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The Sands are as grueling as the travelers in the north had warned you.
The ground beneath your feet shifts and stirs with every blowing of the winds; you've been bitten a few times by strange, worm-like pests, and at this rate you’re afraid to look down and find chunks of your leg missing. Grit builds and slips beneath your shell, scratching and searing everything in its path. Your throat crackles and wheezes with thirst, and you can’t list a part of your body that doesn’t ache.
Even still, you're happier than anything to be out of the Swamp; the sun burning a hole in your back is like a blissful melody compared to the thick and humid atmosphere of the marsh. You'll take the pain of overexertion over…
…
No. You're on a mission, now – you won't think about it.
Bleary with building dehydration, among other things, you struggle to recall the directions given towards the Ant Kingdom’s capital city. Past studies and guidances lay in scattered pieces before you - turn right somewhere, keep ahead until you spot something.
Exhaustion drags at your feet like heavy chains, but you refuse to stop. You have nothing but your resolve – foolhardiness, if you were to be honest – to find civilization, find any bug that will then prove the world didn't end in that accursed Swamp–
–because, really, you aren't certain what would happen if you stopped for even a moment. Afraid if you focused on anything but dodging the many cacti and sandy whirlpools, the weight of everything would crash down upon you, drag you beneath the Sands to drown you in your sorrow. You would freeze up, never to thaw no matter how hot your surroundings grew.
You have no time for that. Not now. Not ever, if it can be helped.
(You can't. It hurts. Oh, Gods, it hurts.)
So, you walk - one foot in front of another. You can't freeze. It’s the least they deserve.
You hadn’t seen them die; one saving grace amidst everything.
You don't feel lucky whatsoever. Never will, no matter the logistics.
(Because it should have been you.)
You heard them.
In some ways, you're grateful for that. If you had run sooner, would you have held onto the naive hope that they had survived that Beast? Perhaps you would have waited for the sun to peer through the tall grasses before returning; would there have been anything to return to?
(You don't know if you would have been more or less comforted by remains. You don't think you would have felt anything truly discernible in the moment – but, then, you never returned, did you?
You abandoned them.)
Still. You heard it happen. You hadn't moved from where you'd hidden for hours; paralyzed by fear and horror and grief, because no amount of optimism could pretend that they weren't gone.
And because you only heard them your mind, then, connects imaginary dots. Sickening crunches and wet chewing; were they eaten whole? Trapped between protruding mandibles? Crushed under tapered legs? There's a nauseating sense of morbid, horrified curiosity that lies in the corner of your mind. You hate it more than anything.
Bit had screamed. But only for a moment.
Is there anything left of them? Of your Master?
(You'll never see their faces again. Your fault.)
...Oh.
Oh, Gods. What have you done?
Coward. Failure. You're the rookie, with so very little to offer to the world, so why would they have needed you to live? They had died carrying so much – your Master so much stern insight and experience never to be shared, Bit so much spirit and courage never to be honed.
(In the end, that courage drew nothing but the Beast's jaws. Their hopes will surely be wasted. Why was it not you, instead?)
So much. So much. It should have been you. Why was it not you? Why? Why?
You feel sick. You wish dearly that it had been you.
You had to stop walking, eventually. No matter that the sky had grown too dark to keep your feet from stumbling; you were close to drowning. Half-submerged, thrashing and desperate beneath the water, reaching in vain for the stars to show you mercy, to save you.
Nothing would come. The world had surely ended.
The Sands don't make for comfortable rest, but you’re certain you won’t sleep soundly, anyways. With a prominent crick in your neck, you squeeze your eyes open and closed in an effort to shoo away the moon; stubbornly, it refuses to budge.
You would rather not sleep at all, knowing well what will greet you.
(From past ventures, you know the risks of camping on wide-open, foreign grounds. It never crossed your mind as you stoked the fire.
What does it matter? It didn't. It may never again, without them. If you didn't last to see the morning… Well, that was of no concern.)
Naively, you await the sun's beams in the hopes that it will clear the fog in your mind – illuminate a path forward, and guide your untethered spirit. Light a flame against the darkness. You hope, maybe, all will become clearer; you will no longer be drowning.
You had aims and ambitions, of course. But your Master did, as well; you shared many of his, naturally, with your own lack of foresight. He was a moored rope of stability and sense in an unknown land. Without his guidance, you’re lost – helplessly floating through an empty and claustrophobic void, with no hope of a light at the end of the tunnel.
It hurts, thinking about any of it.
So, you lay down, attempt to silence the tempests clouding your mind and filling your heart with a distinctly cold pit.
The Sands are bitterly cold tonight; you shudder, hug yourself tightly, and try to pretend you are not alone in your small, makeshift campsite.
“Concentrate on your breathing," your Master’s words ring in your ears, ever so patiently. “Quiet your mind's pratter, but do not sever it from the world. Allow nature to soothe your spirit.”
Breathe. You breathe.
...
(Oh. Bit will never get to see the capital city.)
The stars are beautiful tonight. You choke on a sob.
The sloshing of water greets you when you awaken. Musty, humid air sticks to your shell and wraps you in what feels like an overly warm blanket.
You shift, uncomfortable, but find yourself frozen in place, your limbs buzzing with a numb tingle. Alarmed and fruitlessly, you wiggle some more - to no avail.
Paralysis. Of course. How could you have slept through an attack? Master would have your wings for that--
"Kabbu," Bit whispers. In desperation, your head creaks ever so slightly to your right. In the corner of your eye, you find their back to you. They’re sitting, shoulders drawn tight. The fire had been doused hours ago; you wouldn’t be able to make out their face even if you did see it. A pit fills your stomach.
"Kabbu," they echo, a dreamy inflection to their quiet voice. "You know, before we left, a traveler told me the Ant Kingdom had a theatre recently built." Their head gazes towards the sky, bespeckled with stars. "I want to see a show when we arrive. Do you think Master will allow us a scant break?"
They laugh, laugh, laugh so hard you think they’re beginning to cry – from where you lay, it’s impossible to tell. You can’t understand what’s so funny. You try with all your strength to reach for them, open your mouth and say something, anything…
...
You see crimson between the reeds. Bit doesn’t stop laughing.
You awaken with laughter in your ears, and tears in your eyes.