Midnight, he found, spiraled like a grand tapestry with endlessly colorful threads bleeding into indigo and pitch blackness. It spilled over the sky like an overturned pot of ink, dyeing blue strings to darkness. All golden sunrays are replaced with the pale ivory glow of the moon. The sky settles in its hushed, quietest hours. Perhaps there ought to something frightening about being able to stare into the universe itself; to peer through the sheen of the atmosphere, past the stars, to the abyss that lied in the broad distance, never-ending. To reach outward and never, ever reach anything. Though he remains flatfooted on the grass, soil, stone of the earth, he can almost feel weightless enough to fall into the void which looms above Agrelosi lands. Almost — but never quite. Because Felix survives, and it's the only thing he's ever done, the only thing he knows how to do. Regardless of how wistful the sheen of stars looks amidst the dark sky, they are millions of miles away and he remains rooted to the ground; pulled to it, trapped like a bird to a cage.
Felix loved the stars. He always had. Sometimes he wondered if he hadn't been born to a life of constant fighting and running and hiding, maybe he would have been more inclined to indulge astronomy. He'd always wanted a peaceful life. A humble life. The kind of life where he could be safe and happy, through days that were peaceful and nights so clear that he could spend hours just staring up at the sky. He could cultivate a warmth in the spot where his heart was supposed to be and live off of that much joy until the day he died. It was the kind of thing he might've prayed for, once.
But Felix was not born to a quaint, humble life. He did not have a quiet childhood among the safety of fields or forests; he did not have a family that loved him. What he had was a misplaced desire to survive, the language of battle simmering behind the points of his teeth, and an exterior so icy that he feared it would never be able to thaw. It was just reality. He stopped wishing for anything else because he knew that he'd only be disappointed in the end — which was fine. Dreams and reality were never meant to overlap. There was just a part of him that worried, that feared, that he was too far gone for anything more than senseless bloodshed. That he'd never be able to grow into anything better because he'd become too cold, too stormy, and there'd be no hope for him. Being optimistic was never his forte. Felix saw the world crumble around him and his heart seized with an archaic sort of panic. He never saw himself falling — he only saw his blood splattered upon the earth, flesh splayed over blackened, scorched grasses, ever trapped in a world which he could never escape.
Felix peered upward through criss-crossing tree limbs, past green leaves, leveled his gaze on the stars and stayed there. Smoke billowed in pillowy plumes to the open air, and the dense shadows of the jungle were turned syrupy by flickering flamelight. When he breathed, it smelled like camp fire. His chest hurt. He didn't think about much of anything at all. He struggled through the whipping rapids of grief and sorrow as they pooled at his ankles, but he hadn't the strength to drag himself out. Everything felt distant, just out of reach, and no matter how he yearned for peace it was never, ever an option.
He wondered if he really was too far gone. He didn't want to think about it anymore.
Old habits died hard. Harkening back to old days where fires and mead were the only source of warmth, Felix succumbed to that familiar place at the fireside. In his paws was a bottle of alcohol he bought from the Cartel, strong enough that with a few swigs the world around him grew fuzzy, and that he could at least pretend he didn't want to fall into the abyss through the stars. At least they were beautiful. Night hummed around, never quiet in the forest, the scorching summer sun having set hours ago. Though there lingered a mugginess, he just felt cold. Always cold. Felix didn't have the righteous magma of anger and betrayal coursing through his veins. He had permafrost and snow, soil and stone. Always cold. Turning to the glowing coals at the base of the fire, he stared at the orange-yellow glow, and wondered what it felt like to burn.