#melodiouspsyche

The island remains the same as it always has: a tropical paradise fit for the gods (and at this thought you snort, because to call yourself a deity is laughable). Like all your other visits, it stands strong and untouched by Time’s cruel love-- frozen into goddamn silence, and your jaw clenches as you keep walking. 

(Undoubtedly, it’ll remain still as the clocks tick down with careless impunity, and restless days blur into endless nights; even when the cycle turns once more, hellfire heaving from the skies and all the worlds collapse as they burnburnburn, a song of death for too many and a saving grace for too few–)

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. The air is crisp, and the sharpness in your nose and lungs burns clean, pure combustion. Walk, one step, two steps, with mudsplattered boots worn from use. Stop clenching your hands. Relax. You’re (supposed to be) better now, after all. Shed your shadows, your emblem, your misplaced pride in power– all the illusions you concealed yourself in once upon a time, exchanged for humbled sobriety and deprecating self-clarity. Complete self-destruction for tender rebirth, as fitting with your name.

(God, homecomings were always so fucking bittersweet.)

Adrian and Airi are the first you see, your frequent communications with both alerting you to the pirates’ concurrent visit. They smile so achingly gentle as you press kisses to their foreheads and cheeks, hand out little trinkets you’ve collected through your travels to them and their children, and their talk of the decidedly exotic life they’ve led soothe your nerves. It’s a wholesome, pleasant meeting, all things considered. 

(You’re quietly glad for that, because this island beseiges you with too much-- humiliation, regret, guilt-- you prefer not reminding yourself with, a cold wanting seated within your heart as you restlessly twitch and move your fingers, touch their skin absentmindedly, trace scars, hold them within your arms tightly like the affection-starved girl you have become.) 

Raz is next, with his quicksilver grins and geeky excitement. You had to arrange a meeting with him in order to see him today, this brother you’ve fondly (and exasperatedly) claimed as your own. One painfully difficult to get in touch of as well, although astonishingly easy to respond every time with a “Yes”. His gleefully retold tales of adventure and treasures troves of advanced weaponry and loot alike are a temporary balm, and you feel the warmth of his hug still as you part with an agreement for a shared adventure.

(And really, they are family now-- they are yours and you are theirs, and despite all odds, together we will keep, you think as you walk away, and that has, and always will be, enough.)

The area around the marble monument is eerily quiet as you lay your tributes to the Fallen, the Corrupted, the Lost. Your offerings are far and few in between, because there are too many losses and your knowledge of them is little, but some you remember and realize, and spite.

But at the last statue, the wind ruffles around too purposefully to bring to mind any other presence. Then again, your Lady Gambit never needed her Fortune or Clarity to see through you. You were– are– far too simple to require such. Even now, you think she can read what your heart says– although now, you don’t know her response.

(Now, you’re not sure you want to know.)

The rarest token you carefully saved throughout the years is laid down by three gilded, carefully honored statues. Out of your fragmented memories, you recall the Returned most clearly, because you never belonged (deserved) to take part in a world you played barely a hand in its safety while they slaved to keep the Game from falling apart. Swallowing the lump in your throat, you whisper a prayer for their continued, merciful happiness, and turn away, striding towards the port.

(Because you are so fucking careless, reckless, selfish, your mind snidely remarks, until you were Corrupted and fell, the price to pay for being such a pathetic, naive child.)

You look over your shoulder briefly as you stand on the edge of the island, and greedily drink in the perfect view of what you once called home. It’s clear it’ll be a very long while, so might as well make your goodbyes short. You never needed their remembrances anyways, and just as well, because you never had their tributes, never wanted to keep yourself in the eye of the storm that knocks constantly on your mind’s door, a hurricane of despair and memory you keep away with clenched teeth. 

(And besides, you think–

phoenixes weren’t remembered for stillness and cages, after all.)

–

I was never terribly good at writing. 

Either way, here’s some shitty closure, and a reveal I suppose.