leave your voices at the door and do the right thing
@martelisms
He can’t say he ever particularly liked the desians. Yet, as attempts to look past the clouds for some glimpse of Derris-Kharlon (yes, he knows it is nowhere near this place, but still he looks), he wonders of their fate without his presence. Here, he cannot fulfill his duty, cannot receive his retribution.
What do normal humans do when they feel cold and weary and hopeless? Goddess, save me. Goddess, forgive me. How many times has he heard these words? But she wasn’t a goddess, after all.
The air tastes bitter with technology. He does not like that city lights blot out the stars. At least there, he can alleviate the terrible homesickness by thinking that perhaps those on Aselia look in his direction at night before they sleep.
But even here is not so far from home that he cannot hear her voice. He does not respond immediately, for he has had these conversations many times before.
“...Hello, Martel.”
He does not turn to look, so that he can better pretend she is there.