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He remembers seeing nothing.
It was an abysmal cascade of nothingness. It bowed to him like a king. It mocked him like a slave. Still, it was the void; it was full of mockery and a sense of failure, punishment.
In the void was an empty loathing, an unsatisfying revenge— a feeling that lingered for far longer than it should. It circled him and taunted him. It shot arrows through bleeding memories. His chest tightened with every echo of its voice.
It was a constant laughter in his ears, mocking him for his failures and calling him all sorts of things— A fool. Ignorant. Useless– and the whispers sounded familiar, a sly smile playing in its words and its voice dripping with obvious malice.
After so long, it actually managed to reach him— in a place so quiet, so unmoving, that he couldn’t help but let it ring into his ears.
He couldn’t help but shut his eyes and ache.
In the back of his mind, there were memories.
Childhood memories, that of running through vibrant gardens that housed asphodels and purple hyacinths. They were a constant reminder of what he had lost, the life he had lived so fruitfully— he could never have smiled more brightly than those moments in time, not even during his rule.
It's been here since childhood, and was only able to rear its ugly head when the old man destroyed the fighter level and left his innocence to crumble. Until now, that is.
This is all your fault. Now you’re stuck here. Stuck here with your thoughts, with the knowledge that you–
He let out a deep breath he didn't know he was holding, and looked up.
Before the void, he saw chains. Netherite chains that clattered and stiffened when he made the slightest movements, attached to the non-existent sky and ever-falling ground. They shined a luminescent purple under a light that shouldn’t exist, separating its dark tone from the non-colors of the void.
They were attached to his wrists and knees, keeping him from moving any more than a twitch. His newly-formed tail, a slim and long new limb protruding from his backside and ending off with what looks to be the tip of an arrow, was the only really 'free' anything he could move around besides his head.
Speaking of his head, there was an absent, comforting weight that was meant to sit atop of it— he knew it shined gold and purple under the sun, reflecting the stars from the night sky. It was the final heirloom of his kin, the only crest left of their history, their legacy buried under dust and ashes after all of these years.
A legacy he never should have followed.
Now, it will finally be finished with his passing. He must've lost it on the way down.
He looked around at the shattered amethyst, a perfect purple that reflected his demise— a pitiful version of what used to be a king. He lowered his head, as if the shards could forgive him.
King.
He used to stare deep into emerald eyes, imprinting the picture into his mind over a thousand times— so many times that he remembered those eyes more than he remembered his own name. He remembers smug smirks at annoyed pouts and the fluttering of a green headband as it jumped through obstacles, freely, like a bird.
King.
He wonders about him. Wonders what those green eyes look at now, wonders what calloused, torn hands do. Now that he’s gone, no struggles would come forth for him to bear— none to make his life more miserable than it already is.
How hard could a god’s life be, anyway?
A question lingered in his mind. It lingered for a while, though he couldn’t fully register how much time it’s been since he landed in this absurd, empty space.
Could god revive him? No, of course it can. The question is will it revive him. It’s a god.
Obviously not, he thinks. Not after everything he’s done. Not after what he’s failed to do. Why should he grieve only when it’s good for him? He deserves this. It’s only right— why should he pray for another life?
Still, there’s a part of him that longs to beg for forgiveness.
They were doing so well in tandem, its high hopes and spirit kept them going for god knows how long. It might’ve been months before his ultimate betrayal. The betrayal that resulted in its null expression, one he knew did not belong on a champion’s face, when it came back to their temporary home after beating the Amethyst Temple.
There was no bragging about its victory. Not even an overexaggerated story that made it seem like an epic hero.
Instead, there were pale hands stained in dried blood and amethyst shards shoved into every crevice– and he knew there was something wrong.
He remembers taking care of it without hesitation.
He remembers caring.
He remembers contemplating his next move.
Should he have pulled it aside, told it what he was planning to do? That he would betray him, steal his trust, his pride, then leave him to die at the fighter level, knowing he could’ve saved Parkour Civilization? Should he have begged for forgiveness that day, forgiveness from the one entity he’s never truly understood, who convinced him that revenge was the only true thing he needed the most?
He should’ve.
But he didn’t.
His pride was too much to truly consume, a bite bigger than any. No matter what, his pride was much more of a priority than peace– and the thing is, he didn’t even know why.
It’s been the first priority even before he was born— his family’s axiom, The face before the flesh, because it kept them alive. Rich. Powerful. It was the beginning of their legacy and the downfall of their blood. It was armor worn until it rusted, and by the time they bled underneath it, their name was already long forgotten.
Should he regret following the custom he’s always known to follow?
Yes. He should.
How much time has passed?
He closed his eyes to rest in the void— although it’s an uncomfortable warmth and cold that prickles his skin without pause. No sleep befalls him due to the constant suffocation— after all, there’s no air in the void, but time passes according to his perception.
There was nothing. Nothing in this void he could do. He couldn’t speak, move, he couldn’t even see.
There was nothing. He was nothing.
He was something, long before the void, he was someone. He could’ve still been someone, had he taken the god’s hands and cherished them like sacred artefacts— if he had given in and done what he sought to do more than revenge, parched lips on pale skin, green staring into hard purple.
Was his punishment to think of the decisions he hadn’t made? Sacrifices he threw away to work towards such an old goal— words he never said, actions he never did. Phrases he spoke but never meant.
Today, he saw something.
The first thing he saw was a hand, pale, calloused and torn, nails uncut or bitten in every which way. Then green eyes that shined bright although there was no sun to reflect them. Then a green bandana, one that would flutter as it jumped through obstacles— obstacles that were built as it went, power only gods can handle.
There was a brief moment where the prisoner and the god stared at each other, contemplating what to do next. The mortal wondered if he was finally going insane.
“Seawatt,” the god said.
He felt air rush through his lungs and the satisfaction made him gasp. His throat made a noise he shouldn’t be able to make. His dignity which was shattered broke even more under the god’s gaze.
Is that his name? Seawatt?
“... Evbo,” he responded.
The god sat down on what looks like a netherite block, large wings slowly steadying themselves over its back. The prisoner couldn’t help but admire the god; the god who wore a casual hoodie and some frayed jeans, the wings that spread carelessly over blocks and the halo that flickered in and out of mortal sight.
“Um,” he muttered, then looked back up, back at Seawatt. “It’s been.. Maybe a year, or so– up there, I mean.”
A minute passed before his reply. “Makes sense.” Still, he wasn’t satisfied.
“... You can, um. Come back, if you.. If you want.” The god’s offer fell on deaf ears as the mortal’s eyes fluttered towards the crystals that shone bright to reflect his miserable self.
The mortal paused for a bit, contemplating what to say next. It wasn’t difficult— nothing was ever difficult after a year of just thinking. “I’m sorry.”
The god’s gaze turned to the shards that reflected a pathetic soul, broken down by a life lived wrong.
“... I don’t think sorry's going to fix what you did.” The mortal winced.
The god didn’t look back at him.
“I know.” Still, the mortal looked at the god. “Why are you here?”
“To offer a hand. Don’t you want it?”
He stared at the god for a bit, attempting to find the scowl in its features or the annoyed hint of being forced to do this. He couldn’t find it anywhere in its appearance. Instead, he found genuine hope.
Hope for what, he wondered.
“Please?”
Silence.
“Just this once, just listen to me.” It begged.
He didn’t want to— he didn’t deserve it, not after what he did. This was his punishment— he planned to stay here until the end of time.
“Please, I won’t bother you again.”
No, no, no. He looked away in a feeble attempt to tell him, no, without seeing the look on his face after he did.
Because deep down, it was yes, yes, yes. He wanted to be forgiven, to be held again so tenderly by the god’s hands, but it didn’t feel right. Not after what he did.
“Seawatt, please.”
There was a moment of silence. Silence that seemed to stretch on for hours. Thoughts raged through his head. The mortal sighed and looked at him again.
“You know what I’m going to say.”
The god smiled.
“Of course.” The god shook its head in defeat. “You’re still the same, somewhat, you know? Still kind of annoying, still petty, still hate me.”
“... I don’t hate you,” he muttered, but he knew he couldn’t convince somebody he'd betrayed— twice, already. “Not at all. Ever. I just–”
“You just, what? Thought it’d be funny to… Uh, break my trust, twice? Just a funny prank?” The god stood.
“... You have to understand,” Seawatt took a deep breath in. “Your mentor left my family, my entire childhood...”
There was a moment of silence. Silence the god knew how to fill, but didn’t want to.
Of course he didn’t want to. Not when the man they were talking about was the first person in civilization he had as a friend. Not when he tried to convince himself that what the Old Man did was right— but it never worked. What could erasing an entire civilization ever do to make things right?
He swallowed a godly amount of his own saliva, fidgeting with his feathers. “To die,” he finished. “I get it. But why me?”
“Because you were what was left of him. After he died, who else could I have my revenge on?”
“No one. You could’ve moved on, with me,” Evbo argued.
The mortal stayed silent, then took a deep breath and shook his head. “Leave me alone. Please.”
“... You’re still the same, you know.” The god had an expression. An expression no mortal will ever be able to see– no mortal but the one that stood in front of him, right this very moment. An expression that not only held pity and loathing from countless years or months of suffrage, but also… sadness. “You’re still the same person I thought was the prettiest man alive. Still the same friend I thought I had in that fake memory. Still the same guy I let betray me, not once. Not even twice, but thrice.”
He turned his head. The mortal swore he saw tears in divine, emerald-green eyes. “I’ll see you later, Seawatt.”
Then, the god was gone.
It had waited, once before, to visit the man who died a year ago. Civilization was finally at peace under EMF’s rule, but the god wasn’t.
Despite all of its divine assertion, nothing– not even the cheers of the people as it jumps down the highway– could ever distract it from the fact it’d see that man everywhere.
The torchlight would flicker as it attempted to work at night, its thoughts dwelling on the mortal’s face as he said his last words.
The next morning, he would find that his feathers had fallen and made a mess around his bed, the new ones growing rather crooked and unstable. EMF wasn’t sure how to prune, and it was getting difficult to do it himself.
After the visit, it was starving.
It knew it needed food, but it had a desire— a desire worth dying for if it played this game wrong.
Raw beef rested in its hands, blood staining its already ruined palms. The first bite was bland, metallic like blood, and the wet aftertaste that sprouted from the back of its throat only made it worse, but still, it gave it the satisfaction it wanted.
Satisfaction that he had once felt before, when starvation was easier to meet on the Noob level, and he’d grown tired from the constant bland chicken that gave him a burning illness every once in a while. Satisfaction he had only known when he was mortal.
He remembered what it meant to starve as a man. But this hunger was no longer humane.
It still wasn’t enough.
The hunger never came from food— not these days, at least. Food was supplied like jumps for it as the parkour god, although it never needed to eat.
It wasn’t hunger. He knew that.
It was a longing for someone he couldn’t bear to face, not after what happened between them. Betrayals upon betrayals, only two by technicality but three if you knew what the god had to go through.
It was mourning. Mourning for someone he knew he could bring back with a snap of his fingers, but he wouldn’t.
He could bring him back— of course he could. But it wouldn’t mean forgiveness.
Not when the scar was newly made, raw and open, stinging with every thought he has of that someone. Bleeding, even after a year.
So he waited, again.
Waited until the mourning was more incessant than the pain, until he’d beg for pain to relieve him.
And he waited.
And as he waited, every day offered him a way to distract himself, to let go of his worries and relax, but the distractions were far too small to truly let that someone go.
He waited until EMF stopped checking up on him, knowing exactly what he was going to say– ‘I don’t know why. I miss him.’ And instead, started to comfort him.
And he waited.
He waited for a year.
But he couldn’t wait for more than a year.
And it would wait for 24 more hours until it found its way into the end, going hands-first into a realm he knew was only meant for the dead.
He couldn’t help but smile when he saw Seawatt.
Seawatt, whose eyes brightened when he saw the god.
“Seawatt,” he muttered.
“Evbo.”
The god jumped onto a block yet again. This time, a little closer to the prisoner.
He didn’t have to say anything for the mortal to continue, “here to try and convince me again? Last time didn’t go very well.”
“Yeah, well, like, you didn’t and still don’t seem happy about me being here, so,” the god replied.
“If you know what I’m going to say, why try?”
“Because– Um, well,” he sputtered and shrugged, then crossed his arms. “I want to try.” Then, he looked away, back at the shards he’s known to fear but admire, the same color as the mortal’s eyes. Feathers briskly fell into the void as he positioned his wings onto his back.
Then, his gaze fixed on Seawatt. “It’s still a no.” The mortal lowered his head. The god couldn’t help but smile at the subtle humility.
“You don’t have to look away,” he hummed, then approached– blocks appeared underneath him as he got closer. Before he knew it, his hand was gently leading the mortal’s face to look at the god.
There was a brief moment where it was just them– no real world, just the void, the god, and the prisoner. Their breathing was synced, the atmosphere somehow brightened.
But then the god’s smile dropped, and he let go.
Not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t. Not right now.
“... I’ll see you soon–”
“No, wait.”
Evbo turned slightly.
Seawatt had an expression the god hadn’t ever seen before; eyes wide and desperate, lips parted but with no words to let go of. Before this, the silence only allowed the two of them to share feelings under a heavy guard. But now, somehow, Evbo could see clearly.
There were no chains to begin with. The void did not imprison him, he was a prisoner by choice.
Evbo stepped back.
The void pulled them closer.
The prisoner couldn’t move.
This time, the mortal asked, “Can you wait for me for one last time, Evbo?”
The god smiled— it was small, almost invisible, but it was there.
And he nodded, wordless.
When the god returned, it heard the prose of its people— the songs were loud, beating against his eardrums, but it could never compare to the silent words he’d shared with the mortal.
EMF was there, waiting. And instead of I miss him, it was “I’ll visit him again soon,” and this time, its voice did not shake.
And it waited.
And as it waited, he still thought of the mortal. But the waiting no longer hurt of starvation. Not sly smiles and ruined pictures but a soft incarnation of what used to be; a mortal on his knee, green staring into hard purple, devotion in its purest form as the god allowed himself to be worshipped by his one truth.
And although there was nothing to be seen, the god could feel the mortal’s touch in his dreams.