A/N: Heyy. Anyone remember this fic? I actually planned on letting it die entirely; writing this monster of a fic is an incredibly daunting task. I haven't written in 1st person in literal years, and there are a lot of things I wish I had done differently in the original draft. Yet ... here we are. If you're a returning reader, I'm sorry for deleting the previous version without warning.

Still, the announcement of TOS on Switch brought back a longing for this fic.

Anyways. PG v.1, was a bit of a mess. I was 15 when I started writing it; now, I'm older than everyone in the main cast except Kratos and Regal (and, technically, Presea). Such a strange realization. Eden is the same age as before, but her personality is drastically different. I also have a, albeit rough, road map for where I'd like to go with this fic, something that was sorely lacking when I started that first version.

So, yeah. I hope you guys enjoy it; it's not a faithful rewrite, but it's a rewrite nonetheless. At some point, I'm going to be crossposting this to AO3 under the same name, since FFnet seems to be on a downward spiral.

Tales of Symphonia © Namco

"… I don't get to remember?"

"No offence, but Eden—you're a terrible liar. Do you really want to risk getting caught with your foot in your mouth?"

"No …" Reluctantly, I agree, "You're right. But James, Riven said—"

James sighs, sounding exasperated. "Since when did you care what Riven says?"

He's right; I don't care. Riven has lied so much, taking even a word he says with a grain of salt is a mistake. But …

I don't want to forget.

This world is past its expiration date; the global economy is in ruins and the environment is on the verge of collapse. It's a miracle that the organization hasn't collapsed, too. But Earth is my home. Forgetting about my family's passing, despite them being long gone now … it's such a painful thought, I don't even want to contemplate it.

"It's better this way, isn't it?" He continues, his voice softening. "The experiments were painful. Wouldn't you rather forget about the pain?"

I don't respond. Rather, I can't. At my bedside, from the corner of my eye, I see him glance down at his wrist. I spare a glance down at my own, taking in the thick scar tissue, the patches of discoloured, ruined skin. Memories of the tempering flow back, unrestricted and sudden—needles, harsh, blinding lights, the pressing fear of death a thick miasma. An explosion; it's been months, now, and yet it feels like only yesterday that everything began.

"Time to go." He offers a hand. I take it, allowing him to tug me to my feet. Once upright, he releases my wrist, and I follow him out of the room. James has been my handler ever since I arrived. The only tether to reality throughout the painful adjustment period.

Each footstep echoes through the hallway, crisp and sharp and deafeningly loud. There are no windows down here; only suffocating, artificial air. Each step forward is harder than the last, dread swelling in my throat—like walking straight into the arms of death itself.

… Then again, I am, aren't I? This building, humanity's last chance—it's nothing but a morgue in disguise. The memories of those who didn't make it flash through my head, the smell of copper invading my senses.

"You're lucky, you know. Your body is resilient; not many others can say they survived these tests."

Lucky. James lays a hand across my shoulders as we come to a stop, swiping his keycard with the other. As if.

Discomfort tugs at the back of my brain, sharp and acrid. James' hand falls away from my shoulders, and he offers one last, "I'll talk to you soon, Eden," before the door slides shut at my back.

Perhaps it's meant to comfort me; one last reassurance before everything is wiped away. But, honestly—if anything, it only furthers the dread building in my gut.

It's for the better, I tell myself. Them, or us.

Yet, as I breathe in the smell of ozone, I can't help but wonder; is it really?

Something is wrong.

The first sense that returns, is touch—grass tickling my skin, a gentle caress across my cheeks and the inside of my wrists. Then, vision; the harsh beat of sunlight behind my eyes.

Third—

Third, is auditory.

It starts off slow, low; an itch beneath the skin that vibrates softly, a hum between the joints—before screeching to a stop, a cacophony of sounds, disjointed pieces that I can't place—it's a futile response, but I slam my hands over my ears, desperate and frantic.

It only worsens the thing, a growing intensity; into my throat, down, down, down until it fills the cavity of my chest, creaking against each rib—

"A-Ah …" I gasp, swallowing a mouthful of saliva. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts make it stop, make it, make it—

My shriek is overwhelmed by the harsh, droning static, barely an afterthought as tears burn at my eyes, scalding away strips of flesh, exposing tissue, muscles, and bones. I gasp. Heave—choke back a sob, because crying only worsens the pain. Beg, beg, beg for it to stop—I can't. I can't, stop it. Stop it—!

The twitch of fingers; the overwhelming sense of fabric against skin, overheated, overstimulated, each breath harder than the last. It continues—it extends—deeper, deeper, a switch in my throat, a whisper curled against the flesh.

And then, as quickly as it came—it's gone.

Another breath. Something grits between my teeth, earthy and bitter. Breathe in. The uproot of grass between my fingers, digging rivets into the soil. Breathe out. Breathe in.

A hand brushes across my shoulder and I practically startle out of my skin. It quickly retracts and, from behind me, a feminine voice meets my ears. "Hey," she starts, "hey, are you okay?"

Like this, face down in towering grass, somehow, is almost … comfortable. An easiness between my joints, as if everything is as it should be. It isn't really—no, of course, it isn't. But as the seconds pass, drawing to a stop, breathing becomes easier.

Each movement hurts, a deep ache. But the grating ringing has ended and, after a few more seconds of silence, finally, I manage the strength to push upwards with a heaving breath.

The world tilts on its axis and I squeeze my eyes shut once more, tasting hair between my lips. "W-Where …" A hand ghosts across my back, so faint it may not have been there at all. "Where am I …?"

"Just outside Meltokio," she replies. "Well, we're a few days out."

Meltokio? I curl my hands into the dirt once more, staring down at the things—taking in the ugly marring of scar tissue. What?

"Is this—is this a joke?" I ask, wearily, my voice hoarse, though I can't even begin to wonder why. "Who are you?"

"I'm Sheena." What? "Are you alright? You seem really out of it. Did you hit your head?"

Sheena. Meltokio. Slowly, the pieces begin to fit themselves together and, as they do, unease flushes through my body. What? The names are familiar. Fictional. Something from a game.

I don't want to look up, so I don't. I keep my eyes on the ground, my back to this woman—swallow back the tightness in my throat and beg to wake up.

I don't.

"I'm dreaming," I mumble. "I, I must be. I—"

Reluctantly, I turn. In front of me is—

Sheena. This girl, this woman; she looks exactly like her namesake. Realization flashes across her face and, before I can even hope to say anything, she's speaking once more. "Wait, are you from Mizuho?"

I flinch. Mizuho is—it's another place, a fictional place. Was she cosplaying? She had to be, except—what sense would that make? I don't know this woman; she has no reason to mess with me, personally. But the alternative doesn't make sense. It's the only logical conclusion, yet it feels so wrong. People don't just drop into a fictional world.

My head is throbbing. Thinking alone feels impossible; it's hard to put together anything coherent. Hard to form words.

What was I—

What was I doing last? Before I woke up, what was I doing—where was I?

Why can't I remember?

At some point, I was at home, and then—nothing. As if someone had cut a hole in my memories, a vacant space where something should be. I need to focus—I can't panic. I can't panic.

Shockingly, thankfully, Sheena says nothing else. It's hard to think, much less make an excuse. A breath. A deep breath—I'm calm. Calm; I'm calm.

A mountain range stretches out across the distant horizon, though I can't for the life of me remember the name. At my side is a bag; not one I recognize. Rather than pyjamas, I'm clad in a tunic of some sort. My hands are—

My hair is—

What is going on? How did I get here?

It takes too long to find my voice again. "… Sorry," I apologize, after what feels like hours of silence. "I hope I haven't inconvenienced you."

"There's no reason to apologize." She pauses. "If you don't mind me asking … what happened?"

"I …" I don't know. "One minute … one minute I was—" What was I doing? "Ugh … sorry, I-I can't—I can't think. My head is pounding."

"Were you on your way to Meltokio?"

I hesitate. If this really is what I think it is, what circumstance am I in? How far along am I? Is this before Sheena left for Sylvarant, or after she and Lloyd's group arrive in Tethe'alla? Without anyone else around, it's impossible to know—either way, she'd be on her own. I have no other information to go off.

… Either way, it feels hopeless. If the first, then—everything is fine, for now. But sooner or later, everything won't be fine and I will be screwed.

Yet, at the same time, being dropped into Tethe'alla before the main story poses its own variety of issues. The only thing I know about this is that, at some point, the Renegades hire Sheena to murder Sylvarant's chosen, Colette.

Otherwise, the gap between then and Sheena's first meeting with the Chosen is empty; unexplored; unknown.

What can I even do but agree?

"Yeah …" It's hard to get the word out. Vaguely, something twinges in the back of my head, curious, wondering; but before I can ponder on it, it's gone. "What about you?"

"You seem a bit young to be travelling on your own," Sheena says, ignoring my question entirely. "Do you have any companions?"

"I—…"

"You are from Mizuho, right? How did you get this far from the village on your own?"

My voice stutters to a stop, drying up in my throat. I've never been great at lying, especially not when struggling to think. "I … don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" I press my palms to my eyes. "It's a simple question; are you from Mizuho or not?" Her tone has sharpened a bit, reminding me that I'm dealing with a ninja—an assassin. I can't lie and say yes; I don't know Japanese, nor do I know a thing about Mizuho's culture. Even if I did take the risk, it would be easy to prove such a claim false.

But in saying no, I'm left with coming up with the reason I look like I'm from Mizuho, and something tells me that shrugging and telling her I don't know won't work. I can't be from Mizuho. I have no family, no friends; nothing. I'm—I'm alone.

I'm alone. It hits me, finally, and a tremble works its way through me. I'm alone here.

"Hey." Her hand waves in front of my face. "You're not concussed, are you …?" She says something else, in Japanese this time, and all I can do is shake my head.

God, I'm so screwed.

"I'm—I'm really sorry," I say again, slumping forward, "my head hurts … I can't think. I don't, um … I don't understand what you just said, sorry."

"So you don't speak Mizuhoan? But you are from Mizuho, aren't you?"

"I—don't think so?"

"Then why do you look like you're from Mizuho?"

"I don't know …"

Sheena sighs, sounding frustrated. "You must have hit your head. Does it hurt? You aren't slurring your words, but you look really out of it. What are you doing out here?"

The barrage of questions has my head spinning and it takes several seconds to put it all together. "I don't think so … I can't remember. I can't remember—" My voice trembles and suddenly it's much, much too cold in this field. "I can't, I-I, I—"

What was I doing, why can't I remember, how did I get here? I can't remember. I can't remember, why can't I remember?

Tears blur my vision, clogging my chest and throat as panic washes through me. I can't answer her questions because I'm not from here, I'm not supposed to be here. I'm not, I'm not, I'm not.

I slap a hand over my mouth to muffle a sob of fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of what will happen to me. I can't afford to be alone in this world, but the only other option is to place myself right in the middle of everything. To risk my life.

Which is worse—having to fend for myself in an unknown world, or fighting for my life daily? Instinctively, I want to say the latter. But my mind is frantic, scrambling for something to hold onto, something familiar, something safe.

I'm not stupid. If this is real, I didn't end up here by chance. There's a bag at my side and I'm dressed in clothes that I've never seen before. My hands and arms are scarred up and my hair is shorter; someone must have chosen to put me here; it's the only logical explanation.

The question is, why? Who?

"I-I don't know," I say, finally, voice cracking, shaking. "Where am I, where—"

How did I get here?

"One minute I'm—I'm on my way to Meltokio, except, but—" panic worms beneath my skin. "E-Except—what about before that? What about—about before now? Where am I?"

"So you really don't remember?" Her voice softens. "I see. Well …" She hesitates. "I'm also heading to Meltokio, actually. Why don't you come with me?"

Wearily, I look at her once more, taking in the expression on her face, swallowing a shaking gasp. "Are—are you sure …?"

"Yeah. We're heading the same way, after all—and you don't look like you're in any state to be travelling on your own." After a long silence, a period of putting together some flimsy facade of composure, I finally nod. "What's your name?"

"Eden." My eyes once again catch on the scar tissue covering the back of my hand, a muted discomfort settling in the back of my throat. "And you're Sheena, right?"

She nods. Then, "Do you think you can stand up yet?"

Only one way to find out.

Thankfully, despite shaking as I rise, my legs stay steady under my weight and, after grabbing my bag off the ground and slinging it over my shoulders, I exhale a sigh. For whatever reason, despite it being completely unfamiliar, relief settles in my chest once it's in place, a feeling of belonging catching behind my teeth.

"Good. We can still get in a few more hours in before it gets dark. Are you ready to go?"

"Oh. Yeah," I mutter. "Sorry. We can go."

I've never been sedentary, but travelling through the wilderness for hours on end is a lot different than going on walks around the neighbourhood.

It feels like an eternity before we finally settle down for the night and I barely manage to avoid falling on my face when we do, collapsing to the ground in a heap, my legs burning from exertion. Sheena is much more graceful when she settles, looking completely unbothered, and all I can do is let my head slump against the ground, sprawled out and boneless.

"I'll cook," Sheena says, at some point. All I can do is wave my hand before it falls to the ground once more—

"Ouch!" I hiss, snatching the limb away from the ground, feeling the edge of a stone cut straight into the skin. Quickly I sit up, holding my hand to my chest with a wince, feeling a smattering of blood against my skin. "Where did that come from?"

With the evening light at our back, the soft hues of orange and red from the setting sun, it isn't hard to notice the oozing wound cut across the skin. The bleeding is steady, but slow—still, I shudder, feeling the ache through each finger.

It's unlikely there are any bandages in my bag, but I check anyway. … Nothing, of course. At least, no bandages. Rather, instead, I find three things; a map, a knife, and a fat, practically overflowing bag. It's …

"Money?" I whisper, glancing up anxiously to see if either Corrine or Sheena heard; thankfully, though, their conversation hasn't ceased. Safe. "What in the world?"

Otherwise, besides those three objects, there's nothing of note. What was I supposed to do, if I hadn't run into Sheena—hunt for food? Skin it?

Then again, I look over at the pair once more. That's exactly what Sheena did.

Reluctantly, with my uninjured hand, I reach in and grab the dagger. The hilt is heavy in my hand and I tug an inch from its sheath, taking in the smooth curve of the blade. Looking at this, the belt loop on the tunic makes much more sense.

"I'd have been in deep trouble if I hadn't run into Sheena," I mutter, sheathing the knife fully once more. "Not like I have a clue how to use that." The pouch contains a hefty amount of gold coins—and for several seconds, all I can do is stare.

"So, are you just going to stare, or do you want to do something about that cut on your hand?" I shriek and Sheena glances over quizzically. Shakily, quickly, I tell her I'm fine, thankfully settling the matter without any issue.

Still. Was that—was that a voice?

"Yeah, it was." Thankfully, I don't scream this time. No—rather, I nearly have a heart attack instead, my chest tight with panic because—why am I hearing voices? Have I gone insane?

"No, you haven't gone insane. Sorry for startling you."

I swallow thickly, attempting to beat back the panic rising in my throat. It's lingered all day, steadily growing until we finally settled down for the night, and now it's right there, in my face, unyielding and undeniable.

"Who … who are you?"

"I'm James. I've been assigned as your … handler, I guess would be the best word."

"Handler? For what?"

"… I can't explain that right now. I don't have much time, actually, so I'll make this quick. Reach a hand behind your neck—carefully," he orders. I do so, for some strange reason, the thought of refusing not even a consideration. "Feel along the left side—gently."

Reluctantly, I oblige, just barely glimpsing my fingers across the back of my neck and—

There's something there, hard and cold and out of place; the surrounding skin is terrifyingly smooth, like the crest of a pendant or something similar, and despite his warning, my nails curl around the spot. "What," I whisper, tremors working through me, "w-what is this? What's—what's going on?"

"Don't worry about what it is, just know that it's there." I swallow hard, attempting to ignore the sick feeling forming in my gut. "Don't mess with it, don't play with it, and no matter what, do not take it off."

My hand falls away, the bloody cut all but forgotten about. This is wrong—this shouldn't be happening. None of this should be happening; it can't be happening. Why? I think, because I'm fairly sure my voice will break if I try to say anything else. What is it—why does it matter? Why is—

Why is this happening?

"One question at a time," he chides, though his voice is soft. "For now, don't worry about what it is. Your neck is the closest place to your brain that it could be placed." He takes a moment to think. "I know you won't like this answer, but … for now, don't worry about the whys. Concern yourself with your survival, instead."

His hesitance puts me on edge. This man knows. He knows why I'm here; just the fact that he's speaking to me, however he is managing to do so, is enough proof of that. He probably had something to do with it.

If not for my fear, the rage might have consumed me whole. Yet, instead, all the anger and frustration bleeds away, fizzling out like a dying flame. "So I guess that means," the rough fabric of the bag digs painfully into the raw skin of my hand, "you can't get me out of here, can you? … I'm really trapped."

"I'm sorry," he says. It sounds genuine.

It only makes me feel worse.

The panic bubbles over then, spilling into my throat until I swear I'll choke on it. A sob builds in my throat, caught behind my teeth and smothered into silence as my shoulders shake, wracked by a shudder that I can't afford to let show.

I'm going to die here. Abruptly, painfully, the realization hits me, I'm going to die in this world. I'm never going home, am I? I slam my teeth down on my tongue to keep from laughing, hysterics pulling at my thoughts, tangled in a mess of panic and tears.

"You won't die. You are not going to die; you will survive. You will get home." My shoulders shake with barely restrained laughter—not of joy, though. "But you need to be brave. You're a strong girl, you can do this."

Liar. A harsh, painful sob works its way across my shoulders. Liar, liar, liar—!

"I'm not lying." Unlike what I expected, his voice is calm. "What reason do I have to lie to you?"

I don't have an answer—I can't even begin to think of one, teetering on the edge of hysteria.

"Listen to me; the only way you will ever get home is by surviving. Are you really going to throw your life away because you're convinced I'm a liar?" I still have no response. "It's worth more than that."

That's rich, I finally manage. You aren't the one stuck here.

"I can't say you're wrong," he admits. "It must feel like an impossible situation. All you can do is stick it out."

Stick it out? The laugh bubbles up once more. How? I've never fought before, outside a few years of martial arts. I've never held a blade. I've never had to struggle for my life. I'm doomed.

"Don't say that," James chides. "You're setting yourself up for failure, thinking that way."

Failure. The thought is, for some reason, strangely terrifying, unearthing something that I don't even recognize. There's nothing to fail at, beyond surviving. Nothing to lose except my life.

"Anyways, we've wasted enough time, and I only have so much of it." A second of silence, before he's speaking again. "Pay attention to that cut on your hand—what do you feel?"

Feel? Baffled, momentarily drawn from my panic from the strange question, I look down at the thing. Pain?

"Yes, pain … I mean beyond that. Focus on what's beneath your skin."

Focus—what a strange instruction. Still, I do; close my eyes, feeling each pulsation, the twangs as the seconds settle. The pound of blood, the whisper of a shadow in my ears, something unknown, unfiltered, raw and unrestrained.

A split moment of pressure—the sudden reaction, instinctive, to reach forward; to bite down, sink my thoughts into the feeling, breathe in the sudden scent of ozone and winter—

To feel a shimmer of warmth across my skin, as gentle as the kiss of the night air. Something burns in my chest for just barely a second before it's gone, a heat coagulating beneath the surface, centred on the fleshy skin of my palm before vanishing like a flame in the night.

I blink. The cut on my hand is—it's gone.

"Harness that," James orders, strangely firm. "If you can't fight, heal. Keep yourself alive with your own two hands."

Finally, I find my voice again. "How did I—"

"Don't worry about how or why. Don't forfeit your survival over questions you don't have an answer for." I curl my fingers, feeling the mended, uninjured pull of skin with the motion. "You don't have the luxury of sitting around and wondering—all you can do is survive. Survive, and make it home."

"Survive?" I repeat, my voice weak. "A-A voice in my head is—is telling me to survive." I choke on a laugh, dragging my knees to my chest, crushing the bag between my legs and torso. "I can't survive. I'm—I'm useless."

"I know you're scared," he says. "Frankly, I'd be surprised if you weren't. But all you're doing is talking yourself in circles; you're digging your own grave, Eden."

"The second you give up, it's over. Don't forfeit your life because you're convinced it's inevitable. … Ah, damn. My time is up." I blink, taken off guard by the sudden statement. "Sorry, I hate to leave you alone, but I can't stay any longer. Focus on it," he says, one final time. "If you can't fight, heal. If you can't heal, run."

And with that, those final five words, he's gone. No matter how much I prod and attempt to speak to him, James is silent.

… I really am alone, now. My only connection to what brought me here is gone—if he's even real. For all I know, he's just a figment of my imagination; someone I dreamed up to deal with this situation, if the situation itself is real in the first place.

Maybe I've gone crazy and I don't even know it.

Eventually, Sheena calls me over to eat. I tell myself to swallow my misery, to put myself back together before she realizes something is wrong—

"What's wrong?"

—Except, I'm too slow.

"I …" My legs tremble as I sink down across from her. "I'm just tired."

Whether she believes me or not doesn't matter. The smear of blood has already been cleaned away and there's no wound to show it was ever there in the first place. My thoughts are their own—James' presence is something for my own focus.

After all, even in a fictional world, hearing voices in your head can't be normal.

Thankfully, there are no monsters to worry about. Initially, it surprises me, considering how filled with them the overworld was in the game. Then again, Tethe'alla is the flourishing world at the moment. It's Sylvarant that's infested with monsters.

A few short bursts of conversation have filled the silence so far but, otherwise, Sheena and I haven't talked much. It's hard to hold a real conversation when all you can think about is your own life and whether you'll survive. What can I even do? I can't ask what she's doing. I can't ask to come with her, because I'm not supposed to know anything. I can't sneak through a Renegade base—beyond having no way to get there, I'm sure I'd never have a chance of making it inside.

… Honestly, what a mess of a situation.

The warmth of the morning eventually gives way to a sticky, uncomfortable heat, sweltering and unbearable, all but melting the clothes against my back, trapped between fabric and skin. Back on Earth, fall was just beginning to settle in. Tethe'alla, however, seems to follow a completely different calendar.

Earth …

It's barely been a day, yet the homesick feeling is already unbearable. Just another thing to panic about, because each memory simply circles back to the same question; How did I get here?

The spaces in my memory are unsettling. No matter how hard I try, I can find nothing to fill them.

"So, um," I finally start, steadying myself, hoping for the best. "Why are you going to Meltokio? If you don't mind me asking."

Sheena tilts her head in response, looking over at me before she shakes her head. "Sorry, top secret."

Plan A, fail. I frown. Plan A1, go. "Is it that important?" Sheena just nods again, and I sigh. Plan A1, fail.

Still, despite dodging my questions, we do fall into a light conversation after that. Sheena is easier to talk to than I expected her to be; she doesn't seem annoyed when I struggle to come up with a response, nor does she care when I trail off mid-sentence. Both are things that have always been an issue and with the compound of my confusion, it's only worse.

It's … nice. Listening has always been more comfortable than talking but, for once, talking doesn't feel so terrible.

"You've never been to Meltokio, have you?" Sheena asks. "I'll show you around, if you want. There's a lot to see."

I blink. "Really? Thanks—I appreciate it." I pause, looking over at her, before hesitantly saying, "I don't … hate what I'm wearing now, but … maybe I can find something—something cool, like your clothes."

"L-Like mine?" She mutters, a light flush colouring her cheeks. "You think my clothes are cool?"

"Mhm. They're, uh …" I swish my hand through the hair, smiling nervously, ignoring the butterflies in my stomach. "Airy? … I bet if you did any flips, they'd fly through the air. It just," I trail off. "It seems cool."

Sheena laughs, but before I can worry whether she's laughing at me she's speaking once more. "Well, if you like them that much you'll have to go back to Mizuho. Still, I'm sure you can find something you like in Meltokio. In fact … if you want, I can help you pick something out before my meeting with the king."

Meeting with the king? I don't say anything, but some of the tension in my shoulder relaxes. Bingo.

Thankfully, Sheena doesn't seem to notice her slip-up. It's tempting to say yes to her offer; just beyond appreciating the help, it'd be easier to wander around an unknown city with another person. But …

There are so many things that could go wrong. If I take too long I could make her late for her meeting, preemptively screwing up the whole plot before it can even start. Besides, in the—unfortunately likely, it seems, at this rate—chance I have to figure out a way to invade the castle, having Sheena around would only complicate it.

"No, it's fine," I say, my voice quiet. "Thank you for the offer, though."

"If you're sure."

Time drags, after that and as I stare out into the horizon, dismay creeps forward. It's been hours since we left the campsite, and yet there's been no change in the scenery. We still have a long way to go before hitting civilization.

"—said you're scared." He whispers. "Is that true?"

I tremble, throat tight with nerves. He watches me carefully, and I can do little more than shut my eyes and hold back tears. My voice doesn't work anymore; it stopped working days ago. Weeks ago. It isn't like time exists any longer.

"I think your parents might worry," he muses, adjusting the machine, "but they would do anything to keep their child alive, wouldn't they? A parent's love is unconditional."

Pain, pain, pain—the tube is still in my throat and my body is immobile. The painkillers don't help much at this point; in all honesty, they never had. Day in, day out, the same thing—white walls, sterile rooms, an agony that never leaves, that never, ever, ever gets any better.

"You're at three," he murmurs, "Your body will give out if you keep fighting—do you want to die?" He asks. "Do you want your family's sacrifice to be meaningless?"

No. I can't speak, but the panic in my eyes speaks for me. No, no—don't bring them up, don't say anything, don't remind me of it please don't, don't, don't—

A scream is lodged in my throat as I wake, drenched in sweat and trembling with terror that I can barely contain, struggling through deep, shaking breaths as my heart pounds in my ears. Dread pools in my stomach, and yet when I try to place why, I come up blank.

What happened? I blink up at the dark sky, pressing my shaking hands to my stomach as if it would help settle the sudden nausea. Why am I so scared?

The silence of the night offers no answer. A bit away, the fire crackles with dying flames, and I let my eyes close as a gentle breeze washes through the trees. I have to calm down, I have to settle my nerves and tuck away my anxiety as best I can. Now—now is not the time to panic; if I start, I'll never stop, and the last thing I need is for Sheena to wake up because I worried myself into a panic attack.

Deep breaths, in … out …

By the time Sheena wakes up, I'm even more exhausted than I was when I fell asleep. It takes far too much energy to get to my feet and drag my bag over my shoulders and when I approach, Sheena takes a single look at my face and frowns.

"Didn't sleep well?" She guesses. I nod. "Well, we'll make it to Meltokio by tonight, so you'll have a bed again soon."

"… Right."

The thought should comfort me, but instead, all I can find is dismay.

A/N: Thanks for reading!