Ishiah

The only word for it was hollow. A void, somewhere in Ishiah's chest that demanded to be filled, but nothing could satiate the yearning there, the very thought of food turning his stomach and drink only leaving him dizzier than he felt in the first place. He'd scoured the whole of the main island in the past couple of days, and had even considered a venture out to the second island before he remembered that Robin always thought the prospect frightening and shied away even on the multiple occasions Ishiah had been, himself. Perhaps there was also another reason for staying away from that island— the desire to leave some rock unturned, some possibility unexplored, because it felt better somehow than solidifying what he already knew, that Robin was gone. And unlikely to return.

He'd prayed for it, Ishiah reminded himself. He had seen what the island had a tendency to do to Robin, and had watched the puck run around to exhaustion like a rat in a maze. So, wherever Robin was now, it was probably better than Tabula Rasa. Hopefully, he was happy running through the streets of Manhattan, pilfering here and swindling there. But that did not stop Ishiah from spinning in freefall, without the man who had come to be his greater half by his side.

As he stumbled up to the Leandros' hut, Ishiah was surprisingly sober, having made the choice to keep himself from drink until he told them. Because for all that Robin ha been to Ishiah, he was also perhaps the dearest friend that the Leandros had, and that was more than worth respecting. Heavily, he knocked on the door, eyes glassy and cheeks thin. These days, he ran on adrenaline.