leaves all sinking, fever dreaming; ANY

[magnus]

Disappointment is a familiar sensation. It wraps itself around his bones, presses into his veins, branches out and through him. He can feel the way it crawls up his throat, the pressure. He is used to it. He is used to the bitter taste of it on his tongue. The feeling is no stranger; it makes itself at home in his chest, curling into the curves of it without hesitation. It is almost comforting to sit with the weight of it, a stone in his belly as the autumn breeze begins to lace across his back. It is almost comforting to recognize the old friend come home to roost, the anguish rooting and flourishing, strangling whatever hope once lived.

Of course he had disappointed them.

Of course he had vanished, dipping in and out of time. 

He was at once steadfast in his stability—a guardian carved from stone—and as fleeting as the first snow, melting even as it made first contact. And how could he ever explain it? How could he tell them of the ways that this world only felt half-real and too-real all at once? How could he tell them about the way that time had lost all meaning, moving in and out of focus at dizzying speed? Once life had bled from your veins and then been poured back into it, it was an impossible task to try and wrap your mind around what you were left with. So he didn’t try. Excuses fell back into his throat, never once meeting the open air.

In some ways, it felt like he had only been here yesterday, the sulphuric air of Tephra still hot in his throat, and in others, it feels like a lifetime ago, the same taste ash on his tongue. It makes little sense to him, and he is too tired to grapple with it. Instead, he nearly buckles under the weight of the expectations, his golden face carved from his regret and sorrow, the handsome lines pulled taut. He moves to a part of Beqanna he had yet to visit, a seemingly impossible thing to consider, and the froth of the river and the roar in his ears is nearly enough to drown out the howl that is building inside of him.

How many times does he have to live this same cycle? How many times must he create a home, only to break it apart? How many times must he love to leave—disappearing into an abyss that’s all too willing to swallow him up? Without thinking, he begins to wade into the river, the water coming up to his chest. His legs anchor to the slippery ground, and he feels the tide pulling against him, a threat of the end and a promise of relief that he nearly gives into. He closes his gold-flecked eyes and exhales, the gold of his coat darkening as the water continues to thrash against him. Perhaps he should have stayed away.

Perhaps, this time, he should have simply let his absence grow permanent. 

out of the blue out into the loneliest place that you'll ever know
I carried the world just as far as I could but the damage had taken its toll