When Sky Dreams of the Deep [Casper Darling/Alan Wake]
Visions of the Taken King swarm his dreams ever since Alan flew too close to the Dreadnaught. In one of them, he saw the Willbreaker swing and fall upon his shape, cutting him in twain yet not declaring his final death—instead, a renewal of the person he was reborn to be.
This morning, Alan only wears the hood. Clutches it tightly. Winter begins harshly and Hunters like him would find it a good reason to gather around a bonfire, play cards, but not dare or wish. So long Alan’s been distant from them, and he can almost, almost miss the comforting sight of the Traveler once hanging above the Last City…
[You’re reaping what you have sown, dear. Do you know how to learn from a mistake?]
Alan hisses and throws his head down, clutching the cloak. Hair falls on his forehead. It has grown more since the self-imposed isolation.
One single twig cracks underfoot and he raises his gun, eyes flaring orange. Another man raises his hands in defense; Casper is all too familiar with this entire moody behavior and this is only the tip of the iceberg.
“It’s me,” the Warlock says, “it’s just me, Alan. I’m alone.”
Too drawn in the images of swords and darkness and blissful nothingness, Alan takes time to return to his senses, and when it happens, Casper already disarms him. The handcannon goes to his holster; a weight is lifted.
“I know you are,” Alan says through a heavy breath, lying to his fear. After a few seconds, he adds: “Did you find the place you’ve been looking for? The ‘Oldest House’?”
Casper takes a considerable time to part away from Alan’s gaze. “No… I haven’t.” He grips the Hunter’s forearm a bit tighter, anchoring. “I’ve found only wreckage and abandoned buildings up north, but something tells me it’s there. I can remember it. Maybe…”
Alan rests his head over Casper’s shoulder, just as sudden. That’s why Casper never strays too far from him.
“You had another dream,” he says without accusation, receiving a nuzzle in response.
“I would rather not talk about this,” Alan mutters against the crook of his neck. “It’s just the same thing, same torment. Nothing really changes.”
Casper pulls him into an embrace: one palm sneaking beneath the hood to find his hair, diving on waves the Hunter has left uncared for; though every part of Alan has been forlorn from himself, and the more their days go by, the more Casper witnesses Alan becoming only a shell of the man he raised as a Guardian.
Alan clings on his tenderness as if it is the last thing he can ever trust.
“Is there anything I can do?” Casper continues trying. “I, uh—I can seek out the cryptarchs’ files. Research other methods. Hell, even speak with the V—”
“Forget it. I can’t drag more people into my mess.”
Casper chuckles. “You’re not the first person to tell me this…”
The Hunter trails his nose across the Warlock’s shoulder and upwards into his neck and face, only so their lips brush. They press, but do not linger.
“And I don’t want to be your last,” Alan whispers. “Stay away from this. Please.”
Casper goes silent, because years living together has taught him better than to speak against his stubbornness; and turns him, at the same time, into someone more and more powerless in his own vicinity.
Alan pulls him into an embrace and Casper latches on it.
For a moment, Alan wonders, then, where the other half went.
[Ah, now you don’t remember? You wrote this. You made this. This is only about you, yet this story is not yours.]