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The waves crashing upon the rocks does little to drown out the screaming in his head. He can’t say how long he’s spent out here, huddled in the cloak pulled up to his chin. The water sprays mist every time it crashes against the shore, he’s shivering from where he managed to nestle himself between the rocks.
As if the cloak and the rocks can shield him from the mess that is his head.
He leans his head back against the rock he rests on, turning his gaze to the sky above his head. The sky. The stars. Both things are still new to him, even after several years with nothing but their presence for company.
Nothing tangible, at least. His breath freezes in his throat at the thought. Years. All a lie. When sometimes nothing but the thought that he wasn’t alone-that he had someone by his side-was all that got him through the cold nights, to think that was a lie, a trick, a deception-
He can feel the first vestiges of a panic attack lingering at the edge of his consciousness. He can’t-He doesn’t want to-
He slams his eyes shut. His hands lie fisted by his sides, pressed down into the cold hard rock below him. He’s so sick of the cold. Nothing but cold, cold, cold. His heart must be frozen over by now, bared to the elements, the product of nothing but anger and violence and a driving need for vengeance. Scrapped raw by the loneliness he can feel pressing down at him, something that never used to bother him, never used to feel like an aching emptiness by his side-
His chest starts to burn with the breath he isn’t taking. His lungs don’t want to listen to him, his chest is frozen solid, unmoving, encased in ice.
A whimper forces its way out of his throat, his hands scrabbling against the rock for purchase. All that greets him is the sharp bite of pain in both palms, scraped raw. It tears a small gasp from his chest, forcefully taking him a step back from the edge of unconsciousness.
And so he forces his right hand harder against the rock, and pulls back. His palm screams. He breathes a little easier. So he does it again, and again, and again, until a full breath is forced into his lungs, and the blackness he didn’t realize was creeping in at the edges finally fully subsides.
And with it goes the last of his strength. He finds himself listing to the side, glad he managed to wedge himself so tightly against the rocks that he barely moves, just leans down and presses his forehead into the rough surface of the rock by his side.
He thinks he could fall asleep like this, if he let himself.
The waves continue to crash against the shore.
He lets himself drift.
|-/
The abrupt rise back to consciousness is like a bucket of ice water dropped over his head. He comes to with a gasp that burns at his throat, straightening through the shuddering ache that rips through him from being tilted to the side as he slept.
What had brought about his surge to consciousness? His brain feels covered in thick layers of fog, leaving him unable to think clearly. He braces a hand against the rock as he prepares to stretch, unprepared for the pain that surges through his hand and down his wrist at the contact.
The yelp of pain is accidental. The responding shout echoing from the rocks somewhere in the distance causes him to jolt, jostling his injured limb even further. He tucks his hand against his chest, his heart picking up a rhythm as he finally notices the sound of footsteps.
A surge of terror wraps around his chest.
He sucks in a breath, tucking himself even further into his crevice, knees tucked in tight to his side. His whole body feels ready to implode, tension vibrating his frame, a million miniscule aches plaguing him from a night spent in the biting cold of the open air.
The footsteps get clearer.
He finds himself starting to shiver, from the cold or from fear, he doesn’t know. The thought of red billowing robes and emotionless eyes haunt his soul, haunt the back of his eyes as he squeezes them closed. There’s no way he was found, he couldn’t be, he promised safety. But his thoughts can’t help but to wander. What if the camp was found, was pillaged? It’s happened before, the memories spilling forth of fire billowing against the night sky and a hand wrapped around his throat, cutting off his airways, freezing his muscles. If it’s happened before, what’s to say it couldn’t happen again?
A shout echoes once more against the rocks. He thinks he recognizes the voice, thinks he recognizes the syllables, but the blood is rushing in his veins, drowning out all other noise. He can’t even hear the waves lapping against the rocks.
He presses himself further against the rocks at his back, grounding himself in the present. He’s not back there, he can’t be, the cold of the rock bites through the cloak at his back.
At this rate, he might as well get hyperthermia from his familiarity with the cold. How long was he even asleep? How long was he missing? And no one’s thought to search for him, has anyone even noticed him missing-
“Clancy!”
His eyes fling open.
He knows that voice. He dares to finally peek over the rocks keeping him hidden from view, and is greeted with the sight of the Torchbearer in the distance, frantically scanning the rocks. His hoodie is hanging loosely from his head, a torch gripped in his palm like the first time Clancy saw him.
He can’t make out the look on his face from this distance, but the tension in him is obvious. He thinks he can make out the torch shaking in his hand.
Clancy ducks back into the cover of the rocks. He can’t deny the relief at the thought his absence was noticed, but about ten other complicated feelings fight to the surface.
He’s still mad at him. He doesn’t want to talk.
Clancy had ducked from their tent in the middle of the night for a reason, every glance at the sleeping figure on the cot next to him shooting pain through his chest. Torchbearer lied to him for years. And expected him to just fall back into bed with him at the end of the day after their long trek back, after being subjected to the pitying glances of the masses of Banditos gathered to witness Clancy’s return.
Clancy used to have his own tent to return to, the quiet needed after long days of socializing with the Banditos draining the life out of him.
Clancy’s tent had been given away.
The reminder of the time he’d spent away was unpleasant, to say the least. As if Clancy left willingly. As if the time away had been all joy and sunshine. As if he wouldn’t give anything to return to that time years ago, before his skin had been scarred with the reminders of his time imprisoned within the four walls of that barren place.
“Clancy, please!” The desperation in his voice is evident, the syllables shaky, frantic.
Clancy swears to himself softly, barely even realizing the decision to brace himself against the rock with his uninjured hand, pushing himself to a standing position.
The Torchbearers' eyes find his immediately. There’s a pause, and then-
He drops his torch. It clatters noisily against the rocks, but Torchbearer doesn’t even seem to notice. The flames sputter and die almost immediately, suffocated by the biting cold. Torchbearer is moving before the torch even reaches the ground.
Clancy doesn’t move, doesn’t think he could as Torchbearer sprints over the rocks, almost flying in his desperation to reach him. As he gets closer, Clancy’s finally within distance to make out his widened eyes, the pallor to his cheeks, the wetness on his face before Torchbearer tackles him in a hug.
It takes Clancy’s feet out from under him. Only Torchbearer's reflexes save them, spinning his weight in a way that keeps them standing. His arm wraps around Clancy’s waist, pressing him further against Torchbearer's chest, who shoves his head against Clancy’s shoulder. Clancy can feel his panicked breaths through the material of his cloak.
Neither of them speak.
Clancy doesn’t think he could speak, if he tried. His brain feels filled with cotton, his hand is all but killing him from where it's now pressed against Torchbearer’s chest. He’s still shivering.
Torchbearer is shaking. Clancy is alarmed at this discovery. Is Torchbearer hurt? Did something indeed happen at the camp?
Clancy bears the pain and frees his hand to press against the Torchbearer’s shoulder, attempting to push him back to get a look at his face. Torchbearer doesn’t budge. Clancy tries again, shoving harder, wincing from the effort straining every aching muscle.
Nothing. Torchbearer is still shaking, arm tightening around his middle.
Clancy starts to panic. His anger at the Torchbearer is fading with every passing second he spends pressed, shaking, against his side.
“Torch,” he finally speaks, the old nickname passing through his lips easily. He can’t remember the last time he uttered it. “What-”
He doesn’t get to finish before Torchbearer is yanking himself away, Clancy barely stopping himself from falling over with his sudden absence. Only Torchbearer’s hands on his shoulders keeps him upright.
Torch’s eyes are red-rimmed, his face pale.
Clancy’s throat goes dry.
“You disappeared,” Torch says. His eyes are suddenly hardened, furious. Clancy finds himself frozen for a much different reason than he’s used to.
“You disappeared.” Torch repeats. “Do you remember what happened the last time you disappeared? The last time I lost you. You were gone for years.”
The reminder is stale air in Clancy’s lungs. His breath stutters in his chest. Torchbearer continues undeterred. “You can’t just disappear like that for hours at a time, do you know what I thought?”
Clancy doesn’t answer. Torchbearer’s eyes are burrowing into his, searching for answers to a question he won’t find. Clancy has the sudden urge to disappear, to vanish. Why does it matter, why does he matter, why does Torch suddenly care-
He can feel the blackness encroaching on the edges of his vision.
Torchbearer recognizes the incoming panic attack before even he does.
Torch’s grip changes, hands moving from his shoulder to grip his hands instead and-
Clancy flinches, hissing out in pain before he can stop himself. Torchbearer freezes, his eyes going wide. Before Clancy can attempt to free himself from his grasp, Torchbearer uses his hold on his wrists to turn them over, pulling him forward.
Clancy tries for a second to tug his arm loose, but the only thing he succeeds in doing is hurting himself more in Torchbearer’s grasp. He can feel his hand starting to lose sensation once more, can feel the blood start pooling in his palm. The feeling is unpleasant. He tries in vain again to pull himself loose, but Torchbearer instead releases his grip on his left hand, raising his hand to lift the arm of his cloak up to his elbow.
Clancy stops fighting, knowing it's fruitless when Torch is determined. His scratched up palm getting revealed to the cool night air stings even worse, and he can’t help the involuntary gasp of pain.
Torch’s eyes flicker back up to meet his, eyes panicked. Clancy can’t find the words to voice it’s not what it seems, what he knows is circling in the Torchbearers head. Because it’s not the same. It’s not.
Torchbearer's grip on his wrist tickles years old scars.
Clancy glances away from that look in Torchbearer’s eyes.
Neither of them speak for a solid few seconds. Clancy can feel when Torchbearer sags, his grip loosening. “Oh, Clancy.” His voice is much more soft then Clancy thinks this moment warrants.
Clancy simply shakes his head. He lets himself fall forward, until his head rests on Torchbearer’s shoulder. Torch’s arm wraps once more around his waist, comforting, gentle.
Clancy takes what feels like his first full breath in days, months, years.
He can’t remember the last time he was held like this, the last time he felt another’s body heat. He remembers what he thought he had, back on Voldsoy. He also remembers what he felt when that was forcefully taken from him, when his brain replaced the false memories with the truth.
Clancy doesn’t think he forgives Torchbearer for that. Doesn’t know if he can. Doesn’t think he deserves the gentleness that Torchbearer is currently giving him. Doesn’t know if he ever will.
He does know he misses it. Misses him.
Clancy loses track of how long he lets himself soak in Torchbearer's touch before Torch gently pushes him away, making him lift his head.
Torch lifts one of his hands, raising it to push back the hair from Clancy’s face, cupping his cheek gently in a palm. Clancy can’t help but to nuzzle his face into Torch’s palm, enjoying the soft smile he gets in return.
“Lets go back to camp, Clancy, please?” Torch speaks so soft, as if afraid to startle him. Clancy just whines in response, the thought of the trek back feeling daunting. Even the thought of working up the energy to speak has him feeling lightheaded.
Torchbearer’s eyes furrow. His other hand rises to wrap around the side of Clancy’s neck, gentle, nervous. Clancy fights the urge to flinch, body tensing. Torch drops his hand, and Clancy relaxes.
“You’re shivering, don’t think I haven’t noticed. And I need to wrap that hand. C’mon, Clancy. Please? You need to get warmed up. Let me take you back.” Torch is almost begging at the end, voice sounding nearly wrecked. His eyes start to water, red-rimmed once more, and it's the sight of that which makes Clancy give in, simply nodding.
Torchbearer lets out a sigh of relief, wrapping one hand around his back, the other against his side, as he begins to lead him forward. Clancy allows it for several steps, until…there.
Clancy stops abruptly, bending over despite the ache in every joint the movement causes and-
When he rises, it’s with Torchbearer’s now extinguished torch in hand.
Together, they make their slow way back to camp, where Torch will smother Clancy with blankets as he wraps his hand, and they’ll be alright, and time will keep moving.