Cozy, dark and whumpy

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“You remember why we’re really here. Right, Atlas?” They ask, rolling back their shoulder with a wince. There’s a frequent ache in their muscles, bruises painted along the gentle curve of their ribs. Their face scrunches up in the shock of it for a second. Even without sick flowing through their bloodstream, a newer, foreign pain is there to prod at them. Curling around their limbs, twisting at the line of their back. They feel weak, still. They can’t understand how Atlas ever took each beating with such silent grace.

No, that’s wrong. They know exactly how.

“You shouldn’t think about that right now,” he replies mutedly. His fingers twitch slightly as he says it, this little jerk reaction he thinks they won’t be able to notice. He blinks. He’s only barely able to mask the real, genuine fear they can feel, contained just beneath the surface. He won’t admit to it though, no matter how much they press him on it. 

Wren sighs, tipping their head backwards. The ceiling expands up in front of them, this massive doming space above, tall and untouchable from within the depths of this gloomy cavern. A cool breeze faintly brushes across their cheeks, a sting of ice and a numbness in their fingertips they cannot shed. They draw their clothes closer, even tighter-pressed to their body. Their sleeves have been pulled down all the way, past their hands. They ball up their fists within the faint material. None of it is enough to fight the cold. It’s only gotten worse the longer they stay down here. If they weren’t so scared, they would have sent Atlas back up to the van to grab a heavier jacket for them by now. 

“It’s why we’re here,” they speak. “You’ve said it yourself, we can’t lose focus.” They look at him now, letting the words hang in the air. His expression doesn’t change, not except for the minute shift in his brows, narrowed, this tenseness etching lines in the corners of his mouth. He won’t be happy about this, they know. But they have no other choice — not anymore. There’s no going back; they’re past the point of no return. As much as he wishes he could, there is no changing fate now. “I know you hate it here. But any information we can get from this place is as important as Eden’s files.” 

A flicker of anger registers, passes across his face. Blink and you miss it. If they were any less coherent, they wouldn’t have even noticed it. “You said you didn’t want me to wander off anymore.” There’s something accusatory in his tone. Not my fault. 

“I don’t. I’m on the mend.” Wren huffs, breathing a little more evenly now. “I’m already feeling a little better. And I hate the idea of you in this place all alone.” Slowly, Wren reaches over and lets their hand rest in his. Not holding, just resting. They rub a line down his thumb, their skin soft and unmarred against his, calloused. “Soon I can slip away and gather some information and then you and I can get the hell out of here.” 

“You’re still sick.” Atlas mutters, staring down towards where their hand rests over his. Something indistinguishable lays just on the surface. “You’re supposed to be resting. Not worrying about these things.” 

“I’ll be well enough soon.” Wren shakes out their head, takes their fingers through their hair. It’s limp and damp in their grip, much too greasy for their liking. They haven’t gone this long without showering in a while. Usually they can at least run their hair under the sink of one of those family washrooms, if things get too dire. They haven’t had the chance, since he tagged along. Things have grown all-too chaotic. “I’d rather it be me than you,” they say. “You’re like a cornered animal in this place.” 

Atlas looks away, bristling. “I am not,” he hisses, speaking out of the corner of his mouth. His glare is directed pointedly upon the ground, glaring near holes into the tile. His fingers clench. “I am perfectly fine here.”

They can track the lie easily. He can barely keep the shake out of his voice by now. The medicine has washed away the last of their delirium, the haze around their eyes. The residuals of poison have been flushed clean, blood purified. In its wake, Atlas becomes all the more clear. They can read him like a book. He’s worn down enough, tired enough, that any of the barriers that may have previously stopped them doing so have been lowered. Not fully, never fully; but just ever so-slightly. They can see right though him. 

Wren raises a brow, their mouth pulled into a thin line. “Right. Well, either way, I think it would be better I go. The sooner I go to the sooner we leave. And leaving without anything isn’t up for debate.” They lean back against the stone again, staring forwards. “We need anything we can get, Atlas.”

The silence stretches on for a few seconds too long. Atlas does not move. His glare is focused on the same spot, unrelenting, body still. It’s only his chest that rises and falls, lips parted as he takes in slow, steadying breaths. For a moment, Wren is convinced he’ll object; that he’s going to put his foot down, refuse this once and for all. But he doesn’t. “Stop babying me,” he mutters, tracing circles by their feet. “We’ll go. When you’re feeling better.” 

Wren frowns, but takes it. This is better of an outcome than they could have ever expected. “Alright,” they oblige. “As soon as we can, we’re leaving.” 

He nods, and when they sneak a glance at his expression again, they can practically see the resignation writing itself upon his face. 

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·

“Wren…” 

Wren pulls their blanket a little closer to their ear, their bangs hanging over their eyes and tickling against their skin. They twitch, fingers curling, heat emanating off the back of their neck. They mumble something incoherent, words not even they will be able to place later on, moving press their cheek tighter to their pillow. The darkness is heavy against their eyelids, comforting. The haze of sleep separates them from anything else. It is the only distant sounds of shuffling, a faint voice in the background, that cuts through their dreams. They hum indistinctly, none the wiser. The pull of sleep, warm and soft and soothing, is much too tempting for any of their worry to draw near the surface. They sigh, softly, contented. 

“Wren— Wren!” 

There’s a tight, firm grip on their shoulder, ripping the blanket from where it was wrapped around their body, bringing with it the sharp shock of ice, frigid air meeting their skin. There’s a hand wrapped around their arm, grabbing at them, pinching and pulling and twisting at their skin, and the pain snaps them out of it. They jolt, snapping upright. Their eyes are wide and unfocused, surroundings coming to them slow. They are on the cold stone tiling of the basement floor, cloaked in darkness; it is all they can see, spanning out in all directions. For a moment, they believe a nightmare startled them out of it, perhaps the lasting effects of the poison’s departure. 

But no, a face comes into view. Blurry at first, but clearer, features sharper, as their eyes adjust. Atlas is standing over them, both hands pulling at their arm. There’s something wild in his eyes, scary. If Wren was any more conscious, they would have registered it as something else entirely— fear. His voice is shaking and he's grabbing them all-too harshly, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Unrestrained, panic informs his movements. He shakes, hissing their name through tight lips. “Wren— Wren, please.” 

“Whuh—?” They squint at him. Their voice is thick, like their mouth has been filled with cotton. They’re slow to register him, even less to his urgency. Their thoughts have a delay to them. “Atlas? What is it,” they slur, yawning. They blink a few times, rub away the sleep from their lids. “I told you to rest.” 

He’s still got them within his iron grip, nails digging into their forearm. His face has been carved out by worry, sharp lines etching themself around his mouth, along his forehead. There’s an intensity to him now that they don’t think they’ve ever seen before. It’s like he’s cracking open, pieces of his chest breaking away for them to see, peer deep inside. Exposed. 

“We need to go.” He’s saying. Begging, really. “We really, really need to go.” 

He drags them upright and it’s only now that Wren is truly made aware of the panic in his tone, how sharp his grip on them is, the sharp indents he’s pressing into the shape of their skin. They blink, clear, their own sense of fear creeping inside the cavities of their chest, pulsing within. The colour drains from their cheeks. “What—” they gasp, resisting his feverish touch, drawing their arm back. Their brows furrow, draw together. Distrust paints itself across their expression. “Why?” 

“We need to,” Atlas is grabbing at them with more of a frenzy. Hurting them. They wince, have half the urge to fight against him, before realizing at once the effort would be fruitless. The cavern suddenly feels very, impossibly small. Something frigid and sick sloshes inside their gut. “Please, please— we need to, we need to go. Please.”

What did he do? 

“Okay. Okay.” They mutter. Their voice softens imperceptibly, for his benefit more than theirs. He’s wound up, spiralling out of control. It’s their responsibility to rein him back in. “Okay, we can go.” 

They scramble to collect their things. Blankets, clothes, their discarded bag. It all lies by their feet now. There’s crumbs from their food, but they pay no mind to that now. The rats will get it, either way. Not like anyone could notice anything out here in the dark. 

“Illus— illusions,” Atlas chokes out. He’s pale beneath the jagged shadows that cling to this place. Brimming with energy, all pent-up and violent, just below the surface. His fingers twitch at his sides, constantly moving, pattering against his pants in erratic rhythm, as his eyes dart in all directions. Back and forth, back and forth. The anxiousness lights him up, electrified. It’s a strange sight to behold. When have they ever seen him look so… afraid? “We need— we need illusions.” 

Wren stumbles to their feet again, slipping their bag across their shoulder. It’s a little too heavy for their liking, drawing strain from their muscles. Packed with their stuff, all clumsy. Atlas’s sweater has been shoved inside, half-hazardly. The bag is bulkier than it has any right to be. The room spins a little as they straighten. Wren is suddenly made startlingly aware how little they’ve been eating, how much the disease really ate away at their bones. Illusions? They were still too weak. They had been relying completely on him all this time. Protection, food, rest — safety. All of it had been Atlas. He throws them for a loop, staring at them with those wide, fearful eyes. He’s suddenly needy, watching them, expectant, like they are the answer, all he has ever known. 

Can they even create illusions anymore? Do they have the power to?

“One… one second,” they manage, steadying themself against the wall and closing their eyes for a moment. Their stomach twists itself up into knots, breath coming out hard. A chill runs down their spine, a numbness seeping into their fingertips. Their palms are clammy, slipping along the smooth marble. They shiver, sucking in a sharp breath. Pain pulses, sharp and unforgiving, beside their heart. Slowly, faint wisps of silver curl into existence around their feet, snaking their way around Atlas’s ankles. He shakes. His panic, wherever it has come from — it’s choking him. 

He grips their wrist too tightly as they climb up the stairs. Atlas’s footsteps are hurried, heavy. His boots stomp up the metal steps with such an urgency Wren doesn’t know what to do with it. They can barely keep up with him, stumbling over their own feet, grunting at the exertion. They know he’d drag them the rest of the way, if they tried to stop. He doesn’t so much as glance their way once, gaze focused straight ahead, staring up into the corridor like it’s his only salvation, to get free. The soft spot of their wrist, where his nails dig, cutting, has begun to grow intolerable. 

“Atlas, what’s going on?” Wren pants, breathing hard through their nose. They take the stairs two at a time, their feet catching on every few steps. Their lungs struggle to keep up, chest burning with a fire that swells, angry, deathly. They have to blink back dark spots from out of the corner of their eyes. Their breath comes out in short sputters. 

“Atlas,” they whine, voice catching. Tears prick the corners of their eyes.

But it is not until they have broke through the last level, up into the chapel, hurried past the pews and slipped out the doors, beyond the confines of the church, that Atlas even makes a sound. His face turns up, cheeks bared into the moonlight, and his chest heaves, violently, suddenly; he takes in large, gulps of air, choking on his own intensity. A bead of sweat trails down his temple, catches along the curve of his cheekbone. 

Wren crumbles. It overwhelms them all at once, this dizziness. The night air, cool, whipping against their skin, is a shock to their system. Atlas’s grip on them has gone loose, left their skin entirely, and they’re left wavering, sickly. The colours of the night blur together, shapes incoherent and indistinguishable from within the white spots that form in their vision. Their head swims, suddenly heavy against the pull of gravity, the ache in their spine. They huff, taking in stuttered, wheezing breaths. The pain in their side has the intensity of a blade through flesh. They feel it, the phantom metal sticking in their skin, tainting their blood. It never left in the first place.

When Atlas turns back, something wet glistening upon his cheeks, the pain residing in his expression is entirely haunting. He extends his hand, shaking, and he does not say a word.

── ⟡ ˙

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TAGLIST › @cepheusgalaxy @paingoes @inhurtandincomfort @write-with-will @nightmaricwriter @inadequatecowboy @chiswhumpcorner @bioniclechronicles @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @doumidas @sugaredparchment @ieppiq @gr3yhellh0und @warmfuzz-ies @inkwell-and-dagger @aromanticsky

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A big thanks to @ohagany for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

Shuffling off of his bed, Alastair grabs his robe and secures it around himself, slowly pulling his door open and peering down the hall that opens up into The Archives. The light funnels down the corridor, painting his feet in the warm amber color. It travels up his figure as he walks through slowly, moving towards the cavern. He hears the quiet scrape of footsteps and goes still in the archway. The sound is quiet like someone moving intentionally, not wanting to be heard. It makes the hair on his neck stand up and those same cool fingers ghost over his nape.

Alastair steels himself and steps carefully, quietly, his bare feet padding along the cool floors. With bated breath he peeks down each row of shelves, following the movement of the light as it moves further from his room. It’s brighter now and when he turns down one aisle, he sees… a boy? Perhaps a man. Though shorter than Alastair, he appears sturdier. His face appears hardened, bathed in shadows. Though some features are made softer, highlighted by the flashlight in his hand. Alastair can’t make out the details of his expression; he can barely see him at all in the dark that hugs them. 

The flashlight in the person’s hand flicks towards him and Alastair shrinks in the sharp light. He blinks hard, half convinced the figure in front of him is some heavenly spirit that will vanish when he opens his eyes. He slowly opens his eyes and sees the man is still there.

Alastair comes to the conclusion that this is, in fact, just a man. A man parading about his Archives, file in hand, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

With a huff, his brows furrowed, he twists up his arms, crossing them over his chest. He steps forward, looking down at the figure he still can’t see through the darkness and the light that’s shining in his eyes. “Pardon me. The Archives are closed to any lower rank without special permission,” he says clearly, dutifully. “And even so, no one beyond the Archangel Julius himself is permitted to enter after curfew.”

The man shifts, going tense as if he’s just now realized Alastair’s presence. He skitters back. The torch in his hand shifts, moving the light out of Alastair’s eyes and towards the floor, flickering as the man’s hands shake.

The startled response is unexpected. It causes Alastair raises a brow, slowly uncrossing his arms and taking another step forwards. Can the man understand him? “Is there something I can help you with?” Surely he’s lost. That seems to be the trend lately. Obviously this intruder is disoriented. Though none of that explains the file in his hands he’d been flipping through before Alastair announced himself.

“I….”

The tight line Alastair’s mouth is pressed into slowly drops into a frown. At the sporadic breathing and trembling of the light in the man’s hands, his priority begins to shift. He’s suddenly far less concerned about discovering why the man is here. He should help him leave quickly lest Julius catch wind of an intruder and deliver Alastair another punishment. 

“Are you… all right? Sir?”

“Um…” the man stammers, completely frozen. He makes an odd sound like he’s choking.

Alastair can hear his feet shifting against the stone. He moves closer again, holding his hands up in reassurance. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. If you’ll let me escort you out, I can ensure Father Julius and Mother Elise hear nothing of your trespassing,” he says, his voice a soft hum, as careful as he can manage.

There’s a blur of movement that Alastair can register before a burst of force meet his jaw, knocking him sideways and back onto the floor with a solid crack. Pain shoots through his face and he groans. As his head spins, he realizes with a start — the man punched him. 

Alastair pushes himself into a sitting position slowly, rubbing at his cheek that pulses beneath his skin violently.

When the spots clear from his vision he blinks up at the man. He’s stunned when blood begins to fills his mouth. He’d bitten his tongue hard and the stinging makes his eyes well up. He grimaces and swallows rather than spit onto the floor.

“Why did you do that?” Alastair asks, words slurred the swell of his cheek and tongue.

“Show…. show me where you keep the files!” The man demands with clenched fists, his voice shaking a startling amount. “Show me the proof of everything you’ve done. I know you have it!”

Alastair pushes himself up on trembling arms to sit, scooting away from the man frantically. Through the terror, he grows confused. He sits straighter and stares, head cocked. “I beg your pardon?” Alastair decides it would be quite a bad idea to point out that this entire basement was full of files. One of which, the man already held in his hand.

“The files!”

The man is shouting loudly now. Alastair fears he will cause the very walls to shake.

Without taking his eyes off of the stranger, Alastair stands like a fawn learning to walk. His eyes widen as realization settles in. The files. He pales. How does he know? No one is supposed to know. Alastair himself isn’t even allowed to view their contents. This man is clearly an outsider. A malicious one at that.

Alastair glances behind him, taking another step back. He needs to think. Quickly. A lantern flicks a couple shelves over, closer to his desk and an idea begins to form. He slowly lifts his hands in surrender. “All right. Okay, you can have the files… Just don’t hurt me again and I’ll take you to them.”

The man narrows his eyes. The file in his hands is crinkled in his vice grip. “Is this a trick?” 

Alastair’s eyes dart down nervously, his forehead creasing. His heart beats rapidly from inside his chest. He fears the man will be able to hear it, sniff out his fear. The eyes that stare at him now are dark and endless, like a shark’s.

“I’ll kill you if it is.” The man takes a step forwards, fists clenching. “I’ll find you and kill you, I swear it.”

Alastair nods slowly and wraps his robe around himself tighter. He could die right now. He really could. He turns and begins to make his way down the rows, acutely aware of the man’s threatening presence behind him.

As they approach his desk at the front of the archives, Alastair slows, glancing over his shoulder. He reaches for a pile of files on his desk and taps it against the wood lightly to even it out. “I have them here.”

The man hesitates for a second before quickly ripping the stack from Alastair’s hand and holding it tight to his chest like something precious. He takes a step back, his shadowy figure seeming to grow as he straightens. 

Alastair can’t react as he shoved, so abruptly he doesn’t even see it coming, knocking into his desk and then stumbling to the ground. His palms scrape against the stone, rubbing skin from them in stinging red marks as he tries to break his fall. 

“This is all?”

He feels nauseous as he squints up at the man. A complete stranger with church records in his grasp. Truth be told, most of them are unimportant, standard stock-keeping. Some, however, are records from the Virtues’ own temples. And what lies within them, he’s not even certain. Alastair is embarrassed to admit that he is made curious by this man’s total desperation to get his hands on seemingly any information he can. “That’s all of it. Unless you feel so inclined to sit around and wait for me to search the entire registry for anything else that might interest you.” His voice trembles but he knows this trespasser won’t accept his offer. He seems far too eager to flee himself.

The man furrows his brows, silent for a long stretch before he takes a nervous step back. He says nothing. His leg swings out quicker than Alastair can register.

Alastair is knocked to the side as a hard boot lands against his temple. He crumples like a ragdoll and his face hits floor. He opens his mouth to scream but now sound comes out, just a pathetic string of spit that drips from his lips. His vision is bleary, black creeping into the corner of it as he peers up at the stranger’s retreating figure. His eyes slip shut and when he manages to force them open again, the man is gone. 

Missing records and Alastair’s body flattened to the floor with blood in his mouth is the only evidence there was ever a man there at all.

── ⟡ ˙

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TAGLIST › @cepheusgalaxy @paingoes @inhurtandincomfort @write-with-will @nightmaricwriter @inadequatecowboy @chiswhumpcorner @bioniclechronicles @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @doumidas @sugaredparchment @ieppiq @gr3yhellh0und @warmfuzz-ies @inkwell-and-dagger @aromanticsky

⭑⭒ Send an ask or dm to be added or removed from the taglist

A big thanks to @oros-ash3s for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔

Wren’s eyes do not open, too heavy to lift. The only inclination they hear their name being called is a low hum, a slight shift beneath his touch, moving nearer, drawing tighter to his body. It seems to be out of a subconscious desire, more than anything else. He wonders, for a moment, if they even register it is him pressed to their cheek.

He places a hand on the base of their neck, gingerly lifting their head and pressing the lid of a water bottle to their lips. “Here, drink.” He whispers. His breath is ticklish along their skin. “You need to stay hydrated.”

Wren grimaces as their head is lifted, water pushed against their dry and cracking lips. They sip without argument, despite, allow the cool slide of water down their sore, aching throat. Their eyes flip open now, only for barely a second, taking in his bruised face, the worry etched along his expression, before they close again, something incoherent falling from their lips. Their head grows heavy in his hand, lolling back, their strength sputtering out, quick as the dying candlelight. A soft sigh escapes them.

“I’m going to go back up to the other levels and find you some food later, alright?” Atlas murmurs, setting them softly against the floor once more. He’s shed his sweater despite the coolness of the basement, rolling it under Wren’s head for some sort of comfort. He doesn’t have much else to give them. “Do you think you’ll be able to manage?”

Wren groans and shifts against the stone floor, uncomfortable for a moment as they catch their bearings, press their cheek into the material of his sweater. Their brows knit together, drawing creases upon their young face. Their eyes slide open just barely, squinty, their vision foggy and unclear. “What?” They croak, uncertain. That same anxiety has creeped into their voice, the desperation. It is the only coherent thing to cut through their hazy thoughts. “Don’t go off alone.”

Atlas sighs. He has had a version of this argument, in some sense, nearly every day since Wren has fallen ill. He isn't sure how to take their worry with anything other than annoyance at this point. The pleas were barely endearing in the beginning. Now they’ve grown to be outright unbearable. He bites it back, his urge to snap, despite. “You’re in no condition to come. You’re lucky that boy let us off so easily. We could’ve ended up in some big trouble, if he found us out.” He tells them, as delicately as he can, his brows furrowing. He glances towards the entrance to the Archives down the hall, towards the large, wooden doors, casting shadows upon the walls. A frown tugs at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

Wren blinks at him, a little more awake now, despite the pills. They move to drape their forearm across their eyes, shaking their head. “Dangerous… Don’t want you wandering ‘round on your own.” They mutter, sentences drawn together half-formed, absentminded. They sigh, pressing their face deeper into the comfort of the makeshift pillow, breathing through the mind-numbing chill that seeps in through the ground. They’re slurring a little bit, the tiredness giving itself away through their speech. “… Someone might see you.”

They roll onto their side and yawn. “We can look for something in the morning. Stay with me.”

He resists the urge to groan. They’re talking nonsense, is what this really is. Wren will starve before they’re well enough — or conscious enough — to come with him. The worst of it is dying down, slowly but surely. The medication, mostly; Atlas sure can’t take any credit for it. But they’re far from anywhere near where they were, before it all. Their wounds will immobilize them for a while, at the least, if the last of this sickness is cut clean. They’re in no shape to be walking around, trying to avoid detection. They’ll get them both caught again, if they even try.

Atlas huffs out a small breath. It’s impossible, trying to reason with them when they’re like this. “You have to eat something.”

Wren shakes their head, their voice thick. “Don’t wanna eat right now anyways.” They slap a hand against the stone floor sloppily. “Just come lay down… you don’t have to sleep.”

He obliges, indulges them just because. Grunting a little, his sore side aching, as he lays himself down, flat. The chill is worse from down here, seeping through his clothes. It’s like ice along his skin, pulling the hairs along his neck pinstraight. He sighs to himself, quiet enough Wren will not notice. They’re mostly out by now, anyway. “You shouldn’t take that stuff on an empty stomach.”

“I’ll take it later…” They mumble, smiling a little. Their fingertips tap out rhythms along the stone tile.

He flips to face them. “You’re sick.” He mutters, worry cracking at his voice. He suddenly wishes for a different danger, something simpler. Someone to fight, something to run from. Anything else, than the mess he’s gotten them both into. He was never a healer, it wasn’t his designation. His knowledge doesn’t run past much more than the basic first aid he took as a child. Without the medication, he doesn’t know what he would have done. He isn’t meant for this.

Wren huffs, breaking down into a fit of weak hacking, mucus thick in their throat. “Yeah… but I’m getting better.” They say, breathing slow. Their lungs rattle within their chest, tired. The last after effects of the poison still move through them, careful, exhausting their senses. The colour has yet to return to their cheeks. “I’ve got you. Stay here. We’ll get food soon.”

They reach for his hand, close-eyed, fingers intertwining with his, gentle. Their touch is warm, clammy, but he doesn’t mind it. Wren’s expression relaxes, softens, within an instant, soothed by just the very feeling of his presence beside theirs. Its enough to dull the tension forming along his muscles, pull the distracted thoughts from his head. He squeezes their palm tightly. I’m here.

“Okay,” he murmurs finally, turning to stare up at the ceiling. He can't stand to watch them any longer. There’s something sick about it, continuing to watch them doze off, as he’s done so many times prior, eyes not moving as their breathing evens out and their nose presses into the ground. Feeling their heartbeat thumping along his wrist, he recognizes it, like a death wish. They’re so brittle. He can never hope to protect them. They’ll break before he ever manages to get close to it. He’s failed them yet.

“You should get some sleep.” He mumbles, closing his eyes. “Help conserve your energy.”

Wren hums dismissively and pulls Atlas’s hand closer to them, clutching it as they get comfortable again. “M’kay. You too. Don’t stay up all night.”

“I won’t,” he whispers.

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·

He didn’t want to come here.

He was against it completely. They have no right to walk through these front doors, to stumble their way through these decrepit, ancient halls, standing admist the enemy. Speaking to them, to these savages, allowing themselves to be so easily caught. He should have never come. He should have never allowed Wren to talk him into it, their soft, dark eyes, so pleading and desperate in the night; the squeeze of their hand in his, so weak, breaking down his barriers, softening him around the edges. Removing the last bit of sense he has left rattling around in his head.

He should have said no. He should have kept his word. He should have never listened to them in the first place, with all their helpless dreams of freedom and life and absolution. He should have known better. Nothing good will come from this. No one will understand. He wasn’t— he wasn’t built for this. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He was made to kill; kill or be killed. It’s all he’s ever known. Violence is a second nature, something innate. He’s not meant to be soft. 

He keeps pretending, foolishly, that he knows what he’s doing. Playing the medic, the caretaker. He wouldn’t know which way to go with a map straight in front of him. He relies, constantly, instinctively, on Wren’s own directions. Lost, always. He’s so lost. He doesn’t belong as part of this world. If there ever had been a part of him that was, it died a long time ago. He’s a weapon, a soldier. He’s meant to fight, he’s meant to obey. He should be bowing his head, pleading for forgiveness. He should be bending to someone else’s rule. 

Breathing hard, he presses himself up tighter against the alcove. The cool stone cuts into his back, sharp against his shoulder blades. It’s the only thing grounding him. His neck tingles, unavoidably painful, fire alight along his skin. The sensation works its way through to his chest, curls along his muscles. It’s agony, as sharp and as vivid as it was eleven years ago, when they threw him into that crypt, when they left him to die. He chokes, gasping against his own breath now, the church walls constricting against him, a cord around his throat. 

This was a mistake. He knows that now. He’s dug his own grave, forced himself into this endless hole. He can’t possibly go back. Not now, not ever. Wren is dependent on him, needy, and he cannot dare stray from their side. He cannot even consider it. He owes them his life; he owes them everything. He would be in one of their cells, rotting underground, if not for them. He’d be—

He’d be with Cato, away from this goddamned church. She’d never make him come here. She’d never have thought of it. Her fingers running through his hair, scratching at his scalp. She would have rewarded him. She’d have told him he was good, so good, and he’d have nodded and taken her praise just as easy, knelt down at her feet and bent his neck, bared it for her to do with as she pleased. He’d have done anything she asked. Anything. 

But he wouldn’t. He didn’t. He left, he abandoned her, he abandoned Ira. He’s been so, so, so bad and—

He shudders, full-body, clamps a hand over his mouth. The place where that man’s fingers pressed, electric, searing into his scalp, still aches, burns. He’ll be surprised if he didn’t fry his hair straight off. He’ll be lucky he didn’t make a mark. Lucky. The relief had washed over him with such an intensity he didn’t know what to do with it. Killer priest, eyes of fire, and he’d let him go. Mercy, in its truest form. He’s lucky, he’s oh-so lucky, that it was only a gentle burn to the temple, a slap to the wrist; punishment for daring to be caught. He could’ve killed him. He wouldn’t have even fought it. It would’ve been so easy for him, for all of them. It’s in their nature. Atlas wouldn’t have been able to even begrudge him for it. 

He should be dead. He deserves it, in one way or another, for coming here. Stepping inside this wretched place, dooming himself. This holy temple, with its shrines and artwork and blessed symbols, evil laid out before him, desecrating the halls. He shivers, uncontrollable, his body drawing in on itself. It’s giving up, self-destructing. He thinks he’s going to be sick. His bones will turn to ash and his blood will boil and melt. Unlike Wren, poison coursing through their veins, wounds tainting their innocence. No, the venom curling inside his chest now is one of his own, a birthright. He feels it now, slowing his heart. 

He’s really going to die here. 

· · ───────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────────── · ·

When he finally works up the courage to descend down that spiral staircase, made of its dark woven metal, old and creaking and crooked, buried within the cool depths of the basement — he finds Wren gone. 

Gone. They’re gone.

His heart skips a beat, mind racing. A million possibilities pass through his mind, each worse than the last. Someone has taken them, grabbed them while they slept. He left them vulnerable, left them exposed. They begged him not to. Begged him to stay. He’d thought he’d known better; he thought it was safe. He thought, he thought, he thought. The priest, their archangel, he had been down here earlier in the week, came out with blood on the cuff of his sleeve when he was finished. Yelling at that boy. Atlas had thought the punishments had come to a stop. Almost no one came down these halls since then. But no. He must have returned, stolen them. Taken them up to the higher levels, where they were to be executed, hung up along the rafters, strung along for all those sick fucks to watch in glee. They were going to whip them and slit their throat, drain the last bit of life from their eyes. Leave it all out on display.

Panic overtakes him then. Quick, rapid. He breathes sharply, eyes blown wide. Ice flows through his veins. Terror, sharp and real and petrifying, stops him entirely, keeps him still in his spot. He feels his heart begin to slow, the muscles in his neck constrict. The fear is so intense, overwhelming him in waves, no other thought pushes past through his mind. Wren is gone. Wren is dead. His own is imminent. He’ll deserve it, oh he’ll deserve it, for what he’s done. He lost them, lost them while they had put their trust in him, while he had lied. Betrayal, true and real. It poisons him. This is all his fault. Everything, always, will be his fault. 

Sudden arms wrap themselves around his stomach. He flinches, wild, almost knocks the person down entirely, fists tightening with an instinctive violence, until his eyes land upon a tuft of blue hair peeking out of a hood, a wetness forming on his shirt. 

Wren clings to Atlas, desperate, relief spreading through their limbs, instantaneous. Their knees give way from beneath them just as quick, body going limp. He has to catch them, stop them from falling. The relief has come to take the last slivers of their strength. “The hell is wrong with you,” they whisper, voice trembling, muffled against the fabric. A soft sob comes out, choked from their throat. 

A breath escapes him, gasping and shuddered. He blinks, slow, soaking up the touch, allowing Wren’s fingers to dig into his back, their cheek pressing to his side, weight heavy along his frame. His hands move, subconscious, trailing up and underneath their arms, around their back, up to cradle the nape of their neck. His thumb rubs patterns along their skin, brushing past the hair that falls there, limp and damp. He wipes the cool sweat back away, curls a heart just along their hairline. He holds them close for a moment too long. 

And then he’s drawing back, just as quick, eyes wide still, regarding them with an unmistakeable expression of worry, lines drawn harshly across his face. His hands move to cup their cheeks. “You… you shouldn’t be out of bed.” He says, weak, pupils dilated in his shock. 

Wren glares, brows furrowed over their eyes. The look they shoot him now is furious, indignant, tears brimming in their eyes. Their cheeks are flushed, terribly red, and with the drying streaks that still shine there, it appears as if they’ve been crying. 

“You shouldn’t be wandering off,” they bite, sniffling. “You said you’d stay.” 

“Sorry.” Atlas mutters, more absentminded than anything. The apology comes out automatically, the guilt smoothing itself back now that he has them back inside his arms. He’s already got them held tightly in his grip, a firm hand pressed between their shoulders, leading them back beneath the stairs. He helps them lay down, Wren’s stance wavering and weak on their feet. They sigh a little as they curl up again, nose pressing to the cool tile. A short, rattling cough breaks past their lips. Their eyes slip closed, resignation writing itself over their features. 

“You could’ve been killed.” 

Their fear has cut through the fog, the medication having worn off. Their voice is no more than a soft croak, and yet it still holds all the betrayal needed to sting. They’re lucid enough for it to be shameful. He casts his eyes away; he cannot dare to look. 

“You shouldn’t have gotten up, it’s dangerous.” Atlas snaps back, not meeting their gaze. He can feel it, their glare upon his cheek, the simmering rage boiling within their gut. His fingers have that persistent tremble, like an itch beneath his skin, as he pulls out food from his bag. His heart races, presses itself tightly against the cavities of his chest. It’s all he can do to square his expression, stabilize his voice. The anger comes to him easier than he means for it to. “You’re in no condition to be walking around on your own. Someone could’ve seen you — you could’ve gotten yourself hurt.” 

Wren huffs, shifting uncomfortably. They push themselves to lean against the wall, grunting front the strain. A bead of sweat slides its way down their neck, trailing towards their collarbone. Their skin is starkly pale beneath their dark clothes. “I could say the same to you. We’re in a bunker made of killers, Atlas. You’re not immune.” 

“And who’s idea was that?” 

Wren flinches instinctively at the venom. They’re more sensitive now than ever, eyes wide and teary. They look at him, effectively chastised. Guilt is worn easily, makes them look more pitiful than they already are. The bruises under their eyes give them a constant appearance of exhaustion, their head hung low. Atlas again has the sudden urge to help them back into laying down, wound them up in blankets. Wait, with bated breath, for sleep to catch up with them. Watch over them, protective, scanning for even the slightest twitch of discomfort, the murmuring under their breath, the beginnings of a nightmare.

He is the object of their discomfort now. The furrow in their brow, the pull of their mouth. Their voice is trembling as they attempt to speak again. It’s dulls any argument he could have mustered up. 

“I need you to be careful too.” They whisper. The fear is so evident upon their face he feels sick. They don’t belong here. Neither of them do, but Wren for all the entirely right reasons. They’re small. They’re unprepared. They wouldn’t know evil even if it spit straight in their face. They’re innocent, pure, in every form. They haven’t been at this long enough to not be. They shouldn’t be doing this at all. This sudden understanding is overwhelming, a constant ache in his chest. They don’t deserve this.

“I am,” Atlas speaks, voice low. He stares at his hands, guilt creeping into his voice for only a second.“You need food. You’re sick.” 

He’s quick to divert their attention. He slides over a bun, sets it in front of them. It’s plain, unbuttered, but undoubtedly fresh. It has to have come from one of the raids, stolen straight from the bakery, right off the rack. It’s better food than either of them have eaten in the past two weeks. Wren picks it up gingerly, eyes it. Cautiousness gives itself away through their tense shoulders, the way their gaze flickers back towards him. “Where did you get this?” 

“Upstairs. I stole some things.” He says, leaning over to look at the pill bottles he stole earlier. They’re heavy in his hands, the medicine rattling around inside. Atlas examines it, frowning. He can’t make himself look at them.

Wren doesn’t appear pleased. They bite back whatever remark they have, either way, sniffling and swiping the back of their hand over their leaking nose. “You should eat too,” they mumble, nibbling on the end of their bun. 

“Later.” He shrugs them off. The pills shake out into his palm, these small gray capsules that seem to shine blue under the light. He glances towards the small print upon the plastic container again, scrunches his nose up at it. He can barely recall exactly how he’s supposed to deal with this, much less how much medication he should offer. The whole thing is confusing. Wren would know, probably. They seem to know more about all of this than they actually let on. 

Atlas sucks in a sharp breath. “I think you’re due for another dose…” he murmurs, talking to himself more than he is Wren. “I’m pretty sure.” 

Wren shoots him a look that goes unnoticed. That too, seems to annoy them. “Yeah, let me eat. Then I’m good to take more.” They say, taking another bite. They close their eyes and tip their head back. “Your sweater? I’m cold.” 

Atlas grabs it for them, drapes it across their shoulders. They shiver underneath his touch, lean closer, almost subconsciously, starved for even the gentlest graze across their skin. Their shoulders balance out a little, the lines in their face softening. They look younger, like this, with him to watch over them. More like he remembers them.

“I brought blankets,” he adds, just as quiet, tugging it from out of his satchel. He presses the bundle nearer to them, helps them tuck their legs underneath to soft fabric. 

“Thank you,” they say softly. 

Atlas hums, watching them carefully now. They’re more coherent than he remembers, more coherent than they’ve been for a long while. The fear might’ve done that, he thinks. But the sleep had to help with it more. All they’ve done since they both arrived here is sleep, curled up on the floor. This is the first time they’ve really been up for more than a few minutes. But their cheeks are still flushed, and they still appear peaked. There’s a greenish tint to their complexion. They must be nauseous. They chew slowly, tentatively, eyes closed. He prays the medicine fixes that. He doesn’t know how much longer he can go on, caring for them, inside this endless dungeon. He can’t stay here like this. 

When Wren finishes eating, they hold out a hand. “Pills.” 

Atlas wordlessly drops them into their palm and places the water bottle in front of them. Wren takes it, grateful, downs them all in one massive gulp. They grimace, pulling a face. Their throat has to hurt. The pills couldn’t have been very pleasant, either. They don’t complain, though, just drop the water bottle back down, half-empty. Their posture is slumped, almost reliant on the wall to keep them straight. 

Their eyes flick back towards his. “Sit with me?” 

Begrudgingly, he takes his place by their side. 

Wren sighs, allows their head to tip down and rest against his shoulder. Their eyes flutter back closed, a soft breath escaping past their lips. He can feel the air coming out from their nose, ticklish against his skin. “You should lay down and rest.” He mutters, staring straight ahead. “You need the sleep.” 

“You need sleep too,” they clip back without missing a beat. The typical heat their voice should carry is missing. A yawn draws out of them instead. 

“I can sleep later.” He hums, quiet. He pats at his lap, nudging them, beckoning at them to lay down. 

Wren has no argument. They grunt, sliding down and settling against his thigh. It takes them only a moment to get comfortable, shifting and pressing their cheek along his jeans. They’re out not long after. They always are. With his presence beside them, all their worries dissipate. If only he could say the same. 

Atlas stares out into the darkness, the skin on the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably. There’s something empty about it all.

── ⟡ ˙

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A big thanks to @ohagany for helping me write this chapter ⋆˚࿔