Armour: None
Weapon: Galeforce (Ichor Arrows); Arkhalis
Acc(1/11): Voodoo Doll
Health: (400/400)
At a certain point, crying stopped bringing him relief.
Screaming too - he'd wailed and screamed his despair into the dark caverns, howling and bellowing like a beast until his throat was raw and his vocal cords frayed. But that too quickly became futile. This horrible, horrible feeling inside him did not lessen. It did not ease no matter the method he tried to release it. Could he spill his anger on the ground and leave it there - soaking into the volcanic ash? What of this bitterness? How could he dislodge it from deep in his chest? Could he cut himself open and pull out that black, sinking hopelessness that weighed him down like lead? Could he shed his grief like a snake shed its skin?
No.
There was no relief to be had.
Not even a parting word.
Not a kind look.
Nothing.
The Guide had left him with nothing.
Why?!
...
He closed his eyes and turned to press his nose into the pillow, the raw silk casing soft against his cheek. He breathed deeply and shut his eyes, curling in on himself as he lay crumbled in The Guide's old bed. He clung to The Voodoo Doll, holding the small scrap of singed leather gently against his throat. This place, everything in this house, it still stank of the man. It smelled of flesh, of brimstone, of fire, of ash - but also of the open field, and grass and the shining sun, and the deep blue sky. It was always an odd scent. It was always slightly unpleasant and The Terrarian had more than once complained about it. The Guide - of course - would pout and say he could not do anything about The Terrarian's sensitive nose, and they would argue back and forth about this sort of mindless thing whilst fishing or collecting herbs in the woods.
...
How good it was. Just the two of them. Wherever he went, whatever he was doing... when The Guide was with him - it was better. It wasn't until now that The Terrarian realized it. Only now did he recognize how idyllic it was. The trials were difficult. The horrors of The Crimson, The terrors of The Dungeon and the monsters he had faced - but no matter what, he came home to The Guide. To that comforting word. To that soothing concern. Everything was good.
Why did he leave?
The tears began to leak once more.
Why? Why? Why?! Why throw yourself into the pit of lava!? Why snap your own neck?! Why kill yourself?! Why lie, and kill and cheat just to end like this?! The Terrarian could not even fathom an appropriate answer. There wasn't a single justification he could think of that would merit something so painful be inflicted upon him. The Guide. The Guide. He was his lifeline. He was his precious friend. He was so, so important to him, The Terrarian would move the world if asked. He had faced death over and over and over, happily, at The Guide's request. He was willing to kill and die. He would destroy armies and raze nations. He loved that man. He loved him, and loved nothing else.
...
But The Guide didn't care.
He was never important to him.
He was merely a tool.
A means to an end.
The Terrarian loved him... so he was easily lied to. He was manipulated, twisted around with a silver tongue and those fake, kind words. He was shown kindness, he was fed deceit. He swallowed all the sweet promises fed to him, but The Guide had never intended to deliver on anything. The Guide intended to die. He summoned The Wall, then - he left. He leapt from this mortal coil. He extinguished his own life just metres away from the one who was wholly unable to bear his absence.
And when he left, there were no kind words.
No excuses.
Just a bland - hard look.
Unfeeling, and oddly triumphant.
Then... he was gone.
...
Why?!
The Terrarian hugged the pillow to himself, pressing his face into it as the pain in his chest bloomed black as pitch. It hurt. It hurt, but not like a knife to the chest, or a bullet in the gut. It hurt differently and it hurt worse. This was loss. This was defeat. He was so, so angry, but he missed The Guide so, so much. He could hear him! He could hear those familiar footsteps wandering about the house and climbing the stairs. He could hear the scratching of a pen's nib in that massive journal. The scent of his tea. The scrape of his chair when he stood to stretch. His smell and his voice - sometimes amused, sometimes scolding, sometimes exasperated but mostly kind.
The Terrarian had seen The Guide die.
But somehow, a part of him didn't believe it. Any moment, he fully expected to turn a corner and see him there. Smiling with that wry smile and that cheerful glimmer in his eye. Whenever The Terrarian entered The Guide's house, he looked to the writing table. He looked in the kitchen. He looked in the bedroom... then, in a few hours, he'd do it again. Maybe he didn't look carefully enough. Perhaps he was hiding under the table. Perhaps beneath the floorboards. Maybe in the cupboards or under the stack of firewood.
...
And when The Terrarian finally found him, then, he would ask him. "Why?"
And The Guide would tell him the reason.
And that reason would ease The Terrarian's heart. It'd bring every dark thing to light. He would understand. He would agree. The despair and the loss would evaporate. The hurt, the pain and the trauma would be like a passing dream.
...
Night was falling.
The Terrarian had no one to share it with. He had killed as he crawled up from the underworld. He'd done it mindlessly - just as he always had. Everything that moved died. Not just the aggressive creatures though. This time, he killed everything that lived. He scorched the grass. He tore up roots. He razed through insects and worms, mice and songbirds, deer, bears, people.
He spared nothing. Why spare them? He only spared anything because The Guide asked it of him. Now, The Guide was gone.
...
The Guide was gone and he was hurting...
And all would partake in his grief.
:-')