Ancillary

Ancillary

New fic up y'all!

Title: Ancillary

Wordcount: 7064

Summary:

adjective: ancillary

providing necessary support to the primary activities or operation of an organization, institution, industry, or system.

-

“You’re giving up on Sophie because you think you’re not capable of helping.” Tiergan can taste bitter tea and sharp iron when he bites his lip. “You- fuck you. Fuck you, Bronte. You don’t get to give up.”

“To assume I could do anything is a fool’s hope.”

“Then let’s be fools. Let’s be fucking fools! I don’t care if it’s hopeless. I don’t care if you’ve never done it before. You owe it to Sophie to try.”

-

Or, Sophie shatters from guilt. Tiergan can't seem to accept this, so he begs Bronte for something that no one has ever tried before; to heal a mind with the inflictor separate from the telepath.

(Set in the same universe as Common Denominator, but you don't need to read that to understand this.)

-

Tags: @cogaytes @gay-otlc @you-have-been-frizzled

---------

Tiergan Alenefar is, before he is anything else, brave.

He’s lived through things that would shatter any lesser elf. He’s loved and lost time and time again. He’s struggled and fought and bled to rebel against this unjust system that has tried so hard to break him. Tiergan has held friends weeping for lost lovers, children with no one left to care for them, rebels bleeding out in his arms. He has raged and stormed against the injustices of the world. He has hidden his true self under cloaks and masks of darkness for years upon years, knowing the scorn he would face if it came to light.

It is not fair that he’s had to be so brave. But to live in this world as himself means being brave before anything else, brave before he is kind or gentle or any of the things he wishes he could be instead.

The point is, Tiergan is a grown elf, and a tough one at that. He’s weathered worse than this before.

But-

But Leto is so horribly calm about all of this, as if any of it is something that can be fixed. As if this isn’t a child they’re discussing, a child who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, who is gone, far beyond their reach.

And Tiergan can’t seem to breathe.

Sophie is shattered. Like Prentice, only this time there’s not even a whisper of hope for her healing. There is no miracle to save the Moonlark, only the helpless grief of adults who should have protected her.

Sophie. His brave, brilliant prodigy, who endured far more than should ever have been asked of her. She was so young. So, so young. Younger than Wylie. Younger than even Tam and Linh. A child who they gave life, who they brought into this world, knowing it would be cruel to her. How can he be surprised that it was too much to endure?

“Tiergan?” Squall asks. She’s not supposed to use his real name in Collective meetings, but he can’t bring himself to care. “You look….”

“Bad,” Wraith finishes for her.

He almost laughs. It’s such a horrific understatement that it’s nearly funny. “I need-“ Sophie back, Prentice to remember me beyond fragments, to feel okay for once in my life- “I need a moment.”

“Okay, Tiergan.” Even cloaked in ice, Squall’s expression speaks so clearly of pity that it almost burns. He doesn’t need Squall’s sympathy. She has her own grief to worry about.

Forkle- Leto- nods, and Tiergan hurries out.

He’s Tiergan Alenefar, rebel, lover, father, mentor. He’s brave before he is anything else, and he doesn’t need anyone, not even Prentice.

And yet-

Bronte doesn’t answer his door when Tiergan bangs on it. Instead, it’s a tall elf he’s never met, their red hair pulled back into a sharp bun, mouth twisted into a frown.

“I need to see Councillor Bronte.” Desperation tastes bitter on his tongue, colors his words with fervor.

“Councillor Bronte is not taking visitors at the moment.”

“Please,” Tiergan half-begs. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, only that he has to do something. “It’s incredibly important.”

Her expression doesn’t change. “He is not taking visitors at the moment.”

“Tell him it’s about Sophie Foster.”

“Very well. Shall I tell him it’s you who is asking, Sir Alenefar?”

“Please,” he manages.

She nods. “Just a moment.”

It’s Bronte who throws the door open the second time, sharp blue eyes immediately fixing on Tiergan. His hair is mussed, his clothes wrinkled, and there are dark circles under his eyes, shadowed by grief. He looks exactly as wrecked as Tiergan feels.

“Come in,” is all he says.

Tiergan does. Stepping over the threshold of a Councillor’s castle should feel terrifying, or at least important, given his history with the Council, but he feels nothing at all crossing Bronte’s.

Bronte leads him through to a surprisingly plain kitchen, gesturing to one of the chairs. “Sit.”

He does.

Bronte sets the kettle on the stove. “What did you need to talk to me about so urgently? Elora mentioned Sophie.”

“I- I need you to try to heal her.”

Even from behind, it’s clear how Bronte stiffens. “You know I can’t do that.”

“Not alone. But no one ever said that the telepath and the inflictor had to be the same elf.”

“I cannot inflict positively.” His tone is flat.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know that better than any elf living. Would you question me on my own ability?”

“I would.”

“You would be wrong to do so.”

“I don’t care,” Tiergan snaps.

“You should.”

“I don’t.”

Bronte sighs deeply. “I know that you are grieving, but you’re asking me for something impossible. Having me attempt to heal Sophie’s mind would be an exercise in futility, Sir Tiergan.”

The title is a bit of carefully manufactured distance. Maybe it would have worked on any other elf, but Tiergan is burning with grief and rage and dangerous guilt, and he can’t bring himself to care. Before he hardly knows that he’s moved, he’s across the room, grabbing Bronte’s collar and yanking him around to face Tiergan. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to give up. Just because Sophie was only another subject to you doesn’t mean you get to just turn your back and refuse to try! I cared about her, even if you never did!” He spits accusations like knives, rending his own throat in the process.

Bronte doesn’t rage or shout back. He just looks…tired. “Tiergan-“

“I loved her!” Tiergan nearly shouts. “I was her mentor! I was supposed to protect her!”

“You can’t protect someone from their own guilt, Tiergan.”

The words hit like a knife to the gut, frissyn on the everblaze of Tiergan’s anger. He finds himself suddenly unsteady, grip slackening.

Bronte reaches up and pulls Tiergan’s hand away from his collar. His grip is achingly gentle as he leads Tiergan back to the table and sits him down again.

Tiergan hates him so, so much.

“Here.” He can hear the clink of a mug being set down in front of him, loud in the silence of his grief.

He doesn’t bother asking what’s in it. Bronte doesn’t elaborate, only tells him “Drink.”

It turns out to be tea with a hint of something stronger underneath. He swallows, and it scorches his throat. The burn is almost a relief; it isn’t as if the physical pain cancels out the ache in his heart, but it distracts him from it, if only for a second.

Across from him, Bronte sits with his own mug, staring into it as if a way out of this whole mess can be found at the bottom. For a long moment, that’s all there is: Bronte sat across from him, his throat burning from heat and alcohol, the handle of a mug clutched in his sweaty hand.

“I do wish I could help,” Bronte says finally. “I will not lie. Sophie was my prodigy as well, and- she did not deserve this. But I will not give you false hope. I was not made for anything but destruction.”

Tiergan wants to scream, but he lacks the energy. “You were.”

“I wasn’t.” His voice remains horribly calm.

“You were,” Tiergan insists. “No one is made only to destroy. No one. I don’t give a shit if you think you’re a monster. You don’t get to use that as an excuse to be one.”

“I’m not-“

“You’re giving up on Sophie because you think you’re not capable of helping.” He can taste bitter tea and sharp iron when he bites his lip. “You- fuck you. Fuck you, Bronte. You don’t get to give up.”

“To assume I could do anything is a fool’s hope.”

“Then let’s be fools. Let’s be fucking fools! I don’t care if it’s hopeless. I don’t care if you’ve never done it before. You owe it to Sophie to try.”

Bronte sighs.

Tiergan downs the rest of his drink. His chest burns with grief and alcohol. “You owe it to her. And you owe it to Oralie. Are you such a coward as to not even try and save your best friend’s daughter? The child your own brother tried to kill?” It’s cruel beyond reason to bring up Fintan and Oralie, to hurl the baseless accusation of cowardice. He can’t bring himself to care.

By all rights, Bronte should have thrown him out on his ass for that. Instead, he lets out a long breath, shoulders tight with repressed emotion, and dryly remarks “You aren’t pulling your punches.”

“As if you and I have ever pulled punches with each other.”

“As if.”

“You owe Sophie,” Tiergan repeats. “You owe Oralie. You owe me. You let Prentice’s mind be broken,” he reminds.

“And when I fail, what will you say then? Will you claim again that I don’t care for Sophie?”

He swallows hard. “No. I- I could forgive you for failing. I couldn’t forgive you if you didn’t try at all.”

“And what telepath will be willing to risk their sanity for this fool’s hope? Or have you forgotten that a broken mind can easily drag others down with it?”

“I will.” Tiergan cannot find it in himself to be afraid. He’s been taught his entire life that to read a broken mind is perhaps the most dangerous thing a telepath can do, and yet that is nothing in face of his desire to see Sophie healed.

Bronte sighs again. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I know.”

“This is idiotic in the extreme.”

“I know.”

“And I’m going to help you go through with this insane plan. Stars help me.”

Tiergan laughs, bitter and whiskey scented. “The stars can’t help us now. Have they ever been able to?”

An answering smile, bitter as hemlock and black coffee. “They’ve never smiled upon me. We can only hope that they do now.”

-

Tiergan doesn’t want to tell anyone what he’s doing, but Bronte pressures him into at least calling Wylie. “You’ll regret it if this goes wrong and you left him without a goodbye.”

“I won’t be sane enough to remember that if this goes wrong,” Tiergan says, but he hails Wylie anyways.

His son picks up instantly. “Dad? Are you alright? Leto told me that you left the meeting and no one had seen you since.”

“I’m-“ the words stick in his throat. He can’t lie to Wylie. “It’s been a hard day,” he settles on. “I’m safe, don’t worry. But Bronte and I have a plan to see if we can fix Sophie’s mind.”

“Dad, no.”

“Wylie-"

“I know how dangerous it is to attempt to read a broken mind. That’s why no one could heal Dad’s mind until Sophie.”

“I’ve done it before,” Tiergan admits. It’s something he’s never told anyone, the way he monitored the shattering of Prentice’s mind, watched the memories fragment smaller and smaller.

“There’s a difference between that and a mind healing though, right?”

“There is, but please just trust me on this one, okay?”

“Okay,” Wylie concedes. “I trust you.”

Tiergan’s heart aches. “Thank you. I love you so much. You know that, right?”

“I know. Be careful, Dad. Be safe.”

“I will,” he promises.

“Thank you. I love you.”

“Love you too.” He ends the call and turns to Bronte. “Let’s go.”

-

Grady doesn’t look happy at all to see them. Tiergan can’t blame him. He’s just as good as lost his second daughter, and here they are to stir up more grief.

“Lord Ruewen,” Bronte greets.

“What do you need?”

His tone is hostile, but Bronte doesn’t snap back. “Tiergan and I would like to attempt to help Sophie, with your permission.”

Grady says nothing for a long moment. Then, finally, “She’s in her room.”

They make their way up the stairs in silence.

Sophie is curled up in the center of her bed, rocking quietly back and forth. He could almost believe that everything is normal, that she’s just lost in thought, if it weren’t for her eyes. There’s no spark left behind them, brown eyes staring off into space with the same vacant expression Tiergan saw on Prentice’s face for over a decade.

He swallows bile at the back of his throat.

“How are we doing this?” Bronte asks.

“I think I need to be connected to your mind while I search into hers,” Tiergan answers after a moment’s thought. “That way I can signal you to inflict when we need.” He’s not sure how well this will work, if he’s honest. Connecting to an Ancient mind while probing another is…less than ideal. It would be easier if he had someone else to do this with. Easier with a cognate, like almost everything in telepathy. But Tiergan is stubborn and brave before he is loved or trusting, and he lost his only chance at a cognate years ago.

Bronte is kind enough not to point out how difficult and improbable every part of this is. If he did, Tiergan might have punched him. Here, with Sophie in front of him, it’s impossible to see how he could do anything but this. She was his prodigy, and he failed her. He has to make this work.

“Let’s give this a try, shall we?” Bronte manages to make it sound casual, but Tiergan knows him well enough to read tension in the set of his jaw and stiffness of his shoulders.

He nods. “Can I enter your mind?”

“Go ahead.”

Tiergan closes his eyes and pushes past Bronte’s barriers; his mind is a castle, thick walls of stone shutting out the world around him, but Tiergan is the sly fox creeping through the drainpipe, the bird slipping through an open window.

I’m not going to be able to do this is the first thought he catches.

You are. We have to.

Oh, hello, Tiergan.

We are going to do this.

If you say so.

I do say so.

Bronte’s mind falls quiet at that, and Tiergan takes the chance to throw himself headfirst into Sophie’s. Funny, that, how the only time an impenetrable mind can be read is when it’s broken.

Instantly, he’s caught in a storm of shards. He is no longer the fox or the bird, all guises stripped away in the maelstrom of Sophie’s mind. No cloak or gloves can shield him from this blizzard, the swirling chaos of a mind slowly tearing itself into pieces.

It hurts. Oh, how it hurts. Tiergan had forgotten the pain of a broken mind in the months since Prentice’s rescue and subsequent healing, but it all comes rushing back now. Sophie’s mind resembles Prentice’s in the very early days, large, jagged shards tearing gashes across Tiergan’s shields.

He forges onward, though he can feel himself bleeding away with every step. The nook. He has to find the nook. He has to heal Sophie.

He’s so cold. Her mind feels freezing to him, sapping away at his strength with every motion. He has to find that nook. He knows it will be here. He knows Sophie knows how the Black Swan train their Keepers. She’ll be there, hiding away in that nook. He’ll find her, and he’ll make this right.

He’s starting to go numb with cold, aching, draining, stealing away the warmth and life from him. He can’t feel his hands. Does he have hands here? They should sting with the chill, but they don’t.

He’s- he’s looking for something. Something warm, he thinks. It’s so cold.

It’s so cold, and so dark. He can’t find the way.

Bronte, he calls, and finds no response. Bronte! Bronte, please. Please.

He’s not sure he knows what he’s pleading for anymore.

Sophie. Bronte. Leto. Wylie. Prentice. Names float through his head, and none of them mean anything.

He’s so, so cold. Why is it so cold?

Around him, there’s something. A rush of warmth, a glimmer of light in the endless dark. It hits him like a wave, rocking him into its soft embrace. The shards around him coalesce for a brief moment, shielding him from the rush of wind. Sheltered. Safe.

He curls into the embrace for an infinitely long moment, then another, before he hears another voice.

Tiergan.

Tiergan. That’s his name.

Tiergan, come back to me.

He knows that voice.

He latches onto the thread of light, pulling himself towards that glimmer with all his strength.

Come back to me, the voice repeats. Come back, Tiergan. I still need you here.

He pulls and he pulls and he pulls, and the thread moves under his hands, and finally his head breaks the surface of the darkness.

-

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Prentice’s face. Concern is written into every line of it, furrowing his brow and twisting his mouth into a frown. In his eyes, Tiergan thinks he catches a glimpse of something stronger than concern, something that he doesn’t dare put a name to.

It takes a moment after that, but eventually the scene resolves itself into something coherent. He’s laying on the floor, cradled in Prentice’s arms. Bronte is kneeling next to them both, expression unreadable. Sophie is still on the bed. Standing around the rest of the room are too many people for him to make sense of, though he does note that one of them is Wylie.

“Tiergan,” Prentice says softly.

“Hi.”

“Are you alright?”

He can’t answer that. He doesn’t try.

Livvy takes that moment to announce her presence by demanding “Are you fucking stupid?”

“I-“

“You tried to heal a broken mind by yourself,” Forkle says. He sounds disappointed, but Tiergan doesn’t dare look at him.

“I should point out that technically I was also here,” Bronte says. His voice is strangely raspy.

Forkle sighs “You are not a telepath, Councillor Bronte.”

“I never would have guessed,” Bronte deadpans back.

“Anyways!” Livvy waves a hand in dismissal of all that. “Tiergan! Are you fucking stupid?”

“He is,” Wraith says.

Tiergan tries to glare at him but can hardly muster the energy.

“Clearly,” Blur agrees. “What were you thinking trying this by yourself?”

“I doubt he was thinking at all,” Forkle says, and oh he’s angry. He never, ever takes that tone with Tiergan. “If he had been, he would not have attempted to enter a broken mind without even another telepath to serve as a guide.”

Tiergan winces. He…probably deserved that.

Prentice’s arms tighten around him slightly, and Tiergan can read forgiveness just from that gesture. “He meant well.”

“We did,” Bronte rasps.

The knowledge of his failure burns worse than the tea and whiskey earlier, and maybe that’s why he says, “I’m not sorry. I- if there was even a chance that we could help, I had to take it.”

Beside him, Bronte nods. It’s a drastic change from the Councillor who was telling him he was a fool for this hope not even an hour ago. He wonders if Bronte is willing to be a fool for a chance to heal Sophie just as much as he is.

He looks around the crowded room. “What are all of you doing here anyways?”

“Wylie hailed me and told me you were planning something foolish,” Forkle explains.

Tiergan looks at his son.

“I’m not sorry,” Wylie echoes his earlier words. “I knew you’d need help.”

“And he was right,” Prentice murmurs. “I barely got you back, Tierg. If we had been any later…” He lets that sentence trail off as if he can’t bear to finish it.

His eyes are stinging, and he turns to press his face into Prentice’s shoulder. Prentice curls a comforting arm around him, hand finding its place in his hair.

After a moment, he feels another set of arms encircle them both, a familiar presence at his back.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers.

“I forgive you,” Wylie says, so, so soft. “It’s alright, Dad.”

Silence, broken only by Sophie’s faint muttering and the creak of her bedframe.

Bronte’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Would now be a bad time to mention that my side of the arrangement seemed to work?”

“What?” Forkle sounds incredulous.

“I said, my side of the arrangement worked. I was able to inflict positively on Sophie.”

Tiergan sits up so fast that his head spins and Prentice has to steady him. “What?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, you were the one pushing me to try. But yes, I seem to have achieved what I could not for these past five thousand-odd years.”

He thinks back to his time in Sophie’s mind and quickly puts the pieces together. “You were the warmth I felt towards the end.”

“I assume so.”

Then-

“This is possible,” Tiergan breathes. “We could heal Sophie’s mind.”

“What are you talking about?” Forkle demands.

“When I was in Sophie’s mind, it was…freezing.” He shudders, remembering the bleak and infinite cold. “It grew warmer towards the end, soon before you arrived, and I felt sheltered. It was like I was shielded from the worst of the memory shards.”

“That’s not-“

“Anything is possible when it comes to Sophie,” Tiergan reminds him.

Prentice nods. “A shattered mind retains some level of consciousness for years after the break, particularly strong minds. I should know.” His voice is wry, and Tiergan reaches for his hand to give it a comforting squeeze. “It’s entirely possible for Sophie’s mind to instinctually protect Tiergan from the worst of the damage.”

Bronte clears his throat. “If this is helpful to your telepathic investigation, the emotion I was using was love.” He looks intensely embarrassed to be saying that, and Tiergan can’t help a faint snort at the idea of unbreakable, aloof Bronte being embarrassed about anything. Still-

“If Bronte’s inflicting and Sophie’s mind can shield me from the worst of it, then I could stay in her mind long enough to heal it. This is still possible.”

“I know you’re grieving,” Forkle starts, “but this is madness, Tiergan.”

“Don’t tell me what can and can’t be done!” Tiergan is burning again, grief dripping from his words like blood from an open wound. “Don’t you dare tell me to give up! I’ve done this song and dance before, Forkle. I waited. I was patient. I was all the things I should be. And I am tired of losing people!”

“I know, but-“

“No! You do not get to tell me what’s possible. You forget, Leto, that I am just as capable as you.”

“And you forget that I taught telepathy centuries before you were even born. I have seen more than you can imagine. Hard as it is for me to say this, and as hard as it is for you, it would be foolish to continue to pursue this.”

“Do not talk down to me. You think age means you’re wiser than all the rest of us,” Tiergan accuses. “You think you know best just because you’ve got a handful of centuries on us. All you are is a coward, afraid to fight for what you believe in.”

Forkle reels back, genuine hurt blooming on his face. “I am merely pointing out that you are putting your own life in danger for a false hope.”

Squall coughs, as if trying to intervene. Tiergan ignores her. “It’s not a false hope. And Sophie is worth it. I would risk my own mind a thousand times for her- for any of them! They’re children, Leto.”

“You would let your loved ones grieve you like you’ve grieved them for a mirage, a dream that cannot be?”

That was a low blow. “Don’t you dare use Prentice against me. I thought you were better than that.”

Prentice squeezes his hand tightly. He squeezes back.

Forkle sighs. “What I mean to say is that you won’t be the only one hurt if you risk yourself for this.”

“I know. But we all run that risk. Where is the Leto who asked me if I wanted to change the world even if it meant risking everything? Where is the elf who laughed as we ran from the Council’s emissaries? Where is he, Forkle? Have you grown old and afraid?”

“I’ve grown more cautious,” Forkle corrects.

“And I’ve grown tired of caution.”

“Fine! But do not expect me to approve of your insane schemes. I refuse to let you tear yourself apart over this.”

“As if this isn’t something worth tearing yourself apart for!” Tiergan tears himself free of Prentice’s arms, climbing to his feet to face Forkle. “You’ve asked me to risk myself for our cause again and again. You’ve asked me to be quiet and patient and let myself lose the most important person in my life, all for Sophie. And now you ask me to give up on her?”

“It is impossible for us to heal Sophie’s mind.”

“It isn’t! Which you would see if you could get your head out of your own ass for more than a few seconds at a time!”

Forkle raises an eyebrow. “Have we devolved into childish insults, then?”

“Being calm about this doesn’t make you better than me,” Tiergan hisses. “You don’t get to act superior because you care less.”

“I care more than you could ever know!”

“Then don’t try to tell me I shouldn’t try and help my prodigy!”

Forkle falls silent at that, and Tiergan does the same, only the sound of both their heavy breathing filling the quiet.

“Can I suggest something?” A quiet voice says from the door, and they both startle.

Edaline steps inside. Her eyes are shadowed by grief and sleeplessness, but she holds her back straight and her head high. “I admit I’m a bit on Tiergan’s side here. I want to see Sophie healed as well. And I’m not an expert on telepathy. But if Tiergan can’t do it alone, could he do it with a Cognate?”

Forkle is already shaking his head. “He doesn’t have one.”

Gnawing regret wraps itself around Tiergan’s chest, making it hard to breathe. He’s brave, and independent, and he’s never needed a Cognate, but-

But he never should have told Prentice no.

“I’d be willing to try,” Prentice says quietly. “We’re not- we weren’t ever Cognates, but we were compatible, once. And I managed to pull him back before.”

Tiergan turns, hardly believing his ears. “You would?”

“Of course. Sophie doesn’t deserve this. No one deserves a broken mind.” His voice softens. “And I love you. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

Oh. Tiergan has to cover his mouth, afraid that if he doesn’t, he might start sobbing.

“Touching as this is, can we all make a decision?” Bronte grumbles. “At some point the rest of the Council are going to start wondering where I’ve gone.”

“I still think this is foolishness,” Forkle sighs. “But I have also known you long enough to know there’s no dissuading you.” It’s as close to permission as he’s ever going to give.

“I don’t want you to do this,” Wylie admits. “I don’t want to lose you guys.”

“You won’t,” Prentice promises. “I won’t even enter her mind. I’ll just be here to guide Tiergan.”

“Your dad will pull me back if anything happens,” Tiergan agrees. It’s not a reassuring lie- he knows that Prentice will save him if he needs saving.

It takes a long moment, but Wylie finally nods. “I love you. Dad.”

“We love you too,” Prentice murmurs, opening his arms for a hug. We.

Tiergan tries not to overthink that too much as he, too, hugs Wylie, and then gets hugged in turn by every member of the Collective, Livvy, and even Edaline.

Forkle is the last to hug him, and when he touches their foreheads together, Tiergan receives a quiet transmission.

I’m sorry I made it sound as if I doubted your capabilities. I don’t. I simply worry that you take on more than you can handle.

I know, and I’m sorry I called you a coward. You aren’t, it just…frustrates me that we can do so little sometimes.

I know. Be careful.

I will.

He steps away, settling onto the bed. Prentice takes his hand- an unnecessary gesture, but it does make him feel better.

Bronte sits on the other side of the bed, grim determination written into every line of his face. “The plan is, Tiergan enters Sophie’s mind, and Prentice connects his and my mind, is that correct?”

They both nod.

“And you will tell me when to inflict?”

Tiergan nods again.

“Lovely. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

This time, it’s Prentice who nods. He reaches a hand out to Bronte’s forehead, closing his eyes as he does. Tiergan watches him, the concentration in his furrowed brow, the determination on his handsome face.

He hardly feels it when Prentice slips into his mind. Prentice is no probe, but Tiergan’s mind trusts him so absolutely that there’s hardly a barrier for him to cross anymore.

Can you both hear me? Prentice asks.

Yes, Bronte’s mental voice says, and it’s cold like steel and autumn wind.

Yes, Tiergan confirms.

Tiergan, I’m going to tether you like I did before, so I have something to hold onto if I need to pull you back.

Okay. Tell me when I can go.

A beat, and then that should be good. He can feel a bit of Prentice’s mind wrapped around him, strong like braided rope but not heavy.  

I’m going into Sophie’s mind.

He braces himself this time, but it still hurts. It always hurts. All those years of sneaking into Exile to read Prentice’s mind have taught him that. He can already feel himself being torn apart on the jagged edges of Sophie’s mind, that insidious cold stealing in and sapping his strength.

Maybe he should have waited until he was less exhausted to do this.

Oh well. He knows that if he asked, Prentice would be more than happy to pull him back. None of the others would judge him for wanting a day or two to rest. In fact, they would probably be glad for it. But this moment is so tenuous, so fragile, that he’s half-afraid that if he doesn’t take this chance, there will never be another. He has to do this now.

He forges onward.

Bronte, I need you to inflict just a little bit.

There’s a rush of warmth around him, and the storm of memories relents slightly. When the warmth fades, it leaves behind a trail leading further into Sophie’s mind.

He follows it deeper into the storm, though he knows his mind is starting to bleed strength. He has to get there. He has to.

He makes his way through the shards, through the storm, through the cold, occasionally transmitting a request for more inflicting if he loses the trail. All through it, Prentice’s strength holds him tightly, though the connection thins and grows more tenuous the deeper he goes. He has a feeling that he’s being pushed around by the currents of Sophie’s mind, guided one way or another. Whether there’s any real intent behind it is another question entirely. Prentice talks about having some level of awareness while his mind was shattered, but for all Tiergan knows it’s different for minds broken by guilt vs. by other elves.

He doesn’t know how long he walks for, strength bleeding away into the cold, pieces of memory tearing at him, the faint trail of warmth all he can focus on. His thread of connection to Prentice stretches thinner and thinner, and he’s afraid that it will break. Yet he presses on, and on, and-

He can hardly feel Prentice anymore.

It’s then, as he’s most afraid, that he stumbles over some sort of invisible threshold into a small, warm corner, sheltered from the gale. The nook! Tiergan has never actually been this far into a broken mind- he knew it was a fool’s errand to search in Prentice’s without an inflictor, and he’s not sure he could have managed it alone even if he had tried.

Sophie, he calls softly. Sophie, it’s me. I’m going to help you fix this, okay?

It’s a futile message, with no one to hear it, but he says it anyways.

Let’s collect some nice memories, alright?

He starts to pull and gather little scraps of happiness and love and pride around him, a tiny nest of good things. Though he’s too far swallowed in Sophie’s mind to hear Prentice or Bronte anymore, Bronte must be inflicting, because warmth swells around him and with it a swirl of memories. He pulls those in as well, tucking them safely into this sheltered little corner.

There we are. Come back, Sophie. It wasn’t your fault. None of this was your fault. You did so well.

Another swirl of memories in response to his mental voice. He catches glimpses of several involving him and tucks those close to his heart.

You’re going to be alright. I promise, we’re going to make it alright.

His strength is slipping and fading, but he refuses to stop now. Not when he’s so close.

Tiergan was not made to be gentle or kind. The world has forged him into someone who is brave, who is stubborn, who is resilient before he is loved. But he is gentle now, as much as he remembers how to be, gathering up Sophie’s memories and tucking them around her like a blanket over a child, transmitting reassurances and praise and pleas to return. He is stubborn, and he is gentle in his stubbornness. He refuses to let Sophie’s story end like this, another empty bedroom in a too-quiet house, a teenager with vacant eyes that will never again hold light.

Something kindles at the center of his little nest, a single spark, and he feeds that with memories and warmth and reassurances. It grows, slowly at first and then quickly, and then turns to a tidal wave of warmth, sweeping him up and cradling him oh-so-softly. The wave bears him up, up, up, memories knitting together around him, a mind collecting itself again after being torn to pieces, and he’s swept away into the dark.

-

Tiergan, a voice calls, soft. Tiergan, come back to me.

He drifts, exhaustion dragging at his limbs and mind.

Tiergan, the voice calls again. You need to come back, Tiergan.

Another voice joins it, younger, more frantic. Tiergan! Tiergan, wake up!

The fear behind it jolts him into action, and Tiergan blinks his eyes open. What he intends to say is “Did it work?” but it comes out as more of an incoherent mumble.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Prentice says, and he’s smiling, but his eyes are lined with worry. Tiergan realizes that for the second time today, he’s laying across Prentice’s lap. It’s not a bad place to be, but-

“Did it work?”

“Tiergan!” Sophie cries, and he gets his answer. He sits up slowly, head spinning, and is immediately crashed into by a sixteen-year-old ball of blond hair and worry.

“It worked,” Bronte says dryly as Tiergan wraps his arms around Sophie and tries not to pass out. “You did faint immediately afterward though.”

Tiergan just glares at him, too exhausted to muster a snappy reply.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie whispers. Her face is buried in his shoulder, his ribs practically crushed in her embrace.

He could cry from relief. He’s been hurting so long and in so many different ways; having Sophie back is like having the weight of the world lifted off his shoulders, if only for a moment.

“It’s alright,” he whispers back. “It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.”

“You risked your sanity to do that for me.”

“And it was worth it. It was worth it a thousand times over.” Tiergan can still feel the ache of his mind, temples pulsing with a headache, but he would bear worse for Sophie. For any of the children, actually.

Sophie doesn’t answer, just clutches him tighter.

“You should go hug your parents,” he nudges gently.

“Thank you,” Sophie whispers, and then she’s gone across the room into Edaline’s arms.

Tiergan takes the moment to turn to Bronte, who looks a little lost. “Thank you.”

He waves a hand in dismissal. “You did the hard part.”

“And you did something you didn’t know you could do.”

“You were right. I owed it to Sophie to try. Besides, I’ve discovered something new about my ability and gotten my prodigy back. I would say both of those things are more than worth the effort.”

“Still. Thank you.” There’s so much more that Tiergan should say there, apologies that he owes for the bitter words he spat, but he’s so tired. He can’t seem to put his thoughts into words.

“I was cruel to you, and you still helped,” he manages finally.

Bronte blinks. “You say that as if you and I have ever been kind to each other.” Tiergan doesn’t answer, and he goes on. “You said cruel things to me, yes, but nothing I haven’t heard before, and certainly not the worst anyone has ever said. I think that’s something you can forgive yourself for.”

“That seems like a low bar.”

“It is.”

“Then- I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. You care for Sophie, and I care for Sophie. That was all that we needed for this.” He glances at Prentice, and there’s something old and tired and very nearly guilty in his eyes. “Thank you as well, Mr. Endal. It cannot have been easy to work with me, but I respect that you were willing to.” Before Prentice can answer or Tiergan can tell him to fuck off, he gets up and walks over to where Sophie has just finished a tearful reunion with her parents.

Wylie chooses that moment to come sit by Tiergan, expression unreadable.

“Hi,” Tiergan offers.

“I’m furious with you,” Wylie informs him.

“…Fair.”

“I’m going to yell at you once you look like you aren’t going to fall to pieces.”

Tiergan winces a little. “I’m sorry, Wylie.”

“You promised you would be safe.”

“I know.”

“You lied.”

“I know.”

Wylie sighs, sounding impossibly old and exhausted for a kid of only twenty. “Can I have a hug?”

“Always.”

Wylie is taller than him now, but he still folds himself into Tiergan’s arms like so many times before. Tiergan feels Prentice wrap his arms around the both of them from behind, head leaning on Tiergan’s back.

We’re also going to talk about your tendency to throw yourself into danger at some point, his voice murmurs in Tiergan’s head.

To be fair, you supported me doing that this time.

I helped you because I knew you were going to do it with or without me.

I was, Tiergan admits. I wouldn’t have succeeded without you, though.

I know, Prentice teases. You need me.

I do.

Well, I’m here, and I’m never leaving you again.

Never?

Never. What kind of Cognate would that make me?

Tiergan’s breath catches. Do you think we still have a chance at that?

I don’t know. It seems like we do, though. His voice is suddenly hesitant. I know you had your reasons for saying no before, but I will always want to be your Cognate if you ever want to pursue that kind of bond. At the same time, I never want to pressure you into something you don’t want.

Tiergan is brave before he is loved, stubborn before he is gentle. But he can be gentle in his stubbornness, and maybe he can also be loved. Maybe, just maybe, he can set down his courage for a while and let himself be held.

I always wished that I hadn’t turned you down, he admits. I wasn’t ready. I’m…still not sure if I am. But I’d like to try.

Cognate Inquisition on Monday, then?

I hope it’s not so dire as that!

Prentice laughs aloud at that, drawing them some strange glances. “No, not at all. Not at all.”

“It’s rude to have all of your conversations telepathically, you know,” Wylie tells him.

“Sorry,” Prentice smiles.

“Your dads have always been like this,” Livvy laughs. “Dramatic idiots.” She says it with such raw fondness that Tiergan can’t even be mad about being called an idiot.

“I’m going to need some embarrassing stories about them when they were my age to make up for this.”

“And I’ll be happy to provide that!”

Prentice glances at Tiergan, eyes crinkling at the corners in that way Tiergan has always loved. “We’re in trouble, I see.”

“Oh, definitely. We’ll never know peace again.”

“I think I can live with that.”

“If it means we’re all together and alright, I can definitely live with that,” Tiergan agrees.

Prentice draws back slightly, only to lean forward again to rest their foreheads together. The gesture makes his heart skip and his breath catch in a way he’s sure Prentice can hear, but Prentice doesn’t pull away. Are you alright?

I will be, Tiergan promises. Every part of him feels raw, scraped thin, but he’ll heal. He has Sophie and Prentice and Wylie. He doesn’t have to be quite so brave anymore. Are you alright?

Nearly losing you scared me. But I’ll be alright too. We’re going to be okay.

We are. Wylie is still angry at him, he knows, and he owes him more than a few apologies for the events of today. He needs to talk things over with Leto, make sure he hasn’t damaged their friendship too far with his sharp words, and he still owes Bronte another apology. There’s also the matter of what caused Sophie to shatter in the first place and what they can do to help her, not to mention the Neverseen to fight and a world to change. But all of that can come later, and he knows he won’t be facing it alone.

For now, he leans his head on Prentice’s shoulder and listens to Livvy tell Wylie all about the incident involving Councillor Noland, several highly poisonous scorpions, and a sack of selkie dung, and in the background he can hear Sophie hailing her friends and Bronte and Leto commiserating about ‘kids these days’, and he knows he’s going to be okay. They're all going to be okay.