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The first time he ran away it was righteous. In a land ravaged by a war his people had started, he had to try to set things right. That he ended up staying there, living among the people who killed his kin… that was Fate. Designs above his own. Divine plans he had no choice in.
The second time he ran away it was necessary. In the chaos there was scarcely time to think of the people he left behind. He could only board the evacuation ship, just as so many others did, and hope his family followed. That they did not follow… that was their choice. Or their mistake.
If he stayed, he would have died. It was survival — surely they would want that for him? What use would it have been to die alongside them; to leave nobody alive to prove they had ever been? To tell their stories?
It became a habit, over time. Surviving. Continuing his life as the only piece remaining of a lost civilisation.
There was only so much loss his heart could take, and humanity was so, so good at losing. Their lives, their minds, their peace. War after conflict after debate, mirroring the world he'd run from. He hid from authorities, shied from contact, lived anonymously and moved on when he got too close.
It worked. For someone who was so often caught in trouble, he had been resilient. Not a single death in a hundred years, nobody close enough to feel the loss of them. An easygoing life he could almost get used to.
He started to get complicit. Comfortable. Spread his wings and befriended locals; learned and cared and almost, almost loved.
When the bombs fell, killing him and the family who'd offered him shelter, his fate was clear. He walked away from the rubble, left his keepsakes and his memories in the ash. Vowed to never let it happen again.
The line blurred between survival and cowardice. Self-preservation became selfishness. Curiosity soured to nihilism. He still greeted strangers with a playful smile; and the same smile remained when he broke their hearts.
It was only survival. Protecting his heart. Existing on autopilot, no purpose except to carry on. No meaning beyond I have to. Solitary. Safe.
What more could he do? If he withered and died there would be nothing less. He had to be alive for a reason, but no reason came. Sometimes he wondered if he had died all those years ago, and this was his fate: to sleeepwalk across foreign soil in a world that had no place for him. A ghost in flesh, forever restless.
Some nights he would stare up at the stars. Count each flickering spark and wonder how many once held life. How many might hold other survivors while he was stuck here. Inevitably his thoughts would drift to the people he loved and left behind; the list grows longer year by year. He'd block the stars from his mind, pack up what little he owned, and survive.