He sits in the dirty attic of a good friend, his belongings sorted into loose piles. Strewn about him were about a dozen of his prized, dearest. . . only, possessions, all of which he ignores as he crouches, staring at the grimy floor where he sleeps. His finger traces the groves in the wood, pausing at the indentations that his ridges and spikes made in the once-smooth wood. "This is being a temporary thing," he had said. "I am having plans! The Sun will be accepting fresh men soon, and I will be staying at the mercenary keep, so I will be paying you back."...
Well, he had been half-right. It was definitely a 'temporary thing', as he had said. He'd never get to pay Tisi back though.
He sighs, a dull pain in his chest had been plaguing him for days, distracting him from his preparations. His finger continues to drag across the floor, now making wide, natural shapes as they followed the deep imperfections. Honestly? He was too stunned to be scared. Pain on the inside was part of Fatal Condition, he knew that full well. "Soon," the thinks, "it will spread to my stomach. My insides will turn to stone, and I'll die." He makes a weak attempt to gauge his own numb feelings on the matter, and again finds nothing but apathy. So, he ignores the mess around him, his eye unseeing as it follows the movement of his hand. It's almost soothing, to be so quiet and thoughtful and calm, but he'll need to continue packing soon. "It would be cruel of me to let anyone know," he thinks, "they'd worry so much. No, I'll pack my bags, say my goodbyes, and leave soon. They never have to find out. They'll never know."
His time in Regalia, of all the fights and conversations and friends and petty rivalries... Was that all he was meant to do? He had missed opportunities, so many that he wanted to scream. He had spat his time away, wasted it on drinks and violence and arguments when he had kids in Arlora he could have been with, raised a legacy with. So much regret, there was nothing in Regalia worth his time in the first place…
"Wrong," says a voice in his head, soothing despite how surprised he might have been to hear it. "Regalia was where my story started, I wouldn't be Nal Roh without it."
"No," he mutters, "I am coming here to be safe, and I am running again. Nothing is being worth this.."
"Would you like to say that louder?" came the voice again, hissing in his ear.
"Nothing is worth this!" Nal Roh growls, anger lacing itself deeply into his words.
"Good, now say that to Jude, to Eric, to the Dakkar in your shattered clan. Say that to the Ailor and Qadir and Circci you've met with and laughed with and fought with. Say that to Rokh'Pokka, show him how much 'brotherhood' means to you." whispers the voice. It's cold, cruel words disarming Nal of his anger. He says nothing, again staring at his finger. It hasn't stopped tracing.
Still, he can't bring himself to pack his things. No sense of urgency, no panic, nothing at all. His body is relaxed, sluggish, his chest aching more strongly than before. Only his mind seems to sense the danger, yet he makes no movement, nothing beyond his hand, slowly drawing in the dust, moving, slowing, stopping.
Stopping?
Without thinking, he bends down, getting so close to the ground that he feels his beak tap the wood. What he thought was mindless movement, tracing without thought, had actually taken form at some point.
This whole time, he had been drawing, drawing hearts into dust, crisscrossed with lines and nicks, never perfect in shape.
Now, his hands slide across the floor, cutting several hearts in two, erasing others totally while he rested on his elbows, the top of his head against the floor as he silently weeps. He understands now, it was so clear, so obvious. He was thick for not noticing. His chest never hurt, he isn't dying, nothing is wrong with his body. It was just his heart, this whole time it was his heart.
It was breaking.
