OVER AND OVER AND OVER — octane

[MYERS]

[align=center][div style="text-align:justify;width:55%;font-family:verdana;"]If there was anything Ahab wished to avoid right now, it was a moment to himself. With his grandson missing and panic in the air, wounds to tend and work to be done, for once in his life he felt a sense of purpose, if not a twinge of existential dread. His responsibilities felt many. Trygve was without a home, out in the wild. Brandykit, Eulia were both injured. He'd snapped and lashed out at the ones he loved, and there was nothing he could possibly do but apologize in words and hope the rest of his guilt could be conveyed by gesture. He did not want to be alone with his thoughts, not when they were so unbearable. Yet, in the late hours of the night, that was exactly what remained when a day's work was done. He found himself loitering, waiting for something to happen. But something never came.

There was, of course, the beach. Ahab knew well enough that this was not a place of comfort for him - he knew what had happened when he drifted too far from the metaphorical shore - but there was little stopping him from ignoring his instinct and forging onward. He had it under control; unlike the last time, in which he allowed himself to slip under the waves and be siezed by memories he could never forget. He had his herbs, his stamina. He was neither tired nor vulnerable. Suffice to say it was the perfect day to stretch out in the sun - the only thing that held him back was the knowledge that it was too easy to let it go all wrong.

He's taken to carrying a pouch these days, mostly at Roan's discretion. It's a small tactical bag that fastens nicely to his hip and stays on a belt loop - perfect for the small satchels of herbs he kept inside and the various apparatus he stashed for himself. At the shoreline this time, far from the dunes where he'd first allowed his own collapse, he pulls out a grinder. A mixture of herbs are ground together, aligned on a thick paper. He rolls a cigar. Listens to the waves. Thinks, of course, of how this was just like the last time.

When he lights up, it's easy to lose focus, but this time he keeps the balance between the truth and falsehood. Remember, he thinks, that this is all real. Smoke curls out from flared nostrils, a thick white plume; on the ocean, a boat bobs in the evening sun.

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