i am trying to break your heart

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When Lazare Granger (Biblical. French.) fell into the muddied waters of the swampland below (They always looked so shallow.), he knew his life had ended. The specifics didn't matter.

(You could have run.)

Lazare knew better than to fight. (Well, you think you did.) Of course, Lazare didn't know very many things, but he knew enough to know that the knowledge of the unknowledgeable was knowledge worth acting on. Fighting wouldn't save him. He's not sure anything would, but fighting wouldn't. Fighting death is fighting the air around him, the putrid waters consuming his body, the encroaching darkness of whatever world (Or lack thereof.) lurked beyond the realm of the living.

Why fight? He'll lose either way.

The water was cold, and dirty. It covered his eyes and stung at his wounds, and as he sunk further he realized it wrung at his breath, too. Nature was cruel like that. Perhaps Lazare just wasn't meant to live in the water. He was just a man, after all.

Lazare didn't read, much, except when putting Emily to bed (What would she think?). Sinking always looked so romantic. Felt special. Was it always so lonely? Where was the halo of light, the sunbreams falling like curtains from the surface, the dashing companion to drag Lazare to the paradise beneath the surface?

If Lazare could see, he supposed his vision would be fading to black, as if it was his curtain call. The fade to black at the end of a performance. He wouldn't be bowing.

(So much for last words.)

Did it matter if he closed his eyes? He wasn't sure whether they were open or not. He wasn't sure if he cared.

His body was giving. Nature was taking back.

Death, if that's what this was, was not so bad as he'd been told. The pain, the pain of open wounds salted with the swampland waters, was beginning to dull, and his throat sucked less and less with each attempted breath. His senses (Those which were not sight. Sight had already left him.) grew dim.

As Lazare Granger passed the point of no return, his last thoughts were of nothing…















… and when he finally opened his eyes, following a time outside instants or eternities, he saw Nothing. Not the absence of Something, no, but Nothing. It was a Nothing that could not be filled; already fulfilled, it sat alone in its nonexistence, rivaled by nothing, fulfilled through nothing, appreciated by… something?

(Did he expect this?)

A growing awareness built inside Lazare. He was Lazare, of flesh and muscle and bone, of matter strung together through a series of infinitesimal bonds, of Something. He (Was he?) was bound by his own form, the consequence of his existence, forever changed by physics and chemistry and everything that made everything Anything.

And in that moment, Lazare knew that he was Something, and knew that he felt like nothing.


"Hey, hey Annie. Check this out."

If Raymond was doing something (likely (but hopefully not) the bottle trick (again)), it'd have to wait until Saint's latest catch was in the position to at the very least sleep unassisted. "Get outta my tent, Ray. I got a castaway to-"

"Come on!" Ray barged further into Annie K's tent, much to her irritation. "I got the, the knot thing all checked out, see? I'm a rope, a rope! I mean, I work like a rope and-"

Ray clearly did something, because the unmistakable sound of a leech jar shattering across the ground was not something Annie'd ever heard outside of someone screwing with the leech jar. "Shit, shit, sorry! Man, you should really put that thing where someone can't touch it. Hear? Hear." As Ray did whatever the hell he was still doing, Annie heard several more unmistakable sounds, most of which were indicative of a really bad day.

Annie'd yell, of course, but that'd be bad for her heart. Of course, turning was probably just as bad, but it meant less leeches she'd have to jesus FUCK (that's a cool rope trick) why was he like this

Apparently, she accidently spoke that aloud, cause Raymond's composite shrunk back like it'd just been salted. The leeches weren't so fortunately blessed with sapience. "How many times do I gotta tell ya?! I'm working, bub!" Right, she hadn't intended to say it that loudly, but you break a few dozen eggs for an omelet, and you get the horns. Or something. Metaphors were new.

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