@ohreinsof (Plotted Starter)
Lyria, he believes is the name of the blue haired girl who has been in and out of his room over the past few days, had spent the last six hours describing various places, people, and something called coffee in vivid detail to him as she had sat upon the stool beside his bed - fingers curled about its wooden edge as legs swung back and forth. The dragon with her...Vyrn had occasionally chimed in, either adding to the stories she had told him or cutting her off before she could finish. They, alongside a brown-haired individual they referred to as the captain - who had laughed when he referred to them as such, and the alchemist who always run in and out of the room with one too many supplies in her arms as she ran various tests he didn’t quite understand nor know the purpose of, were the only people who had been allowed, according to said alchemist, in his room until now. Something about making sure he was ready for proper guests first (because apparently the other three didn’t count as ‘proper’ guests, whatever that meant), and constantly hushing the dragon when he and the blue haired girl would bring up someone named Sandy or Sandals, but according to Lyria’s rant today his actual name was Sandalphon, telling them both to keep this (he’s fairly certain she was referring to him when she had said that) a secret from him just in case ‘something else went horribly wrong’.
Well, he already knew what the ‘something that had gone horribly wrong the first time’ was. Lyria had so passionately described people he should have known to him to such an extent one would believe she was an artist recounting a painting, yet, no matter how long or how agonizingly detailed her recounts were, he still did not know who she was talking about. Save for a slight tug at his core when she mentioned coffee and the dreadful feeling of knowing but also completely not knowing when she described Sandalphon to him. He couldn’t remember much of anything. Not the Primarchs she had rattled off nor the details of any battle she had brushed over, nor the fact that he had died. She, actually, hadn’t informed him of that. The alchemist had told him that much while grumbling about the fact that the other two would probably never bring it up. Sometimes he learned more from her grumbling than he did from their rambling as they would often get sidetracked partway through the conversation. But it didn’t much matter what he could gather from them about himself when everything they said felt distant and unreal and foreign to him.
Today, after that six hour session of Lyria describing, primarily, Sandalphon and coffee to him, the alchemist (he still didn’t know her name - she came and left like a whirlwind most days and he only understood roughly one third of what she was saying) finally informed him that nothing she had tried thus far had worked and he was doing fairly well in regards to ‘adjusting to the body she had made him’ so they might as well, finally, tell the crew that he was around and that, apparently, also meant telling Sandalphon the good news alongside with the bad news, which was why Lyria had spent so long talking about him today - likely hoping she could jog his memory, but failing. They seemed to hope speaking with him would do the trick. He had his doubts, but he humored them regardless because he didn’t have much of a choice, but a part of him already felt guilty, especially when the alchemist informed not to tell the other that he had actually been ‘revived’ for almost a week now and it had taken everything in their power to keep that a secret from this Sandalphon and if he gave them away on it she wasn’t about to deal with the consequences of hiding him from the other for a solid seven days because he had been unbearable, apparently, the one time she had mentioned possibly attempting to ‘make him a body’. He’s not sure what her definition of unbearable actually was. She seemed to get frustrated fairly easily.
So, he sat, back leaning against a collection of fluffy pillows Lyria had shoved behind him to help his aching back and ‘just in case his wings came back they’d be comfortable’. What wings, he had wanted to ask, but she hadn’t given him the chance, in a small room somewhere on the ship that had been mentioned to him passing because apparently none of them had seemed it all that important to tell him much about it. The curtains were drawn back and the sun filtered in through window - highlighting the almost empty room in a flaxen glow that warmed the side of his face and painted golden streaks upon silky, white locks. Slender hands were folded neatly upon his lap where a white sheet was draped. They told him they had managed to recreate his armor, as well, but it was in the closest at the moment because the alchemist had told him if he damaged his body at all that ‘I brought you back into this world and I can take you out of it again’ so the Captain stole some clothes from someone named Lucio instead and shoved them on him - just a white robe and then he had gone rummaging through the closest and wrapped the red ribbon there about his shoulders said ‘perfect’ and ran off to fetch Sandalphon alongside the others.
Now all he could do was wait. The room silent aside from the handful of footsteps and hushed voice he could hear running around just outside of it - the most he had heard in days so they must have informed the rest of the crew of that he was alive - that’s still a concept he’s having a difficult time grasping, but he doesn’t think it wise to linger on it. Instead, he tries to go over the various things Lyria had told him about Sandalphon - having committed them all to memory. But still, nothing, just a faint hum of his core that sounded almost pitifully sad and fingers lifted to press gingerly against his chest where it had started to ache. Blue eyes staring down at their tips where the light caught his skin. And then the door creaked open, his gaze snapping away from his hand to lift in order to meet the brown-haired man who now stood in the doorway. He was just a bit taller than the Captain, but his hair looked just as messy as theirs. A faint, polite smile stretched onto his lips, though it fell soon after. Despite all of their best efforts, even when looking directly at him and knowing, somehow, that this is him, he still doesn’t actually remember him.
Lips part to speak, but then close again. That hand upon his chest pressing just a bit harder the louder and louder his core threatens to hum violently. The guilt he feels is overwhelming. He should know him. Lyria had tried so hard. And he doesn’t speak for a moment because he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack under the weight of it all. But he does manage, after a few painful seconds of prolonged silence to muster something up from the depths of his throat. “You are...Sandalphon, correct?” He tries to smile again, but the corners of his lips quiver slightly. “Lyria has...told me quite a bit about you.” He doesn’t know what he should say, this is first time it’s felt almost painful for him to speak to someone and now, he realizes, why Lyria and the others had been so very desperate to get him to recall something - anything - about this man.
