The clockwork heart in Quentin beat mechanically, like the beat of a drum that ushers a warrior into death. Each step marched perfectly to its cadence as he strode along the path out of the town, unwaveringly leading him away from her. Adara kneeled upon the road behind him, clutching his ring and keening her sorrow.
He supposed he was being cruel, though cruelty only remained as a memory and not as a feeling. But it was her fault that he no longer felt anything. So now he walked, just a wraith sheathed in a man’s flesh. Emotion simply a memory, his love for her so distant that if it were a star, it would be lost in the inky blackness between the beams of light. Just an abstract memory his mind could no longer focus upon.
Not that it really bothered him, not anymore. Once, he would have hated himself for making her cry.
Behind him, her wailing became decipherable words as she gave out a last plea. “Wait! Wait, please… Quentin, please… don’t leave me. I’m pregnant.” Her entreaty, and her sudden announcement, caused the crowd watching their debacle to stir in anticipation of his surrender. They believed he was leaving out of hate and he would return out of responsibility, but he no longer felt either of those things.
His feet continued their trek without pause, unfaltering upon the path. His heart no longer beat for her.