Stormy Night
by Maiji/Mary Huang

They screamed. Even he nearly jumped, wincing at the deafening clap of thunder. It sounded as though the entire sky were being ripped apart.

The torn canvas above their heads did little to shelter them from the downpour, much less shield them from the noise. He heard a harsh yell from outside, and knew Dias was urging the horses on, driving the wagon faster through the storm. Claude steeled his nerves. The worst possible thing he could do now would be to lose any bit of confidence, especially in front of them.

A wheel hit something in the road and the wagon jerked hard, throwing them off-balance and causing several to cry out loud at the impact. Bracing himself against the sides, he checked to make sure they were alright.

They huddled together, whimpering and shivering, drenched to the bone, hair matted to their heads. It was all he could do not to count the terrified, wide-eyed faces, to try to ignore it, to not think about the numbers, the goddamned numbers, because it wasn't important right now.

He couldn't let it be important right now.

He concentrated on stopping the shaking of the sword in his hand. The sight of it scared them, he knew, but he couldn't put it away. Not until they were out of this stretch of the woods, at the very least.

Finally it became too much for one of them, one of the ones closest to him, the wetness and the darkness and the cold and the thunder and the raw memory of recent events. She clenched her fists and eyes shut and began to wail.

"It's okay, it's okay," he consoled, wrapping his free arm around her, around as many of them as he could, as the wailing spread. "It'll be over soon. We're going to be home soon."

A small voice in the back of his mind told him that these kids were going to need a change of clothing for reasons other than the rain. Another small part in the back of his mind wanted to scream and howl along with them.

It was a dark and stormy night, thought Claude, and the cliché made him want to vomit.

--

He managed to hold it in until they had retreated to the safety of the guest quarters. He even managed to wait until Dias had shut the door behind them.

Then he blew up.

"The worst part," he raged, "was that they didn't say anything. Nothing. They couldn't even blame me!"

He wandered the lamplit room aimlessly, trying to find something to punch, to kick, to absorb his physical anger. But everywhere he turned, he was faced with nothing more deserving of hostility than four plain walls, a small bed, a pair of wobbly chairs, and a worn, cloth-covered table with wildflowers in an old vase. They surrounded him, reminders of destitute hospitality: a gratefulness unjustified, in his mind, because of their failure. He couldn't touch anything.

Dias leaned against the door, arms folded, watching him in his fruitless search. "They had no reason to. It wasn't your fault."

He stopped pacing, whirling around to glare at his companion. The logic of the statement only spurred his blind fury. "It was my fault! The bastards did it because I was there. To spite me. To spite both of us, goddammit."

"No." The older man shook his head once, vehemently. "They could have done it regardless. You gave them what was coming to them."

"That doesn't change anything!"

"Yes, it does. Six are alive."

He hated himself for thinking it, for saying it. "And three are dead."

"Six are alive," Dias repeated.

"You can't say that six are worth more than the three who died!"

The other man didn't reply immediately, merely looking away. Claude balled his hands up into useless fists, ashamed at himself for the misdirected outburst. The last sentence had drained away all his anger, leaving only an overwhelming sense of sickness and sorrow.

"I can't," Dias finally allowed. "And I can't say that three are worth more than the six who are alive."

"I know," Claude muttered, tilting his head back and pressing his fists against his closed eyes. "I know. I'm sorry. I … just wish they were all alive."

Dias rubbed one hand across his brow, then turned to face the wall. "It was my fault. I killed them."

Claude straightened. "No," he said instantly, more sure of that than anything. "That's not true."

"I was right beside you. I didn't stop them."

"No."

"Didn't I?"

"No," he said for the third time, almost pleading. "You … You tried."

The older man turned back, fixing him with a hard stare. "And you were twiddling your thumbs?"

He couldn't say anything. He didn't know why he was so desperate to pin the blame on himself.

The hardness in Dias' eyes faded. "This is foolish and pointless," he murmured. "The only ones responsible are dead. You must accept that. Accept that- " the mercenary paused, searching for the words. "That you can't always do everything."

Claude remained silent.

"Sometimes, you simply aren't fast enough. Or strong enough. No matter how much you try. Don't hang yourself with guilt that isn't there."

The older man stopped, awkwardly. "… You know all this, Claude," he said. His voice remained steady, but there was an undertone of discomfort, as if he'd given in to an impulsive sense of urgency and now found himself on the other side, in unfamiliar territory. "I don't need to tell you."

Claude hung his head, hating himself for dragging him into this. Into scrambling to makeshift a crutch for someone stubbornly refusing to stand. "No. You don't."

"You're just tired."

Claude bit his lip. He nodded once, twice. He was tired, he agreed, bitterly. Tired of being so damned optimistic. His face felt itchy, and he was possessed with a sudden desire to scratch at his eyes, but forced his arms to remain at his sides.

He looked down, his gaze tracing the patterns of the rough grain in the floorboards. There was a strange twisting in his gut, as though something were stopped up inside of him, straining to well to the surface and explode in hysterical laughter.

The voice was soft. "If you want to cry, do it now. No one will hear you."

Claude shook his head, but didn't lift it. He was wrong. Dias was wrong: he wasn't tired, he was angry. A shuffling and scrape against the wood indicated the other man had left the door, was closing the distance between them. A pair of boots entered the perimeter of his vision.

"Claude, look at me."

He kept his gaze locked firmly on the ground, trying to ignore the boots. He was angry, he was still angry-

A hand reached towards him, an ungloved hand, tucking itself under his chin, knuckles against his skin. Gently, slowly, it forced his head up. "Look at me."

The instant his eyes met Dias', he felt his expression crumple.

"Aw, fuck," he said, and started crying. He became conscious of little else besides mindlessly bawling into something.

Gradually, after some time, the bawling degenerated into a quiet struggle for breath. Claude stepped back, and arms he hadn't been aware of released him. He blinked and wiped his face, rubbing hard at his eyes. The world remained blurred.

He fought to control his voice, to keep it even, to stop it from jerking and jumping like an unsteady, weather-beaten wagon. It worked better if he kept it at a whisper. "S-Sorry," he said, and forced out a self-effacing chuckle, pushing the corners of his mouth up. "This … is embarrassing."

"It's fine."

"I ruined your shirt," he mumbled to the fuzzy expanse of green in front of him.

"It was already ruined," Dias answered, then halted. "I mean- " He cut himself off with a sigh. "Forget the shirt." Hands came up to grasp his shoulders on either side as the taller man leaned down, studying Claude's face with great care. "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes," he answered, but the word came out in a voice so hoarse and feeble that he knew it wouldn't convince a drunkard on a delusional day, much less the other man. He opened his mouth to try again, only to come out with a hiccup. He immediately clasped a hand over his mouth in dismay.

After several minutes of watching Claude struggle to suppress the spasms, Dias straightened and let go. "I'll get you some water," he said, turning towards the door. He placed his hand on the handle, then stopped, looking back over his shoulder at Claude, who had not moved an inch and still had his hand cupped over his mouth.

Dias pointed at the bed. "Sit down," he said. Claude sat.

Dias opened the door, stepped across the threshold, and eyed him once more. "I'll be back soon," he said unnecessarily, but his feet remained planted to the ground. They shifted only after Claude nodded wordlessly, and he hesitated for one moment more before finally backing out and closing the door with a gentle click.

The dull thump of boots trodding down the stairs soon faded away, leaving Claude alone to consider the quiet, threadbare room.

Quiet, not silent; this was a fact made all the more noticeable in the other man's absence. The house creaked against the tempest, shuddering and shaking periodically. Tree branches scratched and scraped the walls like hundreds of children's tiny fingernails. The wind howled restlessly, seeking shelter inside the structure. Every so often, there was the muffled rumble of thunder.

And there were his own intermittent hiccups.

The lamp seemed to flicker in time with the storm, miniature flashes of lightning in the so-called comfort of the room. It had been a long journey. He tiredly studied his hands in the dim light. His eyes were sore as hell and he felt miserable and pathetic, a sniveling, idiot child who couldn't do anything except throw a tantrum when things went wrong. And he felt horribly, disgustingly selfish. It wasn't as though he alone was entitled to this anguish. He wasn't.

He thought about the terrified children bawling in the wagon all the way home, and the three who couldn't. He thought about the mothers and fathers who stumbled home in the dark without a small hand to hold tightly in their own or a tiny body to hug against their chest. He thought about Dias, who was there beside him when it happened, who had probably seen sickening scenes like these play out countless times before he even met him, who knew exactly what it was like and more.

He couldn't stop thinking about these things. It wasn't because he was entitled to it. It was because they had to be.

He hiccupped again, exhaled a sigh of frustration, then allowed himself to fall backwards onto the bed. He cursed the brigands, he cursed the storm, he cursed his weakness, and he cursed his godforsaken hiccups.

After a while he grew tired of both cursing and hiccupping, and, reaching over his head, searched randomly on either side, came up with nothing, and finally grabbed a handful of the blanket he was lying on. He pulled it over his face, wrapping it around himself until he was curled up tight, cocooned inside the thick bundle of fabric, trying with all his might to think about something else. A silvery, sword-shaped craft drifted in at the edges of his memory, and he shoved it away. He wondered where Dias was. He wondered why Dias was taking so long with the water. He wanted to thank him for letting him be selfish.

It was dark and warm and very quiet under the blanket. The flickering light and the sounds of the storm were effectively muted, as though they had long since passed. His ears hummed with nothing more than the echo of his own laboured breathing. It would be better in the morning, he knew. It would get better with time.

For the moment, time and mornings and storms notwithstanding, he lay there and let it be unbearable.

Author's Notes: I wrote (what would become) the intro based on the "dark and stormy night" quote with a completely different mood, then set it aside because I couldn't think of anything else to do with it. More than two weeks later, I went to bed and the current version of the story started to unfurl in my head, parts of it in complete sentences.

I find it very difficult to focus on raw emotions in my writing, so this is something different and uncomfortable for me XD; Hopefully I was able to do it in a realistic manner, without getting too ridiculously emo and affected. And if not, oh well EMOOOOOOOO