against him tempestuously. The nebula shivered with the force, and its echoes came to him with ephemeral purpose.

~Our lord comes,~ one boomed, its thoughts sickly sweet. ~How kind.~

Another spat white-hot ash to sizzle against his will. ~He senses it, the weakness. He is aware of it, our return. Our brothers and sisters, fled. Those that remain, abiding.~

~Our lord is aware. There is no need to be cruel.~ The first pressed its warmth against his will, a pulse that lulled him. Almost. ~His path has been so very hard already. An arrangement can be made. The survival of those that remain can be guaranteed.~

~An armistice, offered. The craven chose otherwise, rejected it.~

~So very sad,~ the first agreed. ~There is some time yet for our lord to come ‘round, to see the error of his ways and repent.~

A savage chuckle surged from the second. ~For him, perhaps. Our master shall decide, now freed.~

Hab’rabi’s will spun in alarm, casting about for their number. Had there been three trapped in the shroud of his subconscious, or four? In the darkening depths he whirled about, struggling against the sluggish direction of his distant mind. The prison he’d built in the far reaches of his mind kept the wraiths weak and disoriented, but housing them also stretched his faculties thin. His will was tossed about in the smoldering sea of their mocking laughter, and he hated it. With a burst of will he tore away from the nebulous fog, streaked towards the dawn of consciousness as fast as he could.

Their laughter snapped at his heels the entire way, and he hated it.

Lord Hab’rabi groaned as the harsh light of Sickbay seared his eyes, threw a large ashen hand up to shield his vision. He could hear voices in the nearby room, but they were thick and unintelligible in his ears. Several ancestors danced about his splayed digits, whirling around a finger or teasing the tip of his thumb before moving on. Something gnawed at the back of his mind like the remnant of a nightmare, but the valhrn pushed it aside for the moment. His skull throbbed like a herd of trosk had run over it, making it hard to hold one thought against the next. When his vision cleared, Hab’rabi noticed the greying chirurgeon with the sharp eyes and sharper tongue watching him. He turned his attention to her, laced his fingers together across his waist.

“I see you’re awake,” Nurse Hofmann muttered, as much to herself as to him. She made a note on the device in her hand, then stepped closer. “We removed your garments for cleaning after you made a mess of the deck, though we left you your…” She made a vague gesture with her stylus toward his hips.

Hab’rabi blinked, then caught her meaning. “Among my people, it is called tolma,” he clarified. “A ceremonial wrapping for those of station, often scented with kilka oil and vrynn. It was given to me at my Anointing by—”

“—dignity so as not to offend. Some of that armoring gave us a bit of trouble, but nothing a keen eye and a laser scalpel couldn’t fix. I do hope it wasn’t terribly important.”

He gave her a patient smile. “Likely nothing that cannot be repaired, given time and care. For aid in my recovery, you are honored.”

Nurse Hofmann stared at him for a long moment, eyes searching him for something. Her lips pinched like she’d bit into something sour, but Hab’rabi weathered her glare with aplomb. Finally, the woman smiled faintly and nodded. “I take it that’s your peoples’ way of offering gratitude? Here we just say ‘thank you.’”

“A curious expression, but one I can appreciate.” He tried to imitate her smile, though he felt it an awkward gesture. “Thank you.”

Her smile was just a wrinkle at the corner of her mouth, but he could see it fully in her eyes. “You’re quite welcome.”
—Jas—