#tw ptsd

Pierrot

Knows multiple versions of sign language, including the other members of the troupe! Ever since his incident that caused his ban on public speaking it's his main form of communication in front of prying eyes. The other members vary fluency in sign language, but Harlequin is surprisingly just as versed as Pierrot. It makes his day when he runs into someone who can also sign back to him and if you know sign? He's not able to comprehend how but he falls more in love with you. Often defaulting to sign until he misses your voice too much.

He's an excellent singer but often loses control of his power. He'll reluctantly sing if you ask him enough, this being one of the very rare things you have to pressure him on. The second he is able to tell his power is activating he'll go mute, one of his worst fears is hurting you and it's immensely careless of him to forget his capabilities. After a few talks and compromises he's more willing to hum along to songs with you, although he'd find himself too distracted by your voice to keep up.

100% will want you to give him Ted talks on your special interests, it doesn't matter what they could be, he wants you to teach him. He listens to you intently as you ramble, his eyes lighting up with your excitement as you gradually become comfortable. He finds you most attractive when you're happily explaining something you seemingly know everything about. He's the type to ask engaging questions and actually looks more into the topic on his own. You'll never feel like you're info dumping with Pierrot.

It's no surprise when you're at work Pierrot will make his way into your apartment. The first few times he enters he'll sheepishly snoop through your belongings as an attempt to learn more about you. Looking in your fridge to see what you like to eat and peering into your closet to see what you wear outside of work (shamefully sneaking a peek at any lingerie you might have only to get overwhelmed). He did his best to leave your home how he found it, although occasionally he'll do some of your chores if he sees them piling up. You never really noticed the dishes being cleaned and put away after a grueling shift, or how your laundry was magically cleaned and folded.

It's no surprise that Pierrot is gullible to a fault. If you tell him gullible is in the ceiling he will absolutely look for any signs of writing. What is a surprise is that he's only so gullible with the people he trusts. He's very empathetic when it comes to subtle tone shifts and voice fluctuations. He can always tell when something is bothering you or if you're having a bad mental day. He won't prod you unless it's clearly an ongoing issue he's noticing, but it comes from a place of concern for you. If it's trauma he wants to know about it, if it's something that happened, he wants to know about it, if it's something he did? He needs to know about it. Depending on the topic of the issue at hand, he's comforting and understanding, but if someone caused you pain, no matter how small... He can think of a few more acts for them to participate in.

Harlequin

Absolutely learned sign to mess with Pierrot, even going as far as purposefully signing wrong to confuse and irritate him. If you don't know sign he'll teach you, although I would double check the meanings.

He will absolutely not sing for you if you ask him, often redirecting the request back at you. If you pressure him enough however he'll give you a performance you would pay him to retire. Purposefully signing out of key, getting the words wrong to an infuriating degree, and then feigning ignorance when you question him. Although on rare occasions when you catch him unwinding you can hear him gently singing to himself, his actual voice serenading anyone foolish enough to wander too close, truly a siren's student. On the same note, if you have a hard time sleeping at night he's not above gently singing you a song from his childhood until you drift off, just don't comment on it in a teasing manner or he'll burn the bridge between you two.

Often has a really hard time falling asleep. His mind tends to get the better of him when he's alone with his thoughts for too long and he tends to spiral. He usually takes some medication from the Doctor to ease him into rest but occasionally he'll forget, leading to hours upon hours of tossing and turning. Self loathing, PTSD from the past, all the way to frantic delusions and what-if scenarios all haunt his mind to the point of varying breakdowns. Usually when nights get this bad he'll use his tendrils to climb up into the high beams of his tent as a comfort. The height consoling him with protection from any threats from below, as well as concealing him in the absence of any light.

Same as Pierrot, Harlequin is no stranger to the layout of your apartment. Once the coast was clear of Pierrot, he would make his way into your apartment, although for nefarious reasons. He'll raid your pantry and fridge of snacks, occasionally even leaving less than a portion left just to upset you. He'll snoop through any of your keepsakes and albums, pocketing anything damning. Your closet definitely isn't safe from his rummaging either. Making a beeline for your intimates just to see what kind of view to expect when he does manage to get you all to himself, (yes he pockets a couple pairs as "souvenirs"). Any "shoebox under the bed" toys are absolutely exposed to the light of day. Examining his competition and smirking at the blaring size difference between the silicone and the real thing. You can absolutely tell someone's been in your home, but can't tell if it's been raided by a thief or a certain green goblin, as if there was a difference.

Harlequin is a professional at reading body language. Your subconscious and him have very in depth conversations all the time. Your eyes momentarily breaking eye contact, you reaching for the hem of your shirt, the way your shoulders tense at certain noises. Because he can read your body so well he knows when he can push boundaries and when to back off. But if he notices something too familiar for his liking he'll prod you on it. "Oh? Does someone not like their shoulders touched? I wonder why that is... Are you scared of me, my dear? Or is it something deeper?" If it's something serious he feels like an absolute ass. Often trying to change the subject or opting to just leave you alone, depending on the location of the talk he might take a more gentle tone, his eyes searching for more answers from your body, his grin inverting to a concerning frown, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Jester

He often forgets that not everyone can speak the same language, especially if you become a regular visitor in the troupe. He talks to his family in his mother tongue which is technically an honor when he tries to talk to you in Portuguese. Your confused face forcing him to visibly reset and rephrase what he said in "simpler terms". Because of this get used to conversations you're not invited to, sometimes pertaining to you well within earshot. If you manage to pick this up though he'll change your name into another petname, occasionally changing it up to keep you guessing.

If you do know Portuguese though, he'll accidentally let a genuine grin slip. It's thrilling to have a conversation with someone when the general population can't understand it. However, if he needs to talk about you with another member of the troupe in front of you he'll change the language to something completely different almost instantaneously. He and the troupe have been nearly around the world and have learned a plethora of languages to accommodate this, he will find one you're unfamiliar with to gossip about you with.

I think I mentioned it before but Jester is definitely the spokesperson for the circus. He handles any and all business dealing often bringing Bil along for any contract negotiations. The one thing he refuses to show you is any dealings with fellow monsters. Monster kind often poorly mimics the civility of business dealings and can often lead to unsightly skirmishes if tensions get too high. Jester learned how to use his silver tongue to gain the upper hand in situations like these, a challenging skill he built over the years of "coexisting" with humans.

Jester tends to perform routine checks on all of the fools throughout the day. Gauging their usefulness and "enthusiasm" and changing them out as needed. Some remain in the circus's employment for longer than expected, others either break free from their "contracts" or develop health issues. Humans are both annoyingly strong and pitifully weak. He equates this task to a filthy chore that must be done and is his responsibility alone.

He's routinely the last to retire for the night and he prefers it this way. Before his final walk around the grounds with Bil he always makes an effort to check in with the rest of his family. Always asking if there were any problems with their performances, any additions they would like to add, any complaints to air out, the regular debriefing anyone would expect from a leader. Depending on the answers of the troupe, he'll press into more personal matters. Pierrot's obsession with you, Harlequin's noticeable disappearances, Doctor's struggle for understanding humans. As much as he hates it, he does identify as a strong pillar of the circus. The troupe's survival ultimately relies on his ability to decide how to interact with humans. His nights are long primarily due to his constant game of chess with humanity, one that he would fight until his last breath to win.

Ticket Taker

Prefers to work on book balancing with someone nearby, whether that be other troupe members or going to a cafe to work. The background noise of everyday life keeps the unpleasant static of worry at bay. Even if he's alone late at night accounting he turns on a radio not caring what station it's on, often just leaving it on all night to help him rest without the past creeping up on him.

Often hums as a form of self soothing if there's not adequate background noise. He defaults to classical music or oldies that played on the radio once upon a time. On rare occasions if you're lucky, he'll hum uncharacteristic pop songs, claiming they're too catchy.

Will routinely traverse every town, silently observing routines as well as traditions of the townsfolk around. Making mental notes of any shops of interest or potential business partnerships. If an outing takes longer than expected he always makes sure to get the troupe a treat, whether it be food from a local restaurant, treats from a convenient store, or even a few coffee orders from a certain cafe.

Always keeps his mind/hands busy. If he's taking a break at his desk he's known to fold intricate origami, often able to make complex interactive pieces. If taking a mental break from checking in guests or in between his mirror shows you can often find him with themed crossword puzzles and even sudoku books. Constantly filling book upon book over the course of his downtime.

Him and Jester both are the primary ones to walk around the perimeter of the circus assuring security and integrity of the grounds. Often using this as an end of the day summary and a way to make preparations for the following days ahead, making mental lists of needs and possible new attractions. Sometimes these nights lead to a well needed venting session between the two of them, sometimes consoling each other about possible worries or ugly reminders of the past. These are the most sacred times of the day for the two of them, the day just isn't complete without this routine walk on the grounds.

Doctor

Since he canonically sleeps the least among the troupe, I can definitely see him taking advantage of the midnight hours. His frame and general appearance often make it difficult to explore the town efficiently without causing a scene. Donning casual clothes he wanders around the town, taking notes of anything intriguing to him, mostly the stray animal population. He has a fascination with cats and often will take scraps of subjects meat with him to bribe them closer. He's content with just observing them, diagraming their anatomy, annotating their behaviors, and hypothesizing their origins/routines. Though, he hasn't gotten lucky enough to receive any headbutts.

Absolutely can death metal scream, despite the peace of mind of Jester. Whenever a really bad yawn takes hold he'll let a gutteral metal scream rip for as long as the yawn has him hostage. Other times he'll use it as a way to clear a path through the circus if his towering height doesn't do it already. Will be absolutely thrilled to teach you how to scream, oh and I guess learn how to metal scream.

He's very blunt when it comes to sensitive topics. He just doesn't see any point in beating around bushes when he can just ask for a straightforward answer. This means he has no issue with asking sensitive questions seemingly out of left field. "You seem bloated. When was your last bowel movement." Or "You tend to flinch when I reach for your left side, why is that? Was it a previous experience?" This makes any kind of privacy about your life rare, although he knows when to stop his questioning if you get too uncomfortable. Especially relating to any topics relating to abuse or assault. He takes a surprisingly gentle approach to such themes. "You can tell me when you're ready, I won't prod at something that you refuse to share on your own. I will find out one way or another though, that is a promise, my sweetie."

Often will send TT with a list of lab equipment to keep an eye out for on his shopping trips. Anywhere from griffin beakers, Erlenmeyer flasks, and even a 316L Stainless Steel Reactor, which obviously was unobtainable. He was great at improvising and engineering his own complex equipment but the ease of simplification with expensive equipment was a nice pipe dream of his.

It's no surprise that he's the circus' muscles, he takes a bit of pride in it after all. This means that he has to work out in order to maintain that fearsome aura. In his free time in between experiments you can find him training his muscles as well as his mind. His extensive knowledge on muscle groups and nutrition can technically classify him as a gym rat. Although he'd never give you unsolicited gym advice, but unsolicited biological/scientific advice? That's as easy as breathing.

When you wake, gasping into consciousness, it is still dark. 

You can hardly see, resolving instead to grip the silk of your sheets beneath you, chest heaving with uncaught breath. You’re sat straight up, muscles locked tight, blinking rapidly until your breath steadies. 

You must be in bed, that much is certain. When you realise that simple fact, the rest of the room starts to take shape in front of you, moonlight carving the furniture out of the shadows. The moon must be high in the night sky, you realise. Dawn is still many hours away. 

This had not always been a common occurrence. 

You were quite a glad child, if memory serves you correctly, and your memory hardly failed you. Spoiled, yes, you would not deny it, but agreeable when your desires were met. Lord Tarth was an honourable man, and a loving father — he could scarcely stand to see you pout. Every child has nightmares and nerves, uncertainty that comes with the territory of growing, of becoming a woman. But you had never been an anxious girl. 

You were too young to remember your mother’s passing. It was your father’s loss that lingered in the walls of Evenfall Hall, not your own, not truly. You wished, then, that you were half as resilient as your Lord father. 

You had not been quite the same since the Tourney at Ashford. 

The mere thought of the place made your stomach turn, so you whip the downy comforter off you, tossing it aside and planting your feet on the cold stone ground. 

It had started, simply, with a struggle to fall asleep. Your husband returning to your chambers at late hours was nothing novel, he was Hand of the King. You grew accustomed to it quickly, in the first weeks of your marriage, falling asleep before he was finished with his duties, or staying up with one of the books that lined his shelves and a hundred lit candles until he returned to you. You’d coax him into bed with you, or he’d wake you gently, and the love he made to you would be worth the sleep deprivation, and the near-constant ache in your thighs. 

And yet, upon your return from Ashford, you found you could not sleep. You would stay up until odd hours waiting for him to return to your room, wearing a path into the stone underfoot with your pacing, and when he’d finally join you — eyes full of concern at the sight of you, smiling yet tense, your hands clasped tightly together like you were scared to reach for him — you still could not rest easily. 

You laid down and took deep breaths and held your husband close and yet, you could not rid yourself of the bone-deep dread that plagued you. You were too afraid to jostle him in your sleep, accidentally push him off the bed, disturb his head in any way. You were afraid the maesters missed something from the injury, something lying dormant in his skull, and that tonight would be the night it took him in his sleep. You were afraid if you allowed your eyes to fall shut you might miss a change in his breathing, a sign that something was wrong, and you would be helpless to save him. Again. 

When you could fight it no longer, when, against your will, your eyes slipped shut and your breath deepened, you’d wake an hour or so later, jolting in your husband’s arms as you woke from another variation of the same nightmare. The grey and gloom of Ashford that morning, fields of grass giving way to the mud of the tourney grounds, the sound of metal clashing against metal, the sickening thud of your good brother’s mace against your husband’s helm. The wailing shriek that filled the air when you saw the dent of metal in the back of your husband’s head. You didn’t realise it was your scream till afterwards. 

Sometimes it was different, shifting behind your eyelids into something more monstrous; a version of that day where you hadn’t stopped them from removing his helmet. Where you’d have to watch the inside of his skull spill into the mud below. Or the version where you walk the tourney grounds forever, screaming for your husband, begging for him to come back. Every so often you’d see him there, in the distance, obscured by the fog but unmistakable, walking like he was made of wood. Like he was already a dead man. 

And when you woke, there was your husband, alive and breathing, hair already growing back to cover the snarled, scarred skin on the crown of his head. When dawn comes he’ll rise again, go about his duties like nothing’s happened. At most, he’ll take a tonic for the headaches that plague him on occasion, while reassuring you they ease with every coming day. You’re the only one still stuck in Ashford. 

You manage to feel around for the tinderbox you keep on your night these days. You find you light candles at ungodly hours more nights than not as of late, and by now the motions have become familiar, instinctual. The soft glow of the candle fills your room soon enough, and then you’re off, moving the armoire that conceals the passageway that snakes from your room to the chamber of the dragon mosaic, where you know that if you unlock the second gate to your left, you can climb a tight, steep set of spiral stairs and arrive in the private library of the Hand, across the hall from his study. 

If a book were to go missing from this room, your husband would notice, you’re sure of it, but you’re too afraid of someone coming into the library in the dead of night and finding you there to linger. You find yourself thanking Maegor the Cruel more and more these days, for building a way for you to go to and from these rooms unnoticed by the Kingsguard that keep meticulous watch outside your chambers. Because if the Kingsguard saw the way you routinely made the trek from your quarters, up and down several stories, to the library and then back just so you’d have something to occupy your troubled mind at night, they would surely report it to your husband, and then your insomnia would be added to the endless list of responsibilities he bears, and you don’t think you could handle him looking at you like another problem to solve. So, when you’re done with your reading for the night, yawning and eyelids weighing down like they’re made of lead, you trek back to the library, place the book just as you’d found it, and return to your bed, sufficiently exhausted enough to sleep till the sun rises again. 

But apparently, you are losing your tenacity, because you wake with a startle the next morning, your handmaiden desperately shaking your shoulders. It takes several moments of you blinking against the sun to realise what must have happened. That you’d fallen asleep right there at your bureau, the book recounting the reign of House Gardener in the Reach still open underneath you and now sporting a wet spot where you’d drooled onto the page. 

“O-oh, gods, I’m terribly sorry madame,” You slur out, your tongue still heavy with sleep, your throat raspy. “I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s quite alright, milady, but what ever were you doing at your bureau?” She questions, her hand coming to settle between your shoulders, rubbing there comfortingly. She’d been with you since you were just a spoiled little girl. 

“Reading.” You state, dumbly. Then it hits you. “Madame, will you allow one of my lady’s maids to dress me today? I need you to return this book to the library of the Hand post-haste.” 

You think she must see the panic in your eyes, because she nods and moves quickly, calling out for another girl to come and help you dress for the day as she practically sprints out of the room. Your hands come up, rubbing at your eyes with your knuckles, and by the time one of the maids has come to you bearing layers upon layers of skirts in her arms, you’ve steeled yourself, your back straight once again, and you promise yourself that you will not make that same mistake twice. 

You greet Baelor in his chambers with a graceful smile on your face, the slightest bit of relief flooding through you at the sight of your husband, upright and alive. You go to him easily, and he welcomes you into his arms just the same, bidding you a good morning and placing the sweetest of kisses on your lips. 

“How did you sleep, sweet wife?” He asks, the rasp of sleep still lingering in his voice. 

“Peacefully.” You lie with ease, now that you’ve repeated the same one so many times. “And you?”

“I slept well, my heart, but not quite so well as I do with you by my side.” He tells you, a teasing smile on his face. “Though I understand you do not sleep as well when I am returning to our chambers far too late into the night.”

He parts from you only to pull your chair out for you, allowing you to sit before he takes his seat beside yours. “If only you had not returned to your duties so soon.” “Come now, my dear, you know I could not delay it any longer,” The smile stays put on his face, like what you said was nothing, like his injury was a light matter. Breakfast is placed in front of you, a spread of bread and cheese and fruits, egg and salted meat, anything you could dream of eating at the break of your fast, but you stick to the bread and cheese these days, needing something in your stomach that would help settle the uneasy feeling that had made itself at home there. “The Realm needs me, as does my father.”

You simply hum in response, occupying yourself with spreading butter on your bread slice to keep the glare you’d like to give him at bay.

“What will you do with your day, my love?” 

“Nothing so interesting as what you’ll encounter in your Small Council.” 

“You may think it so, but I should like to picture you in my head when the Council inevitably bores me,” He leans closer to your field of vision, forcing you to place your butter knife back on its mat, so you might meet his gaze. “And it is much easier to think of you when I know what you might be up to.”

To think of me, just like you did when you decided to don your armour before I’d even risen and throw your life away for a hedge knight? No, you correct yourself, your son’s armour. Because you weren’t there to fight in the first place. 

Instead of voicing your ire, you let a practiced smile overtake your face. “I thought I might spend time on my embroideries, then continue my studies in High Valyrian.” 

“Se skorkydoso issi lī jāre?” (And how are those going?)

Lo nyke hīlagon ao isse se bartos arlī, would ziry drēje se ribazma ōdres emā?, you think. (If I hit you in the head a second time, do you think it would reverse the brain damage you’ve clearly attained?)

“Sȳz.” You say instead, and he nods, satisfied. (Good.)

“I thought you might have tea with your ladies today.” “Oh? Why?” 

“You have not mentioned them in quite some time.” 

You merely hum in response, feigning contemplation.

You have not mentioned them because you have refused their company for many weeks. You indulged in tea and cakes with them at first, upon your return from Ashford, to find that the polite conversation had grown unbearable to you in your current state. After about a week, you grew too worried they might notice the dark circles forming under your eyes, and you’d rejected every social invitation since.

“Maybe some other time.”

You spend the rest of your meal in a comfortable silence as your husband tells you about some of the meetings he’ll attend alone, and he accepts your nods and hums as sufficient responses. You’re too distracted with the effort to make it look as though you’ve eaten plenty to truly listen, as you once had, and reply with thoughtful commentary. 

Soon enough, he’s rising from his chair, finishing his meal and telling you that the first meeting of the day would begin soon and he would have to take his leave from you. You stood dutifully, kissed him goodbye, savoured the feel of his warm lips against yours.

“I will see you at supper, my heart.” He whispers, leaning down to kiss you once more, then untangling himself from your embrace and leaving you alone once more

You sit for ten minutes after his departure, down to the second, staring at your food till you can safely leave it untouched without him seeing. 

“Good morning, Aunt.”

“Oh!” You startle at the sight of Maekar’s eldest son in the library. It’s a strange place for him to be, considering his father’s own quarters are across the Keep from this tower, and even stranger for him to call you Aunt when you are closer in age to him than your husband. “Daeron, wh- it is lovely to see you, but-”

“I need a quiet place to read. Away from my Lord father and brothers.” You raise an eyebrow at his explanation, looking pointedly at the chalice of wine that sits next to the book he has opened on the table, a chalice that seems to accompany him everywhere he goes. “I won’t spill it, if that’s what concerns you.” 

That at least gets a chuckle out of you, and you shake your head. “So long as you do not disturb my embroidering, I should not mind your presence, Daeron.” 

And true to his word, you and Daeron sit in utter silence, save for the stray coo of a dove, the turning of a page, the soft pierce of your needle through fabric. It’s an old project, one you’d worked on and then left undisturbed for months; a dragon, flying under a canvas of stars and above the fluff of the clouds, bathed in silver moonlight. You intended to stitch a rider onto its back, you remember, but couldn’t find a proper colour for the thread. 

You’d fashioned it after the dreams you used to have. You, on dragonback, soaring through the night sky, going wherever you pleased whenever you pleased, in spite of you not having a drop of the blood of the dragon running in your veins. Maybe it wasn’t the colour of the thread that troubled you about the piece, but rather that the rider just didn’t quite fit. It looked wrong every time you tried to sew it in. 

“I hear you’re having bad dreams.” You nearly prick your own finger at the sudden sound of Daeron’s voice. 

You blink at him. “Where did you hear that?”

But he ignores you. His eyes are distant, staring at the wall instead of his book. “If you’re looking for a way to make them stop, the wine helps. I’m somewhat of an expert in the matter.” 

You smile at him softly, sympathetically.

“Thank you, Daeron, but I think it unwise for me to partake in spirits before midday.” 

“More unwise than spending your nights unable to sleep properly?” He challenges.

And you are quite tired.

By midday, you’re already on this side of drunkenness. Daeron seems to be holding it much better than you, considering you’re the only one stumbling as you walk down the hallway, giggling conspiratorily on your way to steal sweets and another casket of Dornish from the kitchens. The walls seem to bend around you, the walkway snaking and twisting underfoot, but Daeron keeps you steady, righting you whenever you’ve stumbled into him and laughing, which makes you laugh in turn.

You haven’t had this much fun in quite some time. 

It reminds you why you had been so disappointed to learn he was missing when you arrived at Ashford; if anyone was going to aid you in sneaking off to the lively parties that would certainly be thrown at the tourney grounds once night had fallen, it would’ve been Daeron. By the time he and Egg were found, nobody was in any mood for partying, though you had half a mind to mourn that you’d missed your chance to attend one of the Laughing Storm’s legendary revels. 

You come to a fork in the halls, which meant you were close to the kitchens. You could smell the caramelizing sugar in the air from here, making you turn to Daeron with a mischievous smile on your face.

“The bakeries are this way.” You tell him, gesturing to the left.

“The spirit cellar is this way.” He points right. 

“Then we split up, and meet back here?” He nods seriously, holding out his hand for shaking, and you clasp it tightly like a man would, shaking too vigorously because you know it will make him laugh again. 

And then you’re both off, sneaking quietly down your respective hallways, on your respective missions. 

You don’t make it very far, because when you turn a corner, Baelor is there, dressed in his armour and mail. 

Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again, your stomach already turning at the sight. “W-wwwhat are you doing?”

“My love? I- are you alright?” He asks gently, taking in your flushed appearance, the slur of your words. 

“Why are you dressed to fight?” You step closer to him, hesitant, terrified. 

“I am to spar with Matarys, as part of his sword training, my love. I told you about it this morning, do you not recall?” He explains, his gaze analysing, putting together the pieces in front of him. “Are you dru-”

He’s interrupted by you, or rather, your stomach, as you keel over empty its contents onto the polished stone floor, the bile splashing onto his sabatons. 

“Oh- dear, are you alright-” He starts to reach for you, but you’re far too quick, and with the metal weighing him down, he is far too slow. You dash back down the hall, making eye contact with Daeron, holding a casket in each hand, eyebrows raised at the sight of you, but you pay him little mind as you speed past him. You’re sure he’ll put two and two together once Baelor calls after you, pleading with you to stop, to slow down and speak to him, but you are too far gone for him to catch up. 

The path you take is a familiar one, one you’d discovered upon your first weeks living at the Keep. If you took the exit to the gardens that leads from the Maidenvault, followed the cypress-lined path to the left, took a right at the canopy that sat at the end of said path, and took the stairs down, you’d find what appeared to be an unfinished, unattended lookout spot. A little, rocky thatch of land off the edge of the Aegon’s High Hill, stones haphazardly arranged into a fence, high enough to prevent an accident, thick enough to sit upon, and low enough to afford you a view of Blackwater Bay stretched far into the horizon. Luckily, you hurry down the steps and towards that wall quick enough that the last of your bile gets thrown up over it, and into the water below. 

You clutch that edge with white knuckles as you stand there, rocking back and forth, attempting to catch your breath. You force yourself to focus on the water, and think that if you stare at it long enough, you might convince you’re still on Tarth, still a girl, and your father awaits you in the castle, instead of nightmares and scolding eyes and a life that keeps moving forward even if you cannot. But you’ve visited this lookout many times before, when you need a quiet moment alone, and you know that Blackwater Bay is much too grey and briny to ever be mistaken for the sapphire waters of your home. 

Still, you settle onto the rocky dirt below you, kneeling and resting your elbows on the wall in front of you, and you stare. You ignore the burn in your throat and you watch the sun move across the sky, you count the ships that leave and the ships that dock and you imagine a story for each of them, the same game you played from the window of your room at Evenfall Hall, where you had a perfect view of the bay below. 

You used to imagine jumping from the window, not in anguish, but in escape. You’d fly through the sky with swan-like grace, diving straight into the water with the ease of a hot knife through butter, joining the ocean creatures and swimming as far as you’d like. You’d imagine that here, too, but the water was so dark with salinity it made you wrinkle your nose in disgust instead. The smell of it stung your nostrils, and still, you watched the water with calm precision, for what must have been hours. 

“I thought I might find you here.” Your husband’s voice rings out behind you.

You sigh. You’d retreated so far into your imagination, you half-convinced yourself that no one would come looking, even if you never returned.

“Would you like to tell me what’s going on, my dear?” His tone is irritatingly patient. You know what you’ll find if you turn to look back at him; his hands clasped in front of him, his head tilted just so, his eyes trained on you while he waits for you to explain. So you don’t turn, as you lift yourself off the ground and brush away the dusting of dirt that has caught onto the precious fabric of your skirt. 

“I would not.” You answer simply, staying put in your spot by the wall.

He lets your words hang in the air, lets you listen to the crashing of waves against the cliffs below and the distant hum of the city behind you for just a moment longer, before he speaks again.

“The maids tell me you do not sleep,” He begins, and that makes your head snap towards him, fire in your eyes.

“Which one told you that?” “You do not eat, you do not sleep, and you refuse to see me outside of meals and gatherings.” He continues, ignoring your petty questioning. “You drink yourself into a stupor, and you admonish me for going about my duties, but I cannot set them aside simply because you do not like it-”

“And what of your duty to me?” You cut him off before he can say another word. “All you speak of is your duty to the Council, to your father, to the Realm, to innocent knights and you think nothing of your duty to your wife!”

“You know that is not-”

“You didn’t even ask me!” You could not stop yourself. After so much time unable to speak about your fears to him, the lump in your throat too heavy for you to fight past it, the floodgate in your mind had opened, and the anger was spilling out. “You asked your son for his armour after I had gone to bed, and you left before I could wake, and the next time I saw my husband was when I was sure he was a dead man walking! And you did it in secret because you knew it was wrong! And then you act like you didn’t know any better, you come back and you pretend nothing’s happened, you expect me to just- to just- sleep! As if I did not nearly lose my whole life as I know it! If I had not been there when you- when they- the whole realm would’ve- you would’ve just been gone-” 

You cut yourself off with a gasp, sobbing through your last words. The tears came uncontrollably, hot on your skin, flowing from you and clogging your nose and your throat and your chest, and suddenly you found you could barely breathe. The air in your lungs came stuttered, gasping, and then you were on your knees in the dirt again, trying to regain control of your body. You could hear your husband’s voice speaking to you, distantly, as if through water, the words distorting till they formed into something torturously familiar. 

“My fingers feel… fingers feel like wood.”

You felt those same fingers on your back, rubbing in soothing circles, attempting to calm you. Your own dig into your face, nails scuffing your skin like you could scrape the tears away and make them stop. Your throat feels raw, a phantom pain, from the screaming you did that day. It’s all here again, in the daylight, where he can see it, where there’s nowhere to hide from it. 

The feeling of his hand on your face makes you jump, shocking you, forcing your eyes open and onto him. 

His mismatched eyes are bearing into yours, full of concern, holding you in place. You still in his arms, keeping your eyes on him, on the red tinge of his face, the furrow of his brow, the rise and fall of his chest. No blood. No cracked visor. You observe these signs of life one by one, till the sun in the sky and the sound of waves crashing starts to filter back into your awareness, and then you’re able to breathe again, the trembling subsiding. 

Then you fall back to lay on the ground, uncaring of the dirt that will surely make its way into your hair and the fabric of your dress, and the tears begin again, panic replaced by despair as you realise you have allowed your husband to see something you never intended him to. He remains kneeled on the ground beside you, his hand still cradling your face, his expression shifting from concern to sympathy. 

He lets you lay there for a moment, crying silently as he brushes stray strands of hair away, soothing you when an audible sob makes its way through your chest, before he speaks. 

“I am… truly sorry, my love.” His voice is unexpectedly thick with tears, but you see it now, the subtle, watery shine of his eyes. “I did not know-” “I’m sorry, I did not tell you.” You whimper out, but he shakes his head. 

“I should have seen it. I should have known-” He sees you open your mouth to interrupt again, but he keeps going. “You are my wife. My love, my heart. And I could not see that you were troubled by what happened, as you have every right to be. I am sorry, my love, you are right. I have failed in my duties as your husband.”

You want to tell him he’s wrong. That he hasn’t failed you, that he has been the best husband he can be, better than you’d ever imagined. He cared for you, truly, about your thoughts and your pleasure and your dignity. But you let him apologise instead, allow him to admit he wronged you instead of pretending it is your own fault you are so troubled, instead of calling you hysterical. 

“I did not consider you as I should have, when I fought for Ser Duncan. I sacrificed myself and failed to realise it was not just my life I was putting in danger.” His hand leaves your face and finds your hand instead, pressing his lips to it once, twice, a third time. “I’m sorry.”

You cannot find it in you to say you forgive him, or that it’s all right now. But the ache in your chest has eased. 

“Okay.” You say quietly, nodding. You sit up slowly, taking your hand from his, and lean into his chest, breathing in his soothing, familiar scent of leather and amber. You let your shoulders relax and breathe deeply for the first time in months. He takes you in his arms easily, cradling you really, gently brushing the dirt and pebbles that are stuck to you now. 

“Will you sleep in our bed tonight?” He asks, and you know that if you say no, he will accept it without complaint. 

“Yes.” You whisper. 

“Will you wake me if your night terrors return?” That makes you hesitate. The maesters said his sleep was paramount to his healing. “Please, my love, I want to help. You need your sleep.” 

You nod slowly, still unsure, not trusting your own voice. 

But you don’t have a nightmare that night, or the many nights after.

From Parental Death:

For individuals experiencing traumatic bereavement, even happy memories can be triggers. Sounds crazy, but true.

Traumatized brains like to immediately counter a pleasant memory of the trauma source (that being a dead parent) with the intrusive, horrifying, or painful images. We see this happen repeatedly in the movie when Simon thinks of his mother, and is immediately ripped into thinking about atrocities. His mother's soothing voice is thrown straight in with The Horrors because they are connected. I have a post talking about this exact memory sequence. His mother, the knife, the blood, the holster, his guilt... it's all the same thing in his subconscious.

It's something Simon doesn't even know about. This whole post is going to be full of things Simon wouldn't know about.

That being said, Simon's vice is nostalgia. He's always thinking of better times, chasing the calm he once knew. Simon was hurting himself and mentally "pressing his thumb into the bruise" for some kind of relief, because he was never taught fuck-all about mental health. He doesn't know his lamenting is causing flashbacks.

This often borders on maladaptive daydreaming or an attempt at affect regulation that backfires. Because his only source of comfort (the past) is contaminated by trauma, Simon likely suffers from anhedonia (the inability to feel pleasure from things he used to love).

Direct emotional triggers that might make Simon feel uneasy:

Humming or wordless singing, especially in a low/soft female voice

Specific perfumes, soaps, or laundry-detergent smells that might match a memory (from Mars, when things were plentiful)

Being handed something precious to "hold onto" (unfortunately, if gifts in the Iron Lung universe are so rare that this knife meant everything to him, he'd be scared of accepting them.)

Kitchen knives specifically (as opposed to combat knives, which might feel more neutral/functional to him. His mom used to cook for him and this sort of gets connected to the holster-knife memory.)

Holsters, sheaths (He'd be reminiscing on his own similar item after having a look at another).

Being thanked or praised, survivor's guilt (He would be feeling like "No, please don't thank me. I don't deserve that.", then respond with a very, very hesitant and shocked "yeah of course".)

Someone calling him a pet name or term of endearment she had for him unexpectedly

Being comforted physically (worse if it's a woman), push/pull between craving and fearing it (fundamental fear of abandonment)

From Eden Station:

The smell of dirt/compost, the feeling of it under his fingernails

The smell of rot/meat (you never forget the smell of a dead body.)

Crowded spaces/too many people piled on top of each other in a room (he has some apocalypse-based social anxiety in my head. He has to actively notice people's behaviors at all times, for safety purposes, and when there's too many people to keep track of, he starts feeling unsafe).

Hymns/choirs (Dude would immediately think god is coming to smite his ass, or would get thrown back into a flashback where he watched these/participated in them. Maybe not panic but would have a physiological response like getting the sweats.)

The concept of performing autopsies / of skinning/flaying / of field-dressing animals (He'd be deeply uncomfortable after The Incident. Just a personal headcanon of mine!)

The act of digging holes in the soil <- this is a funerary ritual. He doesn't want to be a gardener. He'd be thinking about all the corpses he's seen under the dirt the whole time he's trying to plant things. It's not a good time.

The sight of raw meat in general puts him off. We have no idea what else Eden was using those bodies for...

Gardening tools, shovels, trowels, anything that "digs" (uneasy graveyard type vibes)

Greenhouses or any warm, humid, enclosed plant-smelling space (See this post talking about Simon's unease around plants.)

Religious phrases, chants, call-and-response speech patterns (We see Simon in a PTSD reciting prayers to himself in the movie.)

Candle smoke / incense <- I'd assume they were making this out of tree bark / "human fat candles" maybe? Maple incense is a known thing.

Kneeling postures/being forced to kneel <- HE WOULD HATE THIS. HAAATE IT.

Ceremonial-looking items ("I got a bad feeling about this" type shit. Unless it's his brother's Eden Pendant or other sentimental item).

Worms, insects, or anything moving in soil (I doubt they had anything alive like this on Eden but I think the sight of watching something move under the dirt would be STARTLING and scary for him, because the only thing he can picture under the dirt are dead bodies. "OHHHFUCKFUCKFUCK THEY'RE COMING ALIVE". Simon's a superstitious guy at his core, even if he convinces himself he's not, especially after the Lung...)

From Living in Space:

Absolute silence (this means that the life support systems have stopped working! Those machines always make noise or a hum. Simon would FLY into a panic if things got too quiet for too long.)

Vents and air ducts, comforting when humming, terrifying when they stop

The smell of hot metal (astronauts often report that space "smells" like burnt steak. I imagine Simon spent too long wondering what suffocating in space would be like. A la Confined Space Hazards, where he is repeatedly threatened with getting jettisoned out into space)

The sound of an airlock/pressurized door, for the reason above (imagine you're on a plane with a bunch of suicidal nutjobs. Wouldn't you be waiting for one of them to pop the emergency door open mid-flight? It would be so easy to get rid of the Butcher that way.)

Ear popping / pressure changes (the early warning signs of a hull breach or a failing pressurization seal.)

Thin/stale air might make him start reliving memories of space station life. There's a unique tinge to it.

Strobe lights / flashing lights (a common "HEY SOMETHING IS WRONG" warning signal from space stations)

Simon would be VIGILANT about equipment failures. He'd be on-alert for threats such as explosive decompression, flash fires, toxic leaks

He'd have a hard time with sensory deprivation. Living indefinitely in a "tin can" with constant, loud life-support noise, extreme lack of privacy, and an inability to see the sky most of his life would cause some issues there.

From Filament Station:

The sight/smell of burning plastic

Burning hair

Laser-fire / gunpowder / gunshots / firecrackers / explosions <- anything loud and sudden

Klaxon/emergency alarms ("ABANDON STATION" // "ABANDON SHIP" // "EVACUATE")

God forbid a smoke alarm goes off. Holy shit.

Cooking meat (this guy might honestly go vegan after the shit he's seen, but I think passing up protein would be too detrimental to his health, so he'd eat it anyway)

The sight of ash/soot

The smell of an overheating appliance

The smell of spent fuel / starship fuel

The sight of yellow fat / cooking/rendering fat

An inability to map out an exit to a room would have him stressing (this ties into the obvious claustrophobia, but Filament would have fucked with his head more than that).

Violent movies, or graphic imagery depicting combat or disaster.

Unexpected physical contact

Specific dates tied to the incident, such as the anniversary of Filament Station's destruction (especially if this was something he knew about previously, like a planned deployment he had to sit and be anxious about for a long time, again he wouldn't panic but it would be a bout of depression he'd be confused about the origin of at first).

The sound of stomping boots on metal

Simon's own freeze response ("Don't just stand there, do something!" <- This is what causes Simon to have "lash-outs", because "fight" is the easiest way to break out of that, and people died when he froze in the past.)

From Prison/COI:

Very obviously here: screaming/yelling

Slamming/rattling/metal doors

Lack of personal space/invading personal space/his living area

Taking his belongings without asking / theft, even if it's small, like swiping/borrowing a hair tie.

Loss of autonomy, not being able to choose when to sleep, what to wear, when to eat, etc.

Witnessing/hearing violence (this overlaps heavily with everything else...)

Aggressive/negative interactions with authority figures

Soldering irons / hot tools / power tools (both from what they did to him and seeing sparks fly from Jack's welding. Ties into the explosion/fire thing too)

Deadbolts, heavy locks, anything that would tell his brain "YOU ARE TRAPPED"

Empty beds (he witnessed his captured compatriots get dragged out into the Iron Lung never to return. He'd be immediately checking to find this person to make sure they are still there if this is unusual behavior.)

Headcounts, anxiety spikes if a number doesn't match what he expects (someone went missing/didn't come back from the Convict Realization Program/died. This overlaps with Eden's supposed death rate)

Handcuffs, zip ties, rope, any binding material

Being patted down or searched

Small windowless rooms (Obligatory)

Orders given without explanation ("sit," "don't move," "wait here" would PISS HIM OFF)

Surveillance cameras or the feeling of being watched on a monitor. Simon wouldn't like cameras in general.

Specific phrases used by his captors that resurface in unrelated contexts

The sound of keys jingling (physiological response, again with the locks thing)

Antiseptic or industrial cleaner smell (from coronary clean-up, from getting blasted with it)

Someone standing over him while he's seated or lying down (that's grounds for Simon swinging at the guy)

From the Lung:

Emergency alarms ("HULL BREACH" // "FIRE")

Smell/sight of blood/meat

The texture/sight of orange/brown rust

Radio comms, especially bad when orders are being barked

Scabby textures/stringy red items (things as insignificant or niche as shredded beetroot might make him queasy)

Round porthole windows (he would see monsters in it. He'd see Ava's blind eye in it.)

Floor grates/drains

Tunnels (he'd bitch about this and need a minute, but he'd be able to power through if necessary)

Live wires / sparking (again with the big Venn diagram of explosion/hot imagery)

The Oxygen Meter Sound. The Blipping Noise. That one. Any kind of "click!" or computer blip would have him immediately holding his breath for a second

The amplified sound of his own breathing (e.g., wearing a mask, helmet, visor)

MRI machines, CT scanners, or other tube-like medical equipment (claustrophobia generalization)

The color red in large or unexpected amounts

Reflective or distorted surfaces, "funhouse mirror" visuals, warped metal, even a screen catching light oddly

Being looked at by someone with a cloudy or blind eye (Ava's face HAUNTS him.)

Dripping water sounds

Old plumbing groans

The sensation of something brushing past him in low light

Glass breaking or cracking sounds (from the porthole shattering and threatening to just end his life immediately with the SM-13 flooding, also the immediately guilt-punch of accidentally breaking his brother's pendant would come to mind)

Talk of zombies, ghosts, or coming back from the dead (after having a full conversation with the dead SM-8 crew... yikes. He'd be terrified then, of his victims coming back to "get him")

Connected Triggers

The "Meat, Blood, and Rot" Problem

Connected Sources: Eden Station → Filament Station → Prison -> The Iron Lung

This is Simon's heaviest overlap. The smell of rot/corpses from Eden Station, the rendering fat/cooking meat from the fires of Filament, the literal blood ocean of the Lung, and the death in the COI prisons all feed into one massive aversion to raw meat and blood.

Structural Integrity

Connected Sources: Living in Space → Filament Station → The Iron Lung

Any sound signaling a breach = instant panic. The hyper-vigilance of listening for failing life support in deep space overlaps with Filament's destruction, which then connects directly to the hull breach warnings inside the Lung.

Confined Spaces

Connected Sources: Living in Space → Prison/COI → The Iron Lung

Simon's claustrophobia is a stack of different terrors. The deprivation of living in space connects directly to being locked in windowless COI prison cells, which routes right into the ultimate claustrophobic trap of the hemorover itself.

Hot Metal, Sparks, Live Wires

Connected Sources: Living in Space → Prison/COI → The Iron Lung

The smell of hot metal from space station hazards (the fear of getting jettisoned or suffocating) connects directly to the physical trauma of COI soldering irons/power tools/welding imagery, which then links to the sparking, uninsulated live wires starting fires inside the hemorover... which loops straight back around to suffocating as the fire eats oxygen.

Simon's very anti-fire. Funny, considering Markiplier is a water sign. /j

Abandonment / Missing People

Connected Sources: Parental Death -> Eden Station → Prison/COI

The high death rate on Eden Station links directly to his time in prison, where a mismatched headcount or an empty bed meant someone was most certainly dead. They were in a(n implied) war.

He also has a generalized fear of abandonment from his mother's death. This ties into Simon not being able to shut up when he's stressed, because he needs somebody, anybody.

The overlap here between Parental Death and the Prison/COI headcounting thing is huge. In a prison full of Edenite cultists who are trained to kamikaze, silence means someone vanished or died. In space, absolute silence means something is very wrong. Simon talks because noise equals life, in his head.

If he is talking, he is alive; if someone responds, they are alive. If there's noise, there's people, and things are OK.

Unexpected Physical Contact vs. The Need For It

Connected Sources: Parental Death → Filament Station -> Prison/COI

This creates a really really nasty push-pull scenario. His craving/fear of being physically comforted (stemming from his mother's touch being tangled up with the trauma of her death) intersects with prison, but not only that, his freeze/fight response from the Filament Station disaster.

It's a whole complex "need-hate-need-want-hate-get-away-from-me-please-need" shit-show here. I'm not shocked he developed violent tendencies. This is why earlier, I said that Simon would have an issue about wanting to be near people, but not too close.