Colors —

Zephyr dreams in smears of sunset and ink-blue summer nights, whirlwinds of hues he's never seen with eyes open. Paradise painted over the cracks in his psyche, sweet sunlit dreams to fill the aching gaps in his soul. He might have stayed forever —


But these things never last. The tide turns then, sail shifting in the wind, stormy seas overtaking in navy and grey. Fitful, he cries out. His limbs wheel uselessly, suffocating, struggling. Distress, as brightly shaded as any glee, splashes gaudily across the backdrop. He's drowning — no, he's burning. He gasps, a lungful of scathing seawater —

Consciousness seizes him with a jolt, a violent wheezing bid for air. Heaving, heart speeding, the boy startles into wakefulness and takes flight, far from his companions and their radiating warmth. The cold calls him, a welcome respite from the heat of his dreams. Safe harbor from the storm of his thoughts. The further he drifts, the deeper it settles into his bones. One by one, the chill soothes the raw patches across his heart.

He thinks of Alessia — of the void she'd left in him from such a young age, the hole carved in his heart by every unanswered "I love you," every small hurt she'd never calmed when he went running to her. Her coldness had rubbed off on him, planted the seed for the chaotic child he had become. And at the very end, in those last moments… she'd had nothing left to give him. No closure, no comfort; only the slow fading of a dying woman, the last remnants of warm life projected onto the only thing near enough to receive it. He hated her for it, at first. He hated her for all of it, every wound from the earliest to the very last. And now, somehow —


He doesn't. His own words come to mind, those he'd spoken in confidence to Taikon. It's a game, the wraith reasons into the night, a twisted game, and all of our moves are planned. Every gain and loss, every tragedy and victory, every investment whether good or bad — they're all worthless, aren't they?

Except, they aren't. These things are all that he has — all that anyone has, the defining trait of any life truly lived. Even in the absence of true freedom, the worth of the experience isn't diminished; it can't be, from where Zephyr is standing. A game, yes, but a game can have meaning, especially when it's the only thing to give meaning to at all. It's far from a fight, the way Taikon had imagined it. No, it's —

It's all different now. A kaleidoscope, the world a brilliant ever-shifting display. Beautiful connected chaos, balanced by sheer variety. A work of art crafted by the hands of gods, enchanting and gruesome in equal measure, innocent macabre like disaster reflected in wide youthful eyes. How could he hate Alessia for her part in that? How could he hate anyone, or anything, when all of it is part of the same fascinating picture? They're all simply filling their own roles, individuals blazing their trails of color among the masses. He can see it so clearly now, everyone in their places, acting out their parts according to their nature. And Zephyr —


Zephyr sees his own place, now, too. Somewhere just above the surface, a watchful eye, skimming the flurry yet never fully submerged. A ghost, a shadow, immaterial imitation of the flesh. He is the ice wraith, frosted over look-alike of the boy he should have been. He is a bleached caricature, colorless exaggerated edges, slipping past the seams that bind them all together. He is something caught between life and unlife, eternal purgatory in the void between passion and apathy. And yet, he belongs. There is no need to fight. Halting, he feels light on his back, a spark on the horizon somewhere far behind him.

Sunrise over the Teekon Wilds; over the plains of his harrowed soul. In the purity of morning light, Zephyr sheds the shadows that cling to him, and comes away content.

Finally free of the burdens that have weighed on him for so long, he turns to find his companions. He's ready to go home.