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Ataya’s voice died down with most of the rest of his energy, upset more akin to grief or personal hurt as opposed to anger rolling in over him like the tide. In that lull of silence, Dysarrin’s voice cut through to him. One word, but more than enough. Guilt coalesced in his gut, cold as newly-thawed jelly and suffocating. Immediately, he dropped hold of the shadow magic, and without his call it slipped and sank away, dissipating in a matter of moments. After, he gradually lowered his hold on his friend, allowing the spell to disappear fully only after Dysarrin’s weight was in full contact with the ground.

He wasn’t sure when, precisely, he had ended up on his knees, but that was where he sat as the spell dropped: face tucked forward, hair lank as a dark curtain to either side of him, arms winding half around himself as soon as he no longer needed them to guide the spell, and body shaking in silence to the rhythm of his ragged breath.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry…’ warred with, ‘Do you see now?’ which meshed convolutedly into, ‘Now GO!’ conflicting directly with: ‘Don’t leave me.’

Nothing left his lips, and he remained unmoving with his eyes shut, not even bothering — for once — to even begin to probe the surrounding area with his aiskala magic to ‘see’ his surroundings. His world, for too many long moments, existed only within the space of his own breath and body, grappling with the sinking churning nausea in his gut. And waiting.

It felt like an eternity before Dysarrin moved.

On multiple occasions, Ataya almost forced himself up out of raw fear that — despite putting nothing in his spellwork to damage the other — something had gone wrong and hurt him. That Dysarrin needed help. While caught in the moment, he couldn’t deny that he hadn’t intended to frighten him — some — hearing Dys’ half-panicked rasp to ‘stop’ had overcompensated for that want, immediately swamping it with regret. Guilt. Fear that he had gone too far. He had wanted to prove to his friend — and himself, as much as anything — that he was not powerless, for his self-assurance in that regard was still only fragile at best. Strengthening by the day, but volatile.

Still, he had not wanted to hear Dys hurt. Or frightened.

As much as he had thought he wanted it while angry, the reality cut far too deep for comfort, and his apologies bunched like muck in his throat, building, but never quite making it past his tongue. Moments before he finally gave in and pushed upwards, Dysarrin moved.

Ataya held his breath in spite of himself, eyes squeezing tighter shut though Dys would not be able to see it in his current position.

I’m sorry.

You deserved it.

I’m sorry.

You didn’t deserve it.

I’m sorry…

Ataya opened his mouth, but found that his tongue didn’t function. And then, Dysarrin’s footsteps were retreating. All of Ataya’s internal conflicts spiked. Anger. How dare he leave, after all he said and did? And guilt. ‘This is all my fault.’ Breathing hurt. He dug his nails tighter into his arms where they were folded, body dipping further forward as his shoulders pinched in and his teeth grit.

“Go…” The word was barely a whisper at first, hoarse and likely long-inaudible by anyone but himself. Well after Dys was surely out of range of hearing anything, Ataya’s voice picked up. “Go—RUN you…coward…get OUT!” His hands fell forward, palms slamming flat to the earth and coating it an angry, glinting white — though he couldn’t see it — pulsing and rippling until he had exhausted the last drops of his magical reservoirs for the moment. Tears felt too-hot on his cheeks and wholly unwelcome. “Just leave—I don’t care…I don’t care. Don’t come back…”

By the time his forehead made it back atop his folded arms, trembling body limp and depleted of everything but breath, his voice was far, far too small for his liking. But at least no one was around to hear it.

“Please come back…I didn't mean it…”