What right did any mortal have to speak to a god? He supposed that was for the gods to decide for themselves... And it seemed his worthiness was to be judged.
As his words came to an end, he sat back on his heels, his eyes remaining closed, lids flickering as he tried not to squeeze them closed. His sat in silence, hands placed flat upon his thighs, simply listening, breathing the smoky scent of the small flames. A sound that seemed almost like a breeze’s whisper drifted to his ears, bringing a chilling warmth to his soul and coaxing the slightest shudder from his body.
Still, his eyes remained closed.
The glow of the light through his lids began to fade, and he finally opened his eyes in time to see the last candle go out, somehow casting all of the light from the shrine. That wasn’t right... There was more light than just what the candles brought. At least, there should have been... And yet, despite the crushing blackness, the haunting silence that he could have sworn allowed him to hear his own blood moving, he wasn’t afraid. Perhaps he should have been, but he wasn’t.
Desmond felt a touch on his hands, and all at once, his breath was no more. Then, lips touched his neck, and it seemed to him that time had stopped. When was the last time he had any kind of touch outside of healing?
His mind drifted to Chester; the man whose love was unparalleled for any who it touched, those hazel eyes that made Desmond understand what home meant, those blond curls that would just never lay right on his head... Tears sprung to his eyes as they fell closed again, the image never to be forgotten burning brightly now. The rippling muscles and flawless skin shredded, the lifelessness in once vibrant and caring eyes, the fresh blood pooling around his not yet stiff body.
He felt a heart beating himself, yet knew it wasn’t his own, as his best in tandem with the new presence. Was it new? Or had it always been there? His memory was faulty, but surely he would have noticed his heart echoing with another.
Only when the white candle came alive once more did his open his eyes, which burned with salted tears against the crisp air. The sight he was greeted with... Gods, he almost lurched backwards, but he found he was nearly paralyzed. He blinked at the faceless mask, two more tears streaming down his cheeks, whether as a reaction to the being in front of him or just what remained of the resurfaced memory, he didn’t know.
His bright blues couldn’t tear away from the mask, a figure so close he could have leaned forward just barely to touch it. He wouldn’t dare. His peripheral vision, however, allowed him to see the cloth ribbons in their constant movements, as though gravity had no effect on them.
It said his name, then. Desmond drew an unsteady breath, unsure that he was even allowed to draw it in the presence of the...god? Was this a god, or was his mind playing tricks on him again? It wouldn’t have been the first time.
The white candle... Death.
”Hello,” came the healer’s shaken voice. He didn’t move, swallowing the ache inside of him that was such a constant part of him he almost forgot about it. ”How would you wish to be addressed, my-my god?” The last thing he wanted was to offend a god...
Ludo
desmond
Talk to the Moon, Heal the Soul
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