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He was looking through the eyes of a child, six feet from a familiar body and three feet from the blood splatter. It was too loud, the clattering of pans in the windowsill, the birds screaming from their decaying cherry tree, the whisper of running water flowing through the fish gills. He was watching it all, as everything moved so slowly and so quickly, as the grass crunched under his, the boy’s, feet and the wind picked up.
Then he was staring through the sockets of a soldier, spread with heart to the sky and chest shot near dead. Around him, screams and screams and gunfire. No grass, only the slick spirals of red mud coating the uniform constricting him.
A blink, he was up on top of the world, tasting his fathers wine like a baptism. Robes of silvers and golds, a mattress of silk like clouds and two men standing to either side of his seat. It took only a second for the knife to flash, the throat to tear, the music to spill out like fine liquor upon all deserving devotees.
Death, hovering. Flowing. Transforming and irrigating the fields of existence. And he, the one with a million eyes but no mouth to consume them with, sat as weary scythe, for nothing was more honorable than the fixings of servitude. He breathed in a million times at once, through every drop of the universe. Every nostril was his, inhaling the fresh, dried, dirty, musty, rusted blood on his wing. Being itself was his to mold. Death, hovering.
Then the first drop of rain hit his head, and Sprite was suddenly thrown back to the present.
He sniffled as his bearings came back to him, a million senses suddenly drowned out to just a pallette. He was in his hunched over body, the one that didn’t understand anything at all. The sensory deprivation hit like a truck, and suddenly even nothing was too much. He scrambled to shield himself from the fire in front of him, but it did nothing to satisfy his nerves (especially with the way his clothes were clinging onto him). As his eyes began to unblur, he allowed himself the strength to look around. He was in a grove surrounded by old, tall pines. He was sitting on a fallen tree, one skinned by nature and taken over by the tides of the dirt it rested upon. In front of Sprite, a sizzling fire losing quality at rapid pace. And the sky above him was gray, with splashes of pink and blue and orange pushed to the bottom like a botched sunrise.
Right, he remembered, he’d been out to visit Muw in a new woodsy cabin she was vacationing at (vacation was a precarious term for it), but he was still knee deep in ferns far into the night. He’d set up some sort of camp, from what he could tell, but the memories had gotten hazy from that point onwards. All he could remember was something vulgar, something gorey, and something blue. Something.. blue.
Once the rain had got to a point where it seeped into his clothes (into his skull), Sprite finally gathered the courage to stand up and collect his things. It was a slow process; his body seemed to still be rejecting the idea of mortality.
He’d been having these spouts more often, of memories that were definitely not his. He was a god (well, he was pretty sure of that, nothing had been quite clarified yet), which meant only one thing. Death didn't- shouldn’t affect him.
But the visions said otherwise.
He took a shaky hand to his now deceased fire, grabbing at the charred wood and pushing it out from the stone circle he’d made. From his pocket, he produced a crumpled paper with hastily scrawled coordinates, then he picked up his satchell-- a gift from Mari when he’d shown up at her lab with the items shed requested stuffed under his wing-- with care and made his way back into the forest.
Not even a few steps out of the open rain, Sprite’s head seethed. Headaches weren’t uncommon for him, especially after his visions, but this one seemed oddly different. It didn’t just hurt physically, it… Hurt his heart. It hurt hurt his heart. He clutched at his chest awkwardly, trying his hardest to just keep going, but it wasn’t much of a surprise when he passed a tree and was met with another memory.
Sun, a glass away from his, or whoever’s, face and near blinding. He heard himself breathing heavy, then beginning to choke. He saw the vision blur, the eyes soften and the sun continue effortlessly. The world was slow, dark, eerie. He smelled a metallic scent coming from every steel wall. He even heard the thud of new blood.
In a split second Sprite was back, hurdeled into his body for the second time that day with even more force than the first. He stumbled as his footing failed him, leaning as far sideways as he could and falling into a tree. Miraculously, he managed to weave his arms around it and stabilize himself, world still turning but at least he was anchored. Sprite took a shaky breath in, trying his hardest to restore his mind’s capacity. Then he started moving again.
It took maybe half an hour of on and off visions for Sprite to eventually stuble out of the forest and to the base of a hill. Met with the lack of foliage above him, Sprite was quickly reminded of the strength of the rain’s power. It hadn’t let up at all, and almost seemed worse, in fact. He tried his hardest to shield his wings (it suddenly occurred to him that he had wings, why hadn’t he been using them?), but mostly he was just leaning into the hill. After not too long of kind of just sitting there soaking, Sprite relented and stood again. (He felt like a wet blanket, gross.)
He creened his head against the downpour to glance above him, and, sure enough, was met with the welcoming sight of a cherry wood cottage. It was midmorning at that point, yet on the front porch confidently sat two golden lanterns like a lighthouse in the fog. It was actually a bit foggy, he noticed. With minimal stumbles, Sprite somehow made his way up the hill and to the front door. He took a second, blinking back the start of another grotesque play by play, and then softly knocked on the door.
Before it had even been all the way opened, a hand grabbed his and was pulling him inside. “Sprite, oh my gosh you're drenched!” Muw exclaimed, dragging him straight through the foyer and to the living room. She steadied him by a lit fireplace and tapped his shoulders like she was training a dog. Gar is the dog, Sprite idly mused. Was. He added.
Without much thought, Sprite sat down at his appointed spot and leaned close to the fire. He closed his eyes once the warmth started to hit him, the fatigue that always comes from visions latching onto him far too quickly for comfort.
“Sprite, why didn't you stay home?” Muw asked, crouching down beside him and laying a hand on his back. He let her, but not because it was especially comforting.
“You invited me.” He mumbled.
“And then I uninvited you because of the rain! I sent a letter way before you should have been travelling out.” He remembered something poking out of his mailbox as he left, but it hasn't seemed that substantial at the time so he'd just let it go.
“It.. wasn't raining at the time.”
“If you'd seen my letter, you would have known that its been raining here for several days and didn't look like it was letting up.” There was an edge to her tone that seemed frustrated, but she was also looking over Sprite like a worried mother hen. The signs were more than contradictory. “I don't think anybody else is coming for a few days, so we’ll have to survive on our own… Are you hungry? I- uh- I've got some instant noodles in storage.”
Sprite turned slightly, trying not to react to the change of heat distribution in his side. He eyed Muw; the way a shaky finger was running through her hair, the way her breathing was shallow and caught up in her throat. the way her eyes met his and all he saw in them was desperation. It was clear that he wasn't the only one struggling that day.
“Did something happen?” He asked. She froze in place.
“I- did something happen to you??” Muw hit back. The two sat there for a second, the glow of the fireplace fading as it started to go out. It seemed dumb, how little either seemed to want to talk. If they just vocalized something, anything really, it would at least be better than sitting on a beaten floor and staring at each other with unwavering determination. They were probably the worst pairing of the whole SMP.
And for some reason, Sprite started laughing about it. And Muw joined in, and soon enough the two of them were leaning into each other and giggling about absolutely nothing. Maybe they weren’t bad, just odd.
Slowly the giggles faded out, and the two were back to an odd sort of silence. Comfortable, maybe. Shifting next to him, Muw slowly stood back up and steadied herself with Sprite's shoulder.
“Come on, let's go talk over ramen. It's- it's eating time, right?” She took his hands in hers and hoisted him up, and the two of them slowly made their way over to the kitchen. Sprite would have made some sort of response, but the way the floorboard were creaking under them was painfully distracting. He cringed as the new wood called out in agony every step they took.
And just like that, he was thrown back into another vision.
This time felt, and looked, different than the others. It was all black, an endless expanse of nothingness, and yet he could almost feel something right in front of him. Something important. He tried to turn around, to see anything but black, but it was as if he was pinned to his spot.
Then the smell hit. It was almost like a cave; wet, sooty, another thing he really couldn't name. And it was disgusting, as it rushed into his nose and straight through his head and down to the boiling core of his brain. That smell, that terrible, terrible smell. Sprite almost gagged, but just before he could he suddenly caught sight of something strange. A blue mist formed at the corners of his vision, and in the haze a figure appeared. A-...
A familiar figure. With a familiar haircut, and a familiar jacket, and a familiar set of dog ears.
This time Sprite did gag.
“-prite! Sprite!” Muw was shaking him. He was.. Standing in a kitchen. Muw’s kitchen, he reminded himself. She seemed scared. Scared of.. what?
He blinked as Muw froze, almost as if she knew that the shaking was definitely not helping. Because it wasn't.
“S-.. sorry.” He whispered out. What else could he say.
“No, no! Hey, you've got nothing to apologize for! We just need to-” she paused as she moved Sprite over to one of the barstools by the island, -”sit you down here, and- and just calm you down here.” She smiled reassuringly and made a swift motion with her hands, then sat down in the stool next to him.
He looked over to her, but it was as if her figure was covered by a mental blockade. It just seemed blurry (and maybe a bit bloody, but he really didn't want to focus on the way his death seeped into the real world). Sprite looked down briefly to see his hand shaking. Was it his hand? It didn't look like his hand. His hand was… something else.
“You okay?” Muw asked cautiously. Sprite only nodded in response, trying not to lose his balance on the chair. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
“I don’t.. Really know. “
“Sprite, you just froze in place in the middle of my kitchen and then started hyperventilating. Youve got to know something.”
I… I just get these memories, kind of. They’re not mine, I know that, but- but they feel like mine.” He tried to explain, but he was getting this pitiful look from her and it was oh so jarring to his sluggish mind.
“What do you see in these memories?”
“Well…” he was debating on if he should tell her or not. It wasn't something taken lightly, the amount of blood he'd seen recently, but he also really didn't want it to turn into a big deal. It wasn't completely unknown that he had visions, but he hadn't told anyone specific details. “I guess- it's- h-hard to explain? Sometimes it's just people's lives but there's a lot of… a-a lot of-” Sprite cut himself off with a gasp, hands quickly moving to his arms in a defensive position. He felt lightheaded.
“Hey, hey, just breathe, alright? You're safe.” Muw pulled his hands towards her and watched him with care. She was repeating a breathing pattern to him, but Sprite was having an alarming amount of trouble paying attention to it.
“Death.” He choked out to her. The breathing exercise died on her tongue. “All I see is death. Bloody and gorey and disgusting and- and, gods Muw, it hurts to see. I've been- I've- I've seen whole families die, and soldiers, and innocent people, and-” he gasped again, a raspy, painful sound, “It never ends.”
“Oh Sprite…”
“It- its following me. The- I just can’t get away. What if- what-” he broke with a sob, crumbling into Muw's outstretched arms and finally crying. They were softer than they could had been, but still salty enough to be real tears. “..What if I'm the reason Gar died?” he whimpered.
They sat like that for a few minutes, an awkward but comforting embrace. Sprite appreciated the physical touch, even if he had never been big on it in other environments. Here, it just seemed homely. A breeze flew through the room, he wondered if a window was open upstairs.
Everything was so peaceful. It was such a contrast to his mind; screaming at him like a coyote at night, washing over itself like a tsunami silences the waves. It was too much inside, and too little outside, but that seemed like every day for him at this point. How was he supposed to move forwards with his life if he knew he'd had eons of memories stolen from him? How would he live knowing nothing about the dead bodies in his own mind? He was a husk of some god set for destruction, and their theology was the rot coursing through his veins.
He, at his core, was breaking.
How much longer could his mortal body hold it together?
Eventually, as the fire in the living room finally burned out and the soft orange glow went with it, Muw whispered out, “everybody's been thinking that lately.”
“..what?” He sniffled.
“That they killed Gar. But it's just- it's not true, okay? We all had a part in his death, but that doesn't mean its our fault. I- I could go through everything that happened to lead up to this, and it still wouldn't change anything.”
“But I- I'm a god, Muw. I'm supposed t-to be above this stuff. Why couldn't I stop it?”
“Don't talk like that! you didn't even know that you were a god until recently, and even then you're still- I don't know, bound by mortal chains?- I'm kind of confused on that part- but! But- but the point is that you couldn't control this. Even if you are God.” It wasn't a super convincing argument, but the way Muw seemed so sure of herself was compelling in its own right. He slowly retracted from her grasp to lean against the island and look her in the eyes instead. Or, close to her eyes. There was something about eyes that seemed unnerving to him and at that point he was far too exhausted to adhere to social standards.
Muw leaned in closer to him and waited for him to reciprocate before moving her forehead to touch his. She closed her eyes and he mirrored her. “Were gonna be fine.”
Sprite responded with a delicate sigh. “It doesn't feel like it.”
“It will. Eventually.” She said. He cracked an eye open to look at her. Truly look at her, not some warped, bloody prophetic version of her. She was safe, and he kind of was too.
Muw's face was relaxed, if a little worried. Her curls stuck a bit to the spots near her eyes, as if there was wetness there previously. She was breathing in deeply and breathing out shakily, and one hand gripped the table beside her. For the most part, she was calm. And it occurred to Sprite that for the first time in a while, so was his head.
He thought about simple moments, about good memories and reassurances, about the times when everything on the server just seemed so natural. He wondered if they'd ever get to that point again, but it seemed irrelevant. Everything was just one long line of life and death, measured out in strips of rotting time. It was inevitable. Their deaths. And, for some horribly messed up reason, that thought was what comforted him the most in that moment.
He closed his eyes once more, and sat there like nothing was wrong.
“Muw?” He whispered as if she wasn't right there with him.
“Sprite?” She returned.
“I think I'd like those noodles now.”