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There are worse places, to be sure, but the bottom of the ocean is not exactly the most appropriate place for an existential crisis.
It is strange, to be straining for the light. He does not remember much of before, but he does have that knowledge, at least; the only thing he knows for certain, that isn't just a vague notion or half an image scattered as if seen through uneven glass.
He remembers the sun, not these pod lights and lanterns winding around the drowning Yggdrasil. He remembers looking down at the sun, and the clouds, and pink-tipped branches quivering just barely within sight. A continuous ascent into the light.
He does not remember falling.
He does not remember how he came to be here.
But regardless, he is here now, memories lost and body warped around an electric, artificial soul.
The Deep City is not a bad place to be. The people, inasmuch as they can be called people, are accepting. King Seyfried does not give them much choice. He has a room at the Twinkling Tavern, food whenever he remembers to crave it (because he doesn't need it, not anymore, and for some reason he thinks this was so even before they pulled out his guts to replace with plate and armor), and quiet when it is necessary, when his own thoughts and anguishes become too much.
Most Yggdroids do not speak much. Some do not even have the capability. Olympia is among the exceptions, and she is more often assigned to posts out of the ocean.
It's envy, sometimes, that pulsates in his heart (what is left of it). He misses the warmth.
Behind his eyelids he sees sunlight streaming through locks of purple hair. There's an imaginary sting in his nose, of heavy spice, and the clank of metal in his ears like someone in full plate mail walking, and tiny phantom fingers skimming across his arm that has long lost the ability to feel anything. It's gone, all of it gone, before he can even think about chasing after it, but the ache in his heart and his arm sharpens even so.
He was someone before, he knows. Before the metal and wires and the unrelenting waters. He was someone, and now he is... not. A soldier, in a war that cannot be made known. A weapon. A tool.
An experiment, a guardian, the last of a thousand year old legacy, a knigh--
"Dear Ketos has been slain," the Abyssal King says.
He almost makes the mistake of startling when the voice wrenches him out of his thoughts and back to the palace. His head hurts, something pounding at his temples--something important, he knows instinctively, but just like the last, the memories vanish, already sunken into the abyss in his mind.
The Abyssal King is smiling, but the twist of his lips is as far removed from satisfaction as can be. "Olympia."
"My king," says Olympia.
"Welcome our new arrivals." And now the king turns to him. "You as well. If they aren't willing to listen, to aid us..." Seyfried clenches one hand, the tips of his claws pressing into his armored palm. "Then do as we have always done."
"My king," says Olympia again.
"My king," he says as well, slowly. He knows that there is blood on Olympia's hands. Innocent blood. He thinks that he may have some on his as well. It does not make it easier to accept what he has been asked to do.
When they reach the path at the bottom of the stairs, there are voices, raised, growing in volume as their speakers draw nearer.
"-having a nap the whole fight, old man!"
"Eh. That whale has a hell of a singing voice, what can I say. 'Sides, looks like all four of us got here in one piece. Can't have been that bad."
His vision wavers.
There is a sputtering retort, another voice interjecting, but he cannot process their words anymore. The wires take over his body as his mind rears up again, and the ache at his temples evolves into searing, like something is being burned into his brain.
Important, the voices are important. Important like the sun, like purple and spices and armor and touch.
Four figures descend from the stairs. Four figures stop.
Olympia says, "Welcome to the Deep City."
It's important, his mind tells him again, as he comes back to his body in front of four horrified stares.
Purple hair catches the dim pod lights. A pair of scratched goggles glimmer. If he doesn't blink for long enough, lets the tears gather in his eyes, he can almost pretend that it's sunlight.