The wind was dry that day. Though clouds curled thick above and the cold howled through the sky, not a single drop of rain fell. Just like Xander's hollow chest, long since drained of warmth and tears.
He dragged his soulless body back toward the Hellmaw—the very ship that once held him captive between sky and sea, and yet now stood as the only place he could return to.
Helga, as always, sat beneath the moonlight with a bottle of spiced rum in hand. He saw the broken silhouette trudging up the gangplank but didn't ask. He didn't need to.
He had brought the boy back to his homeland, and yet here he was again, drifting back like wreckage washed ashore. That meant only one thing: that place was no longer home to him.
When Xander reached the deck, Helga simply lifted the bottle in silent invitation.
