The terrors of slumber have held him tight in its clutches—claws tearing, stars turning to dust; he dreams of him still, and of her, and his visions clash in violent delirium; he has asked Lian before to be mindful—not to wake him from his nightmares. What if I hurt him? He always thought. He'd sooner suffer through the night than risk gripping at him harsher than he ever would in his right mind. Back home, he'd lock himself away at night, too afraid to indulge in his desire to have another resting peacefully next to him. He fell asleep beside his sword, always alert, waiting. His body would sleep, but his mind never did.
Falling asleep on his little brothers arms had not been on his plans—he doesn't remember any of it; doesn't remember being dragged to bed, or clutching to his shirt so hard it was nearly ripped in half, refusing to let go. He doesn't remember him by his bedside, cleaning his wounds like a dutiful brother, washing the sin from his hands and swearing against reason to take it upon himself; he doesn't remember how he had plucked every hard, his own hands made bloody in the process. He doesn't remember him there while he fell, while he sunk into the depths of his unconscious, dragged down by the anchor of his sorrow into a blackness unlike any other.
You are a good little brother. He remembers that, at least, and the hoarseness of his voice as he said it, punching out confessions like a last breath before he collapsed upon himself like a crumbling pillar. You're a good little brother... I should've told you that.
When he awoke next, there was a dagger to his throat. It didn't hurt. He half wishes it had. It didn't hurt when it cut him, not even when it tore through tissue, or the red ran down the ghastliness of his skin, making it look so much worse than it really was, staining the feathers of his mangled pillow. He could not move, could barely breathe as he sunk back into the emptiness too eager to swallow him whole. He was tired, much too tired to fight it, or pretend he wanted to.
The dreamless slumber does not come instead; it is as turbulent as the others. His hands clench, his brow creases, the turmoil of his mind as violent as ever—the skies bleed, and people's screams fill the air. He dreams of the end, but not a peaceful one. He dreams of an awakening, of what he's not to certain. He dreams of his loved ones, dead, the pile of their bodies stacking towards heaven. He cannot reach them.
He dreams of Lian, and he is so young, and his little hand is reaching towards him—he is crying, and scared, and he cannot reach him. His body won't move. Why can't he will himself to move?
His body rests, rigid and still, shaking—shaking, then, like a child plagued by nightmares, fists clenching, digging into flesh, the vestiges of the poison the only thing holding him still—he jolts awake, gasping for air, gulping air as if it was scarce; heaving and coughing, as if he had been drowning; he's shaking more violently, Lian's name on his lips, searching for a spill of his nightmare wet-eyed, and there it was.
The image does not disappear, and his eyes turn desperate; panicked. What had he done? "Lian—" the name makes it to his mouth, a plea, pitiful and weak. He cannot hear him; the child, cowering, crying, he is here—and he cannot reach for him, nightmares made into flesh. "Lian," he calls louder now, and that strength of his—that accursed strength he loathes so, he summons it now, calls to it like a demon in the night to strip the weakness from him. Take me, take me, just let me reach for him—and it feels like stripping meat from bone to lift that arm, to force it against the bed, to drag himself through the sheets for him, to him. What a mantle does a good brother wear? Does he soothe him from a distance? Does he coo to him? Does he risk smothering him with his misguided affections? What does a good brother do? How does he turn this gruesome thing he became into something gentle and tender?
His legs will not move, and he falls with a loud thumping sound, this creature—this disheveled thing dragging itself to him. "Dìdi," he begged to be heard, pulling at the sheets around him with claw and teeth to drag himself to him. "Dìdi, Dìdi... it's okay... it's okay, you're okay," his hand barely grasps his cheek, and it's falling again, gripping his neck as his hand shakes from weakness. "It's okay, don't cry, gege's here, don't cry," he had no time to ask why, why he was crying, why he was so scared—had he scared him? did it matter? The hand cups his neck moves to the back of his head, dragging him into himself to obscure everything else from sight. "Don't be scared, I'm here... I'm sorry, I'm sorry..." useless word; meaningless word. "It's okay, you're okay..."
