Luneshale Pass Fingers Tearing Through the Ground

Machi moved slowly, body stiff with tension he refused to reveal, each movement heavy. He bent to gather the fresh cuttings, one by one, arranging them with meticulous care, paws trembling ever so slightly as he tucked them into the pouch. His face betrayed nothing, the calm mask immovable, but his eyes—those opalescent eyes, usually bright and alive in the Jackdaw's presence—seemed dulled, drained entirely of their usual glitter.

Finally, he reached for the stick. His jaws clenched around it, the leather-wrapped end creaking in protest as he tightened his grip, biting down until he felt a faint, splintering give beneath his teeth. The sensation felt satisfying, if only for a second.

He needed to leave. Machiavelli, the coward, unable to face the situation.

He didn’t respond, made no attempt to untangle her words, not with his mouth full and certainly not with the bile and hurt simmering inside him. The man was a patient one, however, it did not arise from an endless well.

He might have left then, silently, with his ears pinned to his skull and eyes focused on some far away place, had she not trailed after him with nippy words from a nippy mouth. Her light steps barely touched the earth, yet each one seemed to scorch the ground between them.

She was distressed, that much was apparent—he could see it in the flicker of her eyes, hear it in the trembling edges of her voice—but any urge he might have had to soothe, to explain, had been thoroughly drowned beneath her biting accusations. If abandonment was the crime she wished to pin upon him, then perhaps it was a role he could fulfill.

What difference would it make if he abandoned her again?