Ankyra Sound There are times that walk from you like some passing afternoon

Ephraim turned his head to peer down the jagged throat of the grotto when Raleska did, and found her sentiment echoed in the chambers of his heart. Coward, he hissed at himself, but it was no use. No amount of goading could change the fact that down there was only death. He once found solace in the memories the grotto dredged up in him, but now the sight of it soured his gut and filled his mouth with sickening acidity.

Me, neither, he returned with a heavy sigh. Even just pulling himself to his feet, which he did then, was a tremendous effort. He was exhausted down to his bones. His heart was heavy, second only to the sheer weight of his guilt. He'd done the right thing, and Raleska wasn't tearing him apart for it like he expected, but it was still murder. No matter how they painted it, it was always going to be red as blood underneath it all.

He didn't want to go down there. He didn't want to face it again. He'd stayed there since her death, breathing in the fetid smell of sickness on her corpse, hammering himself with guilt and hatred and misery all at once, and the fresh air of the Sound was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted compared to that. It was a tomb. It was death. But, like Raleska, he was resolved to do it... demons like this were best put to bed swiftly. Neither of them had any hope of moving on if they left things the way they were, or at least he reasoned that.

So on shaky limbs he began to trudge toward the grotto, head slung low with shame and grief both, a resigned exhale shuddering from his lips.