Chapter Text
Why did it always turn out like this? Desch supposed it came at no surprise that he'd been perhaps a little too risk-taking when it came to his actions after having woken, seemed only natural--his common sense wasn't bound to be the most functional after what was supposedly so many years of cryosleep. It wasn't by any means shocking when he'd first gotten stuck in a nest of a monster he just couldn't deal with and rescued by four children--extremely confident children at that-- before joining them on their exploits to save the world.
At first he couldn't quite figure out what had instilled him to join anyways, past a sense of purpose for a reason he just couldn't easily place. Maybe it was a protective instinct over these four kids who didn't really seem to have much of their own anyways, or maybe it was a need to help their cause. Maybe it was both, or maybe it was neither; at this point he wasn't even sure.
But now here he is, at the tower that was supposedly once his home. And as much as his memories and sense of duty to this place was returning, the stone walls felt more like a prison he was forced to return to than it did a home that he had lived in. Reasonably he knew this line of reasoning was a tad dramatic, but the dread he felt after every step was very real.
The climb up the tower was exhausting. Not physically, because he was still somehow physically fit after waking up (a small miracle Desch didn't want to think too much on, best not to tempt fate and whatnot), but instead a very emotionally exhausting experience. It felt that at every turn he was being forced to relive another memory that he didn't want or need. It felt almost like having an out of body experience, he knew that it was him, but it didn’t really feel like him. There wasn’t any emotional connection there, like reading a piece of a story without any further context or background knowledge.
He knew that he had not changed from the wide-eyed twenty-year-old in his memories, at least not in a major personality way, which was perhaps the most disconcerting thing to realize. He had slept for supposedly an entire millennia and none of him had changed. Maybe some things had, maybe there was less naive enthusiasm and hunger for learning. Maybe he would never know, after all, a millennia is such a long time to tell apart differences in seemingly miniscule and unimportant things.
He’d been having doubts since before they had gone into the tower, which were only ever heightened further after the first footstep. Desch tried to keep up some banter with the young heroes, but the further and further along the tower the more dread just continued to pile up on him. It felt sickening and oppressive, like drinking too-sweet medicine or summer days that are just a little too hot.
The tower itself was practically a waking nightmare. It felt as though every turn was a memory surging back to a life he didn't want. First it was the sword-fighting practice, his tutor or his father swinging over and over again, believing the sting of the metal on his skin would teach him sooner. Then it was learning spells until he collapsed from exhaustion under his father’s watchful eye. Sometimes it would be a lecture while standing in a hallway, head bowed as he was reprimanded for every small failure. The occasional memory of him in a room, sitting at a desk and writing listless poetry as a form of meditation. Sometimes there was a girl there, though she was much younger than him, maybe by 10 or so years. A little sister, maybe?
The ones with the younger girl were the worst. No matter how hard he tried, he just absolutely could not remember her name, who she was, why she was there. She looked similar enough to him, and she carried the same accent that both he and Owen had, but the name was utterly lost on him. A particular memory of her stood out though--they were both outside, in a field of flowers, and she was braiding them into a crown. She was listing off their meanings while he sat nearby, reading a book Owen had probably given to him. Yellow zinnia, marigold, and daffodil. She gave him the flower crown when he was done, and he wore it until his… their father had said it was a useless thing and demanded he throw it out. He did, of course he did, who was he to disobey his father?
The memories of his father are the worst. They felt oppressive, like he was being forced into something he didn't want and wasn't ready for. It was hard to tell: were these simply left-over feelings from a time centuries in the past, or were these feelings a warning? Did they even mean anything or were they simply the feelings of having now watched 4 children be thrust into a situation against their own choice, much like he was?
Regardless, he had to push forward. People were counting on him, Salina, the kids… the entire world. There was nothing to do but continue onwards, if he could not confront them now it would simply have to wait until another time. It wasn't exactly like he could tell all of this to anyone, even if he did, he could barely parse the information himself. He wouldn’t dream of putting this on any of the kids, no matter how adult some of them tried to act. There was also the feeling that nobody would quite understand, it wasn’t exactly a common problem for people to be in cryosleep for 1,000 years.
Overall he liked to think he was handling things really well, all things considered. He felt like that was true up until he found his room. From the second he opened the door he could tell it was bad news. All at once flashes of memories hit him full force. Lying on his bed reading a book, a late night up working on a formula, quiet practice of battle stances. A very brief one of him crying--a broken glass tray on the floor and a cut on his leg. The room itself felt barren, completely devoid of life or color. It was bleak and sparsely decorated, but he couldn’t place if that was simply a factor of the age at which he lived here or how little time he spent in the room itself, or something to do with Owen. Perhaps it was best not to dwell on such things.
Luneth was the one who spoke up on the state of the room, trying to ease the tension that must have been so clearly radiating off of Desch. He cracked a joke on how Desch left his room so dusty and looked back and smiled. This place was painful, but it was nothing he couldn’t handle. So he shut the door to his room and continued on, forcing himself not to give the door a second glance.