Work Text:
Anxiously tryin' to find some sleep
But the wind outside's still blowin'
When the clock strikes three and the thoughts won't leave
It's a lost cause, tryin' to control them
- Sleepy, Jack Harris
Wallace loved his brothers. He always had, and he always would. He'd sworn long ago that nothing would ever be able to change that. His brothers were a part of him that he could not separate from himself, nor would he ever want to.
He could faintly recall when Garrin was born, having just turned two at the time. He'd thought the squirming bundle of legs and arms and pudgy, pale skin was strange, but the new addition had intrigued him. His mother, Hannah, had helped him hold the little wriggler, cradling both of her sons close to her chest.
That was where his memory of the night ended: Curled up against his mother's side, with little Garrin clutched tightly—safely—in his arms.
But it was Conor's birth that he remembered clearly. He had been five, almost six, when their mother had gone into labor. He remembered how hard the pregnancy had been on her and, years later, would realize just how close they had come to losing her.
But what he remembered even more clearly was his father, Fenray, opening the door of the Midwife's room, holding that precious infant to his broad chest like he was an expensive glass bauble that would shatter at the slightest breeze. He remembered swatting at Garrin as the smaller toddler jumped around their father's legs like an excited puppy, wanting to see their new sibling.
He remembered the fierce protective instinct that had swelled within his heart as Fenray laid the little blond bundle in his eldest's arms and whispered, "Say hello to your baby brother." And it was as he held Conor, experienced from his years of helping with Garrin, that Wallace had made a solemn oath to himself:
Nothing would ever hurt his baby brothers. They would have to kill him first, and Wallace would never go down without putting up one hell of a fight. Not when it was his brothers on the line.
If only he had known. If only he had known then just how profoundly he would break that promise, how surely he would fail his youngest brother. He wished more than anything that he could go back and protect that little child, shield him from the horrors of the world that now haunted his every breath….
It was raining. Well, perhaps raining was an understatement. Wallace could hear the droplets pounding into the walls of the family's simple shepherd's hut, driven by the whipping wind. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought an army of pixies was throwing thousands of tiny stones against their home.
Eura was almost always wet and foggy, but this time of year could prove especially dangerous. In a single blink, the rain currently pouring down could turn into blinding snow. The shepherds would be in deep trouble, then.
He was grateful that they had already moved their flocks into the lower pastures for the colder months. If there was one place he didn't want to be, it was outside in this storm.
At first, he wasn't sure what had awakened him. Had it been the nearby crash of thunder? One of Garrin's more obnoxious snores? A strong gust that made the house creak louder than usual? He lay there for a few long minutes, listening to the sounds around him, trying to lay a finger on what felt off.
Without the Earl's suffocating taxes choking the life out of the farmers and commonfolk around Trunswick, their family had been able to add a few rooms to their hut. It wasn't a grand upgrade by any means, but at least there was a wall between the bedrooms and the living space now. Their parents had their own room, while the boys shared the other. The family had decided to leave a sleeping mat set out for Conor if—when—he came back home.
Garrin was breathing deeply, an occasional wall-shaking snore filling the dark room. The shadows were too thick to see Conor's huddled shape on his straw-filled mattress. Since returning, the youngest slept silently, a startling change from what Wallace had been used to from the younger boy. He tried not to imagine why that was.
A cold draft wafted across his face—There. That was it. Where was that draft coming from?
Wallace sat up, brows furrowing as he peered into the darkness. A loud clap of thunder made him tense, followed almost immediately by a bright flash of lightning. The burst illuminated the bedroom, allowing him a brief moment of sight.
His stomach twisted. Garrin was still sound asleep, mouth partially open and body contorted in ways no human should find comfortable. That was nothing to be surprised at; he was convinced Garrin could sleep through just about anything at this point. But Conor… Conor's bed was empty.
The room was consumed by darkness once again. Wallace kicked his blanket away from his legs and stood, picking his way expertly across the semi-cluttered floor by touch alone. He needed to find Conor. Something deep in his gut was telling him that leaving the youngest on his own right now was exactly what he should want to avoid.
He emerged from their room and peered around the kitchen and living area. The curtains weren't quite as thick here as they were in the bedrooms, so it was just a tad brighter. Not by much, but enough for a single glance to tell him that Conor wasn't there.
"Conor?" Wallace called softly. Perhaps he was just hiding? Why he would feel the need to hide from his oldest brother was something Wallace didn't want to dwell on for longer than he absolutely had to.
But there was no answer.
Biting at his lower lip, Wallace shuffled forward, toward the front door. He had felt a draft and, as much as he did not want to be out in that tempest, he wanted Conor to be out there alone even less so.
Hopefully, if the universe was on his side, his little brother hadn't gotten far. Although, given the way Conor's mind had seemed to fracture sometime between his nectar ceremony and now, frequently startling like he hadn't realized he was back on the farm, Wallace couldn't be sure Conor even had any idea where he was. The hope that he still retained enough common sense not to run headlong into a gale like this one was just that: a hope... And not a very strong one at that.
He wrapped his thick cloak around his shoulders and crammed his socked feet into his thick wool-lined boots. He'd step out onto the porch—another recent development to the house plan that he greatly enjoyed—and look for Conor. If he couldn't see him right off the bat, he would rouse Fenray and Garrin, and their search would begin.
His eyes were locked on the distance as he pulled the door open, prepared to scan the windswept, rain-battered horizon for the broad-shouldered figure of his little brother. What he was not prepared for was to take a single step outside and nearly trip over a Great Beast.
He jumped back and swore, his heart in his throat as Briggan stared up at him. The massive wolf was lying almost directly in front of the doorway, impossible to miss. While Wallace tried to steady his breathing from the sudden adrenaline rush, Briggan's long, pink tongue lolled out of his mouth. The corners of his black lupine lips turned upwards, and Wallace had the distinct impression that he was being laughed at.
"You nearly scared my soul right into the afterlife," he muttered shakily. Briggan huffed a grunt in response, then turned back to place his fuzzy head on his summoner's thigh.
Conor knew he was there. He had to—he'd be utterly senseless if he didn't. But, despite the commotion, he didn't turn to look at his eldest brother. In fact, he made no move to acknowledge his presence at all. Instead, he just stared into the distance, watching sheets of rain crash to the ground as they were lit up by bright bursts of lightning.
Wallace was just grateful that the house appeared to be shielding them from the worst of the storm.
"Conor?" he ventured, hoping for some kind of response. But Conor remained silent and still, staring vacantly at nothing. "Conor, are you okay?" Nothing. Not even a blink.
After yet another attempt was met with silence, Wallace quickly scanned his little brother's body. His sleep clothes were thin and blew about in the eddying winds that snuck onto the porch. He took a deep breath and cracked the front door open once again, snaking an arm in and seizing hold of Conor's green cloak from its place on the pegs beside the entryway. It wasn't winterized, but it would provide a bit more protection than he had now.
And perhaps the familiarity of it would help pull him out of whatever headspace he was in right now.
Emerging once more, cloak in hand, Wallace attempted to take a step forward. Briggan did not turn to face him, didn't even raise his head from where he lay in Conor's lap. He didn't bare his teeth or try and snap at the approaching human… But the growl that rumbled from his chest was enough to stop Wallace in his tracks.
It was moments like these when he was rudely reminded that the large canine he saw licking his brother's face every day, chasing sticks and sometimes his own tail, pouting when he wasn't given enough attention, wasn't just another of the farm dogs. He was a wolf—and not just any wolf. He was Briggan the Wolf, a Great Beast, defender of Erdas, and one of the Four Fallen.
This animal was dangerous. One of the most dangerous creatures in the entire world! Ancient, powerful, magical… And he was also a spirit animal. Conor's spirit animal. Wallace's baby brother had bonded with a Great Beast. He had seen things during the wars, done things, that Wallace could only fathom existing in his darkest nightmares.
And as Briggan's bone-chilling growl tappered off into silence and Conor still hadn't batted an eye—Well, Wallace got the sinking feeling that his 13-year-old brother had the potential to be just as lethal and dangerous as his spirit animal.
Deciding to address the huge canine rather than his brother, Wallace said, "I'm not going to hurt him, Briggan. I just don't want him to freeze, either." He ignored the way his entire body trembled as he took another cautious step closer to the pair. The wolf could clearly smell his fear, and he seemed to be enjoying it. Briefly, he wondered if Conor could smell it too, with his spirit animal enhancing his senses.
When the oversized wolf did not resume his growling, Wallace deemed it safe to approach. He stepped over Briggan's prone form, making his way slowly to Conor's other side. He kept his hands held out in front of him, trying to show the animal that he only held the boy's cloak.
A flash of lightning lit up the night. Wallace tried not to squirm at the feeling of Briggan's hyper-intelligent cobalt blue eyes tracking his every cautious move. He felt… Seen. Studied. Like he was a mouse under some barn cat's paw. In a way, he supposed he was. If the beast wanted to, all it would take was a single burst of movement, one second, for those long canines to sink into his throat…. That was not a comforting thought.
Finally, as Wallace was draping the green cloak across his little brother's shoulders, Conor stirred. He didn't meet his eyes, but he turned his head slightly in Wallace's general direction.
It was progress.
"Conor?" he asked once more. "Are you alright?"
It took a second, but Conor eventually nodded. It was the most unconvincing reassurance Wallace had ever seen.
"I'm fine," he mumbled. His voice was so quiet, the wind and rain nearly made it impossible to hear him.
Wallace looked away, gnawing at his lip. He had two options here. Option one meant playing along with the obvious lie and pretending that Conor was, indeed, fine. The other was calling him out on it and hoping he didn't explode. He debated with himself for a moment. Neither option was ideal, but there was only so much more any of them could do before one end of this tentative truce shattered.
Only seconds later, however, the choice was made for him. Another burst of lightning cast away the shadows from Conor's gray eyes, letting Wallace see his little brother's face clearly for the first time that night. He only just caught his dismayed gasp before it left his lips.
Conor looked… He looked awful. His eyes were bloodshot and red, his pale skin almost ashen in the low light. His golden bangs were growing damp from the raindrops they were absorbing, falling into his face as they were buffeted by the malestrom. It did nothing but accentuate the utter exhaustion oozing from every facet of the boy's form.
"What the—Conor," Wallace exclaimed, brows drawing together with his concern, "you look dead on your feet! When's the last time you got any sleep?"
Wallace could think of many possible responses to that particular question. Anger, annoyance, silence… None of them included laughter.
But that's what Conor was doing now. It wasn't normal laughter, good laughter. It was breathless, manic, choking—almost like it was the last vestige of emotion his exhausted brother could manage before he lost his frail grip on what was left of his mind.
It scared him.
Briggan sat up. He made a gruff sound, not quite a bark, but not a growl either. His glittering blue eyes were locked on his partner's face as the young boy laughed and laughed at nothing. The canine smile was gone, replaced by every muscle tensing in worry. He hauled himself up and pressed his nose into Conor's neck, just above the clasp of his cloak.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, Conor's breath steadied. He was still chuckling, but it wasn't that same terrifying cackle emanating from his chest. If Wallace never heard that sound again, it would be too soon.
Wiping at his eyes, Conor stated, "At this point, I don't think it's even possible for me to actually sleep— Not restfully, anyway. Not like you and Garrin."
"Conor…" Wallace began. He trailed off, though. What was he supposed to say to that? What was there to say to that?
"This is the only way." Conor looked away from him, one hand curling in Briggan's coarse fur. "If I can stay awake for long enough, I'll get to a point where I just crash. And then—" He swallowed sharply, locking his eyes on some unknown point in the distance. "Then I can sleep."
"Conor, this isn't healthy…" Wallace reached out, one hand hovering over Conor's shoulder. "You can't just—not sleep!" He wanted to scoop his brother into his arms, carry him back to bed, and tuck him in, just like he used to do. He wanted things to go back to how they were before— Before their father had been forced to sell him to the Earl; before the Greencloaks carried him away to fight in their war; before he'd lost himself as a servant to a malevolent parasite. Back when the biggest monsters were the ones you could hide from beneath your covers.
But Wallace knew that that was impossible. He wanted to do that, to curl up with his brother in his arms like they used to on cold winter nights when the only thing that mattered was what they would eat the next day. But you can't change what's already happened. You can't unbreak something that shattered a long time ago.
Conor knew that as well. He shrugged Wallace's hand away, shaking his head tiredly. "You don't understand," he muttered.
"I understand enough!" Wallace pleaded. He might not know how to read or write, but Wallace wasn't a dumb kid. He knew enough about the things Conor had done while fighting to protect them. He knew the guilt that was eating him up inside. He knew enough. "I understand that you're in pain, that you're hurting, and scared, and somehow think you deserve to suffer! But, Conor—You're safe now! The wars are over! You're home, with us, and we're not going to let anything hurt you—"
Conor blew. In a single, explosive breath, he hissed, "It's not me I'm worried about, I'm trying to protect you!" His exhausted eyes were blazing. Wallace could see the flame of his anger burning in his gray irises. "I'll always protect you. You are who I was fighting for against the Conquerers, the Wyrm—myself! It's always been you, Wallace. You, Garrin, Mum, Dad… I never stopped fighting to keep you safe. I've come so far, and I will not put you in danger now; not after everything I've done to keep you safe."
Wallace's jaw hung open, his eyes wide as he watched his brother's chest heaving. He didn't know what to say. He didn't even know where to start!
Before he could formulate a single coherent thought, Conor continued. "So, no, I can't sleep. Not here, not with all of you so close. Not until I know that I—I won't hurt you."
Briggan's claws clicked against the wood as he turned in a tight circle, laying his massive head once more in Conor's lap. The Great Beast seemed to think that this conversation needed to happen. His hard blue eyes stayed locked on Wallace, but he had the feeling that it was more a precaution than a threat.
Slowly, he turned Conor's words over in his mind. There was still something he was missing here. What did intentional sleep deprivation have to do with protecting his family?
Conor smiled humorlessly when Wallace voiced the question. "I've done things, Wallace—"
"I know," the elder said quickly. "You're a Hero of Erdas, Conor! You saved the world, twice! I know—"
"No," Conor said sharply. "You don't know." He took a deep breath, shaking damp blond strands out of his face so he could focus on his oldest brother.
Something about the emotionlessness of eyes Wallace had only ever seen full of life and curiosity sent shivers down his spine, but he forced himself to meet them. The slight twitch of Conor's lip told him that his hesitation hadn't gone unnoticed.
"I've done things," Conor continued. His voice was colder than Wallace could ever remember hearing from his little brother's lips. "I've killed before. I've maimed. I've hurt hundreds, maybe even thousands of people. I trained with the best fighters in Erdas, both marked and unmarked, enhanced and not. I know exactly where the weakest parts of the human body are, which places will cause the most pain, and which will incapacitate my opponent the fastest. I know what blood feels like when it's caked so far under your fingernails, it stains. I know exactly what angle to slice my axe blade to make the cleanest, deepest cut across an artery. I know what death looks like, when blood is bubbling at the back of your throat, when the light fades from your eyes, when your lungs give a death rattle."
Conor paused. His gray eyes narrowed as an unsettling, savage smile crept across his lips. He was still staring into Wallace's soul, lapping up the horror he couldn't disguise. He leaned closer and Wallace couldn't help but mirror him, caught between the trepidation, despair, and terror warring in his chest. "I can hear your heart pounding behind your ribcage," Conor stated slowly. Somehow, the weight of his words seemed to drown out every other sound around them. Wallace found himself captivated by his dread. "I can feel the blood rushing just beneath the surface of your skin. You're scared of me—I can smell it."
And then, as if a switch had flipped in his mind, the terrifying aura he had been radiating vanished, and Conor pulled away. He rubbed at his forehead with one hand, right above the twisting spiral scar of the Wyrm's parasite, and threaded the fingers of his other through his spirit animal's coat. "It's all I can see when I close my eyes. Every person who has fallen under my blade, every animal I butchered on the battlefield… It just replays in my head, over and over again. I haven't slept in nearly four days." His quiet voice was nearly drowned out by the boom of a thunderclap that made Wallace jump. "Four days… And I could still kill you, if I wanted to. You wouldn't be able to do a single thing to stop me.
"So, no. I can't sleep. And it's not because I think I deserve to be in pain, although I'd be lying if I said that isn't part of it. I can't sleep because I risked everything to keep you safe, sacrificed so much to protect you, and if I fall asleep now, there's a large chance that I won't know who you are when I wake up. It would be so easy for me to hurt any one of you, even half asleep and out of my mind. I wouldn't recognize you, wouldn't be able to stop myself from attacking. I—Wallace, I won't risk that. I won't put my family in danger after everything I've done to prevent that… Even if the danger I'm protecting you from is me."
Wallace was still for a long moment. He hadn't seen many of Conor's nightmares since his brother returned to their farm, and he was now beginning to understand why he hadn't seen them. How had he not noticed? How had he missed the strain his baby brother was under? What kind of older brother was he, letting something like this go over his head?
He blinked furiously, shocked to find his cheeks wet with more than rainwater. "Conor…" I'm so sorry. I should have done more. You shouldn't have had to do this alone. None of his thoughts seemed quite right, failing to encapsulate everything he was feeling.
But Conor was shaking his head, staring down at Briggan. "It's alright," he said, his words dragging.
"It's not," Wallace cut in. "You've been protecting us since the moment you summoned him." He nodded at the large canine draped over his brother's legs. "But, Conor… You shouldn't have had to."
"Well," the young Greencloak shrugged halfheartedly, "I did. And I won't stop now, Wallace. I can't. If I hurt any one of you, I… I wouldn't be able to live with myself."
Wallace couldn't say anything to that. He hated that his brother's logic made some sick kind of sense. It wasn't fair. None of this was fair! His baby brother was only 13 years old! He never should have had the weight of the world placed on his shoulders.
A particularly cold gust of wind made Wallace draw his cloak tighter around his shoulders. He studied the younger boy for a moment, watching the way he carded his fingers through his animal partner's thick fur. He shook his head slightly, as though he were forcing away the exhaustion encroaching on his mind.
He wasn't fully aware of the thought forming before it had found its way into the space between the two brothers, quickly whisked away by the howling wind. "Let's go in."
Conor leveled him with a look. "Wallace," he began, "I can't—"
"And you won't," Wallace interrupted. "Not unless you want to. But my toes are about to freeze off my feet, and I'm not about to leave my baby brother out in this storm alone. Especially not when he's about an hour away from insomnia-induced hallucinations. Marked or not, you wouldn't last long in this."
Wallace heaved himself to his feet, then extended a hand to Conor. The younger teen regarded him for a moment, then looked down at Briggan. The wolf met his eyes, and Wallace felt as though he was intruding on something sacred. After another second of silent communication, Conor nodded, then reached out and grabbed his older brother's palm with ice-cold fingers. Briggan stood with them, shaking himself like one of the farm dogs after a swim.
As Wallace swung open the door and Briggan trotted inside, he pulled Conor a little tighter against him. Even though Wallace was almost six years older, Conor was only about an inch shorter than him. He'd tease him about that later, when things were a little less emotionally charged.
But for now, as the pair stepped inside the darkened house, away from the crashing rain and wind, he whispered: "You've been protecting us for this long. Let us take care of you, too. You're family, Conor. You can lean on us, you know? This isn't something you have to survive on your own."
Conor nodded, but he said nothing.
Wallace would take it. Nothing could bring back the little kid he had known and loved for eleven years, from the moment he'd been born, but this Conor was still his brother. He was bruised, scarred, and hurting, but he still needed his family.
As they sat huddled close to the crackling fire, with Briggan warming their frozen toes with his well-muscled bulk, Wallace made another oath: Conor would never again be made to feel as though he was alone. The rest of the family would never fully understand all of what he'd been through, but he wouldn't have to heal from it on his own.
And when Conor nodded off close to dawn, his head resting on the older boy's thigh, with Briggan standing sentry at his side, Wallace grit his teeth and tried not to let his coursing tears disturb his baby brother's fitful slumber.
The sound of the branches
breaking under your feet,
the smell of the falling
and burning of leaves,
the bitterness of winter
or the sweetness of spring,
you are an artist,
but your heart is your masterpiece.
- I'll Keep You Safe, Sleeping At Last