Worlds

Worlds grow, grass sprouts, trees bloom flowers and grow orchards over the memory of a dead body- still missing. Servers continue, hands working to build empires and create legacies; hopes that perhaps a new monument, a new siren will draw a lost passenger finally home. 

Memory is like a screen, built of code and numbers and made of so many things to see at once. Friends process what absence and failure he was and all he can remember is black emptiness. Bottomless, born to fall with useless broken wings. 

And this is how grief goes.

It hurts, carving at you with blunt tools and half-sharpened knives. It grinds against your insides, scraping at your ribs and rattling them with each breath. It aches in your skull, by your temples from the tension you don't want to release. It hurts, and some of it is welcome because it is a reminder that your pain is real, and pain is synonymous to caring. You deserve the pain, because it's proof that something mattered.

It aches deeply and does not let go. It builds itself a fetid home, rancid and weeping like an ulcer somewhere in your soft tissue. It poisons each thought, tainting it with a new hue invisible to those who do not share your pain- who see your perspective and memories and hurt. It's a disease, a burden not able to explain and one others have little sympathy for. Apologies, gratitude given, and for what? My condolences.

It lingers sourly, sapping your energy and motivation like a tapeworm coiled between your arteries and veins and constricting the organ most important to you. It waits, patient as all other thoughts come above it in priority but it always will remain there, waiting. Eventually, you can forget it until something prompts a sharp hideous remembrance, and then you feel guilty and horrid for ever managing to forget at all.

And perhaps one day you will grow out of it, perhaps the pain does lessen as you are desensitized to the new chronic illness that came from loving someone so much. Perhaps one day you'll grow, the quantity of your memories diluting the ones you have now- but it waits. Grief is a hideous violent thing. It does not grow weaker, it settles at the bottom of your soul like thick muck and silt in a rotting bog. The predator sleeping below the mangrove roots, gnawing on the corpses of every happy moment you've ever had.

And it doesn't leave, time doesn't make it weaker. You simply learn to live with it, to build above and higher towards the sky. Away from the foul thing, watching from below as you ascend one step more beyond its reach. And ultimately, you still feel guilty for it.

There were quite a few ethical problems to consider when regarding Scout.

Martyn and Jimmy had done a marvelous job informing them of all Watcher related potential problems they could encounter, as well as Pearl once she had thawed partially from her overarching unease with the situation. Some things obviously weren't mentioned again, but the sight of the two former server-family members had soothed her aggressive edges into something much more conversational.

Xisuma wasn't one to press further than necessary. He knew how painful some topics were for his hermits, especially those with rather…difficult histories. He didn't want to put anyone in a situation of unnecessary stress. Yet, it seemed this season was nothing but stress regardless of how much he tried to help.

Scout was the current problem, one that he felt very exhausted by.

The ethics around mob and creature experimentation were loose and heavily scrutinized, in the times before regulations had been set in place a few pioneers had established the standards of mob farming through experimentation. Etho, notorious for some of the cruelest endeavors of curiosity before Xisuma had even learned how to input one line of code, was perhaps the greatest known for this. Without Etho, a great number of discoveries would have been lost. Yet, with the increasing mob hybrids, there was no wonder why many people were outright terrified of the man.

Scout was something new, a botched forsaken creature partially trapped between human and Watcher. Obviously, experimentation would provide greater information, but instinctually Xisuma could never allow an innocent creature to feel that fate.

Stressmonster had been struggling nearly as much, sorting through thick books and scrolls from other servers and ancient trailmaking times for specialized potions. Cubfan had similarly awkwardly intruded with his less than innocent potion creations, avoiding the use of too much vex influence in case of corruption. GeminiTay had skittered by, clopping around with her eldritch experiences and offhand suggestions for more arcane approaches. 

The problem was this: Scout was sick.

If a player was sick, they could talk and consent to any form of medical treatment. In most cases, medical help was provided with implied consent because prior discussions had established it. Scout was clearly sentient, sluggish and struggling as he was, but there was no way or form to actually obtain consent.

False was the only hermit on the server with personal experience with wings, her pair classic for an avian. In terms of hybrid, she wasn't significantly far leaning in bird traits- only the dark soaring wings on her back suggested her avian ancestry. There were no brutal talons, no arching ear feathers or tail feathers for high speed maneuvers. It was easy to forget her wings if not for how pesky they were in close combat.

False, for as much experience as she had, admitted to having no idea of what to do with broaching Scout's limbs. Pearlescentmoon (and whatever moth-moon creature she was) had less idea, out of all of them perhaps Iskall had wrangled enough chickens to recognize when a feather was beyond saving.

Scout was ill, undoubtedly in dire need of medical attention yet they hadn't actually been able to determine how sick the creature was. The urgency to evaluate had heightened in priority now that they had a crude confirmation that Scout had been (and still was) sentient.

It left the odd collection of hermits who had self-determined themselves to be the Scout-medical team. It was not beyond Xisuma's attention that many of the people on this so-called medical team were in no way trained for medical concerns.

Zedaph and Etho in particular were guilty of simply being very curious about Scout. A safe ethical curiosity of course, no creatured hurt in the making.

Stress and Gem were burrowing deep into the medical properties (combined with Cub's potions) and gathering shulkers of equipment. Etho had casually combined with Doc's not so innocent devices to design and construct something that looked like a very violent multi shot crossbow. False had sorted through the spare bags of chicken feathers and her own molted feathers to have a collection for an idea they had little hope in. Rendog provided an enormous quantity of pies.

"I want it said on record, that I don't really like this plan," Gem said, shifting on her feet. She shuddered, ears flickering back and forth. The little decorative chains and gemstones rattled softly across her antlers with each twitch.

"Yeah," Stress agreed, sighing heavily. Hauling no less than four shulkers of supplies, she gnawed on her lower lip with open anxiety.

Xisuma disliked the plan also. They had brainstormed for quite a few days with no luck. Scout was still a very dangerous entity with unknown impact on code- it wasn't a risk Xisuma was willing to take for his hermits. That didn't mean he felt any less like a monster at the exact moment.

"Okay, I think I'm ready," Stress said, rolling her shoulders with a heavy sigh. She braced herself, waiting at the door with Gem nervously by her shoulder. Looking skywards to one of the many communication lines run throughout the little enclosure, she asked: "is everything alright up there?"

"Yep," Xisuma agreed, eying Etho from the edge of his vision. The other man perched himself oddly, looking lanky and disproportionate with his stretched out posture. One half slab had been removed from the cage itself, unnoticeable in the upper corner. There, Etho waited beside Xisuma in the safety of the control box, stretched like a cat with the modified crossbow in hand. Through the miniscule gap in the wall, the weapon settled itself unwaveringly on the enormous feathered body inside the cage.

The only option Xisuma, Doc, and Etho had settled on for the safe examination of the enormous potentially deadly creature, was to drug it. The only way to do so was to use multiple potion effects. Splash potions could be used but only if the feathers would absorb the fumes, False had mentioned her wings were able to reflect the spray away from her body, turning them into a smelly but useless attempt to harm her or other avians. This obviously was a problem, since Xisuma hadn't an idea if the multiple limbs would be similarly capable of deflecting the thick lingering potions- which left poisoned arrowheads as the only viable option.

"Are you ready?" Etho asked, blinking slow and lazy. The amount of liquid carelessness oozing off the man made Xisuma worry for the state of his server, truly.

Stress readied herself, lifting her shoulders into a neutral strong posture, and pushed open the door. Stress and Gem walked into the room, Gem's cloven hooves clicking softly over the sea lanturn and quartz floor with soft echoes not unlike a horse on cobblestone.

"Hello there," Gem greeted Scout softly although she kept a safe distance from the furthest point of the room. Her nostrils twitched, tongue briefly flickering out to lick one side of her maw in something instinctively nervous. Tossing her antlers and jingling her jewelry once more, she straightened her shirt and gazed at her multiple pouches of supplies and potions.

"Hi there, Scoutie!" Stress greeted, dragging the name out longer as she rolled the name across her thick accent. Hefting down the shulker boxes, she stretched both arms with small nervous flickering fingers. 

Scout, potentially having been asleep or in a strange trance, stirred at their voices. The enormous back wings moved slowly, folding with loud rasping sounds of vanes and broken quills scraping over the floor. A small scratch of claws on nails signified some sort of movement under the impenetrable curtain of feathers. The smaller wings, grotesquely graphed on and in no way useful, fluttered and stretched like recently awoken canaries glued across random bones.

"Did ya' have a good sleep?" Stress asked, still nervous to approach. Scout shifted once more, the wings slowly folding inwards towards the center of its spine where each vertebra protruded somewhat from its spine. Scout rumbled, a low baritone noise deep and reminiscent of a marine animal slowly awakening.

"Okay," Gem whispered to herself, her heart a rapid thing in her chest. She fingered her hip where multiple potions rest- splash potions of weakness for the worst case possible, tapping each cork rhythmically.

Stress inhaled, held it, and very slowly nodded. 

The sound of a crossbow firing was a loud whistle, accompanied afterwards with a wet heavy thwack! Generally, archers were so far from their target to not hear the acute noise of arrows sinking and gaining a purchase. Normally, archers fired only one arrow at a time, or three if they were skilled. Etho of course did none of these things and had the calm confidence to fire six arrows with caustic flint heads, each saturated with a toxic potent elixir.

The wet thwack! Settled outside of time itself, occurring solid seconds before it seemed to actually affect the moment. In one blink, Scout began to stir from his clumsy awakening. In one blink, Scout stumbled and clattered to the ground with unhinged movements, joints flaccid and knocking around with rattling crunches of bones on the wall. Six arrows protruded from it's back- four lodged in the enormous surface of the middle wings, and two sunk deep along what they presumed to be its body.

For all that Scout was silent and struggled to communicate, it knew the feral tongue of animals and spoke a horrid wail. It jerked about, bristling and flapping jerkily, trapped in a net of it's own bodily limitations. It screamed, a shrill noise too high for a bird, for a child, for a scared thing as it jerked about frantically.

"Stress!" Gem shouted a warning. Quickly, the smaller woman lowered and forced her hind limbs to lunge upwards, ramming Stress to the side in lieu of being struck by one enormous faintly bleeding wing.

On the ground, the two covered their heads, hurriedly attempting to protect themselves from the blunt trauma of a heavy strike. An avian could break ribs with one well aimed hit from a wing to the chest- would it be an instant death if one of Scout's limbs hit them? 

"Xisuma!" Gem screeched, tossing her head to roughly bat her antlers and knock aside one long secondary feather coming too close for comfort. "Some help would be really nice!"

Instead of the admin appearing to help, a bit of the wall crunched away. Dropping through the wall and landing in an easy crouch, Etho eyed Scout's panic induced rampage with disinterest. He drew a shield, slotting the iron supports in place to hold it on his right forearm.

"Hello ladies," he greeted casually. With a small crinkle to his eyes, the tall man ducked under a sweeping wing and knocked it aside with an upward bash.

Scout shrieked, the noise loud enough for Gem's ears to briefly cease functioning. Etho grabbed her bicep, hauling her back before lifting his shield in a parry against the clumsy limb- cl-bam!

Scout jerked back, rearing on what Stress imagined to be its hindlegs. Its wings arced around, flailing like scythes before wrapping inwards in a protective hug, struggling to remain balanced as lethargy grew.

"Go down, Scout," Stress moaned, finding the sight painfully sad. Scout fought back, panicking and frantic. The arrows were drawing blood, little splatters that decorated the walls with tiny red pinpricks, no greater than a sweetberry. Scout bled red, a bright splash that otherwise looked so unassuming.

Etho steadied himself, holding the shield warily. There was caution in his movements, each strike against the blunt limbs calculated in paradox to Scout's frenzied jerking. The potions were accumulating, toxicity rising in synchrony to the crescendo of wails and hellish shrieks.

Scout hummed, a loud vibrating tune that alternated between slurred clicks with some semblance of language. He slumped, keening high and distressed as one leg gave way. It crumpled to the ground, an enormous primary feather fracturing and bending backwards like a wet thumbnail after soaking in a bath too long. 

"Nnn," Scout slurred, moaning between violent sobs and other sounds. "No- no."

Gem shuddered, curling her chin lower into the soft cardigan Stress wore. The rough approximation of protests dwindled, fading weaker as slowly Scout succumbed to potion effect. Weakness lay over the creature with no kind compassion, no steady rise to its chest beyond that of jerking chaotic gasps.

"He's down," Etho stated needlessly, lowering his shield with no other signs of concern. Peering over his shoulder, the heterochromatic man cocked his head and asked: "do you need me to keep watch for you?"

"We're fine," Stress said, her words choked and trapped in her throat. She cleared it, uncomfortable with how it caught somewhere by her vocal cords.

"Alrighty then," Etho said.

"Come on, Stress," Gem soothed. She righted herself, offering one hand to her friend to help pull her upright. Now standing, the three glanced at the fallen enormous creature across the small room.

Etho hummed to himself, whistling a jolly tune. Casually, he scuffed one shoe along the floor where an enormous gouge carved itself into the marine sea lantern. It looked like a scraping blow from a longsword, severing the illuminated surface deeply. Stress had some memory of a feather swiping there, and felt her nausea emerge once more.

"Maybe I should stick around," Etho said after a small pause, contemplating the gash in the floor. 

Gem had no complaints, none at all.

They opened the shulkers, drawing free the clean blankets and small vials. Buckets of water were hefted from inside the purple shell, set aside with intentions to deeply clean the creature. Metal tools were set on a small table, hastily constructed- shears, piers, knives, and needles. 

"I don't think you can patch these feathers," Etho informed them, eying the punctured web split to the quill. To repair a feather, you often required a matching set to splice together. False had done her best with what she kept from her last molt, but her wings were miniscule compared to the broken vanes erupting like thorns.

"I'm worried about malnutrition."

"I think we should get the arrowheads out," Gem muttered uncomfortably. She skitterd between approaching Scout and shying back, instinct daring and damning her all the same.

Etho kept guard as she slowly stepped closer, cloven hooves dancing between grime and exposed flooring. Scout breathed shakily, entire body shuddering below the heavy jerk of its diaphragm.

"One," Gem said, drawing the arrowhead clear from where it impaled the nearest wing. The arrowheads were not made to pierce deeply- they were broad and appeared to impact and distribute poison as quickly as possible. They would bruise, but bruises could heal.

The fourth arrow came free much like the prior three. The last two, lodged in the pale skin near the spine, stuck upwards violently. They did not come free when she tugged initially, only when Gem dared to touch the body and yank against the thin flesh with both her hands.

The wounds left behind were gruesome but temporary. Gem felt ill as she stared at them, able to count and trace the spiderweb blue lines of vessels below the thin skin. This close, it was undeniable that Scout held some sort of humanoid vertebral column. It wasn't a phantom, or a mob Gem knew. The skin itself was something different, pale and translucent although Gem had suspicion it wasn't supposed to be.

"How long was he underground?" she asked her two companions. Gently, she pressed her fingertips in and watched the small capillaries and vessels blanch, filling slowly once more with blood.

"Too long," Stress responded. She nervously paced on the outer reach of the splay wing, uncertain where to approach. Gem teetered from her perch atop Scout's back, her hooves catching on something she worried was a pelvis below all the shed downy.

"Well, I guess it's time to start plucking," Etho muttered, setting his shield down. He swept a set of swears up in his hand, holding it aloft to check for any notches or dents in the blade. Once passed his precursory scan, he slid himself between a set of unsalvageable feathers and hacked the weathered vane in two.

The sound was not unlike a small twig breaking underfoot. The ratty end of the feather dropped with a shed of dust, other white powder escaping the hollow quill from where a blood supply had once been before it dried up years ago. Stress flinched at the noise, her mouth drying at the unimaginable sight of a clipped wing. Etho gave no indication of it bothering him, simply moving on to the next unsalvageable feather.

This pattern continued. Gem carved and healed the small lacerations left by their arrows, packing each incision with an herb poultice oozing with the juice from golden apples. Stress tended to each feather that had some degree of function- painstakingly brushing it out with a straw broom and plucking ticks and other debris free from the tangled vanes. Etho did what he did best, severing things with shears or a knife. Slowly, the pile of discarded feathers stacked taller, able to stuff one of Bdub's mattresses. The ground turned brown with dirt, sticks and lichen tugged from old spaces. They rivaled two elytra, almost three.

"Alright then," Stress said, finally breaking her silent focus. She rubbed her hands on her trousers, leaving ashy tracks across her thighs. Contemplating the situation, her posture slumped as she confessed miserably: "I think we need to roll 'em."

Gem had known that for quite some time. Accessing the wings was easy enough, but the true question of Scout's health was what lay under the wings. She had managed to address her open fears- malnutrition, vitamin deficiency, some old muscular atrophy simply from her posterior perch. 

"Okie dokie," Etho said without blinking. Far too casually, he set aside the shears and approached the largest set of wings. 

With a loud huff of exertion, the man raised himself from a squat with the wing joint in both hands. He struggled, body shaking as the elbow of the appendage lifted, dragging the entirety of Scout with it.

"Wait wait!" Gem cried, ducking below to precariously lodge her antlers across the joint- providing Etho enough time to shift his grip to something better. "Look at the wing! His arm!"

Gem had heard about it, seen the rough anatomical sketches Doc had provided of the presumed physiology. Associating a charcoal and ink drawing to actual tangible bone was something much different.

Etho twitched, cringing visibly at the proximity. His hands flexed, fingers curling into soft downy feathers that coated the underside of the main wing- just shy of the awkward transition. Skin stretched, distorted and wrong. Small prickles of attempted feathers poked free in needlepoint asymmetry. Bone structure bulged from a relatively identifiable elbow, taped together with thick rippled stretch marks.

Etho breathed slowly through his nose, thankful for his mask as a dislodged downy feather fluttered close to being inhaled. The arm twitched, long disfigured hand curling into a claw-like instinctive grasp.

Stress eyed the junction, tearfully touching the union of skin with one shaking fingertip. It stretched, blanching under the pressure. There was a blood supply, regrown into the unwanted area.

"What are you thinking?" Etho asked her, holding the joint steady. Stress wet her lips, pinching the fusion to feel for muscle or tendon below. It sank softly, thick but not too thick.

"I…we need to lay him flat," she croaked hoarsely. She was sweating, mostly due to nerves. "Have any of you two fellas helped in a surgery before?"

"Surgery?" Gem asked, squeaking. She skittered, antlers shaking as she tossed her head twice. "I uh, I'm not sure about that."

"I can help," said Etho, grossly fascinated by the strange connection.

"We should get the rest of him sorted out," Stress said. She shuddered, lodging a wedge of scaffolding below the lifted wing to create a support pole. The wing slumped, twitching slightly as it tented over the ground. Ramshackle, and broken.

"Want me to get a temperature?" Etho asked, snickering softly. The attempt at humor failed, yet it didn't lay awkwardly or uncomfortable between them.

"I can handle that," Stress said, "can you check by his head? XB said that Scout had opened the face wings before- there may be a reason he hasn't since being in here."

" Or," Etho presented boldly, "he's anxious and irritated that he's stuck in a box."

"Or he's got a toothache," Gem countered. "Besides, I'm checking out the toes and claws! Go on in there, you big scared cat!"

"I'm not scared," Etho muttered. He sniffed, shouldering his way bodily below the biological lean-to. Scout's humanoid arm hung, suspended by its elbow union with each talon about level to Etho's knee.

Etho squatted, frog marching himself below the wing. His hair knocked bits of dirt askew, some landing on his face like filthy freckles. He resisted the urge to sneeze, feeling mildew creep inside his sinuses. 

"You okay down there?" Gem asked, her voice melodic and sing-song. She was busying herself somewhere further south, investigating the hind limbs presumably.

"Peachy," Etho muttered, trying not to grimace as more debris caught in his hair. Sometimes, he was dearly thankful for the fact he wore a mask.

Scout's neck was a thin gangly thing, bowed forward like he had fallen unconscious sitting upright. The arch of all six main wings and the odd upper body forced the poor creature to lay with its body bent, head unable to truly touch the ground. Miniature wings splay limply, controlled by gravity in a downward splay like a wilting flower. Filthy matted hair resembled a felted blanket more than actual hair. Well beyond saving, bits of hair tangled with vines and other things into an unsalvageable mess.

Etho scoured for any sign of injuries. He couldn't smell the high recognizable stink of infection beyond that of general grime. Scout's skin could use a good exfoliation, but the visible patches were smooth and unburdened of injury.

"Found the head," Etho said unnecessarily. He squirmed, wriggling onto his back to slide below the creature. It felt a bit like he was working on one of his redstone machines, except he was without the rolling cart and tools within reach. Scout breathed with hitching breaths, each inhale and exhale a struggle.

Outside of the feather cave, Stress asked: "reckon he seem alright?"

"He's breathing," Etho said. 

Scout twitched, a small flutter through his clawed fingertips and furthest edges of his wings. The small joints around his face, cradling his cheekbones and jawline, flapped twice reflexively. Etho watched with open fascination as Scout's face shifted, tightening slightly across shadowed cheekbones before the creature shuddered.

Each little bird wing opened and closed, aggressively flapping twice before closing as quickly as they came. Little bits of fluffy down fluttered, suspended in the flecks of dust permeating through the hazy curtain of light. Below the thick canopy of feathers, light existed in a gentle haze. Etho fluttered his eyelashes open, contaminating the sepia scene with carmine and insatiable ravenous text.

"Hello there, Scout," Etho said gently. He loath to disrupt such odd tranquility but according to jittering figures and indications- the potion effect was running out far faster than anticipated. Etho gently caressed the smallest wing near an approximate cheekbone, teasing the small songbird appendage to tremble at his touch.

Etho could trace the miniscule curved lines with his red enhanced eye, knowing them to be countless numbers of eyelids recessed into odd unnatural places. He longed to poke one, to feel the little eyeball jolt away and roll frantically behind his finger. A part of him, the part that was cruel and violent, wanted to pry the little wings away from Scout's true face to peer hungrily at the skull of something deliciously new.

Yet, Etho was not the same uncompassionate person who had braved Mindcrack and its aggressive hostilities. He was different now, changed. 

"Alright, see you later, Scout," Etho whispered, watching little feathers wiggle like a cat's attentive ear. Regretfully, Etho slid on his back, scooting below the tented feathers away from such temptation.

"You see anything?" Stress asked him upon his emergence. Etho grimaced, shimmying white powdery dust from the back of his dark green jacket- it would need a thorough wash after this.

"Just Scout's upper body and face," Etho reported dutifully. "I'd almost say he's avian."

"Yeah, same from over here," Gem called. Her hooves clattered with her bounding approach- clack-clack-clack! She daintily deposited a well worn set of hoof-trimmers into a canvas bag, beside a file and a rounded circular knife. Her ears rattled back and forth, nose scrunching as she stated: "his back feet are a bit like talons, but a bit mushy. It's almost like someone rolled an avian in a ball and tried to flatten him back out!"

Etho thought, and said: "that's…shockingly accurate."

Stress grimaced, her smile transitioning to a wince. What work she had managed on the outer wings was hard to see- one brutality altered for another. Broken feathers had been cut away viciously, bald patches exposed sick sore skin with thick plaques or other wounds. Scout clearly would be unable to fly, even if the wings weren't so atrophied.

"I'm worried about that upper arm," Stress said. She shifted on her feet, hand dropping to her flank where more potions were at the ready- enough to knock a ravager out if used correctly.

"You should make up your mind quickly, the potion effects aren't lasting as long as we hoped."

"Yeah…" Stress said, dwelling on the thought. She chewed her lip, gnawing anxiously.

At what point was it alright to perform surgery? Scout hadn't consented- and separating an incorrect attachment of that severity was nothing more than true non consensual body modification. Scout already couldn't fly, and he had been stuck in that state for an unknown amount of time prior. When was interfering something for their benefit, and not necessarily Scout's? Were they actually helping or simply soothing their consciences? 

"I…I'm not okay with that. The surgery thing," Gem stated. She shifted on her feet, clicking softly. Her normal compassionate gentle expression hardened with steel- the emergence of GeminiSlay in moments of true determination. "It isn't right."

"Agreed," Stress said quietly. Her hand fell away from her pouch- another day then.

"Besides! Scout should already feel better, I pulled out a ton of barbs and prickles! Oh, and I cut off a ton of overgrown talons. He should be up and moving as soon as he wakes up!"

"We can watch him when he comes out of it," Etho decided, considering the benefits of an enderpearl thrown into the tiny recession in the wall he had fired the crossbow bolts. 

If anything, it was pretty darn comfortable.

And this is how grief goes.

He had never taken the time to think about the void.

Trauma was one thing, blood spilled and blood taken. The void was different, a thing to be avoided and cautious with when traveling on wooden bridges stretched from horizon to horizon. 

He didn't know where to place that grief- the bitter intrusive state of freezing. An abandonment as his friends and family left to a server that hadn't yet corrupted and crashed to a place he could not follow. 

The end can only do what it does. 

The Watchers can only do what creatures and entities driven by violence and indulgence and ache can do.

And so-.

Worlds grow, grass sprouts, trees bloom flowers and grow orchards over the memory of a dead body- still missing. Servers continue, hands working to build empires and create legacies; hopes that perhaps a new monument, a new siren will draw a lost passenger finally home. 

Memory is like a screen, built of code and numbers and made of so many things to see at once. Friends process what absence and failure he was and all he can remember is black emptiness. Bottomless, born to fall with useless broken wings. 

There's a timeline somewhere, buried deep in the recesses of his memory and reinforced by trauma and maladaptive coping. There's a map there, of concepts and cause and effect of friends being stranded and the impending doom of death. Buildings being destroyed, meteors, the implacable indestructible ice of bedrock poisoning his fingertips with that black void-emptiness.

He hasn't recovered from walking the crumbling edges of meteors speckling the landscape, like holes in a graveyard. He hasn't forgotten the deadline, the riddles leading to their untimely end. 

Rationality said don't overthink it, as if his body was listening. As if the body will ever forget that which it is given.

(he is Void, empty and black from that which has been provided, personified-)

If he built buildings for every pain he'd felt unjustly, he would be wandering through barren empty cities of his own empire. He would take back every insult, every match thrown carelessly into gunpowder wrapped with cheap paper, all of it if it would end this experience. The worst build, created through experience and exposure.

How much value are diamonds to those who have no use for personal belongings? Who had said the first words- had he built an empire or formed a revolution and watched it fall and burn apart. He couldn't believe half the things he'd been through, he didn't know if he had imagined it.

He'd never been taught how to adequately mourn. He didn't know how to speak to the wind, let his words be stolen and swallowed by the endlessness that he now felt inside and at every moment. He wanted to give everything he had been handed to others, and now he wondered if he remembered how to cry. How many eyes, how many tear ducts? He can't cry about the body (what is he, what has he become?) but he feels it. There is a person split from the universe's promise to always be one. Everything is blurry and grainy- all of the flowers have died. All things here die eventually.

And in six months they draw shovels and uncover an empty casket to hold their memories and bury it. Each arm tilts in dirt, able to shovel away their sadness. 

There are no heroes in the cold aching endlessness, always changing nothing. He poses, dances with wings of royal purple and poses himself as decoration: aren't I beautiful? Are you watching me?

And he is not a survivor, he is simply still breathing. He exists, the void chewing on his fingers and staining him so empty. What else do we have if not the memory of life before this? 

He remembers grief, the grand finale of confession as love falls beyond his reach. He remembers mourning, the intentional decision to leap to where one can never look- he cannot tell how many lives he's lost to mourning. 

If you want to be a simple animal, then so be it you shameless creature.

But-

But he can tell you the sky is blue and clouds shift across its horizon. He can tell you the transition from walking to crawling and the touch of grass and flowers that survived (like him). He can tell you the sound of familiarity, the hiss of gunpowder and the taste of crisp apples. 

He can whisper, dare to say that which he was afraid to: I miss you, I'm sorry, Help me.

He can say: my name is Grian