On the fourth day at Sessrumnir, Devyn realized that he wasn’t sleeping. Really wasn’t sleeping. A few minutes here and there, but he hadn’t slept since he’d been on Earth. Napping didn’t count. He didn’t think he was exhausted, but he realized his body was moving a little slower than he’d gotten used to.

He’d eaten–every time Atticus had eaten. It was hard to forget that necessity when you were focused on making sure that someone else was eating.

Sleeping was different. He’d told himself he should stay awake while Atticus was sleeping, to make sure that nothing happened. To make sure he didn’t wake up and have nothing to do, to make sure he didn’t need something and was afraid to ask, to make sure he was okay.

There was a part of Devyn that had accounted for the fact that he needed to sleep at some point in time, but there was a greater part of him that seemed to find something to do at every moment of the day. Even when Atticus was awake, he hardly ever sat down and did nothing. There was rarely a quiet moment.

Devyn could talk about anything, everything. He would ask Atticus questions as he tried to learn about him, tried to ease him into the start of a new life. Sometimes, Jupiter would chime in, and the storms above would rumble and groan.

When he was alone, when Atticus was sleeping and he slipped into another room–close enough to hear a quiet call, close enough that he could stick his head in every few minutes–Devyn still found ways to fill the silence. Sometimes it was just aggressively scrubbing something so loud that he could hear the bristles snap. Sometimes, he hummed. Sometimes he shuffled his feet as he walked, so it sounded like there were more footsteps than just his own.

He wouldn’t say it, but he was scared of the silence.

He didn’t have memories of silence here.

Any time he’d been here before, Michael was there–a firm reminder of the present. He was a presence of his own, strong and reliable. The protector of Sessrumnir and all its guests.

Even if it had only been Devyn.

Michael wasn’t here, now, and Devyn knew, in a distant corner of his mind, that this was dangerous.

Not for Atticus. Just for him.

When Michael was there, he slept. He didn’t really dream most of the time; sometimes there were whispers from memories he’d tucked away. When Michael was there, he didn’t have bad dreams.

But, Michael wasn’t there right now.

Devyn didn’t want to risk it.

He already felt like there was a part of him that was coming undone. He wasn’t alone, he knew that. Atticus was here! In the present. Alive. Getting better every day.

But, Atticus slept, and Devyn was alone, in a hall of memories and echoes from voices that died out a thousand years ago.

A hall of learning, and healing, and Devyn felt like there was a wound in him that was growing and he told himself he didn’t know what it was, or why.

But, he did.

Guilt. Creeping and gnawing. A dull ache, not unlike the one from the scar on his chest, but deeper. He felt it in his heart, and with every pulse it spread a little more. He thought he could feel it in his fingertips, on his lips.

Atticus had been asleep for a few hours. Devyn hadn’t slept since yesterday, but it had been fifteen minutes then and he’d awakened to fingers tousling in his hair and the ghost of a kiss that faded before he’d opened his eyes.

He’d fallen asleep in the chair with a book in his lap; Atticus didn’t seem like he’d moved from where Devyn had tucked him in on the cot.

It had been quiet outside when Devyn awoke.

The halls had been silent.

He couldn’t even close his eyes. He’d rubbed at them and pushed himself up and got an early start on the day.

The day just hadn’t ended yet, not for him.

There were rooms here in Sessrumnir that he knew of, that he’d seen, but that meant little to him in any great capacity. Storage rooms, offices, classrooms. Some of them were big projects, things he figured would be tended to in due time but things that didn’t need attention, not now.

He wanted to visit the atrium, but it was so far away. He didn’t want to risk Atticus needing something while he was gone.

He wanted to visit the caves, and see if anyone had ever really mapped out the rest of it. That was probably more dangerous now than it had been before, even without the assassins.

Devyn wasn’t sure if it was just him being tired or if it was the pressure of Jupiter’s storms weighing down on him.

Or something else.

In the end, he slipped into the library he and Atticus had been visiting earlier. There was something special about it; if he’d let himself, he could have been convinced that Percy was in the little study, poring over maps.

Sometimes, his memories seemed to match with the present–so closely that it felt like layers draped over each other. There was a fog that sometimes rolled in, that made a convenient escape between the past and now. Sometimes, Devyn thought he could be tempted to just let it roll in, just let himself forget for a little while.

He just had so many responsibilities. It seemed like a dangerous indulgence.

He’d already forgotten too much once before.

When he walked to the shelves, his hand traced lightly over the spines of books he’d never read. Part of him wondered if Percy had, though. If he’d read all of these. It wouldn’t have surprised him, Percy was so smart.

His hand stopped on a book and he pulled it out.

Devyn hadn’t read it, but he’d seen Percy with it before. Or, at least, one like this. Carefully drawn images of places they’d never been.

He thumbed through a few pages before he found a picture he recognized, and he remembered talking to Percy about it.

He didn’t ask for the fog, but it was there. Devyn thumbed through a few more pages. If he let himself–and, in a moment of weakness, he did–he could sink into the memory. He could feel Percy’s shoulder pressed against his, could feel Percy’s head pressed against his temple as they looked over the book together. He could hear Percy excitedly explaining the little facts he knew that weren’t in the book. The way he could flip the pages to find exactly the paragraph or picture he wanted.

The text on the pages wasn’t foreign to Devyn, but it took him a while to skim over what it did say. He turned a few pages. He let himself indulge in the memory of Percy pressed close to him. He let himself remember the way Percy’s hair could tickle, the way he smelled of ink and parchment and autumn.

He felt something cold on his neck and instinctively placed his warm hand over it, because he remembered Percy’s very cold nose, and maybe he’d have given anything to feel it one more time.

Between one memory and the next, between one page in the next, Devyn didn’t question the feeling of someone standing behind him. Didn’t question the warmth against his side, didn’t question the smell of crisp leaves and fireplaces and papers and paints.

He saw a name he didn’t recognize and asked into the silence, “Perce, what’s–”

And it was gone.

He was alone in the coldness of the room, with an empty space next to him, and silence.

The storm hadn’t rumbled in a while and he couldn’t even tell if it was still raining.

His heart hurt again, and the wound spread, and this wasn’t the first time he’d turned to ask Percy a question and he wasn’t there, but for a split second he’d been so sure, and–

He wished Michael was here. Wished very badly that he was here.

Devyn closed the book and slid it back into place on the shelf before his mind could play any more tricks on him, and he leaned forward to just rest his head against it all.

He felt a hand on his back his eyes snapped open; he spun to face–

No one. Nothing. Emptiness, again.

His heart was pounding, and he wasn’t sure if his head hurt because he’d done something to it or if it was just his body’s way of punishing him for–

Well, everything.

Before he’d even reached up to rub at his temple, he’d reached for the little communicator that Soleiyu had made for him and texted, ‘I’m fine’ before he even felt fine.

It was probably late back on Earth, he didn’t want Michael to worry.

He sucked in a breath, held it, and willed his heart to calm itself.

Sessrumnir was full of ghosts.

Or maybe Sessrumnir had nothing to do with it, maybe they were just following Devyn.

It wasn’t bad, now. These weren’t unpleasant, vicious wraiths that wanted to upset or alarm or hurt him. They weren’t the things that lurked in the back of his mind, the things that came out when he let his defenses down, the things that haunted him in his sleep.

He found himself again wishing very much that Michael was here.

So, he told Michael that, too. He didn’t think about it very much, didn’t give himself time to wonder what he was saying, or why, he just added, ‘Miss you, though’ and sent that, too.

Felt better after saying it, even.

He stood in the empty room for a moment longer and wondered how much of this was the fact that he wasn’t sleeping affecting him.

Either way, he hadn’t had this problem at any point in time when he was back on Earth.

He didn’t want to think that Sessrumnir wanted to punish him for being here without its Knight.

Either of them.

Michael would be back soon, though. Things would be better then. They were always better when he was around.

There was a wetness in his eyes that he didn’t really want to acknowledge right now, especially because he wasn’t sure where it had come from. It didn’t happen often, and he supposed he was fortunate that it hadn’t happened around anyone he’d have to explain it to.

He probably just missed Percy.

Except, he couldn’t stop thinking about missing Michael, too.

The guilt in his heart grew.

He knew what he’d dream of if he tried to sleep.

So, he stayed awake.