linchpin. [nel + murdoch]

[Nel Sayo]

"Doc--" She knew it was coming even before his fingers tightened over her skin, and she said his name like a prayer, wincing even as she hoped it wouldn't happen.

But he shoved her anyway, and she went stumbling backwards, banging up against the edge of the table and scrambled not to trip over the chair, just barely catching herself on the table's edge with a skid of her heel. Left blinking roundly at him, startled both by the force with which he'd pushed her, and that it had come after a moment of seemingly shared comfort.

"Why?" she asked. "Wait--"

Something just as desperate shook her voice; it was like whatever he was feeling plowed into her, staggering her. Because she understood it. She understood the spill of blood and the bite of the lash. Having one's face shoved down into the mud, and how much worse it hurt when the hands that did it had been kind only hours before. A burst of empathy seared through her, leaving her wide open when all that rage of his skewered her right through the gut.

She gasped. It had never happened like this before. Usually it was some periphery emotion that grazed her, gave her a headache. Powerful Lust and love made her feel drunk. Bloodlust could make her vomit. But no one had ever aimed that kind of murderous intent at her before, just at her, deeply personal, nothing else in the room to dampen it, no emotions of her own to wrap herself up in.

Her knees hit the floorboards, even as she'd been trying to leave, trying to do what he asked. The world titled a little too far on its axis. He was going to kill her, and she couldn't get up, couldn't run. He had to kill her to keep himself safe, and she couldn't fight back. His brother had tried to slit his throat, ten years they'd relied on each other and he tried to cut him from ear to ear; trust hurt, it left scars as sure as a blade, as a noose, comfort and warmth only led to pain.

She felt like she might vomit and drown at the same time. Couldn't think. Sy had been too careful with her. The mark on her wrist, hidden beneath her sleeve and her glove, felt like it was on fire.

"Please don't," she choked, as blackness crept in at the edges of her vision, and she fought to stay conscious. "I won't do it again."

[Murdoch]

His fingers tightened on the mantle when he heard that plea, the wood creaking in protest as he nearly pulled it from the wall in some attempt to control himself. Black emotions surged again, pounded at her like hurricane waves against a pristine beach.

Slowly, very slowly, he pried his hands off the mantle and got his arms down to his side, where they curled into fists tights enough to leave half-moons in his palms. He forced himself to glance over his shoulder at her, let his eyes roam over her prostrate form - and just the sight of her was enough to let him turn and face her.

Horrible thoughts twisted their way into Nel's awareness: the plunge of his dagger into the perfect, pale throat. His fist shattering the side of her face and continuing until she was unrecognizable. Holding her down by the throat and tearing her clothes off with the other, taking violent pleasure in her body as he choked the life out of her. Wave after wave of horror.

But beneath it all lay that desperation to live, to never again taste the bitterness of betrayal, to hurt and maim and kill and destroy anything that so much as threatened to cause that pain again.

He'd taken a step forward with each pulse of emotion, each new idea of suffering to inflict on her tender body, and in the end he loomed over her and stared down at her with eyes as cold and hard as chips of bone.

The blow never came.

A half-turn, and another slow step, and he forced himself through the door and down the stairs, still barefoot and shirtless but he had to get away from her right now or he would kill her. He would do it, and he wouldn't feel a moment's regret or guilt, and then he'd have an apartment covered in blood and a dead body on his floor. And that just wouldn't do.

Yes, that was why. Not mercy, he thought to himself as he collapsed into a seat at the bottom of the stairs, shaking uncontrollably with the horror and rage of his own memories. Not mercy, just convenience.

Not weakness, just a sheer and indomitable stubbornness not to be ruled by emotion, not to let some crap that happened over a decade ago force him to slaughter a girl because she'd hugged him. Because that was just stupid, and Doc was rarely stupid.

[Nel Sayo]

She clenched her eyes shut when he turned towards her, her awareness buckling completely, like a sapling in a storm, snapped beneath the weight of the wind, as his intentions crushed against her senses.

Her hands hit the floor, the strength of her arms just barely holding her from a completely supine sprawl, the closer he got. Did it matter that half of those nightmares had already been reality? Not really. What he considered doing to her and what had already been done to her merged into one awful dream, one macabre twist of truth and violence that stretched out before her eyes like she could watch it happen all over again. Those things Syon had saved her from. Those things that nobody could save her from.

That wasn't all, though. Maybe for someone else. But for Nel, though she cowered under the weight of those visions, there was a fire left to her. A brilliant, white light that would not let her lie down. Live, it insisted, and maybe it was Avalis, or some other god; maybe it was Syon from the deep depths, maybe it was just the voice in her own head, but that's what she heard, in the end, echoing through the horror. That's what she held onto, when she had nothing else. And for so long, now, she'd had absolutely nothing.

Even as he loomed over her, she was trying to get up.

When the door slammed shut behind him, she finally let her shoulders sink a fraction, let her muscles succumb to the invisible weight overwhelming her senses. The further away he got, the easier it was to breathe.

Eventually, she crawled over to the bed, and climbed into it. Knew she should've left, but could feel that her limbs would not have made it down the stairs. Knew she should've hurled herself out the window or something, but was so tired. If he came back and decided his initial instincts were better, then they'd have that fight. And Nel would fight. Sweet, beautiful Nel, sure, but she would fight. With blade and bite and claw, if she had to, through the veil of whatever hatred he flung at her, she'd raise herself.

But in that moment, she couldn't. It all hurt too much. The betrayal hurt too much, the pain and suffering were too great. So she curled up in the bed with the handguard of the rapier tucked close to her cheek, and hoped she wouldn't have need of it.

[Murdoch]

When Nel finally awoke, Doc had pulled the chair up beside the bed, his boots buckled on again and propped against the edge of the headboard. He had a steaming cup of tea cradled between his hands and resting easily atop his thigh.

He was much more calm now, fully dressed again, but there were dark circles beneath his eyes. He hadn't slept, after all, had just paced through the courtyard downstairs for a while and then come up here to watch her sleep.

It didn't soften any part of his heart, watching this poor bereft girl twitch and sigh her way through exhaustion. But it gave him time to think, to consider what had happened, why they'd each reacted that way, what he could gain from the situation. What would be least harmful to him. What he wanted, though he only considered that to find out why he wanted it - he was not a man who looked at his own desires to make a decision. What he wanted was rarely what was best for him, wouldn't often keep him safe and alive. If anyone could have heard his thoughts during the darkest parts of the night, they might have wondered that he didn't once ask himself what he could do to be happy. Murdoch Kin'rath hadn't been happy in decades, and had lost even the concept of what that might be like.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Doc said softly, which was truth enough. That hadn't been his intention when all of this started, so he could at least give her that.

[Nel Sayo]

Consciousness brought with it a pounding headache. She'd expected that. Like she'd drank too much grog and then someone had stomped on her temples for a few hours before finally letting her pass out.

She knew immediately where he was, though. Like a bright buzz, his presence summoned her attention, though blue eyes remained narrowed into slits, she looked at him. Saw an entirely different man, not the one she'd seen in the tavern that first night, not even the one she'd woken up beside, who'd had his arms wrapped about her and his nose pressed to her ribcage. She knew that those men were inside this one, somewhere, but none of them were real, probably.

With an aching slowness, she pushed herself up to a seat. Pale curls and braids spilled beautifully, across narrow shoulders and into her eyes, though she shoved them away. Twisted herself about and dropped her feet to the floor. She'd lost consciousness fully dressed, boots on, everything. She slid the rapier away from the wall, and willed herself to get to her feet. It was a shaky, but successful, endeavor.

"You didn't hurt me," she muttered. Light bounced around the room as she resheathed the rapier. "Even if you wanted to. Thought about it. Boy, did you think about it, that was some colorful shit, Doc. Thanks for letting me sleep."

There was a raggedy edge to her voice that hadn't been there the day before, but it was likely just a combination of exhaustion and pain.

[Murdoch]

He flinched a little as he realized that she'd seen that visions that had swirled through his mind the night before, but he stayed where he was, and his voice remained even.

"I hit you," he said just as softly, "and I stole from that boy, your friend. Perhaps those weren't as... vivid... as some of the ways a person can be hurt, but it upset you. And that wasn't what I meant to do. So."

He shrugged a little, and sipped at his tea. Now that she was standing, she would see her own mug filled as well and waiting on the hearth.

[Nel Sayo]

"So now you've had time to sit and think on it and, let me guess, you've devised some sort of plan that will benefit both of us," she drawled.

Didn't expect for a minute that the apology came free-of-charge, if one could even really call it an apology at all. Nothing was ever free with him. She would've trusted him completely right up until he walked her into the mouth of a dragon, but he'd ruined it. With his hands and the very darkness of his intentions, he'd ruined it.

She eyed the tea suspiciously, and then ignored it. Too tired to play nice this time. It had only gotten her smacked and nearly killed the first time. Instead, she just went over to the water bucket and splashed her face, wiping the droplets away with her sleeve rather than unpacking a towel from her bag.

[Murdoch]

"No," he said softly, shaking his head. "No plan, little swan. No scheme to use you, no price to pay. Just that."

He'd had time to think, yes. He'd almost done to her what his brother had done to him. She'd trusted him, though the gods alone knew why, and had he been one whit less stubborn her thanks would have been a slit throat.

He didn't regret it, because there was nothing to regret - he was what he was, what the world had shaped him to be. But that was why no one should trust him. He was a rabid dog, and would bite the hand that fed him because it was the only thing he knew.

[Nel Sayo]

That brought her up short; he sounded like he meant it.

She tried to hold onto the anger she'd come awake with; she could feel it slipping, ebbing in the wake of his soft voice and the realization that he knew, that he did know what he'd done, even if he couldn't regret it. And she could hear that near-silent shimmer of him crying Live! Live! as it had through the darkness of the night before, through the fury and the cruelty.

With a sigh, she paced over and sank down to a seat beside his boots. Shoulders slumped, pale eyes thoughtful. Wary, but still warm.

It was just a hug. Maybe not just a hug, but there'd been no ulterior motive to it. And she didn't know how to tell him without pissing him off again that it didn't have to be like this, not always.

"Doc, you need to get some sleep. I think you're losin' it."

[Murdoch]

He swallowed another gulp of tea as she settled down beside him, and kept his eyes on his hands.

It was a hug that had made him what he was. A decade of camaraderie and friendship and family that lowered his guard, allowed that pair of arms to loop around his neck, unaware of the razor-sharp blade that lay in wait. Only a childhood spent on the streets of Sunberth had caught the minute flick of his brother's wrist the heralded his death, and even that had almost not been enough.

That she'd had even those scant few seconds of contact with him before he'd reacted was a miracle in and of itself.

But her statement dented a smile into one corner of his mouth, though there was nothing happy in it. "More than you know," he muttered, finishing off his tea before he let his legs drop and began kicking off his boots.