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Arwen doesn't even know why he's here.
He doesn't do this.
And yet.
Magic flows freely from his feet- bare, for once, in order to stay as tuned into nature as possible. This was, of course, to mantain a field of omnipotence wide enough to catch even the slightest rustle of a bush. He was already being stupid, coming back to this place, he was going to take every precaution so he wasn't jumped.
Vines- his vines trail behind Arwen as he decends into a sunken cave, keeping him plugged into the world above. It is clean, carved from light stones and decorated with colorful stained glass. Flora covers the room, glowberries providing light in what otherwise would be a dim space. At the center of the room is a large aboveground tomb carved out of calcite. A lectern sits in front of it.
Here lies Xemimon.
Who loved and lived despite those who tried to stop them.
Held dear by the land who carries him home.
Loved to the very end.
Sweet dreams Beloved.
Arwen's fingers delicately trace the edges of the page, something heavy weighing on his heart.
Grief, despite his best efforts.
He moves to press his hands against the coffin, taking in a deep, shuddering breath in. He feels the presence of death, can sense the corpse inside, the severed lifecode that once inhabited Xemimon Lightfoot. Arwen bites down hard on his lower lip as it wobbles, and damn it. Damn him, for letting himself get too close again and leaving again. Because no matter what, they would always die.
Arwen feels a twinge of guilt. He could tell what happened the moment he landed in Spawn, the grass and flowers whispering to him the horrors that they had seen. An arial battle that ended in blood spattered across the ground. A crumpled up body. A flightless bird.
Memory threatens to grip him- he had seen this before, but he pushes it deep, deep down. He will see it again. They all die. He will not.
He clears his throat, pulling himself back to the present. Arwen came here for a reason. From his inventory he produces a terracotta pot with a multicolor flower planted within. The pot itself was hand sculpted, etchings of flowers and dancing figures painstakingly scratched into the clay. It was an old tradition, one he had not practiced in a long time. Compared to old works, this was sloppy. Arwen couldn't get his hands to stop shaking during the process. They still shook now, brushing over the grooves of the pot before leaving it to rest atop the coffin.
The words that leave Arwen's mouth next are in an old language. A language that would be dead, if it was not for him. And yet he speaks it anyways.
"Xemimon Lightfoot- Przykro mi, że taki los cię spotkał. Niech Śmierć obdarzy cię nowym celem, a Życie trwa w twoim śladzie."
"Xemimon Lightfoot- I am sorry this fate has befallen you. May Death grant you new purpose, may Life continue in your wake."
A short funeral rite, but one nonetheless. The words are heavy on his tongue, pulling a long buried accent with them. Arwen shudders, wings tucking close to his back, feathers rustling as he turns away from the coffin. He waves a hand, conjuring a bouquet of chrysanthemums, carnations, and lilies atop the tomb before he rushes back out.
When fresh air greets him, he struggles not to fall to his knees in grief. This was so stupid, he didn't even care about them that much. Arwen had done his best to keep his attatchments at bay, had pushed Xemi away at every opportunity. And yet they never failed to be there with a nervous smile.
And they had betrayed him, in the end. Sided with the very man that ended up killing him, plunging a blade through his orbital socket until it met his brain. Watched as he got one of his phantom-wings cut off-
Arwen chokes on a sob and takes off into the sky, the ground cracking with the sheer force and speed. His wings carry him up and then away, far away. Far away from small, cold bodies that had so much potential. And far away from vengeful gods and maniacs with more hubris than was good for them.
He'd collect his dues later. Now, he had to rebuild walls.