ota;

[baltimores]

[ This isn't exactly something he does. Not on this scale, at least.

This communion's presence is akin to stepping off into the vacuum of space, cold and dark and empty. A void without feeling, submersed into nothingness — but deep enough there's also the faint pulse of a drowned, hurting heart. And even though it's coming from Amos, there's the sense of him curiously poking at it like an open wound.

It has been a couple of weeks since he killed Cyrus, a fact he has not bothered to hide. A couple of weeks since he has been forced to contend with the responsibility he bears for the deaths of innocents in Springstar, and so — ]

Hey.

[ When he speaks his voice is soft, and gentle, and something that could maybe even be called repentant. Or at least trying to be, the concept being a very, very, very new one for him. ]

So, I've been doing some thinking. There was this time I got caught up in a mass casualty event. Lady I knew then was a nurse, so she was doing what she could, because it had to be done. She also took the time to spend time with the dead. All of them, I think. I didn't really get it then, but I think maybe now...

[ He trails off, fumbling with his words. That pulse maybe grows a little stronger, and then he's back. ]

I dunno how feasible it is, but we should be collecting the names of everyone who died during all of this. When we make the new world — [ because there is no doubt in his mind that Zenith is going to succeed, and their new world will be made — ] we can build some kind of monument. Put everyone's names on it. Give people a space to take their moments with them, even if they ain't here anymore.

I know this don't exactly fix anything, but it's a start. I can keep track of the names. [ There's another pause, and when Amos speaks again, he's much more sure of himself. ] I won't forget them.

Comments

[baltimores]

[ He kind of wants to reach out to Link, take him under his wing. Put an arm around his shoulders and pull him in. Like, yeah, Amos is cold too, but his feels a lot more peaceful. Comfortable.

Well, the sentiment is there, if not the sensation. If he can, Amos will warm him up — it's good that he's back, after all, a hint of happiness on feeling his presence. ]

We will. It's just... one little corner. These're people who are dying so we can have the new world. They're a part of it, too — so they can have their place in it.

[ It feels right? Yeah, it feels right. ]

[bakedapple]

[ The vague notion of being reached out to, of something akin to an outstretched hand or a pat on the back... Link observes it for a moment, as if blinking owlishly, but does not move to accept. Instead, Link is asking himself why Amos is reaching out — or rather, thinking about it. Maybe it's because Amos heard about... well, what Link did. Or maybe he's just being nice. Link still hasn't told him what happened to that case that Amos made for Zelda's Shard, so it couldn't be that. (Although, surely, that will come up at some point.) ]

How is it different... from mourning all the worlds that we've lost?

[ Which is, you know. Not something the Zenith really does. ]

[baltimores]

[ Link does not move to accept, and so Amos hesitates before retreating. He's a Zenite, someone Amos would reach out to in just about any circumstance, so to be denied that is a little confusing. But he won't push the matter if it's not what Link wants. Gotta respect others' comfort zones, and all that.

His confusion is amplified by Link's question, though. How to explain this... ]

Those were worlds. These're people. When they die, there are... there are certain things you're supposed to do with them, I think. That's not a thing with worlds, but for people? I want to give them that. It feels like something they should have... It's not their fault they got caught in the crossfire, so I'm doing what I can for them now. That make sense?

[ No, really, does it make sense? Because while Amos feels confident that this is what he's supposed to be doing, the whole this thing is kinda murky for him, like he's stumbling through the dark looking for the light switch.

He's confident he'll find the light switch, though. One awkward explanation at a time. ]

private

[bakedapple]

[ Link listens quietly. There is no response at first — at least, not a verbal one. Because after a few seconds of processing what Amos said, a distinct sense of anger enters their Communion. It isn't fury, and it lacks the self-righteousness of some of the Meris who are currently in the process of yelling at Amos... just an earnest, genuine reaction.

In the moment that follows, Link narrows their conversation, shutting out any eavesdroppers. ]

Worlds are people.

The people who were left behind in our worlds... that's the whole reason most people on the Meridian side are there at all.

[ But saying as much makes him feel cold again. That spontaneous anger fades into something icy again, and with their connection tightened, maybe Amos will recognize it now: grief. ]

...I can't bring all of these people with me to the new world. Everyone from my world... and everyone from this one, too? I can't....

[baltimores]

[ The anger surprises him enough to make him recoil. It's only after Link has started speaking that Amos realizes he's taken their conversation private, and once the shock wears off, he is listening.

Link is cold, and he doesn't know what to do about that, so he mostly remains rooted in place. His earlier attempt had seemed to be rejected. He is maybe making things worse; he doesn't actually understand grief, just knows that Link is presently going through something awful. Something he'd like to alleviate, but really isn't sure how.

So mostly he just feels bad for him. Bad, and hoping that this new truth will help: ] You don't have to be the one to bring them. I do. You can leave them all behind if you want, I get that... This is just my duty now. Not yours.

[ Tentatively, he starts to make an approach — a step or two, a hovering embrace with a wide, wide margin. Maybe this time... ]

Tell me what else I can do to help. I'll do it if I can.

[bakedapple]

[ The closer he gets, the colder it feels. Like entering a walk-in freezer. Link watches as Amos draws closer, but he doesn't pull away this time. He said his piece. His anger flared, and he's allowed himself to express it — and to Amos' credit, he didn't try to argue or lecture him. The same can't be said for most of Link's former Meri allies. ]

...That's a heavy burden. Are you sure you want to shoulder all of it?

[ It would be better to let them go, wouldn't it?

Deep down, Link wants to hold onto them, he really does. But at a certain point, words fail to capture tragedy of a certain magnitude. And when that happens, there isn't any way to share the depth of your pain with others. It turns into a ghost that only you can see, staring at you from the dark corner of your room as you sleep.

Link doesn't know how to answer his request for a way to help him. If he knew, he wouldn't feel the way he does. Glancing down, trying to find the right words and coming up with nothing, he finally stammers the first thing that comes to mind. ]

I haven't taken a bath since I died. I'm — I've bathed, but I mean... a hot one. Warm water.

[baltimores]

I can shoulder it.

[ But that wasn't what Linked asked, was it? Does Amos want to. Instinctively his answer was that he could, but after a pause, he does find the need to amend his words: ] I want to.

[ It sounds as though he's still feeling the words out, tongue poking at them as they leave his lips, but. Yeah. He isn't lying. The magnitude isn't an issue for him, because it's inconceivable to him — an enormity he can turn a blind eye to. When you're born in darkness, your eyes adjust. When you're born in death, it isn't a big deal.

He can't recognize Link's pain.

But Amos moves, as if to rest a cold hand on Link's shoulder. Pull him away, to... something else, he figures, even if there's nothing else here, within the stretch of their minds. ]

When's the last time you've been up north? To the bathhouses? [ And Amos' voice isn't exactly warm, but the sentiment is there. Not something someone looking for heat can drape themselves in, but... ] They got warm ones up there. I live by them, if you want company. Can meet you there whenever.

And if you don't, then... fuck it, they got a tea there that'll make you feel better, too. Physically, I mean. [ Because Amos does not know shit about emotionally, but he's trying. ] You should go for that alone. It'll help.

[ Because Highstorm looks after its people, and so, it'll provide. There's a little nudging sense from Amos — if that's what Link needs, then he'll get it. No problem. ]

[bakedapple]

[ The hand on his shoulder (metaphorical, of course; Communion operates in impressions and intentions and imagination) is cold in the same way Link's heart is cold. Is this simply the natural state of the Zenith? Peaceful in its inaction and apathy? Or is it Link's Discord? Or, is there something special about Amos specifically, that makes it so easy for him to assume the burdens that Link has found himself unable to shoulder?

Or is Amos really shouldering them at all?

He raises his blackened eyes up to meet Amos' gentle gaze. Gentle without being warm. An earnest attempt at camaraderie. ]

...yeah. Okay. It's been a while since I've been up that way.

[ He reaches up with his inhuman blackened hand and lays it over Amos' on his shoulder. ]

Yeah. I'll meet you there. Let's pick a day.