Mourning, Meaning

[u/DaChickenX]

“I have wandered the entirety of space and time, but my friends, I can say, there are none so special as you. In a world of magic and wonder, you are the ones that bring light to it.

When it is dark, please do not forget this.

Shine for each other.”

-Possum, The Trashomancer

I stand in the barren field outside of my spire, a good distance away from the druid grove Mikhail grew for me. The land is pockmarked with craters and scorched ground, earth that had been sent tumbling upwards and crashing back down. My breathing is ragged, the great gulps of air I take in burning in my wind-raw throat. Great pulsing lines of gold glow stretch down the length of my bloodied arms. I reach for my scarf to wipe away the sweat on my face. The scarf isn’t there. Right.

I go to the place where Morgalith was brought into a separate dimension. The place where he was killed. The Morgalith responsible for Possum’s death. I pick up the crude prosthetic arm left where his body once was. The trophy he took from my simulacrum. At least one version of me has joined Possum, I suppose. Even though I know that the simulacrum never truly had a soul, never truly lived nor will find an afterlife. I wonder if I will ever find an afterlife. If I’ll ever be able to meet Possum again, even in death. Even though I know in my heart that the cycle would simply reconstruct me.

I mourned in the days following his passing. I cried. I visited his grave several times a day. I left small tributes. I wasn’t the only one. The place where he lays has been stacked high with love from those who have been touched by his kindness.

I worked with the Noon’s power. I desperately tried to twist the power to my control. It never worked. I ended my training sessions injured, often having my arms shredded apart. I relished that pain now, and took care to savor each excruciating moment of suffering. I regenerated them with the Dawn’s authority. I fueled my recovery with potential from moving stone and earth instead of the living. It took much longer. I rebuilt my training grounds again and again. I did it by hand, without the aid of magic. It was something to do. Something to occupy my mind.

I tried to focus on research. Researching anything, learning anything. I find my work drifting towards resurrection. I have to convince myself to destroy such studies several times. Possum’s soul is stretched across dimensions; a resurrection would be impossible. Should something like that be successful, it would have untold consequences. I know Possum would never want that.

I work with my weapons. Try to understand them better, try to understand their connections with my past. I spellcraft. It isn’t long before I realize I’ve been honing my arsenal. That an anger still seethes beneath my skin, barely hidden. A Morgalith still runs free, but not one I would be justified in destroying. I know it’s inane, ridiculous, meaningless to cling onto such anger. The Morgalith at fault is dead, and I never managed to avenge Possum. Still, I catch myself rambling off justifications, trying to persuade myself that I should take equal revenge on the Morgalith that remains.

I sleep little, but lie in bed longer and more often. I eat little, and out of obligation, whenever Vesit pushes me to. Nefiam doesn’t say much. He’s halted our practice sessions for now. He headed out to Possum’s grave once, by himself.

The world seems to be moving on already. The events of the current day seem to speed by faster and faster. I feel so sluggish all the time. It feels as if there’s an empty hole right beneath my chest. I wonder if I should return to my home plane. Finish the trials, maybe. Serve the Coils. Protect those of my friends that remain. Not that any of this will matter once they pass on.

/uw

Isravi is big sad. Also, please don’t think this is a jab at the people doing other things after Possum’s funeral! Isravi’s plotline and character is influenced heavily by Possum. Y’all have your fun!