Chapter Text
Sparrow isn’t sure what wakes him- the cold, maybe, or the dark that feels too dark, the kind that feels like all the sound has climbed into the rafters to hide.
He pushes himself upright, small hands slipping on the stone, breath already quickening.
“Brother?” His voice cracks but still tries for the familiar lilt. “Brother, are you...? Are you here?”
Silence gathers in the corners like watching animals.
He tries again.
Softer.
“Brother?”
No answer. Only old echoes.
He waits.
“…Lark?”
Barely a voice at all.
Nothing answers but his own breath, which is suddenly too fast. He presses a hand to his chest, as if he can trap the air before it escapes him.
His memories begin to rearrange themselves, jagged and sharp:
Screaming- not Lark’s, he would know Lark’s- but sharp and swallowed by stone.
Guards shouting. The tower trembling.
A pyramid falling like the sky being dropped.
And Lark was not beside him when it happened.
And that is wrong.
So wrong it presses against Sparrow’s ribs like a second heartbeat.
No.
No, no no-
They escaped. They were safe. They were in the back of the van. Father was there. Lark was there. They were together.
He tries-
He tries to remember-
Father’s face.
Lark’s hand slipping out of his.
Purple light wrapping around his vision.
His own voice.
Sounding nothing like his own:
You have proven you are unworthy as a father.
Sparrow’s stomach flips. He swallows hard, throat tight and dry.
No.
He didn’t say that.
He wouldn’t.
He couldn’t-
He squeezes his eyes shut.
Memories hit like the pyramid falling all over again:
A knife. Pain.
Stone collapsing.
Dust choking the air.
Lark pinned under rubble because Sparrow left him.
Sparrow left him.
A thin, high breath escapes him before he can stop it. Too fast. Too sharp. He tries again, but it comes out worse. His fingers tingle, then go numb. His vision tunnels at the edges like the room is shrinking inward.
“Father?” he tries.
Nothing.
Then louder:
“Father?”
The silence answers him back.
Not kind.
Not neutral.
Punishing.
His chest tightens- hard- like something is crushing it from the inside. He folds forward instinctively, arms wrapping around his ribs.
Thoughts race, skidding, spiralling, slipping out of his grasp.
What if we didn’t escape?
What if Lark is still under the tower?
What if he called for me and I did not hear?
His breath comes in tiny, frantic gasps. His fingers claw at his shirt like he’s trying to rip it open for air.
“Lark-”
It’s barely sound now.
Just a ghost of a plea.
A knife in his back.
He hits the cold wall.
He drops to the floor.
Curling into the corner- small, small, smaller- forehead pressed to the cold stone, knees hugged tight to his chest. The shaking won’t stop; it just gets harder, sharper, a tremor running through every bone.
His vision blurs.
Everything inside him feels vast and hollow and empty.
The door slams open.
Sparrow flinches so hard his teeth clack.
A body hits the floor- limp, soft, horribly still.
The door slams shut again. A pulse of purple magic threads along the wood like a seal.
Sparrow chokes out.
“Brother?”
He scrambles forward on hands and knees, half-blind with tears. The shape is unmistakable- it's his shape, but bloody, and smeared with dust.
“Lark,” Sparrow breathes, voice cracking down the middle. “Brother, please- please wake up.”
He cups Lark’s face with trembling hands.
Lark is warm.
Alive.
Breathing- but faintly, like someone dreaming underwater.
Sparrow’s lungs give out. A sob tears free- thin, startled, unpracticed, like a child hearing himself cry for the first time.
“I left you,” he whispers.
His forehead presses to Lark’s.
“Brother, I left you and the sky fell on you.”
Lark doesn’t stir.
Sparrow drags him gently- reverently- until Lark’s head rests in his lap. He smooths the hair from his brother’s forehead. His hands are shaking.
“I should have been by your side,” he murmurs, words drifting soft and strange. “I should have stayed there. I should have held your hand. I should have- should have been your shadow, your echo-”
He bites down on the rest. His breath hiccups.
At last, instinct- old, bone-deep instinct- takes over.
He folds himself around Lark, a shield of trembling limbs and stubborn love.
Sparrow curls on the floor of the cell, pulling Lark against his chest, arms wrapped tight in a grip too fierce for sleep and too desperate for wakefulness.
“Brother,” he whispers into Lark’s hair, voice softening into something ritualistic, almost holy, “I am here. I am here. ‘Til the end.”
Lark breathes, shallow and steady.
Sparrow closes his eyes.
The fear doesn't leave him.
It curls beside him, a cold animal.
But Lark is warm.
And Sparrow is holding him.
And for tonight- for this one small moment- that is enough to keep both of them alive.
His breathing begins to slow.
Softens.
Matches Lark’s.
Just before he slips into sleep, a thought rises- fragile, frightened, fierce.
He nuzzles closer into Lark’s hair and whispers, barely a thread:
“If the world falls again… it will fall on me first.”
Lark doesn’t wake.
But his fingers twitch in Sparrow’s shirt.
And Sparrow holds him tighter.