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The first swig goes down the hardest. It burns a path down his throat, and he coughs, tosses his head. It burns as though he’s swallowed a smoldering coal, the warmth spreading through his chest, blooming in his belly.
It is an all too familiar warmth, a pleasant warmth. The sensation of cold fingers stretched before a crackling fire while rain batters the dome and thunder rumbles in the distance. The liquid beads, rolls down the transparent exterior of his home like shed tears.
It always rains on Kahje.
Were Thane an expressive man, his features would have contorted with a grimace. Instead, he blinked the glassy look from his eyes with the sweep of his nicitating membrane. The memory fades; he is left, gasping, in its wake, like coming up from under the sea, from the embrace of Kalahira, wrenched aloft as though by divine providence, rescued from a riptide, pulled from the undertow.
Another drink, he reasons. If only just to dull the pain for a little longer.