He can't stop thinking about the man on the field.

In spite of the fact that there are plenty of other things to focus on, Thrymr's mind keeps shifting back to the general, the one with the whiskey colored eyes and the twisted grin that spreads across his face and contorts his features; the one with the low, rasping voice that sends shivers up and down his spine.

The one with his hand deep in Thrymr's chest, gloved fingers closing around his starseed, agony in his veins.

He sleeps to try and forget, but it doesn't work. His nightmares are filled with maniacal laughter, cold hands and dead eyes, the face of the dead - murdered Negaverse agent floating in front of Auguste's eyes. He sees them twist sickeningly, reach up a dead hand, grasp his arm, and whisper raggedly, "You killed me."

And he wakes, every night, gasping and shuddering, in the safety of his own bed.

He pushes everyone else away, locks his door. Auguste isn't sure he can take the kindness right now, even though he's sure that Colin, Nadia, and Lorne will be good to him. Their comfort means too much to him; he can't accept it so easily, even though he's desperate for some sort of relief from the terrible, drowning sensation that he seems to feel every day lately.

He powers up, heads out on patrol, and runs into a youma.

It's a monstrous bird of sorts, something with too many wings and talons sharp and painful as they rake across Thrymr's arm. He probably shouldn't be out on his own, but he can't think, he can't bother the others or any of the rest of his team, which has grown wonderfully larger, expanding to include several new people now.

But Thrymr can't bother them. He can't put his own burdens on the shoulders of others, not when he can hardly carry them himself.

The youma is relentless. It sinks its beak into Thrymr's side, snaps at his arm, and he cries out, staggering, a hand pressing automatically against the wound, blood staining his white uniform red. He throws out his hands, calls for his magic, and sends the hearts cascading over to the creature, but this seems to merely anger it further. It lunges at him, and he finds himself thrown back onto the ground.

He's never been a fighter. He doesn't know why he still tries, because when has he ever been strong enough? He doesn't have Aegir's power or Mont Blonc's heart or Methone's determination. He doesn't have anything at all except his own pathetically underwhelming self, and that's not enough to get to where he wants to be.

But he has to keep getting up. He has to keep walking.

He has to keep fighting, no matter how hard it hurts.

By the time Thrymr manages to tear off one of the wings of the youma, he's bruised and bloodied, his face grimy with dirt and sweat. His pale hair is a mess around him, but he cries out with a fresh wave of frustration as he feels the youma twist, it's other wing smacking against his side and sending him reeling.

He keeps pushing. It helps to empty his mind, because when he's like this, desperate enough, he doesn't think about the general with the whiskey colored eyes or the dead Negaverse agent who's neck snapped and who's skull cracked under Thrymr's foot.

He doesn't think about the fact that he's suffocating.

Thrymr walks away, alive, twenty minutes later, and wishes there was another youma so he doesn't have to think.


[ WORD COUNT: 602 ]