53. Shallow

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Drizzling tumbled down, reflective of your mood. Despite that, blue gleamed, and a head of tangled hair showed himself in the trunk of a maple tree. Knots opened to faded irises, blank pupils inspecting the tiniest things about you. "You are weaker than last I saw you."

"Shut up. Why are you here?" Far removed from his dwelling on the shore. He didn't waste time, rainwater working to sweep the spot he was on.

"I'm not exactly thrilled to be either, but bothersome trouble showed up. That collapsed kingdom made spirits grow restless with the surge of death. I haven't seen something of this caliber in years and was caught off guard when vengeful wrath took control... The rain won't keep it at bay forever." All his eyes blinked up at you.

"Hah, you said it yourself." You hated repeating it.

"I know you are at your weakest, at this moment, but you are the Grieve of the Spiritland, you have a duty-"

"Are you looking at me right now!?" You hissed when you brought your stump up, clutching the harsh reminder close to you. The freezing coldness that had settled in your body, in your missing limb, was replaced by a burning hatred. Small, abrasive parts of you wondered if it was worth it. You feel guilty just think it. "...just let me rest."

"I have no objections to that." Wisps flared, illuminating the faded red spots sheltered by the sparse trees leading to Borg's tower. They rustle a hopeful tune, unlike the bloodshed you remember. "But I've a feeling you won't. You've something you want to prove. No matter how much it may end up hurting you."

You snatched up the umbrella filled with the rain, its water rippled the puddle under you.

"I don't have anything to prove." Running left a bitter taste. One deep-rooted in your turmoil. It cost you your pride, mixing with all the other hardships, and brewing a storm.


...


Pitter. Patter. Droplets drummed down the dark umbrella, its outpour calming. For now. The sky lightened, a break for the overwhelmed drains. Thin rivers lined the street, not yet flowing over. Your shoe skimmed the top, feeling the tiniest of a drive. A tougher push to get you inside.

"Having a shit day too, huh?" You could have lost your footing swiveling to face Ronin. Concealed under his red hat, he tilted his head to the window beside him, rainwater skimming off and gently replaced by the falling water. A grimace clung as he thoughtlessly wrapped gauze on his knuckles. The extra was stuffed under his dark green breastplate, an intake of air vanishing in a puff.

"What happened...?"

"Just a street fight." He brushed it off. Leaning on the brick wall and legs laid out on the bench, he was somehow restless on the piece of wood in front of Skylor's restaurant. "You look like your day was worse."

A pause, a little break for you.

"Pixal... she's dead." Icy winds had ruptured your throat sore. Their ragged nails tore it. Bloodshot scalars were dry and irritated. You want to say more, and can't. Too exhausted and numb to break once more. And he knows that.

"I'm sorry... She meant a lot to you. C'mere." Ronin slipped his legs off the spot, the rain quick with its wet touch, the roof not enough to shield from it.

"I never showed it to her." He didn't interrupt, letting you pour what was repeating in your head; "I'm an asshole, hah." How many times did you shove her off? One too many times. So against her and you used that as a wall between you. "I distanced myself from her and it still hurts... I deserve it."

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