the sea is screaming (but your laughter muffles the sound)

♦

When Christopher closes his eyes that night, a swarm of black feathers suffocate him.

He dreams of pitch-black birds, a fearsome, beaked mask set with cold, unfeeling eyes, the rushing of freezing ocean water filling his mouth and pulling him under-

YOU BELONG TO ME

- the sight of his master’s dead body, torn open and bleeding-

YOU ARE MINE

- finding Sally after the Minotaur’s attack, her head bloodied and her body lifeless, the feeling of grief, so intense it threatens to envelop him entirely, the pulsing of rage so inviting he wants to just give himself into it and destroy the Minotaur, destroy everyone and everything that has ever dared to hurt his friends, hurt him-

Christopher awakes with a start, thrashing in his sheets. His throat feels raw and his mouth tastes of copper. For a moment, he doesn’t know what bed he’s waking up in, and he panics. Then he catches sight of Sally peacefully slumbering on a palliasse by the fire, and he remembers where he is. Who he is. He’s so focused on regaining his breath, that he doesn’t notice the large figure crouched by his bed. Then he’s panicking all over again, his gasps a mess of rhythm, and if it weren’t for a steady, familiar hand pressing gently on his arm he thinks he might have passed out from fear.

Eyes closed, the world slowly returns to him, and in a few moments he’s able to sit there and actually gain control of his thoughts. Tom- a giant, felled by a hundred swords, blood pooling into a vast ocean- is beside him, his concerned, warm brown eyes staring into his own.

“Are you alright?” His voice is soft, almost too soft, and Christopher almost asks him to speak up before he realises it’s the middle of the night, and Sally’s sound asleep.

That makes one of us, he thinks.

Christopher croaks an answer. “I’m fine,” he says. “Just a bad dream.”

Tom tilts his head, unconvinced. “You were screaming in your sleep,” he says. “Actually screaming. I’m surprised Sally didn’t wake up.”

“We’ve all had a long day,” Christopher answers bluntly. “You must be exhausted as well. I’m fine. Go back to sleep.”

Tom’s expression turns hard, and he glares at Christopher. “You are not fine. That wasn’t just a bad dream, it was a nightmare. Don’t try to pretend with me,” Tom says, and he sounds tired all of a sudden. “I’m your best friend. I spent weeks thinking you were dead. You think I can't recognise a nightmare when I see one? What did you see?”

And he just has to go and make Christopher feel guilty. He’ll be honest, he almost forgot that Tom had spent weeks in a depressed state when he was missing. He remembers what Sally had said, back when they had first found each other after he almost died.

I don’t think he sleeps any more. He doesn’t even eat. He just sits in the parlor all night, looking at the door every time it opens, in case it’s you.

Christopher might have spent those weeks in a haze of fevered dreams and stolen memories, but in the meantime, his friends- actual people who cared about him- had been left in the dark about his fate. Friends that had spent weeks combing the Devon countryside to find him.

He knows what it was like to be alone, to have to bear the pain and humiliation that Cripplegate Orphanage bestows on all its charity cases by himself. In comparison to his childhood, the pain of the last few years was a breeze. Finally, he had people to rely on, people who would nurse his wounds and complain about injuries with. Tom and Sally were lifelines to him, the one thing keeping him afloat in an ocean of despair. So Christopher sees the buoy thrown to him by his oldest friend.

He wants to take it- he truly does. But what if, by grasping his friend's hand, he pulls him down into the sea too? He couldn't bear it. But Tom's earnest eyes, promising acceptance and understanding, pulls an answer out of him. 

“Remember what I told you a few days ago? About my nightmares of being trapped in the ninth circle of hell?” Tom jerks a nod. “I don’t get that any more. Instead, I see my past. The parts I don’t want to remember. The Raven. Melchior. Drowning. Master Benedict-” he chokes on the name, “Sally back when she was injured. My memories are still returning, Tom. What if they’re all like this? What if the things that happened to me, to us, haunt me for the rest of my life?

“I don’t think I can take this. I don’t want to see the only father I’ve ever known’s bloody corpse every time I close my eyes. I don’t want to hear the Raven’s voice whenever it’s silent. I’m damaged. Broken. And I’m not about to drag you all down with me.”

The tears on his face concealed by the darkness of the night, Christopher tries to turn away. But a hand catches his shoulder.

“No,” Tom says quietly, but commanding, as though he wants Christopher to catch every last word he says. “You’re not broken. Damaged, maybe. But never broken. Trust me when I say this, Christopher-” and he looks at Christopher with determination in his face, “trust me, we will help you get through this. All the awful things you’ve experienced, we’ve been there too.

“Yes, there may be nights where you wake up screaming in the middle of the night. The stuff you’ve gone through, it doesn’t just go away and not leave an impact. But we’ll be there. Right beside you. This won’t last forever. If you’ll only believe a single thing I say, believe in that.”

And he does. Christopher looks at Tom, remembers the protective way he'd bandage his wounds a hundred different times one of his schemes went awry. He remembers the accident years ago, when he'd fallen and his head had been split open- Tom's arms wrapped around him, carrying him home. I'm here, he'd said. Don't worry, I'm right here. He looks at this boy and he believes in him, the same way he'd believed in Sally every single time they'd been in trouble. His friends know what he is going through, as they had surely gone through it themselves, alongside him. And Tom’s fierce promises leaves no doubt in his mind that they will continue to stick with him through thick and thin.

After Tom and Christopher have said goodnight, and all is quiet once again, the same grating voice whispers into his ear. But the noise is muffled by Sally’s heavy breathing. Tom’s soft snores. Bridget’s quiet cooing from the other side of the room.

YOU BELONG TO ME, the voice hisses.

Christopher’s defiant answer echoes back.

No, he says.

I belong with them.