Everest
Everest didn’t shift back until the last possible moment. The crew had let him stay curled under a bench near the cargo hold for the duration of the trip, and he’d spent it with his head resting on his paws, eyes half-lidded, the soft rumble of the engine the only thing quiet enough to focus on. It wasn’t peace. But it was stillness, and that was something.
But eventually, the time came.
The shift back into his human body brought the world crashing down again—the weight of his limbs, the seams of his clothes, the exacting knowledge of every pair of eyes in the hallway. By the time he stepped off the skyship and into the brightness of the port, Ever already felt like he was running out of air. He moved with his eyes low, ticket clenched in one hand, the satchel from Isla clutched in the other. People brushed past him—someone bumped his shoulder and muttered a half-hearted sorry—and the noise was all wrong. Too many footsteps, too many conversations layered like static, too many hands too close to his arms.
By the time he spotted Mateo—sunglasses, oversized shirt, a beacon of cool apathy amidst the chaos—Ever felt like he was going to unravel. His fingers tightened on the strap of the satchel, his mouth opened like he might try to say something. But the words caught somewhere in his throat.
Instead, he just stopped a few paces away. His posture was stiff, his breaths shallow. And he said, too quietly for anyone but Mateo to hear: "...Hi."
But eventually, the time came.
The shift back into his human body brought the world crashing down again—the weight of his limbs, the seams of his clothes, the exacting knowledge of every pair of eyes in the hallway. By the time he stepped off the skyship and into the brightness of the port, Ever already felt like he was running out of air. He moved with his eyes low, ticket clenched in one hand, the satchel from Isla clutched in the other. People brushed past him—someone bumped his shoulder and muttered a half-hearted sorry—and the noise was all wrong. Too many footsteps, too many conversations layered like static, too many hands too close to his arms.
By the time he spotted Mateo—sunglasses, oversized shirt, a beacon of cool apathy amidst the chaos—Ever felt like he was going to unravel. His fingers tightened on the strap of the satchel, his mouth opened like he might try to say something. But the words caught somewhere in his throat.
Instead, he just stopped a few paces away. His posture was stiff, his breaths shallow. And he said, too quietly for anyone but Mateo to hear: "...Hi."
I was a dead man walking,
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.
with bloodshot eyes—right place, wrong time.
