no masters or kings when the ritual begins

It's a familiar scene: Ronan on a park bench with a bottle of whiskey dangling the fingers of one hand.

On his back with one foot perched on the arm rest, Ronan can stare up at the stars. He's clueless enough about astronomy to pretend it's the exact same sky as the one back home, that he's still there laid out in his favorite a field at The Barns, the one with the duck-shaped pond in the middle of it, instead of stuck in some strange city-slash-prison populated by wizards and werewolves and fucking fictional people. A prison where his bank account is no longer inflated by the Lynch family money, where the trees don't talk to him, where Glendower is just a name in a history book and his friends look at him like he's constantly missing something, constantly a step behind.

A prison where he's living in a tent and can't get a fucking job and his friends are all learning how to survive without him.

Back in Henrietta, Ronan never let himself think about life after Aglionby. There never seemed much point when there were more pressing things to consider. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he always knew things would change once they all graduated (or if, in his case) but the specifics were never considered. Their lives were going to change once they found Glendower anyway so what did it matter?

Here there is no Glendower and no favor to be granted.

So what now?

Ronan takes another drink and rubs the back of his wrist across one eyes. He's tired because he's always tired. He hurts because he always hurts.

He hears footsteps, slow and steady as they walk the park path, and then stop. Ronan doesn't look to see if they've stopped for him or for some other unseen reason. He doesn't particularly care. But he pulls in a breath just in case and murmurs, "Just keep walking, man."