Ghosts

The melem are gone.

She walks through the ruins of her world. No tears are shed, for what would they accomplish? She carries her shotgun close, even without anything to kill. She steps by pools of blood, long left to well without bodies. Through the worlds of elder gods, she has travelled. Spilt blood, shed blood, seen blood feed beings beyond mortal comprehension. The very sight of them embedded in her mind. If she closes her eyes, she sees them. If she ceases to listen to the sound of the wind, she hears them. Perhaps that is why she fought so hard and so long – the sound of gunfire is louder than their whispers.

But her world is dead. She may be the last of the melem. She has returned with the Fathom Orb, to the Ghast Temple. Returned too late, she wonders? Or was their defeat inevitable? Have they been defeated at all, or simply hidden? And where, she wonders, are the greiss? Were her people overcome so easily without the Fathom Orb? Did they flee the greiss? Or, she wonders, did they flee something even worse?

For she has seen much, much worse than those marauders. She has seen an entire race built from the bodies of those they conquered, walking in unholy union of flesh and steel. She has seen beings of pure flesh hunger for her meat, and beings of pure metal, driven to madness by their presence. And, of course, she saw them. Talked to one who had fought their forces. Who had spent two of his decades travelling between worlds. Driven to madness, but not despair. Still able to fight, if only for himself. Cut off forever from his world. Long past the desire to return. To lead them into it, as they once attempted long ago. Long, at least, by the standards of mortals.

She's at the Ghast Temple. All this time in thought, her legs have carried her forward. Walking down the path so many melem have trod. Possibly walking down it a final time. Here, with the artifact. She holds it in her hands and pauses. Why leave it, she wonders? The temple stands, but her people are gone. They may yet return, yet so may the griess. Or, she reflects, forces far worse.

Do it.

She blinks – the whispers have become voices.

Complete the circle.

Driving her. Compelling her. Moving her body by manipulating her soul. Their strings run deep.

Do it, and be free!

They let her escape. Let her come back here. Perhaps they are already on this world, or have yet to follow. And why should they not come here? Through dimensions, she hears their voice in her head.

Obey!

She turns, and pockets the Fathom Orb. If her people yet survive, she cannot lead the monsters to her gate. The sun of her world still shines, and she would not see it consumed by darkness. Devoured by those whose hunger is limitless. Even if it costs her soul, that would be a small price to pay. And yet…

And yet she hesitates, before putting the Fathom Orb on the ground before her. Hesitates, before shattering it, as the whispers become curses. As she fights the urge to close her eyes, lest she see them, and blood pours out of their ears. Through time and space, she hears their cries of fury. Through mind and soul, she feels their hands grasp her. Compel her to return to their domain. To see her fight, before she is devoured.

She accepts, and returns to the slipgate that brought her home. She ghosts, as she walks – here, in this world between worlds, she is safe from them, for however short a time. And, she thinks, it is appropriate. For her people may be ghosts. She too, is a ghost. A castaway from her world, a slave in their arenas, for their amusement.

She is their champion. She is their slave.

But she will never let her world be theirs.