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The pain can’t touch him when he escapes from his body.
The traveler ventures to Grand Trad, Martira, Brilehaven, Virga Island, crossing deserts and seas, climbing mountains and towers, throwing himself at beasts and humans and monsters dressed in the garb of soldiers and Sanctists. The traveler gets battered and bruised and knocked down, but this is a pain that he relishes in. It is sharp, fiery, and—most importantly—temporary. Proof that he is living.
He is beside him whenever he is able. Staunching his still-weeping wounds, squeezing his shoulder when the whispers in his wake are too loud, guiding him by the hand through tangled streets. It isn’t much; he knows that the traveler has never needed his help, nor can he feel his presence. It doesn’t stop him from hoping. From wishing.
He doesn’t know how to tell the traveler, his hero, that his efforts to save him will be for naught.
His hero cannot hear him like this, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking about it. They will never be able to meet face to face except in dreams and memory. They will never be able to race across the fields of flowers, casting off the burdens of prejudice and propriety. They will never read their favorite book together under the shade of a tree hollow or a carriage or some nook in a lounge.
His own fate is sealed. In a month, he will die. In a month, he will be killed. His hero will arrive too late to do anything but take that paltry body as his own.
Sometimes, late at night, huddled in the cubby that the gauntlet runner calls a bed, his hero will pull out the Farsight Mirror. When he sees his own reflection—that hollow face, that lifeless body, the circling thorns—the pain floods back. The thorns crush his heart and pierce his skin, and the blankly smiling mask taunts him—
He forgets how to breathe.
But he will never begrudge his friend, his other self, for seeking out comfort. Not when it settles something in his friend’s eyes even as they shine brighter. Not when he himself is doing exactly the same thing.
As an elda boy, as a halfblood prince, as a terminally ill patient, he has always been confined. The sanctum had been peaceful and idyllic—until it wasn’t—but it was also so, so small. The castle had cold, rigid walls, even stricter rules, and hostile stares. His current prison is better forgotten.
This will be his last adventure. In some ways, it is his only adventure. This is his last and only chance to marvel at the landscapes, to savor the cuisine, to fiddle with arts and crafts and hobbies other than reading. To experience the burn of exercise, the thrill of finding treasure, the warmth of supporting and connecting with people. To laugh with Strohl, feast with Hulkenberg, theorize with Neuras, cook with Heismay, create with Junah, meditate with Eupha. To be tugged back and forth by the banter of comrades—his comrades—like the gentle rocking of a cradle, or the tides at sea. He knows what that feels like, now, thanks to his friend. He knows what all of it feels like.
His friend has always been his lodestar. He can only hope that he will understand.
Next stop, Altabury. Maybe they’ll get to make a snowman together.