Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dema is almost beautiful in the winter, with all the harsh edges of the architecture smoothed over by snow. How the distant glow of the sun bleeding through the clouds turns the sky a pale pink in the late afternoons. Silence blankets the streets that summer would otherwise transform into a stifling stone oven, so that instead frost feathers over window panes and metal street lamps. Sometimes, when steam curls from a passing cup of hot coffee or the lips of a stranger, Clancy imagines they are angels. Ethereal and impatient to depart.

The neon that glows from shop windows and street corners takes on a softer tone. Like its voice too is dampened by the cold. The otherworldly chill clings to everything. To the benches in the park, to the reddened noses and cheeks of worshipers ducking into church buildings, to Clancy’s outer layer of clothes. He feels the cold radiating up through the rubber soles of his shoes. He should really buy thicker socks, he thinks. But it’s always a fleeting fancy.

He has no time to hesitate now. He has somewhere to be.

“The self is a terrible master,” Keons teaches from his pulpit to the gathered crowd all dressed in their warmest clothes.

The more devout might find comfort in the self-denial of these additional layers, but as the months wear on into the deepest parts of the frigid end of year, even the most fervent devotees find they cannot sustain the sacrifice for long. Clancy gets by with an additional jacket and sometimes a scarf, wrapped tight enough to fend off the cold but not too tight as to set his mind wandering. He would perhaps benefit from a pair of gloves.

These days his hands are always a chapped shade of red, but there are worse colors they could be.

“The self refuses to relinquish to other masters no matter how much we try to deny its cravings and desires.” Keons’ gentle voice is soothing against the fever pitch of Clancy’s mind.

With winter comes the longer nights, and some days, it’s like the sun never comes out at all. The world remains locked in the eerie gloaming hours, giving Clancy a sense of careful unreality. He only wishes to see his shadow cast stark upon the ground again, a reassurance of his own existence.

He wonders how they fare in the wilderness of Trench, but it's a wicked thing to even consider within these sacred walls.

“Self demands that we attend to its needs at the expense of others. It demands that we attend to its needs at the expense of our very souls.” Keons presses his hands to his chest, that place where the soul is said to reside.

Clancy always feels his deepest soul aches further down in his guts, and he wonders that some link the heart to things like love and grief. For him, it’s always a blow to the stomach when his emotions overtake him. But maybe he too closely equates his appetite with the ability to feel these days. Like if he can starve the craving long enough, it will go away. But there's always the drag path in his mind, the moment Nico seized him in the camp, and the broken heart he feels he left behind there somewhere in the yellow grass.

“The practice of self-denial teaches us to put this old master of our souls to death,” Keons teaches, and though the words are frightening, there is a comfort to the idea.

“Sometimes we must take up arms against the self. To ensure the survival of our soul.”

Clancy would like to silence the voice in his head that is always in need of some new fix. The day before a fellow worshiper brushed Clancy’s shoulder to convey their silent passing behind his back, and his mind went blank from the warmth of the touch. As simple as that. But the pair of guiding hands were never far from him in Trench, and now his appetite has grown.

Or when, on his first night free from the tower, he was crossing the street alone beneath the fluorescent glow of street lamps, and his feet began to slip. How his mind flashed to images of his head cracking against pavement, blood spilling out into snow. The rush that it afforded was not unwelcome. Even as his own excitement frightened him. The old thrill of emotions he grew so used to beyond the walls.

“I cannot always tell you, my children, how best to silence these insidious longings within your own minds. Sometimes even I struggle.” What a kind admission, they all must think, surely. Clancy does. To have their Bishop admit to his own faults, it is why Keons often inspires such devotion. “Sometimes, I find that the only way is to become empty. Empty yourselves and become the expectant vessel.”

Here he turns to the softly glowing furnace, the one source of warmth in the room aside from the bodies gathered on the austere pews. But they are careful not to linger too close to one another, in fear of inspiring any kind of unnecessary solace. To need is to already admit defeat.

“Draw strength from the knowledge that all things pass away.” And Keons passes the blackened tongs into the furnace and draws out the vial, shining in its holy unlight.

“For the fleeting breadth of life is what gives death such peculiar meaning.”

Then Keons takes the glass into his bare hands, as though it could not possibly burn him, and begins to shape it. They all know the significance of the heatless fire, and Clancy tries. He longs desperately to see the beauty in it that he once did. But his faith has been broken for some time, struck down by his own incessant desires.

By his foiled attempts at escape.

“No craving will ever remain satisfied,” the Bishop reminds them. “If you drink a cup of water, will you never again thirst? If you eat a meal, will you never again hunger? If you seek out the comfort of another, will you never again know loneliness?”

Clancy burns with shame, as though his beloved Bishop speaks directly to him. He has clung too closely in these last weeks, since his return from the treacherous beyond. Always at Keons’ side like a speck of dust caught on the hem of his robes. What a nuisance he must be.

“To truly know peace, you must learn to deny these things. Are you not exhausted by them, little children? The unending rush to fulfill what can never satisfy? Does it not drain you?”

Several heads nod around the room, a few voices even lift in guiltful cries. Clancy leans forward in his pew with his hands clasped above his knees in unspoken prayer. In moments like these, surrounded by the affirmations of his fellow citizens, he believes he would do anything to silence his mind. He wishes the fervor would carry him for more than just a few hours after he leaves this place, but he knows that it will fade too soon.

Because in the quiet of his own apartment, he is not as brave. He is not as devout as he would like to believe. And when the siren song of self-destruction calls to him in the night hours, the ugly hand of Self holds him locked in fear.

“Empty yourself, free yourself,” Keons pleads with his congregation, “and find rest.” He presents the shape of the neon gravestone to them, for their consideration. Unlit as yet because there is no grave for it to stand beside as sentinel, but there could be. If any of them would be brave enough to take that step.

Clancy returns to his apartment with the sermon still hanging like a haze before his eyes. Snowflakes cling to his shoulders, to the toes of his shoes. He dusts even more from his hair, which has grown long since his return. Outside the window at the end of the hall, the winter world has begun to turn a shade of bitter blue. One that he can feel inside his bones.

He puts his hand to the doorknob but hears music within. His heart stutters in wonder, and for a moment, he wonders if someone has come to collect him. One of the banditos, perhaps. Someone who has infiltrated the city countless times before.

But it’s a fleeting fancy.

No one would be so bold as to play that music here. No one in their right mind, anyway.

He opens the door instead to find his old shadow waiting.

“Nico.”

Vulture wings flash black across the foggy window pane. The Bishop turns, his face obscured by a smoky veil. The screen that feeds images into Clancy’s apartment from Dema’s own transmission towers now shows blurry footage of an impromptu concert lit by the glow of many torches. Nico has paused the image so that the streaks of yellow obscure in a blur of brilliant movement.

The neon shining from the center of the room casts the Bishop’s afterimage upon the wall, larger than life and growing still as he approaches.

“Hello, Clancy.”

He puts a hand to Clancy's cheek and presses an icy kiss to the side of his head. The greeting is a new imposition, because he knows that Clancy can neither return the gesture or refuse it. It is a practice in denial. Because every time it happens, Clancy wants to turn and vomit. So he keeps his stomach empty instead.

Nico holds out a hand towards a nearby chair, allowing for the illusion of invitation. But Clancy knows it is truthfully a command, and he does not hesitate to obey. It’s easier that way. The Bishop turns back to the small, grainy screen and allows more of the footage to play.

“Such bravery,” the Bishop whispers, “such spirit!” His voice echoes through the darkened room, thunder on the mountain heights Clancy knew however briefly. The video pauses again on an image of his own face.

Nico turns to consider him with a knowing smile. “Such… contempt.”

“To what,” Clancy swallows bile, swallows his heart which has leapt into his throat, “do I owe this great honor?”

He keeps his eyes downcast out of deference.

“My dear Clancy.”

He hears the sweep of robes along the concrete floor, like the brush of a canvas tent flap. His stomach pangs with silent longing. His heart a dead thing inside him.

“I think we will both benefit from this conversation all the more if we agree not to lie to one another.”

Standing over him now, Nico takes his chin and forces it up so that their eyes meet, so that Clancy is forced to reckon with the reality of the nightmare before him. “Don’t you?”

Clancy swallows, feels the press of fingertips claw into the soft flesh beneath his jaw. “I agree, it would save time.”

And through the veil, Clancy sees that Nico smiles with a kind of condescending pride. Clancy might be able to fool Keons with his plays at devotion. He may even sometimes be able to deceive himself, to fall back into old habits of belief and self-hatred. But he cannot lie to the man who knows his own soul better than any other.

Nico has cut Clancy open and spread out the gray matter of his mind, sifted him like sand through an hourglass. He’s studied him and known him. Broken him and reshaped him again. Whatever he is now, he is a thing of Nico's own creation.

“I have a problem, child,” Nico says and releases Clancy’s chin. He pulls up a second chair so that the two men sit across from one another, the neon vials flickering between them. “A problem that began the moment your precious Torchbearer stole your devotion from the righteous path of vialism and turned you to this-”

He gestures vaguely at the screen, disgust in his tone as he spits, “Maudlin act of rebellion.”

With another flick of his hand, the screen fades to black so that Clancy instead observes a reflection of his own face. The fiery light and excitement from those electric moments before his escape has faded into the grim despair he sees before him. He forces himself to look. A sick sensation of pleasure in his own fall from grace.

“If I were not a shepherd of lost souls, I would have destroyed you and your entire camp of pathetic insurrectionists.” It's a meaningless turn of phrase, "shepherd." Nico will not proselytize to Clancy, who knows better than to believe that Nico cares for the lives under his care.

In fact, it’s quite the opposite.

“But here you are.” Nico folds his hands together in his lap, poised like a patient teacher with a particularly dimwitted student. “Ask me why that is. Ask me why you are still alive.”

Clancy fights to catch his breath, which has left him far behind in its efforts to flee this present place as he wishes that he could. “Why am I still alive?”

“Because I’ve realized something,” Nico leans forward, almost conspiratorially. “Watching your little display, I realized what it is that Keons has seen in you for years. And when I brought you home, I was indeed very impressed with your return to devotion. Your agonized pleas for forgiveness, your re-committal of your soul to the way. You were very good. I myself was nearly moved to tears.”

Clancy is not unaware of the amusement in Nico’s tone. The shame that burns inside his skin is nearly unbearable.

“You certainly convinced Keons,” Nico continues with a slight chuckle, and Clancy feels the words like a blade sliding into his gut. His beloved mentor, Clancy cannot bring himself to hate him even now. “But unfortunately not all of our citizens are so convinced of the reality of your repentance. Many of them were… inspired by your act of defiance.”

Clancy licks his chapped and bloodied lips. He cannot deny that this had once been his hope, but now to hear these words, it feels only like a cord tightening around his throat.

“And if you, Clancy, can defy the Bishops and escape into the night without consequence,” Nico holds out his hands to Clancy, as if to encompass the pathetic image of him now, the wretched captive that he is, “then what is to prevent them from doing the same? What is to prevent our entire city, our way of life, from collapsing?”

Emboldened either by his own self-loathing or his growing sense of cynicism, Clancy says, “It must be a fragile system if it can be brought down by a single song.”

Nico stands, and Clancy cannot stop himself from flinching. He spoke out when he shouldn’t have. He should know better than this. But the thrill of fear is the first thing he’s truly felt in so long. It’s almost a relief to know he’s still capable of it.

Nico approaches him and sets a hand on Clancy’s shoulder. “Yes, it is fragile, but not in the way that you imagine.”

Clancy keeps his eyes forward, his hands resting still on his knees as he prepares himself for the pain. “And how should I imagine?”

With a gentle touch, Nico reaches down to take one of Clancy’s hand in his own. He spreads out the narrow, nimble fingers along his tepid palm, considering them with carrion-bird interest.

“You should imagine every rebel in those camps dead, hanging like banners from our city walls. Your beloved Torchbearer dragged through the city streets as an example to all those who believe they can stand against our way of life.”

He snaps one of Clancy’s fingers like a twig.

Shoving his other fist into his mouth to stifle the scream, Clancy doubles over in his chair with unwanted tears already wet on his cheeks.

“I would take great pleasure in demonstrating your hero’s mortality to our citizens. Your little song urged our people to rebel against our control, but would you like to find yourself in a real war, Clancy?”

“No,” Clancy gasps, but his word is cut off by another snap of bone. Now he’s on his knees, his mutilated hand still in the Bishop’s grasp.

“Do not lie to me!”

“I don’t want to be the reason that innocent people die!” Clancy cries out through the sobs. He grits his teeth, ears ringing, as he fights to regain control of himself.

“You think these banditos are innocent? They poisoned your mind and turned you into a weapon!” Nico wraps his hand around Clancy’s fingers and squeezes until the man on the floor screams.

When Nico finally releases him, Clancy wilts, his forehead resting on the ground.

“Forgive me, Father. I don’t deserve your correction.”

Nico scoffs. “If only the Torchbearer could see how easily you are swayed from his cause. Tell me, does he realize the extent of your cowardice? That such a little pain can reduce you to this blubbering?”

Clancy knows better than to answer aloud. He accepts the humiliation.

“I do not wish to hurt you, Clancy. I want us to work together, for the benefit of all Dema.”

Rocking himself, Clancy dares to ask, “What must I do?”

Nico takes the collar of Clancy’s jumpsuit and lifts him from his stooped position. “You are going to do what you do best. You are going to sing. But now, you are going to smile, and you are going to tell the world that you are happy and content here in the city. You are going to become a bright beacon of all we hold dear. Do you think you can manage that? Being happy?”

Clancy swallows as he clings to his broken hand. “Yes.”

“Yes what?”

He bows his head. “I’ll convince them.”

But Nico shakes him until Clancy peers up again through hazy, pain-streaked tears. “No, dear boy,” the Bishop coos and strokes the supplicant’s cheek, “convince me.”

Chapter Text

Trench is harshest in the winter. A more honest version of herself, with less to hide the teeth and claws behind. She’s always hungry - the landscape that Torchbearer loves so dearly morphed into a predator before his very eyes. Stalking on the wind and howling down the mountains in search of easy prey. They must be careful never to underestimate how unforgiving their home can truly be. One wrong step is all it takes.

And in those lonely winter months, when ice turns the trees into singing daggers and the hills into faceless specters, Torchbearer dreams most often of Dema. It haunts him. Tip-toeing through the camp to find him in his tent as he sleeps.

Sometimes even when he’s awake, he hears their voices. The shuffle of their feet in a march towards the end. Like he can feel each fading pulse behind his eyes. His projection walks the streets, unheard and unseen, wishing he could tell them all to run.

Run away.

But it’s no use. Since their little display, their gutsy and perhaps ill-conceived diversion, the security in the city has only increased. The Bishops hunt the land surrounding Dema’s wall more consistently. And with far less mercy. And more than once, Torchbearer has spotted vultures wheeling through the sky overhead and thought he saw a glint of fiery gold in their eyes.

They’ve lost people.

Some have succumbed to the daunting task of surviving the winter. It's rare, but not unheard of. Others have merely wandered away in the night, drawn away by the empty promise of swallowing walls and structure. He dreads the mornings where the drag path through snow echoes the toll of another lost soul.

Too many lose their hope when all around them the world seems intent to steal it away like a breath, like the light of a flame snuffed out by calloused hands. Like a kiss of cold lips in the dark.

And he tries his best to meet the accusing eyes that turn his way on those bitter mornings. The blame lays on his shoulders now. They believed in him, and this is their new glorious fate, to waste away and hope they can somehow make it through until spring. But perhaps he won't have to endure it much longer. Not if they decide he's no longer wanted among their camp.

The council meets on the shortest day of the year. It’s meant to be a time for gathering the disparate units together, of celebrating and weathering the winter months as one. But Torch knows that part of the reason behind this year’s convening is to discuss his actions in Dema.

“I would personally love to hear you explain why you thought it was acceptable to single-handedly declare war on the Bishops!” The leader of the banditos’ first unit - those in charge of exploring further into the continent, mapping its paths, and finding safe places to set up camp - is among the few born to a life in Trench.

It’s a privilege that Torch sometimes envies, though he can’t bring himself to like the man personally. He's dour and unyielding.

Luna, his own unit leader, leans forward in her chair around the bonfire. Her people are gathered close to her side in solidarity as she speaks, “It was not intended as a threat but a diversion. Countless lives were saved in the escape.”

“And how many more lives have been lost to the Bishops’ raids since?” The first unit leader stands from his chair. It's true, he cuts an imposing figure among the sparks from the fire, but Torch takes great pride in knowing that Luna will not be so easily intimidated.

“My people have seen vessels wandering as far as the gorge. Our banditos are being dragged back to Dema by the corpses of their friends!”

Torchbearer flinches at the thought. Someone he was close to in Dema was among the first of such waves. And even now Torch feels the ashes from his body caught beneath his fingernails. A guilt he finds himself trying always to scrape away - and never succeeding.

“Transmissions from inside the city speak of the horrors our people are facing upon their return,” the leader of unit two, their communications experts, says grimly. He, too, was involved with the diversion plan. Torch knows it was only because of his unit’s ability to get messages into Dema that Clancy knew to meet them, that the escapees knew where to run to.

But it seems their faith in this path has waned in recent months. As the toll on their numbers rises.

“Every day the stories are coming through, loud and clear,” he mutters, rubbing at his jaw. “Almost like they want us to know what’s happening.”

Luna shakes her head slowly. “I don’t want to disrespect the price we’ve paid for this. But I believe what we did sparked hope, deep inside the city. And hope is not so easy to kill once that flame is lit.”

Finally, the fourth unit leader clears her throat. She is among the oldest of the banditos, hair graying and eyes wrinkled. Her unit is made up of families, children and those few aging adults, that are more stationary than the rest. Torchbearer has only ever heard her referred to as Grandmother.

“I would like to hear,” she says slowly, “from the mastermind behind this scheme. I believe he’s made quite the name for himself since arriving among our numbers.”

And her eyes turn to gaze at the Torchbearer where he stands guard at Luna’s shoulder.

“The implementation of this plan was all my own doing.” Luna is quick to speak up in his defense, hackles raised. “The guilt should be laid at my feet and mine alone.”

But Grandmother only smiles. There’s a fascinating wisdom to her eyes. “Your loyalty to your own is commendable, dear, but indulge the curiosity of an old woman, if you will. I merely want to know what sort this infamous Torchbearer is.”

It is in that moment that Torch feels every set of eyes gathered around the bonfire settle firmly on him. Pinning him to the ground where he stands. It’s not a place that he ever wanted for himself. Even concealed as he is behind his mask of yellow, their judgments of him seem to burn into his skin like fiery brands.

“I don’t have much to add that hasn’t already been said,” Torch manages, though his throat is constricting at the very idea of speaking in front of so many people, “only that I thought that it was the right thing to do. And I would do it to save any one of you.”

“Right” however, is a difficult word to define, he knows. But it felt noble, brave. The bravest thing he could conceive to do.

And yes, maybe a little reckless, too, but he came by it honestly, from a close friend.

“But would you still say it was worth it?” the first unit leader asks. And Torch thinks he must be looking for a fight. “After all that’s happened. After all they’ve done in retaliation!”

But the Torchbearer only shrugs. “I don’t believe in regretting the good we try to do, no matter how bitter circumstances get.” It’s something he’s had to cling to as of late. He reminds at the start of every day.

Grandmother cackles, a sound that calls up imagery of crows cawing and cracking wood fires, of branches hissing in an autumn breeze. “And they say that youth is wasted on the young! Not so with this one, I think. I like him, Luna, he is formidable.”

“Yes,” Luna says and casts a look over her should that says - Careful - “He is that.”

“If I had it my way, he’d be shipped back to Dema!”

Grandmother turns her gaze on the first unit leader and sighs, “Then it is a good thing this council does not make decisions based on the opinions of one, hot-headed young man! I know that your unit has felt these losses the most keenly, but turning on our own is the last thing we need right now.”

The second unit leader sits forward once more. “Then let us put it to a vote, should there be action taken against the Torchbearer for this act of hubris?”

Every hand from the first unit rises, and a few from two, as well. But it is not enough to carry a majority.

“Then the matter is put to rest,” Luna snaps. And the discussion of it is ended.

And Torchbearer, for his part, is able to take his first real breath since arriving at the council meeting. Luna had assured him beforehand that she wouldn’t let anything happen, but despite his confidence in her, Torch was not so certain that the rest of the banditos would feel the same about wanting to save him.

It seems he has some goodwill left among them, after all.

“But there is still the issue of what further action we will take to deal with the fallout,” the second unit leader says. “I propose, at least for a time, we move further into the continent. Let Trench put a barrier between us and the Bishops’ forces until they grow tired of the chase. In a year’s time, we can revisit the issue.”

Luna shakes her head. “We would be abandoning the citizens of Dema to the Bishops’ wiles with no means of escape! Are you really willing to turn your back on them?”

Grandmother calls to the gathered crowd. “All those in favor of retreating further into Trench?”

Many hands rise around the circle, even a few from Luna’s unit. The first and second unit leaders raise their hands with their people. And lastly, looking over her shoulder at those gathered from the fourth unit, Grandmother raises her hand with them.

“We will reconvene on this matter,” she says with finality, “in a year’s time. Council dismissed.”

“Torch, look at me.”

It’s childish, he knows, stalking away from the meeting to sulk. Already, even so briefly removed from the warmth of gathered bodies and the blaze of the fire, he’s feeling the chill as it gnaws its way through his outer layers. But he had to get away. He can’t breathe so near to the others. Not right now.

But Torchbearer can’t ignore his unit leader either. Nico himself saw the Torchbearer for what he truly is - a loyal dog in need of a master.

He turns to her with a sigh. “They’re wrong. We can find a way in, I know it.”

“Be that as it may, we cannot go against a vote of the council,” Luna warns. Her face is lined with frustration, deep carving marks that will only smooth away with time and not a lack of conviction. “And I won’t risk further action against you. We got lucky today, but only because the first unit is so small. We can’t push the others, especially not now that the snow’s set in.”

She points a finger in Torch’s face. “So don’t do anything stupid, do you hear me? You wouldn’t make it a mile on your own in all this.”

“I know,” he concedes. “I won’t. But-” He glimpses towards one of the larger shared structures where the banditos will sleep and share their stores of food through the worst of winter. It’s safer, he knows, and he doesn’t mind the proximity. Except.

“I can’t dream here, not deep enough to get to him. Not with so many around.”

Luna is the only one who knows the full extent of what he can do, the only one that he trusts enough to have told about his abilities. He had once planned to tell Clancy, too. But his escape from Dema had been too brief, and the Torchbearer hadn’t known how to broach the conversation.

It’s such an alienating thing, this gift of his.

It forces him to stand at arm’s length from all he holds dear, only a little removed from the Bishops with their uncanny powers.

“There’s a second hut up the hill,” Luna says and points with the torch that she carries. “It’s intended for the sick, to stop illness from spreading through the camp, but I don’t think it’s in use now.”

She searches Torch’s eyes. “Have you been able to speak to him at all since…?”

But he only shakes his head.

“Keep trying. I’ll tell the others you’ve taken ill and need rest. If you get anything, report back to me immediately. We might not be able to act yet, but we can start planning. So that next time-”

“We won’t fail again,” Torch finishes.

Luna takes a deep, measured breath. “I’m going to go in. It’s good for them to see my face, I guess. And you could try not to look so constipated all the time yourself, maybe convince a few more people to like you.” She reaches up to pat his cheek before departing.

Torchbearer only huffs and watches her depart. He’s never going to be able to repay her kindness, he knows. But the least he can do now is try not to let her down. If this works, if he can find a way to get inside the city without the threat of losing more of their own, it could change everything. It could give them a chance. And they both believe that Clancy might be the key.

The room is cold and quiet, save for the buzzing of neon and the hitched breathing of the man curled on the floor. The Torchbearer drops to his side. Head on a swivel, searching for a threat, though he isn’t really there. No sword to swing, but he can't deny his instincts.

“Clancy?”

But his voice is nightmare silent, calling out in the dark knowing there’s a monster nearby.

He’s just solid enough to reach for the other man’s shoulder and brush his fingers across a gray sleeve. He watches Clancy’s eyelids slide open. But there’s no light of recognition to be found within.

“Come on, get up,” Torch whispers and moves Clancy so he’s sitting. He’s not sure how much of this Clancy can perceive. If he thinks he’s dreaming, or if it’s only a shadow that leads him through these motions.

When Torch notices the way that Clancy holds his hand to his chest, he frowns. “Let me see.” His palm held out in gentle invitation.

And after a moment, as though sleep-walking or following the old dance of muscle memory, Clancy rests his hand in Torch’s. The touch is feather-light and devoid of warmth. A barely-there sensation cast across an icy wasteland from one moment to the next. But when Torch sees the damage done, he wishes he could tear the room to pieces.

“What did they do?” He moves closer to inspect the broken fingers, swollen and red from the pain. It’s like breaking a bird’s wings, the calculated cruelty of it.

Which means it has to be Nico’s doing.

“Alright, let's get you on the bed. One, two, three,” and on the third count, Torch lifts Clancy to his feet. Together they shamble to the mattress where Clancy collapses. His eyes rest dimly on the opposite wall.

Torch begins sifting through shelves and drawers searching for first-aid supplies. Of course, there are none. They wouldn’t afford him that. Despite how quick they are to doll out punishment. But there’s a roll of tape - gray and sadly befitting - and a cup of old pencils, and it’s about as good as he’s going to get.

“You should go tomorrow and have this looked at by someone who actually knows what they’re doing,” Torch rasps through the projection’s half-imagined throat. “But I’ve been learning more first-aid, so maybe I can make this work.”

Torch watches Clancy’s face contort with distant pain as he resets each small bone. Then he carefully forms the makeshift splint and tapes it into place so the two fingers are held straight. It’s a pitiful attempt at comfort, but it’s all he can manage now.

“You should try to get some sleep,” Torch says after he’s done and pulls back the covers so that Clancy can lay down. Once he does, head to pillow like a corpse resting in a coffin, Torch helps him out of his shoes before drawing the blanket over him. It's so cold, even on the inside.

“Stay with me.” The whispered request is barely louder than a breath. Some part of Clancy, however faint, must be aware he’s not alone.

Torch slides down the wall to the floor so that he sits near Clancy’s head. “Always,” is the silent reply.

He’s put himself between his friend and the doorway, though he knows it will have little effect. And despite all his best intentions, he won’t be there when Clancy wakes.

“They want to move us further from the city, and if we go, I can’t promise I’ll be able to reach you, even like this.” Torch rests his head against the edge of the mattress. “It’s so hard as it is.”

Even now the exhaustion threatens to pull him back into his own body, but he's gotten good at staving off that tide.

“I can’t ignore a direct order. We can’t survive out here if we don’t stick together. And I’ve already caused too much trouble.” He sighs and rubs a hand over his face.

“So, I need you to do me a favor and just lay low for a while, okay? I’ll be back for you as soon as they give me the all-clear.”

But Clancy only stares at the ceiling, washed in neon, uncomprehending. And Torch isn’t sure how much good it would do to try to break through, anyway. He knows he’s asking Clancy for the impossible. But if anyone could do it - survive a year in Dema with little more than a shadow's promise - it's the one with all those songs buried underneath his skin.

Then he feels Clancy shift so that his forehead is pressed into the top of Torch’s hair. He cranes his neck to see his friend’s reddened eyelids shut tight, his breathing even into the rhythm of sleep.

And Torch has to believe that he will make it out. That they both will. In time.

Chapter Text

“And how did this happen?”

She’s smiling at him, calm and reassuring. He wants to tell her that it’s a waste of her time. He’s a waste of her time. But this is her job, and the roles they play in Dema are part of how they survive. So Clancy will allow her to follow her script, and he will read along for her sake.

“I’m clumsy, fell and caught myself wrong.” He wonders if she will believe him, but it seems she’s predisposed to make this as painless as possible because she only tuts her tongue.

“Poor thing.”

Yes, poor thing. Poor little caged bird with a broken wing.

“And did you do this yourself? The splint? It’s not half bad. Maybe we could use your help around here sometime, hm?”

The nurse begins to slowly unwind the tape from his fingers, careful not to pull too hard. Clancy doesn’t remember how it got there. He’s almost certain he wouldn’t know how to do this himself. But he woke up so dazed, no memory of getting off the floor and into bed, that it could be possible. And yet a part of him can’t help but wonder. He was almost certain he could smell smoke clinging to his sheets, just on one end of the bed, the one nearest to him. Faint a ghost. Or a distant memory.

“You’re not left-handed, are you?” she asks, trying to goad him into conversation. It must be awkward, her job. Touching all those bodies. Putting them back together again. He wonders if she’s ever forced to deal with the bodies they bring back from outside.

Clancy shakes his head. “No- but no playing piano for a while, though.”

“Oh, you’re a musician?” and now her voice is wistful, sweet, but only as much to convey that she is politely interested. Then, she studies his face a moment while she dabs an alcohol wipe over his skin. “Wait- I’ve seen you before!”

Clancy tries not to wince.

“You played at one of the ceremonies last year, didn’t you?”

He’s almost shocked into silence. He assumed that she would remember fire, yellow tape, a violent escapee. Not an old glorified piano recital he did as a favor to Keons, subbing in for the usual pianist when she got sick at the last minute.

“You remember that?”

“How could I forget?” Her eyes go wide, soft around the edges so that the crinkles there change shape. The smile on her face dips from a practiced mask into something more genuine. Something equally sad as it is kind.

“It was beautiful! I’d never heard music that moved me to tears before, or at least…”

She trails off, pressing gentle fingers along his bones to ensure they’re all in place. “At least, not that I remember. Not for a very long time.”

Clancy is enraptured now. The way this person has transformed in a moment. Gone is the carefully curated image of a citizen reading her prescribed lines off a page, replaced by a person that he might know and share a meal with. A neighbor, a friend. A real look of longing in her eyes.

It’s like watching someone come awake.

“I’d been having such a hard time. I know I shouldn’t be telling you this-” Nervous glance, shattered smile. “But I went to that service all bitter and tangled up inside, stewing over something, I don’t even remember what. But your music, it hit me right where it hurt.”

She taps her chest, that cage for the soul.

“It… didn’t make the hurt go away. But it was like finding out that someone knew, that someone could look and see right where it was, when all this time I thought it was invisible. And they understood.” She smiles again, and this time, it’s like she’s slipping back behind the mask. Afraid she’s revealed too much.

“Forgive me, I’m rambling.”

But Clancy shakes his head. His jaw slack, eyes fluttering slightly, he wishes he could reach up and pull the mask away for her. But he knows what it’s like, to need the cover tugged over his eyes.

“No, it’s no trouble. Thank you.”

It’s a gift. She’s put a gift into his hands. Into his head.

“I didn’t know I could make someone feel that way.”

It seems almost improper to say aloud, and graciously, the nurse lets it pass without comment. But now Clancy’s mind is alight with a new spool to unwind.

For so long, music had been, to him, an all-too-personal cry for help. That someone somewhere might hear and know and understand. Come rescue him. And here is this person, entirely unknown to him and with no real idea who he is, who - for however brief a time - felt that someone had acknowledged her own pain.

It wasn’t his intention. But the effect is clear. Lasting. She felt brave enough even to mention it to him. And he wonders, cinders shifting behind his eyes, if he could do it again.

Recreate that feeling. Like plucking a string and releasing a note into the air waves. If Nico wants him to sing, maybe he could use it. If not to free himself, then to free others instead.

To tell them that they need to wake up.

In the weeks that follow, he is kept cloistered in his room with orders to create. They allow him an old electric keyboard and all the time and silence in the world. And they await. Always a vulture outside his window.

Clancy throws himself into the thankless process. Compelled by something other than himself for once. He keeps his head down, nose to the grindstone, for fear that he’ll come up for breath and be paralyzed with fear. To look on what he’s done and find it fallen woefully short of what he’s imagined in his head.

He has to be careful, artful. Hiding meaning behind rhythm and rhyme and hoping that it’s enough to break through. That he’s clever enough to stay a step ahead of the dogs but not too clever that he leaves enough on the table to hang himself with.

But he finds he likes the dance with death. Someone holding a gun to his head. Because he can’t turn away, can’t delay the inevitable. The songs demand to be written. They’re watching him and they’re waiting. And they’re wanting him to fail. Or fall or fly or fight.

And the only way to put the voices to death is to stamp them out on a page in black ink, trapped behind bars of a musical scale, where he can control them. He holds the keys. He can give them just as much room to breathe as he wants, nothing more nothing less.

He can still hear the scattered music when he dreams, and sometimes he wakes from fitful sleep to write something down before it runs away from him again. That is, when he remembers to sleep. When he remembers to eat.

He takes just as much care of himself as it takes to keep going. And pretty soon, it’s like the songs are being dragged out of him, one after the next. He barely has time to shape them before they’ve flung fully formed into the world, demanding his attention.

They rise up all around him, creatures of sun on oil slick feathers with beaks that snap and eyes that flash. Their wings crowd out the sound of his own heart racing. Each piercing cry a reason to keep racing towards the finish. These aren’t songbirds, they’re predators.

These aren’t lyrics, they’re his lifeline. Bleeding lines of red.

He’s not just some creature in a dungeon spinning straw into gold; he’s sparks in the night flying from a burning car. He’s wind over the water that tears it into white waves. He’s the howl of some desperate, caught animal. He’s the sunrise over Trench that shatters the sky and makes the clouds dance. He’s a soft good-bye whispered through trees.

Clancy wakes with the world ablaze and something cool resting on his forehead. When someone puts a cup to his lips, he drinks instinctively, throat parched and tongue cemented to his teeth. It isn’t until he feels the hand brush his cheek that he recoils and opens his eyes.

Keons’ ministrations are halted by the sudden movements. “Do not be afraid, child. It is only me.”

But Clancy knows better than to trust the touch of a Bishop, even one who has doted on him for as long as he can remember. In fact, it is this fact that fuels the fire that now rages inside of Clancy’s brain, addled as he may be. He wonders if Keons is satisfied with what he’s seen.

The room is a mess. Pages paper the walls, even black out the windows so the vultures can’t see through. The screen lies shattered on the floor where Clancy threw it days ago to silence its incessant reports on the happenings within the city. He doesn’t want to know what’s going on in the world beyond.

All he needs is this room and this music and-

“When you did not arrive to our appointed private session, I grew worried and came to check on you,” Keons explains. His voice is laced with concern, proportionally measured into each word. “I’m glad that I did.”

And Clancy recalls, distantly, that while he was given special permission to skip the daily sermons, it was with the understanding that he would still be meeting with his Bishop privately. In order to further assess his condition and his transition back into citizenship.

Clancy nearly laughs at the thought. His condition is pretty obviously poor. His transition a mess. He’s not a citizen. He’s a recluse. If it weren’t for his scheduled sessions with Keons, no one would have thought to check on him. And if no one had come, then Clancy would be blissfully unaware and no longer a problem for anyone.

“You seem quite dedicated to the task Nico has set before you,” Keons observes in the kindest way possible. “But perhaps you would like to take a break. A turn in the fresh air would do you good.”

And a shower, probably. Clancy shakes his head. “I don’t need your help.” His words taste like copper on his tongue.

If he weren’t sick - and he is, he can feel the leaden heaviness in every fiber of his body - then he would shudder at the thought of speaking so boldly to his Bishop.

What was in that cup?

But as it stands, Keons is the least of his worries. Nico, the other citizens, the banditos in Trench - if Keons wants to demand something of him, he’s going to have to get in line behind all the rest.

And now something has loosened Clancy’s tongue.

“Don’t you see? I’m emptying myself, Father,” he whispers because his voice is a frightful, bedraggled thing. “I thought this is what you wanted from us. No more giving into temptations.”

Keons sits at Clancy’s bedside, his hands folded in his lap. He does not speak. So Clancy lets the Bishop’s old words speak for him.

“If I drink, will I never again grow thirsty?” He throws a dismissive glance towards the cup on his bedside table. “If I eat, will I never again grow hungry?”

His whole body shudders with a sudden chill. His bones are aching inside him.

“Loneliness,” the word tries to put him in a chokehold, “I’ll never see him again, whether or not I want to, so at least there’s that taken care of. I have no one else who would dare to call me friend, not now. Nico has seen to that. I am alone. I am empty.”

“But there is no peace in your heart.” Keons stands and steps away from the bedside. He gestures around to the pages on the walls, the interior of Clancy’s mind splayed out in black and white. “This? This is madness, not rest.”

“I can’t rest!” Clancy shouts, his body bowing up from his sweat-stained mattress, and he doesn’t care who hears him now. “He won’t let me! Every time I close my eyes, I see him waiting! Every time I try to sleep, I dream of waking with red in my eyes!”

And it’s your fault, all your fault - but he won’t say it. Because even sick and unable to control his tongue, those are words that Clancy cannot bring himself to admit, even in the quiet of his own room.

It was Keons who chose Clancy out of the masses. Keons who strung him along, his little acolyte. Keons who first taught Clancy to play by setting his fingers on the keys and showing him how to pluck out a tune.

Clancy wonders, sometimes. Who his Bishop was before. And what he gave up to become what he is now. He must have been human once to love a broken thing like him, if you can call this love.

“I was learning to be happy there,” Clancy croaks towards the ceiling. “I know that’s not what I’m supposed to say. I’m supposed to say that it was terrible and frightening, that I longed to return to the city. But I lied, I’m always lying.”

He passes a hand over his face and finds it wet from tears. He wonders that he has enough water left in his body to cry.

“I could breathe there. And sometimes it was terrible. Even just breathing that deep. But it was real.” Now he shuts his eyes, even though the dark is so unkind. “Nothing here is real, is it?”

Keons returns to his side. Clancy can feel the chill from his presence. He says only, “Let me help you.”

They want to make you forget.

“I can help you clear your mind.”

But it’s not a clear mind that Clancy needs right now.

“I wish you would just curse me and be done with me,” he says.

Instead, Keons brushes a hand over his hair. “Do not be late to our next meeting, Clancy. Or I will be forced to take the matter up with Nicolas.” And when he leaves, he takes the cup with him.

Chapter Text

They put him on a stage in every district. It’s not mandatory attendance as some gatherings are within the city. And Clancy knows that this is part of the test, to see just how convincing he can be when he’s got to fight for their attention. Nico wants to know just what this songbird can do with the little he’s been given.

The first few tries are awkward, little more than a dozen people gathered around as he stumbles through a few songs. He’s not so sure they’re half as alive as they were when he wrote them. More like he’s resurrecting something that already gave up and crawled into the ground. But he’s been told that’s how a seed begins to grow.

And apparently it beats staying home and watching TV.

By the time he’s on his fourth district, they’re flocking to him now. He tries not to let the excitement get to him, but he’s vomiting before every show and more than once, he makes it through a performance only to collapse backstage. They know enough to keep a few people on hand just in case.

The nurse from before makes a reappearance, part of the crew assembled to keep this perpetual motion machine going, and Clancy tries and fails not to be ashamed each time she asks him how he’s doing. She knows. It’s why she comes to every show. Or it’s part of the reason - the other, evident in her eyes, is that the music is working.

It’s speaking the things that Clancy can’t.

The first time he spies the scaffolding holding up the lights and thinks - now, there’s an idea - he’s up singing from the heights before anyone can catch him. After that, they watch more closely. There’s a near-miss where a particularly perceptive watchman manages to pull him down by the ankle before he gets too far.

They want him happy. They want him smiling.

Not looking like he’s seconds from taking a flying leap.

But it’s not about that, he tries to explain to Keons more than once during their sessions, it’s about perspective. It’s about looking down on his fears. It’s about - wake up, wake up, wake up - keeping their eyes up.

Because all the colors are vibrant and all the music skips along the surface of the water. Because he smiles and jokes and charms them all. Because it’s a lot more natural to him than he ever would’ve suspected - he’s been a liar from birth - that’s all a performance is, a pretty lie. But it’s what’s beneath the dazzling lights. What’s beneath the tune. And they see it. They hear it. They know.

But he might have done his job a little too well.

It’s not until his second year that things start to take a dangerous turn. When, during a performance, glass crashes in the crowd. Gouts of flame appear, and several citizens with yellow taped to their chests - crosses over their hearts, Clancy nearly faints from the sight of them - shout out.

“We denounce vialism.”

The watchmen in the crowd are quick to react. They douse the flames and drag the rebels away, and Clancy is frozen on the stage, deer in the headlights, shielding his eyes, trying to see. What are they doing to them?

He jumps down and sprints into the crowd, but there are hands holding him back, voices whispering warning. They’re trying to protect him. But he should have been the one protecting them instead.

He’s done this.

He’s done this, and Nico is going to see.

Only when he tries to curb his vicious tongue, it only makes things worse. People rush the stage, mid-performance, begging for him to sing what he really means. What he really thinks. And more people are dragged away in the direction of those unsightly towers.

Clancy can’t take it back. He can’t swallow the poison that he’s poured into the world. He’s woken them up, but they’re still trapped inside their coffin with no way out. And they’re going to break their hands trying to escape. It would have been kinder just to sing them back to sleep, but even his lullabies are flame-scorched.

He’s a demon breathing fire now. Everything that Nico wanted him to be and more.

At his next meeting with Keons, Clancy quickly breaks down. There’s no sense in hiding the devastation. The blood is on his hands.

“You have to help me! You have to tell me what to do- I never meant to…” Lies. He accomplished exactly what he meant to do, only the outcome isn’t what he thought it would be.

He forgot that he’s the privileged pet project of the head Bishop. He’s been given a terrible level of immunity, and he’s used it to infect the city, not save it.

“What did you think would happen?” Keons asks. He is not the kindly Bishop now but a holy terror. Clancy is struck speechless by the transformation. “I should have known you would not be able to handle this temptation of control. You are still only a child playing with matches!”

Oh, but he came by it honestly. He learned it from a friend.

“Just tell me how to get through this,” he pleads, his hands tangled in the hem of the Bishop’s robes. “Tell me how to see this through to the end.”

“End?” Keons snaps. “Do you think this ends when Nico grows bored of your little shows? No, dear boy, this never ends.” He shakes his head in abject disdain. “I thought I taught you better.”

He sinks to the floor, sinks to Clancy’s level. It’s unheard of. It’s wrong, and Clancy wants to tell him to stand. Not to debase himself this way. But he’s aching for some modicum of comfort, even from the thing that haunts his dreams.

“This is a cycle, Clancy.”

The hands on his shoulders grip him tight. He’s not sure if the Bishop is shaking him or it’s just his own fear.

“It has repeated more times than you know.”

Clancy peers up, dumbstruck, into the face of his Bishop.

“Each time a city rises from the ashes. Each time hope curdles into apathy. Each time someone lights a fire, and each time, they reduce themselves to ashes to kill a thing that was born from such. Do you see? It never ends.”

A city built on ruins. An old city, they say, but not really. Only the ground beneath their feet is old. The foundations. Even Clancy himself began to suspect. Has this really all happened before?

“Deny that thing inside of you that wants to burn,” Keons whispers, so softly that Clancy isn’t sure that he’s heard him correctly. But he would not dare ask a Bishop to repeat himself. “It is the only way to save yourself.”

“But the people-”

“Will settle. They can be excitable when given fuel, but the city is designed to curb their emotions. A flame without oxygen will smother itself in time.”

Clancy moves slowly, cautiously. Because while the thing that holds him is shaped like a person, he knows that it’s a threat cloaked in sheep’s skin. But it’s all he has, so he tucks his face into the scarlet shoulder of a dusty robe.

The hands on his back aren’t warm as sunlight. The fabric brushing his cheek doesn’t smell of smoke. There’s only the barest whisper of a heartbeat as he leans into the chest. But he lets himself cry until there’s nothing left.

When he’s done, he does feel hollow. Empty. It’s almost a comfort, to feel around inside and realize that the weight has lifted for a while. Would this be what it’s like to let go?

“I can make you forget. It would be… easier, I think,” Keons offers a second time, as though he can read Clancy’s mind. And Clancy doesn’t know if it’s a kindness or subtle manipulation on the part of his old mentor.

He’s not so sure he cares, but he asks, skeptical out of habit.

“Why do you want to save me? Why do you care?”

“Because,” the Bishop sighs, his voice so much more human now than Clancy has ever heard it before, “you remind me of someone I knew once. In a different life.”

Clancy licks his lips and finds they taste of salt. “You’ve seen this cycle play out before,” he guesses, his mind still foggy. “Did they burn? That person you knew?”

But Keons doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

“Dance with me?”

The voice startles the Torchbearer from his thoughts. There’s a hand offered to him, with calloused fingers looped by yellow tape. It’s a boy he knows well, only sixteen or seventeen, one of his many frequent tag-alongs. Torch may have even led him out of Dema, he’s not sure. He doesn’t remember every face, as much as he wishes that he could.

There’s a familiar glint in his eyes, though. An easy grin on his lips, with a heart always tempted towards trouble. And a cut across the bridge of his nose.

And Torchbearer’s heart sinks into some dark cavern inside himself.

“Go have fun,” Luna says and nudges him with her shoulder and a smile. He’s always nearby her these days, attentive as a knight to his lord. She’s probably tired of him hanging around by now. “Anything to stop you from sulking!”

The music is wild and joyful, ringing out across the hills. It’s loud as hell and almost as hot. Their mid-summer festival out in the secluded wastes of Trench. Fireflies are on the breeze as well as raised voices. It’s every sweet and raucous thing he ever longed for inside the city walls.

He’s not much for dancing himself. But the banditos have a few old traditions to their name and among them are line dances that anyone could learn. Even a few of the youngest try to recreate the patterns from the sidelines, giggling and tripping over themselves. It’s not so hard, just hand in hand swinging around and trying not to run into the other person.

People pair off, spin from one end of the line to the other and back again. There’s lots of clapping, keeping time. It wouldn’t be so bad, if Torch could keep his mind in the moment. But he can’t.

That isn’t his way.

He’s in two places at once everywhere he goes, and right now, his other half is snarling at the thought of dancing when there’s more important things to be done. This is a ridiculous waste of time.

That’s when he notices a team from the second unit filming. It’s not unheard of for the more tech-minded of the bandito units to occasionally use their resources to preserve a few memories. And Torch himself has raided more than one supply shipment for the equipment that they need to keep their communications operation going, but there’s something about this that strikes him as odd.

He glances back to Luna and sees that she’s watching him. Closely.

And it’s his own stupid fault for not paying attention to what he’s doing, as they’re wheeling through the middle of the groups of dancers, that his parter switches out on him and is replaced by someone else he definitely recognizes.

It was after that first tribunal on the winter solstice that he learned the first unit leader’s name: Arrow. Appropriate enough for his personality, Torch supposes. Swift and sure and piercing, he swings Torch around with a smirk.

“Bothered by our little camera crew over there, hm?” Arrow asks above the din. “Or are you just wanting to make sure they get your good side?”

Torch tries not to grimace, but it’s really all his face is good for these days. Comes with the territory of always wearing a mask, he supposes.

Arrow continues, undeterred. “We’ve been getting some awfully interesting transmissions from inside Dema, hasn’t Luna told you?”

Torch cranes his neck to find Luna again in the crowd, but when he spots the place where she was standing before, he sees that she’s moved. She’s heading towards the unit leaders’ tent.

“I thought she’d want to let you know your boy’s been all over Dema’s screens, spewing their message. We just thought we’d send a reply.”

Torch turns back around and halts in the middle of the dance. No longer interested in playing through this little charade, he grabs Arrow by the arm and halls him away from the crowd.

“What are you talking about?”

Arrow taps the end of his tongue to his teeth and looks down at where Torch’s fist is curled around the other man’s shirt. Torch releases him, and only then does Arrow talk.

“I guess the Bishops realized after that stunt you pulled in the city that your Clancy has a real gift for controlling the population.” Arrow shrugs. “So they’ve put him to work.”

Torch’s head spins. He wasn’t even aware they had moved close enough to the city to pick up those signals again. Let alone that Luna had seen Clancy televised across Dema.

Why wouldn’t she tell him?

“In fact, he’s working so well at what he does, we decided we’ve got to retaliate, or else we run the risk of losing the citizens for good.”

But Luna’s words echo in his mind, “Don’t do anything stupid.”

If whatever it is she’s seen is bad enough that she won’t tell Torchbearer for fear of what he’ll do- He staggers back a step from Arrow.

“He’s done all this just to save his own skin, you know! We’ve lost dozens of our own, and he’s all but dancing on their graves!”

But Torchbearer only hears about half of what he’s said, because he’s already storming away in the direction of the unit leaders’ tent. This can’t be true, and he won’t believe it until he sees it with his own eyes.

He reaches the outside of the tent and pauses, straining against the music playing just behind him to hear what’s being said inside.

“You did what you could,” Grandmother’s voice, all the sounds of autumn in each word, “but you can’t protect him from this forever.”

He storms in then, unable to stop himself despite the many rules he’s breaking by intruding on this space.

“Torch, don’t.” Luna puts a hand on his shoulder and tries to force him out before he can see, but it’s too late.

There’s an old TV set on a table near the back of the tent. The colors that spill out of it are a synthetic eyestrain. The music that spills out is even more so. Utterly meaningless candy-coated words set to a catchy tune. It’s not bad, it’s just… empty.

And then there’s Clancy. Smiling, dancing, singing, playing, smiling. Smiling. With no one at home inside his eyes.

Chapter Text

He’s fine, thanks for asking.

Well, he cries himself sick most nights. Some nights, really. Not most- “most” would be an exaggeration. But it’s alright. It’s just crying. It’s supposed to be good, to get it all out. Like a splinter. Like a bone stuck in his throat.

Really, all he ends up doing is making it so he can’t breathe. Until he shuffles blindly into the bathroom where he goes to blow his nose. He hates how snotty crying can be. He hates how his body is just full of various fluids waiting to escape. It’s disgusting. Fluids and chemicals and little fires between neurons, that’s all he is - all anybody is - at the end of the day. And you don’t even control them. They control you, the fluids, and the chemicals, and the- but he’s getting off-track.

He’s fine.

Because he always gets up the next morning, and he drags himself into a new rotation of the routine. Because repetitiveness is good for him. It’s clean and solid, a straight arrow line from today to tomorrow and the one after that. Evermorrow? Overmorrow? Something like that. Doesn’t matter.

Every day, it’s rise and shine, rinse and repeat. Rinse and rise and repeat and shine and shine and shine and… Coffee but no breakfast because his body won’t let him swallow food until mid-morning at the earliest. Brush his teeth, smile and witness both rows of freshly clean teeth, aren’t they neat? Wince because the light bulb above the sink still hasn’t been changed. Swap out shirts because the one from yesterday is stained.

Stand before the mirror. Look how perfectly presentable and average he is. If you ignore the flashing neon “vacancy” sign inside his eyes. And the blue-gray bags beneath. But those are to pack his troubles inside, so neatly. See how he folds them? If he rolls them up, he can fit more of them into the limited amount of space.

He really is, he’s good most days. Solid, dependable. He knows the rhythm and knows how to step to it. Stick-to-it-ive-ness, that’s his modus operandi. If today is like yesterday and yesterday is like tomorrow, then there’s nothing that can get you that’s so very bad that you haven’t faced a thousand times before. It’s fine. He’s fine. It’s all fine.

And he tells himself he doesn’t need that little gap in his memory. Tidy little thing that it is, just a hole where something important ought to be. And how does he know it’s important? Well, why else would he want to forget? Anyone can forget a trivial thing- it takes someone truly desperate to forget what they once thought they couldn’t live without.

And you are desperate, aren’t you?

He’s fine.

But every day is a little harder than the last because you’re wearing through those good intentions and those pretty teeth and wide eyes. Not to mention the patience of everyone around you. How is that going, by the way?

He’s fine.

But you're alone. Always alone. Old friends won’t meet your eyes, and even the ones who like you, who like the music, who are always, always holding out their hands for more. They don’t want you, they want the show. They want the dance. They want the version of you that you wish that you could be.

He’s fine.

Admit it. You’re tired. You’re so exhausted that you’re considering taping open your eyes just so you don’t drift asleep on the bus again. Remember when you did that? And that stranger had to wake you? Remember their grimy hand on your skin? How long did it take you to scrub and scrub before you felt clean again? But you and I both know, you’re no better than a festering wound.

He’s fine. He’s fine.

But when everyone wants something from you, when everyone just wants to take and take, it makes you think of lying down on a table. It makes you think of buzzards circling in the sky. You’re a corpse, and they’ll consume you. They’ll pick apart your skin from your bones, all those little things that make you tick. That make you sick. That you hate about yourself, will it finally satiate their appetite? Will it finally let you rest?

He’s fine - he shuts his eyes, wrists pressing out the light of the sky - he’s fine. He’s fine.

But you’re not really very palatable, are you? You’ll just make them choke. You’ll be inside them then, ruining everything you touch. That’s what you do best. Infect and infest. It’s crawling inside you right now, patient zero, how does that make you feel? You thought you’d wake them up, give them something to think about, but all you did was make them miserable, just like you. But that’s what you’re good at. Taking something good and twisting it out of shape. That’s what you did to him, right?

Shut up.

You don’t even remember his name, but there’s enough of a space left over. Enough of that sourceless guilt. It still strikes a nerve. How interesting.

He’s fine. He’s safe. He’s gone. Where he needs to be. Out of the walls. He knows that much. Pressing his fingers to the little hole inside his brain.

Are you happy yet? Do you think you’ll ever be? Because you’ve certainly failed to convince me.

He can be. He knows it. It’s just somewhere past tomorrow. If he can just make it to the end of this week, or this month, even better. If he can make it through, just a bit further.

Of course you will.

Of course he will.

He’s fine.

“We’re patching the video through now.”

“That is, if the generator doesn’t overheat, explode, and kill us all.”

“Think positive thoughts.”

Torchbearer watches from the sidelines. It’s all he’s good for these days. An attack dog on a leash.

They managed to cut together some of the footage of Clancy’s song from inside of Dema, that last escape attempt, with the video of the banditos’ dance. And if they’re careful and lucky - very lucky - they might be able to send it screaming into every screen in the city.

Torch holds his breath. He doesn’t mean to. But he feels a hand squeeze his own, and he looks to see Luna at his side. She’s been quiet, since he found out about all this. Or he’s been quiet. They both have, really. Because neither of them know what to say.

He’s never been much for words.

“He’ll see it,” she promises him, and that’s the closest to an apology she has in her. She doesn’t regret trying to keep this pain from him. Just like he doesn’t regret the good he’s tried to do.

He doesn’t believe in that sort of thing, and he won’t ask it of her. Not now. But he has to admit, his trust is shaken.

He knows what it’s like, a little, standing where she does. Above and not adjacent, never on the same level as anyone else. Even the other unit leaders seem to hold her at a distance. They have to, because they’re all too afraid that one day they’ll look up and see that someone else they know is gone. It’s so impermanent, this little thing that they’ve built. And no matter how much they try, they can’t quite fool themselves into believing otherwise.

It’s all too fragile. Playing house-of-cards. Especially when it’s war games the Bishops seem to have in mind.

“Here goes nothing!”

And the monitor on the other end of the tent springs to life, flashing images of Clancy beneath the lights of Dema, of banditos dancing around a fire, torches and drums, fireflies and Clancy’s frantic hands.

Something in Torch’s chest twists painfully, and he realizes that he’s gripping Luna’s hand so tight, she has to feel the crunch of bones. He releases her before he does something worse. It’s a needle under his fingernail, watching this play out and being able to do absolutely nothing.

So, he flees. Out of himself and into the other, the one walking and wandering and watching. He’s gotten good, slipping quietly between the two. No one needs to know whether he’s here or he’s there.

They’re still not close enough for him to reach the city. But there’s a view, a spot of distant white light on the horizon that isn’t a star or the sun’s last light of the day. It’s Dema. Sparkling intently. And he strains his ears like maybe he can hear this distant music playing.

The line in the sand, of how far he can reach beyond his own body, is thin as a razor. He can reach his hand towards it and feel the thrilling terror of his arm going numb. It’s not a good idea to test the limits. He knows.

But it’s tempting, awfully tempting. Just to see how far he can go. Because maybe he can push just a little bit farther than yesterday, bridge that gap. One step at a time.

It’s a strain against his own better judgment. He knows this is stupid. Knows that somewhere Luna will be standing next to his body, and that somehow she will sense this lapse in logic. She always seems to. But his desperation is pushing him to greater risks.

It’s only his own skin in the game, anyway.

So he takes another step and feels the world go cold. Dropping off into icy waters. He presses on, past that point of no return. Because what is the point of having this gift if he can’t even use it? What is the point of freedom if he’s still pinned down by the limits of his own mind?

He can do this. He knows it’s just past this next step down the road. The next bend.

But another step sends his heart pounding in his ears. Blood spiking, sharp and hot in his veins, trying to remind him that he’s a living thing. Not this, whatever he’s pretending to be. But the pain is just a passing thing, he tells himself. Just a knee-jerk reaction to progress. And he pushes another step forward.

Now he’s tearing at himself. Tendons from muscles from bones. He’s ripping himself apart. Heart pounding. But it’s lessening. And that’s good, right? Or has it almost stopped? And he’s running out of time.

He thinks he can hear someone singing.

The stars in heaven are watching this little flickering candle on the ground. He’s so small and insignificant in the grand scheme of their aeons passing. And yet they will take note. It’s not often that a human is so intent on such a unique display of self-destruction.

“Torch!” It’s Luna’s voice, sharp and loud in his thrumming ear drums.

His body convulses on the floor of the tent, eyes rolled back into his head and hands twisting, twisting, painfully out of place. There’s a tether, he can see now, between the two disparate halves of himself. And he could cut the cord, run free, unhindered forever. But there would be no returning.

Just a spirit on the wind.

It’s tempting. Awfully tempting. That call of something wild and reckless in his chest. A thing of wings and claws.

But it’s selfish, too. He knows.

He can’t go yet.

Clancy sits before the screen, his fingers pressed to the buzzing glass. The colors reflect along the dark parts of his eyes. He thinks he remembers this song.

It’s clearly his face, and they’re clearly his lines. They sound cocky enough to have come from his mouth. Even though he doesn’t quite follow the rhythm anymore.

The people dancing, though, is what really fascinates him. It’s not a place he knows within the city. And the fires burning all around them are higher than their heads. When their feet leave the ground, Clancy thinks they might never come down again.

It’s as beautiful as it is frightening.

Until the screen goes black, and he’s left looking long into his own reflection. Blink once, he feels the chill come over him. Blink twice, the shadows swoop in. Blink three times, and there’s red in his eyes.

He hears the directive. And gets to his feet.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t know when it happened. When he became this thing, whatever he is now, but he’s pretty sure it started with an oath. One that, even after everything, he still doesn’t intend to break.

Loyalty has, perhaps, been the root of both his strength and his downfall. Never a blind loyalty. No, he sees what he’s doing. He accepts it. That’s maybe the worst part. But he’s willing. He’s able. And someone has to do the job.

It might as well be him.

The only trouble is, he doesn’t know where this oath is going to take him, or how far he can survive going as he follows after it. He’d like to think that those high ideals the white knights all talk about are enough to pull him through: truth, honor, justice. Those sorts of things.

But even the best of knights had their weakness.

Sometimes the betrayal comes from within the camp. From across the table. Sometimes they kiss you on the cheek before they kill you. And sometimes the worst threat of all is just underneath the skin.

He never considered before, that he could be a threat to himself. That was a struggle for other people. He’d seen it play out. Watched from the sidelines while others fought, never able to take up arms because the threat was always hiding behind his friend’s face.

It drove him crazy.

But now he gets it. How your own brain can fool you, pull you along, a little toy on a string. It sounds like your own voice. It uses words that make sense if you don’t listen too close. It even goes so far as to twist that knife of loyalty in deeper.

Don’t you want to help your friend? Wouldn't you do whatever it takes?

It never announces itself as the threat that it is. It wears a mask. Learns to play nice, slides in from the side, and then breaks down the barriers one little brick at a time. Because even a king can be conquered when you get at his heart.

Torch thought he had that covered. But he’s still got some things to learn. Because now he’s split. Between two places, between two peoples. Trench feels like home, but there’s enough out there, on the other side to make him question sometimes. Never enough that when he hears those hoof beats he considers walking away from it all, following a red robe to the end of that road. But he’d be lying if he said he doesn’t wake up homesick sometimes.

It’s a betrayal of his own heart to miss that place. But not every day was terrible within those walls, and there are people that he loves that are still in there. And every moment out in Trench is a battle. Rise early, go to bed late, try to keep people alive every second of every day. It’s a lot of weight to carry on those shoulders. And yes, yes he'd like to lay it down sometimes.

And he’s not used to people looking to him for guidance. He’s used to following. He’s used to seeing another pair of shoulders a few feet in front of him and matching those boot prints and knowing that wherever he’s going at least he’s not the one to bear the burden of the blame when they get there. Now he’s holding a torch and leading people down a dark road. He hopes it ends well.

But more and more he feels like hope is such a fickle thing. It comes and it goes with the sun, up and down in the sky and sometimes hiding its face behind clouds. Sometimes no matter how he pleads, it refuses to come out. And yet, small comfort in the sea of all the many things he has to think about, there’s always the promise that it comes back again.

He’s become someone needed, a linchpin in a very fragile machine. And if he breaks, maybe there will be something to salvage from the wreck, but who’s to say? The whole ship could go down. And it would be his fault.

No, he can’t give himself that much credit. The banditos were fine before he showed up. If anything, he only disrupted their lives for a while. Added some necessary novelty to the treacherous landscape. Maybe when he’s gone, they’ll laugh about him someday.

It was a stupid idea, after all. Hinging a bunch of hopes and dreams on one guy with more demons in his head that anyone else Torch has ever known. He was never going to get out and stay out, not with that thing chasing after him. But even just thinking that is too much like breaking an old oath.

He has to believe that there’s a better future, even for someone like Clancy. He has to believe it because that bitter knife of loyalty lodged into skin and bone, it might be his lifeline. Not a weapon at all but a torch in its own way. A guiding light. A chance to be that something more he’s dreamed about since he was a kid.

He wants to believe he can save this one soul. Because it’s important to him. Because Clancy is important to him. Because if there’s ever going to be a future that he wants to be in, he wants Clancy there with him. Not left behind in that dark place alone.

“What did I say,” the voice breaks through his dreamy reverie, “about doing something stupid?”

Torch groans, becoming aware of his own body again. Painfully aware. “To not- to not do something stupid.”

Something is sitting on his chest. Or maybe it’s burrowing down inside of him. Either way, it’s hard to breathe, and the rest of him, shattered as it is, makes him think that maybe he just got hit by a car instead. But no, it’s coming back to him now. That stupid thing that he did, that he definitely promised he wouldn’t do. But-

But he had to know. If he could reach that far. And find that one person.

“And what did you do?” Luna asks, leaning over him.

Torch blinks until her face comes into focus. “Something stupid.”

“Something incredibly stupid,” she corrects him and then pulls him into a hug that is definitely reminiscent of a car hitting him at full force.

When he’s able to breathe again, it’s the first thing out of his mouth, “Have we heard anything from the city?”

She shouldn’t be surprised. And really, she’s not. But it is a hard thing to accept, that she’s going to have to tell him this.

“Why don’t you rest a while longer? It looked like you had a seizure.” She scrubs her fingers through her short hair. There’s a sore on the corner of her lip where she’s been chewing away at the skin, an old nervous habit she’s been trying to break. “You should try to eat something.”

Then she’s shoving a glass of water at him. “Or at least drink this.”

And he does as he’s told, even though every moment feels like a waste.

He doesn’t want to sound ungrateful, but- “Please don’t hide anything else from me, not about this.”

Luna takes the empty glass from his hand and traces the pad of her thumb around the rim. “Won’t you just, for a little while, stop long enough to take care of yourself?”

He only looks at her, and that’s all it takes to convey what he’s thinking. And Luna hates doing this, giving in and letting him do this to himself. But she doesn’t believe in controlling the people she leads - not like They do - because they’re a team. If they can’t trust each other, they don’t have anything.

“They’ve already responded. It’s been running on loop since our video aired, yesterday. You’re not going to like it.”

It takes walking with a bandito on either side of him to get Torch from the infirmary tent back to their new headquarters where the generators are making an awful noise and kicking up TV static. The old set with the wonky antennas on top is surrounded by a motley arrangement of banditos from the various units, all with their gazes plastered to the screen. It’s almost comical.

Until Torch sees what it is, exactly, that they’re watching.

“It was a mistake, an honest mistake, you have to understand.” It’s Clancy’s voice, Clancy’s face on the TV. He’s alive and at least somewhat whole, more than Torch has seen of him in nearly two years.

“They promise freedom, right? A home outside the city where you can live as you please and find - I don’t know - some kind of new meaning.” Clancy wears, rather than the drab Dema gray jumpsuit, a brown coat over a blue, button-down shirt. His face is clean and bright, his dark hair swept back, styled even.

He looks somewhere past the camera as he speaks, like there’s someone else in the room with him, but the image remains fixed on him in his chair. There’s a backdrop of gray stone behind him.

“But it’s a lie. I’ve been out there, I’ve seen it.” Clancy shakes his head and shifts in the chair, like he’s nervous. But earnest, leaning in. Trying to make the viewer understand. He wipes his palms on his knees. “The banditos are just kids, playing at war, hiding from the responsibilities that we all face from day to day here in the city. Is it hard? Yes. Exacting? Sometimes, but the system works. The structure works.”

He sits back and takes a breath, and then his eyes move so that he peers directly into the camera. “The concert that I staged with the ‘help’ of the banditos - if you’ll see from the footage, they basically cornered me -”

Torch can’t believe what he’s hearing.

“That was an act of misguided concern for my fellow citizens, and I want to apologize.” His hand pressed to his chest, dark eyes steady. “I acted out in confusion, in pain, after losing a dear friend of mine to these radicals, but that’s all they are. Children playing games. Trying to turn us against each other.”

Clancy raises his wrist to his mouth and chews a moment at the cuff of his sleeve, poking just above the seam of his coat. It’s such a familiar sight that Torch has to grab for the nearest empty chair before he collapses. That's him, that's his Clancy sitting there saying these things that don't make sense. Like he's got a knife to his throat, and yet, he sounds so sure.

Pulling his wrist back, eyes narrowed in thought, Clancy continues, “I just want everyone watching right now, everyone, to consider what we’re doing to ourselves if we allow this rhetoric to whip us into a frenzy. Our way of life is fragile, and there are so few of us to uphold this dream. But we are united by our beliefs, by our commitment to a cause that is higher than any one person.”

He scrubs his fingers through his hair, the same way Luna does when she’s anxious, and Torch is so tired of being trapped in this in-between, repeating old cycles.

“If there are any rebels in Trench listening right now, you can always come back. Dema is still your home, and the Bishops are waiting with open arms to welcome you back to the fold. It’s not too late. It’s never too late.”

And the message concludes with, of all things, an ad break. It’s almost as hilarious as it is sickening. Torch wants to put his fist through the screen, but he doubts it would do much good.

“Traitor,” someone hisses in the tent, knowing that Torch is there to hear.

But he shakes his head, teeth biting down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. “This isn’t- It’s not him.”

“I didn’t see any marks of smearing,” someone else points out. They’re on their feet now, several people around the tent. All of them glaring at Torch. “His eyes looked clear to me.”

Torch only smirks, bitter and cold. “If you think that’s all they’ll do to get control over someone, you’re grossly mistaken. He’s surviving in an impossible situation.”

“Yeah? Well, he’s also making our jobs a whole lot harder while he's at it.”

Torch stands, bracing himself on the chair he took a moment ago. “You did a pretty good job of that yourselves when you voted to leave those people behind. Don’t be so surprised.”

When Torch turns to go, some of the banditos block his path. He eyes them carefully. One is from his own unit.

Then he feels a hand on his arm. Luna.

“Maybe you should go lay down, after all.” But her eyes are fixed on the others standing in their way. She doesn’t seem pleased to find one of her own acting against her. “This is not who we are.”

“We should all take a moment to calm ourselves,” Grandmother announces from her place in the tent. And she flaps her hands at everyone to go. “We will meet again to discuss this at the proper time, but for now, let’s try to remember why we are gathered here.”

Unity, Torch thinks, now that’s a fickle thing.

Luna leads him back to the infirmary on her own. No one else is jostling to be near to the infamous Torchbearer now. She settles him onto the same cot and refills the water by his bedside.

“Take some time to think,” she whispers. “I’m sure they’ll want to hear from you, when they're ready.”

But Torch doesn’t reply. He’s not sure what to think. Because he’s still not sure how he became this thing, whatever he is now, the Torchbearer. But he’s pretty sure it started with an oath.

And he doesn’t intend to break it. Even now.

Chapter Text

Torch walks the hills beneath the trees as far as his legs will carry him. He thinks with every step, the only way his brain ever works, following a forward momentum. Thorns tear at his clothes, seed pods clinging tight to him, to fall off somewhere new so something will grow where his boots have tread. That’s the beauty of a living, breathing world. It’s always finding a way to hold onto something, to grow in spite of everything.

He catches a thorny pod between his fingers and inspects it as he goes, a beautiful and painful promise of life. It pricks his thumb and the tiniest drop of blood rises to the surface, red like Bishops and super-heated glass, red like his worst nightmares. Torch smears it away and keeps walking.

As he goes, he thinks of Clancy, and he thinks of Nico. Dangling the puppet on the string for the banditos to dance after.

“We can’t afford to direct all our resources towards rescuing one person.” Arrow’s fist is on the table of the tribunal’s tent. The air is hot, too close for comfort and always pressing further in.

“We might not be able to afford anything else,” Luna reminds them and wipes a yellow bandana across the back of her neck.

“We’ve all seen the results of this propaganda, even on our own numbers. If we don’t silence-” She stops herself, sensing the way that Torch straightens beside her. “If we don’t remove this weapon from the Bishop’s hands, they’re going to use it to bring us down. For good.”

Weapon. Traitor. Citizen. Escapee.

Friend.

The word doesn’t seem heavy enough. None of them do. Nothing encapsulates the weight that Clancy holds in Torch’s mind. He needs to find him, to free him. Because maybe then they can figure out this mess that they’re trapped in together. Bound by oaths and blood and fire.

But never in the same place for long.

Torch thinks of broken finger bones mended by tape. Of Clancy’s shaking breath on his hair. How any amount of tenderness can translate through the apparition of Torch’s consciousness. How it can cross the cruel terrain of Trench to connect them, even for a moment. They’re linked, somehow, and whatever destiny lays before them, Torch thinks it’s one that they must share.

“How long do you really think he’ll last, though?” someone asks.

Even Arrow seems stunned by the question.

“I only mean, we’ve seen the transmissions. The way he looks now? How much worse can it get before he- you know.”

Torch puts his head between his knees. Because that’s Dema. That’s the Bishops. That’s the hollow in Clancy’s eyes and the added tremor in his hands. It’s the inevitable. It’s a race against a ticking clock.

“We will not rely on that to fight our battles for us,” Grandmother demands, and in this, her word is final. “That is a level that we must never stoop to.”

“You have to let me save him.” Torch raises his head but not his eyes. He can’t look them in the face as he asks for this. He already has before. But they wouldn’t listen then, and if they deny him this request now, he has a feeling that he might have to do something truly drastic.

And now he’s walking through trees, remembering the boy who saved him. He’s walking through trees, remembering the city that raised him. Too many lost souls to count, all of them trying to hold onto something or someone. Holding on in spite of everything.

Torch cracks, fissures going down deep into the earth beneath his feet. This land knows him, and he knows it. Something in it has always called to him. Even within the walls of Dema, he could hear it pounding in the waves and roaring in the wind just beyond reach. Something old and strange and alive. Bigger than anything one person can tie themself to. Devote themself to.

But it wants someone to take hold.

“You and what army? Against all of Dema?” Arrow scoffs. “You’re one person.”

Torch nods, eyes on his boots. “Yeah, I am. And I’ll go alone, if I have to.” His hands slide together, calloused and burned in places from tending to all the little fires. Scarred from a promise, right there in the corner, the smooth slick cut of a switchblade.

Luna’s hand rests on his shoulder, a tether of warmth to the moment. She knows his mind is wandering. “Torch. No one is going in there alone.”

But she doesn’t understand. The longer that he waits, the more people go in the ground, into the dark earth of Trench, and the continent is tired of this terrible burden. He can feel the tremor of its anger in his bones.

The paladin that he’s become beneath this great weight.

Ever since he tried to step beyond those bounds, ever since he saw the stars looking down in quiet expectation. He’s begun to understand just what has been required of him. He’s changing, and he thinks it’s too late to turn back now. He’s not sure that he would even if he could.

Higher through the trees, with summer itself chasing at his heels, Torch climbs. He can hear the bugs screaming. Can hear the birds singing. Somewhere in the distance a fox wails, a flash of fiery fur through the underbrush. He can feel it driving him on, not a boneless drag path but a frenzied, fevered push.

When his ankles twist in thorny, green briars, he falls to his hands and knees with curses on his tongue and cinders in his head. He pulls the old switchblade from his pocket, flicks it open, and begins to hack away at the vines. He should have seen them, avoided their path, but he was too lost in his own thoughts.

“I can do it,” Torch says to Luna and no one else, because she’s the only one who knows what he is. What he can do. “I’m the one that can get in, and I can do it without putting anyone else at risk. I just need to get in close.”

Then he finally turns his gaze, levels it on the others. And maybe they can sense it then. Maybe that weight on his shoulders is also in his eyes, and they feel a little of its gravity lean on them the moment that he makes eye-contact. Because they all go silent.

“I can get through to him. I know I can, and if I can get him out…” Torch covers his mouth with one hand. He’s used to the simple comfort of his mask, but this isn’t the place for that now. Though he still wishes he could hide.

“If I can get him out, we can turn their weapon back on them. He’ll help us. I know he will.”

“How can you be so sure?” It’s Arrow again, but without his usual bitterness. There’s something broken in him, too. Torch can see it now, as he wasn’t able to before, blinded by their own differences. Worse, by their own similarities.

Arrow has lost people, and he’s not a man who likes to let souls slip through his fingers.

“He’s escaped before. What makes you think this time will be any different?”

Something steps out of the trees, a buck crowned with wide, twining antlers, and it sees Torch the same moment that he sees it. They stop, two sets of eyes wide and two hearts beating, both of them frozen like they aren’t sure who is the greater threat to whom. The deer dips its head, ears poised to listen.

Torch barely breathes. It’s not often that he gets such a close-up view of Trench’s wildlife. He’s found discarded antlers before, the odd protrusion of rib bones from the earth, but to see one of these creatures moving and breathing, to watch the sunlight catch in its long eyelashes, its entirely different.

He recalls his words to the tribunal, before he rose to leave and let them continue their deliberations without him, “I don’t know for sure that this time will be any different from the last. But the truth is, I’ll keep trying until it sticks. Or until I physically can’t anymore. Because that’s what you do when you-”

When you love someone.

He hadn’t been able to say that part out loud, but he’s fairly certain they understood. Because he left them then and walked out of camp without looking back. And now he’s here. He’s here staring down this wild thing and hoping that it doesn’t decide to charge at him.

It doesn’t. The deer watches Torch for a few more moments, and as though it had as little care for him as it might for any other creature of Trench, turns and disappears back into the trees. Long after it’s gone, Torch still struggles to breathe.

After a while, he finally frees his ankles from the vines and stands again. The light is growing dimmer all around him, and he knows he should head back. He didn’t bring anything to start a fire. A truly careless mistake on his part. But he can’t be around anyone else right now, and the air is so clear out here, so far above the rest of the world.

So when night falls, he climbs a tree and hunkers down for the night with the belt around his waist to keep him steady. He loops it tight around the limb he’s made his perch, lets himself relax as he normally wouldn’t with so many tents around his own. And the deeper he descends into sleep, the further he drifts from that place.

He dreams of walking through fire.

Clancy wakes from a nightmare smelling of smoke and burned flesh. He drags himself to his bathroom and fills his hands with water in the sink to wash his face, rinse out his mouth. Ashes seem to stick to his tongue. Humming soft to soothe the nausea, he picks at the loose grout between bathroom tiles with a thumbnail as he avoids the gaze of his own reflection.

He doesn’t want to see the red irises blooming.

In his dreams, he saw a man on fire, and he knew him. But now in the waking, he’s not so sure. In the dream, the flames around him were tall and narrow as trees, gouts of cinders like devils dancing. He shuts his eyes and imagines the way he felt when the figure reached for him.

He’s probably doomed. He knows that much. It’s a thought he’s been trying to avoid for so long, but there’s a comfort in finally admitting what he’s guessed all along. He feels the end of the story breathing on the back of his neck. And for once, he’s not afraid. He only thinks of the flames and wonders how he will rise to meet them.

Nico wants him to smile and sing.

Keons wants him to empty himself and forget.

Clancy doesn’t know what he wants anymore.

But he thinks of the figure in the flames and his fingers twitch. If Keons all but begged him not to burn, how could he do any different? His Bishop is meant to be his guide through this life, his true North. But if he’s doomed - Nico’s gaze hanging over him like a vulture perched on the roof - he thinks he might like to at least decide to go with as little grace as possible.

Bearing his soul to the world is a little like stepping into an open furnace, and there’s always the possibility that he’ll come out the other side somehow purified. With all the sickness burned away. Like waking up after a fever. Like a forest growing back after a wildfire.

He finds himself smiling down at the rusted ring at the bottom of his sink and contemplating his next move. Smiling, who would have thought? And he lifts his eyes to his own reflection, rough around the edges to say the least, but there’s no one looking back except himself. Brown eyes, soft and familiar. Human. Alive.

And maybe he is doomed, but he’s certainly not dead yet.

When Torch steps from the trees at the edge of the bandito encampment, ready to face the decision that's going to determine whether he marches on Dema with others at his side or only his own shadow at his back, he’s almost immediately met with a furious Luna and a gaggle of others from their unit, all of them following close at their leader’s heels.

“Where have you been?” Luna catches the front of his coat and shoves him back a step. Torch is silent, staring, open-mouthed. Luna’s fury is nothing new to him, but he’s not expecting to have it pointed directly at his chest. It stuns him into silence.

“I thought you were dragged back, damn you!” She pushes a fist against his chest, unable to meet his eyes. “You know the rules! You don’t leave camp alone and never without telling someone where you’re going!”

And it’s only when he hears the crack in her voice that he realizes she’s not only angry. She’s scared. He scared her. Again.

Torch’s face burns with embarrassment at the thought, and the heat grows only worse as he looks around and sees the faces of the others gathered around. They’re all in shock, all relieved. A few are kids who are always following him around. Others are the ones who have walked with him in and out of Dema countless times.

When Luna hugs him this time, it nearly jostles the breath from his ribs. She’s fierce in her rage as much as she is in her kindness, and he’s reminded exactly why he chose to follow her all this time, even when he could have walked back to Dema alone. And the moment she grabs him, the others push in until Torch is surrounded.

Arms around his waist, hands on his shoulders and arms, someone leans their forehead against his back, and he almost loses all sense of control. Because he’s not alone, not nearly as alone as he felt the day before. And his body hurts from all the walking and sleeping up a tree, but they’re here for him. Human or not, whatever he’s become and wherever he’s going, they don’t care.

He’s one of them.

“Luna.”

The voice rouses Torch from his thoughts, and the banditos all step back.

Standing a few paces away, Arrow locks eyes with Luna first and then with Torch, and he nods his head for them to follow him. “We’re getting another transmission.”

In the leaders’ tent, the old TV set buzzes with static as members of unit two work to clear up the signal. The moment that Clancy’s voice comes through, Torch leans his weight to the back of a nearby chair and prepares himself for the worst.

“The reports of those returned from the outside show an uptick in bodies retrieved in recent weeks,” Clancy’s voice is low, measured, like he’s reading from a prompter. His eyes trail the floor, though, back and forth and back and forth. “I worry for my fellow citizens that so many are willing to risk the dangers of the continent because of their discontentment. Is this really the way?”

Torch brushes his thumb over the scar on his hand, back and forth. “Come on, Clancy. Wake up.”

“It’s not. This isn’t the way things are supposed to be,” Clancy says softly. His dark eyes flickering up for just a moment, then away again. Was that a grin? Torch isn't sure.

“In Dema, we’re supposed to be safe and sound. We’re supposed to find rest. But we’re not, are we? Safe, we're not safe. We’re driven, driven to the edge, poured out and over. Made empty, so we’re just vessels. We’re all vessels to something.”

“Where’s he going with this?” someone asks, and Torch realizes he hasn’t breathed in a while. He tries to take a breath now, but it sticks at the back of his throat.

“I think about it a lot, what I want to be a vessel to, what I allow-” He taps the side of his head. “-to live and breathe up here.” His eyes strike into the screen again, claws on glass. “And I think you should all think about it, too. I think...”

He leans forward in the chair, hands perched and mouth cocked in an almost-smile. “I think you should run.” His voice pitches funny, maybe panicked, and Torch feels his heart all but stop. “Torch, run. Someone gave them your location. They’re coming!”

Hands are reaching for him now. A sweep of Bishop’s robes, a crash somewhere in the background. Clancy’s eyes are blown wide. He’s straining against their hold now, and he's never been more awake in his life.

“You need to- you need to run!”

And the transmission cuts to black.

Chapter Text

They scatter to the wind. Leaving all but the essentials, in every direction at once, every bandito flees their collective encampment and disappears into the trees.

“Take them east and don’t stop. You know where to meet us, but wait as long as you need to,” Luna tells him, her voice short and sharp as they trek further into Trench.

She’s got another two groups from their unit to send off in different directions, and Torch can already see her gaze wandering over their faces. Checking again, making sure everyone is accounted for.

“Luna.”

She’s drumming her fingers against her thigh, counting heads.

He catches her wrist. “Hey.”

Finally, she looks back at him, and Torch gives her a nervous smile just above where his mask rests against his jaw. “We’re going to be okay.”

He knows it’s not a sure thing, knows that there are probably Bishops on horseback heading their direction even now, but he also knows that his people are survivors. And Luna has made them ready. No panicking, no careless mistakes. They head their separate ways but always with the promise that they’ll see each other soon.

She nods, a flicker of her own confident smile passing like a shadow over her face. “I know.” She slides her hand into his to give it a reassuring squeeze. “Nothing stupid. You hear me?”

Torch gives her a two-finger salute before motioning to the rest of his group to head east, branching off from the main unit. He tugs his mask up to hide the lower half of his face, knows he’ll feel a little more confident that way, and takes a few steps before he hears his name called again and looks back.

“For what it’s worth,” Luna calls over her shoulder, “they wanted to let you go after him. They really believed you could do it.”

Clancy - so the council would have let him return to Dema after all. He supposes it doesn’t matter now. Not since they’re on the run. But in a way, Torch does take some comfort in the fact that the leaders of the banditos believe in him. In rescuing Clancy from the Bishops. It means they haven’t given up yet.

And now Clancy might very well have saved them all.

Trekking east, Torch keeps his ears peeled for the sounds of hooves on the ground. They move fast, valuing the chance to put distance between themselves and the camp over slower, stealthier movement. They’re less than an hour out from camp when they spy the first rows of shuffling bodies heading their direction, gray-clad and empty-eyed.

Torch circles a fist in the air and points up. Every one of his banditos takes to the trees, climbing up as high as the branches will bear their weight. Torch is the last to go. With every handhold and leap higher, he sends a silent prayer that the foliage will be enough to shield them from view.

Someone pulls him up the last few feet, a strong hand under his arm, and he chooses a perch near the trunk where he’ll be most secure before he dares to look down below. The bodies that walk beneath are not fresh. Torch can tell by the stink. He can tell by the accompanying buzz of flies. His stomach lurches, and all around him, banditos reach to cover their mouths and noses. It’s a horrifying sight.

And to think the people of Dema would consider these souls glorified. Called to a greater purpose. When this is their true fate, hunting through the parts of Trench they would have spent their whole lives fearing, in search of ghosts clad in yellow.

In the midst of the thralls, a Bishop rides on a white horse. Torch can’t immediately identify which one it is. They all look the same beneath the cowl and wouldn’t dare risk such vanity as to call attention to their differences. Even their names are stolen from old texts of vialism. But the very sight of the red robes makes Torch burn with a bone-shaking hatred.

For just a moment, he contemplates the switchblade in his pocket, the distance between himself and the horse. How difficult would it be to drop down at just the right moment? To pull the Bishop from their horse and end a sick, twisted line of death? He thinks he could, before the devil could get their hands around his throat.

He doesn’t even realize that he’s leaning forward, away from the tree’s trunk, until another hand takes hold of him. A silent head-shake that conveys - No. He can’t risk it. Not with all the others under his care now. If he were alone, maybe. But he’s not. And he’s got to stop acting like it. People need him.

Slowly, the horde moves on, heading in the direction that they just fled from, towards the camp. Torch wonders again who it was that gave away their location. Surely not any among his own numbers. He knows them all too well. Trusts them with his life. He’d hate to think that one of them was somehow working with the Bishops.

Once the coast seems clear, the first of the banditos begin to drop down from the trees. Torch watches them hit the ground one at a time and then slip into the underbrush, out of sight. Until one in particular, a familiar scrawny frame with a cut across his nose, lands wrong on his ankle. There’s a telltale snap of bone.

And only then Torch spots the straggler. A single glorious gone removed from the rest of the pack. It’s heading in their direction, and the boy on the ground isn’t moving fast enough. Torch doesn’t think. Doesn’t have to. He just starts racing down the tree.

Landing on the ground near to the boy, Torch clamps one hand over his mouth and the other around his arm before rolling them both into a nearby thicket. The thorns and branches scratch at their exposed skin, and it’s only because of Torch’s fingers shut tight over the boy’s lips that his scream of pain is stifled. His ankle is definitely broken.

Torch’s heart pounds. He’s certain the younger bandito can probably feel it hammering into his spine. But Torch uses his body to shield him from view, able to peek out only between the dense coverage of dark green foliage heavy with ripening blackberries. He watches the zombie shamble closer, drawn by the strange noise and shivering leaves. It reeks of rotten meat and the chemicals used to stave off decay. Torch tries not to wonder what they looked like before the maggots found their way into the skin.

He tries not to breathe.

Cover me, cover me, he prays and hopes that the earth beneath his hands and knees is listening. He feels an insect skitter along the back of his hand. Black and full of legs. The rotting corpse’s old boots are mere inches from his fingers. Torch curls them back as the boy beneath him tucks his face into Torch’s shoulder.

Maybe it’s only a moment or maybe it’s just a small eternity, but eventually, the zombie turns away and continues its slow march after the rest of the group. Torch’s whole body aches from the jolting drop from the tree, from the scratches he’s now covered in, from the tension he’s been holding for what feels like years. But he finally lets himself sag with relief.

When he feels the boy in his arms shudder with a quiet sob, Torch moves to hug him close.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, a little to the boy and a little to himself. “We’re alright now. We’re okay.”

Once he’s sure, really sure, that no one else is coming, Torch slides himself out from beneath the thicket. It’s easier said than done, especially now that there isn’t death chasing at their heels. But he manages to reach back in and pull the boy out, too.

They’re both bruised and bloodied, covered in dirt and decayed leaves. But they’re alive. And soon enough, surrounded by other banditos. Someone, Torch doesn’t catch who because his head is spinning with too much relief, begins to quickly assess the damage to the boy’s ankle.

Torch spies bone protruding from skin. And his heart sinks.

“No way he can walk on it,” someone says.

“Do we have anyone good with first-aid?”

No one, which means they’re going to have to make do. But not here, not with that horde still so close. Luna wanted them to keep moving.

Torch takes a moment to calm himself. The boy’s face is so twisted with pain, but he keeps quiet. He almost wants to drag him into another hug. But instead, he brushes the leaves from his own hair and sighs, “I’ll carry him a while, but we’ll have to trade off. Someone take my pack.”

“I’m sorry,” the kid mutters through clacking teeth. Torch knows what shock looks like, and he’s afraid it’s coming on fast. “We almost got caught-”

Shrugging off his backpack, Torch hands it to the first pair of hands that reach for it. “Doesn’t matter now. We’ve got to keep moving.”

“You might as well-” the kid’s voice is jagged, broken through by short, panting breaths, “might as well leave me and let them take me back.”

But Torch shakes his head as he watches the boy’s hands twist and fret at the ground on either side of him.

Don’t think of Clancy, he tells himself, don’t. Don’t.

“We don’t leave people behind.” He motions for him to climb on his back. “Now let’s get you somewhere safe so we can see to that ankle, okay?”

Torch doesn’t breathe right until they’re moving again. And even then, there’s a certain buzz at the back of his skull like he’s holding a live wire. He swears that every step the banditos take is softened by the moss or leaves or heavy grass until they become almost silent. The way becomes easier, sloping downhill from the mountains into the canyon-crossed valleys below. Like Trench itself is guiding them along to safety.

They don’t see another glorious gone, but they never stop looking over their shoulders either. When darkness falls, Torch passes word around their small camp, “No fires,” hoping that the night will be warm enough without them. They set up a watch, and even though Torch isn’t on the rotation for the night, he finds that he cannot sleep.

He almost wishes that he could, if only to see if they’ve moved within range of Dema. With his back propped against the rock of a shallow canyon wall, he assesses the blisters on his feet and ankles by what moonlight filters down. All around him, people are breathing slow and even. At least they’re pretending to sleep.

The boy with the broken ankle - Torch thinks he heard someone refer to him as Abel - rests with his head tucked against Torch’s side and a blanket draped around his shoulders. Occasionally he hisses in his sleep, like he can still feel the pain while dreaming, and Torch smooths a hand over his hair, willing him to relax. They’re all going to be exhausted enough as it is by the time this is all through. Might as well rest when they can get it.

Eventually, he manages to snag a few fitful hours of sleep himself, but by the time the dawn comes, someone is shaking him awake. Pointing to the sky. Blinking against the sudden onslaught of blue, Torch sees black wings gliding.

The vultures are on the hunt.

When Keons comes to his solitary cell in the tower, he has to lift Clancy’s head from the floor to get him him to drink. Whatever is in the cup tastes of rust, and Clancy tries to spit it out only for Keons to hold his hands over his mouth and nose, forcing it down. When he breathes again, Clancy can still taste the tang of metal. He reaches up to touch his tongue, the parched patches still rough and scaly.

“It is for your own good,” the Bishop tells him. “You need to cleanse your mind.”

Clancy finds himself smiling, black fingertips tapping to teeth. “Is that what you call it? Think if I swallow enough it’ll fix me?” His eyes loll across the ceiling, everywhere but the Bishop’s veiled face. “Think you can still save me?”

Keons sighs. “I do not believe you want to be saved anymore.”

“And in that, at least, you are correct.” Clancy twists his fingers through his mutilated hair. Pink now, so out of place in the shadows of the Bishops’ towers that it’s almost amusing. Nico says he has something special planned for when they release him.

“I don’t need saving,” Clancy swallows as the chemicals from Keons’ cup begin to take effect, slurring his own voice inside his mind. “Not by you. Not anymore.”

“It is a pity then that I still wish to guide you towards rest,” Keons admits, tugging Clancy’s fingers away from where they’ve begun to tear the hair from his own scalp.

“Careful,” Clancy mumbles at the curl of chilled fingers around his own, “or I’ll start to think you don’t want to see me die after all.”

Keons gives his head a single shake. “The Ascension would do you no good in your current state. I would see your soul at peace first, before you take that step into paradise.”

Clancy blinks slowly, eyelashes nearly sticking together. “Ascension?" The next annual assemblage. He'd almost forgotten. "Is that what he has planned for me?”

When Keons doesn’t answer, Clancy knows he’s guessed correctly. He should have known this would come. Once Nico realized that his favorite toy had worn through its usefulness, he’d be cast aside. He just hoped he’d be able to do more, change more. It seems he’s wasted so much time.

“I suppose I’m at least due one last hurrah before I go out, huh?” He curls onto his side, every joint sharp with pain and every muscle dulled and stiff from disuse. Tugging at his hair again. “I wondered why he wanted this color.”

Soft and sweet and unassuming like candy floss dissolving on the tongue. Such a temporary thing, just a fleeting saccharine taste before it’s gone. How fitting.

Keons lifts him from the floor, and Clancy has to lean into his side just to stand. “Come, it’s time I took you home, child. You’ve much to prepare for.”

The Bishop talks as they descend the tower. He tells Clancy that they will meet one-on-one daily to discuss his plans for the Ascension, that he will be required to rewrite his testimonial since Nico would like him to present it before his fellow citizens before the set date. Which is only six months away, after all, in time for the usual yearly ceremony. Of course, between now and then there is a schedule of new performances, though Keons assures him they will wait until he’s recovered enough from the re-education process. It’s all too much.

Clancy’s skin won’t stop crawling everywhere the Bishop touches him, and the moment that they break out into the frigid early-autumn air, Clancy tries to pull away.

“Let me go, please, just let me go!” He pushes at the Bishop’s hands and feels the fingers spider over skin, grasping to hold onto him. And he knows he’s making a fool of himself, that people on the street might see, but he can’t help the shivers running down his spine.

When Keons finally releases him, Clancy falls to the ground, catching himself on his hands and knees. His vision swirls, the drink that he took from the Bishop’s cup will probably smooth these cares away soon enough. But for now, the effects are overwhelming. Every single stimulus is like a needle in his brain. The overcast sun still burns in his eyes. Even the pavement beneath his blackened palms is making him want to claw at his skin.

“I can take him home, Father,” a voice above him says, faintly familiar. “As an act of service to you, if you would grant me the opportunity.” She bows her head, the nurse that Clancy knew before.

Keons studies her face a moment before giving a small nod. “If you wish, child. But I would caution you against speaking with him. He is still… confused.”

The nurse bows her head again, hands folded before her. “I understand. I only wish to relieve you of the burden.”

Clancy watches the hem of the Bishop’s robe as he hesitates only a moment longer before returning inside the grim tower. Then, he feels hands lifting him from the concrete, brushing him off and checking for scrapes.

“Your name,” he whispers, unable to meet her eyes. “I don’t think you ever told me.” Familiarity is not allowed within Dema, but everyone knows Clancy’s name. He’d like to hold onto a few himself for a change.

“Sol,” she says with a smile, taking a little blue band-aid from her pocket and sticking it over a new cut on his palm from where he fell. “My parents had funny ideas about names. It means ‘sun’ you know?”

Clancy nods and lets her lead him down the sidewalk, an arm looped around his. He’s cold. Dressed only in his thin shirt and pants with a pair of ratty sneakers that do nothing to save him from the sudden chill of the changing seasons. But Sol is warm beside him, and though he knows in Dema it’s a sin to take such comforts, he relishes someone warm to hold onto, rather than the clammy touch of a Bishop.

“They’ve been waiting to see you,” Sol tells him once they’re a certain distance from the towers, so soft that he almost doesn’t hear. “To say their thanks.”

And he pauses to ask her what she means just as someone else approaches them. It’s an older man, older than most people get in Dema, with just a little gray in his beard, but he has a pair of working gloves in his hands. And without a word, he takes Clancy by the wrist and begins putting the gloves on him, to cover up the black stains.

The leather gloves are warm from where they’ve been clutched in his hands, and Clancy finds them instantly comforting, though a little ill-fitting. They’ve clearly molded to this person’s hands from much use. He wants to say thank you, but before he can, the man moves along.

He’s so stunned by the gift that he barely notices the next person who slings a scarf around his neck. Loops it snugly and brushes a hand down his shoulder. The scarf seems hand-knitted and worn, but it’s softer than anything he’s owned in his whole life.

The taller woman that tugs a beanie down over his ears smiles at him and whispers the words, “Take care,” before ducking away again down the street. Another man comes from behind and helps Clancy shrug into an old coat. And there’s a silent grip on his elbow, fleeting but firm and supportive.

“Check the pocket,” the gruff voice tells him before he turns into the nearest building.

Clancy does, reaching inside to find a slip of folded paper, a scrap of Dema letterhead. It reads, in scrawled ink, “Report from the outside: no known casualties as a result of the raid. Sahlo folina.”

“Safer if you don’t hang onto that,” Sol whispers and takes the paper from him before tucking it into her own pocket. “But they wanted you to see.”

Still in a quiet state of shock, Clancy touches the ends of the scarf, the edge of the beanie, the collar of the coat. All these little gifts, still warmed by the hands that gave them, embracing him, keeping him safe from the cold. He’s never felt so… full.

Is this the danger that vialism has been keeping them from?

“Your message got out just in time.”

Clancy has to take a moment to shut his eyes. All of this is making him dizzy. He’s not sure how to handle the flood of warmth after so long trapped in the cold and the dark.

They wanted him to see. They wanted to say thank you. They cared enough to wait for him to crawl back out of the tower, even though they only know his name.

“Are you alright?” Sol asks when Clancy has to stop a moment just to breathe.

“It’s a lot,” he says. It’s all he knows how to say. The rest is just a tangle in his guts.

She purses her lips and nods. “I have a sister on the outside. At least, they’ve never brought her back, so I hope- But if what you did saved her, I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

Clancy shakes his head.

“You’re risking too much to do this.”

She shrugs, knowing what they both do, that he’s right. That any amount of kindness within Dema is all but forbidden. That she could face consequences that even Clancy, terribly privileged as he is, is removed from.

“It’s worth the risk, for you. We all think so.”

Clancy lets her lead him back to his apartment, where the vultures are perched and waiting, so he must stand on his own two feet despite the pain. But he’s warmer now than he was before, and his steps a little more sure of themselves. When he turns in the doorway to watch her go, Clancy takes comfort in knowing that he did awaken something good in the citizens of Dema, after all.

He just hopes that they won’t mourn him when he’s gone.

Chapter Text

“If you’ll wait right in here, the Bishop will be with you in a moment.” The young acolyte holds the door to Keons’ private study open for Clancy to step inside.

He’s here for his daily meeting, a sheaf of papers in his hands from where he’s written and rewritten his final testimonial in a number of half-finished drafts. The story of his life here in Dema, however brief. But the briefer the better, right?

Clancy nods to the assistant and ducks past into the room beyond. It’s spare, as most of the spaces in Dema are, the walls lined with old books and framed illuminated pages of the tenants of vialism. But Clancy is surprised to see that, across from the door, the desk at which he studied so often as a younger man is now occupied. He glances back to the acolyte, to ask if she was mistaken, but she’s already shut the door behind her.

The Bishop rises from his seat. “Clancy. How are you acclimating to life on the outside?”

Not Keons, as he expected, but Nico.

Clancy doesn’t realize that he’s backing up until his spine hits the doorknob, and he jolts at the sudden sensation. “As well as can be expected, I guess.” He grimaces at the tremble in his own voice.

Rounding the desk, Nico crosses the room and takes the papers from Clancy’s hands. With an all-too-casual air, he peruses them a moment. All the details of Clancy’s life laid bare, though he’s made sure to tone down certain parts. Attempted to hide little messages within others, knowing these pages will go into the permanent records where they will live on, even after his body is put into the ground.

Nico chuckles to himself, tracing a finger down the rows of text. Clancy shivers like it’s his own skin.

“You do possess a remarkable gift for obfuscation.”

Clancy isn’t sure what to say, so he decides to remain silent.

“I am surprised at you, Clancy.” The Bishop reaches an arm around him then, drawing close, too close, and Clancy hears the sound of the door’s lock clicking into place. “I thought after your time spent in the towers, you would be more willing to cooperate. Have my methods failed you so completely?”

“I don’t think,” Clancy says around the lump of terror lodged in his throat, “that it is you who have failed, Father. I think that I can no longer serve faithfully beneath the teachings of vialism, no matter how much I might wish-”

And oh, how sometimes he wishes.

“-that I would be able to.”

Nico tilts his head to one side and then the other. It’s a movement so animalistic that it’s nearly alien. Then he drops all of Clancy’s papers to the floor where they scatter like so many leaves.

“Hm, how careless of me,” he says, his tone never shifting. “Pick those up.”

With his back crowded to the door and Nico standing close, Clancy has to be very careful to kneel down without touching the Bishop. As he does, though, he senses Nico moving above him. Reaching into his robes and drawing out something from them.

And then the slow, rancid rot of a seizing begins creeping through his veins. Black as pitch and cold as all those nights spent on the floor of his solitary cell, the power of the antlers clutched in Nico’s hands turns Clancy’s will to a fading morning mist. Just a curling breath fogging from blue lips.

His fingers contort. His eyelids twitch. As each tiny muscle brings itself into the submission of the Bishop’s control. One arm raises at a sharp angle above his head, and then the other. Then he’s straightening to his full height, neck at an odd tilt like he’s hanging from it.

It’s shattering, an utter devastation of his sense of self.

And Nico knows it.

“Never forget,” the Bishop hisses and twists Clancy’s arm around behind his back. But at least he doesn’t have to touch him to do it. “That I am the one in control here.”

Clancy blinks back pained tears, teeth bared and eyes burning red. “If you break me,” he pants, barely able to move his own mouth enough to speak, “you can’t use me.” Behind him, the door shudders.

Keons’ voice, “Clancy? Clancy, are you in there? Open the door.”

Nico’s face remains impassive, unbothered. “If that is what you truly believe, would you like to test your theory?” With a twist of one antler, Clancy’s head and shoulders are shoved back into the door.

“Nico?” Keons’ tone changes. The doorknob rattles. “What is the meaning of this?”

“I know you want me on the next assemblage,” Clancy grinds the words out through his teeth even as sparks of pain fly across the backs of his eyes. “So fine, I’ll cooperate until then. Just let me do it under my own power.”

No more seizing. Please, no more.

“You’ll find you have no bargaining power here.” Nico’s grip on the antlers tightens, and Clancy finds it suddenly impossible to breathe. Like something is sitting on his chest. “And you’re wrong, dear boy, I don’t want you dead.”

Clancy blinks, horrified but unable to scream.

Nico places a single finger beneath his chin. “You’re a gift, Clancy. The greatest one I could ask for, because of your ability to be seized while still alive. Don’t you see? You’re an exception. One that will allow me to continue my work for years and years to come.”

And it all makes a terrible sort of sense, doesn’t it? Only Clancy hasn’t let himself see it before now. Never in all his worst nightmares could he have imagined a more disgraceful, unholy end for himself than this.

“At the Annual Assemblage, you will be more than glorified. You will join the ranks of the Bishops as my replacement.” Nico tuts and draws his hand away. “Of course, I will take control from there, and you will be no more than a memory. Until even that has faded away.”

Clancy shuts his eyes and hopes down to the marrow in his bones that it will be true. That there will be nothing left of him when Nico takes full control. Because the alternative is a living hell.

“So, I suppose you’re right in a way. I must be gentle.” And at last the hold on Clancy’s lungs abates.

He gasps for air, coughing and clutching at his throat.

Clancy hears the door unlock and open as he’s shoved aside. Keons is once more the holy terror that he witnessed before. Only now it’s directed elsewhere.

“Nicolas, this is an outrage! Until such time as the Assemblage, this soul is still under my protection. You abuse your position by interfering with my counsel!”

Clancy peers up through tear-stained lashes to see Keons glowering at Nico with all the fury of the sun that never shines its true face upon the concrete city. He didn’t know Bishops were capable of such raw emotion. Or of standing up to their leader.

But Nico simply tucks the antlers away and brushes off his robes. “You forget, old friend, that I am well within my rights to punish those who would cause insurrection within our walls. Perhaps you should more carefully inspect the state of your beloved souls before you cross me again in such a disrespectful manner.”

He steps on the pages of Clancy’s testimonial as he leaves. And Keons turns to watch him go, shutting the door after him with a huff. Clancy, for all his gifts with words, is struck speechless.

Torch perches on the edge of an outcropping from the canyon wall, eyes scanning the surrounding landscape for any sign of his scouts. They left the day before in search of a new source of fresh water, and the longer they’re gone, the less he can deny the anxiety drumming at his ribs. Beside him, Abel matches Torch’s dour expression. If the kid was always in his shadow before, he’s now become solidly attached to Torch’s hip.

Not that Torch minds the company. The others are all wary of him still, like they can sense that something is off. They follow his lead because Luna chose him for the job, but he hates to think what another day without clean water will do to their precarious sense of peace.

And they’re right, if he’s honest. There is something off about him. Something that Torch tries to distract himself from with every opportunity, and there’s certainly plenty of those. Between organizing groups for hunting and foraging, scouts for where they might move their camp to next, and watching the skies for vultures - Torch barely has a moment to breathe. Compact that with his new permanent second-half and there’s very little time for him to contemplate the depths of his new changes.

But in those rare moments, when the camp is still and everyone is asleep. When Torch lies on his back staring up at the distant stars and feeling the earth turn beneath him, he’s acutely aware that something has shifted. He’s not an ant walking along a blade of grass anymore. He’s a fixture in the landscape, a new magnetic pole.

Trench has always been wild, always unpredictable. The reason unit one spends so much of their time mapping the landscape is because it tends to change when they aren’t looking. Shifting and moving and transforming as quickly as the seasons. Trench is alive, a savage kind of life that’s cruel and unyielding, but still.

And now, in some inexpressible way, it has bowed its head to him. Let Torch beneath its wing. With the teeth of the continent at his throat, Torch has seemingly passed some kind of arcane trial, though he’s no longer certain at what point it happened. Or whether it’s been happening in fits and starts ever since he breathed his first free breath outside the city.

He can feel the storms coming in his bones long before they darken the horizon. He can foretell the drops in temperature, like frost forming on his skin. Even the movements of the beasts that roam the canyons are as obvious to him as beads of sweat tracing down his spine. It’s like he’s cradled in the clawed clutches of something gigantic and unfathomably old, Trench whispering its secrets to him as he dreams.

He’s afraid that it’s wearing him away though, little by little. Because he’s standing in an oncoming torrent, the flash flood swell that threatens to erode him to nothing even as it follows the path of the blue in his veins. Sometimes he finds that, for all the world, he cannot even recall his own name.

“You’re bleeding.”

Torch blinks, coming back to himself, and looks to Abel. The kid is staring down at Torch’s hand where, sure enough, he’s dug his fingernails into the soft flesh of his palm. Even staring right at it, the pain is so distant in his mind that he cannot truly admit to feeling it at all.

“You’re really worried about them, huh?” Abel asks and draws his knees up to his chest where he’s crouched.

He leans a little to one side, favoring his good ankle. The other has healed mostly, but apparently the old break still bothers him from time to time. The bone never set quite right.

Torch can’t help but feel responsible.

“I’m worried about all of us,” he admits, quietly.

The vultures have kept them pinned down in the canyons - out of sight but never out of mind - since their initial escape. Now with winter on their heels, Torch would give anything to be able to move his crew to the rally point where the rest of unit two should be waiting. Or at least, he hopes they will be.

But now his scouts are way behind schedule on their return. And without fresh water, they’re dead within days. Which means that Torch really only has one or two options. Move now and leave the others behind or go looking for them himself.

“Can you stay on watch a while longer?” Torch asks, brushing his shoulder against Abel’s. “I’ll send someone up after me, but I’ve got- I’ve got something I have to do.”

Abel mashes his lips into a thin line, eyebrows knitting together above the bridge of his nose. “If you say so.”

Torch gives his arm a squeeze before scaling carefully down the side of the canyon. They’ve had more than a few close calls living in such a dangerous environment.

Everything from flash floods to late season bush-fires, but if anything, the harshness has kept the glorious gone scouts from getting too near. Torch knows better than to think that’s a coincidence.

Once he’s gotten a replacement to sit watch with Abel, he tucks himself into one of the shallow caves along their stretch of the canyon and sits cross-legged on the dusty stone floor. With his eyes shut tight, he can still sense a lizard sunning itself nearby, a colony of ants working away near the back of the cave, a spider crawling along its web just past his right ear. All living, breathing, moving.

And then he’s gone.

Soaring across the continent on the winds, immaterial and yet more real than anything, Torch sweeps his hawklike gaze across the ridges of the canyons in search for his missing scouts. It doesn’t take long. He can feel them like a pulse point, blood pumping through a tear in his skin. They’re blocked into a narrow fissure by a landslide and don’t see the way out.

But he does. He senses the path they need to take, and it’s not long before he’s on the ground above them, a blazing torch in hand. This version of himself is more solid than he remembers from his last journey beyond the bounds of his own skin. He leaves tracks in the dirt where he steps now. He can taste the still-settling dust on the air.

When he sweeps his beacon above his head, he watches the faces of his scout team turn towards him. Their faces relay the shock of seeing him there, but Torch doesn’t dwell on the repercussions of this rescue now. Instead, he traces the careful path down to where they’re caught, committing it to memory so that he can guide them out again.

“Do you think you can follow me back up?” he asks when he’s reached them. But still, his voice seems distant, coming through as little more than a wheeze of distant breath. The banditos look around at one another, perplexed.

Instead, Torch uses the hand signals that Luna taught him. Tapping his own arm and gesturing up and out, he inclines the torch in the way he wants them to go. It takes a moment for them to respond. They look like they’ve seen a ghost. And honestly, maybe they have.

But once they fall into line behind him, it’s still slow going. Several times the rocks threaten to give way, sending a scattering of pebbles skidding down to the bottom. Torch can feel his own heart juddering frantically in his chest from miles away. His head is beginning to spin, the longer he maintains this form. But he holds out.

Because they need him.

When they’re out and safe, or as safe as they can be, he considers trying to explain. But even if he could speak to them, he’s not sure that he would know what to say. So instead, he draws the projection back. Back to the cave, back to the shell of himself. And tucked inside his own body again, he feels the exhaustion press him down into the dirt.

He got them out. Relief floods in, a wash of pure sunshine, and his sleepy smile is only for Trench to see, cheek pressed gratefully to the stone. For a while, he takes the time to just breathe, to let his heart rate settle back down to a comfortable level. It’s almost nice, the dull ache left behind, like stretching out muscles that he hasn’t used in a while.

He allows himself these quiet moments, because he knows that when he returns to camp there will be too many questions and not enough answers to give in return.

They’re waiting for him, gathered around those that have just returned. Torch is just glad to see that they’ve made it back with all the canteens intact. But they all go silent when he appears.

Abel is the first to approach him. “Where have you been?”

Torch works his jaw from side to side. He might be back in his body now, but his words don’t seem to have returned along with the rest of him. They’re locked somewhere deep down. Pinned in place by every stare that levels at him across the camp.

He looks down and touches the side of his mask, pulled up above his nose. He considers pulling it down for them and decides against it. He’s not ready yet.

“We saw you,” one of the scouts says, her voice hollow. “Out there. How were you…?”

She doesn’t know how to finish her question, and Torch doesn’t have anything to offer. He feels his shoulders raise, head ducked like he’s waiting for someone to swing at him. Never before has he wanted so badly to have another person to hide behind. Luna, Clancy, anyone.

They needed him, and so he was there. That’s all there is. If only they knew how much he needs them as well. Needs them, in this moment, to just accept him for what he is and not turn him away for this. Not now, when he’s just begun to feel truly at home here and he needs all the help he can get holding onto what’s left of himself. It’s a desperate, pathetic, terrible need.

And all he can do is look up at them and wait.

“Luna always said you were different,” another of the scouts says. “I always just thought she meant you were shy.”

It takes Torch entirely too long to realize that this is meant to be a joke. But he looks around and sees that others are smiling, a little nervously perhaps. But they haven’t started shouting yet, so he supposes that’s a good enough sign.

“How do you do it?” someone asks, not accusing but simply curious. Maybe even concerned. For his sake or for theirs he’s not entirely sure.

Torch shrugs and finds it in himself to say, “I don’t know.”

“Does it hurt?” Abel inches closer. “You just- you look tired.”

Slowly, Torch gives a small nod. “Sometimes it does. It’s not… easy. Or natural either.”

He’s expecting something - anger, maybe. Accusations. The only people he knows of who can do things so blatantly preternatural are the Bishops. And while Torch couldn’t be further from their beliefs, these gifts make him wonder if he isn’t something similar in nature to them after all.

Instead, someone else leans forward, almost expectant. “Are you going to use it to get back into Dema? To find Clancy?”

Torch grips his hands at his sides to keep them from shaking. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I can now, with things like they are.”

“We’ll help you.” Abel has squared his shoulders, standing at the front of the pack. “There aren’t many of us, so they won’t even notice, right?”

Torch looks around at all the faces. So few, so proud. They don’t seem to disagree with Abel, like they might really think that they could do it. Or that they think it’s worth trying.

But he shakes his head. “I can’t risk all of you like that.” He smirks beneath the mask. “Luna would kill me if I tried. Besides, we need to focus on getting ourselves to safety first.”

He rubs the back of his neck, still not used to be being the one to give orders. “If the skies are clear tomorrow, I think we should start moving towards the rally point, so hopefully we can be there before the first real frost sets in.”

Thankfully, they spend the rest of the evening mapping out their planned route rather than discussing the finer points of Torch’s position as their resident freak of nature, and when everyone settles in for the night, he takes the first watch so that he can be alone with his thoughts for a while, if only to assess what’s just happened.

It isn’t long, though, before he hears the crunch of heavy boots on gritty earth behind him and sees Abel settle down at his side. He doesn’t know what he expects from him, but it’s certainly not-

“Can you teach me how to do it?”

Torch snorts, then hooks an arm around Abel’s neck to drag him down and ruffle the kid’s hair.

“Not on your life.”

Chapter Text

Clancy’s head is bowed in silent prayer when he feels someone drape something heavy over his shoulders.

Sol’s voice is there, kind and gentle, “They’re waiting to see you. Are you ready?”

In return, he smiles genuinely for the first time in what feels like so long. He doesn’t mind the weight on his shoulders now. It’s nice, as solid as it is secure. “I’m ready.”

She’s beaming. He’d almost call the look one of pride.

“Oh, can’t forget.” With delicate fingers, she reaches to his shoulders and draws up the hood over his head and the veil over his face.

“There,” she says and steps back, “perfect.”

And he lets her lead him out, onto the stage where the spotlight shines down on him, a bright beacon from the high ceiling above. Clancy looks out on his fellow citizens where they await in a hush to hear a word from him.

The pulpit is his.

He strides to it, to the cup that is placed there for him. This is the holy grail and the end of the quest. This is the moment that he has been waiting for since he started on this long road. His glorification.

And as he peers down past the rim, into the bitter juice meant to mask the taste of chemicals, his own eyes peer back at him. Shining red and full of death.

He wakes screaming to an empty room, with no one coming to save him, and he swears. He’ll never sleep again.

Clancy rises early, before the milky sun has climbed above the gray horizon, and he dresses in his warmest clothes. The black on his hands still hasn’t worn off yet. So, he tugs the gloves on over his fingers, smooths them into place. It feels nice to allow himself these little indulgences.

He walks alone to the edge of the city. Faintly, he seems to remember that he used to make this walk with someone else at his side. A friend or a brother or someone of that sort, and on a better day, he might even be able to recall his name. But Clancy doesn’t press his mind this morning. It’s already raw from a sleepless night and the decision that he’s made.

These parts of Dema, the crumbling places that seem to speak of a different way of life, have always puzzled him. He’s often dreamed of what this place was like back then. Before the wall, before the decay set in, before the Bishops. He wonders if the world was really a better place, or if it was just better at hiding its demons.

And then he reaches the end of the line.

And rows and rows of glowing markers meet him where the necropolis begins. Death, on luminous display, as far as the eye can see. Too many to count.

The noise of them is the most overwhelming part. The neon buzz that seeps into his skull, just the right frequency to send a hollow vibration from his head to his toes. He stares at them a little too long, he thinks.

But he’s come here for a purpose, so he tries not to delay. It takes a while of hunting through the debris. A lot of useless junk, but at least some of it is still good for kindling.

He starts a fire.

Someone taught him how to do this once. On one of his brief escapes from the city. He can just recall the way that another set of hands guided his own, arms wrapped around him from behind, a voice humming in his ear. So close and comforting. And that first little spark, always such a delightful surprise. Like a kind of magic all its own.

Clancy kneels down close and breathes into the flames to give them life. It smokes and smolders, hisses and spits, but eventually the gathered materials begin to burn. The warmth is almost immediate, breaking out across the tip of his nose and his cheekbones. He bites back a smile.

He wanted to feel this at least once more, and the light of it emboldens him enough to tear the gloves from his hands so he that can hold his palms up close. Almost too close, almost scalding, because he can’t get enough. It feels, for all the world, like home.

And he watches as slowly, black ink fades from his skin. It’s such a small thing, but he’s glad to be free of the marks. To know that when they find him, at least he won’t look quite so much like the thing he fears.

That he can go as himself, only himself, and no one else.

When morning comes, Trench gives the banditos a blanket of fog to escape by, so thick that Torch tells them all to grab onto the person closest to them and don’t let go. They move in a winding chain up and out of the canyon and into what feels like a low-hanging layer of clouds. Cold and damp but impossible to see through.

Yet Torch can still feel his way forward by the compass in his head. They move slowly, as slowly as he dares knowing that soon enough the sun will rise and burn away their cover. The terrain is still uneven, full of gaps and steep drops, and even he has to be careful where he sets his feet.

It’s wandering into an abyss.

It’s a pure and simple leap of faith.

Trusting that Trench won’t betray them now.

And he is, he’s learning to trust this new connection that he has. He’s learning to let those new senses guide him. Even if he doesn’t understand what it truly is, or why it chose him, he’s willing to act on a little bit of faith. He’s willing to follow this path, with the hope that it’s leading somewhere safe, maybe for all of them.

But then the drumbeat of anxiety that lives just beneath his lungs these days turns into a roll of thunder. He’s not sure why. Nothing has changed. They’re making good time. And he’s certain that there is another bank of trees just beyond them now.

He glances up, but he can’t see vultures through the thick layer of mist. They should be fine. They’re not fine. Or Torch isn’t, at least.

Something is wrong, very wrong. He can feel it jolting through him, up from the soles of his feet and pulsing through his heart. He lurches forward. Abel’s hand on his arm yanks at him.

“Woah, woah!” the kid exclaims, and down the line of banditos linked together, everyone stutters to a stop as Torch hits the ground hard.

Abel’s kneeling in front of him then, the knees of his pants damp from the morning dew on the grass. His hands are on either side of Torch’s face. His eyes are wide with worry, worry, worry.

“What’s happening? What’s wrong?”

Torch shakes his head. He doesn’t know. This isn’t something he’s ever felt before, coming on so strong and out of nowhere. But they don’t have time for this right now. He needs to get to his feet. They have to keep moving.

Trench rumbles from deep beneath the ground.

Torch motions with his hand, at his heart, the cross of yellow tape along his chest. The little fist-sized organ is beating itself to death. He’s certain of it. He’s dying.

And then something beyond all comprehension drags Torch screaming out of his own body.

Clancy thought about just staying in his room for this. Tearing down the paper from over his windows so the vultures might look in and see, but by the time they reported back, it would be too late. There would be nothing to find but a body. And the neat stack of pages on his desk, the final draft for his testimonial.

But he wanted this, a gentle sunrise and a few stolen moments of warmth.

Even in death, he’s betraying vialism, and that is its own form of comfort.

The razor blade in his pocket is not unlike having a rock stuck in his shoe. It’s there, and he’s keenly aware of it all the while. Every step he took to get here, he felt it. But stopping to take it out might send him off-balance. He waits until he feels stable enough, hand braced against the cracked concrete, before he removes it.

Firelight glints across its surface and flashes in his eye. He almost drops it then. But he feels the pull.

He stole this when they cut and dyed his hair. It seemed almost silly at the time, superfluous. An overcompensation for how powerless he felt in the moment, but he told himself that it was some form of self-defense. And in a way, it still is. Defense against the thing that wants to take him, use him, erase him. Besides, he’s a goner anyway.

He has been, ever since he sang that song, a call to action within the city walls. Maybe if he’d just slipped out quietly like every other escapee, he could have disappeared into Trench and never darkened Dema’s streets again.

But he made a choice then. He sealed his own fate, and deep down, he knows that he could not have avoided it. It’s just who he is, for better or worse. The cycle needs a victim.

At least in this, he can break free.

When he puts the razor to the skin of his wrist, he tells himself it’s not a suicide. He tells himself that he’s not giving in, he’s not doing it just because he’s scared. He won’t be the victim anymore. He’ll break the cycle. He’ll be the hero, even in tragedy.

But he knows, deep down, he knows. He can’t deny it. There’s no other way around it. He’s terrified, and this is not a victory. And he just wishes he didn’t have to be alone for this part.

And then a hand closes on his wrist, stopping him, and he knows he’s caught. The vultures must have seen. Or someone followed him here. They won’t let him just finish this already. They’re going to take him back to the towers, and this is all going to start over. And he can’t, he can’t do it again.

He won’t put on a red robe and become that nightmare, red-eyed and consumed by something monstrous, even if it means this is the only other option.

He fights to pull himself free, but the hold is too solid. Too strong. Too desperate.

Their arms are around him, crushing him. The hand that isn’t clutching his wrist, blocking the path of the razor’s edge, is twisted in his coat. And a head is tucked down beside his own, face pressed into his neck. Not dragging him, just holding him. Just holding on like both their lives depend on it.

And they do, they really do.

Clancy’s fingers drop the razor and wander up the green fabric covering a warm shoulder to a tangle of curly, dark hair. As much in need of a proper wash and a good trim as when they were kids. There’s a fondness in his chest that he doesn’t recognize, for a boy with a heart on his sleeve and fire in his eyes. For a person who is not just a person at all, but safety and happiness and home.

His home, his person, his-

“Torch?”

And he draws back so slowly at the sound of his name. Like he’s scared that if he lets go, Clancy will try again. Or someone will come to take him away.

His face is half obscured by a mask, his green hood fallen back. He looks so different from the person Clancy almost remembers. Like the last few years have aged him in more ways than one. The heaviness in his eyes is immense, unknowable. Even this close, he feels as far away as the stars.

Then the hand that isn’t closed around Clancy’s wrist - still holding on, holding on so tight that they’re both trembling from the strain - reaches up and pulls the mask down.

Clancy blinks like he’s looking into the sun. “Oh,” he says, tears in his throat, “it is you.”

And the Torchbearer shuts his eyes, grief in every line of his face. Into his chest he presses the sign for, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” for all the times before when he couldn’t make it.

Clancy shakes his head, still so scared to move, to wake himself from this dream. Because this can’t be real. “How?”

But Torch won’t open his eyes, there’s just a shrug, just a soft, whispered, “You needed me.”

Maybe if he could have opened his eyes to look, he’d see the way Clancy’s expression breaks. Maybe if he could have opened his eyes, he would see the vultures landing on the nearest roof. Maybe if he could, but he’s so torn up inside knowing that he was almost too late.

Then Torch feels a hand on his cheek.

“He must have loved you a lot.”

But that’s not Clancy’s voice.

And when Torch does open his eyes, he sees red looking back at him. A terrible smirk that doesn’t belong there. Then quick as a viper, Clancy reaches for the razor blade again. It slashes through the air, catches Torch across the cheek, not an inch from his right eye.

He throws himself back, grabbing for his torch to put it between himself and Clancy.

There’s blood on his face. He didn’t know this version of himself could bleed.

“That he can still somehow remember you despite all of Keons’ best efforts? Even I must say it’s an impressive feat.” Clancy shrugs, but the movement is all wrong. Stiff as rigor mortis. “I wish I knew how you did it, how you inspired such devotion in him.”

Torch doesn’t understand what he’s seeing. He doesn’t understand how Nico’s voice is coming out of Clancy’s lips. Clancy would have to be-

But he takes a step closer, hands folded behind his back, and Torch takes one step away. He never moves the fire from between them, though he hesitates to attack. He doesn’t want to fight his best friend. He does want to rip Nico to shreds. The two are, unfortunately, not mutually exclusive.

This is a seizing - Nico’s plan for Clancy all along.

And Torch would like to make him pay for it, every ounce in blood. But his hands are tied. Because this is Clancy, too.

“I really should thank you for intervening when you did,” Clancy goes on, twisting one hand through the air as he speaks. “If it weren’t for you, I’d have lost my vessel, and it took such a long time to find this one.”

Torch’s head spins, from a seething rage he cannot fathom and a kind of exhaustion he knows too well. Already he can sense that he doesn’t have long. He’s far beyond his normal boundaries, and every moment that he lingers is a chance that the tether between who he is and what’s beyond is going to fray and snap.

He doesn’t leave.

“Put the fire away, boy,” Nico hisses, tilting Clancy’s head further and further. “You and I both know that you won’t hurt him.”

He reaches Clancy’s hand towards the flames, and Torch jumps back another step.

“I thought you needed him.”

An almost familiar crooked smile breaks over Clancy’s face. “I do, and yet…”

This time when he surges forward, Torch trips over a pile of debris. His hands fly back to brace himself, and that’s all the opening that Nico needs. He slams into Torch’s chest and forces him to the ground.

The impact is enough to steal his breath. And when Torch’s head hits concrete, everything goes distant, sideways, blurry. Then all of Clancy’s weight drops onto his chest. Two hands around his throat, his friend’s fingers squeeze tighter and tighter.

“You’ve given me just what I need,” Nico laughs, leaning close so that Clancy’s face is all that Torch can see. “Making him kill you might finally be enough to break that pesky rebellious streak once and for all.”

And Torch knows the only solution is to retreat, slip away from this moment and this place and save them both. But all he can see is Clancy, even past the mounting terror and the red in his eyes. He’s still in there, and he’s watching this happen. And Torch hates to leave him, especially like this.

How many times do they have to lose each other?

It seems at least once more.

Tears in his eyes, Torch’s lips form the words, “I’m sorry.”

And that’s all there is.

Chapter Text

They arrive at the rally point by the first frost, just as Torch knew they would. And when he hears the shouts of other voices waiting for them, at least one of the burdens he’s been carrying lifts from his shoulders. They’re alive.

Luna comes to meet them, bearing a pot of coffee and promising warm food to follow, and Torch watches his group reunite with the rest of their family from the edge of the camp, his shoulder leaned against a slanted tree.

They’re all overwhelmed and exhausted. But the looks of pure joy on their faces, seeing each other again, it’s worth every moment of worry he’s spent in the last few months. Despite everything, this is still what he loves doing most in all the world. Bringing people home.

“So,” Luna appears before him, arms crossed over her chest, “looks like my elaborate plan to finally get rid of you didn’t work after all. You made it back.”

Torch fakes a smile behind his mask but doesn’t speak. He knows the smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and it won’t fool Luna for a second. He’s avoiding eye-contact at all costs, really. Like he’s been doing since his group crawled out of that mist.

Sure enough, Luna’s smile turns skeptical, and she nods her head towards one of the nearby tents. “Why don’t you step inside and give me a report? We’re still waiting on the final group to make it back.”

He nods and doesn’t even question when Abel falls into step behind him, even though Luna puts her arm up to stop him from waltzing into her tent. “Not you, junior. Go get something to eat, okay?”

Abel scoffs and looks past her to Torch, but Luna shakes her head.

“Look, I know he’s your favorite now,” she teases, “but I’m still in charge around here. You can check in on him when we’re done.”

Abel looks like he wants to argue. But Torch gives a shake of his head. He’d rather not end up in a fight between the two of them, anyway. And thankfully, it’s enough for Abel to relent. He peels away from them and goes to join the others for coffee.

“What a punk,” Luna says after him, shaking her head but still smiling. “What did you do, anyway? Save his life?”

Torch ducks into the tent.

Luna follows a moment later and lets the tent flap slide closed behind her. There’s not really such a thing as privacy among the banditos, but if the others are listening in, they know to make it as unobtrusive as possible. Out of respect for Luna, if nothing else.

“Alright, Torch, spill it. What’s with the silent treatment? Are you mad at me for something? Because I’d really rather we just hash this out.”

After a quiet moment, Torch tugs down his mask.

He watches Luna’s eyes narrow.

“What happened to your face?”

The cut on his cheek is still healing. It’s shallow and clean enough that Torch doubts it will even scar, but the mark is visible enough. He swallows the growing lump in his throat.

“Nico.”

Luna crosses the tent. “You saw Nico? And he let you get away? How?”

Torch’s shoulders have gone tense. He’s tried to practice how to tell her this, but none of the words ever fit together right.

“Not me.” He ducks his head. “The other me.”

It takes her a moment to process. “You projected yourself back inside Dema?” There’s a cold edge to her voice, a warning that she is very close to being angry.

Torch feels his hands begin to shake. He can’t meet her eye. “It wasn’t me. I didn’t- It took me.”

“What took you?” Luna asks, but Torch doesn’t know the answer. And the more he dwells on it, the faster his heart races.

He’s breathing quicker now, too fast and too shallow. He feels a cold sweat breaking out on his neck and upper lip. Stomach twisting itself into a knot. He doesn’t want to be doing this right now, reliving this.

“It took me there, and I found Clancy. I had to. But he-” Torch turns bodily away from her. He can’t let her see him like this, hands on either side of his face like he’s trying to shield himself.

She trusted him with her people. She let him be her right hand. She brought him into this family, and he’s still not fully in control of whatever this is. And that makes him a liability.

“Nico is possessing him,” Torch finally says. “I don’t know how, but I know why. He wants Clancy as a vessel. Permanently.”

He shakes his head, fingers crossed at the back of his scalp and tugging down. The tears caught in his lashes are making it hard to see. “I couldn’t stay. I couldn’t save him. I-”

I left him there. Again.

And it’s all crashing in now. Everything he’s been holding up since it happened, since waking up in the field with his banditos around him. He had to keep them moving, get them out, get them to safety. And now they are safe. And that driving purpose is gone from him again. He’s had the rug pulled out from under him, and now he’s spiraling.

Luna moves. He hears her rather than sees her. He doesn’t know what she’ll do, but somehow he doesn’t expect her to turn him towards her and pull him into a hug.

He didn’t even know he was curling in on himself until he realizes that he’s rested his head on her shoulder. Her grip around him is tight, holding the broken pieces together. When the first sob jolts through him, she hums sympathetically in the back of her throat. It’s too much, this terrible burden. And all he wants to do is to save his friend.

“You can’t do this to yourself,” she whispers. “You can’t make his life your burden.”

Torch shakes his head. “I have to get him out. I have to-”

“I know you do, and you will.” She squeezes tighter, until Torch can barely breathe. “But the only one who can save Clancy is Clancy. He has to want it, and he has to fight. Or he’ll never really leave that city behind.”

Luna pulls back then, just enough so that she can grab his face between her hands and force him to look her in the eye.

“I am so sorry that you have been given this gift and you still feel so helpless. The situation is… impossible. In so many ways. But somehow it’s worse on you because of this thing that you can do. You feel more responsible than any of us.

“But you can’t save everyone! You can’t take all of that on yourself. It’s as good as tying yourself to an anchor and going for a swim. You can’t do it.” She shakes him, just a little, just enough to make her point. “I won’t let you. We’re your family, and we don’t let family hurt themselves.”

Torch can’t hold back the sobs now. And he’s tried so hard for so long to be strong that the breaking is even more devastating than he could have imagined. It feels like it’s all worth nothing now. All that effort wasted, because he still wound up here.

“If I can’t save him,” Torch drags in a shuddering breath, “then what’s the point of all this?”

What, he thinks, is the point of me?

Luna blinks back her own tears, looking up at the top of the tent like the answers might be written there. She rocks them back and forth a while, slowly. “It’s- It’s complicated. The balance between what we can do for others and what they have to do for themselves. But Torch, please hear me when I say, you have given Clancy the best gift anyone in that situation could ever, ever have.”

When Torch gets enough control of himself to stop crying, he holds himself still and silent as she brushes the hair from his eyes.

“You showed him he’s not alone.” Luna pulls her arms away, but she doesn’t go far. She grabs her yellow bandana from her back pocket and hands it to him to dry his eyes. “It matters more than you know.”

Torch takes a moment to clean his face. He’s a mess, still raw and shaken inside. Even though he’s no longer actively sobbing into Luna’s shoulder - already he’s burning with shame over that whole display - he doesn’t think he wants to risk leaving just yet. Not until he’s had a chance to get his breathing back under control. Until he’s pulled his mask back up.

Luna watches him for a few quiet moments before saying, “But as far as I’m concerned, we have leave to make a move on Dema whenever we want.”

Torch blinks at her, almost stunned back into silence. “What?”

“The council gave you permission to go after Clancy, right?” She shrugs her shoulders and nods her head toward the bedroll on the ground where she’s laid out her maps and other papers. “Makes sense to me that we should strike while the iron is hot. I mean really, we’d be crazy to get close to the city now, right?”

Pushing his hands through his hair, Torch begins to wrack his scattered brain for ideas. “Do we- do we still have enough of a working radio system to get a message in?”

Luna smirks. “I can check in. I know where the radio unit is rallying. It’s not more than two days from here.”

Torch nods, his fingers twisted up in his curls. He sniffs, feeling at last like his lungs are his own again. “I need to see him, alone. Inside if possible. Where no vultures can see.”

Luna grabs for a loose page and a pencil and starts jotting it down. “I’ll send a scout group out before nightfall. Then we should know by the end of the week. You figure out who you want to take with you to get in close. I don’t want you going in on your own, someone’s got to watch your back.”

Luna jumps when Torch wraps her in another hug from behind, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades.

“Thank you, Luna. Really.”

She snorts softly and pats his arm. “It’s the least I can do.” Turning back, she watches him go, but before he can slip out, she says, “And Torch?”

He peers back in at her, eyes already brighter with renewed hope.

She sighs, knowing it’s pointless but trying anyway, “You should at least try to get some rest between now and then, okay?”

The moment that Torch is boots-down in Dema, he knows that he’s on the clock. His little team, guarding his other body on the outside, has been tasked with pulling him out the moment they sense danger. And even if this all goes according to plan, he knows he still doesn’t have long.

Gripped in his hand is the paper telling him where to meet Clancy, the old, gutted factory building on the edge of the city where they used to meet. When they still had their music. When they were just a little-known, underground, personal rebellion.

But when he steps inside the familiar haven, Torch doesn’t spy Clancy waiting on him. Instead, there’s a small gathering of Dema citizens. And a single Bishop dressed in red.

Torch freezes, mind reeling. He thinks of running or fighting or just screaming. He’s not sure which would be the best option. But he knows he’d certainly like to tear something apart with his teeth.

“You’re really here,” one of the citizens calls out, and still their voice is kept low. “You’re him - the Torchbearer?”

Torch is confused. Because none of them are rushing at him in an attempt to apprehend him. And even the Bishop hasn’t moved. He’s just… staring.

Then someone approaches, a young woman maybe only a year or two younger than him and dressed in gray nurse’s scrubs beneath her coat. She looks almost familiar.

“He wanted to be here,” she says, holding out a single slip of folded paper, “but they’re keeping him under close observation now.”

Torch moves slowly to take the paper, ready at any moment to bolt if he needs to, but the attack doesn’t come. And when he takes the paper by the corner and lets it fall open, he sees beneath the lines of typed text is Clancy’s name written in his own, messy handwriting along the bottom.

Heart thudding hard and low, Torch swallows the lump in his throat. He should have known that after Clancy’s attempt Nico wouldn’t let him out of his sight. And still, he couldn’t help but hope.

“We want to help you get him out,” the woman says, and her resolve surprises him.

But Torch turns his dark-eyed glare on the Bishop. “Then what is that thing doing here?”

The Bishop raises his hands. “I only wish to help. For many years Clancy has been under my charge, and I did what I thought I must to save his soul.”

Keons.

Torch feels for his switchblade in his pocket.

“But now… I believe I have been in error.” The Bishop’s voice has never sounded so thin, so fragile.

Torch is almost too disgusted for words by this empty show of sympathy. If Keons ever really cared for Clancy, he never would have let Nico anywhere near him. It takes everything in him for Torch to hold himself back.

“The Bishop has a plan,” the nurse says to Torch, her hand hovering by his arm like she’s readying herself to offer comfort or stop him from attacking. “He believes that there is a way to get Clancy out of Dema that even Nico won’t see coming.”

Glancing around, Torch weighs his options. He doesn’t have many. He’d rather cut off his own hand than work with a Bishop, especially the one tasked with ensuring one day Clancy would willingly choose to kill himself. But his own plans for freeing Clancy are just flawed, desperate hopes for a miracle.

“Talk,” Torch bites out at last. “Because I have minutes before I have to leave, and my patience won’t last that long.”

Keons must believe him, because he starts explaining quickly. “Nico plans to announce Clancy’s ascension to the role of Bishop at the next Annual Assemblage. But first, there is to be a celebration. A final performance for Clancy, as it were. It will take place on a submarine in the bay outside the city walls.”

Torch sneers. “And what? You want me to row out in a dingy and swim for him?”

“I can get you on-board,” Keons tells him, on hand extended in a placating gesture that only makes Torch’s blood boil hotter.

“No one knows your face except for myself and Nico, and he will be occupied with preparations for the final ceremony. Once you’re near the strait, I will ensure that the proceedings are… interrupted, so to speak.”

Torch can’t help but notice the vagueness of this statement, but he keeps his jaw clenched tight.

Keons goes on, apparently uninterested in elaborating, “You will have to take over from there. He must go to Voldsoy. An old power still remains there that might be our last chance, and if nothing else, even Nico’s reach will not extend there. He… fears the place.”

The razor thin line of civility in Torch’s voice could cut through steel. “And how am I supposed to believe a word you say?”

“Because,” Keons says, gesturing around the room, “I am going to let you lead these people from the city. Take it as a sort of down payment.”

Torch looks around at the gathered faces. They’re a small group, just a few souls, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t tempted to take them all and run. But it’s against everything he knows and believes to trust the words of a Bishop.

“We believe him,” the nurse tells Torch softly. “We’re willing to take that risk. It’s why we came, so that you would know.”

“Does he know? Your plan?”

Keons shakes his head. “Clancy cannot know anything of this, for his own safety and to ensure that Nico is kept unaware.”

Torch squeezes his eyes shut, trying to reconcile all the rioting voices screaming in his head down into a single, coherent thought.

“This is crazy.”

“Do you have a better option?” the young woman snaps, and Torch can see her hands shaking. “Because Clancy means something to this city now, and if he’s forced to wear that robe, every citizen in Dema will lose hope. Can you even imagine that kind of defeat?”

For once in his life, Torch thinks that he can.

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath in and holding it for as long as he can manage, while sparks still scald the backs of his eyes. “I’ll trust you, but if this goes wrong…”

“It won’t,” Keons promises him. And in spite of everything, Torch realizes that he is still only a man trying to save someone that he cares for. “I would die before seeing Clancy fall forever into Nico’s clutches.”

And on that, at least, the Bishop and the Torchbearer can agree.

Chapter Text

Dear Torch,

Sol tells me that you will return to the city again in hopes of leading me out. It pains me to know that I will not be able to meet you, but I send her to you with these words, along with my other friends in Dema, and ask that you would carry them all to safety for me. If this is all of me that ever escapes this city for good, I think I can still be content.

In my darkest moments, their kindness covered me. When I thought that I would never see light again, you came back for me. These are gifts that I can never hope to repay, though I sincerely hope that the freedom of these few will also comfort your heart as well.

In Dema we learn that self is a terrible master, and even now that I have renounced vialism, I cannot help but find this teaching to be true. Self is never satisfied. It is rarely logical. And at times, it wounds even its own body and mind. I have very little love for myself, if any at all.

And yet, when I am hungry, I eat. When I am thirsty, I drink. And when I am alone, I long so terribly for the comfort of a familiar soul. I do not think that anyone can entirely hate the person to whom they give food and drink and companionship day by day, even though the job will never be done. Despite it all, I cannot despise my own soul.

So you see I am a collection of contradictions. I am half-empty and half-full. I want to be free, but I cling to control. I want to find hope in life, but I constantly court death and the miseries that haunt my mind. I want to draw close to someone and have them see all my demons and accept me regardless, but I also fear being truly known by anyone.

I love you and I fear you. And I cannot say which is the stronger of the two. It makes me weary. Though, it seems that I will not be forced to persist in that vein much longer. But until that time, I may still choose who I serve, and I may find that, day to day, I am able to be a better, kinder version of myself. To myself.

So I ask you to take these people and these words beyond the walls of Dema, and guard them as I know you can. I ask that, whatever may happen to me, you will go on guiding people through the dark. I ask that you would live enough for both of us. It is a selfish request, but I think I can allow myself this much, if you can. You are the strongest and bravest person I have ever known.

Promise me you won’t mourn a day.

-Clancy

He returns to the camp with the new escapees in tow, and the party that the banditos throw for their new friends is a wild and fiercely joyful thing. But Torch doesn’t think he will ever see a greater moment of happiness than when Luna sees the young woman walking at his side.

“Sol?”

She speaks the name like it’s holy. Like a prayer she’s whispered a thousand times on a thousand different nights. And on this night, in this place, she’s finally gotten her answer.

“Luna- you’re alive!”

Torch watches the young nurse throw her arms around Luna’s neck like she never wants to let go. And he remembers now, Luna telling him all that time ago that she had a sister on the inside. That she always hoped she would be ready to leave someday but was never sure if she was even still alive.

He thought she’d looked familiar.

Luna looks up at him from over her sister’s shoulder, tears shining on her face, and she just mouths the words, “Thank you.”

Torch’s heart is so full and so empty at once that he has to step away. He won’t ruin their happiness with his grief, but he can’t stand his own joy, either. It’s too much to feel at once. And still not enough.

From where he sits, just a little ways from camp, he can still hear them singing and laughing and howling. What a strange and wonderful family they make. And it’s enough to listen while he watches the distant stars and hopes that soon enough, he’ll have a true reunion of his own.

“You’re going back again, aren’t you? For him?” Abel asks from behind him, and Torch has to take a deep, steadying breath before he can speak.

“Yes. He still needs me.”

Abel purses his lips, like he’s trying to hold in what he wants to say. “I don’t want you to go. I’m scared something is going to happen - you know you can get hurt in that other form now, so what if…”

But he trails off. And Torch doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to offer comfort when there are so many unknowns. But he does know one thing.

“I’ve got to do it, Abel. I’ve got to try. There’s something in me that can’t let him go alone.” Torch turns back to look at him, a smile on his unmasked face. “Besides, I’ll be here, too. I’m never very far.”

And Abel sighs, clearly frustrated with this answer but still just a kid. He sits down beside Torch and stares up at the sky. It’s enough.

Torch really wonders, if he really can be in two places at once. Just at the moment, with how his heart is swelling, he thinks he might have enough inside him to make it work.

Without being able to feel the cold - Torch waits on the shoreline of a lonely island and watches the waves for any sign of Clancy. Fear jabs needles through his guts. And it’s all he can do not to throw himself back into the water and start searching.

He can’t believe he lost sight of him. But in all the confusion of the wreck, all the angry waves, Torch barely made it to land himself.

But it’s like Luna told him - the only one who can save Clancy is Clancy. If Torch had tried to hang on and swim for them both, they would have drowned.

It has to be him. He has to fight, to want it, to drag himself to shore.

Torch’s job is to stand with a light and hope.

And when the sea does give him back his friend, Torch knows he has to act quickly. Because Clancy’s lips are frozen blue, and his eyes are distant, like he’s not so sure he isn’t really dead after all. He pulls him to his feet and leads him further inland to where they can hide and where Torch can build a bigger fire.

He sets Clancy down on a fallen log and rushes to get enough wood together. Trying not to linger too long staring, checking and re-checking, to be sure he’s really there and no one has come to take him. Not again. Not this time.

Once he has the flames going, Torch approaches Clancy again, slow and steady, and draws him closer to the fire. Clancy moves like a sleepwalker. Torch doesn’t want to crowd him, so he sits a few cautious feet away.

But there’s no one inside Clancy’s eyes now.

So Torch takes his hands and uses his own skin to work some warmth back in. Into Clancy’s fingers first, then his wrists, his arms and shoulders. Until it feels like blood is pumping again and its safe enough to hold Clancy’s hands near the fire.

Their fingers are all prune-y from the long swim. It’s a ridiculous thing to notice in that moment, but he does. He only wishes they had some dry clothes, so that Clancy won’t catch his death.

Then he waits. And he watches. For a sign of life to flicker from the darkness. It’s almost too agonizing to finally have Clancy so close, and yet there’s not a bit of recognition in his eyes.

Until. Clancy blinks slowly down at the fire. It pops, shooting sparks, and his skin jumps slightly at the noise. He shifts his legs. There’s a glimmer hidden in his soft brown irises. And he reaches closer, almost too close, like he wants to take the flames into his hands. A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth.

Torch doesn’t move. He’s not so sure he even breathes.

“Clancy?”

Then all at once, as though Torch only just appeared out of thin air, Clancy seems to notice that he’s not alone. He blinks blearily at Torch. His brow furrows up, and his lips part like he’s trying to remember something, right on the tip of his tongue.

His attention drawn away from where his hands are held, they dip a little too close to the flames, and he has to snatch them back suddenly. He hisses, instinctively shaking them out. It’s the last little push he needs to wake up.

Because then he looks at Torch like he knows him again.

“Is this- are you- real?”

Torch bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, and he nods.

Clancy blinks again. There’s tears now, but there’s fear, too. He stumbles back, falling over himself. Scrambling away on his hands.

“No, no, he’ll hurt you again!” Clancy’s eyes scan the trees for signs of danger. His chest heaves and falls, heaves and falls. “I can’t- You’ve got to stay back-”

When Torch, mind reeling in distress, tries to move closer, Clancy throws out a hand between them.

“Don’t!” He shakes his head. Cheeks sharply pink with blood and panic. “I don’t want to hurt you again!”

Torch’s heart is shattering, but he makes himself stay still. He’s on his knees, his hands turned out towards Clancy with palms scarred like an old map. “You won’t hurt me.”

Clancy turns his face away. He’s so ashamed it’s like a knife in his guts. His hands around Torch’s throat, he can still feel it. And the swallowing darkness that came after was, if anything, a sick relief.

“He can’t reach you here,” Torch whispers, voice strained, pleading. “And even if he could, I still trust you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I do.” Torch reaches out tentatively and just brushes the end of Clancy’s sleeve with his fingertips.

When he doesn’t pull back, Torch hooks a finger in and tugs him closer. Sitting up slowly from where he fell on his back, Clancy presses his face into his own shoulder, twisted in a grimace. He won’t look.

Torch is so unsure of what to do, how to help him. He just wants to bring him home. He just wants to see his eyes again and know it’s still him in there. That reckless, beautiful kid he knew.

“I made you a promise,” he starts, and once he does the words don’t seem to have an end. “I swore to you that no matter what, I’d have a light for you, and I’d go with you. Wherever you needed me. And not Dema or Nico or even you - not even you - could stop me from keeping that promise.

“I’ll follow you, Clancy, even if it means we’re walking into certain death because you’re my best friend in the whole world. But you’re more than that, you’re the reason I’m- that I’m here at all right now. And whatever we are, we’re connected, and I need you.”

He swallows back more tears. He thought he’d already shed them all. But God, he just wants Clancy to look at him.

“I need you here with me, okay? Do you understand? Are you with me?”

Clancy’s eyes are shut. His lids are darkened, almost bruised, eyelashes still damp on his cheeks, and when his eyes do flutter open, they’re bloodshot. But brown, still brown. He takes a shaky breath and turns to face Torch. Only he just can’t seem to lift his head.

“I’m here,” he says, so small it almost doesn’t make it from his chest.

Torch tugs again on his sleeve. “So come here and let me help. Please.”

And it’s like all of Clancy’s shame and fear dissolves at once, because he throws his arms around Torch’s neck like he’s his lifeline, and it nearly knocks Torch back into the dirt. Clancy sobs, he screams, wounded animal cries that tear at Torch’s heart. They cling to each other, both gutted and raw and terrified. Because every time they’ve had this before, for even a moment, it’s been ripped away again. But they won’t let go now.

Clancy clings to all the warmth trapped inside this person who has somehow broken the world for him, and he doesn’t have to understand it to know that he never wants to lose Torch again. He’s free. And he’s here, they both are. It’s too much.

It’s too good to be true. He’s too good, far too good for someone like Clancy.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispers, still shaking.

Torch, a hand on his hair and one twisted in his shirt, shakes his head. “What do you mean?”

He can barely force the words out of his knotted-up lungs. “I let them make me forget. I thought it would be easier. I sang for them. I lied for them. I helped them-”

“I don’t care what you had to do to survive in there,” Torch says and tucks his chin over Clancy’s head. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

Taking each jagged breath slowly, Clancy twists a loose thread in Torch’s shirt and sighs, “What are we going to do now?” He almost doesn’t want to hear. He’s too exhausted, but he needs to know.

Torch shrugs, and it bumps Clancy’s head a little. “We’ll stay here.”

Clancy pulls back enough to look at him, brows wrinkled. “What?”

Torch slides his sleeve down over his hand so he can wipe a rough swipe down Clancy’s face, smiling. “We’re going to stay here, as long as you want. As long as you need.”

“But the banditos…”

“They don’t need me right now. You do.” Torch juts his chin. “And we’re kind of stuck here anyway, unless you’ve got a dingy hidden under your shirt.”

Clancy snorts and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Not likely.” He frowns. “I don’t even have my ukulele.”

Torch pulls at the grass beside him and grins, brighter and wider the longer he has him. He really has him back again. “I’ll make you one. It can’t be that hard.”

“Oh yeah?” Clancy rolls his eyes. It’s such a familiar old habit, he shrugs it on like a coat, their playful banter back and forth. “And what are you going to use for strings, oh master luthier?”

Shrugging, Torch reaches up to brush a hand through his curls. “My hair, naturally. It’s good and strong. I figured I’d grow it out while we’re here.”

“No,” Clancy swipes his hands through the air and giggles, “no, not allowed.”

“Oh, what? You can go pink, but I can’t have a man-bun?” Torch teases and tosses some of the grass he’s pulled at Clancy’s nose.

But Clancy’s smile falls when he reaches up to touch his own hair. “He’s going to be so angry when he finds out I’m gone.” His eyes have gone distant again. Lights out in an instant.

Guilt stabs through Torch’s chest. He can’t begin to imagine what Clancy went through because of that monster, all while Torch was caught, always out of reach.

“I’m sorry.”

Clancy shrugs. His shoulders are heavier than they should be. “Nothing you could’ve done.” He looks up and sees the way that Torch’s expression has gone all twisted, that mangled hurt in his eyes. “Hey, it’s not your fault.”

When Clancy hugs him this time, it’s less desperate and full of grief. This time it’s just tender. It’s their breaths matching time and the sound of Clancy’s heartbeat close to his own. It’s the comfort of someone who knows his soul, a piece of Torch’s heart slotting back into place.

Just a soft, sweet - ah, there you are.

He’s never going to let go.