Title: Healing

Author: ThirstySatyr

Rating: M, for language, mild sexuality, and squick content

Chapter 1/6: Nightmare or Now, the First Trip

Standard Disclaimer: Not mine. Rob Thurman's.

Nightmare or Now, the First Trip

I was sore from the top of my head, covered as it was with inky black, ruler straight hair – doing its usual inky, ruler-y thing – to the bottoms of my peculiarly bare feet. Ache was too moderate a word for how it felt. Ground, as in the past tense of grind… yeah, that was a bit more accurate. But even that lacked certain finesse, an intangible quality of totality. Fuck it; 'sore' worked.

I wondered hazily if the reason for my bare feet might have had something to do with the whole sore thing. The distant sensation of my skin told me I was nude, cocooned securely in clean cotton sheets that smelled vaguely like trees. As comforting as the smell of young leaves could be, something was wrong in the very nature of my being; even naked as the day I was born, I should at least have been wearing socks; three day old socks, ripe, thinking for themselves and threatening to take over Guatemala. I curled my feet tighter under the blankets, with abused legs protesting sharply. As I did, my half conscious mind searched offhandedly for a reason why such a vital part of me, my socks for gods' sake, would be missing.

Maybe I'd stepped in a puddle, and then been mauled by a bear. Maybe my socks had caught on some carpet, and I'd fallen down a couple dozen flights of stairs. Maybe my endlessly annoying brother had stolen my socks, filled them with the sharpest cotton balls money could buy, and...

When the frigid, jagged light filled my still sleep-tangled mind, it blotted out all other thought. My body stiffened of its own volition, half conscious mental signals telling my muscles to run. It was a sickly gray-yellow, that light, like the glow off a swollen corpse. The light spoke of a place where illumination was just something to see by, and never chased the shadows away.

It was the light of my own personal hell; Tumulus.

And I had been there. Recently, my mind whispered with sleep edged memories. Oh yes, quite recently. Really, depending on how long I'd been sleep... I'd only just got back.

I fought to slip back into full unconsciousness, struggling against memory for blessed oblivion. But the memories would not be beaten back; no, they came, and they brought friends.

The first time I'd been in Tumulus – and why, why must there now be a second to make that one a first – I'd been a child. Fourteen, terrified, and breakable. The first time I'd been to Tumulus, I had been stolen there kicking and screaming. Gods help me, but, this time I'd gone willingly.

Maybe that was too strong of a word. Willingly; it implied a choice, which I had utterly lacked. It had been go, and succeed, or have my entire world destroyed. Not much of a choice. But I had gone, ripping the walls between worlds myself, and stepping through under my own power.

The first time I had been in that life-devoid nightmare, I had spent two years having my father's demonic family torturing me, trying to strip the will from my mind and reform me into a tool. I was to be their apocalyptic instrument, their implement of the unmaking of the world. Two years of suffering at the hands of the Auphe had seen me age from a childish fourteen to a lunatic sixteen. And in the real world where my brother, the anchor of all freaking existence, had waited for me, only two long days had passed. When I had emerged from my very first gate, screaming mad, cringing from the shocked touch of the only family that mattered, the wounds had been internal – mental wounds, two years deep.

But that was then, and this was now; lucky me, this time the wounds were a lot more physical. I remembered the cave wall that had left the whole left side of my body tenderized, the jagged edges of rocks that had bitten into the muscles of my back... the claws that had raked up my inner thigh and just nicked my scrotum. That one had sucked. Especially considering that, had my "cousin" succeeded in the intended blow, I would have run the rest of the race in the gelding category.

In a distant, quiet part of my mind, I knew I was still asleep, my body being held unconscious so that I might heal. Even in sleep, though, I remembered the shock and the pain. Defensively I curled up even tighter, rolling closer to the warm, familiar scent on the bed next me.

Oh yeah, I remembered this part too.

When I'd come back after that first trip to hell, I hadn't remembered… at least, not in the active, conscious part of my mind. No, I'd done a beautiful job of suppressing my two years in hell. But there'd been a part of me that had remembered, even if only enough to soak into my reptilian hind-brain and colour my instincts. I'd come back trembling, cringing from a world I couldn't recognize as real. My brother had dressed me, moving my shaking limbs into the sleeves and legs of second hand clothing. My brother's touch had brought the world into a cleaner focus, if only minutely. I had reveled in the heat of him, feeling his touch make things better, forcing the world to be just a little more real. Then, for reasons suppressed to spare my mind, I had whimpered, guilt filled his eyes, and he pulled back.

But his retreat just made it worse. I was sixteen and scarred, and when he would pull his hand away from my hair, or my neck, or my shoulder, it was like being abandoned even though I was sitting in the car next to him. Even though I knew he was doing everything he could to take care of me. Feeling his touch slip away was like being thrown back into the void at the back of my mind, sending the world skidding out of focus.

The whimpers had gotten worse, and my poor brother didn't know what to do; he couldn't pull farther from me, and all he wanted to do was crush me close, keep me safe. I was curled so tight into myself, my lungs clenched against the screams, I couldn't tell him what I needed. I couldn't voice that I needed his hand on my arm, I needed the smell of his skin on mine, I needed his heat to anchor me to this tenuous world. All he heard were the whimpers and the growls, and he thought he was hurting me.

In the here and now I whimpered again, pleading for that touch of safety to return; I wasn't sixteen anymore, but I still needed the reassurance. I felt the bed shift under me, and a solid weight settle against me. My head was tucked under a familiar chin, with warm breath shifting through my hair, and strong arms firmly wrapped around me, pinning me to this world. Better.

Still not perfect though.

I shifted even closer to the warmth holding me, trying to burrow into the skin that smelled like sun, trying to solidify this anchor. I pushed and fought against my cocoon of sheets until I was able to free an arm, snaking it securely around a narrow torso. Better.

Still not perfect, though.

Just like last time.

All those years ago, my brother had driven for days before he felt we'd put enough distance between ourselves and the burnt carcass of our past life. We stopped at a public bathhouse masquerading as a motel; it had walls, and most of a roof. It had been enough.

I hadn't moved from my brother's side as he got out of the car and paid for 24 hours in a room with a bed and a bathtub. I had hovered with about three inches between us, refusing to be any farther. When he'd been too far from me, my vision would begin to narrow, a tunnel of darkness slowly eating away at the world. At the end of that tunnel would always be my brother, the best guiding light someone could have; but I'd felt the black encroaching, threatening even him. It was unbearable; I needed to be where his scent was the strongest, I needed the one real truth in my world to stay in sight.

The days passed like that; me, shaking, almost hollow, barely passing for conscious, and staying as close as I could while never quite touching. After all, how could I force my shinning perfection of a brother to sully himself with me? I was a monster after all. Horrid. Freakish. Unreal. I even got an all expenses paid trip to hell for doing such a good job. How could I ask my so human brother to let that leech off of his warmth, touch his skin like it was something sacred, curl against him while trying not to scream? How? I couldn't; so I hovered, never quite touching, but close enough to smell the warmth falling from his skin.

When I slept it was a different story. When I slept, I was pressed so close to him I could barely breathe. But it didn't matter, because what breath I had was full of his scent; the blunt smell of male, the mellow-sweet warmth of sunlight, and coppery tang of healing wounds. It was a smell I would grow to instantly recognize as my brother. It was home, it was family, and right then it was the only part of the world that was real. When I would wake, not even a heartbeat between unconsciousness and trembling awareness, I would struggle away from him. If I pulled away fast enough, I wouldn't stain him with what I was. If I pulled away quick enough, I wouldn't leave any monster behind on my perfect brother.

For three days and nights it had gone like that; my hovering distance while awake, my desperate clinging while asleep. Then one bright and sunny three am, in yet another anonymous truck stop motel, my brother didn't let me run away. For the first time that would set the pattern for the rest of our existence, he had woken just before me instead of just after. He'd felt the shaking that signified my impending awareness, and had locked his arms firmly in place.

When I broke the surface of consciousness, his scent still strong in my lungs, I had tried to pull away. Always with regret, but doing it because I had to spare him. My brother wasn't a monster, he didn't deserve a monster making him the center of its world. The arms locked across my back let me know he thought different.

At first I fought against him, my still unfamiliar body pushing with an alien strength, but no control. I had never been a fighter before, had avoided it even; so I knew I couldn't win against him. I mean, he had pulled me back to this world just by being; did I really think I could stop his pulling me into a hug?

No, I couldn't fight him with my arms and shaking strength. But I could fight him with the truth.

"No, Niko. Stop. Let me go..." my voice barely registered as my own. I pleaded with the unfamiliar sound, using it as an example of how wrong I was, how monstrous. Don't you see, brother, I'm not what you think I am.

The look that flashed across his face was hurt, even scared. But I couldn't take it back; wouldn't.

"Cal," his voice stumbled out, "I would never hurt you... please..." he kept this arms locked around my shoulders, trying to catch my eyes with his.

Hurt me? Of course not. You aren't making sense, big brother.

"Please Niko," I tried again, the harsh and unfamiliar voice almost catching in my throat. "Don't touch me..." Please brother, I'm dirty. I'm not human. Don't let it corrupt you. Don't let me pollute you.

He had let me go then. I had almost slid off the edge of the narrow bed, his release was so complete. Finally, he understood. The look in his eyes was haunted, but sometimes the truth did that to you. As he pulled his hands closer to his body, I could just notice the cringing, could just smell the change in his scent.

He was getting it, but I needed to make sure; I needed him to understand.

"Please, Niko. No. Don't. Don't touch me." I felt his flinch through the worn spring of the bed, but I had to keep going; no matter how the truth hurt, I had to make him understand. "Don't touch me. I'm... I'm a monster, you're not. You're good, you're right; I'm not. Don't touch me, don't hold me. Don't. Just... let me go. Let me rot. Not human, not worth it, not real. If you touch me, you'll be just as wrong as I am..." I was screaming by the end of it, my new voice tearing its way out of me. I was also sobbing. Big, fat, fourteen-year-old human tears running down my sixteen-year-old monster face.

I was shaking so violently that I didn't feel him shift on the bed, didn't feel his tense crouch, but definitely felt him hit me in a bull-dog tackle. I fought back – it was one of my new monster instincts – even though I didn't want to win. As much as I wanted my brother safe from me, I didn't want to be safe from him; after all, he was the only real thing left.

The struggle was brief, and when it finished we were on the floor, one of my gangly legs lost under the bed, one of my snow-pale hands clawed in my brother's hair, and my brother in complete control. The hand I had managed to win any points with, keeping my brother's head at an awkward angle, was quickly going numb. My other wrist was pinned quite effectively by a knee, while his other foot held my free leg at an angle far more awkward then I had his head. His hands were practically excessive as they pinned my newly long hair to the floor.

"Now you listen to me, little brother. You. Are. Not. A monster! To imply that you are worth anything less than all of my brotherly affection is an insult I am not willing to take." He made sure to emphasize the word 'affection' by knocking my head lightly against the floor.

And despite it all, I don't think I had a new bruise on me; he had said he would never hurt me.

But he had it all wrong; this wasn't about him hurting me, this was about me ruining him. This was me thrashing his life even more than I had before. More than just money to pay off our mother, more than just giving up part of a scholarship so I could live with him. Now it was me, and just me. I was too much to ask of him. I was a burden, a cross, a creeping set of teeth and claws just waiting for the right moment to stab him in the back... the better to rip your heart out with, my dear.

I couldn't let him do it.

"No, Niko. I'm not your brother. I'm not… I'm not human," I pulled against his hands as I pleaded, the tugging at my hair barely registering. It didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was saving him.

"I'm not real." Just like the world, just like everything but you. "I'm a monster. I've always been a monster. Now its just worse. Look at me; look at what I've done. God, Sophia…" our poor, heartless, selfishly human mother... just dust on the wind.

I had kept going, I know that. What I said is anyone's guess. My brother probably remembers. It had to have been pretty bad though, very ugly, because he shut me up the most effective way he could.

He kissed me. There was no romance in the kiss, just heat, just pursed lips against pursed lips. It was like everything else my brother was to me; strong, supportive, pushing me until I understood that he would never let me fall. The heat of him began to fill me up, pushing past the layers of blank nightmares, reaching a part of me that wanted to remember who I was. It went through me like an electric shock; suddenly the world was real again.

I could feel it, the surety. It was like finally waking up.

Then it was gone, because he was gone. He pulled back from me, his face from my face, his hands from my hair, his whole body retreating. Even his eyes looked like running away. He looked appalled, staring at me with disbelief and not just a little bit of fear. And just as it had been better a heartbeat before, it because a thousand times worse. A million times worse. Infinitely worse.

I was going down. Nothing was real now, not me, not this world, not even my brother; it was all vacant. Just the calm before the nightmare. Nothing existed except the screaming blackness in the back of my mind. The only true thing was the void of my memories and the pain hinted at in the emptiness. Of course that was the only reality, the only thing that was genuine; I was a monster, it was all I deserved. I didn't have the right to a brother that cared for me; the haunted look in his eyes was merely proof of my delusion. What was I thinking; that I mattered? That I existed? Hardly.

I could feel the hollowness sucking me down, whether to submerge me back into the memories, or create newer, crueler ones; it didn't matter. I was going down. A coarse cold began replacing my skin, eating away the warmth I'd managed to steal from my short-lived belief in the world. Everything was fading, being swallowed up by the devouring darkness. It was all distant and out of reach, even the gray of my brother's eyes.

I was going down.

"I'm not real," said a voice that still wasn't mine.

I wasn't real.

I was gone.