#derret

The taste of bacon butty mixed with the heat of the cigarette was starting to bring him out of the hangover. Drinking meant he didn’t have to think anymore. Not thinking helped make the headache die away. Of course, it only came back with a vengeance the next morning, talk about borrowing time from your future self. Still, the dog still enjoyed his company. Little Rose was the happiest out of them all, bounding across the garden, exploring flowers she had taken a sniff at hundreds of times by now. Everything always seemed new and exciting to her. Garrett caught himself smiling like an idiot as he thought about it.

He removed the cigarette from his lips, thumb flicking the filter to dispose of the collection of fag ash on the tip. It soon fizzled out to a used stump, added to the pile in the disused plant pot. The elementalist groaned, rubbing sleep from his eyes and jabbing a thumb to the muscles of his left arm. A new bruise was starting to become pronounce; at least he didn’t have a black eye again. A quick flick of his arms added enough momentum to help bring him to his feet, bare footsteps guiding him back to the kitchen door. The two women barely glanced towards him as he walked into the wall of tension and room elephants. He couldn’t do this anymore, the headache starting to cover his mind, like a shadow moving over his scalp. A rasped cough into his hand wasn’t the introduction he was hoping to have, but beggars can’t be choosers sometimes.

The three of them travelled at the Dolyak's pace to the main encampment. He wanted the journey to last as long as possible. He felt like any worries had dissappeared in this limbo of transit.

"You really are so special." He whispered barely, to himself.

He finally got another letter together, this time having stolen a decent envelope. His handwriting had become progressively worse as his pencil became worn and shorter.

"I understand if you hate me right now, I hate me too. I think I've lost them for now. I haven't seen a trace of them in over a week and a half.

I'm sorry for slipping out that night. It should be safe for us to meet up. I need to make this up to you.

Cold sweat coated him in a sickly bed. He contorted and writhed on the spot, mind tormented in dreams. His hands would desperately push out at the air. Breath hard, panting as if sprinting a marathon. He swung out once more, hand connecting hard against the old wooden barrel at his side. The blow jolted him awake, heart skipping a beat as his body pumped with adrenaline and fear. He gasped harshly as he threw himself upright in the makeshift cot.

His eyes darted throughout the darkness, ears perched, head still, searching for any sound, anything that wasn't him. But that's all he could hear. The rapid pulse of blood in his ears as his heart dramatically pumped and pushed his body through a state of flight. It took him 30 minutes of still silence before he dared to move his hand, reaching up to clutch the barrel, his only companion in the rotting shed.

He'd been on the run for the gods know how long. Del hadn't heard from him in over a week. He had sent letters when he could, messy, uncivilised handwriting only a common man could be confident sending to a beautiful woman. He missed her. After fighting so hard, knowing he wanted to get to know her, and now he just couldn't.

They hadn't found him here yet, on the outskirts of the Queensdale swamps. Even the restless spirits were a more comforting threat than the consortium.