A gap in one's memory is often left unnoticed; so meaningless in its existence that many times we needn't bother recalling the fine details. Infanthood goes up in smog, life from years ago shrouded in some mundane loss from age or from apathy. Oftentimes, lost memories are missing for a reason. Irrelevancy, trauma, or simply an unwillingness to bother keeping them fresh.
Not once did Leufred feel as if there was a true gap in his memory. If he needed it, it was there. Nights drunk were foggy enough to at least recall the where, and sometimes the who- but he never quite felt like he needed to remember them anyway. Even memories of infanthood, like the identity of his mother, often meant nothing to him. Who needs a parent that abandons them, when they held a God better than any deadbeat?
Never before had the Phantasma asked himself "How did I get here?" in such a cold heartedly literal fashion.
Green light arced off teeth-wounds in his arms, ones that slowly cleaned themselves shut with pale flesh. The light was a needle, sewing flesh back into place. He was the only light in the room by now, even the light of the sun had crawled under the horizon. The floor was damp stone, moisture seeping into the fabric of his trousers. He saw no walls, only a pedestal somewhere behind him.
His callous hands felt about the space south of him, before finally clutching onto the edge of the pedestal, spying the base of some grand tomb, etched from bottom onwards with holy scripture. His eyes made great torches, for all the crippling they did to his night-vision. It was almost familiar, though in the moment he decided it was just the lime highlighting.
The Phantasma stumbled up, upon bare feet. In a grim flash, as the final laceration upon his chest was sealed by his power; the face of Theomar gazed down to him, etched to His sarcophagus like a stern guardian.
Leufred's knees turned to jelly, the stone a poor cushion for his back. He wanted to scream, he wanted to call for someone- Valerie, Faust, or even Aesling, but no words were allowed out of his mouth, pressed shut with terror. He questioned how he got here, and for a grim, terrible moment, it felt like His gaze was the only gaze: the gaze of the Everwatch and of Judgement, weighing the sins in his heart in one great scale.
Yet as his breath quickened and his heart pumped with adrenaline, Leufred realized that he was in fact, very much alive. This was the Cathedral. And the face of Theomar was nothing more than the Dais he'd visited months before. That must be where he is, for surely, he could not be dead.
One foot moved before the other, and soon his legs found themselves capable of walking. A horrid shamble, dragged along by a dim sense of self-preservation. To guide himself in the dark, a single hand dragged across the wall of the Cathedral, stones guiding him past every intricate window, every Heron he'd grown with stories of. Past Volckamar, past Randulf, past Amelotte, past Reginald. All highlighted in lime, with their eyes pointed downwards. To him. Each gaze was different, in some regard. But he could not be with them. Surely, for he was not dead.
So many eyes stared upon him, but no longer did it feel like Judgement. He wasn't quite sure how to describe what it felt like- the chilling, calm look of intricate pictures, the gaze of men and women who had been dead for decades. But as the silver glare of moonlight seeped in, the word finally hit him. Regret. For every dead man, himself included, could've done something- anything, to cling to life just a little longer.
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