Rayne Drops (FFXV)

LVIII) Year Three

I can't tell how much time passes anymore. I know it's days that I spend curled around a growling stomach and aching bones. My muscles fail me as I drag myself to my water source. I never leave the journal alone, reading over my letter over and over again. Ink smudges the pages where bursts of emotion left tears dripping onto the once-crisp pages. I want to say so much more, but I can't write a novel. He'll understand. Gladio's smart enough. Maybe he'll cry too; I doubt it. Funny to imagine, though.

If I had to guess, I'd say days turned into weeks and weeks... well, I really can't tell. I can't guess. I spend far too much time laying I bed, staring at the ceiling as I watch imaginary images of those I love, whether they're living or not. The more I think about it, the more I realize I love more dead than I do living. Maybe the gods really are here to pick them all off, take them away from me for good. They really do hate me. The essence of light they handcrafted to destroy the darkness fell prey to the poison of Ardyn's powers and now all they want is to give it a slow and painful demise. That's it, isn't it?

I sit up and push myself up against the rough wall, rubbing my face tiredly. I can't fight; there're too many daemons outside for me to take on in this state. I feel feverish. I'm constantly in pain, feeling the darkness creep through my mind, poisoning my thoughts and my opinions and twisting hunger and thirst and the plain old urge to sob until my head spins. I'm a wreck.

The daemons nearly enter my cave every day. It's only a matter of time before they take advantage of my weakness and end me for good. I hope they do; I can't do it myself. It's been at least months since Cor's visit, and they have yet to find me. The hunters still roam about by my cave. I can still hear Gladio's voice out there from time to time. It's torture, the way the daemon inside me fights to take control and dive out of the depths to rip him to shreds. With the amount of shuffling I hear outside nowadays, it's no surprise that I don't budge when I hear footsteps. At least, not until I see someone's invaded my hideout.

"And just what the @#$% do you think you're doing?" The figure demands, crossing her arms. The voice, that accent, even the shape of her body... It's so painfully reminiscent of Wyn that I have to close my eyes to muster up the strength to speak.

"Why are you here?" My voice raspy, low from months of lack of use. The occasional mutter doesn't do much.

"Just look at you," she scoffs, coming closer to the lit lantern at my side and crouching to set down a shoulder bag. The ink in the pale skin of her arm has yet to fade, just like the passion in her bright eyes. "Eat up!" Kara announces, prying the bag open and pulling out a can of peaches with a dented fork. My stomach audibly growls and my mouth waters. I haven't had any sort of fruit in years at this rate.

"You just come to give me food?" I ask, snatching the can away from her grasp and peeling back the lid before unceremoniously slurping peaches into my mouth. "Or are you gonna lecture me just like the rest?"

"I know nothing about the rest," she shrugs, waving a hand dismissively and crossing her legs. "Just found some sort of radar on a dead hunter out there; I saw someone living in here and I just knew."

"Well, thanks, I guess." I chug down the juice left in the can and set it aside. Gods, that was amazing.

"How've you been?" She asks, tilting her head to the side. Her demeanor is so incredibly close to that of Wyn's; she hardly knows me, and yet, she cares so much. Maybe it's only because of our connection through her brother. Still, it's a nice change of pace.

"Tired. Starving." I shrug. "The usual."

"And you're still struggling with the darkness?" she inquires carefully. I nod, chewing on my cheek and turning my gaze to the floor. "It's a shame. But it'll die down, I'm sure of it. No matter what you or the others think, I believe you're strong enough to overcome it. You've got that sort of spirit."