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a husk in the shape of a little boy, shaped and raised by the whispers of the sea of souls. that's how his first memory of himself is. it's not a memory with words, all it has is screams. the embrace of strife clutching him the way a mother should have.
he remembers the first time he emerged from the waters, and gazed at them. he had tried to rub the red off his skin, thinking it was but the stain of enemy blood. for all he knows, the markings on his skin may be blood. it's not like there's someone he can ask about them.
he stares at the sea of souls, his eyes dimmed by the night which envelopes the skies. he thinks of his childhood, of the end of it. of the name "mydeimos", that he had found waiting for him in kremnos. he had taken it back, stained it with his father's blood, and kept it.
it feels like the waters look back at him. they quietly splash up on the banks. all feels so much calmer now.