Falco has died. Peter knows this β saw it for himself. Not the death but the after, what was lying there in the heated mist that smelled like something red and raw peeled wide open. The small shape that was supposed to be a body but just looked like a nightmare.
It's his nightmare, and it plays out over and over and over again. It has for the past three years of his life. And this little bird may not have died at his hands, but there's some horrible festering thing inside of Peter that thinks my fault anyway. This month is the Reckoning's β it's the month of justice (punishment). Maybe this was always coming. Maybe Falco suffered this because of him.
He waits, with his head in his hands and something knocked loose inside him, for Falco Grice to come back on one of those stormy days. He doesn't. And now it's been a week, and Peter's horror finds new forms. Has heβ returned to the ocean? Or has something else happened? Something that shouldn't? Peter's heart hammers and he's spending afternoons searching, but he can't find him. Messages go unanswered, maybe unheard at all.
One afternoon, Peter returns to the beach. Out where he'd found the Body, on the far reaches of the black sand. He paces, wide-eyed, mouth quivering β desperate. He turns to face the ocean, feeling sick. Helpless, always, sick from it. Is he out there, trying to return? Something's wrong. Something's wrong.
"Falco!" It's not quite a scream, but it's loud enough that it carries, and emotional enough that something at the back of his throat breaks, makes the name come out hoarse. "Falco!"
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It's his nightmare, and it plays out over and over and over again. It has for the past three years of his life. And this little bird may not have died at his hands, but there's some horrible festering thing inside of Peter that thinks my fault anyway. This month is the Reckoning's β it's the month of justice (punishment). Maybe this was always coming. Maybe Falco suffered this because of him.
He waits, with his head in his hands and something knocked loose inside him, for Falco Grice to come back on one of those stormy days. He doesn't. And now it's been a week, and Peter's horror finds new forms. Has heβ returned to the ocean? Or has something else happened? Something that shouldn't? Peter's heart hammers and he's spending afternoons searching, but he can't find him. Messages go unanswered, maybe unheard at all.
One afternoon, Peter returns to the beach. Out where he'd found the Body, on the far reaches of the black sand. He paces, wide-eyed, mouth quivering β desperate. He turns to face the ocean, feeling sick. Helpless, always, sick from it. Is he out there, trying to return? Something's wrong. Something's wrong.
"Falco!" It's not quite a scream, but it's loud enough that it carries, and emotional enough that something at the back of his throat breaks, makes the name come out hoarse. "Falco!"