Title:: His Heart
Author:: AislinCeivun
Fandom:: Atlantis (BBC)
Characters:: Dion/Critias, Hercules, Pythagoras
Rated:: PG
Word count:: 2 600
Disclaimer:: You can bet that I don't own anything from the show. If I did, there certainly wouldn't be any killing off of awesome minor characters.
Genre:: Angst, Tragedy, Gen or Pre-Slash
Warnings:: episode tag, spoilers for 2x04, missing scenes, canon compliant, unfulfilled romance, character death, depression, self-destructive behaviour
A/N:: Beta-read by the wonderful deinonychus_1. Thank you so much!
This is the product of my shitty coping mechanism. I'm sorry for adding more pain to your angst. Believe me, this is not the kind of coda I planned on writing to HW.
Summary::
Loss can break more than just a heart. (Canon-compliant coda to His Worth. Dion/Critias pre-slash, set during and after 2x04.)
His Heart
.
"General Dion didn't allow me to be part of the convoy."
Critias looks up to squint at Barak. The man seems angry and affronted, the lines on his face unusually deep and his mouth pulled into a thin line under the curls of bushy facial hair. What strikes Critias the most however is the pure worry he feels streaming from his friend in a terribly unnerving way.
"So they are going through with the travel to Aegina, then?" he asks, heart sinking into his stomach.
Barak nods grimly. "The General advised the Queen against it, but Prince Telemon is adamant on getting his father's blessing before the marriage. In the end, Queen Ariadne decided to take the journey."
"Surely she can see that it's not wise. Pasiphae is still on the loose with the Colcheans at her service. They could attack them any time!"
"Yes. The General said he is very careful with his planning and keeps the route to himself but… I've still got a nasty feeling about this." Barak stares down at his drink with a hard gaze before slamming his fist onto the table abruptly. "Damnation! I wish he'd let me go with them. I'd feel much better."
Critias opens his mouth but bites on his tongue in the last minute to keep the words from spilling out. There would be no use in sharing them.
He wouldn't feel better. He, too, has that terrible unease squirming sickeningly in his guts… but the only way to stop it would be to have both Barak and Dion stay in Atlantis. And that is not an option. He understands it. His friends are soldiers; they have offered their lives for the protection of the Queen and they wouldn't sit still knowing that she is possibly in danger.
But Critias is selfish. He wants his friends to be safe.
He hates himself a bit for being glad that Dion didn't let Barak join the convoy.
"You are still healing from the siege," Critias points out, trying very hard not to let his relief shine through. "You haven't had time to get used to one-hand combat. Dion just wants-"
"The Queen to be in the best hands, which I am currently not. Yes, I know. It still stings."
"When do they leave?" Critias asks, partly to take Barak's mind off the rejection and partly because he desperately wants to know.
"At first light tomorrow."
Critias' throat closes off.
Tomorrow. Dion leaves tomorrow.
It's only been a week since he last saw the man - during the tournament, at which Critias admittedly spent more time stealing glances at the general than the warriors in the arena - but a lot more since he last spoke with him. And even that had been short. After the siege, they went back to their separate worlds as it was expected. It was by mere chance that Critias ran into Dion a few nights later when the man was patrolling the streets, and they exchanged a few words. They saw each other at the marketplace a week later, and Dion nodded at him with a small smile. But that was all.
Critias constantly aches in places he hadn't known he could hurt, and no amount of medical knowledge can put a stop to these feelings.
Dion is a leader. A general. His place is by the Queen, as her loyal and fierce protector, and Critias knows that there is no better suited man for the role than Dion.
He still hates the situation.
Barak tears him out of his thoughts by putting an empty cup in front of Critias and pouring ale into it. Critias blinks and glances up at his friend.
Barak raises his cup and regards Critias with a hard look. "Here's to hoping that they reach Aegina safely."
"Yeah." His mouth has trouble working around the words. "And that they all come back in one piece."
The ale tastes bitter on his tongue.
x
Against his better judgement, Critias goes to the citadel next morning. He woke when it was still dark and concluded that not being able to sleep properly must be a sign that he should see the convoy off. Upon arriving, he wanders around the courtyard, watching the soldiers stroll around, preparing for the journey.
"Critias?"
He spins around so fast he almost gets dizzy from it. Dion watches him with a raised eyebrow, surprise flickering in his gaze. "What are you doing here?"
"I just... I heard from Barak that the convoy leaves with the Queen this morning." I had a terrible night out of fear for your safety, so I thought I should come here and see you off. It doesn't make me feel any better but it's still better than staring at the walls at home. He doesn't say any of those out loud but Dion's gaze still softens as if he'd heard it.
"We should reach Aegina in four days. I won't rest until we have the Queen behind safe walls, out of the Colcheans' reach."
"I'm sure you're doing your best to protect her."
"Yes." Dion's pale blue eyes are hard with resolve. "I am."
An ice-cold feeling settles in Critias' belly as he locks eyes with the man. Like a tiny leaf trembling in a sudden wind because it can sense the upcoming storm, Critias hates that he can't do anything to stop it from arriving.
Without meaning to, he opens his mouth and asks, "Why does she have to go to Aegina? Doesn't the prince care about her safety? Doesn't he understand the gravity of her situation?"
As soon as the words are out, Ciritas shuts his mouth and drops his gaze, hands coiling into fists. Shit. He spoke out of turn. He, a mere peasant, shouldn't question the future King Consort - especially not in the face of the Queen's advisor.
But Dion doesn't seem affronted. He just studies Critias' face (Critias doesn't see it but he can feel that heavy gaze resting on him with every fibre of his being) then lets out a long sigh.
"I don't know, Critias. Starting on this journey goes against every instinct I have. But the Queen has made her decision and it is not my place to question it. My job is to stand by her side and make sure that no harm will come to her."
What he's saying is that he would lay down his life for the Queen without a second thought, if the situation called for it. Critias understands. He respects - even admires - the man for it.
That doesn't stop him from hating it violently.
"I have a bad feeling about this, Dion."
"So do I." Dion makes a troubled expression. He turns toward the citadel, something dark clouding his eyes. "So do I."
Critias follows Dion's gaze. The convoy seems to be ready for departure; the soldiers are all standing by their horses, waiting for the Queen and her betrothed. When one of the soldiers leads his horse away and it reveals three very familiar figures sitting on the bottom of the stairs, Critias' eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"What are they doing there?"
For a second, Dion seems just as surprised as Critias, but he quickly overcomes the feeling.
"I would wager that Jason persuaded the Queen to let him and his friends join the convoy."
Is that a hint of relief he can detect in Dion's voice? The man certainly seems pleased. But then again, Dion appreciates fine soldiers and Jason had apparently earned the general's respect during the siege and the tournament.
Before Critias could say another word, Dion turns back to him. "I have to go."
Cold claws tear into Critias' chest. They take hold of his heart so hard he would swear it stops beating and is now just bleeding out behind his ribs. He desperately wants to grab Dion and tell him not to go… but he can't do that. He can't.
"Be safe," is all he says instead. And if his voice cracks a bit, the general is kind enough not to mention it.
A warm, calloused hand touches the top of his head and Dion's fingers rake through Critias' hair. They are gone in a second and then Dion steps back instantly, but the lingering warmth of his touch is enough to keep the dreaded cold inside him at bay.
"See you later, Critias."
With a last, solemn nod, Dion leaves.
"Yeah," Critias sighs, looking long after the man. "See you later."
x
'Later' never comes.
Only four people come back to Atlantis: the Queen in tattered clothes, badly wounded; Jason, wounded and dragging a leg behind himself; Hercules, sweat rolling down his face as he supports his injured friends; and Pythagoras, pale as a ghost and barely standing on his feet.
Critias quickly loses them to the panicked crowd gathering around them but it doesn't matter. All the blood leaves his face, his legs nearly give in and wind blows in his ears so much he thinks he has gone deaf.
His heart stops beating. Everything stills.
There is nothing but him, shocked and frozen, screaming soundlessly with every part of his being.
Of course, nobody pays him any attention.
x
It was a trap.
It was a bloody trap.
Telemon, meaning to murder the Queen, gave information to Pasiphae so that the Colcheans could take the Atlantean convoy by surprise. They killed all the soldiers within moments, fatally wounding the general as well. Still, the general held on for one more day and didn't meet his end until Pasiphae had closed in on them a second time.
His body had to be left behind. It's a miracle that Jason and his friends could get the Queen back to Atlantis at all.
Critias knows the story by now.
Everyone knows it in Atlantis. People talk about little else. They mourn the fallen and pray for the Queen.
Critias feels dead inside. There is so much regret and grief welling up in him that he thinks one word could make them overflow and shatter him to nothing. The shards of his heart dig into his insides painfully with every breath he takes. Sometimes he would give anything for not having to breathe anymore.
"I'm sorry," Barak murmurs quietly the following night. He holds Critias' arms while Critias throws up at a shadowy alleyway. Too much alcohol on an empty stomach is apparently a bad combination. "But you have to pull yourself together. He wouldn't want this. He died protecting the Queen, like he had sworn to do. He would want to be remembered for that. Pull yourself together, kid. Please."
What Barak doesn't understand is that there is nothing left to pull together.
Critias is a broken man.
There are times when he is aware just how ridiculous this is. He had lost people he cared about before. And Dion… he hardly knew the man at all. It makes no sense to feel so destroyed by his death.
But trying to convince himself of this doesn't make it real.
He is broken.
x
Critias lays wide awake in bed. Silvery moonlight peaks in through the window, casting ghostly lines and shadows onto his still body.
He doesn't cry. He never does. But his eyes sting, especially when he recalls the buzzing warmth that spread out in his body when Dion touched his head that last time. Caressing it, even. He clings to the memory and shivers from the ghost feeling of fingers raking through his hair.
He recalls Dion smiling at him when they saw each other at the marketplace. He recalls hearing him say his name for the first time. He recalls tending to his wound on that first night of the siege.
Critias saved Dion's life that night. He saved Dion, and that act should have brought the man more time.
Not just a few weeks.
See you later, Critias. The voice echoes in his head, soft and deep and warm, despite the fact that it carries so much weight it could make the earth break in two. See you later.
Critias curls in on himself and bites his tongue until coppery taste floods his mouth.
He wishes he had told Dion how he feels.
x
Critias starts gambling again.
It's far too easy to fall into his old role; to appear charming and confident, not caring one bit about the world. Even though he is dead inside, his old tricks haven't lost their magic. He plays the tavern folk like he's done so all his life, sans the past month. By the middle of the night, he has more than enough winnings to last him for a while.
It's too easy. Not enough of a challenge.
His dices fell onto the floor and roll away. He's not quite sure how that happens - he can't say for sure that it wasn't him who knocked them off the table in the first place. Not that it matters. What matters is the angry "Wait, look! The bastard cheated!" cry that tears into the air.
Critias feels weirdly detached as the furious guys drag him out to the street and start beating him up. Their punches and kicks don't even hurt. Not more than the constant ache in his chest, anyway.
But suddenly, it's all gone. Somebody barks threateningly at the men and they scatter away within minutes. A big arm winds around Critias and pulls his limp body up from the ground.
"You stupid oaf," he hears Hercules' voice. He sounds angry. "The hell are you doing?"
Critias lets Hercules pull him to his feet but then shoves him away and snarls at him. "Mind your own business."
He is too drunk to care. Or maybe not drunk enough.
Either way, he staggers home and falls into bed. Sleep doesn't find him for a long time, however. He just buries his face into the hard, dust-smelling pillow and wishes he could shed a tear. Maybe he would feel better if he finally cried.
But no matter how desperately he wishes to, he still can't.
Maybe the loss of Dion has broken more than just his heart.
x
To his credit, Pythagoras seems only mildly surprised at finding Critias at his doorstep. Critias can't really meet his eyes but scrambles up from the floor and forces himself to raise his head. He chose the time for his visit carefully. He knows that both Hercules and Jason are away.
He knows he needs help.
"I've changed my mind," he says, and is startled by how hoarse his voice sounds. It's as if he hadn't spoken in days. Maybe that's why his throat feels so tight and raw, like he'd been screaming for weeks without stopping.
Critias swallows thickly, and it splits his throat in two. He fixes his gaze on the ground and hopes that Pythagoras didn't forgot about what he'd said - offered - after the siege. Hopes that the offer still stands.
"Do you want to talk about it?" "No." "Alright. Find me if you ever change your mind."
Critias risks a glance up.
Pythagoras' blue eyes are deep and sad and symphatetic. His understanding crashes into Critias with full force, nearly making him sick. The fractured remains behind his ribs give a painful thud at that look.
Pythagoras doesn't smile as he nods and walks past Critias to open the door wide.
"Come in."
Critias goes.
A/N: Thank you for reading.
Damn, I really wanted to write a happy continuation to HW. :( I'm so saddened by what happened you wouldn't believe.
Maybe I will write an AU coda as well sometime in the future - just to make all this pain stop. We'll see.