make us whole again [c'ross - WARNING: EVERYTHING]

[giftwrapped]

[cw - sexuality, violence, death]

turning and turning in the widening gyre
the falcon cannot hear the falconer;
things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
the blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
the ceremony of innocence is drowned;
the best lack all conviction, while the worst
are full of passionate intensity.

It was hot. Southern was always hot, but I'saac woke in a flood of heat and confusion that he couldn't entirely place. Squinting at the window of the hut (dark; early morning? it must have been. Couldn't be night), he rolled over and reached out to the body beside him. His fingers brushed skin, and like that he placed the confusion and the flood of heat. It solidified in his fingertips, thrumming through him and pooling in a tight mass of anticipation and want in his abdomen. Oh Faranth, something must have been rising nearby. It was the only explanation for the way his hands were shaking.

"C'ross," he murmured in a voice that cracked on that single syllable. He sucked in a deep breath, licking his lips and wondering why his mouth was suddenly dry. "C'ross, Faranth I -"

I'm sorry. I am no gold, by I'll try.

And the lust hit like a hammer. I'saac gasped audibly, burying his face in C'ross's neck and pressing against his Weyrmate without thinking. For a moment, all he knew was that fierce lust, and his hands moved nearly of their own accord, pulling C'ross closer to him, seeking out sensitive places with the ease of four turns' familiarity. The opal, it must have been the opal - Iiateth, Faranth this was impossible. Insane.

And by the egg he had never wanted anything more than he did C'ross right that moment.

[tuathade]

C’ross woke to an unfamiliar voice in his head and I’saac’s hands all over him.

Never the heaviest of sleepers, it had taken the constant sleep deprivation of Warden’s to force the former Watchrider out of the habit of waking at the smallest noises. Becoming weyrmates with a chronic insomniac hadn’t helped, but nearly four turns of the Warden’s shift schedule made him adapt or die. Still, nothing short of a fellis overdose would have been enough to ignore the sudden rush of frantic lust.

It slammed into him like a physical force, this need, and C’ross was momentarily bewildered. Thoughts still muddled from the abrupt awakening, he floundered momentarily in confusion. He was tangled up in his weyrmate, soaked with sweat and breathless with crushing, inexplicable desire. Then I’saac’s straying hand found someplace that sent a shudder of ecstasy up C’ross’ spine, and he was abruptly very much awake. I’saac had his full attention.

It was too early for Nicoth to be Rising again, and there was none of the usual sharp aggression screaming in his head that would indicate Merceth pursuing his favored quarry. But neither could it be just some other green. Not even Semith’s run had affected them like this, the bronze had just shaken it off like it was nothing. Opal – it must be the opal. He could feel the bronze’s mind pressing up against his, the boundaries blurring. Merceth was in the air, chasing Iiateth (and shards, that was setting off alarm bells in the back of his head) and C’ross tried in vain to pull him back. This was wrong – but he might as well have tried to hold back the tide with his bare hands. Flight overwhelmed them both, and he knew nothing but the familiar touch of his weyrmate’s hands and the all-consuming want.

[giftwrapped]

I'saac wasn't thinking. He couldn't think; there was only room enough for the opal's flightlust in his head, and he was right here with C'ross and that was all that mattered. He would have drowned in it, let it take him entirely and ridden its flow until it was over, but for one thing. For a moment, he felt a sudden awakening, felt a mind pressing against his own. There was a bare instant where he was not I'saac but something else, a something else who opened her eyes and turned her muzzle to the sky. Her - his? - her vision was filled with bronze wings, her mind fired with another dragon's lust.

Nicoth lifted her head just as Merceth exploded skyward in a flurry of wings. And the green went from sleep-addled torpor to lust-fueled rage in an eyeblink. Another female was rising and that other female was taking Nicoth's male and Faranth help her, Nicoth would not stand for this. She was on her feet in an instant, surging upward, unfurling wings even as she snaked her head back into that tight s-shape of a serpent about to strike, jaws gaped. She hissed mightily, then tossed her head back and gave a throaty, bellowing roar. That female was stealing her male and she would not allow this to happen.

In the hut, fingers tangled in C'ross's hair and lips on the bronzerider's throat, I'saac suddenly went still, hands clenching into fists and body tensing as his dragon's mind flooded his own. For a moment, he fought, gritting his teeth and doing what he could to throw Nicoth back out. But there was no point of reasoning with the green, only ferocious rage that overwhelmed him more strongly than the opal's lust, taking that fire and using it in a furnace of sheer, white-hot hatred. A rattling hiss escaped the greenrider, a noise that shouldn't have been able to escape a human mouth. And then he snarled, the throaty sound echoing in the hut as he suddenly shifted on C'ross, hands clasping on the bronzerider's arms hard enough to dig his nails into the skin.

He tried again to throw the dragon out of his mind, but it was impossible. For a second he was I'saac in the hut with C'ross and then he was Nicoth taking off, bursting into the sky to follow the disgusting opal.

You bitch! You filthy bitch! I'll kill you!

And she would take her male back, as well. Merceth's bronze back was in clear view ahead of her. Nicoth had ferocity to match the bronze's and speed to surpass him. She would kill the filthy opal and then she would make Merceth pay. She shrieked a challenge.

In the weyr, I'saac fought the dragon's influence and managed to choke back a draconic scream of fury, collapsing on C'ross in horror.

[tuathade]

Nicoth was fast, so fast. Merceth was quick for his size, all ferocious power and blind momentum, but she overtook him effortlessly, her smaller size a benefit here. The green Nicoth’s fury blindsided the both of them, bronze and rider alike.

It shouldn’t have. If he’d been thinking clearly, he would have remembered why Merceth did not chase. Not even Semith. No one but Nicoth. There had been the note of warning tugging at the back of C’ross’ mind, yes, but faint and muffled as if it were a thousand miles away – more confusion at the strength of the opal’s pull than true comprehension of the consequences. Those consequences struck him now, with I’saac clawing lines along his skin and snarling hate against his neck, and the part of C’ross that was Merceth now felt the sensation of teeth on throat and knew it for the threat that it was.

I’saac was not the danger. C’ross forced that thought to the surface, through the haze of mingled Flightlust and distress – these moments, these strange episodes where Nicoth overtook the bond between dragon and rider, they never lasted long. Nicoth was the danger. Nicoth, screaming her fury at the opal when C’ross could see through his dragon’s eyes that nearly every male in the weyr was chasing… If she attacked Iiateth mid-flight, there would be hell to pay. And in a matter of scant wingbeats, she would be out of Merceth’s grasp with no time to prevent disaster.

C’ross –

Down. Merceth, down her.

The bronze’s need to fly warred with the command – but Iiateth was in danger. There would be no Flight if the opal fell to the green’s claws. Always savage when chasing and fueled further by his need to hurry, to catch up to the other intrusive males, Merceth wasted no time pulling his punches. As Nicoth made to pass him, Merceth twisted, claws out, then angled his wings and braced for impact. He struck like an avalanche, full weight brought to bear on the far smaller green. He would drag her out of the sky if he had to, for Iiateth’s sake, and then he would maul every male in the sky daring to get between him and the rising female…

Easy, easy now- too late, C’ross realized. No. There would be no turning the bronze. This was not the same as their usual squabbles, a quick skirmish of exchanged snarls and darting claws. Here in the hut (not in the sky, he forced himself to focus, but here on the ground) he had the weight advantage as well, and he had his weyrmate mostly pinned beneath him; I’saac was struggling, choking back a scream of rage that could only be Nicoth’s. “I’saac,” C’ross called, urgent and almost pleading. “Come on – shardit focus, love, I’saac!” He would come back. I’saac would snap out of it, and somehow they would retake control of themselves and their dragons – C’ross knew this as a certainty, because the alternative was not an acceptable outcome.

[giftwrapped]

Pinned he was pinned he couldn't move and I'saac, lost entirely in his dragon, couldn't understand what was happening. He was restrained and he couldn't be restrained he needed to be free. He snarled, a purely inhuman sound, and did what he could to throw C'ross off, but he wasn't entirely sure which half of the entity that was I'saac-and-Nicoth he was. He didn't know how many limbs he had, or if he had wings, or whether or not his forelegs ended in opposable thumbs or wickedly-curved talons. He was confused, lost, struggling against something that he couldn't identify as friend or foe or even dragon or human.

He snarled feebly, confused - dragon or human? threat or friend or lover? lover? who was he? - but anything he might have said, might have done, was lost as Merceth hit Nicoth.

The green screamed at the collision with the bronze, twisting, ripping herself out from under those deadly claws, aiming to attack vulnerable points. Traitor! she shrieked, jaws gaping and throat working to expel an unearthly scream that was half pain, half fury. She tore hard at the bronze, beating wings furiously at him to beat him back. Traitor, scum, bastard! I'll kill you! I'll kill you both! The long, serpentine neck snapped forward, teeth closing on the throat, at the face. She wanted to destroy this male; this was no longer about territory, or claiming, or anything this was about survival; she had been attacked and she would kill the attacker.

The noise that wrenched itself from I'saac's throat now was the keen of a pained dragon, but Nicoth's renewed efforts and vicious assault was mimicked in her rider's emboldened attempts to free himself. "Traitor!" he snapped, but there was the undertone of a sob in his voice; I'saac was not gone, but he was lost, terrified, he could feel Nicoth and feel Merceth and he knew what was happening but he could not stop it. "C'ross -" he managed to choke out, for a moment reaching out to his weyrmate. "C'ross - help!"

But that was all he could manage. Nicoth reasserted herself, the blaze of white-hot intensity in his head shrieking fury and defiance at her bronze assailant. I'saac couldn't hold his own against that whirlwind of hatred. He could only cling to C'ross and attempt to keep from clawing and striking at the man and pray it ended soon.

[tuathade]

Dragon locked with dragon, bronze and green tumbled through the air. Merceth had the advantage of weight and experience, as well as initiating the attack – but even now, he was not aiming to truly attack Nicoth. Teach her a lesson, yes. Drag her down, yes. Not cripple or kill. And the green had no such compunctions; she made that clear, when her jaws snapped forward like a striking snake. Teeth tore at his throat, left lines of green there, struck again towards the face and found a point of vulnerability –

…and Merceth screamed. The sound tore its way out of the bronze’s throat, ragged and agonized, even as he tore himself free of the green’s jaws.

Well. Mostly free.

Down below, C’ross struggled with I’saac for a moment longer, trying in vain to calm the lost man – then the side of his head exploded with pain, bloody red then white then black as his own vision blurred out in sympathy. The rider was screaming too, unconsciously echoing his dragon without even being aware until he realized his throat was raw with it.

Dimly, he recognized the change in I’saac’s demeanor. He heard his own name in that familiar, beloved voice, saw I’saac reaching out for him. Calling for help… but there wasn’t anything he could do to help. He opened his mouth again, tried in vain to find some comforting word, but nothing came but hoarse cursing. “Faranth – Faranth scorch it all, they’re going to fucking kill each other if we don’t…” Nicoth reasserted herself, I’saac was gone again, and C’ross’ hands were shaking too badly to hold him fast if I’saac lashed out with any force.

Merceth hung in the air for a moment, wings thrashing, reactions dulled with shock. Ichor spurted weakly, oozed from the gouged place where an eye had been. The earlier scream turned into a low moan… But Nicoth was still attacking. And now this was self-defense. Iiateth was – not forgotten, not precisely, but secondary to the intrinsic want of all life to keep living. He closed with Nicoth again, clumsy and half-mad with pain. There was no tactical aim in his charge now, the goal of grounding her forgotten, but the scarred bronze was fighting in deadly earnest.

[giftwrapped]

C'ross's scream and the shriek of a dragon who had suddenly lost an eye brought I'saac to consciousness just as Nicoth cocked her head back to strike, rip out the throat, worry the bronze until he was dead. The rider rallied, against his restraints (barely noticing the restraints were his weyrmate), against the ferocious anger of his dragon, against everything. Whatever he found in himself, some new strength, some flaw in Nicoth's impossible mental domination of him - whatever it was, there was a chink in the armour, and I'saac found it, and he shoved.

Mind met mind, the green dragon's cold fury meeting the intense desperate fear of her rider, and for a moment, Nicoth was distracted, attention focused inwardly.

Traitors, I'saac! Traitors and filth! I will break him, break them, destroy them all! Taking my male, chasing another female! Filthy traitors, disgusting bitch! They are mine! All of them mine! she snapped, addled with flightlust and bloodlust and pain and the heady scent of ichor and victory.

Nicoth, get off! Stop it! Get out! Get out of my head! Stop it!

Traitors!

Out of my head, stop it, stop it, stop, get out!

I will destroy them all!

NICOTH. GET. OUT.

He shoved mentally, forcing every piece of mental weight he could onto the green, screaming at her in his head as he tried to force her away. She had attacked him, destroyed him, ruined Merceth, hurt C'ross, broken him, everything was wrong, it was all broken and wrong and he needed to fix it, he needed to stop it he needed - he needed to stop it.

STOP!

He was echoing his own mental screams with his voice, raging at something that he wasn't sure could hear him, but he was consumed with the sudden battle of wills in his head; he had the upper ground, he was winning, Nicoth's assault was weakening and the bronze's claws, the bronze's teeth, they were finding marks, they were finding her and I'saac was pushing and suddenly something in Nicoth snapped. She didn't know what she was doing, didn't know what had happened, and she was lost - lost, so lost - no rider, no mate, nothing, she didn't know what she was - and Merceth's teeth found her neck at the same time as I'saac gave one last mental shove.

She shrieked.

She flickered between.

And I'saac jolted forward, screaming in a pain that was not dragonic but entirely human, the noise of a man who had just had his entire being ripped asunder. He shoved against C'ross for a moment, but then suddenly, he was still, falling back, the fight out of him. There was no Nicoth behind his eyes. But where the dragon had been there was...nothing. He was not unconscious, but barely conscious, either. After a moment, his eyes slid closed, breathing going shallow, a soft whimper escaping with each breath. Every sound he made was a moan of pain - heartache? physical pain? - and tears spilled from his eyes, streaking his face, staining the pillows.

It was over.

[tuathade]

“…No. No no no, oh Faranth no-“

C’ross saw the flicker through Merceth’s good eye, heard I’saac’s scream (and shells, that sound tore him open right to the bone) and the rider knew the truth instantly. The empty space where a moment before there had been shrieking, furious green. Vanished.

The bronze’s claws met empty air, and he backwinged, hovering in place. A low keen belled out from somewhere deep in his chest – calling to her, as if somehow the sound would reach into the yawning void and bring her back. How long did a trip between take? The time it took to cough three times – or three ragged, rasping breaths, in the case of the foundering bronze. Three breaths passed. So did three more. Nicoth did not reappear.

She was gone.

Merceth?

There was nothing. No response. A cavernous, awful silence of nothing in his head, and for a frantic irrational moment C’ross was terrified that they had both gone between, that Merceth had followed – and then the bronze howled out his wordless grief. Their shared pain and horror and anguish hit C’ross like a tidal wave, buckling him helplessly in its wake.

Merceth did not land, not in so many words. He simply folded his wings into a barely controlled plummet. He slowed himself just enough to keep from ploughing into the ground at terminal velocity, but the bloodied dragon nonetheless landed with a sickening thud. Half-conscious and bleeding from a dozen places – as well as the wreckage that was the side of his face – the bronze slipped into insensibility, held from betweening only by his rider’s desperate force of will.

For C’ross was holding fast to the only two things that mattered in the world right now – his dragon and his lover. He pulled I’saac as close as he could, cradling the catatonic man against him, hands running through meaningless soothing motions that could do nothing against this pain. Voice barely more than a cracking whisper, he murmured I'saac’s name, interspersed with whatever comforting words would come – not enough. Never enough.

Faranth almighty, it was all his fault.

[giftwrapped]

Nicoth?

Silence.

Nicoth, answer me!

Silence. Stillness. The cold of between ripping through his body, every second sending him closer and closer to what he could only imagine was his own death. Could humans between? If you wished hard enough, could you find your own way to break through that barrier between the world and nothingness? He needed to, he was lost, the blackness of between and a dragon wounded by teeth and confused by her rider's rejection she was gone where was she he had lost her.

Half of him was missing, like someone had taken a knife and ripped off limbs. He felt like he was bleeding in a thousand places - his back, his arms, his neck...but not his wings. There was no phantom sensation of wings, no screaming in his head, just emptiness, yawning blackness that tugged at him. There was a hole, a hole where before there had been a part of him. And he kept reaching, digging his fingers into the bloody wounds and reaching, looking for it. She would come back she was gone she would be there if he looked she was dead he just needed to look harder he had killed her himself.

"Nicoth, Nicoth where are you, Nicoth come back -" the words escaped with every breath, barely-contained sobs sticking in his throat until he was choking on his own tears, unable to think beyond the continual whirl of horror, confusion, death what was going on she was safe she was dead. There was nothing left for him. Half of him was dead he had killed himself and there was nothing, death blackness a dark place he had never seen before. Had he moved? He wasn't sure; he couldn't feel anything anymore, could barely hear anything around him. He was vaguely aware of C'ross - C'ross, he had been trying to help, Merceth had tried to knock Nicoth out of the she sky, she had tried to kill him she was dead it wasn't C'ross's fault they had killed her it was I'saac's fault she was gone and Merceth wasn't I'saac had done it to himself.

C'ross was there, C'ross and Merceth were alive and I'saac was dead and it was I'saac's fault. He had killed himself, needed to finish killing himself, needed to escape and fix things and there was only one place to go. He was falling, falling forever, falling and he couldn't -

I'saac? I'saac, stop that.

And then it stopped and I'saac jerked upright, throwing his arms around C'ross and clinging to him tightly, burying his face in the rider's shoulder while his body shuddered with uncontrollable sobs.

[tuathade]

C’ross felt sick. The opal was still flying, but the muzzy heat in his head was only compounding the overall nausea and the bone-weary heaviness in his limbs. He hurt. Merceth hurt, and it was all C’ross could do to be a point of more-or-less stability for his dragon. He was holding on for now, but only just. Later he would pay for it – but for now he held the breaking at bay. Couldn’t afford to fall apart now.

I’saac seemed barely aware of anything, still calling aloud to his dragon… Shells, it was horrible to hear. He’d reflected often on how close the greenrider’s bond was to his dragon, how easily her mannerisms bled over into his. To lose such a part of yourself – more even than most riders, most weren’t so attuned to their bonded that they would bare their teeth in echo of their dragon’s anger – shells, he didn’t want to think about it. Faranth. And then something shifted and the unresponsive man in his arms was suddenly clinging to him, shuddering with sobs. He curved one arm around the small of I’saac’s back, pressed close, other hand running through the man’s short hair.

“I’saac… I’m so sorry.” Hollow. What senseless, hollow words. They changed nothing. No amount of regret would drag Nicoth back from between, undo that awful stupid thing he’d done. Why the shards had he told Merceth to – it had seemed better. Better the bronze, still emotionally attached to her, than twenty angry male dragons who would see only a threat to their Opal. Faranth, he was an idiot and now Nicoth was gone.

Merceth wasn’t going anywhere – not in the immediately foreseeable future. But for just a moment he had a mad urge to run to his dragon, to time it between and intercept himself. What would he do? What could he say to prevent this? Tell himself to take I’saac away, far away, so that neither of them would be here when Iiateth Rose – but that wouldn’t work. He’d never make it, not with the bronze in his current condition. They’d just destroy themselves too… no, he would have to live with the consequences.

He’d killed the dragon belonging to the only man he’d ever loved.