You are the night-time fear
He doesn't know.Not anymore.
There's too much static, too much blurring of the order of events. They were revered: reviled. Admired: abhorred. Some looked at them with awe and terror, others with disgust. Vaguely, he thinks there were those who lost control, who spent their days languishing on luxurious couches and biting people for that heady rush, surrounded by worship—and others who turned to anger, regret. Accepted and Acquired both who thought they used their magical talent for ill, perversion, and so, The Order formed.
But who, truly, threw the first stone? Aamu's mind flicks trough his memories, but he lacks precision, finesse, just gets bits and pieces, of fighting, fighting, for his life, for his right to exist, for the idea that they are equal (but with who?) and... "I don't know," he admits after a moment. "Did we just retaliate against the Order's influence? They hated us, even before the war broke out. Or did we provoke them into forming?"
Aamu shakes his head. "It's just yesterday to me, and yet my memories are—vague. Jumbled." It's more than a little uncomfortable to experience. He knows memories aren't supposed to be like that.
"The Order?" he asks, worried, hushed: the self-righteous staring down from on high. Stormbreak. He wants her to say no, tell him it's not still them, but he remembers their fanaticism too well. As long as there still were Ascended and the Voice he thinks the Order will remain.
You are the morning when it's clear
AAMU
