A/N: Hello friends and readers alike, and happy December! This is officially my kick-off fic for 12 Days of Ficmas, and I have to say I'm pretty proud of how it turned out. I mean, it's absolutely insane, but I had a lot of fun writing it and I hope you enjoy it!
I would put light trigger warnings on this fic for violence and discussions of death / suicidal ideation. It's not graphic at any point I would say (I describe it mostly like a little darker than later HP or PJO books), but I want y'all to go into this with the best sense of what you might get as possible. Take care of yourselves!
Excited for what the rest of Ficmas has to offer, and very excited to share this piece with you. :)
Fire. He's on fire.
Nothing else seems to register but that all-consuming fact. Maybe because there isn't anything else, nothing but the searing pain erupting across every inch of his body. It's a burning pain, yet a persistent ache. He's not even a he anymore. He's not sure what he is, if he's anything at all but a thousand broken pieces, scattered and searing and far from recognizable.
He doesn't know who he is, or where he is, or whether there is anything else to know. All he knows is that everything hurts, and he wants it to stop. He wants it to end.
Then he hears her.
Or, at least he thinks it's a her. It's muffled, far off, drowned out by the inferno. Yet somehow, it breaks through.
Somehow, he hears her.
She says a phrase, one breath, but it's still muffled and he can't make out the actual word. But it's familiar, so sharply known to whatever vague remnants of him are left that it seems to snap things back into focus. For a moment, all of the pain ceases, coming to a standstill to make room for this one voice.
"Please," she exhales. It's stunningly clear, reverberating around him and pushing the turmoil further away. Giving him the chance to reorient, to search for the sense of self that's been so violently worn away he's not sure if there's a point in trying.
But there is. There has to be, if she's able to cut through the chaos right to him. If she can find him even when he can't find himself.
She takes a second to breathe, and in that shaky inhale the entire world seems to brush by him. Fleeting, just out of grasp, but promising. Existent. Something outside of the encompassing nothing.
In a burst of clarity, he sees her. Maybe it's one instance, maybe it's a thousand moments moving so fast he can't comprehend them all. But he can visualize her—effortless smile, crinkled nose, bright brown eyes that he knows he could get lost in. A comforting tilt of the head, and an expression that conveys more warmth than he thinks he's ever known.
He can't remember who she is. He can't even remember who he is, if he's anybody at all. But he can remember the feeling of her so vividly it's almost a brand new ache all its own. The sense of belonging, the lightness that permeated even the heaviest of days, the gentle simplicity of something so profound.
Suddenly, he can feel something else.
Cool relief, first a single drop. Then another. Soon enough it's a downpour, soaking him to his core and washing away all the nothing. Like a summer rain.
Somehow, he knows that's exactly what it is.
As brief as the clarity lasts, the image of her is burned in his memory. In spite of all the pain still invading every inch of him, now he feels the urge to fight back. He has to, because somewhere beyond this she's there. Waiting for him. Wherever and whatever he may be now.
There's a point. There's a reason. There's a promise, and he doesn't intend to be the one to break it.
She holds the inhale, bringing everything to a halt. Suspending him in an in-between state, although he doesn't understand what's waiting at either end. Then, she exhales one last plea.
"Come back to me."
He will. If she wants him to, he will.