Ephemera's Memories

Ephemera had a series of memories restored to her over the course of campaign two.

## Memory One

You are holding another person to your chest, their arms are wrapped around your waist. All you can see of them is their straight white hair spilling out from their dark hood.

"Are you sure this plan is going to work?" The voice says, muffled, into your chest.

"Yes, of course it will," You hear yourself say," It must."

"But we have to trust her to do it. She's the one that got us here in the first place."

"You don't have to worry, we're not alone in this. Trust-"

## Memory Two

You are carried through the driving rain by the monster child, though her touch seems distant and cold, as if your body is merely numb. In the moment, you remember feeling like you should remember more of this person, but you cannot. You are almost weightless in her arms, which seems... Somehow impossible.

She is crying, her tears lost in the rain.
She is speaking, but not to you. "I'm so sorry." She says. He next words are drowned by a crash of thunder.

She moves with determination toward the guttering firelight ahead.

"I betrayed you all." She says.

A branch snaps behind her and she turns to look. A black shape, darker still than the night around it. She freezes, watching. She shape stands unmoving for a time, and then turns away.

She continues on. She enters the village and heads to the largest house, and knocks.

The human that answers the door is surprised to see the monster child's pale skin and dark hair and red eyes (Had they always been red? You feel like you should know differently, but cannot recall).

"I am an emissary of the one who rests here. Take this and keep it hidden, keep it safe. It will be important one day."

She relinquishes her grasp on you and you fall into the hands of the human who staggers under your weight.

## Memory Three

You stand at the edge of everything, looking up at the coming destruction. You feel a resigned bitterness at the task at hand. It's the best option, you keep telling yourself. Maybe you'll start believing it.

You feel suddenly resentful of the others, of Lysaro and the kids, those that get to stay behind. You choke it down. Its not their fault. It's nobody's fault.

If your friend could give herself to Oblivion to save the realms, you can, too. Your hands grip your trusty Halberd tightly until your knuckles turn white.

The other participants are already gathered in the chamber, except for one. He's always late. You suppose he thinks he's being cute, the god of death being "late".

(Your previous memory of this chamber picks up here)

The doors swing open and there he is, a familiar, armored form, clad in black and edginess, secretly the softest of you all. He seems older than when you first met, though not much time has passed. He approaches you and reluctantly looks you in the eye.

Your heart breaks at the pain you see there. You've worked together so much, helping to socialize the monster child, to keep her from biting ministers and eating pets. To teach her right from wrong. Civilization from instinct. And learned from her as well. Learned that the world is a deeper and darker place than you'd ever imagined. He was with you even when you visited the monster child's "friend", a towering, impossible creature that traded you the means to complete this task.

He cups his hand around your cheek and his thumb brushes your skin. The temperature is always cooler with him around but somehow his touch is warm.

"I'm sorry." He says.

He's sorry, you're certain. But he kills you anyway.

## Memory Four

You mull over some of the last words you had with your friend. They were certain about the path they had to take, and now they were gone, along with so many other friends, forever. Lost as a "necessary sacrifice" for destroying yet another insane would-be ruler. Unlike your last apocalypse, the world seemed unchanged, but in actuality its position was more precarious than ever.

It is lost in these thoughts that you fail to notice a nearby rock formations move, and you realize too late that you are in the presence of something truly dangerous.

Its appearance is one of twisted limbs- far too many for a terrestrial creature, and a body that seems made of pulsing coral, stone, and tendrils. It looms over you, and you barely summon your halberd before it attacks.

Or. Maybe you summoned your weapon first. You ponder this as you sail backwards through the air after the creature moves faster than its multi-story bulk has any right to and knocks you silly. You twist and land on your feet and brace yourself for the next attack. You know you are beyond any aid. In the wake of your friend's death, you are truly alone.

But the next attack does not come. The creature hesitates, and takes a jerking step towards you. And another. As it moves its body wraps and folds and shrinks. Multiple needle-like limbs become few. And the faceless, obscene enemy that has plagued you since the Fall suddenly has one. A grey-skinned child that reaches for you, a pained expression on its face as it chokes out sounds that are not yet words.

Against your better judgement, you drop your weapon and grab its hand and drop to your knees to pull it into an embrace. The child clings to you tightly and the first thing it does with its new form is cry.

You are sitting alone as people you recognize but do not know bicker and fight about the monster child, now sitting in a chair off to the side of the main dais. Though it was originally just a grey-skinned shambles of a humanoid, it has begun to pick up more features, many you recognize as your own, like it's now long dark hair and copper eyes. They are obviously uncomfortable, and this fact just makes the fighting annoy you more.

"This creature has caused untold destruction! Their kind all but ended the last Age! And you propose to just bring it into the fold?"

"Regardless of what has happened, they have come to us for aid. For something that, even if close to the truth, would be very worth our time and effort!"

"You think we can trust it? Why would this be anything but a trap?"

The voices continue, with very little support in favor of hearing the monster child out. Large spaces filled with entities already frustrate you, and the pointless arguing is more infuriating still.

You brought her here. You are beginning to regret your decision. You stop resisting your urges and cross the hall to the child, taking it once again into your arms. The hall falls silent as you walk, and then erupts into furious clamour.

"You dare-"

"But they-"

"You of all-"

The voices wash over you and you clutch the child closer, who holds you in turn, your body trembling with fury and sudden grief, knowing the great risk this being made in coming here, only to be so grossly rebuffed.

"Enough." A voice cuts through the clamour. The hall falls collectively silent and looks at the source of the sound.

A young man clad in black plate mail, with a ragged beard and piercing gray eyes stands. At his side lay a truly baleful weapon, a great sword with a large gleaming eye.

The collected bodies watch as the new god of death walks to the center of the dais, seemingly having a staredown with each individual member of the gathered mass. His severe expression only softens when his gaze falls upon you and the child, but only for a moment as he turns to speak.

"Fools," he begins. And his speech only goes down hill from there, but you can't help but like this new guy.

## Memory Five

You sit atop a ruined building, looking over the smoking remnants of a civilization of rock and steel. One of the New dragons circles lazily overhead, looking for signs of life, for signs of the enemy, but it cannot see you.

Most of humanity has been forced underground or into the wild places, you know. Their legacy is survival, now.

Your friend approaches, a wry smile masking her pain and regret. Her skin is dark grey, her eyes gold. Her hair is a dark blue or black. She wears dark, ephemeral silks that trail behind her as she carries towards you along the side of this steel tower two tubs of half-melted ice cream.

"Volantine preserved it somehow. I borrowed some. The poor glutton won't know it's missing. Still tending to the dying embers of the apocalypse parties, but people are realizing now that it's not simply Over."

"Some will decide it is, surely." You hear yourself say. Your friend winces.

"Yes."

You accept one of the tubs and pick at the liquidy melt together, watching the sun set across the ruined cityscape.

"What happens now?" You ask.

"They'll move on. They'll have to."

"I mean to all this. This will never be the same again. It will all be forgotten."

"It never is the same, but it always is. They'll rise again in a new way that is just as grand."

You accept this with a feeling of empty regret. Mourning what once was, but glad for the company.

## Memory Six

"Lysaro, you idiot!" Your old friend shout down from the precipice of the council hall. She throws up her hands and turns away, completely destroying her facade of cool aloofness that you know is, of course, just that.

"What did the kid do now?"

"He was doing so well." She says, exasperated. "He just decided to go back and get the Cursed Evil Sword."

You can't help but laugh. This chosen one has caused your friend no end of irritation, generally acting contraposed to anything any chosen one would reasonable do.

"He's going to end up meeting him." She says. Your mirth recedes, but does not fade.

"Worst case is what, you have to revenant him?"

"Worst case is that they get along."

"That... would be bad," You say. "But what chance is there of that? You remember him better than any of us, he's a nightmare. No one is as full of himself."

"Except Lysaro." Your friend paces to the edge again. "YOU KNOW YOU'RE CAPABLE OF LOSING, RIGHT?" She shouts over the edge. You stand and walk to her, and peer over the edge. From here, you can see everything, and indeed you see the upstart antipaladin now negotiating with the sword merchant he sold the weapon to. By setting it on fire. Quite accidentally.

You pat your friend on the head. "Oh yes. This will definitely be fine."

## Memory Seven

Beings that could recall their own creation would typically describe it as being breathed into life by whatever sort of suffused-with-light entity that created them, basking in their warmth and love. You recall yours differently. You came into being in the presence of the Dread Creator himself, and the light was bickering with the dark.

“What are they?” The Light asked, fascinated by the tiny existences on the Dread Creator's World. The small lives burned like embers, flaring briefly and fading into nothing. They'd started in the seas, and since spread across the land- great and terrible predators on their own scale, but nothing to beings like the Light and Dark.

“They're called lives,” You replied, “They came about on their own, made from the stuff formed from this chaos. I don't really understand them.”

“They're neat.” The Light said. “I like how they move around.”

“They're boring,” The Dark said. “Most of them don't move around at all.”

“That's because you make it so they can't see anything!”

“It's not my fault! Why can't they see in the Dark?”

“Some can,” You interjected. “There are plenty of things in the sea-”

“The sea,” The Dark scoffed. “The leftovers that didn't make it land. What's so fun about the sea?”

You didn't have an answer for him. They weren't terribly interesting. Some could turn interesting colors, some could mimic other creatures, some were effectively brainless and barely really there at all. But you felt the same about the land creatures. They were all so temporary- you couldn't understand what so interested the pair about these things.

The Light and the Dark continued to bicker, mostly over the behavior of the smallest of things. The Light grew increasingly enamored of the living things as they basked within it. The Dark grew more aloof, watching the mud ball with unflinching scrutiny as it looked for any sign of the beings that cowered in the night.

For your part, you made sure that the two had equal time with the creation. They doted over it in turn but the Dark grew more and more withdrawn while the light grew more exuberant.

“Alright, it's my turn!” the Light said, and attempted to relieve the Dark of the creation.

“It's always your turn.” the Dark said.

“It is not! You get just as much time as I do!” The Light said.

“They're always sleeping! I don't get to see them! It's not-” The Dark shuddered in frustration, “It's not fair!”

“It is fair-” you start, but the Light interrupts you.

“It is fair,” The Light said, “Just because you're cold and gross and no one likes you-”

The Dark struck the Light, a vicious blow that scattered part of the Light's form across the void. The Light cried out, and many of the creatures on the world below suffered and perished in the sudden fallout. The Dark shrank back in horror, and fled before you could stop them.

The Light curled into a ball and stopped moving. The dark receded into the great void. And you were left alone with a tiny barren mud ball.

The Dread Creator was angry with what became of the Light and Dark, but there was nothing they could do about it, and destroying you would have been wasteful. You busied yourself staring at the inert mud-ball, as the only thing around that was not void or light. But it wasn't inert. New lives had emerged. Small things. You watched them with the same fascination and the Light and Dark once had for it, though mostly for lack of anything to do. The Dread Creator still returned on occasion with other mud-balls. Several were made of gas. All of these he hung around the Light's still form, all but ignoring you as he moved through the space.

Eventually, he noticed the new lives as well. They called out to the Dread Creator, and he heard them. The mud-ball occupied the his attention for a time, and he made many things for them. One day, you came upon the Dread Creator roaring in anger at the mud ball, his fury threatening to erase it once again.

“You dare throw away that which I gave you?” He said to the small existence bound in his coils. “If you despise this gift so then I shall make you its shepherd.”

The form was sent back to the mud-ball to begin its terrible work. The Dread Creator left, and you went back to watching the mud-ball. The newly re-created being was already at work, attending to each of the dying embers of the tiny lives as they faded to nothing. Collecting them where they had merely been wasted before. To what end, the Dread Creator only knew.

Something changed with the arrival, or perhaps re-arrival, of this new being caused a shift in the mud-ball. The embers became more robust, aware now that they would eventually go out. They burned and and in their fury they began to build and create on their own. Their efforts began to have Meaning. They void began to respond to their Will. They began to Create.

The first of the new gods, worshiped and risen up by the embers, attempted to overthrow the Dread Creator. Catching him by surprise at their strength, they nearly succeeded, but he was uncountable, and the new gods were being overwhelmed. You were used to making sure that the Light and Dark took fair turns with the mud-ball. You exerted your own will to make sure that the new gods got their fair turn in their struggle against the Dread Creator. It was enough.

After the Dread Creator withdrew beyond the veil, you went to the mud-ball to meet those that you had inadvertently saved. You had not taken a physical form before, it was odd to be so limited. But in doing so, you perceived more. The mud-ball was more than just mud and rocks and water. The creatures the Light and Dark had fawned over had multiplied and taken myriad forms. They were interesting, but none so much as the embers that had caused the new gods to take shape to begin with. They formed communities and helped each other and conspired against one another and made everything exponentially more complex than the other creatures. They were, you finally realized, fascinating. More fascinating still was the entity that inevitably came for the embers when their fire had finally been spent.

She was a terrible entity to behold. She was one of them, but she had been twisted by Dread Creator to serve her unknown purpose, accumulating the ashes of these embers. You learned that you alone could perceive her, not even the new gods knew of her existence. She was surprised when you spoke to her. After overcoming her initial trepidation, she was eager to not be alone.

The two of you became friends over time, you learned of her existence- a life discarded after those she cared for had ended abruptly and unbearably- embers that had been snuffed out rather than merely faded. You learned that she was uncertain of her purpose as well- it was possible she'd not been granted one, but she was certain that the ashes she had accumulated had both Worth and Meaning.

As you walked among the embers- the Mortals- you marked the passing of their lives and ultimately escorted them to your friend's embrace. Your influence became background to the mortal's existence, and you began to fade into that background. Your friend was with you as you eventually abandoned your physical form, and went to sleep. You would not wake again until the Apocalypse.

## Memory Eight

“Wake up,” you heard a gentle voice say. “Wake up, you are needed again.”

You were reluctant to stir from your oblivion, your physical body reformed arm first and smacked the source of the unwelcome wake-up call as a mortal might flail at an alarm clock. You were torn on the existence of alarm clocks. They seemed simultaneously wonderfully convenient yet superlatively insistent. A wholly necessary thing to the continued function of mortal society.

“Ow.” The voice said flatly. A strong, cold hand clasped yours and pulled you and the rest of your form into being. She laughed- a sound you had missed, a sound you had only heard on occasion in the long years since you’d been friends- and pulled you into an embrace. “Good morning!” She said “The end of the world is coming soon.”

“Well, what a wonderful wake up call, then.” You yawned and stretched. “What have I missed?”

“Everything,” She said, a gleeful grin on her face. “We’ve got so much to catch up on before it all ends.”

## Memory Nine

“I’m so sorry,” she says. But you can hear her now. The memory is clearer. Meyrin is carrying you through the night, the storm tempestuous, but nothing compared to her apparent grief. “I knew it wouldn’t work. I-“

“I had to save you,” She said. “I couldn’t let you become nothing. But I couldn’t stop it. There wasn’t. There isn’t time. We had to do it. I’m sorry.”

“This way, the plan will fail. Or fail faster or- or I don’t know.” She stops running through the trees and holds your form closely. Your mind swims in the haze of the ritual- some power stirs in you pulling at your consciousness, but you remain focused on her. “This way, we can have you back, some day. But it needs time, we need time. They… they’re not ready. We need to build our strength.”

“I’ll… find some champions. Or something. The mortals are good for that sort of thing, right?”

She starts walking again. “I’m so sorry.” She says. “I’ve betrayed you all.”

## Memory Ten

You lie flat on a vast hilltop, staring up at the glittering jewels in the night sky. Neither of you require sustenance, but it did not stop Death from packing a tidy and neatly prepared picnic for the two of you, finished and forgotten.

“Do you think I’m doing an alright job?” he asks.

“No,” you say flatly. He sits up and looks down at you, and the concerned expression on his face causes you to burst out laughing. “No, I think you’re doing a wonderful job.” He swats at you but smiles before laying back down.

“I don’t think I’ve taken this much time to relax since… well since she left.”

“She didn’t leave,” You say. You were never much one for dancing around the details. “But she would have wanted you to be happy. That’s what she wanted for all mortals- be happy and find your way home.”

“Found my way home and took the place over,” he scoffs. “She would have known what to do.”

“Maybe.” You reply, “But she’s not around and we cannot bring her back. We’re going to have to figure this out ourselves.”

“Meyrin says we can’t fight it. It feels a little disingenuous, with as much strength as the council spent fighting her before she- before you helped her. But she’s the only one who would know.”

“We have to trust her.”

“I do.”

“Do you?”

“No, but she gave my friend something that got him stuck in a time loop forever, so I’m a bit biased. I trust you, though, and you trust her, so… I have faith, I guess.”

“You have faith in me, huh?”

“Of course.”

“You like me.”

“And?”

“No I mean you like me. What a nerd.”

He swats at you again, but you roll away from him. And keep rolling, all the way to the bottom of the hill. He slides after you, and the two of you come to a skidding, soily halt. He falls on top of you, pinning you to the ground. “Caught you,” he says.

You’re pretty sure you could bench press Death, but you let him have his imagined victory. “And what will you do now?” You ask.

“Suddenly I feel like I’ve got all the time there is,” he laughs. He cups your cheek and bends his head close to yours.

## Memory Eleven

"Have you thought about training a successor?"

The question was abrupt, in the middle of your complaining about having to constantly be time. Your friend is hanging upside down nearby, looking at a crystal sphere- a window to the mortal realm, her limbs dangling freely as she lazily floated in space.

"A successor?" You ask, incredulous. "Why would I?"

"You may not always be around in the way you expect." She says. "Or maybe you just are tired and want to pawn the job off on someone. There's any number of reasons why a god might choose to name a successor."

"You haven't." You point out. Your friend shrugs noncommittally.

"Maybe I haven't met the right person yet," She says.

"You've met just about every person." You joke. You aren't sure how to react when she doesn't laugh. "Elara, what's wrong?"

She winces at the sound of her real name, but shakes her head. "It's nothing- I'm just so tired." You feel the weight of the last word heavily in her voice and on your heart. Your friend seems thinner for a moment- not entirely there, but you blink and she's back to normal, smiling her somber smile at you. "I've just had a lot on my mind."

You stare at her before nodding. Something is wrong, but you aren't sure why you feel that way.

## Memory Twelve

"What happened to El- to your predecessor?" It wasn't a fair question, and only partly because Lysaro was lying beneath you, your fingers twisting though the coarse hair on his chest. She hadn't told you before she left, entrusting her world to this young godling.

Lysaro, to his credit, did not try to lie or dodge the question. "She died," he said. It was a simple statement on its own, but there were volumes in the breath used to speak it.

You knew, but you asked anyway. "You killed her?"

"Yes." He said. If it was painful when you balled your fist into his chest hair, he didn't show it. You kind of wanted him to. "It was what she asked of me- of us. She told us that if we left any of Progenitus' creations behind, he might rise again."

There was a long pause. You were nearly trembling at the waves of rage and sadness washing over you. Rage at Lysaro, rage at Elara, rage at the Dread Creator responsible for all of this.

"Though, having met you, I often wonder if it was true." He says. You can see the regret in his eyes, the weight of the burden he was as unprepared for as your friend when she took it up. You wonder if he's Tired, too.

You pull him into an embrace, as tightly as you can. He is powerfully built, to be sure, but he is a newly minted godling, and he has difficulty withstanding it. "She left me behind." You hear yourself say.

"I know." He says, his voice strained. "I'm sorry."

You don't want him to be sorry. You want your friend back. But you've lost many friends- many mortal companions, throughout the eons, and you know she won't come back. It's not that Lysaro is a poor substitute, but it's not the same.

It will never be the same.

You relax your grip and let Lysaro hold you for awhile- hours, months, millennia, it makes no difference to you.

## Memory Thirteen

Lacking the limiting biology of mortals, gods don’t need sleep. Yet here, in the rooms above the tower of time, Lysaro sleeps beneath you, his face untroubled for once in all the years you’ve known him. Many new gods, those that still remember their mortal lives, will occasionally find themselves at the mercy of their once-mortal processes. It’s adorable, in some ways, to see death sleeping, his chest rising and falling with the breath denied those in his charge. It wears on him, to shoulder the responsibilities of his predecessor, and to do it utterly without the network of reapers under her charge.

You trace a finger along his bare chest up to his collar bone. His eyes open wordlessly, and he smiles a weary smile at you.

“Sorry,” he says, “I must have… dozed off.” He seems a little puzzled by the idea, cognizant that he doesn’t require sleep. Though as with much that has passed between you, just because it’s not needed doesn’t mean it isn’t nice.

“It’s fine,” You say, “You’ve been run positively ragged lately. War in the eastern realms, resurgence of monsters, and you have to go and collect everyone yourself. I can still help with those that perish in the fullness of time, but-”

He puts a hand on your shoulder and squeezes gently, “It’s my responsibility, and I’ve got to see it through. I’m the one who…” he trails off. It’s not something you haven’t discussed before. He made sure to stammer through it properly at the beginning of your relationship, his role in the final end of your friend. It had taken awhile to forgive him, but in the end, you knew Elara had offered him no choice at all. “Anyway, I have to be the one to take care of this.”

“Not alone, you don’t,” You say. “Your predecessor had help.”

“I’ll not bind the souls of mortals the way Progenitus did,” He says darkly.

“Then don’t,” You insist. “Find some other way. The Choir is in chaos with the recent changes to the council, maybe you could borrow some of them.”

He opens his mouth to protest, to argue, but closes it again in consideration. “That could work.”

A few hours later, the two of you stand in front of a gathered host of celestials.

## Memory Fourteen

“Why do I have to share my seat with her, again?” Yumia asks.

“Because,” You say, “It was the only way the council would allow her to attend. She needs to feel like she’s a part of something again.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with her, lately,” She says.

“I know, and I’m sorry. I’d very much like it if the two of you were able to get along. You’ve got more in common than you realize.”

“Like what?”

“You’re both super creepy,” Lysaro says before you can respond. He is walking up behind the two of you, a sour-faced Meyrin in tow. The two moon’s eyes meet for a moment before turning away from each other.

“Rude,” Yumia says.

“It’s a compliment,” Lysaro smiles before bending down to pick up the white-haired moon goddess and placing her on his shoulder, to which Yumia only offers token resistance.

“Know your place,” She says, the smile on her face belying her words, “I’m exponentially more ancient and powerful than you.”

Meyrin looks up at the two of them, her silent frustration plane on her delicate human features. You laugh and scoop her up as well, trading godlings with Lysaro. “If we’re comparing ages…” you say, smiling, and Yumia shoots you a sour look.

“That’s cheating.”

The quartet of you enter the council chambers, and the muttering within halts as the collected gods look in your direction.

Quraura looks in your direction, her expression a chaotic mix of hesitant trepidation before she regains her composure and smiles broadly. “Welcome, s̴̎͊t̶͉͝a̴̔̃ť̷͋ȉ̶̓c̴̐̆s̸͗̿t̴̛̔ä̶́͒ṫ̶̓i̷͛͒c̵͌ͅs̷͊̓ṱ̶̀a̶̓͘t̴͑͆i̸̍͌c̵̈̏. Please come in, we were all just about to get today’s meeting underway.”

## Memory Fifteen

You’ve been waiting for him to speak for what seems like an eternity. He’s been pacing angrily, unwilling to look at you, after you’ve told him about your plan. He’s been thinking of a way to save you. A hundred thousand thoughts a minute. All of which you’ve already had.

“Why?” He finally asks.

“Because it’s the only way,” You say. You’re not sure if you believe it, but there’s no time to try anything else anymore.

“Why you?”

“Because it’s me,” You say simply. “It’s my plan and-” you hesitate, “-and I’m the only one who can.”

“Surely, there’s someone else.”

“You’d ask me to sacrifice someone else for my plan?”

“You’re asking me to sacrifice you.” He looks at you sharply. Angrily. Despairing. “I can’t.”

“You must.”

“I won’t do it again.”

“You must.”