How To Mend A Broken Soul
It was like dragging himself from a deep pit.
Each time he tried he got a little further, a little closer to the light, before falling back into oblivion.
He wasn't sure he wanted to reach the top, the clear light of reality. There was a reason he was here in the darkness. He couldn't remember why, didn't want to remember, of that he was sure. Reality was pain, emptiness, loss. The darkness was warm, comforting, concealing. The dark didn't need him to feel anything. The dark wouldn't hurt him.
Each time he slipped the voice begging him not to give up became more insistent, more familiar.
"T'lor! You have to wake up. You can't stay like this forever. Please. We need you. I need you."
Reluctantly he forced himself to climb that last short distance into the light, aware of strong familiar hands reaching out to help him. He opened his eyes and left the dream world behind.
The room was shadowed, with barely enough light to show the man slumped in a chair near the empty hearth.
"M'rek?" his voice was hoarse from disuse, but still enough to be heard.
His weyrmate aroused, turning his head towards the bed, and smiled.
"T'lor, I'm glad to see you awake. How do you feel?"
Memories came flooding back, unwanted, soul-destroying memories.
He sat up and stared at M'rek.
"How do you think I feel?" he demanded bitterly.
"My dragon is dead, my life is over. I'll never be whole again. You should have let me die with Zirth."
He couldn't stop the tears as they began to flow, blinding him, streaming down his cheeks. M'rek moved to sit beside him, wrapping his arms round him and pulling him close. He said nothing, simply offering the silent comfort that T'lor needed.
It seemed forever, but eventually T'lor's tears eased. He made no effort to pull away from M'rek's hold, the older man's arms offering the same comfort they always had. From the first moment so many years ago when T'lor had learned the harsh truth that where his dragon chose he must follow, his weyrmate had been there for him.
"T'lor," M'rek said at last.
"I couldn't just let you die. I had to give you the choice. If you still choose to follow Zirth I won't try to stop you. You have the right to make that choice. Just bear this in mind. There are a lot of people here who will miss you, who will grieve for your passing. Think of Jessie, your children, all those your life has touched. We don't want to lose you."
M'rek stood up and took the knife from his belt, laying it on the bed beside T'lor.
"Make your choice, love. I won't speak of it again."
He walked out through the curtain that closed the living quarters from his dragon's couch.
T'lor watched him go before picking up the knife. He turned it in his hands examining the design. He knew it well, it had been his gift to M'rek last Turn's End. And now M'rek was offering it as a gift of death if he chose to use it. For a long moment he was so tempted, it would be so easy to turn the blade on himself and with one thrust end his pain forever. But at what cost? How could he do this to those he loved?
With a convulsive sob he threw the knife across the room.
"M'rek!"
His cry brought his weyrmate back to his side.
"I can't do this alone. I need you. Please don't leave me alone."
"Never, love. You'll never be alone. Not so long as I'm here."
Not alone. I am here. It was the voice of M'rek's dragon, green Sorelth.
I am here.
I am here.
I am here.
Again and again the voices echoed in his mind from the Weyr's dragons.
And T'lor knew he would never be alone.