Chapter Text
Warm metal aches against his skin. Not quite piercing his skin and melting flesh, not hot enough to melt, but enough to torment him with a sensation against his veins that holds the tantalizing offer of his hands severing his tie with these horrid chains.
And usually this is all he is given in terms of sensory experiences. Lava bubbling and boiling under his feet, hot chains restraining his hands, and the sound of the wind whistling past his ear. There is a part of him that beckons to be given the gift of flight, to fly away from this, to apologize to Evbo, but as he tugs against the chains hoping for them(even if it's a far-off ideal) to snap away and lead him off with the wind, nothing happens.
It tires him. Seawatt's muscles ache with a pain, a fatigue, a deep sense of agony, unlike anything he's felt before.
So the majority of the day is spent sleeping, regaining strength to pull the chains further, dreaming that their adventures are still continuing. Whisked off into slumber, Seawatt finds the strength to smile at his friend(not a mutual title by any means) and run along, as budding adventurers; comrades. And when it all ends, he can go home- resting in a comfortable bed as his mother kisses his cheek and tucks the quilt of the bed tight to his figure.
It's a comforting feeling- and he would open his eyes during it, to smile at his mother and mumble how much he loves her, to get a reply back...
If her face still lied in his memory. If her voices still lied in his memory- even her name is lost- not just hers, but his father, too. It brings him a sense of shame, to be unable to recall a single name from his family, but it can't be helped.
He'd stumbled across some skeletons in a dilapidated home one day, when Evbo was away collecting the Glass Disc, one clutching a piece of paper- a photograph, as it turns out, with faces that seem familiar to him.
Yes, he decides.
Those were my parents. I'm sure of it.
The most he has is that photograph, weathered from folds, but it still stands as the clearest image Seawatt has of his parent's faces. They stand together, with what he can presume to be him as a child in the center, showing a bright grin to the camera- he's missing a tooth, and it adds a sense of charm to the expression. His father doesn't seem phased by the expression his son makes, but his mother? Her smile seems a little more genuine- more a grin than a smile, clearly amused- and it's, frankly, the most emotion he's seen out of any living inhabitant of that lost level. Their endless devotion, while convenient, felt cultlike, and their bond as inhabitants of the same level diminished.
At least, that's what he remembers.
The picture is, thankfully, tucked away in his pocket, but that's the problem. He can't reach into his pocket. If only he could pry a hand out, to reach in, maybe, just maybe, he'd be filled with the energy to try and break free for just a little longer...
The more he tries the more his muscles ache and burn. It's certainly best if he just...gives it up.
And how peaceful these dreams are to wake up, eat something homemade, and adventure into the wild world. There's something out there, no doubt, meant for the both of them- perhaps the fake memories he gave to others could be a reality.
His thoughts are interrupted by a new sound.
Lava bubbles, wind blows, chains rustle as he wakes from slumber, but there's something else. Something new.
A smell?
No, the lava seems to be burning something.
Something crackles. It pops, sizzling, in the way hot oil would. Is something cooking beneath him?
His eyes drowsily open, and he looks down, searching for the source of the noise amidst the glowing hues of red, orange, and yellow--settling finally on some innocuous piece of paper. He hums softly; it's nothing too importa--
But he makes out an unmistakable toothy grin on the surface of the paper.
His heart drops- the chains rustle once more, a loud sound, indeed, but not quite enough to drown out the sound of that paper sizzling-- how did it fall? How could he let it fall? Desperately, with what strength he has, Seawatt struggles- grunting and hoping by some miracle he could grab it. His voice, hurried, rushed, yells.
" Grab it grab it grab it grab it grab it grabitgrabitgrabitgrabitgrabit--- "
His hands extend, desperately, and now, if the God above him holds any mercy, the chains should have dropped, and the picture would be swooped up and saved.
But nothing.
Widened hands grasp at a face that burns into nothingness. "NO! NO, NOT THAT! ANYTHING BUT THAT!"
The sizzling noise stops. Widened eyes gaze at such a spot, where he could have sworn a picture was- was it the wind? It must have been the wind, his own incompetence, or...
Him. So he screams his name up into the sky,
"EVBO! TRAITOR THAT YOU ARE! You've taken EVERYTHING!
DO YOU HUNGER FOR MORE?! DO YOU WANT TO SEE ME SUFFER?" His voice is awfully raspy, tired. He has to gasp for a desperate breath before he speaks again. "IS THAT IT?
SHAME ON YOU! HYPOCRITE-- WHY CAN'T I GAIN A SECOND CHANCE?!"
Why couldn't he?
His words echo off of nothing, lingering in the air for a moment, before dissipating and allowing the realization that there is nobody to reply to his words sink in. There is silence from him, for a long few minutes. Surely a face would be recognizable in the stars above him, right?
...
Right?
His eyes desperately pick apart the display for any pattern to even remotely resemble a face, but there is nothing. It's as if the stars themselves distanced each other to prevent him from doing so.
...
So he is truly alone. Seawatt nods.
And he does not dream that night.