The quill made a soft, friendly clink against the glass as he removed its confines, ready for another attempt at writing a return letter to Hadiyya.

Sharra could not pinpoint the precise moment when writing his thoughts on paper had become such a burden, he simply knew that it had. As acidic eyes did their damndest to bore into the parchment before him, to perhaps disintegrate the paper that stood unwavering before him, accusingly blank. The last letter he had sent had been a week ago...all right, more than a week, perhaps, but it hadn't been two. Surely he had not let a fortnight slip. Hadiyya would be concerned for him, her letters had expressed suchly, and Sharra had tried his damnest to reassure her. He felt plagued now, even opening the familiar epistles from the tanned ghoul. Surely he should write, even the smallest of sentences, some reassurance.

But there just...wasn't anything left in him. No drive, no passion, the boil sitting listless at his desk for hours on end, the book before him sitting unread, the dark text stark on white, inviting paper, as though the characters were a thousand eyes beckoning him to come play within their pages. But he could not. Mayhap the frolicsome, devil-may-care child had truly died back there, on the Island, a somber, and, admittedly, cliche enlightenment. So what was left for him beyond that?

It wasn't that he didn't love Yaya. Of that one thing he was sure. He did love her, the thoughts of the djinn the only thing that sparked a reaction from that ever-so-dull organ in his chest. It was painful as well, remembering. He hadn't been there, on that nightmarish isle... to hold her hand, clutch her against his body and tell her that the terrors were but in her mind, and that, perhaps, more than anything, stirred the murky waters of the Nergal's emotions.

So why could he not write her and tell her so?

He wished he knew, for there were no words left, no sweet lies to beguile her into thinking that he was all right. Sharra had already expended such endearments, poured out everything that was in his heart. The demon lad had tried to be strong...for her...and perhaps that, more than anything else, had begun the corrosion within himself. There was, in all vibrant honesty, a part of him that had indeed passed away, and instead of ushering in a new era, he had never left the grieving stages, bottling them and saving them so that he might ponder over them on his multitude of sleepless nights.

Tapping claws against the scarred wooden surface of the ancient writer's desk, a habit of mild agitation, he knew that his aunts would scold him, were they to catch him at it. But he didn't care...there wasn't much he could put forth that sort of effort for. It was an agitation effectively coupled with apathy. The perfect concoction for misery.

Perhaps he should have stayed at school, with his friends, his ghoulfriend, been able to flee to her like a wee child who seeks the comfort of parents or siblings. Mayhap the presence of a being so dear to his heart might have warded away the night terrors, mayhap he would not have awoken screaming, the covers in danger of shredding with the stress and tension his claws wreaked upon them. If he had depended on her, rested his head on her shoulder and allowed himself to unwind in her arms...Mayhap...she could have saved him.

But he had been proud. She had her own suffering, her own slurry of ghosts arising from the ordeal that they had experienced. He would never have wanted Yaya to bear his own trauma as well. Sharra would have borne the insanity-laced nightmares for the both of them, if only he had been able. Instead he had crumpled, folding in the face of his fears, of dark figures arising in the fog.

That, perhaps, was the hardest of facts to face. That Sharra Eldwaithe had been a coward. Not out in the mists, no, he had bravely shaken his fists at their foes, stood up for his friends, tried to protect them. However back then, he had thought that she was safe.

Sharra had died. Hadiyya had suffered.

No matter how hard they'd strived, they'd lost. Perhaps they would always lose, perhaps the fog would always be there to encircle them, strangle what hopes they had. Sharra did not deserve her. He had never deserved her. And perhaps he never would.

Perhaps there was no point to this struggle. To any of this.

There was a sigh, then, a defeated exhale.

The quill made a soft clink as he returned it to the inkjar.