I'm so fucking offended by these losers
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Time burrows itself under his skin and smothers memory with its downy fog. The years slip through his fingers where Sorey’s had once fit—they’d grown into each other, and Mikleo’s left to patch holes as Sorey sleeps his sentence. Mikleo has never lived a life outside of Sorey’s reach and waiting, he finds, is more like learning to walk again, speak again, breathe again with something vestigial but inborn removed.
Distance like this does not scrape him raw. Instead, it itches in his lungs and feet. It’s a restless pining that pushes him into the inscrutable future. He spends his days pulling water from sea and sky, filling wells, correcting the flow of rivers so that spring floods do not take what cannot be replaced.
Night, when it falls, drapes an aching shroud around his shoulders that weighs heavy on his mind. His resolve stands tested and strong and by the flickering soft of candlelight, Mikleo pours what he’s seen into journals that always begin with for Sorey, when he wakes. He will wait as long as it takes but, until that which has gone comes back, there is a world to see, study, change.