Weary being—what good to foresee a possibility unfulfilled?

An invitation, then, quelled and calm.

“You speak of legacy. What would you know of such a thing?”

“Do you not think I tried, O being? To blaze brighter in the end than that which brought me low?”

A plea, almost, though he stands with his head held high, unwavering.

“Nay, it was grief which ended me. Perhaps, spark faded and fizzled dim, it is better to accept defeat than claim hollow victory.”

or when, it is drawn to. The dreamwalkers may die with kingdom and haunted kin, yet I remain, penitent and watchful, until nothing remains of my mind.”

“Two gods, intertwined by a pain, unknowable to the common mind… Would you call that coincidence?”

An observation, rather than a petty challenge of wit.

He softens. “No, fellow being, it was not intention that brought me here. My essence fades. Not always do I have the power to choose who,

“In only dreams and vanishingly thin realities do I tread—an echo of a pale being departed. Little wonder, then, that I should be drawn by your familiar reminiscence.”

Hm. A term familiar. He watches as the fellow god lowers down, understands the intent, and nods his approval.

“It was presumptuous of me to expect otherwise,” he acknowledges first his respect of another higher being by way of indirect apology, and continues with ease.

“What nature is yours, that you see me as I am with such ease?”

“Such a bleed needs no help from words to remind us.”

But he is not here to torment. He moves forward, steps unseen beneath royal drapes frayed and ghostly, stopping at a respectable distance, the ends of his long sleeves held together in front of him.

A naturally small thing, he must look up.

“Never enough bandages,” comes the empty reply. “You know the feeling well.”

In family there is likeness. His own head tilts to follow the journey of the white-knuckled hand and its mug in silence, not unlike a vessel curious yet seemingly vacant of thought. Oh, how many tiny lives must have looked just like this, with their hollow eyes and pale faces.

And so he is found, the curtain pulled back to reveal a fallen king paled and small.

A rare thing, to be so adequately noticed. No sense in denying his presence and haunted interest, then.

“You, who would hide behind cantrips and words written in jest—is your heart full? Or is it wounded?”

Pitiful, the sentiment of too many tiny lives nagging at the back of the mind, maybe lost, maybe discarded, maybe never known—never allowed to 𝘣𝘦 known.

A sentiment of which he is intimately familiar, drawn to out of dreams and ether to passively absorb.

Such is the nature of gods and ghosts both.

In remorse and loss and void he laments. Barred from rest eternal, kept conscious in a higher plane of this stolen realm, watching, and watching, and watching.

At times his essence escapes and finds its way before those with an open mind and sensitivity to the unknown.

How poetic, to usurp a kingdom from her, then to steal the realm she lay banished in, once sorrow had claimed him when the cost weighed too heavy.

◉ Same author as @hallowed-hollow.bsky.social and @bellhearted.bsky.social; heavy themes likely to be present and MDNI as usual.
◉ Any format, any genre save for crack and lewd.
◉ Icon is my own, banner is from in-game.
◉ May be low-activity; this is a gradual character study for fun.