First it's an absence, a disappearance — and such a thing happens here, people suddenly vanish, but it's the first time it's happened to one of the men from the Expedition. Still, it's something that can possibly be resolved, remedied, at least to Little's heart. It's an absence, a disappearance, which means there's a chance Goodsir could be found.
Edward spares no second in searching. He roams the town, asks anyone he can about the last time they'd spoken to Goodsir, and then heads out further. He searches the woods, the outskirts, and then beyond. Threats of the phantom beast keep him unshakably nervous and wary, but he travels in wolf form for most of it, and for a longer stint out to Lakeside, with Wynonna.
They don't find him. No one does, even though many try, and the words absence and disappearance begin to shift to another, one that's more final, more permanent. Gone. He's gone.
It guts him, reaches its hands into him and scoops everything out, leaving Edward hollowed-out except for the harrowed pounding of his heart, as though it's the only organ he has left, and it feels everything too much, too raw. It hurts, but even now, some part of him still struggles against accepting the fact to be true. Accepting 'gone'. (He'd failed him once before, and that man had suffered in unspeakable ways, and he can't fail him again, he has to save him, he has to—)
Edward still looks for him, even after most everyone else stops. It becomes foolish, he knows, but he continues to check cellars and sheds and the Basin and anywhere at all, during any opportunity he has.
And he wonders, constantly, whether Goodsir has returned to that moment in time from which he came — the moment of his death. Or whether he's been damned to another point in it, or to somewhere else entirely. The not-knowing is unbearable.
The effect it has on Kate is another horror. After she returns from the woods — in such a severe state that Edward almost comes undone, swept in a flurry of alarm and distress, and having spent the past days hovering worriedly around to help John with her recovery — she continues to be... unwell. She moves through the house like a ghost, so quiet and withdrawn into herself, and Edward doesn't know how to help her, though he doesn't push either, thinks it's a deep, deep melancholy the poor girl has fallen into after Goodsir's disappearance. Flickers of emotion continue to bubble through the gold thread connecting him to her, even though it's fading now, as though the strings, too, will vanish soon.
Something shatters one day, and Edward comes rushing in from the next room, already ready for the worst, the way he's constantly been these days — his eyes flit to the broken pieces strewn across the floor and then immediately to Kate, who's standing there and staring down at her palm. ]
Are you injured—?
[ He breathes more than asks, some quick, almost violent exhale that seems to take all the life out of his lungs. Edward moves quickly to her, hands lifting but not making contact just yet, only hovering over hers like that for a moment as he stares down. There's blood, not gushing, pooling, but it still sends a sharp hitch through his chest, and Edward's grabbing for a nearby hand towel while one hand moves to her shoulder, gently coaxing her to move forwards with him, towards the sink. His words are polite as ever, but there's no mistaking a certain desperation to them. His heart is pounding. Perhaps it's an extreme reaction, but— she's been so listless and strange these past days, and he's never forgotten other times Kate Marsh has been such things, or the events surrounding those times.
And Harry's gone, Edward couldn't save him this time either, and what if he can't save anyone here, what if they're all doomed to be gone like that, what if she—]
Here, let me— Please remove your gloves and I'll help you.
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First it's an absence, a disappearance — and such a thing happens here, people suddenly vanish, but it's the first time it's happened to one of the men from the Expedition. Still, it's something that can possibly be resolved, remedied, at least to Little's heart. It's an absence, a disappearance, which means there's a chance Goodsir could be found.
Edward spares no second in searching. He roams the town, asks anyone he can about the last time they'd spoken to Goodsir, and then heads out further. He searches the woods, the outskirts, and then beyond. Threats of the phantom beast keep him unshakably nervous and wary, but he travels in wolf form for most of it, and for a longer stint out to Lakeside, with Wynonna.
They don't find him. No one does, even though many try, and the words absence and disappearance begin to shift to another, one that's more final, more permanent. Gone. He's gone.
It guts him, reaches its hands into him and scoops everything out, leaving Edward hollowed-out except for the harrowed pounding of his heart, as though it's the only organ he has left, and it feels everything too much, too raw. It hurts, but even now, some part of him still struggles against accepting the fact to be true. Accepting 'gone'. (He'd failed him once before, and that man had suffered in unspeakable ways, and he can't fail him again, he has to save him, he has to—)
Edward still looks for him, even after most everyone else stops. It becomes foolish, he knows, but he continues to check cellars and sheds and the Basin and anywhere at all, during any opportunity he has.
And he wonders, constantly, whether Goodsir has returned to that moment in time from which he came — the moment of his death. Or whether he's been damned to another point in it, or to somewhere else entirely. The not-knowing is unbearable.
The effect it has on Kate is another horror. After she returns from the woods — in such a severe state that Edward almost comes undone, swept in a flurry of alarm and distress, and having spent the past days hovering worriedly around to help John with her recovery — she continues to be... unwell. She moves through the house like a ghost, so quiet and withdrawn into herself, and Edward doesn't know how to help her, though he doesn't push either, thinks it's a deep, deep melancholy the poor girl has fallen into after Goodsir's disappearance. Flickers of emotion continue to bubble through the gold thread connecting him to her, even though it's fading now, as though the strings, too, will vanish soon.
Something shatters one day, and Edward comes rushing in from the next room, already ready for the worst, the way he's constantly been these days — his eyes flit to the broken pieces strewn across the floor and then immediately to Kate, who's standing there and staring down at her palm. ]
Are you injured—?
[ He breathes more than asks, some quick, almost violent exhale that seems to take all the life out of his lungs. Edward moves quickly to her, hands lifting but not making contact just yet, only hovering over hers like that for a moment as he stares down. There's blood, not gushing, pooling, but it still sends a sharp hitch through his chest, and Edward's grabbing for a nearby hand towel while one hand moves to her shoulder, gently coaxing her to move forwards with him, towards the sink. His words are polite as ever, but there's no mistaking a certain desperation to them. His heart is pounding. Perhaps it's an extreme reaction, but— she's been so listless and strange these past days, and he's never forgotten other times Kate Marsh has been such things, or the events surrounding those times.
And Harry's gone, Edward couldn't save him this time either, and what if he can't save anyone here, what if they're all doomed to be gone like that, what if she— ]
Here, let me— Please remove your gloves and I'll help you.