2. beautiful fire
morning.
oars slice into the sea, silent but for the trickle and splash of the water dripping from them as they meet air again. wind cries in the distance like a long forgotten spirit guarding the looming icebergs, but it's background noise to the occasional cracking and splitting of ice crashing into the ocean.
this place is haunted. by what, he doesn't know. maybe it's outside, maybe it's in his head, but then again, there's not much that's real anymore.
the other, behind him, pays no heed to the smothering stillness. likely thinks he's above it, above the spirits and above nature even though he's been put in his place. he's let him out of his line of sight as a signal that he wants to trust him, but he's acutely aware of the warm breath against the back of his neck as the other leans forward for his canteen. the other either can't sense his discomfort, or he chooses to ignore it.
he doesn't understand why he's let the other so close to him — physically, yes, but each day he wedges himself further and further into his thoughts, his mind, a hook digging deeper with each effort to tear it free. the other is the cause of all this, why he can't sleep, the beautiful flames that consume the town, the dagger that rips open the soldier's chest to expose frail, screaming life on the inside.
he wants to believe that the other is a victim too, brainwashed, manipulated, just doing what he thought was right. it makes him feel naive, but he can't let himself be, they are both adults, grown men who have done unspeakable things because they were molded to believe that they must.
there's no cure like being understood.
—
evening.
he's racing across snow, boots breaking ice, throwing up splashes of half-melted slush. the shouting, the figures on the edges of his vision, they are a blur to him as he maneuvers across the barren landscape.
his nimbleness as he swiftly traverses the icy terrain, it all comes back, muscle memory. the other's inevitable nature, it has come back too.
the beautiful fire that consumes the town.
—
night.
did you do it? he screams. he's ready to flay this disgrace, this monster of a human being, but more than that, he blames himself for bringing this man home with him. indirectly or not, it's all his fault. it's fear, not anger, that drives him.
the other slumps limply against the wall, wheezing and unable to answer. he wants to kick him across the face, get him to talk, but he reins in his restless agitation.
he spits back a venomous reply in between coughs, you are foolish to even consider myself as an option. why would I destroy my own work, let alone trap myself inside a burning building? I do not have a death wish. if I did, I would not be here.
—
dawn.
the bed opposite from his is a new installment. they lie facing away from each other, separated by the gulf that is the floor, might as well be a deep, snaking canyon in his mind.
touch. his skin aches.
away, it wasn't a concern, there were larger things to worry about. here, it's home, and everything that was should still be there to welcome him back. the longer he spends in the town, the more what should be right feels wrong, what's wrong feels right. brothers in arms dead, children off to deal with something more important than this pitiful, frozen village.
and, of course, as always, she is not here.
but the other is, and he can't get it off his mind. he hates his residual desire more than his sympathy. he could split the job, get away from him, but he is selfish. or perhaps he thinks that he has simply not suffered enough.
bleary-eyed, he rolls out of bed. he watches the other slumbering peacefully for a moment, won't let himself be fooled by appearances. how average he looks among the sheets that obscure his body, most of his face. how he could be anyone. how inviting it would be, if that were true.
he permits himself to place a hand on the other's shoulder. get up, he says. I'm taking you hunting with my men.
—
evening.
this shouldn't be happening. how is anything dry enough to burn here? how would the other have started one to begin with, he's refused to learn how to build one anyway. it would hurt his foolish pride.
gray smoke curls into the sky and stings his eyes, and he's flashing back, paralyzed. this new portion of the village, the one they've been rebuilding, is up in flames, and it threatens to spread to the whole town. the other, most likely, is long gone.
mistake, mistake, mistake rings in his head and again he's giving orders, making unfiltered decisions without any conscious part of him approving. I want men searching the perimeter, I want the fire out, we must find him, the culprit must be caught.
later, he'll reconsider, but in the moment, there is no doubt in his mind that the other is the perpetrator. nowhere is safe, not here, not the rest of the world. every place is a hunting ground. he's never gotten over any of it, try as he might. sometimes, you just have to give in and bend to the memory's will.
smoke clogs his nostrils and his eyes are tearing up, he's rushing into the inferno, doesn't care if he lives or dies. he doesn't know who the other is anymore, in his head the identities he's assigned him overlap and merge into one. the echo of her, the heartless mass murderer, the human he knows is inside.
fire scorching his fingertips, muddy, melting slush beneath his feet, oppressive heat filling the air and raking his skin, he finds the other barely responsive on the floor of a tent.
let him burn, screams a voice from the back of his mind. the other's eyes are dull when they lock gazes, neck hardly able to support his head. not pitiful, not weak, but human. mortal. he's seeing her again, and forcing back his misgivings, he drags the figure from the flaming tent, into a shallow, filthy puddle between dwellings. he shouldn't be as worried as he is, and he realizes how selfish he is, selfish to subject his people to so much as this man's presence. he's warping his own perceptions to view the other as better than he truly is, and it's not helping him overcome the traumas that haunt him.
it's not worth it, and he leaves him in the puddle, unconscious. he has to put his people first, and he rejoins them to extinguish this entity of marvelous destruction.
—
morning.
the second boat pulls up beside them. they've been keeping their distance, and he wonders what they want. wide, staring eyes and hushed whispers tell him that they're talking about the other and have finally gathered the courage to approach them. he's able to catch their gaze before the other notices.
we're heading east, nylas says, to the peninsula. hopefully the fish'll be biting. you're free to come along if you'd like. it would be unwise to stay alone with him.
he scowls. I'm perfectly capable of handling the prisoner by myself, he spits. he's angrier than he should be, and he doesn't know if it's because of this implication of weakness, or the insinuation that the other means him harm.
chief teach you how to make a fire yet? yana asks, the first time any of his people, aside from himself, have addressed the other of their own free will. neglect, forced interaction when absolutely imperative — but now they have graduated to taunts.
insolent boy, hisses the other. in any other circumstance, I would be the one teaching you a lesson.
yana smiles uncomfortably, a single nervous bark escaping his mouth.
that was unnecessary, he says, both of you. nylas, we'll be fine on our own.
—
night.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. the other is the only person with him, but he's apologizing to everyone at once. hands tangled in his hair, bodies pressed together, he won't let himself look him in the eye. his heart thuds in his chest, is it the adrenaline still rushing through his veins, or their proximity on the very same bed they shared years ago?
he knows he isn't seeing what's there, but he lets himself wallow in this half-illusory view of the person he's made the mistake of letting back into his life.
weren't you the one who said I couldn't touch you? the other asks. he can hear the smirk in his words, feel his face move against his own to accommodate the smug grin. it means he's back to normal, relatively unharmed, at least.
forget it, he says, just for today.
thank you, he responds, words soft. the other's hand sneaks underneath his shirt, caressing his back, and it sends a tremor of fear and ecstasy through his body. he hates that he feels this way, wants him on some level, wants to be with one of the identities he's assigned him when he knows that his many faces are inseparable. the other speaks again, thank you for saving me… for believing me when no one else would have.
he wishes that he could say that there's something off in his tone, but it's genuine, caring. I'm going to investigate, he promises. an attempt to frame you — and an attempt on your life — it cannot go unpunished.
he inhales the scent of smoke that clings to both of them, beneath that of the mud and the icy water. the beautiful fire that consumes the town — it will be his.
