who we are and all that we're trying to be
There was the weight of silence pressed over his spine, crackling and distorting while his lungs heaved, while the pain ricocheted throughout his frame. Then there was starlight, flickering against his eyes and over his shoulders, but nothing more, and he was afraid it meant he’d failed again – worthless and inept, ineffectual and stupid. There weren’t any Destined here, in the shadows of the glade, in the haunted doldrums of his mind, cast away and aside. He’d only bothered because of Amalia and her piety, because he thought he might be able to save them in a different way, because he couldn’t stay in that sullen valley of death. The only luck he’d had was that he still remained, existed, even as his rib cage heaved with the effort, even as the blood curled down his wounds and onto the grass, even as his entire form shuddered and shook. But that wouldn’t be enough for them; and he should’ve known, after all his other experiences, that the gods would never glance upon him with anything but distaste, apathy, and reticence – the same way he’d glanced at the world for what felt like centuries.
He could hear the slide of feathers, the depths of plumage near his ear, and for an instant, he turned toward it, hackles raised, a predator cornered, bent, and broken. The depths of his eyes shifted as he recognized Kiada, and then a new shame coiled over him, for he was worthless once more, with an audience to note his failures. He wanted to fan, curl, run away from her concern and apprehension, didn’t deserve it, not when there were others to save and venom in his veins; chest puffing from the effort of simply inhaling and exhaling, a choke, a gasp, ichor staining over the remnants of any once-closed injuries, gashes, and cuts. The only thing he held onto was the staff, like a lifeline, like a current, striving to swallow down the bile cloaking over his throat, resting in the back of his mind, a disease, potent and deadly. “Amalia said there was a tulmhainar in the Spire. So we went in after it.” Then there’d only been smoke and fumes, insects and marks, burning flesh marking its way down his shoulders and sides, reminding him of mortality, of waning strength, of how useless he’d become. He’d tried, and for some precious moments, it had mattered. Just as quickly, it didn’t. “There was poison, fire, and insects. I had to leave. She told me to summon Safrin.” He gasped and clawed for air again, eyes looking up towards the shrine, one hand managing to make a fist and slam it into the ground, frustration peeling away all the nonchalance, all the acrimony, leaving only remorse and disgrace in its wake. Fear made itself known too, in the depths of his heart, pulsing and pervading, tired and torn. Then he struggled to stand, pushing and shoving all his energy into his arms, into his legs. “I have to go back.”
I have to go get them. Even uttered quietly, it sounded so stupid, so inept, so baffling. But determination was all he had left now.
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
