Title: Spectre
For: Homestuck World Cup Bonus Rounds
Prompt: Disciple3Signless / Dor, Romanian, The longing for someone you love very much, combined with sadness, and implies the need to sing sad songs; its etymology relates it to "dorinta" which means wish.
Character/Pairing: Disciple 3 Signless
Summary: She can hear them now. A host of voices, one for every friend she has lost. For every lover she abandoned.
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There are voices in the cavern. Quiet voices, hard to hear, and she creeps through the shadows trying to find them. She knows this sound, knows that tone, it lights a fire in her dusty memory.
She knows it all too well, all by heart, but she can't make out the words anymore.
"Who's there?" she calls out, but her words come out garbled. She can't remember how to make words either. Just sounds and noises and she thinks she's just like the ghosts who haunt her cave.
Only she has to keep living and they get to be nothing more than an echo. A crowd that dogs her every step, dead in all but spirit.
A host of voices, one for every friend she has lost. For every lover she abandoned.
One rings louder than the others and she can almost make out the words this time. Make out the name he used to call her, the name she used to call herself.
"I..."
But it's gone already and she no longer goes by that name.
All that's left is the rumblings, the whispers. She walks through the dark tunnels alone now and if she concentrates, she can almost feel someone next to her. His hand in hers as they travelled the unknown countryside.
Look there, he tells her, pointing at a flower. It glows in the pale moonlight and she stoops down to pick it up. No, leave it alone.
Like he left her. Like they all left her.
Like she left him in those final moments.
Her hand scrapes against the cave wall, her olive blood clotting the cut already. Licking it, she stumbles outside into the fresh air.
The view from her cave hasn't changed at all in the past decade. The trees, the beasts, the sky, all of it has stayed the same.
It should have all crashed when he died.
It might as well have.
The moon is bright tonight. Bright and big, she can almost reach out and touch it. She remembers him so clearly in the instant of his death. Blood and fire. Metal spikes and too salty tears.
Everything else fades in comparison and she would rather remember him on nights like this. The two of them sitting on the grass, reading by the campfire.
Her arm around him, his hand tangled in her hair. A soft breath on her throat.
A moan leaves her mouth, slowly turning into a scream. She howls at the moon, at the stars, at the unfairness of it all. It's a low, guttural sound and she cries for him. To him.
He doesn't reply. He never does and she's left feeling even more alone than before.