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Caleb’s heart makes a home of a still barrow with every whispered word, his stomach’s depth measured by mile per sparse syllable.
The spell’s tether snaps without carrying a response, an empty thread of silk.
There was no need to reply, not when that was the message in its entirety. Not when the recipient must already be out of its infinite range.
They don’t say that; it’s not… it is not them; they have so many other, deeply encompassing means. Even Caleb’s own name in full carries the sentiment ten-fold, but this was not that, far shorter.
This can only be a last hope, a desperate plea, and the truth of it stabs through Caleb’s bleeding heart of hearts. One small consolation: they know each other so, so, so incredibly well. A smile cracks his face- a laugh, his ribs.
He takes the time—he has time, now that it is clearly too late—takes the time to remember how lungs work, settling to the floor amongst their belongings he had been placing, counting, unpacking.
Breathe in, razor glass. Breathe out, rusted nails.
A haven, a sanctuary- but fate had to snatch it away, just before fruition.
Breathe in, volcanic water. Breathe out, polar air.
One more day, one more measly day, and safety would have been all but guaranteed.
Breathe in, cinder home. Breathe out, flesh stench.
Again, Caleb breathes, keeps breathing (one of them has to) and over and over and again and again until his throat is finally quiet, raw with the ragged tracks of expelled sobs. What he wouldn’t give in this moment to have back the walls he’s knocked down over these past years; it’s hard to feel a punch through brick. Harder still, when they’re preempted by ones within the bound.
But he paid and paved his weight and way in stone and steel and grit, all for the gifts a softer life promises. He- they, built newer foundations into the stable bedrock of their hodge-podge family.
What went wrong?
What could have possibly gone wrong, since that’s exactly who Essek was seeing?
Caleb wipes his face with a nearby handkerchief, the fabric too silken to suit his own skin's tastes.
There will be time for questions later.
For now… for now he will fix this.
Not him alone, no, no, he will gather the others, and they will all fix this. They always fix things, whether by spite or miracle.
Really, what’s the difference?
Essek’s last act rings between Caleb’s ears, in the tremble of his eyes as he gathers himself to depart.
Caleb has his answer, of course. It’s instinct.
But for once in his less-miserable life, he has no regret. Not about this; Essek knows, has known, without a shred of doubt.
And besides, Caleb didn’t—doesn’t, he doesn’t—need to say it, when he will have the chance to show it soon enough.
He will.
And still, it sings on loop, incessant and acute:
My friend, I love you, too.