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Not once before now had his memories of him been quite so vivid.
A single moment had passed Grog by, Vex’ahlia had tripped, and gas was spilling out from the trees. In an instant, he was taken back.
He had a few moments of in between, where he some what knew what was happening.
Where he knew that he was succumbing to the echo of the past and he simultaneously knew his knees were planted in the ground, heavy in the soil, and he knew his hands clutched in the blades of grass, like how he clutched onto his mother at birth.
So innocent then, so gentle. Nobody knew what he would become. The monster of a man he would be.
The gas turned into darkness, and he cried out for Pike, but he quickly realized the gas was burning his lungs.
Mere seconds and a coughing fit later, he looked up with watery eyes to find a familiar figure. The stature recognizable through tears.
Kevdak towered above him now, unmoving and monstrous. His arms crossed, his gaze fixed on Grog, and his lips ever so slightly curved into a smile.
He panicked. He inhaled sharply to scream for help, but was met with more choking. Kevdak did not move, and did not speak. He wasn’t hurting him. After everything, he wasn't hurting him.
Grog needed him to help him. He had to help him. He wouldn’t not help him. They were family.
Through sobs and chokes, he shakily extended his arm toward him. Kevdak wouldn’t let Grog die, not like this. Not again.
Grog looked up again, met his eyes, and saw a kind, genuine smile he’d never seen from him before. He pushed his arm ever so slightly more, and he touched him.
For a moment, even if brief, he had him.
He had what he wanted for one second. His uncle, the man who killed him. He had his warmth in his hand one last time.
For a moment, he felt it all. The childhood he missed. His mother, his father, and his friends. What could have been.
He felt safe in a memory that wasn’t real. A fantasy, it was his, even if just for a second. It was in his grasp, and he didn't want to let it go. So he held on as tight as he could.
But as soon as he had it all, it was gone. Kevdak dissipated into the darkness, along with the split second of hope Grog had been given.
Grog watched as Kevdak disappeared. He tried to scream for him to come back, but his lungs wouldn’t allow any air in. His throat tightened as he tried to collect the dust particles in a desperate attempt to get him back, but his body was weak from the lack of oxygen, and soon enough he collapsed on his back.
He stared upwards, and he swore he saw the snow from that day again. His breath was raspy and he gasped every once in a while, but it didn’t help much.
He had killed him. Once again, he ruined his only chance at a blood family. All he did was kill.
He knew deep down that he would always be the weapon they made him, and he felt conflicted about that. It wasn’t like he hated who he was, but maybe that’s just how he was made to feel. Maybe if it were different he would hate everything about himself.
He asked himself sometimes if he would ever be who he was meant to be, or if he would always be who they made him.
Grog waited for a while, watching what he could only picture as snow falling from the sky, before he was slowly pulled out of the darkness.
As the dark faded into light, and his eyes adjusted, he saw his mother and fathers silhouettes in the shadows of the tree canopies above. Everywhere he looked, he spotted them.
His memories of them are distant, but if he closes his eyes tight enough, he can make new ones.
Nobody can take that from him.