Hal's ears were still ringing. He couldn't hear anything. He was blinded by... what was it? It wasn't rage. Or sadness, even. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it was something like betrayal. His chest felt hollowed out. He had no esophagus, so as much as he wanted to hurl, he couldn't. He had no lungs, because he couldn't breathe. He had no heart; it had been given to Calli, and now he didn't know where it was. He couldn't feel it beating.

He was numb.

He had lurched to his feet, which had felt leaden. He had stood stock still for a moment, as his brain seemed to lock, and he had stared at Calli... and he had turned and run.

He couldn't be there.

Not now.

He couldn't look at her. He was so devoted. He cared for her. He had followed her. He thought she cared about him.

He ran as fast as he could, as far as he could, until he realized he felt his lungs burning.

He could breathe again, and it pained him. But the pain was numbness compared to the emotion that pounded where his heart had been. He stopped running and looked around. He looked back and could see the camp far behind him. He couldn't even hear the wick sounds for the distance. Or perhaps his ears hadn't begun functioning yet.

He turned his back on the camp and kept walking until he had regained his breath, when he ran again. When he reached the shore of the isle, he continued his pace north, arbitrarily.

He kept going until the early hours of the morning when he reached the point. He suddenly realized, as he looked across the river's waters, that he couldn't keep running.

What would happen after he went back? Could he go back? Yes. Could he face Calli? I don't know. And Dorian? His face only darkened. Fuck him, he thought. Then he mentally recanted. Calli likes him... apparently.

He sighed in his confusion.

He sat on the sand and pebbles at the river's edge. His brows were knit, his dilemma evident in his eyes. He stared at the moon and stars. He had heard so many wick tales about both in the past week that they could have taken new meaning, had he any care beyond that from which he had just come running.

He looked down into the waters. I need to clear my head, he thought. He removed his shirt, and was taken by a moment of shock. He had a gun strapped to his abdomen, and his blade on a cord above it. He had forgotten. Since they had hit the road after Vienda, he had kept the weapon on his person, ready to protect Calli if trouble arose on the road to Surwood... It was the gun he had gotten from Poe.

He still didn't really know how to use it, but the way the moon glinted off the handle as he unwound the fabric that held it in place made it look so inviting. Take me... Here may be your resolution... He took the gun gingerly in his hand and held it at arm's length. He sighted down the barrel at the moon. Dorian, he thought darkly. He whispered a bang and imitated a recoil.

He flinched.

What am I doing? He looked at the gun in his hand. I could... I could never... He almost dropped the gun in revulsion. Killing Dorian could only make Calli hate him. He could live with that even less than he could live without her. He crouched back to the ground, arms on his knees, hands still clutching the gun and resting on his head.

What do I do?

His face twisted and his eyes burned; his shoulders shook as he began to cry.

He had never really cried. Not when he found out he was a passive. Not when his parents rejected him. Not when he burned himself to the point of severe scarring. Never in all the scrapes and cuts and punches and kicks he'd endured in his years in Old Rose had he ever shed a tear.

But now he wept heavily, his lungs heaving great wracking sobs. He seemed to collapse inward. He hurt. It all hurt so badly. His numbness was now gone and he felt each moment of agony in its fullest.

He put the gun to his temple.

He screwed up his eyes and pulled back the hammer.

His eyes shot open as he heard the click, what am I doing?

His lungs froze yet again, what am I doing?

His finger hovered over the trigger, what am I doing?

Time seemed to stop.

He twitched.

A white gull called in the moonlight, swooping low over the water. It alighted on a rock protruding from the dark water, calling again.

Hal released his frozen breath with a gasp, warm tears pouring down through the cold tracks of those shed before.

He pulled the hammer and laid it gently to. He pulled the gun down into his lap and stared at it a moment.

He lifted his eyes back toward the gull, but it was gone.

He rose slowly, and, taking the pistol in one hand, pulled his arm back and flung it as far as his weak arms could into the river. He watched as it disappeared into the water. Ripples spread out from the impact, breaking and reassembling the moon over and over... He watched until the ripples blended into the slow river current.

He pulled his shirt back on and huddled on the shore.

He stayed there, still and quiet until the sun rose.

Then he rose.

He turned his back on the shore.

And he walked back toward the camp.