The Undoing of Us

Siren's Call

TW: suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt. If you think this may trigger you, do not read on. You are loved. You are needed. If you need to talk about your feelings, don't hesitate to call or text: 988 (Suicide and Crisis Lifeline)

The wind whips through Zevryn's raven hair, the salt-tinged gusts stinging his golden eyes as he stands at the edge of the bluff, boots scuffing against weathered stone. Below, the waves crash against the jagged cliffs, their ceaseless rhythm echoing the turmoil within him—a war between light and dark, between destruction and the fragile hope for something more.

His gaze traces the churning sea, the moonlight casting an ethereal glow across the undulating surface. How many times has he stood here, watching the tide's eternal dance? How many times has he felt the pull of the abyss, the temptation to let the waters drag him under, to surrender to the darkness that whispers promises of oblivion?

A bitter laugh escapes his lips, carried away on the wind. Kindness. Trust. Fleeting illusions, as insubstantial as sea foam. He has tasted them before, in every village that welcomed him ashore, only to cast him out again when the truth of his prophetic visions surfaced. A cycle as predictable as the waxing and waning of the moon, as inevitable as the ruin that follows in his wake.

"What fools they are..." he murmurs into the night, his tone laced with a weariness that goes deeper than flesh or bone. "Fools to think the world's cruelties would spare them."

The words hang in the air, swallowed by the wind's mournful howl. Zevryn's hands clench at his sides, the leather of his gloves creaking. Something inside him rebels against the resignation that threatens to engulf him, against the numbing cold of a life devoid of connection. A spark of longing ignites in his chest, aching and fierce.

"Maybe this time..." he breathes, barely audible over the ocean's roar. "Maybe this time, it will be different."

But even as the whispered hope escapes him, he knows it for the lie it is. The world will never change its nature, just as he cannot change his. He is the destroyer, the harbinger of sorrow. And no matter how far he runs, no matter how desperately he yearns for something more, that truth will always catch up to him in the end.

The wind picks up, tugging at him with ghostly fingers. Zevryn's gaze lifts to the star-strewn sky, the moon's pale face gazing down upon him like a silent judge. In its ethereal light, he feels the weight of his destiny pressing down on him, inescapable and absolute.

The memory of the first mob haunts him still, a nightmare etched into his soul with the precision of a blade. He was just a boy then, a child lost in a world that feared what it could not understand. They came for him in the night, torches blazing, voices raised in a cacophony of anger and fear. He remembers the way his mother trembled as she pushed him out the back door, her whispered plea to run, to hide, to never look back.

And so he ran, his bare feet pounding against the earth, his lungs burning with each gasping breath. He ran until his legs gave out beneath him, until he collapsed in a heap of torn clothes and shattered innocence. That was the first time he learned the bitter taste of betrayal, the first time he understood that the world would never be a safe place for someone like him.

The second time, he was older, wiser. He saw the signs, read the whispers carried on the wind. He packed his meager belongings and slipped away in the night, a ghost vanishing into the shadows. But even then, he could feel the weight of their hatred pursuing him, a relentless hunter that would never let him rest no matter how he begged.

By the third time, he had learned the futility of pleading, the uselessness of tears. He stood tall in the face of their anger. He let their insults wash over him, let their blows rain down upon his flesh just as his father's used to. And when it was over, when they had exhausted their rage and left him broken in the dust, he picked himself up and walked away.