Author's note: first things first: if you have not read "Unbroken" then this fic will make no sense whatsoever. if you chose not to read "Unbroken" then kudos to you, and fair play; but that still won't change things here. you could continue anyway and simply infer little things, which is also fair; but I would hesitantly recommend at least skimming UB first XD
second thing: UB was a very heavy fic. while this remains to be the sequel and therefore will reference back to certain events that occurred in UB, I have *halved* the angst. this will be nowhere near as heavy, or as angsty, or as dark, I can assure you. no major content warnings apply at any point. obvs it will have its moments where angst is present, but that's just my writing style
also to note: do not be fooled by the title. it has a meaning here, but it might not be what you think. just keep reading and ye shall see XD
I actually did a lot of experimenting and research for this, so when I say I've added the PTSD tag, it is because I forewarn you that I have done my best to write the effects of said disorder as accurately and as realistically as I can; so if you, like myself, suffer from PTSD, do take your time with reading it as I have done writing it
I thank my UB beta, Cloudless_Sky, for beta-reading my work once again, and for poring over certain aspects of this story and spinning the idea wheel with me because, quite frankly, I could not have come up with 100% of this. that *would* be unrealistic XDfinal note: Ingressus does appear out of character in the early stages of this fic. you'll see why as we go
now we have all that nonsense out the way: enjoy!
********************
Overgrown blades of grass graced his lower waist, and he fluttered his hand over their sharpened tips, letting them tangle between his digits; their roots coming loose as he tugged on their feeble structure. They weren't the luscious green that he had hoped. They were a burnt brown, hazy and crisp as they tickled one another, poking his bare skin as he walked. The soft crunch of the charred ground as he planted his heel was one such that he had only heard on the harsh ice of another place. He didn't expect the similarity and he shifted to step lightly, confused by his surroundings. He should have known this place, yet even in reality, he had not seen it with his own eyes; he had not the luxury of knowing a past that could have been his and so many others'. He sniffed; the air starved of freshness. He contorted his face, lost, and his stride shortened as he lingered with each step, sensing that something was amiss; yet he continued forth, his grip on the scratching blades tightening in anxiousness – although be it anticipation or nerves, he was unsure.
"You will not breathe a word of this to anyone..."
The faint whisper carried with the winds around him, barely audible above his own shaky breath. He had heard these words before, from a time long past. He paused. He looked to the palm of his hands and balled them to fists. Then he splayed them again, stretching his digits carefully. He flipped his hands over to inspect the back, to check his wrists. The inflictions lingered – faded scars and blisters of a time that he should know every waking second of, yet his mind remained clouded, foggy to the details. He exhaled exasperated, annoyed that he couldn't remember what he knew he should so clearly never forget. The pain swirled his mind, yet the picture was blurred.
"I have already shown you what I can do when I want to silence you..."
Louder, still sweeping with the winds, the whisper passed. Slowly, he turned his head to glance over his shoulder, standing still as stone. Only blackness loitered behind him in his wake, yet that did not frighten him as it should have. He turned forward again. Still daylight. Still the mountains hoved into view, staggering next to the burnt remnants of a land he had wanted to call home since he knew what home should have been.
"Say my name..."
He knew the answer. He wanted to say it, but as he opened his mouth to speak, no sound would come out. Meagre air washed from his tongue – a light gasp, and nothing more. He reached for his neck, brushing his fingertips across his skin, rubbing it between his thumb and index finger. He stopped abruptly when he felt it. He knew it was there, yet it startled him upon feeling every time, without fail – as though he needed to touch the scar to remember. His throat closed up as though he was choking on dusty air, thick dirty particles filling his lungs, yet the air around him was clean, singed by the clear skies giving way to the sun-drenched would-be paradise. But something had happened here. Something he knew he should have remembered. The grass should not have been burnt to a crisp. The mountains should not seem so far from reach. His path should not be darkness in his footsteps, blocking his escape as he continued to traverse what he knew should have been home. His home. He should feel peace, here – hope; yet there was a subtle dangerous undertone to his surroundings, as though something – or someone – was intruding in his space, hitting the darker corners of his mind, picking away at the little things that he took joy in to escape his reality. He felt them claw at his mind, yet he could not see them. They were not there.
"Say my name, you monster..."
He jolted at that word. He had once uttered it, himself at a time he could not recall, in a place that had escaped his memories; yet he could picture it clear as day – the flames, the smoke-choked air, the... the other person? Fighting? He hurt like he had been battered and bruised as much as had had unto this other... Ardoni? The whisper hit him like a rock, almost shouting in his ears as the wind suddenly picked up around him, whipping his matted hair across his face, now inexplicably sore and tired. Why couldn't he put a name to the sweeping voice that he recognised so well – as though he knew this person in and out, better than he knew himself? He had only walked a few feet across this land, overgrown and forgotten, and he had not been here long. He knew it. But he felt the weight of pain slowing him sluggish and heavy – as though restrained in chains.
He took a panicked look at his wrists once more. Shackled.
But how?
His heartbeat increased as he frantically looked around for something – anything – that he could recognise that would explain his sudden predicament. He replaced his hands on his neck, still feeling the scar that flawed his skin. He opened his mouth once more. Still no sound. He couldn't move. He felt clawed hands grip his throat, pulling him back. He let them. He couldn't fight. He wasn't sure he wanted to – like something had seized control of his body, nagging at him, gnawing at him and telling him that he shouldn't fight the truth, that he shouldn't argue with fate.
"Have you forgotten your place?"
He aversed his head to the side, startled at feeling the heated breath of another by his face, and the walls closed in around him, the blissful, broken land on which he tread faded from view, replaced by torches of burning Redstone and the haunting whispers of empty corridors as draughts laughed their way along the dusty ground. He knew this place. He knew it well, yet he could not picture why, or how. He tried to remember the people, their faces, their names. Anything. He saw their glows, but not their markings. He stressed, trying to remember, trying to find his voice, to ask for answers. Sweat beaded across his forehead as breathless gasps amounted in his voiceless throat, arms raised above his head, feet planted firmly on the ground. He tugged. He pulled. He fought. He panicked. Still no sound could be heard.
More glows appeared before him, casting their judgmental gaze upon him as though he were but a caged animal, and nothing more. He froze. He spotted something amidst the luminosity of what lingered in front of him; cloaked and shrouded in the shadows of low-burning flames, he saw those eyes.
He saw the face.
The blade.
The golden glow.
For a moment, his heart warmed, and his breathing slowed. For a moment, he melted, a sense of freedom overwhelming him, and he stopped fighting. He didn't know why. He saw the vibrancy of the glow before him, and he crumbled almost in relief – a warming sight that he had longed to see for so long; a voice he had wanted to hear once more that he knew he may never again.
He had forgotten...
The sparking of raw, red, evil energy. It buzzed and scraped his ears, blistering his eyes as the crackling of spits and sparks danced by his temples. Panic rose in his chest as the air was cast from his lungs once again.
"You cannot break me... You will not..." he thought, knowing that he had thought this before. He couldn't remember when.
Why couldn't he remember?
"We shall see..."
That voice... It-
He lurched upright and quickly clapped his hand over his mouth to stifle the yelp that amounted in his throat, hanging his head forward as he tried to hide his sudden vicious shakes, drenched in sweat again. He massaged his forehead as shaky breaths escaped him and he swung his legs over the side of his bed, perching his elbows on his knees. He could cry. He was so inexplicably terrified by something that wasn't real; something that need never be real again. It was over. It was all over...
It was over...
It had been... how long? Five years? Six? Seven? He had forgotten. Time lulled into a numbing constant – something to symbolise the day and the night, and nothing more. He shook his head, disappointed in himself. Faces blurred. Memories tainted. Events moulded into one. He couldn't distinguish one day from the next, he would zone out, he would forget that he was speaking, he would forget who he was speaking to, missing half of their words however important they were. Sometimes, he would be missing whole days from his mind, knowing that he had experienced them, but he had no memory of ever existing despite others' ability to recall his movements and everything that he had done (like that would help aid his memory, as little as it did) – as though that time had been wiped clean, sapped dry and empty.
He wished that his mind had cast such a spell on that dark time that he found himself imprisoned and mindlessly tortured – to forget that he ever endured such travesty; but he also knew that, if that came to pass, he would be missing so much of what made him the hardened stature he was today. A piece of him would be forever gone – something he never wanted to remember, but something he was never going to forget.
It had been too long.
A slightly cold hand clasped his shoulder and he jumped, a sudden gasp needlessly rushing from him in fear, only to be useless in effect as a fellow Voltaris seated herself beside him, a concerned glaze across her pale red eyes.
"Another nightmare?" she said calmly, soothingly barely above a whisper. She didn't know why she bothered asking – every time she found herself in her Master's tent, it was for very much the same reason; but she held out this hope that, one night, it wouldn't be another nightmare, or something else haunting his sleep, holding his eyes open in spite.
Ingressus nodded, replacing his head in his palm. He was better off on this night than many others, for he was frequently forced awake by this Voltaris watching over him as sleep paralysis took him, pinned him, restrained him, and he was unable to break the torturous spell alone. Without her there to relieve him, who knows in what state he would find himself.
She sighed and pinched his shoulders, rubbing her thumb gently over his tense skin. The pair listened to the soft howls from the snowy winds outside for a moment. A gentle snowfall graced the air with dancing flakes intruding the open tent, landing on the matted floor and fading with the ground. It was better this than the usual storms that would hound them this time of year, at this time of night. They could forgive the snow however it chose to fall onto them, but they rarely forgave the winds – as the winds never forgave them.
"You're doing well," she said, although she had whispered the same words more often than she uttered a name. She wasn't so sure of what use they would be – and to what effect now that her clan Master had heard them so frequently. But this night, she truly meant it. She had not needed to intervene, to save him from himself. For that, she could call it improvement.
Whether he saw it that way was another matter. Rarely would a night pass and a nightmare not accompany his frightful sleep. Ingressus let out an exasperated sigh.
"What time is it?" he croaked, his throat dry and parched as though he had screamed until it cracked.
"About an hour before sunrise."
Another sigh. He hung his head lower and his hands drooped like weeds between his knees – a flopped ragdoll if ever there was one.
Nakiri rubbed his back gently before standing up and crouching in front of him, balancing on the tip of her toes with her palms on his knees.
"Hey..." she began, gaining his attention. She planted one hand on his upper arm as he looked up at her. "You are doing well. This is the third consecutive time that you have forced yourself from your nightmares – you have not needed me to shake you awake. And you have a much stronger handle on your reactions afterwards. It's taken a long time, but you're getting there. This is an improvement, and I'm proud of you." She smiled warmly.
Ingressus choked back a quick sob, holding everything in for until Nakiri was gone. He knew that she was his support for exact moments like this – and had been ever since, kindly sitting with him until he calmed, talking him down from disassociation episodes and generally ensuring that he remained healthy for the most part by watching his eating and sleeping habits – but even after so long, he was still afraid to let it all show in front of her, fearful that, if he let it all out, it would never stop. Instead, he chose to break in the privacy of seclusion, away from prying eyes. He was their Master. He was their leader. The least he could do for them after so long being absent is look like it and act like it.
He owed them that much.
He smiled wryly for but a brief moment, and he let his guard down ever so slightly, lowering his shoulders from their rigid tension. He nodded again and then resumed staring at the floor in defeat.
Nakiri thought for a moment.
"If you cannot resume a few more restful hours, then I can accompany you on a short walk along the frozen lake. Perhaps the brisk wind will still the nerves?"
For a while, Ingressus pondered her suggestion. He did enjoy walking along the frozen lake – especially so early in the morning to greet the sunrise, as was the new parlance since his return to Northwind – but he wasn't quite feeling right; as though a walk wouldn't quite be enough anymore. He needed something better than quick fixes, than relying on his own clan for support. He needed answers. He knew that he couldn't find peace until he knew that his once brother had also found peace, wherever he was... If he was...
"Not today," he said quietly. "I wish for this time to be for myself."
Nakiri nodded with a smile and rose to her full height once more. With one more pat on his shoulder, she turned to the open flap of the Voltaris Master's tent. He watched her with hopeful eyes as she peered over her shoulder once more, just to be sure, and then vanished to her own tent beside his.
Immediately his lower lip quivered as he swivelled back onto his bed and laid his chin on the tips of his knees; but he didn't cry. A few tears trickled down his cheeks, but he didn't make a sound. He knew what he wanted, now. He knew what he wanted that may just ease these endless years of suffering. After so long living day by day with no end-goal in sight, he finally knew what he wanted. He felt ready.
He wanted to know what had happened to Achillean.
He wanted to find out what had become of the former Tidesinger.
Author's note: I know I said I was done with the ANs, but I just have one more thing to add
when writing the nightmare section of this chapter, I did pull from my own experiences. now by no means have I undergone even *a quarter* of what our poor Ingry has, but one thing that I found when researching for this was that, no matter the level of stress in the mind, our unconscious does similar things - such as blurring the faces of people we should no, or situations seeming more real than they are, or hearing voices that you recognise but can't name fsr
it is bloody frustrating, but oddly it felt good to get it down in a story somewhere and in a character where it makes sense. for a lot of Ingry's experiences, I put a little of my own in there as you'll read as we go along, and it think it was worth it XD