Nate's breath froze in his chest as Cecil appeared. Outwardly whole, but Nate knew how flesh could lie. The quickness of his smile was late, this time. Following only on the heels of uncertain ear flicks and a parted gape that inspired no true gasp.

They saw the wound. Of course they did. Nate suspected that was all anyone was going to see, for a while. Maybe forever. Marked. Like a Beast, or a Messiah, but the former sounded less sacrilegious. There was probably something to unpack in all that.

For the moment, he was more concerned about Cecil. And the broken promise that stretched the space between them. Perhaps without the consequence Cecil had feared when they pried it off Nate's lips... but certainly the burden of its possibility.

I didn't. Nate's words dogged the heels of Vaelora's claim. (What did Cecil think of the wayward souls Nate carried home in tow?) All I did was pick another fight I couldn't win. He laughed, but it was mirthless with anxiety beneath the racing scrutiny of Cecil's heart. Not on my own, anyway.

Honesty wouldn't save Nate from prior deception, but he chose it anyway. Even surrounded by a flock of onlookers. He offered confession to someone who, unlike all the black-robed shepherds sat in shadow past partition, seemed to know what kind of soul they were listening to.

He swallowed into a frown, and put judgement in Cecil's hands: It was... it was like before. He wanted to look away. But he was afraid to.  Except I realized I — I ought to come home this time. Home? Was this home? Guess somebody heard me.

Did they understand?

I thought it was better to be gone. That if I left you for the right reasons, only the scenery had to change. And I was wrong.

Nate was wounded now, changed by the effort of changing, and might always bear the mark of it. But somehow felt more whole. Or at least, like a man moving toward wholeness.

Are the others alright? Are you alright?