Home was a foreign concept to him.
Velthomer was home. Belhalla, too, was home. Arvis could not recall how much time had passed since he’d last been there, within the castle halls, walking slowly and soundlessly through endless corridors on his way to nothing. His fingers traced cracks in the stones making up the walls, and he found himself reminded, as always, of his life; people said home was where the heart was, but where was that? Was it back in Velthomer, on his knees, waiting aimlessly for his mother to return? In Belhalla, on his knees on the ground again, waiting impossibly for Julia to return? As a ghost mourning the lost, both in life and in death? Was that just his lot in life ( and beyond, now )? To hope against fate for people to return that he was never meant to have around him in the first place? He had neglected to catch sight of the faults in himself when he’d still been alive until it was far too late and things had progressed far too far for him to repair them, but he had also failed to ever notice the cracks in the walls of the castle. Had they always been there, or were they a result of the aftermath of whatever battles had gone on there after he’d died? There was some poetry to be had in them, he was certain — something along the lines of the castle still standing despite its cracks, and he, too, still standing.
Or there would have been, anyway, if he weren’t already dead. He could not remember why he was there or for what purpose beyond that he was waiting for someone, but whoever that could be was beyond him. They would certainly bring him no comfort.
There is a voice calling to him — a literal one this time, one genuinely present within the space and not a mere trick of the wind or figment of his imagination — but it was wrong, it was not the one he was waiting for, so he chose to disregard it in favour of studying the wall more closely. He’d hit his head there once, hadn’t he? He’d bumped it against the wall once as a young child while attempting to outrun Kurth, fleeing from the scene of a broken vase. The prince had always been kind to him, too lenient on him in terms of punishments. Arvis had always assumed it stemmed from a natural kindness he had, but his memory of Kurth was tainted after learning the truth. Had he ever actually cared for him? Or was he simply too ashamed to stomach raising his voice or his hand against him after everything he’d done to destroy his life as a child? Kurth, he concluded, was not the person he had been waiting for.
The voice, again, this time asking if they could help him with something. Up until that moment Arvis had been trapped in a nebulous spot in the spacetime of his mind, unable to work out exactly when it was he was, whether he was a child or an adult, whether he was waiting for his mother to return home or his wife to come in or for Julius to step out, but something in the sound of it grounds him. He turns to catch a glimpse of striking blue hair and narrows his eyes.
Sigurd? Sigurd was the one he’d been waiting for? No — it wasn’t Sigurd calling for him, and it certainly wasn’t Sigurd who he had been waiting to see. Arvis turned toward him and stepped forward, each moment returning his memories to him. There would probably be something wholly unnatural to the thing to the eyes of anyone who might have been there to watch it; he moved without sound, his hair stirred without wind, but more pressing than any of that there was a certain see-through quality to him as he stepped into the light cast by one of the windows facing the setting sun. Arvis stood appearing as he had at the age of 24, dressed in much the same way as he had been on the day he had gifted Sigurd his sword. He remembered the boy standing in front of him. It would be difficult to forget him; the last time they had met, Seliph had killed him. His gaze cleared and softened.
He had found the person he’d been waiting for.
“I see you’ve liberated Belhalla. Your parents must be pleased with you.”
The stranger stirs. They turn towards Seliph and approach. Seliph tenses in response, his hand crosses his torso and reaches for the sword he isn’t carrying. Even if it was an action to gain some measure of comfort, he’d left Tyrfing somewhere else.
There’s little doubt on the stranger’s identity, even if it beggars belief. Seliph believes, at least. This isn’t the first ghost that’s tried speaking to him. Even if Arvis appears ephemeral and ghostly, it’s undeniably him. Seliph can recognize the voice, even if the last thing he’d heard it in was...
His hand darts away from where he’d usually carry a sword. It’s impolite to do such a thing or imply such threats, and Seliph doesn’t think there’s anything a ghost can do to physically harm him. He knows there’s things they can do to hurt him, though. Why is this appearance necessary, though? His past encounter with the paranormal held a message, at least: he couldn’t yet rest while the empire still stood. Seliph doesn’t have any delusion like that, now, here. He certainly doesn’t think he’ll be any good at the new task set before him, even if he knows he’ll try his hardest.
Arvis appears different. This isn’t exactly the same man he drove his sword into, and he doesn’t know the meaning of that either. He’d never met his parents, so he hadn’t a comparison to their ghosts glimmering above the sea. Arvis, though, seems younger. It’s odd, but Seliph has the impression he seems more lively than he was actually alive. His clothes are different, too.
“ Sorry, Your Majesty, ” he apologizes, still thinking of the insult in reaching for his missing sword.
He isn’t sure where to look. His eyes settle for somewhere below Arvis’ face. He stares at the flower arrangement down the hallway, the one he can view through Arvis’ chest.
“ Yes... The reparations will begin soon. I’m to be crowned King. ” He pauses to gently bite down on his lower lip. “ I... at least hope my parents are pleased. ” The last time he saw them they weren’t.
“ Is there... something you need to tell me? ”
