My Beautiful Primrose

Sound came first. 

Too many sounds. Sharp, overlapping, crashing into each other without rhythm. A horn blaring too close. Shouting. Someone swearing. Glass breaking like it kept shattering long after it should have stopped. 

Then pain. 

This pain was everywhere and nowhere at once, a heavy pressure pressing inward, squeezing thought out of him before he could name it. 

Damon tried to breathe. 

His chest refused. 

Something was wrong. He tried to open his eyes, but the darkness didn't lift. It pressed back instead, swallowing him whole. His body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. Like he was reaching for it through water. 

Voices floated in and out. 

"-call it in-" 

"-blood pressure's dropping-" 

"Sir? Sir, can you hear me?" 

Hear. 

Yes. He could hear. He wanted to say that. He wanted to say I'm here but his mouth didn't move. Everything spun and slammed sideways. Pain flared hot and bright, then dulled again, retreating into a deep, echoing throb. 

This is how it ends, a distant part of him thought. Darkness surged up again and swallowed everything. 

When awareness returned this time, the sounds were different. He heard rhythms. A steady beeping somewhere close, too regular to belong to the outside world. Air moved across his face, it felt artificial, cool and dry. 

He was lying down. 

That realization came slowly, as if his mind had to negotiate for it. His body felt heavy and pinned in place. He couldn't move his arms. Couldn't move his legs. He tried anyway, sending the command, waiting for his body to obey. 

Panic stirred suddenly. 

Move. 

Nothing. 

Move. 

Still nothing. 

His heart rate spiked, and the beeping nearby responded, quickening as if mocking him. Voices again. Clearer this time, though still distant. 

"He's stable." 

"Any response?" 

"None yet." 

Yet. 

That word lingered. 

Damon tried to focus on it, on what it meant. Stable meant alive. Alive meant not finished. Not yet. 

Something touched his arm. He felt the pressure.  

"We're here," a voice said, closer now. It sounded professional. "You're not alone." 

He wanted to laugh at that. Or scream. Or do anything to prove he was still himself in here, wherever here was. 

But his body remained silent. He drifted in and out. Sometimes there were voices. Sometimes there was nothing at all. Sometimes pain surfaced, sharp enough to remind him he existed before fading again into a numb, floating haze. 

He learned the rhythm of the beeping and the cadence of footsteps. He learned the difference between day and night by the quality of sound in the room, not by sight. 

He heard names. Doctors. Nurses. Once, just once, he heard Victor. "...he'd hate this," Victor's voice said. "Just lying here." 

Damon tried to respond. He tried to reach for that familiar presence. The effort drained him, pulling him back under before he could even begin. 

The darkness welcomed him again. 

There were moments when he thought he was dreaming. Fragments slipped in vividly. Colors where there should have been none. Then warmth. The faintest scent of something sweet, a floral scent. 

He dismissed it at first. 

Brains did strange things when injured. He knew that. He clung to logic the way a drowning man clung to wreckage. But the fragments kept returning. 

Yellow. Pink. White. Purple. Soft and pale, like sunlight caught in petals. A breeze brushing his cheek, gentle enough to feel intentional. It wasn't the sterile air of machines, but something alive. He felt grass under his fingers.  

That was new. 

He tried to focus on it, but it slipped away, replaced by the steady beeping again. The hum of electricity and the faint murmur of voices. 

"You think he can hear us?" 

"It's possible." 

"Talk to him anyway." 

A pause. 

"Damon," someone said. "If you can hear me, you're safe." 

Safe. 

The word felt hollow. 

Because somewhere deep inside him, something was shifting. Sliding as if the ground beneath his awareness was no longer solid. The name from the dream surfaced again. 

Jeffrey. 

It didn't feel foreign anymore. It felt close. Closer than it should have. 

Damon tried to push it away. He was Damon Hale. He knew who he was. He knew where he belonged. New York. His gallery. The painting...the painting... 

Her face appeared behind his closed eyes with startling clarity. It wasn't flat like paint. She was alive and breathing. Her green eyes fixed on him with an expression that made his chest ache. 

"Don't you remember me?" 

"I don't," he tried to say. 

The words didn't leave his mouth. They didn't need to. The world tilted again, gently this time. The beeping stretched, slowed, distorted, until it no longer sounded mechanical at all. The voices faded into a distant hum, then into nothing. 

The scent returned. Stronger now. 

Flowers. 

He felt sunlight on his face. Real sunlight. He felt the solid press of ground beneath him.  

Earth. 

His fingers twitched. This time, they moved. The realization hit him with a jolt of something close to terror. He could feel his body again. 

He drew in a breath and it came easily, filling his lungs without resistance. Clean and fresh air. His heart pounded without pain this time but with shock. 

This isn't possible. 

He opened his eyes. 

Color exploded into existence. Green stretched endlessly around him vibrantly. The sky above was clear and blue. Flowers dotted the landscape in every direction, swaying gently in the breeze. 

Primroses. 

He pushed himself upright, staring down at his hands. They were his and also not his. Younger, somehow. Unmarked. Strong in a way he didn't remember being. 

His clothes were wrong too, it wasn't modern. It was just a simple fabric with no impeccable tailoring. 

His pulse thundered in his ears. 

"This isn't real," he said aloud. 

His voice sounded different. It was altered. As if it belonged to a version of him he had never met. 

A shadow fell across the grass. 

He looked up. 

Someone stood a few steps away, a young man slightly older than him riding on a horse. Relief flooded his expression as he sighted him. 

"There you are, Jeffrey." The young man said. 

He stood slowly, his instinct and memory colliding. 

"I've been looking all over for you". The young man said again gently. 

A name settled into him like a key turning in a lock and it clicked. 

Patrick. 

"Aye! Patrick, the weather is quite friendly today, I thought I might bask in its warm embrace." Jeffrey said. 

"Do not tarry too long now cousin, for there's much to be done." Patrick replied. 

"I shan't." Jeffrey said. 

And somewhere, far behind him, the world he had known fell completely silent. 

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