who we are and all that we're trying to be
It began as it had in the past. Ludo emerging, another chosen to see their brethren, their loved ones. He watched from beside his own lanterns, the stories painted on them not brought back to life, not in these interludes, not in these melancholies. One could only hope and dream so much, and with a heart already heavy from the rest of the aching void, from everything else lost, his eyes went to Weaver’s phantom form, and remained still. When it seemed to have concluded, when there were no more pressing matters, his hands went to the vessels of light, to the refractions of flames and Penumbras, stifling down some other feral weight and frustration. Maybe another time. Maybe another year. Maybe all he’d have were the memories, and he’d have to be content with that –
Then an alteration, a schism in the snow, electricity, wiring, snapping, crackling, and by habit he grew taut, rigid, conforming to potential threats, to the Voice’s machinations. Her words held no meaning for a moment, not clicking into his brain, disbelief and half an eyeroll inclined.
Until more emerged. Ghosts upon ghosts, figments of years past, and he recognized a majority of them. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe it was a ruse. Maybe they were ghosts. Maybe he was losing his damn mind once more. Maybe this was all for naught, again and again and again. His hands clenched tightly down by his sides, jaw tensing, the world spiraling out and around him – eyes only widening once Edrei spoke, wild and fiery still, when Isla emerged, when Adam hastened into the scene.
And then there was a rush of limbs before him, and Deimos didn’t have time to wonder, to speculate, to curl back into those machinations and musings. Instead, he was surrounded, engulfed, held by her, and instinctively his hands went around her smaller form, embracing with all his might, tucking her against his chest. The monolith was dragged down to his knees, felled again by a Harpy’s presence, and never, never, never wanted to let go. “Kiada?” Like she wasn’t real – like he’d awaken from a nightmare, forced to relive some ancient, primordial tragedy. His intonation was a broken whisper, from the choking throngs in the back of his throat, from the suffocating tears engulfing over his sights, blurring the edges, the lines. But not her. He’d know her anywhere. How she was real, how she was whole, how she was tangible, made no sense, incapable of making the connections in these seconds, in these instances, too bombarded, too overwhelmed. “What is going on?”
It takes dying to know
How to live as ghosts
