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The Pit's magic is a thing of darkness, volatile and cruel.
Oh, it grants Jason greater strength, sharpens his reflexes, makes his wounds heal much faster. Thanks to it, he's almost invincible on the battlefield, to the point where he can cut through his enemies in a flurry of blows without breaking a sweat.
But every now and then, the Pit makes him pay.
Jason shivers; even though the furs are piled up to his chin, he can't stop himself from shaking. His teeth chatter as the icy coldness sweeps over him, wave after wave, settling deep into his bones. It won't let go, he knows it, and yet he still tries to escape it, tossing and turning, seeking warmth.
He's so weak he doesn't even have the energy to open his eyes.
Above him, worried voices are murmuring.
“We've tried everything, my lord. Herbal brews, magic potions – and all for naught. The fever isn't abating.”
Well, it's not going to abate, Jason wants to tell them. But his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, and his lips are too dry and cracked to form any words. No, it won't abate, he thinks instead, pushing against the shadows creeping at the edges of his consciousness. It won't abate until the Pit plunges him back into the abyss and then spits him out again.
Such is his curse, such is the price for the Pit's power.
“Leave us.”
Wayne.
Of course, Jason's been aware that Lord Wayne is here, in his bedchamber – that's how attuned he is to his lord's presence, that's how much he craves it. Pathetic, yes, but to finally hear Wayne's voice, low and commanding, is a blessed relief. Like a lifeline, it helps Jason cling to his sanity and keep the encroaching nightmares at bay, if only for a bit longer.
The alchemists shuffle out of the room; their footsteps fade, the door closes behind them with a faint creak. But Jason doesn't pay any of it any heed. The only thing that matters is that Wayne is standing by his bedside.
“Jason.”
Strong fingers brush the strands of hair sticking to his brow, and he leans into the touch, almost butting his head against Wayne's palm. Cool, so cool against his burning skin, and he can't bite back a needy sigh. Please, oh please.
Let me have this.
Please.
Let me –
Pitch-black darkness.
Stuffy air, cloying his nostrils.
Confined space, smooth wood pressing against his sides, against his face.
He can't breathe.
He can't move.
Dead and forgotten, buried in his coffin next to Lord Wayne's family crypt.
No. Oh, no. No.
Not again.
“Jason!”
But his heart is already racing wildly. Get out, get out. He just has to kick and scratch and hit, no matter the splinters tearing open his knuckles, then dig through the wet soil. Dig and dig, with his eyes squeezed shut, despite the stinging in his lungs, despite the dirt pouring into his nose and his mouth, despite the stench of rot –
“Jason.”
Strong arms wrap around him, a hard chest presses firmly against his back. The terror recedes; through the thin fabric of his shirt he feels the steady thump of Lord Wayne's heart. Jason focuses on that rhythm, matches his own breathing to it, relaxes into the solid body cradling him under the furs.
The Pit's tricks. Always the same, always blurring the lines between the present and the past, always ready to resurrect his deepest fears. Like mere moments ago, when he blacked out so completely he didn't even notice Lord Wayne sliding onto the bed behind him. The worst part is that he cannot stop the lies and illusions from unfolding; he can only watch by, helpless, a thrall to the Pit's madness.
He's too weak to master it, to make it bend to his will, too –
Chains around his wrists, the throbbing of broken bones.
Laughter.
Pain.
Well, well, well.
What do we have here?
More brawn than brains, more bravado than any true skill, more bark than bite.
So tell me, pup, is your lord really going to come back for you?
Are you worth the trouble?
You disobeyed him, after all. Snooped around, waving your big sword, got yourself captured.
Ah, lad. You think you're a knight but you're nothing more than an errant child. And you know what happens to naughty children? They get punished.
Tell me. Which hurts more? This? Or that?
This.
Or that.
“My lord,” he begs, shaking his head to banish the jeering voice and the mad cackling. “My lord, don't leave me.”
He doesn't want to go back to the Joker and that dungeon, where nothing but more torture awaits him. More suffering and dread, with no way out. And he knows well how it's going to end, too, because he's been there so many times before. The dying hope, the bitter taste of failure, all fading until there's only silence and cold emptiness.
No, please no.
Tears spill over his cheeks, unbidden, but he's past caring about his pride. “My lord,” he cries out again, desperate, as he teeters on the edge, overcome by blind panic. Save me, come back for me, don't leave me.
“Shh.” Gentle lips press against his temple, the arm circling his chest tightens its grip. “I'm here. I won't leave you, Jason.”
The words caress his clammy skin, a low, intimate rumble, and the Joker's taunts cut off abruptly. The slithering shadows, the whispers, the crushing weight of despair all settle down; with a choked off sob, Jason twists in Lord Wayne's embrace and buries his face in the curve of that strong neck.
His lord holds him through it all, repeating the promises, offering comfort. He kisses the crown of Jason's head, slides his palm up and down Jason's spine in a slow, calming motion. Warm and hard, his body shields Jason, like a rock amid the raging storms.
Minutes pass, yet Jason doesn't pull away, even though his grief is spent and his mind is clear. Shame rears up, of course; he can't help but think about this weird game of cat and mouse he and Wayne have been playing, now that Jason is once more bound to Wayne.
Weakness. He's shown so much weakness in front of Lord Wayne. Bared so many memories he'd rather keep locked away.
Despite that, his shame cannot prevail against how safe and content he is, with his lord's arms wound tight around him, with his cheek pillowed on his lord's broad shoulder. This is what he's yearned for, above everything else.
A shiver wracks him, because the fever isn't entirely gone, and he burrows closer against Wayne. And then Jason shudders again, though for an entirely different reason, when his lord thumbs away the moisture clinging to his lashes, the touch filled with a heart-breaking tenderness.
“Rest now,” Lord Wayne whispers. “I'll stay with you, for as long as you need me, Jason.”
Always, Jason thinks, exhausted. I will always need you.
Suddenly, he feels a small drop of wetness splash against his cheek and the sensation shakes him to his core. He knows what it is, he knows, but still he opens his eyes and glances up to see the evidence for himself.
Speechless, he stares up at Lord Wayne – at the tear track, glistening in the candlelight and marking that stern face. Lord Wayne watches him, calm, not trying to hide anything from Jason.
“Rest,” he says again.
Jason doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches up, traces that single wet line with the pads of his fingers, all the way to the hard slope of Lord Wayne's jaw, already rough with stubble. Lord Wayne closes his eyes, and lets out a deep, weary sigh.
Still silent, Jason leans his forehead into the hollow of Lord Wayne's throat.