Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The village is silent.

The guards are absent from their posts at the gates and there is blood and vomit trailing into the village.

Trepidation fills every nerve of your body, but you force yourself to walk forward and ignore the sight laid out for you at the entrance. You try to steel yourself by focusing on the rough texture of your herb bag and it barely helps.

Part of you already knows what awaits you inside. Denial can only protect you for so long.

You go to the first home you see, ignoring proper manners and entering immediately. 

The occupants are a child, woman, and man. Their faces are twisted in fear and pain, and all of them are surrounded by blood and vomit.

The smell is terrible, and they lay unmoving on the ground.

You know who they are. You grew up with two of them and helped bring the other into this world.

You turn away from the bodies quick enough that your neck cracks, not trusting yourself to keep your composure if you stare at them a second longer. 

You had left the village in search of a cure for a disease neither your nor your mentor had known about. You had promised that you’d be back in one month.

It took two.

You move onto their neighbours, and their neighbour’s neighbours- and you recognize all of them by name and face- until you end up at the final home in the village.

Your parents’ home.

Your limbs shake, throat is dry, and the massive pit of emotion in your stomach that had been building up since the first home is on the verge of breaking through.

If you turned around right now, no one could blame you. They would‘ve understood.

But you would never forgive yourself for leaving your parents like the rest of them.

You step through the entrance.

_________

You don’t remember when you started piling the bodies in the centre of the village, nor do you remember when you set them ablaze.

The smell of burning flesh is what snaps you out of the trance you’ve been in, and it’s just in time for you to be aware of the vomit making its way up your throat.

You collapse down in the dirt, muscles burning, and vomit barely swallowed down in time.

The inside of your mouth feels burnt and tastes of ash, your heartbeat echoes in your ears like the relentless beating of a drum, and your breath comes in fast and shallow.

You are exhausted and in shock. 

The moon watches as you attempt to feebly move onto your back, it’s light highlighting your useless struggle as your body gives in and refuses to do more than twitch.

You lay in the dirt gasping and panting, eyelids drooping, limbs feeling almost nonexistent, hands covered in dirt and dried blood, throat burning from the vomit you forcefully swallowed down, tongue coated in ash, the cold rushing in-

And you blackout.

_________

You wake up to your old mentor desperately shaking you, tears decorating his face, and desperation flooding his eyes.

The pure relief he excludes when he notices your awakening makes you feel a stab of guilt, before the reminder of what transpired last night mixes in and you can’t feel much at all aside from grief.

You should’ve come back sooner.

You don’t even feel the hug your mentor gives you.

_________

It’s difficult coming to terms with your village's extinction from the disease and even more so with your parents’ deaths. Even the thought of them is enough to make you shutdown for days. You think the only reason you’re somewhat functioning is because your teacher is with you every step of the way.

You’re both doctors. Neither of you should be wasting away inside. You should be out there giving aid to the sick and broken.

He’s been a part of your life since you were nine. Watching him cure people in your village all those years ago had sparked something inside you like nothing else, and when you had expressed your interest in learning from him, the rest became history.

You travelled all over the country with him. You learned about medicine, diseases, life, death, and much more. Aside from your parents, he practically raised you.

And now, he has to help you mourn.

When you try to stay in bed, he pulls you out. When you start to dissociate from the world, he snaps you out of it, or when that fails he gently pulls you to the side and waits for you to come back. He grabs your hands when you try to wash away nonexistent blood and dirt and holds them in his.

When you try to thank him, you feel the words get stuck in your throat, but he gives you a knowing smile all the while, and for that you will forever be grateful.

_________

Two years pass by quickly.

You still dissociate sometimes, and while your teacher tries his best, he cannot do everything and be everywhere.

You could be out there helping him, and instead you’re hiding inside crying about corpses.

But you’re getting better. At least your teacher seems to think so. 

“It’s progress.” He tells you kindly, tousling your hair like you’re still a young child. “And that’s all that matters.” 

It doesn’t feel like it, but his assurances are constant and plentiful, so you do your best to move on. 

You’re not sure if you can.

_________

The death of your teacher is even worse than the death of your parents. Because this time, you have to watch it happen.

Your teacher is so much smaller in his bed. 

His breathing is loud and strained, like every inhale of air is a painful action. Blanket upon blanket is piled upon him, yet he still says he feels as cold as the snow outside his home. A piece of cloth lays tucked beneath his chin, allowing him to cough blood into it with minimal movement. 

It’s terrible. 

There is nobody else in the room with him. If he has family, they’ve never bothered to visit him, and if he has friends, the same follows. 

It’s just you .

The both of you know he’s going to die soon. The symptoms are plain to see. You’ve offered to take him to a cliff he likes to watch the sunset from, to make one last serving of his favorite food, or to even spend his last day saving someone like he had said he would years ago.

And yet, he chose to spend his last moments with you. His apprentice that can barely go outside, can’t speak, or look at people without feeling the dirt and blood covering their hands-

You bite down on your tongue, ignoring the taste of ash, and use the pain to ground yourself before you start dissociating even further. You can’t leave now, not while your mentor is giving what could possibly be his last words.

“There is more to life than those buried beneath us. Remember that, my student, and one day you will be happy.” Despite the current situation, your teacher smiles at you, comforts you, eyes unseeing. “Life is a struggle, but it is one well worth it. ” He squeezes your hand, and from the strength alone you can tell he will leave you soon.

There are so many words you wish to say to him. Words that you wish you had said sooner and more often. Words that you no longer have the time to share with him.

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Your mouth moves, your tongue rolls, but all is quiet.

You never got to say anything to your parents before they passed. Could you forgive yourself if you did the same for your teacher?

You open your mouth one more time and desperately force words out from the depths of your throat.

“Thank you… for everything.“ The words are stilted and difficult to push out, your voice cracking halfway, and a bit rough from disuse.

It can barely count as a proper send off and had someone else been here, they would’ve likely taken offense.

He only nods at your words, managing to give you thousands of them in that one little movement alone in comparison to your four spoken out loud, but he understands. He always does.

His heartbeat slows, he squeezes your hand one last time, and a minute later, the man who trained you is no more.

_________

Only three people came to his funeral. A priest, a gravedigger, and you.

As the priest recites your teacher’s death rites, you stand there in the cold wind, body trembling and tears rolling down your face.

No words are exchanged, not even when the priest finishes and the gravedigger begins to cover the coffin with dirt. Before long, all that’s left is the gravestone with his name.

The gravedigger leaves first, followed shortly by the priest after he rests a warm hand on your shoulder, and soon you’re all that's left.

You desperately try to call up your teacher’s last words to you. You try to remind yourself that they are true and that your mentor has never led you astray.

But they sound so empty ringing through your head. 

You stand there for hours in the snow, sniffling, shivering, and crying.

_________

He would be disappointed in you. Your teacher that is. 

It's far too late for the sun to appear tonight, but the moonlight is enough to guide you up to the cliff that your teacher had loved so much. 

Shame mixes in with the disappointment and sadness you feel. You feel bad desecrating your teacher’s favourite place like this.

You want to apologize, but there is no one to give it to.

A light wind whispers back to you, echoes of your teacher’s last words coming forth, within them a plea for you to not jump.

But he’s no longer here.

You jump.

Falling off a cliff is a new experience, and even though you wanted to fall you still feel a bit of fear as the ground rapidly approaches you. But with it, comes a sense of freedom, of relief. Like everything is going to be ok now.

You hit the ground, and everything goes black.

_________

You wake up, clothes bloody, but alive.

_________

You try desperately to live your second life, taking it as a chance for repentance.

Everyday you walk around the village, offering your services and talking to semi-familiar faces. You socialize, catch up on the most recent gossip, heal, etc. You can remember the joy and satisfaction you used to feel when you did this. 

Yet the actions all feel so monotonous now.

There is ash on your tongue.

You heal someone, saving their life or curing their ailment, and there is nothing. You talk to friends and colleagues, yet their faces blur and their words are fleeting like the wind. You walk around the village and take in familiar sights and beautiful views, but it all feels so tedious and painful.

Your gloves are an almost permanent fixture on your hands these days. You wouldn’t be able to perform your daily tasks if you were constantly scratching them.

You just wish it would all stop.

—————

Winter moves to spring and from spring to summer.

You end up on the cliff once again. 

You don’t waste time already, having said what you wished to, and you step off once more. 

You get up from the ground once again, the sun in your eyes, blood soaking your clothes, and a crows mocking caw greeting you.

—————

After it becomes apparent that jumping won't kill you, you try every other method you can think of. 

You throw yourself into a river and allow water to fill your lungs. An hour later, you get out, wet and alive.

Slicing yourself open proves to be painful and ineffective, as does cutting into your heart and brain.

Burning alive proves to be even more painful. Every agonizing second you spend in the flames drives you insane and you can feel every part of you slowly burning into ash before you finally black out. Waking up naked and with phantom pains forces you to take a day to recover.

You try a myriad of other methods. Starvation, asphyxiation, poison, and even tossing yourself into a volcano.

Nothing works. 

There is nothing left for you here. No true attachments to prevent you from leaving.

So why can’t you?

_________

Years pass, your friends and colleagues grow old and die, and you are all that’s left of a generation now gone.

It’s hard to watch happen. This change that you cannot be a part of as generations die and get replaced by their children. 

So you stop watching.

You don’t pack much. Just herbs, medical instruments, and a few personal effects. You’ve long lost your appetite for food and you can’t recall the last time you’ve felt physically tired. 

You’re so full of life you don’t want.

You visit your mentor's grave one last time, the old and weathered headstone now chipped in places and sinking slowly into the dirt. For the last time, you give it a nice clean, making sure no dirt or grime remains on the stone, and then you say a final goodbye.

You get up, and start walking.

_________

Years pass, humanity advances, and you still can’t die.

You live through epidemics that wipe out entire villages and towns and cause you to dissociate for days.

You bear witness to countless inventions that forever change the world, and who’s creators will go down in history for centuries.

You explore so many lands and encounter so many different people.

You save countless lives and end just as many.

You do everything.

You are a doctor, a soldier, an explorer, strategist, scholar, traveller, leader, and more. You’ve been alive for so long, lived different kinds of lives, and experienced so many things. 

But you are tired. Tired of saving, of fighting, of witnessing it all happen again and again.

You want it all to stop, but it won’t.

You keep walking.

_________

You know the sun has failed to kill you when you wake up again.

Wherever you are is not Earth. Earth when you last saw it was a barren world with nothing but you on it. The greenery had long since died, and with it any and all living things had soon followed. The oceans had dried up a bit later, however many years it took you don’t quite know as you hadn’t really been paying attention, too caught up in nothing.

You ignore the ache in your heart of outliving your planet. You’ve already had years to come to terms with it, so there is no use dwelling on it. 

This new world is vibrant, with plants and animals everywhere you look. Some even glow in the dark. There are two moons in the sky as well, something that catches you off guard when you see it. A nearby lake contains what you think are fish, but you can’t be sure without actually sticking your head in the water.

You don’t know what to do with this information. You didn’t want to survive the death of your planet just to end up on another. All you’ve ever wanted was to die. Instead, you find yourself here, a world so achingly like Earth but obviously not it.

You check your person, somewhat surprised when your medical bag filled with tools survived the track, and only go a bit cold when you feel the familiar shape of your pistol.

TIme leaves many scars. The gun in your bag is simply one of them.

There’s only one thing you can really do at this point.

You start walking.

________

Terra, as you call this planet, is an interesting place.

Dilapidated buildings are a common sighting, or old ruins patched up and being used by others. Every now and then, you come across scrapped remains of advanced devices of unknown purposes, familiar yet different from what you had on earth.

For a second, you had entertained the thought of being on a much younger Earth, or even a reborn Earth somehow, but the animal people soon stopped that.

There’s really no better way to describe them. The inhabitants of this world bear the traits of multiple animals you remember from Earth. People with antlers, furry ears, tails, scales, etc. If it was an animal, you’d bet your life that there’s a living being here that has its traits.

You ignore the fact that you haven’t seen anyone with the characteristics of a primate. It’s just bad luck, that’s all.

Humanity would have gone wild if they had lived long enough to see this world. Somewhere they could live without technology assisting them and with other sentient life-forms. You were certainly shocked when you were of rational mind once again and realized where exactly you were now. It was the last thing you expected upon the sun failing to kill you.

You had been hoping to get stuck in a black hole, but that chance is farther away than ever.you don't want to

But you’re here now, still alive, and you’ll have to make the best of it. No matter how badly you don’t want to.

________

A unique mineral catches your attention.

While Earth and Terra share similarities, some of the minerals seem to differ, as seen by what you have tentatively named Originium. 

The properties of Originium are interesting. It is unstable, volatilizing into gas particles over time, becoming very flammable in a liquid state, and growing without input (that you know of) while solid. But its properties are not why it has caught your attention. You had only learned of those after testing it. 

It’s the potential it has to cause an epidemic that drew you to it.

The sight of it causes your hands to itch under bloodless gloves and ash to fill your mouth.

At first, you had thought it was an overreaction on your part. A built up trauma from your past biasing what in reality should just be an interesting looking stone. So, you overlooked it, pushed away your initial concerns and chose to do nothing about it.

But then you saw it growing on one of the inhabitants of this world.

You took notes and observed it, had briefly considered offering to precisely cut off the skin it affected, but took it back when you realized it wasn’t just on the skin.

It was the skin, and by the sounds of their stretching earlier, it goes a lot deeper than that.

The nausea you feel well up is harshly pushed down by years of life as a doctor, but you know later it’ll be back.

You wave the infected off, thanking them for the time, and ignore the pull in your gut as you watch them walk away while knowing full well that it’ll be the death of them.

There was nothing you could do. You lack too little info on the disease and most tools available to you are extremely crude ones made of iron or ancient tech that is mostly unusable. There is no choice but to wait for this world to advance.

You can’t do anything again. 

You turn away from the infected, the weight of your age once again on your back, and start walking.

_______

Today is the anniversary of your parents' deaths. Fatigue clings to your bones, your thoughts slow to a crawl, and all you can think about is dying.

Will you see your loved ones again? Is there even an afterlife for you to go to? Will they understand the things you’ve done?

You always find it hard to continue on this day. Lethargy is a common symptom, as is difficulty thinking. This is why when you glance at the shard of originium sitting on your workbench, you can't help but think-

Perhaps originium is the answer you're looking for.

You eye the mineral like it’s a prized jewel, a contemplative hum leaving your mouth. You swipe it off your workbench and with a quick thrust you stab it deep into your leg. 

Oringium won’t infect you that quickly. That’s not how it works.

You remove it from your leg, and do it again, and again, and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again and again-

And you black out, falling face first into a pool of your own blood.

_______

You wake up. Of course you do.

The blood has long since dried, leaving both you and the floor sticky and red. The shard of originium you had used is nowhere to be seen and for one fleeting moment you feel hopeful. 

You stand up and check yourself over, looking to see if you had been successful in your plan to die, and when you can’t see any visible signs of infection you stretch to see if it’s a part of you inside that’s been infected, waiting for an uncomfortable twitch or a painful stab.

There is nothing. Despite your best efforts, you remain uninfected, just as you usually do when faced with a disease.

Bitterness, frustration, and shame swell up within you at the sight.

There are people out there who would kill for a cure and here you are trying to off yourself with the very thing. 

You’re angry and tired and ashamed and-

You shove it all down, something you are painfully familiar with, leave the temporary little hut you had constructed for the sole purpose of preparing some medicine, and you start walking.

_______

After accidentally stumbling into what is tentatively called the borders of Kazdel, you manage to learn a lot more about this world from those living there.

Before you had made it to Terra the world was actually being invaded by aliens.

No, there is no better way to put it. Terra was actually invaded by aliens, and is still currently being invaded by aliens, technically.

It seems somewhat ironic that Earth had been worried about being invaded so long ago, yet here you are, a human invading a foreign planet instead.

You ask more and more from the Lorekeeper, spending the entire day being regaled with the war between the Sarkaz and its invaders, before The Lorekeeper politely asks you to come back tomorrow if you’d like to learn more. 

You agree and start heading into the woods, unaware of The Lorekeeper’s eyes glowing behind you, and the confusion that decorates his face moments later.

_________

The old Lorekeeper is waiting for you in the same spot as yesterday, sitting down on a stump with a pot filled with something boiling over it. Next to him, a much younger Sarkaz with a crown on his head, pinkish white hair, pale skin, and bright orange eyes chats to him excitedly in a language you do not know.

The Lorekeeper notices you quickly, nodding at you in greeting, and swaps to the language you were speaking yesterday.

“Greetings, Doctor. I apologize for the unexpected guest. While I do know a majority of our planet’s lore, Kollam here has some unique knowledge I myself know nothing about, and he has generously volunteered some of his time to talk about it.” He gestures to who can only be the King of Sarkaz who shoots you a friendly smile. His arm stretches over the fire, hand open, and speaks to you in the same language as The Lorekeeper.

“It’s nice to meet you, Doctor. It’s rare that someone interested in our world’s history comes to us.” His smile grows when you reach over to shake it, and he speaks again. “Especially when they themselves are not from this world.” 

His words contain no malice, just a fleeting emotion you aren’t quick enough to catch, but regardless you can tell he is genuine, something that catches you off guard.

“I’m surprised.” You admit to him. “I would’ve expected you to hate people like me. I could very well be someone who had a hand in your people’s suffering.” The Lorekeeper shakes his head at your words and speaks.

“We don’t hate those who came to this world. Only those who brought us to our ruin. On top of that, you can’t be one of them. You’re far too old.” He says quite bluntly, causing Kollam to explode in laughter before poorly disguising it with a cough. 

This is perhaps the least intimidating King and royal advisor (if your hunch is right) that you’ve come across.

If only Earth’s had been like this. It would have made living in one place without being accused of witchcraft or dark arts much easier.

“I’m surprised someone as old as you hasn’t learned any manners yet.” You shoot back, and The Lorekeeper’s mouth twitches in what you know is a suppressed smile as he meets your eyes.

“I’ve always had trouble respecting my elders.” Another joking jab and some mirthful eyes before Kollam finally enters the conversation. 

"Don't leave me out of the conversation! Doctor, I thought you wanted to hear about our history." He sounds a bit hurt, but his true feelings are obvious by the wobbling of his lip and the barely hidden amusement in his eyes.

The LoreKeeper's smack on the back of his head also helps.

"It's quite rude to butt into other people's conversations. Who taught you manners?"

"You did you old coot!" Kollam replies, rubbing his head gingerly. "You've taught me since I could walk!" And The Lorekeeper sighs.

"And so much effort for no results." Kollam squawks in outrage and begins jokingly arguing with him.

You should've known you'd get attached so easily.

_________

One day Kollam asks you about your life, and you tell him because he is ridiculously charismatic even without his empathy arts that do not at all function like how an empath’s should.

He listens intently as you go through a somewhat abridged version of your story, because while he is charismatic enough to convince you to spill the beans, he is not nearly close enough to you for you to tell him about burning your parents or waking up with ash clogging your throat and disappearing blood on your hands.

Kollam doesn’t interrupt during the only thing, only nodding along so you know he’s listening, and only when you finally reach up to today, he only says two words to you.

“I’m sorry.” He says like he somehow made you immortal and caused your suffering.

It is painfully earnest, enough that it actually kind of hurts. So you wave off his words and change the topic.

It is a prelude to friendship. It always is.

_________

It’s easy to grow fond of Kollam.

He’s somewhat eccentric and can be a bit too adventurous sometimes, but other than that is rather charming and quite nice. He stops in the streets when his subjects call for him, doesn’t talk down or try to force rank on any of his people, accepts requests of help when asked, and generally does his best to avoid violence of any kind if he can. If someone is uncomfortable or doesn’t wish to do something, he doesn’t force them, and prefers diplomacy over all-out war.

He acts less like the kings you remember and more like an adventure mistakenly given the leadership of an entire nation. Maybe his charisma is why people choose him as their king instead of his much older and wiser uncle.

Maybe it’s also how he dragged both you and The Lorekeeper into the crypts of the castle to ‘explore’.

Kollam’s joyous laughter fills the air.

He raises a chest above his head, shaking it and allowing the rattling of its contents to join his laughter, and both you and The Lorekeeper share a long suffering look that is starting to become more and more common between you two.

Early yesterday morning, during one of your and The Lorekeeper’s talks (He still won’t give you a name) that Kollam has started to refer to as ‘old man meetings’, he had burst into the study you occupied and declared that there was an emergency at the castle’s crypts that required all three of you. With the urgency and desperation on his face, the both of you had no choice but to follow him.

This led to a rather long and extensive journey that included multiple fights against undead relatives, traps that had caused nearly 7 deaths (technically 5 near deaths and 2 actual deaths but Kollam won’t count yours), and various ancient puzzles that had no reason to even exist.

“I understand that this is a bit hypocritical coming from me, but you do know that coming close to death is not something to celebrate, right?” Your words cause Kollam to stop his celebration and turn around and face you two, a smile on his face despite your words.

‘That’s part of the fun, Doctor! What’s an adventure without a near death experience? And besides-” He shakes the chest excitedly. “The payoff is well worth it.” The Lorekeeper presses his head into his hands, disappointment on his face, and you pat his back in a silent show of support.

Part of you still can’t believe Kollam is a king.

Kollam wastes no time in slicing through the lock with his blade and he quickly opens the chest, eager to get to the contents.

The smile slides off his face almost instantly.

“… It’s just a bunch of stones.” He turns towards you and The Lorekeeper, face akin to that of a kicked puppy, and The Lorekeeper snorts and activates his arts.

“Look on the bright side Kollam. These stones are well over 5000 years old. You’ve just uncovered a piece of history.” His amused words fail to break Kollam’s frown, who looks down at the stones despondently. 

You can’t help but put in your two cents.

“Those look a bit like the stones off the castle walls Kollam. You might’ve just encountered a relic of the distant past, from before this castle was built.” Your tone is carefully even and serious, but it doesn’t stop The Lorekeeper from biting his lip to hold back his laughter.

“Can I at least sell them to someone?” Kollam pleads.

The answer is, unsurprisingly no.

—————

The air tastes like ash when you meet Kollam just before he leaves for a journey.

Perhaps that’s why the question you ask slips out instead of something else.

“Do you think you could kill me?” Kollam nearly drops his sword when you ask him that, barely catching both the blade and the rag he was using to clean it before they hit the floor. 

He shoots you a betrayed expression.

“You can’t just ask someone that, Doctor.” He chides. “It’s extremely insensitive.” 

“You read my mind almost every waking second we’re together. I think it’s a fair trade.” He gives you a pout that is unbefitting of a king but doesn’t deny it.

So he finally admits he’s a mind reader.

“I’m not a mind reader. I am a very advanced empath, Doctor. Something that I have told you multiple times.” You scoff and he shakes his head, a familiar line of dialogue between you two, and for a minute there’s just silence. 

“Could I kill you?” He breaks it, voice somber and hesitant. “Physically, it’s impossible for me to kill you.” He goes silent again, eyes closed, head bent down, fiddling with the rag in his hand, obviously thinking if he should continue, before giving a deep sigh and looking up at you. “Doctor, you know what amnesia is, right?”

Now it’s your turn to give him a look, (not that he can tell with your hood covering your face) but he gives you a half hearted chuckle, before his face turns somber once more. 

“If… if you really wanted, I could give you amnesia, and strip you of your identity. You wouldn’t remember anything you wouldn’t wish too. Any painful memories, knowledge of your immortality, your difficult past, all of it will be gone.” He looks back down at his sword. “You’d still get flashes of your past every now and then, and there’s always the risk of recovering your memory, but for all intent and purpose, you’d be ‘dead’.” 

You don’t mention that giving someone amnesia is something an empath can do. What you do is give his words some honest consideration.

Would it be better to remember nothing at all? Is this really the death you’ve been seeking for so long? 

Kollam is still looking down at his blade, wariness on full display, hand clenched around the rag in his hand, and looking pitifully small.

You turn away, rationality returning, and suddenly find it difficult to look at your friend.

“Sorry, Kollam.” You apologize, not meeting his eyes. “I don’t know why I asked you that.”

Because today marks another year of your life. Another year of living and moving.

The lie hangs in the air between you two, obvious enough that you’re not sure if it still counts as a lie, and then Kollam stands up and walks over to you.

“My friend, I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of you dying, but if you really want this, if living with the past is too difficult, then I will take it away from you.” He puts a warm hand on your shoulder, squeezing it. “But please, think about this while I’m gone, and if you still wish for it when we get back, we’ll talk about it.” You nod at his solemn words.

“You’re a good friend, Kollam.” You offer at his back as he retreats to the entrance. “Once you come back, let’s explore that dungeon below the castle again. Maybe we’ll find something better than stones and your animated predecessors.” He turns around, smile shaky but a lot less tense than his earlier facial expressions.

“I look forward to it.” Are his last words to you before he moves on past the doorway and to his next adventure.

_________

You are overwhelmed with emotions while picking herbs two weeks later.

You draw your gun instantly, adrenaline, fear, anger, and acceptance clogging your every sense. The hairs on the back of your neck rise, your eyes dart everywhere in search of a nonexistent threat while simultaneously tucking your gun under your jaw-

But then it’s gone, and you’re left tense for no reason. 

Somehow, you know it’s Kollam.

_________

You rush back to Kazdel, ignoring the itch under your gloves, meet up with the Lorekeeper, and find Kollam kneeling in the centre of a circle made of bodies that spans miles.

The sand around your friend is dyed red with his blood, and the only wound visible is the one his own sword made in his chest. His eyes are wide open: rage, fear, and acceptance forever frozen on his face.

The Lorekeeper does not flinch away from the sight, nor does he cry, but he does grab onto your arm to steady himself, an expression on his face that you see nearly every time you look in a mirror while thinking of the past.

An expression you will now have to wear when thinking of Kollam.

“He shouldn’t have died this way.” You tell him, and he takes a deep breath, gathering himself, and breathes out.

“No, he shouldn’t have.” He lets go of your arm and steps forward to gently close Kollam’s eyes. Gently, he pries Kollam’s hands off the handle of his sword, and he shoots you a pleading look that needs no words.

You step forward, and slowly remove the sword from your friend’s chest, ignoring the noise and feeling of doing so, and withdraw the sword at the same moment the Lorekeeper reaches forward to prevent Kollam’s body from falling.

Blood lands on your gloves but you can feel it underneath your nails. 

The Lorekeeper takes a deep breath, unable to steady his hands, and gently lays Kollam on the sand. He grabs fistfuls of his own cloak, the clothing shaking in his grasp, and unsteadily sits down.

You join him a second later, appearing much more relaxed than you truly feel, sword tucked to your chest.

It hadn’t even been a year since you met the two of them.

For a few minutes, the two of you just sit there, the sun bearing down on both the living and the dead, before The Lorekeeper composes himself and turns to face you.

“Can you find somewhere to place his sword? Somewhere where it will lay untouched?” He asks you as if he wasn’t asking you to break multiple Sarkaz laws concerning the dead’s weapons. 

You’re not really surprised and give him a single nod.

He always did you strike as the type to not care about rules.

He breathes a sigh of relief and turns away. “Thank you.” He says gruffly, staring at Kollam’s corpse with barely concealed grief. “We’ll meet again, but not for a while. So take care of yourself.” 

You don’t know if he’s talking to you or Kollam, but you take the dismissal all the same.

You start walking.

_________

This is not the first time you have laid a friend to rest. 

It will not be the last.

You don’t cry, nor do you really think during the entire process beyond deciding where to bury his sword.

The traditions of the Sarkaz are well known to you by now. If someone else drew his sword, they’d take up his name and his purpose.

Kollam has fought long enough.  

You walk until you’re no longer in Kazdel’s borders and walk even further until snow and ice resist your movements, and any signs of civilization are far gone.

The wind howls in your ears and blows at your cloak, pushing it aside to reveal the frozen blade of your friend still trapped by your belt. 

Something stands in front of you, blocking your way.

To describe it in words is nigh impossible. It is colorful and colorless. It screeches with thousands of mouths but has only one. There are talons and claws and hands capable of tearing anyone into pieces and yet they are as harmless as a newborn kitten. It has no eyes, but it looks at you regardless, an almost unnoticeable stutter in its movements when it sees you.

The sight of it stirs up an old feeling of pity inside of you. Something you haven’t felt since your days on Earth.

Your kind really are a bunch of persistent bastards.

Neither of you talk, merely stare at each other in near-silence, the both of you waiting for the other to move.

Humans never were supposed to live this long. 

The demon moves first.

It swings at you with unpracticed-practice ease, words tumbling out uncontrolled and sad-controlled and angry.

You draw your gun and shoot it in the head.

There is no lasting death cry that follows in the echo of your gunshot. No desperate last stand or final attack. Only one last sigh as it falls down into the snow, unmoving and quiet.

You’d forgotten how a human dies.

You give it one last pitying glance before leaving the fallen demon in the snow behind you.

_________

Finally, you make it to a part of Terra where there is nothing alive. Just ruins of lost civilizations and silence.

Way before Kollam, you remember exploring this place. So much more life had filled it at the time. You can’t help but feel jealous at its current state.

You do not make a headstone, as there is no need for one. You simply thrust Kollam’s sword into the dirt beneath you, allowing the words to be visible to all that see it.

“Here the fighting stops.”

For the Sarkaz, life is a constant struggle, and even in death some do not stop, for their arts and weapons carry them along. Had you left it in Kazdel, someone else would have taken up his blade and used it to slay all who stood in Kazdel’s way in his name.

Yes, your friend would have done the same if it had come to it, but it was not why your friend raised his sword. At least not the sole one and you refuse to have your friend’s name tarnished.

You give Kollam’s blade one last glance, feeling your eyes water at the sight, and force yourself to turn away.

Just another blip on your radar. Another friend dead too soon.

If someone ever does find Kollam’s sword out here, perhaps they deserve it.

You start walking.

_________

Life moves on, and so do you.

_________

One day, you catch someone's attention in a small village.

It begins after you treat someone with an infected cut and start walking toward someone else who is clearly sick. You feel eyes on you, different from the passing glances of the rest of the village's inhabitants. 

You look in the general direction of the gaze and spot a pair of ears disappearing around a fence. You stare for a few seconds before moving on, rationalizing that it's just a curious bystander.

Of course, over the day, you feel those eyes on you again and again, and every time you turn to look at them, you catch a hint of furry ears disappearing. By the end of the day, you’ve seen nothing but the same pair of furry ears disappearing behind an object.

Only when day becomes night and you enter your lodgings for the night do you feel those eyes leave you.

___________

You pause a good 60 feet outside the village.

There is someone following you..

They’re either not trying to hide it, or they’re very inexperienced, as every few seconds you hear twigs being snapped, plants being brushed, and somewhat laboured breathing.

You look in the general direction of the noise, barely catching a glance of a now familiar pair of furry ears before they disappear behind a tree.

Clearly they want something from you, yet they haven’t approached you. It makes you suspect that they have ill intent towards you. 

Perhaps they do, perhaps they don’t, but regardless they want something, and you’re far too old to be playing these games.

You set up camp in a clearing, something you haven’t done since your teacher was alive, and the thought alone is enough to make you almost dissociate into age old memories of when life mattered. The campfire takes longer than you’d like to start, fumbling a bit with the flint and steel, but it starts eventually.

The stalker is nearby and hidden beside a bush. Their movements are loud and obvious while you set up. 

The gun in your pocket grows heavier and heavier. But it is a comforting weight nonetheless.

You lay against the trunk of a tree, faking a yawn and stretching out, before tilting your head down as if you’re falling asleep.

10 steps away, your hand grips the gun resting in your pocket.

8 steps away, you discreetly withdraw your gun from your jacket.

4 steps away, you patiently wait.

2 steps away.

1 step away.

Once your stalker is in front of you, you hear them make their move, so you do too.

Your gun is raised to their temple before your eyes are even open, your stalker pauses, and then you open your eyes.

Your bag filled with medical supplies is being gripped by a tiny pale hand, fingernails dirty and hand littered with calluses. You raise your head, and meet eyes with the curious and tired gaze of a child. 

Her eyes are bright green, her dirty hair a strange mixture of white and green, her skin light and blemished with small cuts, and she bears a distant resemblance to a lynx. Her ribcage is slightly visible through what you think is a shirt, and she’s very small.

She can’t be more than eight.

It’s evident she doesn’t recognize what a gun is, and you can’t blame her because guns don’t exist in this world yet. She blinks at you, gazes at the gun in your hand with wonder, and asks you a question.

“Does that heal people too?” Her words are quiet, barely a whisper above the silence in the forest, but the curiosity in them is loud enough. 

The words are a parody of what you once asked your teacher when you first met, and that familiarity is enough to remind you of the void in your chest.

You lower your gun.

“Sometimes.” You reply. “Other times, not so much.” The gun is slipped back into your pocket and you open your bag, watching the child’s eyes go wide at all the neatly stored herbs and tools inside.

This child is definitely not eating enough. Even if she’s younger than eight, she still carries too little weight.

“Where are your parents?” You ask her as you give her a piece of ginger to admire, watching as she gently cradles it in her hands.

“I don’t know.” She says idly, staring at the ginger in clear interest. “I never met them.” Her stomach growls, but she doesn’t seem to care, her eyes glued to the vegetable. “Can you teach me to heal too?”

You say no almost immediately, but the word catches on your tongue because her eyes rise to meet yours.

You used to see those eyes all the time. Both in the mirror and on your teacher’s face. Eyes that burned with such fervor that you almost didn’t recognize who you were looking at.

Is this what your teacher saw when he looked at the child you were? Before you became who you are?

You pull your hood down far enough that the child’s eyes are no longer visible to you at this angle, doing your best to force the memory of your teacher down, and even though it’s successful the sentimentality remains.

Perhaps that is why you agree, not really thinking about the future ramifications but more the past memories.

“Very well.” You reach your hand out to her, palm open. “Most people these days call me Doctor, but if you wish you can also call me teacher. What should I call you?” The child shifts the piece of ginger to one hand, and reaches out to grab yours with her now free one. Her grip isn’t very strong, but her arm doesn’t shake, and you don’t need to see her face to tell that her eyes are resolute. 

“My name is Kal’tsit.” She says. “Please teach me all you can.”

___________

It takes two hours to get to the next town with your new student riding on your back. Your first stop is at a baker.

Kal’tsit is surprised when you purchase a loaf of bread from a baker and immediately place it into her hands, and even more so when you say the entire thing is for her. It takes some insistence from you for her to eat the entire thing, but eventually she does, though she does shyly try to offer you a piece of it.

You deny it, because even though you don’t know what the healthy weight of the average child is here on Terra, you’d have to be blind to not realize she is the farthest thing from healthy. You’ll have to start feeding her with small meals and snacks, and make sure she gets her required nutrients. She definitely won’t eat the entire loaf of bread, and even then bread won’t give her everything she needs, but it’s a good start.

Resolving to feed her more later, you drag her to a merchant to get something similar to the robe you wear, as well as some extra clothes so she isn’t wearing what qualifies as the worst shirt in existence 24/7. 

Kal’tsit protests when she sees the price of some of the items you barter with the merchant for, and tells you she doesn’t need anything.

Perhaps you’re investing far too much into a child you’ve known for barely 3 hours, but something within you tells you to do so anyways. It’s not like you have a use for the money you have.

After adding a child-sized bag to the pile of clothes, you pay for everything and bring her to an inn, of which she also protests, but you simply ignore. 

It’s not a child's job to worry about the amount of money spent on them, and while you’re glad to see your student won’t need to be taught to budget, the reminder of life’s harshness still stings.

The room you pay for is small, with only one bed, a bathtub, and a chair in the corner. Without a word Kal’tsit makes her way to the chair, a yawn coming out of her mouth, and sensing a potential protest, you wait for her to settle into it and fall asleep before picking her up and gently tucking her into the bed.

You’ll need to work on that with her. If you base her growth and needs off a human child, sleeping in chairs would not be good for her.

Now that you think about it, your teacher always made you sleep on a bunch of blankets when you had to camp outside. You’ll likely have to do the same for Kal’tsit.

Have sleeping bags even been reinvented yet? If you go back to that merchant could you ask for one? Or will you need to purchase multiple blankets as your teacher did for you?

You settle into the chair and glance at your new student, the rise and fall of her chest under the blanket a good sign of her sleep. It’s a wonder she’s managed to survive with how she’s been living.

You are getting far too invested in a child you barely know.

The realization makes you want to bury your face in your hands and you swear you can hear your teacher laughing at you from the afterlife.

You don’t know how to take a child. You know what the signs of healthiness are and the general idea, but you have not once in your long lifetime ever personally cared for a child. 

Once upon a time you had considered having children, but the thought of outliving them was too much, and you swiftly discarded it.

And the thought of someone else being forced to live as you do was even worse.

With a sigh, you relax into the chair and start planning out what you need to do tomorrow. You doubt you’ll manage to do everything you come up with, but progress is progress, and that’s all you really care about.

___________

Kal'tsit takes to the art of healing even better than you did at her age. Her ability to memorize and emulate your movements is amazing. It's impressive for an 8-year-old, and had you been a regular doctor from Terra, you likely would've run out of things to teach her in the first two months due to the rather limited knowledge at the moment. 

Your student really lucked out encountering you.

The notebook you gave her to write in- and wasn’t that a surprise. She was able to read and write.- has already been almost filled. Notes about plants, procedures, diseases, and medicine filling each page in neat handwriting.

You’re not so far gone that you forget that other people do not have near infinite stamina, but it is still odd to stop for breaks so Kal’tsit can catch her breath, or rent a room at an inn for the night so she can be well rested. 

Stopping was never an option for you, because if you stop it’s so much easier to remember that you haven’t been able to sleep since your teacher passed or that eating and drinking isn’t necessary anymore.

She still acts shy around you and why wouldn’t she? Her life has changed dramatically, and even though she asked for it it’ll still take time for her to adjust to you.

That’s fine though. It’s not like you’re short of it.

___________

You’ve started to pick up some disturbing clues about your student.

Mainly, it is her apparent refusal to ask for things or act without your say.

Her stomach growls beside you, but she doesn’t say a thing, just continues looking at you like she’s expecting something to happen. 

You glance at the delicious smelling soup in front of her (a large bowl since the both of you had rushed here this morning to avoid being caught in a minor catastrophe and subsequently did not eat) then back at your student with barely hidden worry.

“Aren’t you hungry, Kal’tsit?” You ask her.

“Yes.” Is her simple reply before resuming your unwanted staring contest.

You can’t remember what to do if a child refuses to eat. You’ve never had this problem with her before, so you never bothered to check if you actually remembered.

If you could still sweat, you’d probably have broken into a cold one by now, but as it is, you merely stare at your student with growing worry.

Her stomach growls again and she does not move.

You push the bowl closer to her, watching the full body twitch she gives at it.

“Please-“ You can’t even finish speaking before your student turns away and digs into the soup. 

Like she had been waiting for a signal.

Disgust rolls around your stomach like a ball of oil and you feel a frown adorn your face. You push it all down when your student glances at you from the corner of her eye, face very quickly blanking into a smile as you motion to her food, which she happily returns to focusing on.

Later, much later, you will have to address this. Speaking about it now, if the way your student acts is any indication may cause her to run off at the first sign of danger. What you will do is slowly get her to start eating without telling her to directly or indirectly. Maybe try to get her to express herself more.

Your stomach curls again and anger shakes your body. You keep it off your face, but you curl the hand in your pocket into a fist.

Kal’tsit finishes eating beside you, bowl completely empty, and looks at you for instructions with a carefully blank face no child should wear.

The anger simmers.

___________

It takes about a year for Kal’tsit to relax around you.

You’re mid lecture about the correct measurements for a medicine that can help fight off an infection when she suddenly curls up into your side.

It’s enough of a shock for you to pause mid sentence, and apparently Kal’tsit is just as shocked at her action because she tenses at your side. 

The feeling of her curled against your side isn’t a bad thing. It’s actually very comfortable.

Slowly, gently, you bring your hand up, giving your student ample time to move away or make any sign that she’s not uncomfortable with what you’re about to do.

She stays still, eyes watching your every move, still tense, but not moving.

Your hand comes down and ruffles your student’s hair, chuckling at the somewhat constipated look her face scrunches into.

But she does relax into it.

“I suppose the lecture was getting a bit boring, wasn’t it?” You ask her jokingly. Kal’tsit looks away from you with slightly red cheeks, an embarrassed and muttered “sorry” leaving her.

“It’s ok. Everyone gets bored eventually. I did too when my teacher trained me. That’s why we take breaks.” You start to bring your hand away, but Kal’tsit surprises you again by reaching up and tugging it back down to her head. She gives you a smug and triumphal look, but underneath that you can see a thin layer of panic and wariness, like she’s questioning if that was a good idea.

You rub her head, watching as your student purrs, shoulder’s untensing, and then realizes what she’s doing and blushes at you. 

You can’t help but laugh at her, apologizing when she scrunches her cheeks and pouts at you, but you don’t remove your hand.

She doesn’t leave your side either.

___________

The day of your parents' deaths comes, and Kal'tsit tugs you in your haze-filled state towards an inn in a village you should have passed through four hours ago.

Despite being only nine, she understands your current state and has made the executive decision that both of you are taking the day off. To further emphasize this, she wraps herself around your chest and refuses to let go despite your meagre resistance.

You could easily remove her from your chest, but you don't.

Eventually, the haze fades, the sky is dark outside, and Kal'tsit is using you as a pillow, tiny arms wrapped around you in her sleep. Her stomach growls in hunger, a displeased grumble escaping her as she buries her head further into you, and the disappointment you feel for yourself outweighs whatever remnants of the past try to stick to you.

What poor excuse of a teacher allows their student to starve? 

Gently, you nudge her awake, adding the guilt you feel from doing so to the ever growing pile, and watch as she blearily blinks awake.

“Teacher?” She murmurs quietly, yawning as she unwinds her arms from around you and stretches in your lap. “Are you ok?”

No.

“For now, yes. Sorry about that, Kal’tsit.” You scratch her head gratefully, something she happily leans into. 

“It’s ok.” She yawns out. “I wanted a break too.” She wraps herself back around you, a sleepy purr escaping her. “I’ll see you in the morning.” Her stomach growls once again, but she says nothing, instead relaxing into your chest, and your guilt only increases.

You should’ve known your student wouldn’t ask for food. Her behaviour since you took her under your wing has been a clear indicator of what her life’s been like before this.

This is poor timing, but you’d rather skim over your mental health than your student starving, and you’re 70% she trusts you enough to not run off now.

“Kal’tsit, you know it’s ok to ask for food, right?” You can feel her freeze against your chest, body suddenly tensing, and her eyes snap up to look at you, wide and alert.

Her stomach growls, but she remains silent.

Slowly, you lift her off of you, gently untangling her arms from your sides, and set her down beside you on the bed. 

“I don’t really know what your life was like before you met me, but something tells me you didn’t get a lot of food, did you?” It takes a moment before she starts nodding, face turned away from you, hands grasping the blanket below like a lifeline, and twitching when you stand up from the bed.

“Kal’tsit, whenever you’re hungry, don’t wait for me to make something or get you something to eat. Tell me you’re hungry and I’ll make sure you’re fed. Or even if you’re not hungry but there’s something you want to try, tell me and I’ll get you it. You don’t have to starve yourself or wait for me to tell you to eat. You remember what happens if someone doesn’t eat, right?” She nods slowly and starts rattling off what you’ve taught her a second later.

“Glucose stores are depleted and the body starts using other resources for energy, causing weight loss, fatigue, pain, organ failure, and difficulty eating normal amounts of food again…” She trails off, a mix of wariness, shame, and familiarity coating both her voice and face.

“Yes, and it’s not a good state for any human to be in.” You reply, watching her ears twitch at the unfamiliar word human. “There’s a reason I taught you about starvation first, and it was so you’d remember to eat when you got hungry.” You kneel down in front of her, and she turns to meet your gaze. “Tell me, Kal’tsit. Are you hungry?” 

Her stomach growls again, her face finally breaks, eyes watering, and she nods.

“Yes.” She says, voice tiny, and leaps into your open arms to wrap her own around your neck. “I’m sorry.” Gently, you hug her to your chest, ignoring the tears and snot being smeared into your shoulder. 

“It’s ok, Kal’tsit. Never apologize for being hungry.” You stand up, double check that your student is secured in your grip, before exiting your room and making your way downstairs to the inn’s bar. “I’ll never be mad at you for being hungry, and no matter what happens, I’ll always be happy to give you food.” Joyful laughter and loud chatter echo from below, and the smell of food greets your nose.

“It smells good.” Kal’tsit mumbles into your shoulder, face still buried in it, and you feel yourself smile a little.

“That it does.” You reply, a hand reaching up to pat her on the head. “Let’s go order some good food.” Kal’tsit hums in agreement as you reach the last step and start heading for bar seats.

As bad as your shutdowns usually are, this one at the very least led to something good.

___________

At 10 years old, you decide to start teaching Kal'tsit how to mold her arts. 

Of course, this is a bit difficult as you have no arts yourself, only theory built from trials and 2nd hand knowledge from those adept in the field. You do have a rather crude looking originium tool that’s currently regarded as very high quality for the time, but once again, you have no arts, so its usefulness is questionable. Teaching her this will truly be a challenge, but this is something you so badly wish for your student to know.

The usefulness of healing arts. The potential it has. They aren’t necessary, but it would make your student’s life so much easier. You know that on Earth you could’ve saved so many lives with something like arts.

When you broach the topic with your student, as well as outline the difficulty, she gives you a confused look.

“But I already know how to use arts.” She holds her hand out for you, and you’re treated to the sight of a small green orb forming in the center of her palm.

You feel your jaw drop, and while your face is covered by the shadow of your hood, Kal’tsit must still somehow see your reaction because she stands up on her toes to try and pat you on the shoulder, which is adorable for someone as small as her but also what.

“I-when did you have time to learn?” You ask her after you overcome the initial shock. “I would’ve assumed before we met, but you said you were an orphan that nobody bothered with.” 

Someone must have taught her. Of course there’s a non-zero chance that she somehow taught herself, but for someone with no medical knowledge prior to this it is extremely unlikely. 

It’s only your years of experience that allows you to notice the full body flinch Kal’tsit attempts to hide and the tension that squeezes her in an instant.

That alone is enough to make your curiosity disappear, and now you can’t help but feel like crap.

Nobody flinches like that without a reason, and the fear in your student’s eyes is far too real for you to be comfortable with.

You already knew her life before you met wasn’t the best with the little talk you had with her roughly a year ago at the inn, but naively, you had hoped that was limited to mostly food and possessions.

You step back and turn around, shame and anger covering you like a cloak.

“Sorry, Kal’tsit. Sometimes your teacher is too curious for their own good. We don’t have to talk about it, so let’s take a break for now before we keep going to the next town.” You move a bit farther away, close enough that you can run over to your student if need be, but far enough away that she can see you and react to what you do.

Did she forget that you weren’t whoever her old caretakers were when she revealed her knowledge?

You’re still not looking at her, so you don’t see her startled expression or the way she works her mouth in obvious indecision, and when you glance back at her, your student’s face is carefully blank.

The topic of her learning arts is never brought up again.

___________

Existence is painful. 

Kal’tsit follows you like a puppet with cut strings, eyes red, nose stuffed, and hand holding your own in a death grip. Every few seconds, she’ll let out a hiccup or a cut off sob. 

Her tears have long since run out.

When someone dies, they leave a hole that can’t be filled in the world, and those they have left behind are stuck trying to forever fill it. You know this very well.

Your student collapses onto you once you arrive back at the inn, her arms and legs wrapping tightly around you, and her face burying itself into your chest. One of your arms hug her while your free hand comes up to gently rub the back of her head.

It was bound to happen one of these days. Where your student learns what losing someone does to a person.

“You couldn’t have saved his life, child. It was far too late.” You whisper into her ear, noting the tremors wracking her body. “All you could’ve done was ease his pain.” It’s hard to see your student in this state even though you had done so intentionally.

Part of you feels guilty for letting Kal’tsit join you for this one. You knew the patient was a lost cause from the very beginning. Before you two had even entered the house, you could’ve told her to wait outside or even just in another room prepping for what was to come.

But every doctor loses a patient someday, and you’d rather Kal’tsit learn that young and with you instead of old and alone.

She breathes heavily and loudly in your hold, most of them convulsive gasps that barely do their job and allow air into her lungs. You rub her back in slow soothing motions, doing your best to ground her to the world around her. 

Eventually, her breathing evens out enough for her to speak again and she looks up at you with such broken eyes when she does.

“Why… Why couldn’t we save him? Did we mess up?” Kal’tsits’ words are desperate little things. More pleas than an actual question.

You answer anyway.

“Logically, his disease had advanced too much. With the tools and medicine we had on hand, at best we could’ve made his death painless, which is exactly what we did.” You move your hand to gently rub her head, heart aching when you hear sniffle into your chest. “We did all we could for him. There was nothing more to be done.” You quietly murmur those words to her, ignoring the sob that escapes her as best you can.

“I’ve seen people die before. I’ve even killed them, so why does this hurt more?” She wails into your chest, and it is only thousands of years of experience that keeps you from freezing.

That is a lot that you’ll need to unpack later when your student isn’t compromised and in distress. 

Ignoring how extremely worrying that revelation was to you, you do the only thing you can do at this moment, and answer her.

“Killing someone and failing to save someone are two different things.” You pause for a moment, thinking on what to say, before continuing. “Killing someone is more personal. More meaningful in that you are face to face with them and some part of you is acknowledging that you will end their life.” You can feel her eyes on you now, so you keep talking.

“Failing to save someone is only similar in that someone dies.” You feel her flinch against you again, and you rub slow circles into her back. “It means that you’ve done everything you can, tried everything you could, but in the end, there was nothing you could do, and the patient’s ailment killed them.” You pause for a second, the taste of ash making you hesitate, before you push past it. “I’ve failed to save people too. I lost my entire village to a disease only I was immune to.” 

Kal’tsit’s shaking has slowed, attention now fully on you.

“When I was much, much younger, a horrible disease no one had ever heard of spread to my village.” You take a deep breath, ignoring your now itchy hands. “Everyone but me was infected, and I had tried everything I could to cure them. When I ran out of ideas, I left to try and find someone else who could help.” You look down at your student, meeting her red-rimmed eyes. “They were all dead when I came back. Not a single person had survived except for me.” You gently tug Kal’tsit closer until her head is against your chest again.

“Kal’tsit, losing people is a common fact of life. It is not your fault .”

You feel smoke and decay filling your nostrils. The blood on your hands is sticky and wet, but you swear it should’ve dried up by now.

“You can’t blame yourself for something out of your control.”

You should’ve come back sooner. You should’ve been quicker. You should’ve been smarter.

“It hurts, it will always hurt. Even years later when you’re an old man like me, it will still hurt.”

It hurts to live but you can’t die. You’re so tired but you can’t sleep.

“But you must move on. You can cry, scream, insult yourself until the sun comes up, but it is not your fault, and you must move on and live your life.” 

You’re not sure how long you can keep going.

You feel your voice start to crack, feel a phantom hand squeeze yours, and push out one last sentence. 

“There is more to life than those buried beneath us.” Somehow, those are the words that let your student fully collapse into you, eyes finally closing and muscles slowly relaxing. You lay down and pull the blanket over the two of you, exhausted Kal’tsit firmly attached to your chest.

You feel raw in ways you haven’t for years. 

There is more to life than those buried beneath us… 

You glance down at your student, watching the slow rise and fall of her chest, before looking up at the roof.

If only you could accept your teacher’s words just as easily as Kal’tsit did.

___________

Kal’tsit does not drown in grief for long. The next day, she wakes up and immediately asks for more lessons, for reviews over topics you know she has perfectly memorized, and demonstrations on the procedures you had not taught her due to how rarely they were needed thanks to advances in medicine.

You worry that this will be too much for your student. That she will collapse from the self enforced pressure she places on herself.

She isn’t over the patient’s death, no matter how well she hides it, so you make her go slow, no matter her obvious displeasure.

So caught up in your student’s grief and unhealthy desire to work herself into a coma, you forget all about her little comment about killing.

___________

Despite everything, Kal’tsit is undeniably a child. A very mature child, yes, but a child. 

She runs around the clearing the two of you camped in last night, oversized gloves on her hands as she chases after colorful bugs or picks up interesting rocks. There’s a small smile on her face, carefree and cheerful in a way you rarely see, and it makes you mirror her smile as you watch her from afar.

It doesn’t distract you from the weirdness you feel at being ungloved.

Idly, you clench your pale hands, expecting the feeling of rough leather to rub against your skin, but come away with the almost unfamiliar texture of skin on skin.

You wait for dried blood to meet your skin. For an untamable itch to spread through your hands like it has for years.

Kal’tsit tackles you out of your thoughts, allowing you no more time to think of your naked hands, and she gleefully runs away after a quick hug, having swiped your bag off your lap. She stops to turn around and holler at you, dangling your bag tauntingly in front of her.

Well, it seems she’s given you no choice.

You yell at her to give it back, though your voice lacks fire, and you get up and chase after her, the sounds of her childish glee filling your ears as she runs away.

She does eventually get caught, and she demands that she gets to pick tonight's supper for successfully stealing your bag in retribution. Before you even have a chance to refute, she shoves your gloves into your bag and thrusts it into one of your hands, then clings onto your other with one of hers, and starts dragging you north towards your destination.

The gloves stay in the bag.

___________

You’ve never seen your students' eyes so wide before.

Another firework goes off in the night sky, exploding into pretty lights that causes your student to smile in amazement, and you feel a smile tugging at your own face.

“I didn’t know explosions could be a good thing.” Your student admits beside you, and you add that to the list of concerning things to unpack at a later date when you don’t think your student will have a mental breakdown.

The fireworks were a bit difficult to prepare in secret, especially when you had to find a substitute for gunpowder and the substance you use for your bullets, but Kal’tsit’s smile makes it worthwhile.

You pull your student into a one armed hug, something she absentmindedly responds to by leaning into you and hugging back, a satisfied purr leaving her when you scratch at her ear.

“Happy birthday, Kal’tsit.’” The words are blocked out by another firework lighting up the night sky, but you don’t mind.

Come tomorrow, your struggles will begin once more. 

But for tonight, there’s nothing but the fireworks in the night sky, the warm presence of your student tucked into your side, and a feeling of contentment.

___________

You can’t remember the last time you’ve put any thought into trying to kill yourself.

It’s something you become keenly aware of when the man Kal’tsit is picking metal shards out of begins begging for her to kill him whilst his family continues to hold him down.

It’s funny in a way because he had been hesitant about allowing your apprentice to perform with you only observing unless needed, yet he has no qualms about asking her to kill him.

Not that you can really blame him, truth be told. Surgery, even as small as this isn’t exactly common yet.

You pay half a mind to Kal’tsit’s progress, while the other half of you ponders your lack of progress on finally ending it all.

You have been quite busy these last few years. Raising and teaching a child is a lot more work than you thought it would be, and you can’t help but be amazed at how your teacher and parents managed with raising you.

With child rearing keeping you occupied, you just haven’t had the time to seriously think of ways to die. Sure you’d have the stray thought every now and then, but never really dedicated any actual effort to it.

You do remember hearing about some kind of arts capable of turning living things into glass. Perhaps if you- 

“Doctor, I got all of the shards from his chest. Is it safe to move onto the next step?” Kal’tsit’s voice is steady and calm when she addresses you, but you can still pick out hints of anxiety in her tone.

It seems you’ll have to put it off even longer.

For some strange reason, the thought doesn’t actually bother you, and you deposit yourself at your student’s side.

“Move over a bit, won’t you? I have no doubt you’ve done well, but it is never a bad idea to check.” Despite what you’re doing, you can’t help but feel happy.

——————

"Doctor, why don't you sleep?" Your student is boneless across your lap, her head supported by your medical bag, and her eyes turned up towards the stars. 

It’s rare for your student to cuddle like this with you these days. Preteens can be moody, and your student is no exception. 

"I was under the impression that it was a sleep disorder, such as insomnia, but then I realized you've shown no signs of fatigue." Kal'tsit tilts her head forward to look at you. "Why is that?"

Such a smart child your student is.

“…As people age, things within them can change." You think back to when you were younger. Back when your parents were still alive and you yourself were but a child and you’d fall asleep listening to them speak.

Then you remember countless sleepless nights where you couldn’t find it in yourself to lay down and rest, and never did again.

You stop yourself before you get dragged too far into the memories of your loved ones, and continue speaking.

“When I was your age, I needed to sleep just as much as you do.” Kal’tsit gives a disbelieving huff at that and you can’t help but smile in amusement.

“It’s true, as hard as it may be to believe, but one day I couldn’t force myself to sleep. So I stayed up, repeated it for the next few nights, and found I no longer needed it.” 

It’s the truth, but broken down into snippets of the entire picture. You don’t include what kept you up or why it kept happening. Your student has no need for your depressing past.

She hums in your lap, inquisitive eyes meetings yours, and asks you in a curious voice- 

“Can I make it so I don’t have to sleep like you too?” The question is innocent, but it doesn’t fail to send ice down your veins and make your entire body tense.

You think of constant motion, of endless days and nights filled with nothing but walking, and then you think of Kal’tsit doing the same. Of her never stopping to rest and never yielding even when she wants to. Of a spire of bodies burning in front of her and blood drying on her hands.

“No.” Your voice is harsher than you meant it to be, ashen words falling off your tongue, and your payment for it is Kal’tsit tensing up in your lap and eyes locking onto you like you’ll snap any second.

You sigh, mentally slapping yourself, and speak in a much gentler voice. 

“Kal’tsit, being unable to sleep isn’t as great as it sounds. There are many days where all I want in the world is to lay down and rest, but can’t.” You rub slow circles on her forehead, and she begins to relax, forcing her head up into your hand. “I don’t want that for you. I want you to be able to stop when you want to. To just enjoy what you’ve done and be at peace with.” 

To live the life you can’t.

Familiar bitterness creeps into you and you do your best to keep it out of your next words. “So please, don’t try to be like me. Take inspiration by all means, but learn from my mistakes so you yourself will not make them.” A beat later, you feel your student nod into your hand, so you force your tense muscles to relax.

“I’m glad you understand. I’m sorry if I was a bit harsh. I just want what’s best for you.” 

“It’s ok. I know.” Kal’tsit pushes your hand off her head so she can lean up and hug you, and you gladly return it. “Thank you, Doctor.” Her words are quiet but kind, with an undertone of something you can’t parse, but you’re grateful all the same.

___________

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget how old your student is now.

She wandered off hours ago in the town you’re passing through, claiming she wanted to ‘shop on her own’, and you allowed it, knowing that at her age it’s important to gradually give her more and more independence. So while she went shopping, you went to the inn and rented a room for the night.

She’s 17 now, a teenager on the cusp of adulthood, and luckily the only thing she’s really given you is a bit of attitude and grey hairs. 

Take tonight for example, where you are currently searching the town for your student because it is almost midnight and you haven’t seen a single instance of her since six pm.

You miss when she was eight and would ask for piggybacks and cling onto you like a koala does a tree.

Understandably, you are worried out of your mind because your student has practically disappeared off the face of the planet with nary a word, which in turn is causing you to frantically search the streets for her.

You find her at a bar of all places, drunk off her ass and chatting with a bunch of grizzled and scarred men at least four times her age. She’s got a drunk’s smile, wide and boisterous like you’ve never seen on her, and her cheeks are flushed a deep red.

Her table notices you when you catch your student just before she falls back off her stool, pushing her forward until she’s safely slumped over on the table, and she turns her head woozily to peer up at you.

“Oh, hi Da- hiccup -Doctorrrr.” Kal’tsit slurs at you, pushing herself up to sloppily wrap an arm around your shoulder and forcing you to bend down into a one armed hug. “Wha-what are you doinggg here?” 

It seems your talks about alcohol and drinking in moderation were for naught.

“Checking in on my dear student who’s been missing for a good six hours and has had me searching for the past two.” Your student at least has the state of mind to look somewhat guilty at your answer and gives you a slurred apology, which doesn’t really make you feel better, but at least you know she’s fine for the most part.

A Forte at the table laughs and raises a mug towards you.

“So you’re the infamous Doctor she’s been ranting all night about! How about you take a seat next to Kal’tsit over there and join us for a drink?” He downs his mug as Kal’tsit half-pulls half-guides you into the seat next to her despite your polite decline.

You politely decline the mug of beer one of them pushes towards and ignore Kal’tsit’s disappointment when you stop her from grabbing it instead.

“I apologize, but we’ll have to leave soon. We’ve got an early day tomorrow and alcohol won’t make it any better.” That last part you direct to your student, who pouts at you like she’s still 9, but she doesn’t reach for the mug again.”

You and her are going to have a very long talk about drinking in moderation again tomorrow.

“Who are these people, Kal’tsit?” You ask her once your table mates turn away, staring into their mugs with disappointment. “Please don’t tell me you just sat down with strangers and let them buy you drinks.” She snorts at your worried words and shakes her head.

“They-they’re my commanding officersss.” She says, waving at them as the three murmur about needing more liquor.

It takes you a few moments for her comment to register, but when it does, it’s like something clicks. All the clues combine together to paint a picture of your student’s mysterious and troubling past, and suddenly you're faced with three of the people included in it.

Three people who trained child soldiers.

You don’t even need to think about what you’re doing before you do it.

Kal’tsit grabs your arm with surprising strength just before you bring your gun up over the table, still unmistakably drunk, but a kind of wariness and surprise on her features you’ve never seen her display in front of you and never want to see again. 

The men in front of you are none the wiser, drunk and looking at the bar up front admiringly. 

“Kal’tsit, let go of my arm.” You command her, ignoring the ping of shame you feel at the slight flinch she gives from your voice.

Does it remind her of what they made her do?

The thought just makes your hand tighten around your gun more.

You watch her briefly consider it, the grip on your arm lessening minutely, before resolve enters her eyes and her hand tightens.

“No.” Her tone is like iron and her hand tightens its grip. 

You flick your wrist and your gun lands in your other hand. Kal’tsit’s face twists into what you can only describe as horror and you start raising your gun once more.

That is the only thing that stops you this time. Your student’s terribly frightened face.

How long has it been since you’ve seen that face? Was it when she was a child and you raised your voice too loud? Was it when you tried to guide her with your hands and she almost had a panic attack?

You look at the three older men who could have played a hand in your student’s horrible childhood, feel rage and anger tightening your grip around the handle of your gun, and then you look at your student’s terrified face turned pleading, a desperate thing you’ve never seen the true extent of until this moment.

It’s not really a debate at all, is it?

You slide your gun back into your bag and tug Kal’tsit up so that she’s leaning on your shoulder. You cast one last look at the drunk warriors, who are still ogling the bar like it’s the best thing they’ve seen all night, before pulling your trembling student closer to your side and start walking towards the inn.

The next day, Kal’tsit groans in her bed and whines when you tell her it’s time to get up, and besides the hangover, it’s like nothing has happened.

You don’t ask her about those men and she doesn’t bring them up.

___________

“Teacher, do you have a home?” Kal’tsit, freshly 20, asks you as the both of you monitor a child with a freshly healed leg run around, her excitement getting more obvious as she moves uninhibited for the first time in weeks.

You turn your head to give your student a questioning look, but she returns one of her own, as if she was saying ‘well?’

Sometimes you swear she was easier to handle as a teenager. 

“I haven’t had an actual house in a while.” You answer after a moment of silent staring. “I’ve been travelling for a majority of my life.” The answer makes your student frown, which in turn makes you frown. “What?” Kal’tsit shakes her head at your question.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.” She turns back to watch the child, face smoothing into a neutral expression. “It’s nothing important.” Your frown deepens from her reply, before you follow her lead and turn back to the child.

The frown doesn’t go away.

___________

It takes three entire years for her to approach the subject with you again.

“Teacher?” Kal’tsit’s voice calls out to you quietly from behind. “Can we talk?” There’s an unusually wary undertone to her tired voice that makes you frown as you stand up from the desk you were seated at. You wander over to the side of the bed and sit down at its edge before turning to look at your student.

“What’s wrong? Having trouble falling asleep?” You ask her, because it’s been three hours since your student settled down to sleep and something like two am in the morning, which is far past the time Kal’tsit is usually awake. She’s also sitting up instead of laying down, which is just another clue to the growing pile of evidence that something is wrong.

She mulls over your question for a few moments, indecisiveness warring with resolve on her face, before resolve wins and she nods. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about for a while.” She says, meeting your eyes and then looking away, a nervous gesture you rarely see on display. “I’ve been… unsure of how to bring it up to you.” 

Now she’s making you nervous and you don’t even know what about.

“I’m all ears.” You reply, and Kal’tsit takes a deep breath.

“If I wanted to settle down in a village somewhere, instead of traveling around like you do, would that be ok?” She blurts out, leaving barely a single space between her words, and then immediately clamps up.

Oh. 

“Kal’tsit, do you remember what I told you all those years ago about sleeping?” She nods, 

“Just because something is good for me, doesn’t mean it’s good for you. I did not agree to teach you all those years ago because I wanted you to

become exactly like someone else. I wanted to teach you because you were you. Because I saw something in you that I knew could be nurtured.”

You leave the foot of the bed to move to her side and gently push her down. “This is the life I live, but it doesn’t have to be yours. Don’t let me stop you or keep you up, ok?” 

“Ok.” She murmurs, halfheartedly giving you a stinkeye when you tuck her in like she’s nine all over all again, but shuts her eyes. “Thank you, teacher.” 

“Anytime, Kal’tsit.” You say as you head back over to the desk. “Anytime.”

You taste ash.

___________

Kal'tsit is 27 when you realize you have nothing left to teach her. 

The day had just started; Kal'tsit was groggily making coffee over the fire, her sleeping bag in disarray next to yours. The sun was only now rising into the sky, and Terra's moons were slowly moving out of sight. 

You can’t think of anything to teach today.

Frowning, you glance at your student, doing your best to think of something you had yet to teach her, but you come up blank.

Have you really exhausted your stores of medical knowledge already? Kal’tsit has only been under your tutelage for 19 years. It hasn’t even been that long.

Kal’tsit takes notice of your face and she mirrors it.

“Doctor, what’s wrong?” An edge of worry coats her tone, so you wave her off before you make her anxious about nothing. 

“It’s nothing, Kal’tsit. Just thinking of today’s test.” The groan your student lets out makes you smirk a bit, but it disappears the second your student turns back to the fire.

A final test for your student. If she passes, in your eyes she will be a fully trained doctor, and no longer need to shadow you or follow your guidance.

You feel proud at the thought of your student officially becoming a doctor, happiness too, but you also feel sad. When she passes, she’ll be free to go where she wishes and work alone.

“When” because there is no universe where Kal’tsit fails.

She sits across from you, coffee in one hand, fruit in the other, and you begin her verbal test.

You ask her about diseases, their symptoms, and possible cures. Debate on what kind of surgery should be performed on a patient who has had their intestines sliced in half. Question her on what herbs can be used to help with coughing, where they grow, and other herbs with similar effects.

You ask so much more, enough that by lunch you and Kal’tsit both want the test to be over. 

And then it is.

“Congratulations. You’ve passed with flying colors as usual, Doctor Kal’tsit.” You stifle an amused laugh when she freezes at the address, head snapping towards you in the next second.

“Doctor…?” Her eyes are wide with surprise, tone both confused and hopeful as she stares at you.

“Yes, doctor.” You tug her into a hug. “There is nothing else for me to teach you. Congratulations, you’re officially a doctor.” It takes another few seconds for your words to break past her stupor, but when they do, your student hugs you back tightly, shaking a bit and chin hooked over your shoulder, but you can hear the smile on her face in her next words.

“Thank you.” Those two words she gives you are more like 1000, but you take them all anyway. Even if you can’t possibly puzzle them all out even after all this time.

You think that despite hearing thank you multiple times over the course of your life, that this is the best version you’ve ever received.

__________

Somewhere along the way, Kal’tsit had picked up the habit of ranting. It's not a bad thing, in your opinion. It shows how much thought she's put into the subject.

Though privately you think she only does it because she was never allowed to speak before she escaped whatever child-soldier program she was a part of before meeting you.

You really need to get around to asking her about that.

Not today, however. Today your student is ranting about towns.

Specifically, she is ranting about the many reasons why she needs you to come with her and study oripathy in a nearby village.

She was careful when she brought the subject up, obviously wary, and worked up to it, but it still caused you to tense up and stop walking, which in turn caused her to tense up behind you and also stop walking.

Your hands feel too naked. Where are your gloves?

Kal’tsit stops talking, looking at you with hope and barely concerned worry as she waits for your reply.

You want to say no. You want so desperately to say no, or to even tell Kal’tsit to go alone. Travelling with her was one thing, but staying in one place for an indefinite amount of time? A greedy part of you wanted her to keep traveling with you forever, but another part had always hoped she would eventually split off from you before you could watch age take her.

It will hurt eventually. It will burn you just like your village.

But you consider it. You think, debate, and argue with yourself for minutes. 

Wouldn’t these burns be worth it?

Your silence is making your student anxious and tense. You hear her shuffling in what you’ve long ago determined is her “I’ve upset Teacher by existing and should apologize even though I’ve done nothing wrong” shuffle, and it’s enough to cause you to make up your mind.

“Ok.” You tell her, barely a whisper in terms of sound, but something you know Kal’tsit is capable of hearing.

“Ok?” She echoes, giving you one last chance to back out despite how badly you can tell she wants you to come with her.

If you said no, she wouldn’t blame you. She’d understand.

“Lead the way.” You say before you can consider changing your decision, a forced hand gesturing for her to move. 

You’re only half surprised when she takes the opportunity to hug you from behind.

“Thank you.” She whispers in your ear, relaying thousands of words in only two, and before you can even begin to parse through them all, she untangles from you to grab your hand, and pulls you along like she did when she was a child. 

There are some moments where you truly do see glimpses of your mentor in her. You wonder if he’s been guiding your student from beyond.

Kal’tsit laughs when you almost trip behind her and you scold her for doing so, but there’s no heat in your words.

You make your way to the nearest village.

__________

A year passes in the village, and you start to feel antsy.

For countless years you have always been moving from one place to another. You never stayed somewhere longer than what was required, not since your teacher died and you started searching for a way to end your existence. Every moment of your long life has been filled with motion. 

You never stay around long enough to watch time take its toll on those around you.

It reminds you too much of your immortality. Of being cursed to continue living in a world where everything else will eventually perish. It makes you want to lie down and die.

Something you can’t do.

But you put up with it, because Kal’tsit is perhaps the happiest you’ve seen her. 

She interacts with the residents of this village, growing close enough to most of them that she can call them friends. She smiles more often and relaxes a lot more, something that became somewhat rarer after she experienced her first death all those years ago. The indifferent mask she tends to put up around others is off more often than on. Her studies on the infected aren’t going as well as they could’ve been, but your student doesn’t seem to be put down by that. 

And you’ll accept it, even if every day you stay here weighs heavy on your shoulders, because for the first time in eons, you became attached to someone again. More open than you’ve ever been with even Kollam.

You don’t regret it. If you had the choice to go back in time to when you met your student, you would’ve still agreed to teach her. You’ll never regret meeting Kal’tsit.

That doesn’t stop your eyes from wandering over to the guarded gate leading out of the town.

__________

When Kal’tsit is 31, you start to become more reclusive.

You doubt it’s very noticeable, and even if it is, you could just pass off any questions as old age hindering you from moving around as often as you used to.

It’s the truth and it’s not.

The last time you tried to settle down somewhere for an extended period of time was when your mentor died, and you remember your slow decline. 

You notice the signs early on, having experienced them once before, and hide them as best as you can. It’s easy enough that even Kal’tsit hasn’t noticed aside from an observation that you seem to be hiding indoors a lot, something that you can once again blame on old age causing weak bones.

It’s hard to go outside and watch everything around you change. Change is generally a good thing, yes, but it doesn’t hurt any less how everything but you changes.

Everything within you encourages you to leave this village. To lose yourself in unfamiliar views and faces.

But your student is still here and you can’t leave her.

So you fight against the urge to leave. You fight with everything you have to stay here in this aging village. 

Your nails try to pierce your palm, but all they meet is rough leather.

__________

Kal'tsit is 34 when you decided to leave.

With each year that passes, you watch every inhabitant get older. You see hair grey, skin wrinkle, eyes cloud, and response time slow. Babies become children, children become adults, and adults become corpses.

You see time weigh on your student every time you look at her. A muscle more sore than it was the day before. A line that wasn’t as pronounced a year ago.

Every time you speak to her you taste ash.

It’s too much for you. 

You don’t want to witness your student’s death. You don’t want your last memory of Kal’tsit to be when she’s old and grey, fighting on barely standing limbs against time itself.

You thought you could handle it. That you could put up with this for her, and for a while you could. But you can’t even look your student in the eyes anymore on a good day.

Kal’tsit has noticed, something that you’re not surprised about, and your excuses aren’t enough to deter her from hovering over you worriedly. It stalls her work, which you tell her so, but she ignores your words in favour of glueing herself to your side.

You don’t want her to waste time babysitting you. She has a life to live and better things to do than watch her mentor’s mental health decline. 

If there’s one thing you want, it’s your student to live a happy life, and for that to happen she can’t be babysitting you.

On the day you intend to leave, you spend as much time with Kal’tsit as you can, committing your last moments with her to memory, and doing your best to act normal for her.

Her relief is obvious, and her smiles are less strained when you appear better. The two of you spend the entire day side by side, talking about everything and nothing. You make her favorite food for supper as a thank you, and she falls asleep with her head resting on your lap, much like she did when she was younger, a smile on her face, and laugh lines more pronounced than ever.

You’re a terrible teacher for doing this, but this is all you can offer her.

Monster perks its head up at you from under the table when you start to sneak out, but it lets you go after a quick rub of its furry head.

At least the canine will keep your student company.

Sneaking past the gate and the guards and relatively easy, and before you know it you’re outside the village.

You cast one last glance at the village, at where your student resides.

There are so many words left unsaid between you two. Words that the both of you never thought to put into the world.

And now you never will.

You start walking, feet heavy and shoulders burdened.

__________

A year passes, and while the pressure on your shoulders lessened, the emptiness you feel has only increased.

What was Kal’tsit’s reaction when she found you missing? Did she search for you? Curse you for leaving? Cry until she had no tears left? Was she eating properly? Would she be ok without your presence?

Every day feels like an eternity, and every waking moment is spent contemplating whether or not you should just return and ask for her forgiveness. You feel almost as bad as you did when your parents passed.

But how can you return when you can’t even look at your student without wanting to tear out your eyes?

She might as well be dead to you, and the admittance just makes you feel that much worse.

You mourn for her with every step you take, every itch ignored under your gloves, every ash coating your tongue-

And you keep walking.

_________

Four years pass and you kill yourself just to stop feeling for a bit.

Lethargy and fatigue cling to you like a well-worn coat and guilt settles in your bones like heavy iron. Kal’tsit would’ve had a conniption if she knew what state you were in.

It's too much.

One moment, you’re carefully peeling the skin off a piece of ginger, ignoring your inner turmoil as you usually do, and the next you’re slitting your wrists open with practiced ease. 

You blink, a bit surprised, but slowly relax your death grip on the knife and toss it a few feet away, and let everything go as your vision fades to black.

You wake up with ruined clothes, ruined ginger, and feeling even worse than before. For a moment, you just lie there, no thoughts, just guilt, shame, and failure swirling around in your head, before pushing yourself up off the ground.

The knife is cleaned in a nearby river and you abandon your bloody white cloak and ginger near it. Your bag had escaped your little temper tantrum, so you store away the knife, and retreat back onto the main trail.

You start walking.

_________

A decade passes slowly, painfully, and you stop walking.

You’re not really paying too much attention to your current task, just idly searching through your bag for a specific herb, and the watch falls out and remains unnoticed by you until you hear the glass break against a rock on the ground.

Somewhat startled, you look around your surroundings, before finally turning downwards. 

You feel your breath catch in your throat.

It’s Kal’tsit’s watch pocket watch. Something that you had meant to give her back after borrowing it to make a new calendar.

It’s been 10 years or so since you left. How have you only found the watch now?

The reminder is like a weight on your back, and you crouch down to carefully pick up the watch, wincing when you notice the glass sporting a brand new crack.

The difficulty of getting this made for her was high. You had to get 16 different people to collaborate on making this, and then another five just for creation and shaping of the glass. That’s not mentioning the amount of time it took to actually make it and hide it from your student. Eight years of work for this one little watch.

Longing and sorrow are such familiar feelings at this point that you didn’t realize they left until you feel them fill you once more.

You miss Kal’tsit.

You think about your parents, your teacher, your student, and everything you miss and you’ll never get back. 

In moments like these you can almost hear your parent’s whispers in your ears, gently telling you that they love you, that they’re proud of you, that they’ll wait for you . It’s almost enough to get you to shut down for the rest of the day, or week, maybe even a year if you feel particularly bad.

“ There is more to life than those buried beneath us.” You whip your head to the left, a fool’s errand you know well, but still hope to catch a glimpse of your mentor with.

There is no one there, just the space inbetween, yet the words keep repeating in your head, like a mantra you never willingly chanted.

You look back at the pocket watch ticking away in your hand, designed to never stop moving until it’s destroyed, and the words your teacher gave to you so long ago keep echoing.

You never got to say goodbye to your parents, and chances are you’ll never get to see them again. It’s why you mourn them even after so long, because you’ll never be able to speak to them again, to say the words you so desperately wished to share with them, and to hear their last words as well. 

You didn’t say goodbye to Kal’tsit, but you could have.

You still can.

You’ve had this thought multiple times, argued with yourself both for and against it, and always come to the conclusion to stay away.

You’re tired of it. Tired of everything and wanting nothing more than to just die and finally join your loved ones in death.

But Kal’tsit is still alive, and the two of you still need to talk.

Maybe it’s the watch that encourages you, maybe it’s the thought of your student still breathing, or maybe it’s your age finally revealing itself in one last desperate bid to show you’ve grown, but either way, you tentatively decide to start heading towards the village.

Your student is still alive. She isn’t cremated into ash or buried under dirt and stone. 

She isn’t them , and perhaps it’s time for you to accept that. 

You pick yourself up off the ground and gently secure the watch inside one of the many inner pockets you have in your bag.

You move on.

_________

Despite the nature of your leave, you can’t help but feel excited when you come across the familiar landmarks leading up to Kal’tsit’s village. 

It was a struggle to convince yourself to return to the village. To a place you’re so familiar with that the passage of time is noticeable. Even after your minor resolution, it was still hard to follow through with it.

But you thought of your student. Of all the good times you had with her. The easy smiles that came to you and the warmth that would fill your body.

So you made your choice.

Has she fallen in love yet? Discovered a new kind of medicine or technique to save lives? Does she still tilt her head to the side when she asks a question? 

It’s been a decade since you’ve seen her and anything could’ve happened while you were gone. So many changes in your student’s life that you weren’t there to witness. 

Strangely, the thought doesn’t bother you beyond some guilt. If anything, it excites you.

The questions pile on and almost without input you feel yourself start to walk faster, until you’re all but sprinting. 

You can’t help it. You can’t remember feeling this excited, this happy, in such a long time.

Seeing your student will not create a way to end your life or give you your parents, but teaching her in the first place didn’t either, so you think you can excuse the irrationality, both for yourself and her.

The gates slowly come into view.

She’ll be mad at you, might not even speak to you, but that’s fine. You have all the time in the world to make it up to her.

The distance starts to lessen.

You won’t stay forever, but you’ll at least visit often. You think that’ll be manageable, and if not, the two of you can figure something out. As long as you can see her, you don’t care.

Just this once, you’ll try to live again. If not for yourself, then for Kal’tsit. 

You’ll live long past her. Her life but a blip in your history and another person to mourn, but one you desperately wish for the chance to do so.

As you get closer to the gates, you’re struck with a sudden sense of wrongness. Enough to make your body tense, your feet stop, a hand to reach for your gun, and to cast a wary look around you.

There is nothing. No birds chirping, no wind blowing in your ears, and no children hiding in bushes and overgrowth. 

You are alone.

With trepidation you force yourself to continue walking, ignoring the sinking feeling in your chest. 

Eventually you get close enough to clearly make out the gate and its wooden walls.

There are no guards present.

Perhaps you came right as they’re switching out?

Whatever positive feelings you felt on the way here are slowly overcome by the creeping dread making its way across your body.

You stop in front of the gate, glancing to the left and right, before knocking on the closed wooden gate.

The force of your knock is enough to push one of the gates open, a loud screeching noise filling the air as it slowly swings inwards, before slowing, and eventually stopping. You listen with baited breath for a confused cry, a questioning shout, or the rush of guards coming to stop an intruder.

The village is silent.