She had followed with little complaint, content to let the more enthusiastic members of their company announce themselves while she familiarized herself with the land — and her new body. There was a certain satisfaction in watching the beginnings of something take shape, particularly when that something involved claiming territory others might have considered too dangerous to possess. Joxer and Fairytale had gathered an interesting collection of individuals beneath their command, and Liora had found herself quite comfortable among them. There was little expectation of goodness here.

The watering hole however, presented a rather personal inconvenience.

She disliked water. More specifically, she disliked the uncertainty of what waited beneath it, the unpleasant sensation of losing her footing and the knowledge that should she find herself submerged, there would be very little she could do about it.

Naturally none of these concerns showed upon her face as she selected a particularly inviting tree overlooking the shoreline. Its broad canopy offered some welcome relief from the savannah's relentless heat, and she wasted little time settling herself beneath it, stretching her forelegs comfortably before her and allowing her tail to curl loosely against her flank.

From here, she could observe the comings and goings of her new companions without feeling particularly obligated to participate in their endeavors.

---

---

For a long time, there is only a vast sense of darkness. Of an abyss that stretches before and beyond the edges of awareness, gaping and hungry and cruel. It reminds Raum, over and over, of all the things he has come to cherish and lost instead—of how unworthy he must be, how useless, how better off he would be if only he pierced a stake through his chest. For that is the only way out; the only way to blanch the pain, end the suffering, and begin anew.

He knows he is human again. He feels the potential to flex dexterous fingers, feels the curvature of his back as he slumps further into the plush leather of his office chair. Can decipher the tick, tock, tick of the large iron clock that adorns an entire wall of his study, and even—on the rare occasion where reality is allowed to slip through—recognizes the silhouette that sometimes hovers at the edge of his vision.

It is , he knows. He does not need to behold the soft caramels of her coat, nor scent the woodsmoke it carries, nor catch the hazel iridescence of her eyes.

But he does anyway; in fleeting moments where she draws near, he's met with flashes of rose gold hair that falls around slender shoulders; of delicate freckles that frame a beautiful face; of eyes that, for some reason, recognize him back.

He is sorry, he wants to say to those eyes. Sorry that she's here, with him, forced to watch what remains as it decays slowly in the presence of luxury. Sorry that she is trapped in his world, that she is trapped at all, that she deserves better, more.

The darkness returns, and for what feels like an eternity, there is nothing but the slow passage of time and Raum at its mercy. Yet it seems he has finally found a place where time has lost its meaning, and he has long since ceased to measure his existence in anything as simple as days or weeks or years.

. . .

He is a husk; the shell of a man who once yearned for everything and had the patience to see it fall beneath his thumb. Once, there had always been something to reach for, something to build, something to possess. Even ruin had been useful when there was enough of him left to wield it.

Now, there is only the chair that cradles him. The desk that stands silently, waiting. The clock—tick, tock, tick—and the same four walls watching him become less and less of himself with every passing day.

He does not move when the light changes beyond the windows. Does not care when rain comes, nor when the streets outside dry beneath another morning's sun. But he does hear Siobhan moving through the house; a door opening, her light footsteps crossing the hall, the quiet sound of something being set upon a distant table. He perceives that life continues, in little noises and little moments around him, each one belonging to a world he no longer feels capable of entering.

. . .

He deserves this.

. . .

What he does not deserve is Siobhan, her presence a quiet thread woven through the otherwise shapeless hours. She is there when he opens his eyes, there when he closes them again. Sometimes she speaks—sometimes she simply sits somewhere nearby, allowing the silence and asking nothing of him.

At first, he barely notices. Then, he begins to notice when she is gone.

It is an insignificant thing, that realization. Barely worth the attention he gives it. Yet once it occurs, he finds himself listening for her movements, for the soft sound of her breath somewhere beyond the study door. And when she returns, something beneath his ribs eases without permission.

Part of him, greedily, wishes to reach for her, if only to feel the warmth of another creature against frigid skin.

For a long time, he resists that temptation.

Instead, he chooses to watch.

His eyes meet hers.

. . .

Time marches ever onward, and Raum's memories come to him in moments of blurred light and color; of Siobhan, mostly, when she manages to bring him sustenance and makes him eat.

She learns what he will tolerate when his appetite is nonexistent. He leaves one thing untouched, and she brings something else the next time. Sets the plate down within reach and does not leave until he takes at least a little. There are times he resents her for it. Times he wants to tell her to stop wasting food on something that is already dead.

Yet, she keeps bringing it anyway. Sometimes she even eats with him.

Sometimes she talks while she does, filling the room with little fragments of her own life—things he does not ask for, things that should not matter, things that somehow do.

Slowly, the blurred moments become clearer. A plate, a voice. A hand resting against the edge of his desk and the subtle warmth of another body resting nearby.

Eventually, he has the strength to sit upright in his office chair, to place his elbows upon the black walnut desk, to lift his head when she speaks.

And, eventually, he answers.

. . .

He speaks.

He teaches Siobhan about the world she's found herself in; she teaches him more about her world in turn. There are questions at first, cautious ones, but eventually they become conversations rather than interrogation. He tells her about vampires, about the world he grew up in. About what it means to live long enough for centuries to become little more than numbers that pass one by.

He tells her about the orphanage. About his Children. About the ridiculous things they used to do, the trouble they caused and how he loved them still. He tells her about the great things they accomplished together. The lives they changed.

He does not need to tell her how it ended.

. . .

He knows what Siobhan is offering when she finally bears her throat.

His lips rest against her skin, and beneath them he can feel the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, of her warmth as it radiates into cold flesh. He can hear the living pulse of her blood, close enough that every instinct he has spent so long denying rises again with a force that leaves his hands trembling where they hold her.

He asks her once more if she is certain, the words soft as he presses them to the crook of her neck. She is, and the heartbeats that pass are methodically slow as finally his lips part, teeth grazing her skin before sinking into the warmth beneath it.

Blood spills across his tongue. Warm, full of life, of color, of spice. He drinks like a man starved, with only a thread of control holding him back from taking everything she offers.

Every swallow seems to return something to him; his awareness, the sharpness of his senses. The world floods back into focus until there is more than just the warmth of her in his arms and the sweetness of her upon his tongue.

For the first time in an eternity, he feels alive.

. . .

The overwhelming heat hits him first. It is immediate and smothering, a weighted blanket thrown across the world; sunlight pressing hot against dark fur, dry air thick with the hiss and buzz of insects. Gone are the dexterous fingers, the luxurious study, the woman in his arms and beneath his teeth.

Yet he still tastes blood. Still there is something warm enough to register against his tongue—but it is wrong. Stale where Siobhan's had been alive. Gamey. Animal.

He recoils instinctively, jaws parting as whatever he has caught falls limp into the grass.

He stares down.

A hare.

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Skill 1/5 : Heartbroken