The nights were simultaneously growing longer and shorter for him. Impending doom hung over his shoulders, an unshakeable, inevitable weight that latched onto his very being and ran his soul into the ground. For all he knew, he was already six feet under, still unaccepting of his own demise and rotting away. Though, reason and logic were often foes which paid him their respective visits whenever they so pleased, forcing him to surface from the depths of the sorrows winding their churning currents about him and forcing him under the suffocating pressure of the imaginary liquid-dread he felt crushing him.
No doubt, both the Dolorosa and the Disciple were feeling similarly. He hadn't any clue of their whereabouts and well being, something which drove him mad, had him snarling when the motivation and anger flared and struck him hard enough to give him start. Sent him throwing himself against his confines, fighting his bonds and the suppressants that'd been forced into his system. He needed to protect them, to rescue all of them - He needed to be strong for those he loved, needed to somehow tear himself free of that and those whom dared block his path.
No such liberation came for his aching heart.
The Psiioniic slumped back against the damp, dirtied wall behind him, stone strong against his weary muscles and a force that he felt almost submissive near. Nearly for the first time since he'd first been admitted into their group he was in a situation he could not break free of, was surrounded by that which held him and that which he normally could destroy. His world became a dark, cold pit of nothing but hatred and fear, of sadness and anger.
The Signless was to be executed at dusk.
There was not much time left before that point, but hours held little relevance any longer. To him, they were measurements only of how long he had to somehow overcome this horror and stop the deathblow somehow. Every moment passing had little meaning, was only a count down towards that which he could barely believe was going to happen and away from that which he could barely believe was so easily torn from his grasp.
His breath was falling short again, head hung and chest painfully tight, throat feeling as if filled with sand and cement, eyes tired and aching and tears rolling their way lazily over his cheeks. His mouth was dry, head pounding so rhythmically and harshly that it became a more reliable sign of him still living than his own heartbeat.
A quiet, pitiful wheeze was all that brought him back into a regulated breathing pattern. No gasping, no fighting, he didn't even bother parting his teeth to make it easier for the inhale to slip past his lips. Didn't do so for the exhale, either. He hurt, there was no denying that. Nothing felt real, yet it all crashed into him constantly, over and over, waves breaking on his body and mind and very existence's being, tossing salt into long eroded wounds and grinding sand into the scrapes and lacerations. Water might as well have been flooding his lungs, body feeling water-logged enough for it to be believable if someone had mentioned it in passing.
Recovery was not something he deemed himself capable of, especially not as his eyes shut fully and footsteps heavily approached at a casual pace.
Dusk, it felt, had come too soon, time had failed him in it's measure and the Psiioniic was much too delayed in his vague, weakened attempts at escape to do anything but allowed himself to be dragged out of his holding facility and along.
It was time, it seemed, to witness the death of that which he held dear.