All the way until his last day of leave, Navarion had managed to avoid seeing Astariel. He'd spent most of his time either sleeping or sulking in his bunk in the third floor of one of the barracks for male irregular soldiers, turning his back to the rest of the room and facing the wall even when beneath the covers. Thankfully, nobody had interrupted his self imposed isolation and he'd often lie in bed until he felt so hungry that he had to get up just to nourish himself. A handful of times, he'd descended the winding ramp to sneak out behind the weapon and armor warehouses and drink spiked moon juice until he passed out, using the foul intoxicant as a sort of tonic for his shattered psyche. After a few days of his miserable self administered therapy, he even felt enough like a person again to bathe and take a trip to the laundromat, always hurrying back to hide in the male barracks inside their ancient of war as quickly as he could.
A measure of guilt remained within him at how strongly he'd tried to dodge Astariel, but it was only one more grievance against himself as he tried to mend the wounds of his repressed, denied feelings. There was so much he wished he could tell her, so many things he wished he could make her understand. Though he hadn't been able to mourn Zhenya properly and dealt with the passing of one of the steadiest women he'd ever been with, he could at least think her name without feeling like he'd experience another nervous breakdown. And it was her name that he knew he had to tell Astariel.
They couldn't be together, he wanted to explain to her. Not if he truly did care for her, and had cared for her even while having simultaneously cared for Zhenya in his own complicated way. If anything, the passing of yet another woman he cared about was proof of his dogmatic belief: it was in his nature to hurt women. The most lovely, wonderful creation on all of Azeroth and Draenor, the female species, either ended up emotionally scarred after being with him or lost their lives. In his mind, that belief was as confirmed and true as the law of gravity; to deny it any more would be sheer stupidity. For hours on end, he'd ball up his fists around his blanket and wait out the muscle spasms that arose from how tense he'd become when repressing the images of Zhenya dying in his arms, and refusing to acknowledge how permanently damaged he'd been by losing someone who, as dysfunctional as she was, he had hoped to stay with for the long term. If muscle spasms were all he had to deal with, then so be it; anything other than having to accept the fact that, for the second time in his life, a woman he had truly cared about had died, and he had been powerless to do anything about it.
Eventually, he'd have to face her; but not yet. Not on that day. Breathing deeply beneath the covers, Navarion realized that he would have to rise not simply from hunger but from a sense of duty: he would have to return to his patrols again for a period of time. How long, he did not quite remember, but even with the silithid threat more or less ended he would still have a few weeks, maybe even a few months left on the contract he'd signed at the mercenary camp near Hyjal. Ever since the three main military columns had returned victorious after the extermination campaign, the regular enlisted soldiers had been transferring out by the dozens and even a few of the locally garrisoned troops rotated to other locations. The irregular troops were no longer needed once that foreign investors and traveling merchants felt a resounding boost in confidence in both the safety and lucrid nature of the port of New Nendis, and only a dozen plus a few more of the mercenary contracts were being renewed now that a great many of them were expiring. Though Azeroth knew a peace that anyone older than Navarion claimed had been unknown just a few decades ago, there were still wars to stop and campaigns to join, and no grumbling was heard as enlisted troops and mercenaries alike left the city to take part in whatever other armed conflicts had popped up in other parts of the world.
But for him, that time hadn't come quite yet. Again thankful for the privacy, Navarion dressed himself in plainclothes in the entirely empty floor, planning to seek out Sergeant Fyndir. So many troop reductions had taken place that he might not even be assigned to the same unit anymore; considering how much time he'd spent hiding in his bunk, it was no wonder that he hadn't seen Captain Soraya again since she'd dragged him back to the city and thus had no idea what he'd even be doing. With a heavy sigh, he decided to face the world outside sober and ventured out into the twilight for the first time in an amount of days his mind was too hazy to count.
Noisy by elven standards, the commotion and traffic of the military quarter helped preoccupy his mind. When given so much sensory overload to deal with, his brain couldn't also process the stinging emptiness inside of him, and were it not for the intense dryness of his throat he might even feel halfway normal.
It didn't take him a great amount of time to reach the treehouse hovels of the officers. Technically an administrative and logistics official, Fyndir wasn't difficult to find; the hovel he shared with his two counterparts was near the front of the three rows of treehouse offices and cartography rooms for easy access. His sword hung on a rack outside to signal that he was at work, and as Navarion descended the steps he could already see the grizzled male sentinel leaning back in his chair, examining one of the many documents always spread out on his desk. Much of Fyndir's lower body was concealed by the desk despite it being a simple thing on four long pegs, and the older man looked relaxed enough. A nod of his long, feral eyebrows signaled that the younger man had received permission to enter.
"Sergeant Fyndir, sir," Navarion grunted while saluting and stepping forward toward the desk. "I've come in order to inquire about my patrol schedule during the upcoming...holy shit."
From far away, nothing seemed awry about the weathered old sergeant; his appearance was as impeccable as any inspection ready unit. It wasn't until the shadow hunter approached that he noticed the entirety of the sergeant's right leg had been amputated from above the knee all the way down.
"Shit happens," Fyndir grunted right back in that voice of his that sounded even deeper than an orc's. He waved his hand dismissively while doing so, as if the loss of most of one of his limbs didn't even bother him that much. "Those reavers aren't a walk in the park, despite what Soraya claims," he chucked inexplicably.
Losing himself for a moment at the mention of the silithid reavers, Navarion tightened his jaw and gulped. "No...they certainly aren't a walk in the...ahem. I'm sorry for the loss."
"Naw, it's in the past. No sense in agonizing over what you can't change." At that, Navarion fell silent, unable to respond and for a few seconds unable to breathe, and so Fyndir continued. "Besides...I'm so done. I've carried this rock for too long."
"What do you mean, sir?" Navarion asked curiously.
"I'm done trying to fight the matriarchy. I'm the sole male officer above the rank of captain in all of the east coast of the continent. I get paid less, I'm given less responsibility but I put forth the same effort. Indid my time, I served, but I need to go home."
As logical as it sounded, it was also odd to hear such statements come from an officer in the mosty prestigious, highly trained fighting force on Azeroth. "And you're sure you'll be comfortable returning to civilian life, sir?" Navarion asked again.
Nodding via his long eyebrows again, Fyndir seemed absolutely certain. "My wife retired due to a disability on the battlefield, and I'll follow her in retirement just as I did back when she trained me. Our pensions aren't much, but that's what we raised kids for." There was a measure of rare humor to Fyndir's voice, and he seemed to be in unusually high spirits all things considered. "You're here for your patrol schedule, right?" he asked while shuffling papers, like he had literally just forgotten what Navarion had mentioned earlier.
"That is correct, sir," the half night elf confirmed, glad to have transitioned to lighter topics of conversation. "To be honest, I was wondering if I could request a transfer since so many troops have left already."
Surprised at first, Fyndir eyed him curiously as if something were awry. "Your unit no longer exists, Hearthglen; when Brigadier General Lamia was promoted, so was Commander Soraya."
"Commander? That's remarkable news!" Navarion exclaimed before feeling a big guilty at possibly making Fyndir feel bad. Clearing his throat, he tried to just play it off. "When did all this happen?"
"Just the other day, actually. On her way out, Marshall Silviel prompted Brigadier General Lamia to the vacant post of head of the military branch of government here at New Nendis. She had been injured rather badly considering her age, and her distinction and experience are well known; it's a better position for her. Since the position of army commander had then been made vacant by Lamia's promotion, Soraya was the agreed upon candidate. The unit you served in under her was small but apparently she made a good impression on the Marshall, and the Brigadier General pushed for her as well."
"That's good news for them both; it's nice to see that at least some of us found something positive in all this." Navarion's tone sounded a little bit more melancholy than he had intended, and Fyndir pursed his lips for a moment while eyeballing the younger man suspiciously. Not wanting to give him an opening to ask questions of his own, Navarion tried to steer the topic back. "Sergeant, may I ask as to the whereabouts of Thresha and Calil now that our unit has been dissolved?"
Not showing mercy so much as showing an everlasting focus on the job, Fyndir nodded and opened up a little handheld notebook that had been buried under more lists and maps. "Yes. And I believed they were mentioned at our reshuffling meeting the other day." Fyndir's right thigh, or what was left of it, shifted with a surprising dexterity as he sought a more comfortable position on his chair; it was as if he'd always had a short, jointless limb there and used it effectively for what it was. "They've both been split up. Calil is now serving under Captain Ironwood II, and Thresha is stuck guarding the weapons storage facility during the day shift."
"Ouch."
"Thresha is a real trooper, she understands that all jobs are significant. Plus she gets overtime pay for working during the daytime, and I heard she took no issue with it." For another second Fyndir thumbed through his small book, frowning when he happened upon another tidbit. "Dmitri didn't make it."
Already pulverized beyond recognition, Navarion's morale and spirits couldn't descend any lower. Leaning against the doorframe despite facing a commanding officer, he did feel the sense of loss, and Fyndir didn't berate him for standing at ease. "How did that happen?" he asked.
"Same way it happened to the other fifty or so casualties: either he didn't receive battlefield healing in time, or his wounds were so deep that a resurrection spell wouldn't have worked." Fyndir closed his book and sat back in his chair, slightly organizing his papers before him as if he were finished. "Tammie took the news well and will be leaving with Dmitri's personal belongings to the Exodar in a month and a few weeks; their spiritual beliefs help them to accept death surprisingly well, those draenei."
Another spike of pain stabbed into Navarion's chest, and he found himself flexing his theatrical skills once again in order to suppress his natural inclination to whimper. "Yes, sir," he mumbled as respectfully as he could, stiffening up somewhat.
If Fyndir noticed, then he gave no indication, as was his general habit. A particular list on a crumpled sheet of paper caught his eye, and he held it up nonchalantly as if reviewing information he needed to double check. "You actually haven't been assigned yet, Hearthglen. Like most of the irregulars as well as the support classes, you're in a situation where you'll end up being sort of filler for units in need of another party member."
"Does it mention there how much time I have left exactly?" Navarion asked, pretending as if he hadn't been planning to ask that all along. "I can't exactly recall at the moment."
"Hmm...it says here your deployment will be complete in six weeks. After that, it's doubtful that your contract will be renewed."
"That won't be a problem, sergeant. We all need to go home after giving up so much of ourselves, eventually."
Looking up at him, Fyndir's eyes carried a fast, sudden weariness that hadn't been present before. "Aye...how true that is," the deep voiced full elf rumbled as if he'd just ridden a sabre straight from Tanaris all the way to Winterspring.
For a second, silence fell over the two of them as the conversation skipped a beat. Two broken men shared a moment, one of them sitting and missing a part of his body, the other standing and missing a part of his soul. Most likely the two of them could have told each other more, perhaps lamented together for what they'd lost with a group of other survivors over a round of (non-alcoholic) drinks. But for whatever reason, neither of them were in the mood to allow any more walls to come down, and Navarion was able to take solace in the fact that, like himself, Fyndir preferred to repress his feelings rather than cope with them.
"Sergeant...is it too late to request an assignment outside the city? Alongside the highway patrols?"
After continuing to stare at his desk for a moment, Fyndir stirred and sifted through a few more lists. Melancholy or no, he did take his work seriously and didn't simply give a knee jerk answer without checking to see what was possible. "We have a three person highway patrol that will be leaving in twenty one hours. You'd actually have to spent six and a half weeks out, and since your contract would be expired you'd only receive half pay, but in cash, for that half week."
"I will do my best to protect those highways in my last weeks on duty, sir," the half elf replied eagerly.
"And you're prepared to mobilize in less than a day?"
"Yes sir."
Pursing his lips again, Fyndir grunted and nodded, scribbling on and then signing s sheet that looked like a semi-official missive. "You need to take this to the huntress lodge right away, and rest up as much as you can," the one and a half legged sergeant explained throughout his scribbling. "Gear up and be at the eastern gate at 2000 hours sharp tomorrow evening." When he held out the missive for Navarion to take, he didn't let go, and the two men both held still for a second while Fyndir gave the shadow hunter a hard look. "Get yourself cleaned up before tomorrow, Hearthglen. No alcohol on patrol."
The hair of Navarion's mane pricked up on the back of his neck as he wondered how the sergeant would have known. Every time he'd run away to drink himself to sleep, Navarion had made sure to hide behind a tool shed or in between the warehouses in the most isolated part of the military quarter. Admission of how miserable and desperate his situation had become stung a little more than he had expected even when it was entirely internal. The thought that someone had spied on him binge drinking until he passed out behind a shed like a homeless person felt both embarrassing and intruding at the same time.
"Yes, sir," he replied flatly, waiting for Fyndir to let go of the missive before he took it and tucked it away.
Outside, it was a relatively short walk to the huntress lodge. A place to see and be seen, numerous huntresses donned similar plate armor to what Navarion's mother once wore despite being off duty. They tended to congregate in the lodge to brag, gossip and network, and nobody took notice of the half breed guy as he walked over to a desk whose two attendants had strayed. By the time he got their attention, handed over the missive and submitted his ID card to take the empty patrol slot, it had been nearly fifteen minutes of mostly waiting and trying to get and keep their attention.
Urgency drove him, and the moment they confirmed his spot for the next morning, he left. He would only have a matter of hours to find Astariel.
Navigation among the throngs of people without pushing anybody had been a daunting task months ago when he'd first arrived. After so much time spent winding around shoppers, workers and revelers, he'd worked it into a science and quickly found himself headed for the little residential neighborhood dominated by wide treehouses inhabited by numerous singles and couples who were either just married or whose children had moved out. Despite the days spent wallowing in his own misery and wondering if he'd have anybody to remember him when he died the way Madrieda and Zhenya had him, Navarion had barely spent any of his sober hours considering what he would tell Astariel once he did find her. There was so much he felt he ought to tell her, and yet it all remained as an amorphous blob of concepts inside his head. Forcing it to take shape as words only caused the ideas to slip in between his fingers and escape him. Imaging how she would react when he tried to explain that even if they were great friends, even if they might have flirted before, even if he was technically single now, even after the...incident they'd shared...to explain to her that the still couldn't be any more than friends...
A light migraine attacked his head, and he winced and slowed his pace through the neighborhood as he searched for her apartment. The mere thought of how the words even felt in his mind hurt. It hurt him to tell her it wouldn't work out and he was supposed to be the one to give the 'let's just be friends' speech. How would she feel upon being told that, then? After he knew she'd been admiring him for so long? Deep inside his stomach, he could feel the bile churning as if to punish him for his cruelty that now almost seemed to rival Zhenya's. Oh, how they had been an apt match for one another, more than either of them had realized. Too little, too late, he reminded himself.
When he found himself outside of Astariel's apartment, he didn't pause for long. If he hadn't figured out what he'd tell her on the walk over there, then standing like a crazy person in front of the treehouse complex she lived in wouldn't magically yield any ideas, either. It only took him an unfairly short half a minute to ascend to the second floor and find himself before the vegetation forming her door, his pulse already racing.
Inside, he could hear shuffling in reaction to his presence, and the spirits whispered to him that she'd seen him the moment he'd turned onto that street. That worried him; she'd obviously been expecting him, and in his drunken stupor he'd forgotten how many days had even passed since that fateful day. That meant that the whole time...had she really just been waiting for him, stressed out and wondering where he'd run to?
The vegetation rustled and naturally parted of its own accord, and then the tarp forming the second layer was swept away by a soft periwinkle hand. Her natural glowing and floating runestones, used by most Kaldorei as a safer light source than candles and one that was less bright due to their night sight, had all been extinguished. Every object in her apartment looked the same as when he'd left, as if nothing had even been moved an inch. She wore a disheveled bathrobe over an ankle length dress, and that pretty thistle colored hair looked like it had simply been tied back in a rough ponytail after not having been combed for a few days. Her ears drooped low and she had dark circles under her eyes, but her expression was a little too controlled. Just like him, she looked like a mess.
The two of them stood there and stared at each other for a moment, her in her empty apartment and he in the empty anteroom between the other apartments on that floor of the enormous tree. Both of them were in control of their breathing and were there any uninformed observers, they would likely have assumed the two of them to simply be friends who needed to get some extra sleep. Blank but vaguely questioning eyes looked up into his as silver met silver, and he could tell that she was waiting for him to initiate a discussion that made them both anxious.
Searching through his stupid brain to find something, anything to begin the conversation with, he inhaled deeply and held his breath for a second before trying to just get to the point. "Hey...Astra. I just came by to talk. And, you know...tell you goodbye."
Her expression didn't change despite the fact that he knew there must be a hundred questions floating around in her head. Just a few days ago, she'd dragged him into her apartment after getting him drunk, lost her virginity to him and then had what was certainly the tensest discussion of his life and probably hers before he disappeared on her for a few nights. He was quite surprised that she didn't either wrap her arms around him or slap him; he wouldn't have been shocked by either reaction.
Instead, she pursed her lips and looked him over for a second. "What do you mean?" she asked him, giving no ground and keeping him under the searing spotlight.
Grunting and rubbing the back of his neck, he tried to find the right words - words that would magically make news that sounded hurtful even to him somehow not hurt. Words that would magically make news that was complicated come out simple. Words that wouldn't make him feel like he was being an asshole even when he'd convinced himself that he was.
"Well...ah...I'm going to be patrolling the highways for the next six weeks or so," he started shyly. Her reaction should have comforted him - she didn't scream or shout - but he could sense that she was only wearing a mask.
"So you've been off preparing?" she asked, her tone curt and cautious, but her spirit hopeful.
A pang of self loathing worked its was through him. The more hopeful she became, the more it would hurt when he finally did just come out and tell her the truth. Just like all of their interactions up until then; just like how Zorena had warned him. Why couldn't he just be blunt for a brief time and get it over with? Why did his heart hurt so much at the thought of hers hurting as well? This wasn't him. This wasn't Navarion Hearthglen. He was an asshole who hurts women. As much as he disliked to admit it, that admission of his own nature could be what pushed him through a painful discussion.
"Well, yeah, I...no. No. That isn't true. I haven't been off preparing."
She leaned against the door frame, even letting her cheek rest on the naturally shared wood. For a few seconds she stared off into nothing beside him before meeting his eyes again, and he could already sense that she was worried. "You ran out and disappeared. I didn't know what happened to you. Why?" Concern was laced in her tone and her expression, and he wondered how she viewed the two of them now.
"I was just...a bit confused, about what happened between us. I needed to figure out some things...but I'm here now." When she only continued to look up at him as if expecting more, he tried to work his way to the point despite his heart trying to hold him back. "Astra...I'm going to be on patrol for the next six weeks-"
"When will you be deployed?"
Her interruption gave him pause and he cheated, asking the spirits what was going on in her head. They abandoned him, whether due to disapproval of his intentions or his own confusion disrupting his connection to their world, he did not know. He was left on his own, once again realizing how much he'd used his voodoo as a crutch. "Well...in the evening, after waking up. There isn't even a full day left. There isn't much time left to say goodbye."
Lifting her face from the frame but continuing to hide part of her body behind it, Astariel looked a bit more defensive. "Why don't you step inside? If I won't get to see you again for six weeks, then this will be our last chance," she suggested, not finishing her sentence. The fact that she avoided his gaze while talking told him more than her words, and he knew she was taking what was some kind of gamble in her mind.
The closer he let her get, and the more of a chance she believed she had, the more it would hurt them both. He'd done her wrong by letting it go this far. Swallowing a painful lump in his throat, he steeled his nerve and shook his head.
"Astra...it's not just six weeks." His pulse accelerated so much that he nearly felt dizzy, but he pushed on, knowing that he had to do it for both of them. "I won't be coming back."
Surprisingly there was no real echo in the anteroom or her apartment, but his words reverberated nonetheless. Astariel froze, statuesque as she displayed no outward reaction to a statement he knew must have hurt her as much as it did him. Her eyes met his for only a fraction of a second before falling downcast again, but there was no shock within her that he could detect. She must have expected or at least feared this.
Shutting her eyes tight, she appeared to be doing some sort of breathing exercise. "S-so you're going to work as a highway patrolman...forever?" she asked quietly, but he knew she didn't believe her own suggestion.
This wasn't benefitting either of them. Trying his hardest to suppress any sort of feeling, he forced himself to be more direct. "I'm going to finish my deployment for the next six weeks. And then I'm leaving New Nendis. I'm not coming back," he said, his voice not as stoic as he wished it had been.
For a moment she only shook her head, as if thinking she could change his mind. "That doesn't make any sense," she retorted weakly. "Everything you need is here. All your responsibilities outside are cut; you're free to be with anybody you want." Her words cut him in a way he hadn't expected, and he almost felt a twinge of resentment at her callous brushing over of Zhenya's death. "You have every reason to stay," she said, a slight sound of the hurt breaking into her voice at the end of the sentence.
Before he caught himself he almost found his hands reaching out to grip her shoulders and grab her attention toward his seriousness, but he stopped himsef when he realized that she might take the feeling of his touch the wrong way. He had to end this before he ripped himself in half; half of him screaming at himself in anger for what he was doing, the other half screaming in panic for him to finish and run far, far away where he could never hurt anybody again. "Astra...I'm moving on. That decision was already made-"
"Without me?"
"-and it will work out best for everybody."
"There is no everybody," she replied, the strength in her voice dampened by the waver. "This is about you and me. Everything is okay now; you can stay here with me. Nobody can tell you not to."
Pausing when he feared she'd become heated, he felt his own ears droop low. "Look...I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for the way things turned out."
"Turned out?"
"But this won't work."
"What do you mean by 'this'?"
Raising his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose but then deciding against it, he tried to remain unconflicted as possible, not wanting to give her any more hoe for what simply couldn't be. "Astra, I'm no good for you, alright?"
"That's not for you to decide!"
"And whatever ideas you might have about who I am or what I'm like, I can tell you that good women like you shouldn't take interest in people like me."
"Take interest?" she asked in sincere confusion. "I gave you a gift I'll never be able to give any man again and you call that taking interest?"
He winced at her referral to their sleeping together as a gift. Don't hook up with virgins; those were the exact words he'd told the younger recruits. And there he was, trying to sort out the mess he'd warned others about. "Please don't make this any harder-"
"I wasn't the one who started giving gifts, you know!" she sputtered, and his fears of the conversation getting out of hand came true. "The first time we had a real conversation, you gave me a piece of your jewelry."
"You asked me for it," he replied, immediately cursing himself for taking the bait.
"You could have said no - we didn't even know each other! What would you have cared?"
"Astra, I'm sorry-"
"You told me I could visit your mother! Why would you even say something like that?"
"Just listen-"
"Why did you accept my bracelet?" Her voice hadn't become loud but it was shrill and accusatory, as if everything he had hoped she wouldn't say was coming out of her mouth. Hope. Like he'd given her. How apt. "Why did you spend six months leading me along like this? Why did you send me so many signals if you weren't interested?"
"Please, don't-"
"I saw the way you'd check out any inch of skin I showed. I saw the reaction on your face when I'd laugh. That wasn't my imagination; my friends saw it, too! Zorena saw it!"
"Because..." His words caught in his throat and even when she paused and gave him an angrily expectant look, he found himself unable to speak. Everything she had accused him of was true and he knew it. Because I'm an asshole, he thought to himself, unable to tell her out loud.
"If you didn't want anything more, why didn't you say something! You had opportunities for months and months!"
"I don't know!"
"And if you're free now, why do you have to leave?!"
"Because every woman I've been with ends up scarred for life!" he shouted right back, suddenly finding the strength to answer. "Emotionally traumatized and hating me forever...or just dead. Zhenya wasn't the first."
"I can help you change!" she retorted pleadingly, truly convincing herself of the impossible.
"No...Astra, no," he replied, his voice weak but this time, he believed in what he said 100%. "Men don't change, especially not men like me." He tried to reach for her and she slapped his hand as hard as her dainty wrists would allow her to. "You have to listen to me...if you try to pursue this further, I will hurt you. The closer we get, the more it will hurt. The more I try to prevent it, the worse it will be. I do care about you, Astra-"
"Oh, now you tell me!"
"-and it's because I do that I have to leave. Sometimes caring about someone means admitting that you aren't the right one for them." She shook her head furiously, the first tears painting those adorable cheeks. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. And you haven't done anything wrong."
"I don't need you to tell me that!" she whined at him, refusing to make eye contact again.
"I'm no good for you, okay!" he urged her, surprised that she cringed when he leaned in closer to her. "I'm no good. That's the truth. I'm a dog and I'm not going to change. Please listen to me-"
In the middle of his sentence, she pulled the sleeve of her bathrobe up to reveal the cheap beaded bracelet he'd given to her while patrolling the top of the western wall so many months before. Before he even had a chance to finish, she snagged the string holding it all together and pulled until it snapped. The beads slid off in a flash, clattering on the floor and sending out echoes he was sure must have been partly imagined. Every single one of them bounced and fell apart from one another, an unintentional but fitting representation of them both.
"Fine! Then don't even come back!" she whimpered, flinging the old string at him after failing to find a heavier object nearby. "Don't ever contact me, don't ever contact my friends, don't ever show me your face again!"
Silently, he watched her step back so quickly that she almost tripped and fell over, yanking the tarp in front of her apartment. Responding to the distress of the occuapant, the vegetative door shut,mother leaves, vines and roots forming an impenetrable living wall that would simply regrow if he tried to rip it away. Uneven footsteps patterned away as he heard her heading for her bedroom and out of earshot, making no move to pen the door again for another round.
Wounded yet numb, Navarion wandered out and onto the street, his head spinning from what he'd done. Ambling through the neighborhood, he held his breath to the point where he nearly passed out and waited until he could find an isolated street whose trees hadn't yet been hollowed out for occupants before he exhaled.
He'd done what he'd intended to do. It hurt; he deserved it. She didn't, but the guilt he'd carry was punishment enough for what he'd done. Coupled with the loss of Zhenya and the realization that, once again, he had nothing left in the world, it felt like a befitting end for him, even if he had perhaps gotten off easy. The inevitable thoughts of why it had been Zhenya to fall and not him, why it had been Astariel to be disappointed and not him, of a million other possibilities swept over him as he slumped in a narrow side street where he belonged.
Dryness itching at his throat, he knew it was only a matter of time before he had to face horrifying sobriety for a month and a half. Perhaps then, when the monotony of the trail had numbed his mind, he could transform his heart into the ice box that would help protect anyone else from being hurt by him, and him from having to accept all the pain he'd caused.