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Jowd rolled his shoulders as he entered the cottage and ticked another item off his mental checklist. Fish caught, wood chopped, remnants of the garden tended as best and fruitlessly as he was able. By habit now his gaze went to the bed and the still and silent figure there.
Sometimes he wondered if he should simply stop. Let nature, for whatever was left of it now, run its course. Simply stop and wither away together with the island. Yet despite the senselessness of it all, despite the wondering if he was merely stalling a stroll through death’s door, the sight of him always put that thought back to rest. It made little sense, but then again neither had he.
His hands rested over the coverlet and Jowd found his own reaching for him. His hand easily encircled Cabanela’s wrist, and he reminded himself that was nothing new. The man had always been ridiculously lanky. However, one of the things he had learned over the years was how swiftly an illusion could be shattered. Wandering fingers found stark tendons and fine bones under papery skin and lingered over that strange frailty. Unbroken bones perhaps but could the same be said for the man himself? He’d never known him to be still… Except he was wrong on that count as well; he simply hadn’t recognized the fact. Unless given a command, the Shadow had stood motionless, as still as any statue behind Cabanela—the Jester. He wondered if this same pallor suffused the face under the mask then as well.
Jowd turned away with a sigh. Here they both still lived if living it could be called. Whatever void Cabanela drifted in seemed enviable compared to this. He tossed another log in the hearth and prodded the fire back into life. When he was certain it would burn steadily, he rose and stared at the magicite resting on the mantle. Another question remained there. If an Esper remained they had shown no sign. The magicite was as cold and inert as any ordinary rock.
Uncertain of what else to do now that his list hit its end for now, he went back to the door. He flung it open to the dying land outside and leaned against the door frame until the laugh constricting his chest escaped. To think he once had given up on ever feeling a connection to Cabanela again. He was good at being wrong it seemed, for here they were: three husks in a broken land.