"Pours you a drink with one hand, judges you with the other if you take it...I gave that fuck pieces of my soul, Adriana. You know what he said to me? He said I should have a fucking drink!"
The Architecture of Cell 4-A: An Original FWC AU / FF 7 Crossover Fic
Summary: During a agonizing, forced Mako-assimilation trial, eight-year-old Sephiroth defies scientific protocol and overrides laboratory doors to physically hold and psychically anchor six-year-old Nephilim-hybrid Bianca, saving her from a violent biological collapse via their soul-link.
Other Characters: Professor Hojo (voiced via intercom / observed), Shinra Public Security Troopers (mentioned/impending)
Possible Trigger Warnings: Bleeding, Blood, Child Abuse, Dehumanization, Medical Trauma, Mental Breakdowns, Medical Experimentation, Physical Abuse, Physical Restraint, Psychological Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Seizures, Sickly/Terminal Illness, Torture, Vomiting, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat
Possible Tropes: Abusive Parents, Angst, Biological Weapons, Biopunk, Bond Phenomenon, Broken Bird, Caretaker Sephiroth, Child Experimentation, Child Soldiers, Corruption, Dark Fic, Disabled Character, Empathic Link, Experimentation, Hojo's A+ Parenting, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Lab Escape, Lab Rats, Alternate Universe - Lab AU, Mako Poisoning, Mind Link, Mutual Protection, Nephilim, Protective Older Sibling, Psychic Bond, Red Thread of Fate, Restraint & Imprisonment, Sephiroth Has A Sister, Shared Trauma, Sickfic, Soulmates, Telepathic Bond, Trauma, Whump, Wings, Miniroth
Author’s Note: This piece takes place within the Redemption!AU and was specifically written for may-lancholy as part of the Day 16 prompt: ‘Stay With Me”. Please ensure you review the full list of trigger warnings above before proceeding, as this work explores deep-seated psychological and physical trauma.
Decided to redo the entry for Day 16 of may-lancholy: 'Stay with Me'.
The Mako-Flush did not begin as an alarm or a flashing bio-monitor. It began as the sound of grease hitting a red-hot iron plate, echoing inside the hollow space behind Bianca’s sternum.
She was six years old, but her small, fragile frame carried a density that defied human biology. Spliced with Sephiroth’s refined S-cells since the age of two, her foreign Nephilim biology had reached a catastrophic, violent stalemate.
The Mako density in her containment chamber had been increased by forty-two percent over the last seventy-two hours on Hojo’s personal command: a calculated attempt to force her celestial-demonic cellular matrix to assimilate planetary energy.
The Planet, however, recognized her as a parasite. And its blood was burning her alive.
The floor of the subterranean cell was cold, slick concrete, but to Bianca, it felt like molten lead. She lay on her side, her knees pulled tight against her chest, her thin, coarse white hospital gown twisted around her small thighs. The back of the gown was torn open in frayed, crude strips to accommodate the twin, ruined appendages protruding from her shoulder blades.
At age four, Professor Hojo had shattered the humerus bones in both of her black wings to eliminate any possibility of flight. Now, ornamental, feather-covered burdens lay limp behind her, held aloft only by internal, surgical support wires that hummed and vibrated under the violent bio-electrical surges racking her nervous system.
Her black hair, usually wavy and reaching toward her waist, had been crudely shorn to her shoulders to make room for the suction-cupped monitoring electrodes that had been glued to her scalp for three days straight. Red, inflamed circles of raw skin dotted her forehead and temples where the adhesive had torn her flesh away.
"Seph. . ." The name didn't leave her lips as a word. It came as a wet, shallow gasp, accompanied by a bright, iridescent bubble of dark-tinted blood that burst against her chin.
Across the windowless chamber, eight-year-old Sephiroth stood frozen beside the single crate that served as their shared bed. He wore the same standard-issue, unbleached hospital gown, the hem falling just past his knees. His silver hair, drastically shorter than the legendary silver mane that would one day strike terror into the heart of Shinra, fell in jagged, shoulder-length layers around his small, pale face. His cyan, Mako-infused eyes were wide. The feline pupils slitted so thinly they looked like fine black needles against the glowing irises.
Through the primordial, glowing cord of the Red Thread of Fate wrapped tightly around their small wrists, Sephiroth didn't just hear her call. He was drowning in it.
Normally, the Thread was a quiet, rhythmic hum: a gentle, telepathic pulse that allowed them to sense each other’s presence even when separated by sterile laboratory partitions. But right now, the non-native blood surging through Bianca’s veins was in total, catastrophic rejection. The Mako was violently clashing with her celestial-infernal DNA, and the feedback loop was tearing through their psychic link like a screaming wave of high-voltage static.
It wasn't an emotion. It was physical, blinding noise. It sounded like tearing metal, like screeching glass, like a thousand voice-coils blowing out all at once inside the core of his brain.
Sephiroth dropped to his knees. His hands slammed against his ears as a white-hot spike of agony shot behind his eyes.
“Subject N is exhibiting acute systemic Mako-necrosis,” a flat, synthesized voice droned from the ceiling speaker above them. “Cellular rejection rate at seventy-eight percent. Heart rate dropping. Prepare the containment isolation valves. Sephiroth, clear the platform for automated extraction.”
Sephiroth didn't move toward the door. He didn't clear the platform.
He was eight years old. He had been trained to obey the men in the white coats. He had learned that resistance meant longer needles, colder water, and darker cages. He was compliant because compliance was the only mechanism he possessed to keep Hojo from taking his bread rations away, or from putting Bianca back on the metal table without the local numbing agents.
But as the heavy, pneumatic seals of the reinforced cell door began to hiss—preparing to lock Bianca inside a sealed Mako-decontamination chamber where she would spend the night drowning in chemical neutralizers—something inside Sephiroth broke past his conditioning in that single moment.
He didn't run away from her. He lunged forward.
With a sharp, desperate movement, Sephiroth threw his small body over Bianca. His bare knees slammed onto the freezing concrete beside her trembling ribs. He reached back with his left hand, grabbing the manual internal override lever mounted beside the door frame—a heavy, mechanical bar meant for emergency maintenance—and pulled it down with all the strength his Mako-conditioned muscles could muster.
The heavy steel bolt slammed home with a deafening CLANG. The automated extraction arm jammed with a shower of orange sparks, and the ceiling speakers erupted into a harsh, pulsing red light accompanied by a blaring klaxon.
“Warning. Manual override engaged in Cell 4-A. Sephiroth, release the override immediately. Hojo’s directives require immediate bio-isolation.”
Sephiroth ignored the voice. He ignored the alarm. He ignored the heavy, leather-gloved fists that immediately began pounding against the reinforced observation glass outside their room.
He slid his arms beneath Bianca’s small, convulsing frame and pulled her up into his lap.
"Bianca," he whispered. His voice was small, cracking with the raw, terrifying gravity of an eight-year-old boy who knew nothing of the world outside concrete walls, but knew every single line of the girl dying in his arms. "Bianca, look at me. Look at the thread."
She couldn't look at him. Her eyes, normally a deep, striking indigo, were completely flooded with an unnatural, sickly teal glare. The Mako density in her bloodstream was so thick that the capillaries in her sclerocorneal junctions had ruptured, staining the whites of her eyes with glowing, bioluminescent pools.
Her pupils were wide, feline, and unseeing, and they rolling back toward the ceiling as another violent seizure hit her frame.
Her small body—already showing the early, severe biological stress of the excruciating weight of her S-cell assimilation—jerked violently in his grip. The Mako wasn't just sickening her. It was actively destroying her tissue.
Underneath her porcelain skin, the veins along her neck and arms were swelling, turning a dark, bruised violet that hummed with static discharge. The internal support wires inside her shattered wings shrieked under the strain, bending against the dense, improperly healed scar tissue along her upper back. A low, agonizing groan tore from her throat: a sound far too heavy and guttural for a six-year-old child.
It burns, the thought slammed through the Red Thread, jagged and raw, shattering Sephiroth’s own consciousness. Seph, it’s tearing me apart. It’s eating my insides. I’m melting. I’m going to dissolve into the floor.
"You're not dissolving," Sephiroth said, his voice rising over the blaring alarm. He pressed his forehead directly against hers, ignoring the burning, feverish heat radiating from her skin. The contact was so intense it felt like pressing his skin against a heated stove, but he didn't pull back. "You're here. You're right here with me."
Bianca’s small, right hand blindly lashed out through the air. She couldn't see him through the blinding teal glare in her eyes, but her hands sought the only physical constant her short life had ever known.
Her fingers snagged the collar of his hospital gown, pulling with a frantic, terrifying strength born of pure, primal panic. She dug her knuckles into the fabric, twisting it so hard that the cheap material tore along his shoulder.
"Don't let them take it," she choked out. Her voice breaking on a dry, raspy sob. A line of dark, necrotized blood leaked from her left nostril, dripping onto Sephiroth’s silver hair as he held her close. "Seph. . . the floor is opening. The floor is gone. I'm falling into the dark."
"I have you," he gritted out.
Sephiroth closed his eyes and reached deep inside his own chest. He was only eight, and Hojo had taught him that his blood was a tool: a weapon designed to be measured, siphoned, and studied under microscopes.
He gathered his own energy and forcefully shoved it down the glowing cord of the Red Thread.
The impact was instantaneous and agonizing.
A sharp, bio-electrical shockwave erupted between their wrists where the crimson thread was looped. Sephiroth’s back arched as he willingly absorbed fifty percent of her somatic pain. A violent, sickening cramp seized his own stomach. His lungs burnt as if he had just inhaled raw acid. His vision flared white. A high-pitched ringing filled his ears as he took on the crushing physical weight of her Mako-flush.
He gasped. His small body shuddered against hers, but he didn't sever the link.
“Sephiroth!” Hojo’s voice finally cut through the intercom, sharp, cold, and utterly devoid of humanity. “You are interfering with a critical stress-adaptability trial. Disengage the soul-link immediately or we will deploy gas into the enclosure.”
Sephiroth didn't even look up at the observation glass where he knew the tall, stooped shadow of the Chief Scientist was standing. He wrapped his arms tighter around Bianca’s waist, pulling her tiny, broken frame against his chest until her head was tucked beneath his chin. He could feel her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird: erratic, fluttering, and terrifyingly weak. Her pulse was dropping precipitously, plunging into numbers that meant imminent cardiac collapse.
"Stay with me," Sephiroth whispered. His lips brushing against the cool, sweat-dampened crown of her black-and-indigo hair: a kiss from an older brother terrorized for his sister. His voice was no longer that of a test subject. It was the raw, desperate plea of a boy holding onto the only piece of light in a universe made of steel and concrete. "Bianca. Listen to my voice. Stay with me. Don't let go of the thread."
Seph. . .her voice inside his mind was fading, shrinking into a tiny, fragile whisper beneath the dying hum of the static. It's so cold. The water is so cold. . .
"It's not water. It's just the floor," Sephiroth insisted. His tears finally broke past his composure, hot and fast, dripping down his cheeks to mix with the blood on her face. "Feel my hand. Feel my gown. I'm holding you. You can't fall if I'm holding you."
Bianca’s small fingers tightened their death-grip on the shoulder of his gown. She pressed her face hard into the crook of his neck. Her prehensile tongue made a small, instinctive clicking sound against her fangs: a subconscious coping mechanism she used whenever her internal balance was completely shattered.
Slowly, agonizingly, the violent convulsions racking her frame began to subside.
The stabilized energy Sephiroth was pouring through the Red Ribbon was working like an internal tourniquet. It didn't cure the Mako-poisoning. It couldn't purge the foreign planetary energy completely, but it forced her non-Gaian cells into a state of temporary, protective dormancy. The dark, swollen veins along her neck began to recede, shifting from a violent violet back to her natural, pale porcelain.
The sickly, bioluminescent teal glare in her eyes began to dim. The Mako-flush slowly drained away to reveal the deep, watery indigo beneath.
Her breathing, though still horribly shallow and wet with congestion, settled into a slow, rhythmic cadence.
"Seph. . ." she whispered, her voice barely a murmur against his collarbone. She didn't open her eyes. She didn't have the strength.
But her small hand remained locked into his gown. Her knuckles white. Her fingernails dug through the cloth and into his skin until she felt the faint, warm bead of his blood against her fingertips. "Are we. . .are we still in the room?"
"We're still in the room," Sephiroth whispered back.
He leaned his head back against the cold concrete wall. His own chest heaved as he fought through the lingering, nauseating wave of shared pain. The static in their mind-link had cleared, replaced by a soft, trembling silence: a shared space where both of their hearts beat in quiet, fragile synchronization.
Outside the observation glass, the heavy boots of the Public Security troopers were already echoing down the corridor. The heavy mechanical lock on the door was whining as the override was slowly being bypassed from the external terminal.
In less than two minutes, the door would slide open. Men in heavy rubber aprons and thick leather gloves would step inside. They would pull Sephiroth away, strap Bianca to a mobile gurney, and take her down to the lower sub-levels for a full Mako-flush recovery and cellular extraction.
They would be punished. Hojo would ensure their rations were cut for a week. There would be no plastic cups of sweet vanilla pudding. There would be no extra blankets to cushion the cold crate.
Sephiroth knew all of this. He knew the protocol. He knew the consequences of defiance.
But as he sat on the freezing concrete floor of Cell 4-A, cradling the small, scarred body of the six-year-old girl who carried half his soul, Sephiroth tightened his grip. He smoothed a stray strand of black hair away from her electrode-scarred forehead. His cyan eyes fixed on the sliding door with an unyielding, silent promise.
They could take her to the lower labs. They could strap her to the metal tables. They could turn the Mako valves until the glass turned green. But as long as the Red Thread remained wrapped around his wrist, she would never fall alone.
"I'm here," Sephiroth whispered into the dark of the cell. His voice steadying as the heavy locks finally gave way. "I'm not letting go."
Would you like to be on the FWC tag list or taken off? Please either send me an ask or DM me.
"I'm gonna wish that the Long Walk has two winners. 'Cause then, then in years to come, people can have hope that maybe their friends just might make it."
day twenty-one of @may-lancholy - doomed from the start
Rating: M (violence, female whumpee + male whumper, threats of body mod, pet whump/kidnapping whump)
Notes: Day 11! a prompt too perfect for them to ignore <3
The tray clatters to the ground.
“Here you go.” João taps it closer with the toe of his shoe, then bends in with the key reeling out from the wire on his belt, “Feeding time.”
Grates pulling away, Talia gets an unbroken eyeful of a now familiar sight: Protein and oatmeal slop. A near gray coloration to it’s bulking crests and waves, though João swears it’s chocolate flavored.
All the fiber, protein, and nutrients a pet would need. And not a single utensil in sight within the silver tinny bowl.
It was worse the first time. When Talia held tight to her pride, chest burning with righteous indignation; She wouldn’t eat out of his fucking pet bowl.
“Fine then!” He’d agreed, smoothly pulling it back, “Then I’ll feed it to you.”
She’d kicked the spoon right out of his hands.
Talia’s ribs still sport the bruises from his in-kind response.
She eats his way or not at all; That is her lesson.
The difference in pride between stooping down to lathe her tongue around a bowl like a dog, versus getting fed gruel like a baby, is minuscule. They both make her insides curdle.
At least when she eats on her own, João voices no complaints about her sliver of independence. If it’s independence at all.
She walks two palms out onto the stone and dips her head, hair curtaining around her cheeks and ears. Talia gives one less exhalation against the surface, trying to focus on the sharp scent of imitation sugar than the incoming taste—
Her nose digs into the metal and she laps up a mouthful, shiver running down her spine at the way her teeth scrape the bottom in passing.
“Good girl.” João praises, “That’s my good girl.”
Talia’s stomach twists in acrid agony.
A palm rests along her flank, brushing the purpling bruise with pin-point accuracy.
He presses, gentle, running them along her ribs, “I’ll bring you up to two meals soon. You have a faster metabolism than I thought you would.”
Her fingers dig into her palms. Focus. Focus. If she stops eating to snap at him, he’ll take it away. And if Talia doesn’t eat, then she wastes.
At the very least, his touch remains a distant, clinical, nature. He palpates around her stomach, then up to her spine in a slow crawl. Vanishes when she yanks away silently.
He just laughs.
She nudges the bowl every so often as hunger claws up her throat. Flavor bleeds away to desperation, and she can feel every mouthful slowly working down to her emptied stomach. Like cold water on a starved, hot, day.
Her tongue draws along the inside rim, breath growing heavy.
“Go slow. It’s not going anywhere.” João teases.
Yeah, fuck you.
Her forehead hits the bowl when she pulls back, her hands trembling to remain by her side. They should be used, useful, digging into the nooks and crannies to eat whatever oats remain tucked into the bowl where her tongue and teeth can’t reach, yet—
A wave of sickly heat washes over her. Her weight tips. She just barely catches herself to stay upright.
She tries to blink it away. Still, it rises like warm water emptying into her skull. She’s not sure she’s coming down. Talia’s not sure she could.
Fingers spool out into her hair, “Oh, querida, is it hitting?” She barely flinches, backing up into her kennel. They slip away.
Food drips down the side of her mouth, “What the fuck?” She murmurs, vision unraveling two-fold into blurry unfocused shapes. She feels— hot— like her core temperature is rising up and up and up—
She sits back on her haunches, bent over her knees, and flails a hand out to knock the bowl away, “Wha’d you do—?” Talia’s lips are numb, prickly and strange to speak around.
He hushes her, crouching down. João discards the bowl to crowd in, “It’s me, you’re safe, Talia.”
“What’the fuck d’you give me?” A sob tears itself from her throat, her heart thrumming hard in her chest. Boom, boom, boom— It rams against her ribs to a near painful degree.
“Just something to calm you down.” He assures her, taking her cheek in his palm, “Deep breaths, querida. Follow me—“
“No— No, fuck you!” She shrills, clawing at the ground, “Oh god. Make it stop, make it stop!” Her veins and skin feel lighter, warmer, body humming with an unspoken high.
João croons, “No, come here.” He reaches in, latching a clawed finger around the ring of her collar, “I can help you. Come here, Talia.”
“No—!” Her protests muffle, almost too-easily maneuvering into João’s waiting arms. Talia’s cheek collides with the wall of his chest.
His heart, she thinks blearily, it’s beating so fast.
He hugs her close, wrapping her in entirety, “Shh, I’ve got you. This is nice, isn’t it? Take a deep breath.” His voice is thin, sharpened with a near childish excitement, “Come on, take a nice deep breath in for me.”
Talia gasps, hot tears carving down her cheeks.
“There you go, that’s good.” He sighs, rocking slightly, “Another big breath.”
“Please.” Talia croaks.
“Just one more. One more big breath.”
Her head spins, tipping and turning on a tormenting axis. She tries to inhale through her nose, eventually sputtering out into an early exhale, coughing loudly. It only serves to up heave her mind further. She feels a million miles away.
Her hands claw at his chest, gripping tight to the wife-beater and flannel. She doesn’t wanna go. She doesn’t wanna be stuck here like this, or disappear into this strange upside down space.
Her pleas titter out into wordless whines.
“That’s it. Hold on tight, I’ve got you.” His hand brushes down the back of her head, carding through her locks, “Pretty kitty. I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”
Talia noses into his shirt, eyes squeezing shut. “Make it stop. Please— Please make it stop.”
His hand pets down her spine. “It’s not so bad. Just relax and let yourself feel good, querida. It’s meant to calm you down.”
“It’s not!” She shrieks, chest heaving with cries, “It’s not— I’m scared— João, please!”
He tuts. “It will eventually.” His breath ghosts her ear, “If not, then we’ll keep doing it. Being so stressed out, kitty, it’s bad for your health. You need to calm down.”
“You fuck—fucker. You f-fucking—“
He hushes her, tucking her close, “Just breathe.” His ruddy palm travels up and down her back in a hypnotic pattern, ever so often rubbing circles into the top of her spine. Gentle. Caring. Kind.
Talia squeezes his shirt tighter and weeps until it’s soaked through with tears.
Warnings: Dragon dreams, post trial, canonical character death, hurt/comfort.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Maekar was still awake when his oldest barged into his chambers. He looked up from the papers he'd been trying to read, but his mind wouldn't focus enough to let him. Eyebrows furrowed, surprised to see Daeron so late. He should be asleep by this hour, although Maekar knew he spent more nights than not at the inns.
"Why are you still awake?" Maekar asked, his tone a bit harsh without meaning for it to be.
His face softened when he noticed the tears on his son's cheeks. He was sure this had been difficult on his children too. It was easy at times to forget they were bothered by these sorts of things. They all tended to act so unaffected by hardship going on around them. Daeron had always been his most sensitive child.
"Father," Daeron choked out, stumbling his way across the room.
Maekar rose immediately, meeting his son in the middle. Daeron basically collapsed into him once he was close enough. He wrapped his arms around Daeron and held him upright, urging him close. It seemed to break something inside of him.
The second his father's arms were around him, he let out a shaky sob and pressed his face deeper into his chest. It had been such a long time since Maekar had held any of his older children. He tightened his hold on Daeron and one hand made its way into his hair.
Strands were greasy and sweat-soaked, but he didn't mind. He didn't even think about it. His boy could have been covered in dirt and Gods only know what else, and he still would have done the same.
He didn't have to ask what was causing so much pain, not after everything that had happened. The trial had been stressful on Daeron and Baelor's death had shook the realm. Being drunk certainly didn't help either. Of the few times that Maekar had tried it, he'd ended up a crying mess.
"Come. Lay down with me," Maekar tried to encourage, worried Daeron might end up falling. "You'll feel better that way."
It was difficult to maneuver them there, especially because Daeron refused to part with him. He didn't bother trying to get Daeron's shoes off, knowing the task would be too difficult. They finally made it to the safety of the bed, escaping the risk of Daeron collapsing to the floor and taking his father with him.
Immediately, Daeron pressed into Maekar's chest, clinging to him. When Daeron was a child, he would sleep in the bed between Maekar and Dyanna. All of their children did once, but Daeron had for the longest.
His son trembled in his arms, crying openly now. Maekar had never expected things to feel so empty. Even with Daeron being a man grown, he felt the absence of Dyanna with them. He longed for Baelor to be here to give him advice, to remind him to be patient. He worried for Aegon, wherever he had run off to, and he missed the quiet presence of Aemon.
"It's going to be alright," Maekar assured him, although he wasn't sure how much he believed it himself. "My sweet boy. I've got you."
He wasn't certain how they were all meant to go on after this. Baelor had been the last person he had to support him. Now, he was left to care for his children on his own. And to a lesser extent, Baelor's sons as well. He'd always loved them as his own, he would look after them too.
All he knew for sure was that his children wouldn't need to go through any of this alone. He had them, no matter how hard things became for them all. All he needed to focus on now was his children. Every part of his own grief needed to be tied up neatly and put somewhere out of the way.
He didn't have time to be weak, to fall apart. The realm needed a new heir, his father needed a new Hand, and his own children needed their last remaining parent. He didn't need to sit and cry over his loss. Instead, he needed to support Valarr in the difficult road ahead. He needed to be there for his sons and daughters. He needed to find his youngest boy.
It all seemed so overwhelming. Baelor had been with him for every step from the moment Maekar was born. He'd never had to walk on his own. Tears burned behind his own eyes and he reminded himself he needed to remain strong.
He held Daeron tighter, though he wasn't sure if that was possible. Daeron had been clinging to him the entire time, holding him like he may disappear if his grasp loosened. Come tomorrow, Maekar could focus on the rest of his responsibilities.
For now, he told himself the only thing he needed to do was take care of Daeron. He pressed a kiss to his oldest son's head and kept his face in his hair. He smelled of wine and faintly of blood. Maekar added cleaning off Daeron's cheek to the list of things he needed to do.
Knowing him, he wasn't taking good enough care of the wound to his face. It looked horrible, but he was just grateful he hadn't lost him too. He'd been so certain he was about to lose both of his sons all in one day. Daeron was so warm and real in his arms, bringing him some bit of comfort.
"I dreamed it," Daeron choked out and Maekar gave no answer, unsure of what to say. "I see it all. I saw the," His voice trailed off. "The dragon. It won't fly again. And the knight. The knight."
His words were incoherent. Everything seemed to blur together in Daeron's words, sentence fragments that were disjointed. Maekar stroked his hair, urging him closer to his own body. He knew Daeron was haunted by his dreams, he had been for quite some time. Maekar had never known how to handle them, though. He felt so out of his depth with Daeron, with all his children if he was honest.
"Hush now," He murmured to him. "Try to get some rest."
Daeron trembled in his arms and continued mumbling into his shoulder. Although, the words were too quiet to discern and Daeron appeared to be talking to himself more than anything else. He continued crying and Maekar kept him close, occasionally offering soft reassurances.
Maekar wasn't sure how much time had passed before Daeron fell asleep. He had stayed awake for far longer than Maekar expected, but his crying finally tapered off. His breathing became even and his arms had gone limp around Maekar.
"I love you," He whispered to him.
His arm was beginning to go numb where Daeron was asleep on it. He didn't try to move him, though. He had always complained about it when the children were young, but it didn't bother him now.
Words: 385
He could pace the empty halls forever, but there was no outrunning sleep.
It was a yawning void, pulling him endlessly inward, warping the world around him the longer that he resisted its pull. The shadows flickered, the edges of his vision twitching in time to his pulse, causing the walls to breathe with him and he could feel them closing in. He stumbled, and sent up clouds of dust that further hurt his already stinging eyes.
It was inefficient. Stupid. He needed to rest. He knew this, and yet... his breath hitched at the thought of facing it, helpless against his own mind as he let that control slip away. Awake, at least, he could pretend not to hear their whispering, could pretend to himself that he could not feel the press of their eyes on his back. His shoulder hit the doorway of his quarters on the way in, the physical jolt barely registering outside of a shivering that washed through his visual feed.
He needed sleep. Needed to face them. His hand pawed weakly against a heavy glass bottle and the air grew sharp with its bite as it bled across the tiles. There was no hope for it, no help. He could hear them laughing at the edges of his mind, feel the brush of their hands ready to pull him under. To make him see. Make him pay.
Maybe he deserved it. Maybe it was all that he deserved.
The floor rose up to meet him, damp and burning, the shriveled husk of his dignity the only thing preventing him from rolling on all fours, lapping up a chance at salvation. It wouldn't help, he knew, it never erased them, never blurred them. Memory was a blade his mind kept sharpened, every repetition honing off the surface detail to leave behind something sharper, something rawer, his mind arching lovingly against it night after night, an affectionate cat that bled void, bled static, bled pain until it drowned until it drowned until it disappeared into the hurt and the whispers and the hands and the
guilt.
The floor rose up to meet him and he sunk a little further down. Perhaps, there would be mercy to be found there, at the bottom of his mind. Perhaps he would never rise again.
