"I'm sorry."
"I know."
"I'm sorry."
He had never asked to be reunited with those he cared for in life once death claimed him. He knew he'd be broken, knew that he could never recover from what helming for so long had done to him. He would fidget near constantly, clench his jaw and sometimes jerk his limbs closer to himself, as if afraid they'd be gone if he were not attentive enough. He gnawed his lip bloody so often his companion had resorted to taking his face in his hands and pressing his thumb against his teeth until he was able to stop. At times, his vision went entirely dark and he was plunged back into the darkness She encased him in. His breath would stop short and everything would ache, the scars left over would throb and pulse with pain right down to his bones. It wasn't fair that they had to deal with him, that the afterlife was so cruel, so forceful.
He could not apologise enough.
"You don't need to," he had only opened his mouth, about to apologise for zoning out and not speaking for such a long period of time. "I know. There is nothing for you to be sorry for, to wish to right. We are weary, even now, if not more tired than ever before. It is time for rest, do not spend energy repeating what you know I'm aware of, my friend." His instinct was to say he was sorry, but he tightened his jaw and let his head drop against the other male's shoulder.
The Signless had grown exhausted. He had waited so long for them to come, for those from their lifetime to join him in death, alone and scared, uncertain of what everything meant for him. He had lost some patience, seemed at a loss for words at times. It was foreign, it was odd, but had the Psiioniic not lost himself in a tangle of wires and a twisted smile?
His confidence was gone. Sarcasm was no longer attainable, not while he was so anxious, so jumpy, all but afraid to make a move or speak a single word. For countless sweeps, he faced punishment, fear, slavery. Not once, had he broken under Her hold, let Her suffocate that which he was out of him, but death had fractured something beyond repair. He could feel the obstruction, the change, the difficulty - He knew what he was and what he was not and, simultaneously, could not do a single thing to correct himself. He found everything acting on it's own accord, every nervous twitch, every word, even his mind was so wound into bioware's constricting hold and hooked so harshly into machinery's workings that he could no longer free himself.
He was lost, he was trapped, and he was scared.
Time passed but he knew not of it, only realised such when the Signless stirred once more, gently tightening his hold around his shoulders with a quiet grunt. Had he slept beside his friend, or had he remained awake? The Psiioniic was unsure, but did not question it all too terribly, already feeling paranoia rippling through his organs roughly. His head swam and a headache bursted against his temples, his vision darkened and, for a moment, he blindly clutched onto his friend's hand and held onto his fingers as if a wriggler.
"You're hurt." Was he? He glanced down, puzzled as his brows furrowed and he gazed upon his hands. He'd been scraping his nails over the scars, had torn flesh in a few places. Nothing serious, nothing that he could feel, but he'd hurt his friend. He heard it in his voice, opened his mouth to comment on how fine he was, to snort and convince him to laugh it off as he patched it up himself, but all that came out was an apology. He crumpled forward and tangled a hand in his hair, fingers pressing roughly at his scalp.
The Signless hushed him as he carefully mended his wounds.
"I wish I weren't alive."
"This is death we are in, my friend."
"I wish we'd never died."
"Wishing for s-"
"I'm sorry." He should have known to keep his mouth shut by then. She never liked it when he spoke out of line, why would the Signless wish to converse with him? Slumping back, the ocher blood shut his eyes and tried to relax. His body was always so tense - If he focused too hard, he'd feel all the muscles and tendons taunt and tangled, anchoring him to himself and keeping him from simply sliding apart. It reminded him of being trapped and he did not appreciate it.
He did not respond when the Signless asked him if he were alright.
The Dolorosa tried to take care of him. She knew how to nurture, how to mother and love. She was so worn, though, clutching him, the Signless, the Disciple all to her chest and just keeping them close at odd intervals. Sometimes, she would start shouting if some of the highbloods got too close and, once, she'd dragged the Psiioniic away without allowing a word in when a conversation had been struck up with a seadweller of a lower cast than Her. He had not minded, but he believed her mad in some part of his mind that thought consciously enough.
They were all so broken apart, so hurt and war torn, that it was no surprise to find the Dolorosa sobbing into her dress after most encounters with the pirate queen.
If he were to be likened to a broken mechanism in a large network of gears, the Disciple was a watch that had been brutally tortured past recognition. She would scream, sometimes, without any real reason to, latch onto her love and babble about something or other. The Signless would calm her down and hold her close, but even in their sanest moments, everything done seemed half hearted. The Psiioniic and her often sat together quietly and, once, he forgot all of the horrid events that had taken place when she whispered about how she felt as if she were trapped elsewhere. He did not feel alone, almost as if he and the Disciple were alive and well, undistorted and happy to some extent, sitting beside eachother and laughing, eating, hunting. Sleeping close to their family and telling dark stories of the north as the sunrise approached and coherency was irrelevant. When he had lifted his head and gone to softly say that he had missed her, she had already shoved her face against her knees and clutched them close, snarling and growling and fighting back tears and madness. He did not know what to do but apologise and leave when she so requested it of him.
Death had locked them away and broken them beyond repair, but at least he knew they were all somewhere, even if not directly showcased.
The idea that he just had to be careful as he removed the bandages and and unfurled them, careful not to let the skin or scabs rip, was comforting. That all that he required was a gentle, steady hand that knew how to uncover the long old, half healed wounds to carefully cleanse them of their infection and old cells. That they were all okay under all the dried blood and puss, that everything would scar over and they'd just have to look a little bit harder to see past the subtle imperfection was comforting.
Unfortunately, he was no medical man, and he knew not another that could wash away his ills so he may do so for those he loved.