Chapter Text
Day 1# Crux
noun, plural crux·es, cru·ces [kroo-seez]
a vital, basic, decisive, or pivotal point.
a cross.
something that torments by its puzzling nature; a perplexing difficulty.
——
Loneliness is a scab I’rhinn can’t help but pick at.
It sits within him like a wound under old bandages, sweat-stained, stuffy, the faint stench of rust mingling with the warmth of flesh that seeks release and skin that longs for the touch of the sun. Almost healed, but not truly. Not quite there yet. One day he will walk the blinding crossroads of Thanalan without feeling so thirsty for company, so bone-weary with silence. Fed up with watching his back, only for relief to sting worse than a sandpeistle’s bite. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after, even.
Sometimes, as he threads the desert with another impossible task at hand, he remembers how easily companionship came before the Crystal. Before the Ring of Fire. Before the raging swelling of the Navel, and the banquet, and the slaughter. Before friends became anathema and allies a death warrant.
(They learned that lesson well, down at the Waking Sand. Her halls speak to him still, the Echo washing his nightmares in glimpses of spilled bloods.
Sometimes he wonders if they cursed him, the Scions, all of them bright in their fall, startled comets fleeing Imperial steel. He wishes they did, even on their last breath. It's the least he deserves for being the crux of Minfilia’s plan, and leaving her whole world to crumble. It is a selfish wish, but it makes him feel less stranded. Gives him an excuse to resent them, too. A sea of friendly strangers surrounding him, all too ready to extend a hand in friendship, all too eager to trust him. Whatever did they expect?
After a lifetime of solitude, how was he supposed to stay away from them?
How do you save the world without letting it seep under your skin?
He hates those wondering nights the most.)
Camp Drybone looms in the distance like a familiar ghost, and already Rin feels the urge to scratch away the ache of long, silent hours until he bleeds. He cannot stop; will not stop. There are enemies to be scorched and primal gods to be dethroned. Still he yearns.
He wishes for laughter; for the sweetness of wine on another’s lips. For a fight that will scrape the grief from his knuckles and give him a reason to show his teeth, yell louder, be angrier. He wishes for a touch, the casual gentleness of a peddler sitting outside. For the stable-hand to scold him, for testing Vijaya’s resilience.
He wishes for time to mourn.
He wishes, he wishes, he wishes—
(All the good things, to those who live. Is that how the saying goes?)
Loneliness feels like an inadequate punishment. He wishes he’d taught himself to stand his own company a long time ago. Then he could face the desert without the costant, mocking reminder that even the strongest pillars are ground to dust, eventually. He could set his torment to rest.
He could turn the spear into a new crux, and begin rebuilding what he lost.