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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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

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