thinking about the finding. oh yes the bruise-littered skin and rubbed-raw wrists and red-rimmed eyes, oh yes the shallow, pained breaths and semi-consciousness, in and out for the pain, but more acutely: the finding. the 'you are safe now' as well as the 'how do i touch you without hurting you'. the 'i'm here, and i'm sorry that i'm late'. you know
need him broken and bloody and bruised. need him dragging himself forward across a cold, unforgiving floor. need threatening footsteps just a pace behind him. need his ribs heaving while he struggles to drag in raspy breath. need his eyes glassy and shadowed.
The white-knuckle grip of a character grounding themself whilst enduring the throes of extreme pain; clutching the bedframe- tangled sheets- a companion's hand- the arms of a chair- loam of the forest floor- hem of a jacket- handful of carpet- fingers clenched tight as a vise and tendons straining.
Love it when characters have been through some torment or captivity or illness or Big Bad Event and come away from it just...gaunt. Thin and hollowed out, circles under their eyes that refuse to fade no matter how much they rest. So pale and skinny they look like a breeze could blow them over. Thin hair, shaky limbs. Eyes squinting outside, unused to bright light. You know, all that.