[FIN] I will follow you into the dark (C'ross)

[giftwrapped]

[CONTENT WARNING: talk of suicide]

I'saac didn't know how long had passed.

He didn't measure time in days anymore. Didn't feel the pass of hours any more than he did the pass of minutes, barely recognized the change from day to night. He didn't feel sunlight on his skin anymore. He didn't feel anything at all, most of the time. Really the only thing he felt was emptiness, a huge, yawning wound that wouldn't heal. That was when he was lucid, though, when he was capable of observing himself and realizing what was going on with him.

When he wasn't...

Nicoth's voice in his head was an anesthetic, a way of making the pain disappear for a bit. Intellectually, I'saac knew the absurdity of the things he did. He knew between those moments of light that he was hearing things, that his dragon's voice in the back of his head was just a defense mechanism to keep the dark at bay. It worked, though - the days he felt Nicoth in his mind were days he felt almost alive again, though they never completely erased the nagging doubt.

C'ross kept him sane, too. C'ross, who never let him out of his sight, who did everything he could to keep him safe, neglected Merceth for him...I'saac should have died with Nicoth, should have fallen with her into the dark before Merceth lost an eye and the entire world shattered around them. If he had killed himself when she took to the skies...

But that would have destroyed C'ross. Not that his existence now was much good to the bronzerider.

It was not one of the Nicoth days. An insomniac before the incident, Nicoth's death hadn't helped. I'saac couldn't remember the last time he had slept properly; presumably at some point he must have fainted. He didn't remember. But now...he had simply waited until C'ross fell into the deep sleep mandated by exhaustion, let his feet take him where they would. It was all mechanical; there was no thought in his movements anymore. Wherever he ended up, that was where he would be.

It was...almost strange to briefly come into what almost felt like life at the sudden wash of coldness around his feet. He had made it to the beach, somehow. The sound of the waves, the expanse of ocean...there were times in the past where he had taken Nicoth here, or he and C'ross had walked down. Once, Nicoth had Flown out over the ocean, threatening to dump Merceth in it if he performed badly...

All gone, now. Everything gone.

It wasn't easy, to drown yourself. The human body was incredibly resilient; he was learning that quickly nowadays, when he wasn't kept sane by his weyrmate's touch. But still, it wasn't impossible. All he would have to do was walk out until he couldn't easily touch the bottom and go limp facedown. It wouldn't be difficult.

But for the moment, he simply stood on the sand, staring out over the ocean at the twin moons. Both were waning. A rare thing. In a few nights, they would have a complete new moon. Complete darkness in the sky.

Perhaps he would do it then.

[tuathade]

C’ross woke up and had no idea where he was.

It was always hot in the Southern summer. Always hot, always wet, the sticky choking air unchanging whether you were inside or outside. He’d been… where had he been? Outside, with Merceth. Checking on the healing wounds, passing a hand gently over each raw scar to feel for the unnatural heat that would signal infection beneath the skin. The constant headache was less insistent, a mild throbbing behind his eyes. It had less to do now with sympathetic pain from the ruined bronze and more to do with the continuous effects of sleep deprivation – C’ross had quietly refused anything the healers offered him, continued on under the influence of nothing but bloody-minded stubbornness. When blackness started to waver around the edges of his peripheral vision, Merceth nudged him to sit down, to close his eyes for just a minute. There wouldn’t be any harm in it.

Next thing he knew it was the middle of the night, he was cradled against a massive dragon foreleg, his neck was protesting bitterly that he’d slept on it so wrong, and he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten there.

You were sleeping.[/i] Merceth grumbled, likewise roused from fitful slumber. I didn’t want to wake you.[/i]

The rider yawned, stretched, tried in vain to work the kinks out of his neck and shoulder. No dice. Ah well. Hopefully I’saac would forgive him for dozing off with his dragon… Shards, what a sevenday. Giving the bronze’s muzzle one last fond touch, C’ross headed inside, moving silent and careful so as to not wake his weyrmate –

-his absent weyrmate. The bed was empty. There was no I’saac. His heart stopped.

What followed was nearly a candlemark of raw panic. He wasn’t by the river. He wasn’t waiting in the usual places where squads descended when finishing their patrols. He wasn’t wandering among the weyrs or by the feeding pens where Nicoth once hunted – where would a dragonless, delusional man wander off to on his own? C’ross called I’saac’s name everywhere he went until his voice went hoarse, hoping against hope that it would not be true…

Turned out Merceth was the one who found I’saac, entirely by chance. The half-blind bronze, spurred on by need, nonetheless took to the air and threw all caution to the wind. It was… not his best flight. It hurt. He found himself swinging his head erratically to compensate for the lack of depth perception and the limited field of vision; the flying itself still came as naturally as ever, albeit a tremendous strain after nearly a month of enforced rest. But the vision in his good eye was a sharp as ever, and it was the dragon in the air who spotted a lonely figure on the beach.

I’saac?[/i]

It was not the usual comfortable contact. Once, Merceth had spoken to I’saac as readily as he spoke to his own rider – a bond of four, not two. They were never normal, the four of them. Three, now. Not even a pretense of being whole. I’saac, what are you doing out here?[/i]

Merceth landed. It was a clumsy, ungainly thing, the ground coming up on him faster than he’d anticipated. But the sand was soft, and if he hurled it everywhere, there was still little harm done save to his dignity. You are safe,[/i] he crooned softly, but the statement was halfway to being a question. C’ross was worried. I won’t tell him where you are, if you would rather be by yourself, but when you just disappeared… We thought you were…[/i]

The words trailed off.

[giftwrapped]

He heard the wings long before the dragon came, but didn't move, didn't look up. There wasn't a single twitch of the man's body beyond the steady rise and fall of his chest, even as the bronze crashed to the ground behind him. A flicker of concern, but it was not enough to motivate I'saac to move from where he was standing. Instead, he simply closed his eyes, willing himself not to do the instinctive and mentally reach out and ensure that Nicoth was far away from the beach. It wasn't necessary anymore.

"Merceth."

For a long time, that was all he said. But eventually, he shifted, turning his body slightly so he could crane his head back and look at the bronze. "Safe..." he repeated dully, but for a moment an expression that might have been some bitter echo of a smile crossed his face. "I guess," he replied. The mention of C'ross banished any possibility of happiness, though, replaced it with somber thoughtfulness. Of course C'ross was worried; I'saac had vanished while he was sleeping, had taken advantage of Merceth's diminished sight and snuck past the bronze. But the rest of what Merceth said struck the dragonless man even harder, and for a moment, he bit his lip and returned his gaze to the water.

"Well," he said quietly. "I'm not. I'm still here. Tell C'ross I'm all right." The words were mechanical, delivered tonelessly in a low voice that barely sounded like the man the greenrider had once been. "He can come if he wants to." Empty words, 'if he wants to.' I'saac knew full-well that C'ross would be there. But there was something about it, some tiny sliver of hope that maybe C'ross wouldn't come and I'saac could just abandon himself to the ocean. If C'ross would reject him, he'd have nothing left to fight for, and it would be so much easier to give up...

The delusion of Nicoth would have scoffed at that kind of thinking. I'saac...didn't. But then again, he didn't do much of anything, did he.

[tuathade]

The dragon did not speak to I'saac again, merely keened his misery in one quiet, pained note. It was a relief to find the dragonless man still alive and well (physically well, or at least no worse than he'd been) but the hollowness in his voice was no comfort.

C'ross. He's here, he's at the beach. Hurry, Mine, please.

A great curve of bronze flank interposed itself between I'saac and the water. Merceth flopped down in the surf; the saltwater stung like a bitch where it hit still-healing flesh, but where it didn't sting it brought coolness and cleansing, and he didn't protest. More important to keep I'saac where he was. Merceth could think of no better way to protect the man than to make himself a physical wall, holding the sea at bay.

He felt his rider's nearness, an impression of running and breathless impatience. Why couldn't humans be faster? The breakneck pace was still not enough. It would be so much easier to be able to between in a heartbeat to his side (no, no, don't think of between right now) but that was the purview of flits and dragons alone.

After what felt like far too long - but was in fact hardly any time at all - C'ross reached the shore in person. It was one thing to hear it from his dragon, and another thing entirely to see the evidence himself: the still living, still breathing man on the beach. I’saac was still here… but if this was what a moment of inattention led to, little wonder that they were both insomniacs to the point of being unhealthy.

Terror gave way to anger, warring with relief; a few long strides was enough to close the gap between the two men. C’ross wasn't sure whether he wanted to tackle I'saac to the ground and never let him go, or punch him for being so sharding thoughtless and scaring his weyrmate half out of his mind. He settled on a ferocious hug, the kind of rib-creaking crush that was half affection and half exasperation.

"Scorch it, I'saac... Don't scare me like that." The words came out rougher, sharper than he’d intended, but at least it covered the shaking in his voice. He held the fierce grip a moment longer, then pulled back to arm’s length, hands still on I’saac’s shoulders.

[giftwrapped]

The fierceness of the hug, the sharpness of the words...for a moment, I'saac felt a glimmer of something that might have been life. There was a bare spark of acknowledgement as C'ross embraced him, and I'saac might have made to embrace him back. But he moved too slowly, and by the time the desire for motion had finally coordinated his muscles, I'saac was being held at arm's length. He couldn't meet C'ross's eyes, settled instead for lifting one hand and placing it lightly on C'ross's arm. He should have, he realized vaguely, touched C'ross's hand, or his face...

Something that indicated to C'ross that I'saac still understood who he was. What they were. He knew he should have done it. But he didn't. For a long while, he simply stood, one hand on C'ross's arm, staring at his feet. What was he supposed to say? He knew the words, but for a long time, they wouldn't come. It was as if he was moving through something thicker than air, a viscous substance that made even the smallest of motions difficult. Even here, with C'ross's hands on his shoulders and the presence of Merceth behind him (he had no illusions as to the dragon's goals in lying between him and the water), he did not feel secure.

There was no port of safety anymore. Half the time he felt like he was choking on his own breath. Eventually, though, he lifted his gaze, made eye contact with C'ross. His lips twitched; an attempt to curve them into something resembling a grateful smile. He doubted he even managed a grimace. Slowly, in motions that felt almost like he was falling, he leaned forward slightly, pressing his forehead to C'ross's and closing his eyes. His free hand, the one not currently grasping C'ross's arm, found its way to the other man's neck, rested just below the line of his jaw.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, voice almost too low to be heard.

[tuathade]

He was never going to get used to the lack of response. Instinctively, on the basis of so many Turns of familiarity, every time he caught himself expecting I’saac to still respond like I’saac – and then he would come back to the present moment, and the formerly vibrant former greenrider would be staring at the ground, perfectly still. As if C’ross was an unwanted stranger intruding upon him, and would go away if I’saac did not react.

(C’ross knew the usual protocol, having been taken into the weyr at sixteen and in the company of dragonriders ever since. There were times he wondered if he was being selfish. If, perhaps, he should have stepped back and let I’saac do as dragonless normally did. Was he merely prolonging the inevitable, dragging out a painful process over weeks or months? Was it wrong of him, to place the burden of his need on an already broken heart? And in the dark hours of the morning, having so narrowly avoided tragedy, he couldn’t keep the thoughts from intruding again. C’ross still felt like he was a hairsbreadth away from losing his tenuous grasp on his weyrmate. Which hurt more – the thought of I’saac dying, or the thought of not being with him at the end?)

And then I’saac met his eyes and leaned his forehead into C’ross’, and it was like C’ross could breathe again, the iron band around his chest letting go at last. The black thoughts scattered like tunnelsnakes threatened with a light – still lurking in every dark corner they could find, but no longer a pressing threat. The harsh angry lines of the bronzerider’s body softened, tension ebbing, and he pulled I’saac back into the comfort of an embrace. “It’s okay. I love you. It’s good that you’re safe.”

Around the two of them, Merceth coiled in a little tighter, a low fond rumble emanating from somewhere deep in his chest: the curious affectionate growl that somehow only I’saac and C’ross understood. The bronze’s head on one side, the curve of his tail on the other, the massive bronze flank between them and the sea and a half-furled wing overhead – it would have been damned difficult for I’saac to be more physically surrounded by love than he was at this moment.

[giftwrapped]

The embrace freed him somewhat, banished some of the weight that pressed him constantly down, and I'saac leaned against the bronzerider, shifting so he could press his cheek to C'ross's. The arm that had been on C'ross's arm found its way around the man's back, and the hand that had been on his neck tangled in his hair. The motions were...different, when C'ross was that close to him. Sharper, more purposeful. Sometimes almost desperate - as if I'saac were afraid of being set adrift if he didn't keep a hold on C'ross. The man's nearness helped. He said nothing, eyes screwed shut, breathing speeding up a bit and catching in his throat for a moment.

Once upon a time, it would have occurred to the man to will himself not to cry. Now, the possibility that he should consider forestalling crying didn't even cross his mind, and as he leaned against C'ross, breathing his scent, feeling the bronzerider's embrace and almost, for the barest moment, feeling safe and even human again, the tears came easily. There was no way of dealing with his loss. There was no way of making the pain less, of pushing away the yawning emptiness in his soul. There was no way to fix what made him feel like he was simultaneously starving and bleeding to death, to abate the overwhelming pain.

But tears helped. Closeness helped. The warmth of C'ross against him helped, as did the strange, alien presence in his head that he was slowly beginning to register as Merceth keeping an eye on him. It helped - love helped. "...you too, C'ross," he whispered, arm tightening around his weyrmate's back like he was afraid the words would frighten the man away. Why was he thinking like that? It didn't make sense; there was no reason for him to think C'ross would abandon him, not when C'ross had stayed with him this long.

C'ross would always be with him. C'ross and Merceth both.

The thought both comforted him and terrified him. Taking a breath that shuddered through him, he turned slightly, burying his face in C'ross's shoulder. For a moment, he said nothing, staying still and clinging like he was afraid he'd be washed away at any moment. But eventually he spoke through the tears, lips against C'ross's neck. "You're still with me. You stayed with me."

[tuathade]

As if a floodgate had been opened, suddenly I’saac was clinging to him like C’ross was a raft in the midst of a storm. There was a little catch in the dragonless man’s breath, and the wetness of tears on his neck. It was an improvement from the nearly-lifeless absence of feeling that so often characterized I’saac these days, but only in the sense that bleeding to death was better than being already dead.

With a gentle tug, he shifted until the two of them were both leaning up against Merceth’s shoulder, warm bronze hide yielding just slightly. (No more words came from the dragon, but C’ross could feel Merceth’s presence in the back of his head – unintrusive, keeping back, but a ferocious sensation of loving protectiveness, all brightness and heat – like a bonfire spotted from a distance. If the bronze could not reach into the dark of between and bring back his mate, then he would be enough dragon for two.) One arm curved around I’saac’s back, steady and reassuring. The other hand stroked I’saac’s hair, rubbed gently at the back of his neck and shoulders, just a constant soothing contact. He stayed that way until at last I’saac spoke.

“Deadglow,” he sighed, but there was no malice in the word – only a fond exasperation. “Of course I’m still here – I’ll always be here. Where the fuck else would I be?” He tightened his embrace a little, a firm squeeze around I’saac’s waist for a few seconds, then he relaxed his hold and let his hands wander aimlessly over I’saac in meaningless patterns of affection. “I love you,” he repeated, as if this was all the explanation anyone would need. And to C’ross, it was. He loved his weyrmate. Sleepless worried nights were no price at all to pay for moments like this – moments when he held out hope that I’saac might be, if not precisely happy, then at least himself again someday.

“Besides,” he added in heavier tones, “I’m the one who dragged you into this whershit.” In context, it wasn’t clear what he was referring to. Merceth’s assault on Nicoth, which still haunted C’ross in ways he didn’t want to admit aloud? The decision to transfer to Warden’s to begin with, which C’ross had pressed for? Hard to say.

[giftwrapped]

For a long time, I'saac stayed in C'ross's arms, silent, with his head buried against the other man. He yielded to C'ross's attempts to rearrange them, leaning against the bronze dragon and feeling, for the moment, safe. His hands moved slowly, aimlessly, attempting to rearrange himself into the most comfortable position. He ended with his arms wrapped loosely around the bronzerider's back. "No," he said quietly in response to the man's voice. "No."

That was more insistent, and I'saac turned, pulling back to look at C'ross. "Not your fault," he said quietly, insistently, shifting so he could clasp one hand loosely in the man's hair. For a long, tense moment, there was a look in the former greenrider's eyes, an unsettling mirror of the old intense look that had charmed C'ross so many turns ago. Yet it wasn't desire but something bordering on panic that was the motive behind the gaze - and then he turned it away, casting his gaze on the ground and sighing quietly. "Never your fault," he said softly, the intensity leaking out of him.

"C'ross, I -" he cut himself off abruptly, unable, or perhaps unsure how to finish whatever he had been about to say. "You're here," he said eventually, and he glanced up again, meeting C'ross's eyes and giving him a look that, for a second, held that old smolder of desire. "That's all I could ask for, C'ross." His fingers curled loosely against the bronzerider, body bending lightly to C'ross's touch, he managed, for the barest moment, to feel very nearly human again. Nothing would help the yawning hole in his heart, but at least in moments like these, he almost felt like he had a reason to live.

[tuathade]

[let's call this fade to black time now, k]