The Outsider

 None are allowed to explore the world outside of Zerathur's house. Not because there's danger, or something being hidden; Rather, it's just empty. There is nothing after the woods. No sea, no tree, no animal, no hope, no despair; There is nothing that lives and nothing that dies. There couldn't be. The stars have faded eons ago, the last black holes evaporated, there's nothing left but him, his home and his forest.  And yet, here at the very edge of the treeline, something wanders in from the darkness. At first it has no shape, no will of its own, no words to voice its primitive thoughts. But He does. He nurtures it, He dwells with it, He for it. Through every waking hour, a majority of His thoughts are poured into it. When sleep does take Him, so do the dreams of things that are no more yet could be again.  The phantoms are gone. Zerathur sits alone in his living room, earbuds on, a song in repeat yet nothing in his head but static. Their music is too loud. He takes off his earbuds and carefully places them down to the side, but the very sound of his clothes shuffling with him is like running his skull against a grater. He's not sick, he doesn't have a headache, not with all the healing spells inbued into his bones; Yet, everything hurts .  Zerathur stands up and starts heading towards the doorway, hoping to make it back to his room to rest. His breathing is too loud. And so he stops breathing. His heartbeat is too noisy, throbbing against the base of his skull, and so he stops that too. The pain grows worse. The vision goes blurry. Everything cascades like a curtain being pulled back at the sound of a thousand, thousand voices, and they all say the same thing:  I know what you are.   He reaches out and grabs it by the neck. Feeble muscles fight against that which shouldn't be grasped, he wrestles it to the ground as it squeals and cries. The skin melts off and burts from its seams to reveal the red pulsating flesh beneath. It twists and writhes, bending its bones in impossible geometries until they break, screaming in despair and laughing in divinity. It dies there and then, cackling in its madness and choking on its viscera.   Zerathur raises himself from the grisly scene. His heart flutters back into beating, his lungs take in a fresh breath of air, the world is quiet again. And thus he collapses, whisked away into dreams of eternity.

 Adeena's presence wanes and fades, she lets herself go and reform then solidify again. The curse binds her to one world, yet her soul belongs to so many more. It's in her memories, you see, not just as Adeena but as every incarnation of Despair; Name that she takes for herself as both title and calling. And Hope was always there too. Sometimes Justice, sometimes Knowledge, but always Hope.   Except for this time. There's a stallion sleeping on the couch, earbuds on and his back to the rest of the world. She knew this grey-coat once, she'd run her fingers through his messy blue hair and stared into his lively blue eyes. Now when she looks upon them, they are dull, covered with a thin layer of what looks like lake ice; His hair is tainted by crimson strands, his coat ragged and torn at the edges.   The gods know she's tried to reconnect with the one she once knew, and for brief moments she glimpsed Hope's presence within this old interloper, but he'd always push her away to a path of her own. And now she knows why. Lounging on the sofa's arm and playing with a stuffed doll is a phantom, a pale recollection of someone who looks exactly like her in this life.  "She had your name." Adeena physically recoiled at the sound of his voice, never used lightly when directed at her. His eyes were still closed when he twisted and rose from the couch to sit up, head slumped forward. "I hated her for things she couldn't control, and she loved me for it. I was the only one who hated her as much as she hated herself. Until I didn't." His words carry the weight of a burden, longing, and it all comes crashing upon her shoulders.  It is difficult not to resent him, even if it is hypocritically so. She loves what was, but can't accept that which it is now; Just as he's holding onto the past so vehemently he can barely cast his eyes upon the ones next to him in the present. "She is not here anymore, Zerathur, but I am." She responds, chitinous feet clicking softly against the wooden floor as she tries to approach him, but then she stops.  "One day you won't be here either, and all that will be left is a ghost of you for me to reminisce." His responce is blunt like a hammer striking at her chest, she looks down and then glances up at him again to see that the phantom is faded and his dull eyes are open. "I hope you will see me for who I am before that happens." Her reply earns her his stare, and the two lock eyes... And then he's gone, away with a twist of lightless blue flames.