Well kid-
Ya done goofed.
You know it the minute he looks at you, those teal eyes the only constant in a shifting face. There is something terrible within them, something that makes your heart stop and your head spin as your throat goes dry, ash filling up your mouth, blood running chill and fast in your veins. It isn't the terrible of his murders, the terrible of the blood he wears upon his hooves, the terrible of the rage and hatred he inspires with his mere existence.
It's a far more terrible than any of that.
It is the terrible sadness, the terrible mournfulness, the terrible guilt and regret in the amorphous god's eyes and his simple, quiet "Yes" that tells you, in an instant, just how badly you've fucked up.
You barely notice Sparky come up beside you, his voice a low murmur under the rush of dark water. For the first time in your life, though, you wish he wasn't here, that he hadn't come and found you, that he was far, far, far away, tucked somewhere safe and sound. Your ear flicks toward him anxiously, trying to take in his words - he's a smart kid, and that's good, because he's going to need his brains and his heart in the shit storm to come. Because it's gonna be a shit storm - of this you're more certain by the minute, that flicker of hope steadily drowning under the sheer volume of the river's screams
You nod absently, agreeing, frowning, silent, gaze still locked on the beast who winds through the water. Your anxiety is rising; you shift, uneasy, wings rustling and body tense. More children appear, flocking to you like a collection of frail birds you cannot possibly hope to save, delicate and beautiful and so blissfully unaware. You hear little of their talk, their quiet calls for rebellion - the voice of Kaos is too loud in your head, ringing and terrible, ("I'll do what I can, but death.. It's... I don't—I can't recommend coming back from it."), far more significant than you'd realized at the time, a memory that drowns out the rising sound of screams. The voice of Kaos is too loud -
- until another voice is louder.
"No-" you whisper, choke, as your son appears- your sweet son, your cheerful son, your perfect son who does not deserve the hell that you have wrought. You move, your eyes finally leaving the demon to train upon your child, your body following, defensive and offensive, spreading and stepping as though to encompass him, to shield him from the world and all its cruel intent. "Mauna-" and your gaze holds that same terrible sadness, the same apology, the same guilt. Whatever happens next, whatever horrible thing it is, if it touches and hurts your precious boy -
- it will be your fault.
You don't look back at the river, at the God. You can't. You're a coward. You look at your son, touch him and smell him and soak him in, sunbeam eyes glancing over his spotted body, his tender wings, his budding horn, his grin, his mirth, his joy. He is the important thing - the only important thing - and for a moment you think that maybe maybe if you keep the world just him and you nothing else will enter, that the brightness of your love for him will be enough to keep any darkness from penetrating and scarring your child.
"Be brave, Little Mountain," you whisper, and turn.
Nothing could have prepared you for what happens next.
Because, if we're being honest, you had a certain set of expectations. Sure, you feared the worst - but in your mind the worst was this:
Isopia, a hideous, deformed, stupid thing, a collection of bone and sinew and hunger, gnashing crooked teeth and glaring through empty sockets. Isopia, a husk, an empty container of the mind you knew and loved, a tuneless echo, a ghost.
You turned around expecting you dead best friend's zombie.
You are met instead by your dead Ma's soul.
There are no apt words to describe your thoughts, so we shall not attempt to find them. Instead we will say this - as you look at Ampere, a teal-and-black wraith of the mother you adore, every emotion you have ever felt hits you with the weight of a thousand stones. You are a newborn, fresh and damp on the desert sand, and her blue eyes are the sky, the world; you are a child, thrown from the sky by a great tiger beast, and her warm embrace is safety and life; you are a young man, alone on that same sand, and her absence is the tear in your heart; you are a son, angry and adoring and needy and independent, and she is your Ma.
"Ma..."
There are other ghosts, so many others, too many others, each one a slice of your skin, a hot poker plunged into your chest. Tae rises from the water behind your mother, her wolves at her heels (wolves, always wolves - you remember another wolf, a silver one with a broken jaw - is he here to judge you, too?), her lovely eyes like marbles, spinning and rolling in a ghostly head. She is furious (so much like your mother, so strong, so vibrant), your baby sister (and you are watching her hatch, her and her twin, so beautiful and perfect on the beach, and you know you will do anything for them, except then you don't-).
Tae screams for Grusha, and it is a kick in your throat, another failure. "I don't know," you confess to the water, failure and sorrow heavy in your voice. "I couldn't save her- I couldn't save you- little Ghost, please, come back home to us, we miss you-"
And behind her another rises, tall and perfect and just as measured, just as intelligent and collected as you remember, your anchor, your rock, your mountain, the mother of your child.
For a moment there is stillness and hope, hope that this will be a happy reunion, that your family will embrace you and you will find the closure you so desperately crave. "Iso!" you cry, your voice blooming, a lilt of half-laughter and exhaled prayer. Because though your mother and sister are raging storms, Isopia is a deep sea, an untouchable calm, a constant in your tumultuous- you want to see her, to run to her, to hide behind her and laugh because, see, spirits are real, all those years ago you were right, and now you can go together and find more secrets, learn more about the world - you can be together and raise your child, and her other children because fuck it, if they came out of her you're prepared to love them with all you have. Maybe the gift Kaos gave is a good one, maybe he is sorry after all-
Or maybe your loved ones are just dead, and they've come back for the rest of the world.
Your sunbeam eyes turn back to Kaos, rife with horror, with a new understanding and grief and rage. He did this- and even though you asked for it, you wanted it, he should have known better-
Because clearly, this plan? It was not good.
Ampere is vibrant, a halo of teal on a background of black. "Ma," your voice cracks and breaks; you step forward, your silver hoof touching the dark water (turn away, Zero, look away, go back); you hope. Your pleas are heavy with heartache and longing - a part of you, a stupid and silly part, thinks that maybe your mother will forgive you, that this is all a bad dream and her specter is here to hold you through the night, to wrap you in her wings and send you away to safety. You wonder if maybe,
maybe, you can assuage the rage that clouds her heart, be the bulwark to her storm. "Ma, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, ma, please, I love you, I need you-"
But Ampere will not be assuaged, and as she begins her charge you glance at Iskra and Mauna, trying to see them, trying to save them, your wings spreading like shields with far more bravado than you actually feel - and you remember that night, that other night, when you tried to protect Sparky and left everything fucked "Sparky, protect Mauna," you beg of your brother - and then, because this is your fault, and if he loses you on top of everything else that, too, will be your fault, "I'm sorry."
You step toward the oncoming figure, wings still spread, hooves damp in the water, love and misery a painting on your face. As you look at your Ma, a specter on the water, your name a curse on her raspy tongue, you are all the things you said, all the things you ever said, all the cruel words and curses that final night, the way you left it, the anger, the blame. She died believing you saw her unfit, that you had judged her wanting. She died angry, hateful, with all your grievances unresolved.
But she is also all the stories, all the warmth, all the laughter and adventure and tales of whales and stars. She is everything, your everything, even if you could never be everything to her.
She died, you think, in your overly dramatic and self-deprecating mind, believing you didn't love her - when in fact you loved her so much that you will die for her, right now, today - if only it will heal you from how much your love hurts.
Zèklè
What if I'm far from home?
Oh, brother, I will hear you call
Scint River
