My muse is dead. Tell me how yours is dealing with it. @scxrytxles
"Yeah, yeah, Jer, I'll be fine." Xander waved off Jeremy, who lingered and peered in around the bathroom door.
"If you're sure. Call if you need anything."
Finally, Jeremy relented, closing the bathroom door, and Xander sagged against the counter he leaned on, holding himself up on both forearms. Unlike his, Jeremy's apartment was blessed with an elevator, but getting from the van to here had still been a trial by fire. All the hiking had caught up to him: every bone and muscle fibre in his legs ached, from the soles of his feet to the meat of his hips. Worse, trying to push through it was impossible: any time he found himself starting to grow breathless, he'd just as quickly grow light-headed; the world would spin; and the whole group would be forced to stop and wait for him. Even Cyrus had given him advice.
And that didn't even account for the injuries Nil hadn't fully healed. Every brush of his tattered clothes against fresh flesh or scab stung; pain ran currents from his soul to his body at the site of each injury. In a couple places, he felt warm dampness seeping onto his skin.
It was important to clean himself. It would protect him from infection. The dried blood stunk, and the mud was hardly better. The dirt itched. Yet, when he gazed into the shower, he felt every part of him cringing away.
He persevered. Limping over to turn on the hot water, he dropped heavy on the toilet as he began to peel off layers of clothes. First, his battle vest. Nil had offered to help repair it, but there was hardly any point: it was in tatters--nothing but the hilt remained of the sword painted on the back--and what little remained was stained a dark ochre.
Is all that mine? The thought made him taste bile, and he threw it away behind him, into the trash. His shirt followed suit without a second look, as well as his pants--as soon as he could get them off.
Screaming that drowned out everything. Hot, salty blood gurgling in his throat and staining his teeth. Warm wetness seeping down his torso--funny, there was something wrong about that. Didn't matter. He had to get up. The monster had Chester. His limbs felt so heavy. He had to get up.
Tears ran down his face as he came back to himself, and he hurriedly wiped them away, smearing the clean lines they had made. "Fuck," he whispered and turned his attention to the tub, as if that would be any sort of distraction.
The moment he set foot in there, this venture would well and truly be over. No more second chances. No last minute turnarounds. No more magic, or monsters, or Alice. He clawed at his throat, feeling the lump growing. He would go back to his normal life, back to before he found his Honeybee, back to being just Nadia Xander. He had given it everything. He was willing to let her hate him. And it hadn't been enough. It wasn't enough. Alice was gone, and that thing was still out there.
Gasping sobs choked out through gritted teeth. "Dammit," he whispered, voice shaking. Slamming his fist on the wall, his voice caught on a shout, "DAMMIT!"
He clutched himself as he cried, trying to hold it back even as it came pouring out. "Dammit, dammit, dammit," he gasped out. He was such a failure.
He gave up, letting the rushing emotions take him. Not good enough for Alice, not good enough for his friends, not good enough for those who he'd dared to give hope, and most of all, not remotely good enough for himself. No more strange little stories, no more soft songs, no more peculiar questions or trinkets left after a lesson. She was gone. There was no going back.
After a time, the tears abated. He stood up. He glanced back, and he wondered dully if Jeremy had heard and now hovered just outside the door. (He hiccuped.) It didn't matter. He had procrastinated long enough.
