11.3 Fic: Coming Clean

Cypher kept walking into the trees until he couldn't see the camp between them. Then he picked one, sank down against it, and tipped his head back.
Arrow-Leaves danced in the canopy. The overcast sky had gotten lighter, and was starting to be streaked with pink. Sunset coming on fast.
Exhaustion filled his limbs like lead. Gravity held him to the earth. The tree was rough on his scalp and he could not bring himself to care.
Gods, I miss sleep.
He shut his eyes, relaxed his shoulders, let go his jaw. Breathed. It was like dangling on a rope, praying to fall.
And he was too hot, besides. This was valley country, and summer was making itself evident, even without a late afternoon footrace. He dragged at his scarf and shoved it in the bag. His hand bumped against his waterskin. He hauled that out and upended it over his head.
For a minute he sat still, letting the drops tickle down his back and arms, drip from the ends of his nose and hair. Didn't cool his face as much as he hoped. He scratched his cheek.
Need a shave again. Haircut too.
Both things he could handle on his own. Not now though. Higher priorities.
You owe answers to every one of them.
He shut his eyes again. The truth pounded in his head like an animal protesting its cage.
There's no answer they're going to like.
Sitting still was irritating. He pulled against gravity to stand. He still felt hot, distracted, itchy beyond belief.
Wasn't there a stream around here? He thought he remembered running an errand near one on the way up.
He closed his eyes and listened. Faint, was that wind, or water? One way to find out.
Carrying his pack in one hand, he kept the sunset on his left, and started walking again.
Belatedly, he realized what it would look like if someone came looking for him.
'Oh, he fucked off without notice again. Who's shocked? Show of hands.'
But he could already see the creek ahead, and besides, he still had no idea what he was going to say.
I'll be back soon enough, he thought, kneeling by the creek bed and refilling the waterskin. He started to dump it over his head again, then stopped.
The water wasn't very deep. It ran swiftly over huge, smooth stones carpeted with some kind of moss or algae that waved like fur in the current. It was deliciously cold.
He rolled his shirt into a lump and put his bag on top. Paused, then added his boots. Then he waded in.
The cold made his body seize into tension, skin prickling, senses electric. He eased himself sitting, then leaned back and let the icemelt cover him.
The rocky creek bed was anything but comfortable, but the water's unending frigidity was bringing the world back to focus.
He stretched his arms, letting it run over his sides and inflate the pockets of his trousers. He could dry by the fire later, it was fine. He had bigger problems, he reminded himself.
What can I say? What's safe? How much is too much?
Old questions with no new answers.
Almost out of time. Figure it out.
He flipped back though memories. What had he told them already? Implications and half-truths. He had almost more practice keeping a lid on his bullshit than he did channeling it.
His mind magnetized to the walk down the mountain. Looking back, he was shocked how much he'd given away.
Some things want to be known.
He sighed, he could hear the retort already: 'you bet your scrawny ass they do. So start talking.'
You don't want to know.
'No, we're pretty sure we do.'
He shook his head. The argument was circular, useless, like it always was. An ouroboros of fear and frustration.
But he'd been able to explain part of it to Mirage. He was still a little worried how close it was, but that was nearly two days ago now. Maybe it was fine?
Maybe I can tell them why I can't tell them?
A start. But not nearly enough. What else.
How about the uncanny resemblance between your little tricks and those freaks in the tower?
He didn’t have anything for that but ‘trust me.’ Nothing a sane person would accept.
The errands.
He scoffed at himself. He couldn't call them that aloud, that was certain.
Fine then. The disappearances. The abandonments. The hypocrisy.
He'd have to spill about those, too. Little to lose there but what scraps of faith in his sanity yet lingered.
Not a reckoning he'd in any way looked forward to. How was it the easiest one?
Time's up.
He sat up and froze all over again when the evening breeze touched him. Reached for his shirt and yanked it over his goose-bumped back. Felt a squirming something stuck on the back of his arm and barely suppressed an exclamation of disgust.
A leech?
He thought the water was too cold, but he could feel it, tiny suckers latched on , the dull pain of a shallow needle seeking blood.
Ugh.
Shivering, he rolled his sleeve and bent the arm at his elbow. Then he took a breath, held it, closed his eyes, and started feeling for it's head.
Nothing.
He opened his eyes.
Good job. That's definitely going to help you see the back of your arm.
He ran a flat palm from shoulder to elbow. Nothing.
He didn't even need to concentrate to feel the contradiction. Something cold and wet and - ugh - worm-like was pinched a hold of his skin. But try as he might, he could only feel empty air.
Memories drifted in through the revulsion. The untouchable bug on his leg yesterday morning. The untouchable spiderweb on his arm that afternoon.
Shit.
The silence felt smug around him. One more log on the crazy fire.
It was getting dark, he noticed detachedly. His pack thumped against his back. He tied his belt while walking. He kept the swift red reflections of sunset on his right. He concentrated on not feeling for the untouchable leech.
Soon, the flicker of campfire was visible ahead.