Chapter Text
Wylan heard the footsteps first. He stood by the desk, frozen in fear as they got closer and closer. The inevitable creak of hinges as the saint-forsaken office door was pushed open.
The nightmares always started like this. The sense of inevitable doom would never dissipate as the foreboding presence loomed in the corridors. Yes, the nightmares always started like this, but he never knew who would be standing on the other side of the door. The lurking shadows shifted eerily as the figure approached. Wylan didn’t know which shadow was the worst: which demon took the most, leaving him feeling drained, exhausted—utterly broken.
Some nights it was his father: sharp words cut into his soul like daggers as he stomped towards Wylans trembling figure, the resounding crack of a hand across his cheek.
Some nights it was Migson or Prior coming back to finish the job—their thick, sausage-like fingers clamped around his throat.
Some nights it was the doctor, assessing his intelligence like he was an odd specimen to examine.
Some nights it was his mother, trapped in the living hell where Wylan couldn’t yet save her.
Tonight, however, it was him.
Wylan cowered behind the desk as orange light from the corridor flooded in, outlining the figure in an eerie shadow. Next came the hands: burning touches consumed his body as he fought to escape.
Burning.
Burning.
Burning.
As usual, his struggles were fruitless. The man above Wylan simply tightened his grip, the icy glint in his eyes inescapable.
Wylan gasped awake, sobbing. He quickly clamped a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound of his cries as he took in his surroundings. Nothing had changed, but a musty tomb was much more preferable than anywhere in the Van Eck mansion. He shuddered at the thought of being back there. For all the kruge in the world, he could hardly recall a happy memory in that place.
Hand still firmly clamped over his mouth, Wylan could hear nothing over the blood rushing in his ears. He took a deep breath in a pathetic attempt to steady the pounding of his heart, still trying to stifle the sobs that wracked his chest. As his eyes adjusted, he sought the sleeping forms of his friends. Nina and Matthias were curled up together opposite Wylan, snoring softly. Jesper was sprawled across the floor, a blanket half covering his lanky form. Kaz's absence was not exactly unusual, and the flickering light down the mausoleum passage told Wylan where exactly the bastard of the barrel had slipped off to. For a moment, he just listened to the subtle sounds of sleep within the tomb, soft breaths and quiet snores. Thank Ghezen, nobody woke up.
Sleep was not a luxury Wylan would have tonight. He couldn’t sit any longer, so he resigned himself to another sleepless night. Insomnia was becoming all too common amongst the crows.
Kaz hardly seemed surprised to see Wylan emerge from the passage. Suddenly self-conscious, Wylan crossed his arms as Kaz gave him a once over before returning his eyes to whatever document he held.
“I already brewed shit coffee if you want some," he rasped without looking up.
Wylan found he could hardly mutter a coherent response as he practically fell into a chair at their makeshift table.
Kaz looked up with a halfhearted glare before raising an eyebrow at Wylans dishevelled form. “Alright merchling, you’re having some fucking coffee.”
Again, Wylan didn’t respond. He felt eyes on him as he awkwardly tried to pour the sludge-like coffee, his trembling fingers making the simple task near impossible.
“Fuck,” he swore as some sloshed over the edge of the mug and onto his hand.
He gave up, setting it down with an annoyed huff.
“Oh for saint's sake, you’re going to build bombs with those shakey hands?” Kaz grunted, snatching the mug away from Wylan. “Honestly, you’ll kill us all.'' he snapped before pushing the now full cup back across the table.
Normally, Wylan would have done anything to impress Kaz. He was still scared his idiocy would prove him a worthless part of the team. The feelings of inadequacy weren’t new, but the utter lack of care was strange. Normally, he would have been mortified at his clumsiness. Now, he simply stared at the red patch of skin near his wrist, the pain from the burn oddly grounding. He would take this kind of burn over any nightmare. He shuddered at the thought—phantom touches of broad hands gentle but violent at the same time: burning.
Apathy was welcome.
- - - - -
Wylan isn’t sure how much time passes. He vaguely registered the presence of Kaz sitting across from him; surprisingly, the older boy hadn’t yelled at him to get out.
He keeps staring at the burn.
Burn. The word was used in so many contexts. Burning with passion, burning with envy– the heat of the moment. The heat of love. Wylan wasn’t sure what kind of burn he had experienced.
The innocence being stripped from him.
Burn.
The hot tears that soaked his pillow nightly.
Burn.
The shadows that have haunted him since.
Burn.
Regardless of time passed, it was all burned into his memory. Every unsettling touch, every broken plea, every whimpered “no”.
It all fucking burned.
He remembered the dull aches that riddled his body after and the blood found for days following. He remembered the whispers of the housemaids who washed his sheets, saw their looks of pity and their looks of disgust. He still carries the burning shame.
He remembered when his father found out, the pure rage directed only at Wylan. How could Wylan have allowed such a thing to happen, and how dare he bring such disgrace to the Van Eck name?
At the time, he thought that would be the end of it; an isolated incident of ignorance. Another way in which Wylan embodied disappointment. But still the man returned, and others after him.
He remembered the cruel smile that fell across his fathers face after each ‘lesson’.
It still burns.