Ritchie could hear someone speaking. Speaking to him, but all he heard was mumbling. Silence followed, then a hand pressed against his back. He knew it was Michael, but he didn't look up from where he had his face planted in his desk.

What was the point? He couldn't bring himself to welcome his dear friend, or do anything really these days other than let the alcohol bottles in the guildhall unsuccessfully fill the hole in his life.

He couldn't fix it himself. He couldn't leave the guild without a leader, as if he was such a present and dutiful one drinking himself to black outs. Ritchie didn't process the world around him, the sun could cease to exist and plunge them all into eternal night and he'd be none the wiser save for Kit's insistent daily check-ins.

How could he process a world that was broken? A single shard in a mirror stolen from it. From him. The world no longer felt right, nothing felt right anymore. Every millisecond he breathed, he felt Brandon's spirit no longer connected to his.

A constant across both worlds, another breathing human being always at his side, someone who was in the death's place when he reached out for help. Brandon wasn't the other half of the same coin; the other half was who melted their side to a partially rusted hunk of junk.

The second he lost Brandon, a hole appeared in his soul. It wasn't created, that would imply it came gradually. No, it was sudden and ripped from him harshly. A gaping place where his twin had occupied since the very moment they started to exist.

Divinus Magia, their new home they had built together. From the ocean floor up and filled with mages they considered family

What was the point of continuing? The guild was the point. His family; his guild members, Michael, the other leaders. What Bjorn died to protect.

But with every rejuvenated burst of motivation to claw himself out of this depression he'd sunk into, shove away the many bottles surrounding like sea mines bobbing along the ocean he was drowning in, that emptiness dragged him back down.

No, it didn't drag him. It just continued to exist. That's all it had to do to remind him of what he lost. And that was enough to bring him back down to his lowly level of self-destruction.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Michael gently lifted Ritchie's head from his desk, chest clutching at the familiar sight. Tears streaming from bloodshot eyes down his face. His shoulders shook with sobs. He watched Ritchie reach for another bottle but before Michael could push it out of reach, his arm dropped.

"I don't even have enough energy to drink," Ritchie choked out.

Michael pulled him to his chest, wrapping his arms around him. "I know, I know."

"You don't." It wasn't said with any malice. Only intense sadness that even wrenched Michael's heart. Empty eyes stared at the ground, no longer looking back at him when they spoke.

Michael sighed and hugged him tighter. "No, I don't. And I'm sorry you do."

Ritchie was sitting outside death's door. Not banging on it or trying to obtain access inside. But he was on the doorstep, slumped against the shadowed entryway. If the door opened even an inch, he would fall inside. Michael could feel it.

As he helped his friend to his room, Michael could feel a sinister anger boiling up in his stomach. He could hear David and Lucas somewhere on the island, with an unfamiliar presence. Completely ignorant that they were so close to losing another guild leader.

Michael left Ritchie to sleep and dipped into the shadows to find the three. If Ritchie died, the entire island was going to be plunged into the void, extinct of the living.