MEMORY SHARE: 12 OF BEETROOT EVENT (May)

[voidmissions]

JEMA'GRETHY MEMORY SHARE

The caves of Jema'grethy will allow for a few different ways for memories to be interacted with. But for most, such as those entering in bonds, it will be seen like a vision in their head, putting them in the position and perspective of whose memory it is.

For people sharing bond memories, and also memories being shared while moving through the Memory Cave, this is the spot to place said memories! It's not necessary if you'd like to write it during the thread, but hopefully convenient for others. Just make a toplevel with your character's name in the header, and remember to include any content warnings thereafter for each memory, as applicable!

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Bonding Memories - For Fai D. Fluorite

[redprayer]

First Memory: Last 48 Hours - The Zeroth Hour

[redprayer]

[[ooc: cw - death, including brief references to mass death from disease and Fucking Demons Destroying Shit.]]

I dreamt a long dream. Of emptiness... Of ruin... A dream of eternity in the depths of chaotic darkness…

It’s the kind of experience that’s hard to put into words. A powerful sensation that isn’t directly comparable to any other- but let’s describe it as a heavy weight pushing down on you. Or a wind that can cut away mountains, a heat that can boil away the oceans, a noise that can liquify bones.

You must push back against this force with everything you’ve got, even as it shreds each part of you it touches.

To think we would once again face each other... I dreamt of meeting you again as well…

“Can't say that hope ever once crossed my mind, though!”

That glitter in your eyes... That glitter that has never known despair... It was that light that gave me nightmares!

The force of Shabranigdu rages, the darkness flaring up and ripping through you, desperate to reach the little light that shines so brightly in front of you both and extinguish it for good. But the light dances away in a flash, out of reach.

The threads that remain of you wrap around the force as it advances, snapping those same threads with each step. You distantly feel the ground crumble to pieces underfoot and hear the rumbling and crashing of the earth as it collapses. And you reapply the threads as the lightning explodes around you.

And so it goes; Shabranigdu rambles and raves about his beloved destruction, the force of his desires birthing brainless mazoku to tear up everything in their path, stone melts and lava flows, thunder cracks and roars, the screams of Taforashians too slow to evacuate echo distantly before being drowned out by the chaos of everything else. Tie back, push back, hold back, like building a dam brick by brick in the midst of a typhoon.

(Lina Inverse had better make up her damn mind soon, or else you won’t be able to even do that much.)

Foolish. Foolish one…

“I gave you this body. I won't ask you to return it now. But I can't let you have your way anymore!”

Back, back, back- and then, something shifts. A third presence is here, something that startles the Dark Lord enough that the pressure eases. More threads, or bricks, or hands to lighten the load- it’s all analogies really, when the point is that everything gets easier. Slightly easier.

“Even mere humans struggle to live. I won't allow you to just go and destroy it all!”

Easier enough that somewhere out there, Lina has an opening. The Dark Lord stirs, recognizing the lines of an incantation that nearly destroyed him before, and that will destroy him again. Darkness beyond blackest pitch…

The Giga Slave envelops you, cooling and crushing that pressure and you along with it, and you know that you don’t have to fight anymore. You almost let go. But Pokota’s voice stops you.

“So this is goodbye?”

Pokota. Somewhere out there is his father, and whatever citizens of Taforashia have survived both the Durum disease and the unleashing of the Dark Lord. There’s a life out there for him, a life as a puny stuffed animal, but you’ve spoken to him before and he’d said it would be enough.

“No…” you say. You cast the spell that originally sent his soul from this body to the Hellmaster’s Jar and to the vessel you’d chosen. Now, with what power you still have, you trace that path once again. You take Pokota’s soul in hand and push him forth, allowing the current to carry him home again.

“You stay behind…”

Everything falls upwards, slipping into a sea of chaos far from the world you once knew, and you bid a farewell that nobody hears, nor ever will.

Second Memory: Positive - Arisa Drumist

[redprayer]

“Red Priest!”

It’s a woman’s voice, and not one you recognize. Out of everyone who’s come to see you today though, she stands out by her relatively chipper-if nervous- tone of voice, and when she comes a little closer you can hear something breathing in her arms. Probably an infant or maybe an animal, but not one in poor health.

“Hello,” you say. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“My name is Meredith, Meredith Drumist. Do you remember me?”

You do not, and it presumably shows on your face, since she goes on to elaborate, “My father took me to see you several years ago when I was very ill. None of the healers in our village had been able to help me, but you- you saved my life, sir.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t narrow it down very much. You can think of several cases of ‘very ill’ young women who you’d treated successfully over the past ten or so years- girls with terrible infections, one who could barely breathe around a tumor in her lung, several whose pregnancies had gone horribly wrong, and so forth. You wonder if this woman would be offended if you asked a few more questions about what, exactly, had made her so ill.

Deciding not to risk it, you merely say, “I am glad I was able to be of some use. Have you been well, Meredith?”

“Yes! After I was cured I spent a while just focusing on getting better, then I started working with my cousin at the brewery, and that’s where I met Julius,” Meredith babbles. It’s somewhere between flattering and embarrassing, how eager she is to relay all this to you.

The thing in her arms makes fussing noises that you recognize as those of an infant, and Meredith takes a moment to soothe it.

“And then, last summer,” she continues, “We had Arisa! Here baby,” she holds the child out towards you, “Say hello to Rezo, the Red Priest. You wouldn’t have been born if it weren’t for him, you know.”

…Oh.

You hadn’t thought about it like that.

You slowly stretch your hand out, your fingertips brushing a small, soft head, radiating warmth.

“Hello, Arisa,” you say. You speak with utmost seriousness, but you can’t keep yourself from smiling. “It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Ah.” Arisa fusses some more, evidently not keen on being touched by a stranger, even one who her mother seems to think is very important, so you withdraw your hand, but you still feel a warm glow lighting you up from within- a glow that will persist even after Meredith and Arisa say goodbye, and well into the rest of the day.

Third Memory: Negative - Life's Worth

[redprayer]

[[ooc: cw for child death, illness, ableism, internalized ableism, suicidal ideation.]]

You’ve finally stopped coughing but your entire body aches from how long you were at it. Every breath scrapes through your throat and ribs so you try not to breathe too deeply or too fast because it hurts less that way.

It’s so hot. One of the sisters must have pulled the blanket over you again. You’d kick it off again but you’re too tired to move.

You lie like that for a while, breathing as carefully as you can manage, unable to sleep through the fever and the hurting. Eventually you hear footsteps, and the scrape of a chair against the floor.

“Rezo?” It’s one of the sisters. You don’t answer. You don’t feel up to talking right now.

The sister touches your forehead. It feels nice, even though her fingers are warm. When she removes it you almost complain but your throat still hurts too much for talking.

Things are quiet for a bit.

“He’s going to die, isn’t he,” she says. Her voice sounds so tired, you almost don’t realize what she’s saying. Even when you do, you don’t feel like you understand her properly. You can’t picture yourself dead, although her words tie a knot in your stomach that tightens the longer it’s there.

“Ollia…” It’s a different sister who speaks. You wonder when she came in.

“Aren and Silas are already gone, Ingrid. And they were older boys. Healthy. What chance does he have?”

You hear some light movement.

“...I’m sorry, Ollia. Maybe… Maybe it’s for the better.”

...

…What does that mean?

Why is it better if… Why is it better if you have no chance?

“You know, with his eyes… He’ll never be able to read or write. He still can’t do anything on his own.”

The knot tightens harder, a sharp weight in your stomach. It’s true, you don’t take lessons with the other kids. And it’s true that you’re worse at tying your shoes and cleaning up than everyone else and one of the sisters or other kids has to hold your hand whenever you go out. But…

“As sad as it is to think about, I don’t think he could ever find work, and he’d never be able to get married. What kind of life could he possibly have if he grew up? And we wouldn’t be able to look after him for the rest of his life.”

They can’t?

Well of course they can’t. Stupid. Just because you can’t picture yourself as a grownup doesn’t mean it won’t happen someday. And you’re not supposed to look after grownups the way you look after kids.

And you’re already much more work than the other kids are. You can’t see things, so you have to do everything differently, and it makes you so much slower than everyone else. The other kids are always fed up with you and even if they don’t normally say so, you can tell the sisters get tired of dealing with you too.

This is the first time any of the adults have gone out and said it’d be better if you weren’t around, though.

It’s not a surprise, really, but thoughts about it sink into you, rattling around and catching painfully, like the breaths that scratch your throat and the muscles that ache with each movement and the heat that burns you up from the inside out.

You hear the sisters muttering assurances to each other, but you don’t listen to what they say. You don’t want to hear anymore.

You don’t think you want to feel anything anymore, not if you’re always going to feel like this.