You are the night-time fear
Wake up.It is not a memory: nothingness does not form a memory. There's just a sense of disuse, the lethargy of long sleep, a heavy weight pinning him under stormy clouds. Everything feels very distant, detached, peculiar.
You've slept long enough.
His eyes rove under his eyelids. Fingers scrabble in snow, among rocks, forgotten pathways rediscovered as starlight seeps through his lashes. He is part of the rubble, passed out of the realm of life—lingering debris of an old war. He was not anyone's to reclaim, so he remained untouched, buried, unwanted.
She is there, of course, but if she speaks or merely means is lost on him. The ends do not meet: his last memories have nothing to do with this wayward happenstance grave, yet there he is. He struggles to put his thoughts back in order even as her fluids wash the dust from his would-be veins, lost in that sleep-like haze.
She sets him a task, and then she is gone, and the world with it.
He is not alone: in that ether fog he is a burning, radiant beacon, a fierce white shadow, a pulsing blue core, and he is not alone—
They are around him, souls he does not know, but who now are kin. He sweeps across their presence, a bewildered protector, an ardent guide; come he whispers in that not-place.
Follow he whispers,
Follow
—forever, or once, or not at all, for time and space seem not to have bothered coming here.
Follow—
And like that, they simply step back into existence: their strange journey comes to its second beginning, steeped in violet and azure light.
As if it is the most natural thing he has ever done Aamu merely stops. The once-dead step out behind and around him, but he only stands there, vigilant, watching, blue-eyed and with a disheveled braid carefully put together three hundred years ago slung over his shoulder.
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
