it's over, isn't it? || beck hailsham leisure

Her canon rings

and he falls to his knees.

He doesn't hurt, at least, not like he's supposed to. There's a thousand things he should feel right now and a hundred words he could say. None of them come and the silence remains unbearable. "Gala." She doesn't respond to her name. He didn't expect her to. Should he feel disgusted? Relieved?

There's no reason to run, he can do nothing but face the mess he's made of a girl who'd wanted nothing more than to survive. This didn't feel very much like a victory. The rose gold laurels he'd been promised weigh heavy upon his shoulders as he drags what's left of him closer to her.

Guilt is terrible and agonizing and he's almost grateful that it's all he can feel. He knows he's full of missing pieces and he's pretty sure they'd kill him if he let them. But he won't. He's proven he's got what it takes to survive. The evidence lays, still, in front of him. A part of him wants to believe she looks peaceful.

But that's because he's a coward.

"I hope Alexander greets you warmly."

He means those words, he really does, but he's not sure how much weight they carry. He can dress himself up in sheep's clothing but now it seems to have torn beneath his wolf's coat. He'd killed again. Not for any greater good but merely because he didn't want to die.

For a long while he buries his face in his hands and he cries.

Because he doesn't want to face tomorrow.

The rain continues to pour, he can only move himself inch by restless inch away from Gala. His hands shake as he uproots the coarse leaves around him, clumsily knotting them around a javelin to make it a more bearable crutch.

If only he could start a fire he might be able to stem the blood still pooling around what's left of his leg. Instead he can only scream into the palm he's sunken his teeth deep within and press bandages into the open wound. There's nothing left to mask that pain. He'd never felt anything like it, sharp and somehow deep - it consumes him whole.

He's sure he passes out a couple of times before he's managed to stop it.

He doesn't remember.

Because life goes on. It's stubborn snail pace is all that keeps him company as he lowers himself to the ground and prays that the leaves surrounding him offer some shelter from the storm.

And he waits.

That's all there's left to do.