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snaillamp · 4 days ago

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Wrong

• Masterlist •

Warnings: Amnesia, flashbacks, fantasy settings, knife.

They stood still. They didn’t know where they were or why they were standing at all. But it felt wrong. Wrong to force their body to keep their weight, when all they saw in the mirror could barely be called living. Still, they stood still. Their bony limbs trembled even though they felt nothing. Perhaps they didn’t want to believe the walking corpse in the mirror was themselves.

Because the eyes that stared back at them were dull. Lifeless. Sunken and dazed. They didn’t know why, but they weren’t supposed to be like this. They weren’t supposed to look so weak, either. They could see their joints sticking out, posture slouched. They looked in pain, even though they didn’t feel the pain.

They took a step closer to the mirror. Their knees buckled beneath them, their legs aching. Their vision blurred. They breathed sharply, desperately reaching the mirror to support themselves, the sharp edges digging into their skin. A fleeting pain silenced their thoughts for a moment, but numbness took over again as a red trail travelled down.

They pulled their hand back, their palm strained. They wiped the blood onto the too big clothes on them. They weren’t even filling the shoulder length of the shirt. Too thin, too fragile. Yet they felt too heavy, so heavy that they thought their feet were about to give up.

The morning light - or moonlight? They didn’t know the time - reflected from the mirror as the wind blew the curtains. They rubbed their arms, cold clinging to their skin, soothing and biting at the same time. They looked at their reflection again, for something, for anything. They didn't know what they were looking for.

Perhaps they wanted the reflection to shift. The pale face to brighten, the dark veins disappear. To see some sign of life. But no. There was only them, still as death, looking everything but alive. The door knocked. They didn't know if they were more startled that there was a door nearby or that they flinched. They caught themselves before they could lose balance, though their body tensed and they could feel their blood running cold.

They didn't feel fear. Like pain, it was either momentary or not there at all. It didn't stop them from acting like there was a sword on their throat. Cold, sharp. It kept them from taking a deep breath or talking. For a second, they wondered how they sounded. They didn't think about why they didn't remember their own voice. The door creaked open, slow. They felt like there was no room to breathe. They had to be ready for an attack, to defend, to… they didn't know. But standing still as a shadow moved into the room was just wrong.

Snow flopped down as the figure shook themselves, a big cloak covering their features. They kicked their boots aside, turning back to close the door as they tore the cloak. "I hate the snow with the all might of—" the figure muttered, turning back again. They froze at the sight, their face falling. "Whumpee? You're— you're awake."

Whumpee? The word echoed in their mind, a foreign sound that felt like it belonged to someone else. They opened their mouth to respond, to ask what they meant by a name, this name, but no words came out. A knot formed on their throat. They couldn’t talk. The figure stepped closer, careful. As if they could just run away. Perhaps they would if they could. But they didn't trust their legs.

"You shouldn't be standing at all," the figure said. They were led down to the bed just behind them. Another source of fear, they hadn’t looked around, they didn't know where danger could come from or what they could use to— no. They couldn't be thinking about fighting when they could barely stand. They simply let the figure push themselves down but not lay down. The figure put a hand on their forehead, checking their visible skin. They didn't know what the figure looked for, but they wanted answers. For this, for everything.

"Who…" they rasped. Their voice was low, hurting their throat. Hoarse. But they tried again. "Who are you?"

The figure stopped. They tensed as if expecting the question. Yet it looked like it pained them. They bit their lip and took a deep breath before straightening a little. "I'm Right Hand,“ they started. ”Head of— well, that doesn't matter. I’m a friend. You've been through enough, so don’t move. I'll bring you some water." The figure— Right Hand muttered before bolting away. Whumpee couldn't understand. This felt familiar. Eerily familiar, yet equally strange. They had to get away from this stranger, yet their body eased back down into the covers. They were tired and scared even though they didn't want to admit it.

Whumpee's heart raced as Right Hand disappeared through the door, leaving them alone in the dim light. The silence felt oppressive like hands tightening around their throat. The room felt too large, too empty, and Whumpee's thoughts spiralled. Who was this Right Hand? Why did they feel so familiar yet so foreign? The name echoed in their mind, a whisper of something lost. They pressed their palms against the sheets, grounding themselves. Their hand hurt. And pain nailed them to the present. They breathed sharply not to whimper, the motion familiar. They must have done that before. The blood on their palm dried slowly as the pain faded, leaving a dark stain on the sheets. They flexed their fingers, wincing. The pain was welcome, at least, proof that they were alive.

A soft rustle broke the silence, and they turned their head sharply, eyes darting toward the door. Had Right Hand returned? But the door remained closed, and the silence returned, more oppressive than before. Whumpee took a deep breath, the air filling their lungs with a chill that sent shivers down their spine. They had to do something. They couldn’t just sit here, waiting for answers that might never come.

Foolishly trusting their shaky legs, they pushed themselves up from the bed, their legs trembling beneath them. Each movement felt like a battle, their body protesting against the effort. They took a step forward, then another, the floor cold against their bare feet. The floor creaked beneath them. There were two doors, one that Right Hand got in and went into. Suddenly, the door creaked open again, and Whumpee jerked back. Right Hand stepped inside, a glass of water and a crystal bottle on hand.

“I told you to stay put,” Right Hand frowned. Whumpee shrunk.“You should stop being stubborn for once.”

“For once?” Whumpee repeated.

“Never mind,” Right Hand waved off. They grabbed Whumpee’s arm gently. “Don’t do this again.”

Why, Whumpee didn’t ask. They didn’t ask why they were hurt, too. They didn’t ask why Right Hand was being kind.

They didn’t ask who they were.

Something kept them from doing so. For once again, Whumpee let themselves get pushed back to bed, leaning to the touch as their knees ached. They weren’t going to anger Right Hand, who might or might not be hostile. Right Hand was definitely interested in Whumpee, but there was no telling what they could do.

Whumpee knew nothing, after all. They were supposed to be panicking about that, but they weren’t. Whatever kept them from asking was also keeping them calm.

Like a spell.

An uncomfortable silence settled. Right Hand stiffened, offering the glass. “You should drink. This and the medicine. Healer— my friend prepared it for if - when - you woke up. With a strict order not to get up, I should add. They’ll have our heads.”

Whumpee nodded reluctantly. They grabbed the glass, staring at Right Hand. Water and medicine. Water and some liquid. Something Whumpee wasn’t sure they wanted to drink.

The medicine can wait,“ Right Hand muttered. ”It’s not… it’s not what you think it is, really. And I don’t expect you to trust me immediately. You probably think I’m tricking you. Hells, You taught me better than that—“ Right Hand froze, covering their mouth. ”I shouldn’t have told that.“

Whumpee took the medicine from Right Hand’s hand and drank it at once. They gulped with the bitter taste, scrunching their face. They hated it immediately. But they hoped Right Hand would think of it as a show of trust. They had no better option anyway.

“Okay, that’s… that’s good.”

Whumpee nodded. “I taught you something?” they asked, too quiet that they weren’t sure they were heard.

“I shouldn’t burden you with everything. Not yet.”

"I want to know," Whumpee tried. They yawned. No, no, no. They didn't want to sleep. They needed answers.

"Medicine will make you sleep for a while. Your body needs it," Right Hand ignored Whumpee's words, pushing Whumpee down. Whumpee grabbed the edge of the bed, stubborn not to lay down but their limbs began throbbing, their vision blurring. They were tired.

Right Hand laid Whumpee down slowly, tucking them under sheets. Whumpee tried to struggle, but their body let go of the efforts when Right Hand caressed their hair. It would be horrifying, to be forced like this and their body just shutting down, if it wasn’t so nice. The touch, warm and gentle, soothed Whumpee's mind, their thoughts slipping.

Whumpee tried to resist, trying to move their body to prevent their surrender to the sudden exhaustion and trying to focus on the voice. They drifted in and out, the soothing motion continuing for a while before an unnatural thing took over its place.

Words, Whumpee realised. The words were heavy around them, pulling them to darkness. The words were making them sleepy. Right Hand was casting a spell on them.

Whumpee found themselves in darkness, Right Hand's voice fading. They felt lighter, the aches disappearing. This sudden shift wasn’t comforting. Did they fall asleep?

Whumpee drifted deeper into the darkness, a soft hum wrapped around them, both comforting and suffocating. It resonated within their mind, foreign yet familiar.

"Calm down, my child," the voice murmured, its tone smooth and alluring. "You are safe here."

Whumpee felt a strange pull toward the voice, an instinctive recognition that sent shivers down their spine. It was as if the darkness itself was alive, oozing with a power that urged Whumpee to follow the trail. They could feel something stirring within them, a latent energy that had been dormant for far too long.

"Who are you?" Whumpee managed to whisper, their voice barely coming out against the almost literal weight of the darkness crushing their chest.

“ı’m what you lost.”

What Whumpee lost? Memories? Themselves? Could this voice fix what was wrong?

Why would it do anything for Whumpee? But they couldn’t ask that, could they?

"What do you want from me?" Whumpee snarled instead. This distrust was going to be the end of them, but they couldn’t be sure of anything, anyone.

"Nothing. Nothing from you. You already gave me enough."

Gave a voice something. Taught Right hand something. Used to pain. Weak, but shouldn’t be. Not panicking, but should be. It didn’t tell Whumpee much about who Whumpee was, other than something bad happened.

“You’re still not ready,” The voice echoed and then Whumpee was falling—

“It’s okay,” they heard Right Hand stutter. “You’re safe.”

Whumpee straightened instinctively, their hands reaching to rub their eyes. They ended up wiping their tears instead. Why were they crying?

“You’re safe,” they repeated, rubbing Whumpee’s back.

“Why are you doing this?” Whumpee sobbed. They were confused, defenceless. In a place they didn’t know anything about and with a stranger. Even their mind - assuming they just had a nightmare - was against them. They could be excused for acting like a child.

“Because you mattered to me— you still do. To a lot of people. I know you’re scared.”

“I don’t remember,” Whumpee choked out. And it was all their body needed before they broke down, Right Hand just holding them.

-•-

Surprisingly, Things went better in the following days. They didn’t know why, but they stopped being on edge all the time.

Walking wasn’t as easy as the first time, though. They should have been more grateful when the pain was just dull. Their body was a wreck. They felt as dead as they looked. A spell, Right Hand had said. Took a lot from Whumpee. While Whumpee knew there was more to it, they accepted the answer. Even thinking about it made their head throb.

Whumpee sat at the edge of the bed they had kind of invaded for the past week. Right Hand was kind enough, even though helping hurt them.

Whumpee was neither blind nor ignorant. They had realised something was off. They simply… ignored. Didn’t ask. There was no need to cause pain to both of them.

People came and went for some time. Whumpee didn’t know any of them, but all had the same look on their faces. Devastated. As if Whumpee was supposed to know them.

“You need some fresh air?” Right Hand asked. Right. They were talking about… something. Whumpee forgot what it was. They were busy with being lost in their thoughts. They must have worried Right Hand with their silence.

“I’m sorry,” Whumpee sighed. “I was listening, I swear.”

“That’s okay. Palace politics never interested you anyway,” Right Hand chuckled, before souring again. “Well, at least you now know the peace here is… fragile. So, lay low.”

“It’s not like I can do much,” Whumpee shrugged.

Right Hand smiled— or at least tried.

Whumpee stood, instinctively reaching for Right Hand. They still felt unsteady on their own, and Right Hand had always been around to help them. They were getting too used to it.

Right Hand grabbed two cloaks. They stared at the two for a moment, before sighing.

“You better have mine, It’s a little longer, but less wide. You won’t fill your own one.”

Before Whumpee could tell something, a cloak was thrown on their shoulders. Whumpee got lost in the fabric, but it was comfortable.

Right Hand wore the other, the fabric being too large for them too, even though not quite long enough. Still, they put a hand on Whumpee’s back, leading them out.

“Perhaps we should buy you new clothes. Your own won’t fit you for a good while and You and I are built different.”

Whumpee didn’t ask what Right Hand meant by that. They simply walked out.

Whumpee wasn’t on house arrest, and they had been outside a few times, but stepping out made them feel free. The small hut they occupied was, well, small. Suffocating. Filled with reflective surfaces that Whumpee tried to avoid. The sight of their face felt just wrong.

Whumpee watched their steps, focusing on putting one feet in front of the other. The hut was a little into the woods, so they had a few moments to collect their thoughts before they got near people.

The last few times hadn’t gone too well. Healer had… triggered something. A memory, Whumpee assumed, even though it was too disoriented to be called one.

Whumpee stumbled on a branch.

“Watch your step,” Right Hand warned. Whumpee got closer to Right Hand, hoping that they weren’t going to get distracted again and if they did, Right Hand would catch them.

The town was calm, just like Right Hand had told. Whumoee was glad that the feeling didn't come with the sight. They were tired of things being too familiar yet too strange.

The streets stretched wide before them, the air carrying the scent of baked bread and damp stone. Snow clung to the edges of the worn cobblestones, muddied where carts and boots had passed too often. People moved about their day, voices hushed but not lifeless. It wasn’t bustling, but it wasn’t stagnant either.

Whumpee pulled the cloak tighter around themselves.

They felt Right Hand’s gaze flicker toward them, checking - always watching - but they pretended not to notice. Instead, they focused on the way their feet landed on the uneven road, willing themselves to walk steadier. They weren’t fragile. At least weren't meant to be. But their body disagreed.

Right Hand led them toward a modest shop, its wooden sign swinging slightly in the cold breeze. The inside was warm, someone humming along with the ruffles of fabric being handled and measured. Shelves and tables were stacked with tunics, cloaks, and gloves, all in muted colors. Nothing grand. But practical.

The shopkeeper, an older woman with big and bright eyes, glanced up. Her expression flickered—there, just for a moment. Recognition? Or pity? Whumpee wasn’t sure which they despised more. They just wanted to get lost in their cloak.

Right Hand was quick to find what they wanted, already choosing a few pieces clothes. “Something simple,” they muttered, half to themselves. “Loose, but not too much. And warm.”

Whumpee exhaled through their nose. They weren’t sure why they bothered caring. Whatever they wore, it would hang off them wrong. Too big, too loose.

The shopkeeper moved carefully, pulling a few options from the shelves, grabbing a few sizes to shoe. Whumpee barely paid attention. They just listened the humming. Their thoughts were getting bothersome..

Then something tugged at their sleeve.

Small fingers.

Whumpee blinked down at a child, no older than seven, eyes round with curiosity. Another child peeked from behind, whispering to the first.

Before Whumpee could react, more small figures gathered—some hesitant, some bolder. They stared at Whumpee, eyes wide and wondering. No fear. No pity. Just… awe.

“Is it really them?” one child whispered.

“They look different.”

“Of course, they do! It was a big battle—”

“—but they wouldn't lose strength, would they?”

Whumpee's chest tightened.

They wanted to correct them. Wanted to tell them that they confused Whumpee with someone else. That their body was too broken, their mind too fractured to be powerful at any point.

But the words didn’t come.

Instead, they let themselves be pulled forward, slow and careful, as the children beckoned them outside.

Just for a moment.

Just to see what they wanted.

Behind them, Right Hand was still at the counter, speaking with the shopkeeper. They hadn’t noticed yet.

Whumpee let themselves move with the children, listening as they began to talk between themselves, telling stories of what had happened, what they had heard, what they believed. Each retelling was a little different, but always, always, they spoke of Whumpee with admiration, even if they used another name. A rank or a nickname.

Something in them ached. They weren’t sure they wanted to hear those stories. But they didn’t pull away. They swallowed, gripping the cloak tighter. They wanted to deny it, to tell the children that their stories were just that—stories. But they hesitated. What was the point? Let them believe in their hero. Probably that person had long since ceased to exist anyway.

Whumpee just stared at them. The children argued, knives being pulled— no. Just rings shining with light. And there was no blood, definitely Whumpee didn't see children on the floor and bleeding because Whumpee had been too late, too late to break through the siege—

Their breath hitched when a small hand pressed against theirs. One of the children stared up at Whumpee. “You’re cold,” the child murmured, small fingers wrapping around Whumpee’s wrist as if they could will warmth back into them.

Whumpee flinched.

They pulled their hand back too fast, too sharp, and the child’s expression fell. The other children quieted, shifting uncertainly.

“I—” Whumpee started, voice hoarse, but the words stuck in their throat.

“Alright,” Right Hand’s voice cut through, steady but firm. Not unkind. Whumpee felt a hand on their shoulder. “That’s enough for now.”

The children didn’t run, didn’t scatter in fear, but they hesitated before stepping back, their awe dimming into disappointment, maybe.

Whumpee wasn't great at reading expressions.

Whumpee lowered their gaze, ashamed without knowing why.

“Come on,” Right Hand said, offering a hand. Not forcing. Just… waiting.

Whumpee hesitated, then let themselves be led back inside. The warmth of the shop was stifling now. Their hands trembled as they reached for the new clothes Right Hand had picked.

“Are you okay?” Right Hand asked, voice quieter now.

Whumpee let out a breath. “Yes.”

They both knew that was a lie.

Right Hand didn’t press further. They never did.

Whumpee appreciated that. Or maybe they didn’t. Maybe they wanted Right Hand to push, to demand answers, to force them to acknowledge what they were feeling instead of letting them sink further into this hollow, detached space they’d been inhabiting. Maybe they wanted Right Hand to tell what to feel. Or what they would feel if something like this happened before.

But Right Hand simply tood there. “You can change in the back.”

Whumpee nodded and stepped behind the curtain at the back of the shop. The fabric was rough between their calloused fingers as they unfastened the cloak, letting it slip from their shoulders.

They hesitated before looking down at themselves. The tunic they wore was loose, slipping over their collarbones and hanging awkwardly at their sides. Too thin. Too hollowed out. They turned away from the sight and reached for the new clothes, avoiding looking to their own eyes or body as they changed.

The fabric was warmer. A little heavy. But it fit—better than expected, at least. They weren’t sure they liked it, but they didn’t have the energy to care.

When they stepped back out, Right Hand glanced over them, nodding in approval. “Better.”

Whumpee just hummed.

The shopkeeper gave them a small, unreadable smile as she accepted the payment from Right Hand. They stepped outside again, bracing against the cold. The children had scattered, their voices distant now, carried away on the wind.

“Where to now?” Whumpee asked, voice quieter than before.

Right Hand didn’t answer immediately. Their fingers twitched slightly before they exhaled and turned to Whumpee.

“We’ll head back soon. But let’s walk a little longer.”

Whumpee wasn’t sure if that was for their sake or Right Hand’s. Either way, they nodded. The air was sharp, crisp with the lingering bite of winter, but their new clothes helped ward off the worst of it.

People passed by, some glancing, some not. Whumpee kept their gaze low, but they felt the stares. Less of the pity from the shopkeeper, more of the unspoken weight of recognition. Some curious, some wary. None of them spoke.

“They admired you,” Right Hand said, trying to assure Whumpee. “You were a hero.”

A bitter taste curled at the back of Whumpee’s throat. They didn’t understand how. Didn’t understand why. Whumpee wasn't a hero. What they saw wasn't supposed to be a memory of a hero.

“They shouldn’t,” Whumpee said, voice colder than intended.

Right Hand was quiet for a moment before speaking. “Maybe. But belief isn’t something you get to choose for others.”

Whumpee had no response to that. They just focused on walking, breathing. If that memory was just a moment, they wanted none of it.

The streets grew quieter the further they went. The market sounds faded behind them, replaced by the rustle of bare branches and the occasional distant sound of a door closing. The path back to the hut loomed ahead, the space that had become theirs seeming too suffocating.

Whumpee’s steps slowed.

Right Hand noticed. “We can stay out a little longer,” they offered.

Whumpee almost said yes. Almost let themselves believe that lingering in the cold, in the open, would make a difference. But the exhaustion settled deep, a weight they couldn’t shake.

“No,” they murmured. “Let’s go back.”

The walk home was silent, save for the crunch of boots against frozen earth. When they reached the hut, Whumpee hesitated at the door, fingers brushing against the wood. Something about crossing that threshold felt heavier than it should have.

Right Hand didn’t rush them. Just waited, ever patient.

Finally, Whumpee exhaled and stepped inside. The warmth was immediate, almost stifling after the cold outside. The fire had burned low, casting long shadows across the small space.

Whumpee sat on the edge of the bed, staring at their hands. They still felt the ghost of that small child’s fingers wrapping around their wrist. Still heard the stories, the misplaced admiration.

Right Hand moved around quietly, stoking the fire, setting their things aside. After a while, Whumpee spoke.

“The kids called me something.”

Right Hand glanced at them. “Did they?”

Whumpee nodded, hesitant. “They called me Leader.”

Something flickered across Right Hand’s face—too fast to catch. Their hands stilled where they had been tending the fire, just for a second.

Whumpee watched them carefully. “Why?”

Right Hand took a slow breath, leaning back against the wall. Their expression remained unreadable, but their voice was careful when they finally answered. “It was a title. One you earned.”

Whumpee frowned. “I don’t… remember earning anything.”

Silence stretched between them. Right Hand’s jaw tightened before they finally sighed and ran a hand down their face. “Look… I grew up under Leader. And Leader was—” They stopped, shaking their head. “It’s complicated.”

Whumpee’s fingers curled into the fabric of their new clothes. “It can't be more complicated than this."

Right Hand hesitated. They looked at Whumpee for a long moment, weighing something. Then, quietly, they said, “Leader wasn’t just a title. It was your name. Your identity. You… took the title and made sure you filled the title.”

Whumpee barely felt like a person, much less someone who had led anything. The idea of them leaving a mark too deep that it pained to talk about the loss…

Right Hand continued, voice softer now. “You were… everything. The one who led us, protected us, built something out of nothing. We all followed you. We believed in you.”

Right Hand’s bit their lip, schoolimg their expression to unreadable again. They looked down, fingers twitching slightly. “Now, you don’t remember. And I don’t want to break you by forcing it all back too fast. You… protected us from many things. Many unpleasant things."

Whumpee stared at them, mind reeling. A thousand thoughts raced, colliding and tangling together into something incomprehensible. It felt like grasping at smoke—fragments of emotion, flashes of meaning, but nothing solid, nothing they could hold onto. Their breath came shallow, fingers twitching slightly where they gripped their cloak. Right Hand's face flickered between now and a younger one, looping over and over, but none of it fit. None of it felt real. None of it felt like them.

Finally, they whispered, “I don’t feel like a leader.”

Right Hand gave a weak, almost wistful smile. “Maybe not. But that doesn’t mean you weren’t.”

The words settled between them, heavy with something unspoken. Whumpee wanted to argue, wanted to deny it, but they felt drained.

Right Hand didn’t push further. They should have.

Whumpee let out a slow breath and leaned back against the bed. They didn’t understand. They weren’t sure they wanted to.

-•-

The slow trust they built in a week has vanished after their trip to the town. Nightmares returned, and they woke up crying a few times. They couldn't go on like that. Right Hand had said they would leave for a hunt today, so they were on their own.

Whumpee stood shakily, avoiding the mirror again. They fed the fire in the small kitchenette, wrapping themselves with the cape again. It smelt Right Hand. It smelt home. And Whumpee needed that. Needed that to pull themselves together because this wasn't them.

Whumpee was supposed to be strong. It was clear. The way they walked, the way they sat or slept, all screamed of a warrior. That was the reason of nothing clicking into place. They had been building back strength from a curse, Healer had said once they came. It had been a short visit, because Whumpee was learning too many things in too little time, their mind unable to keep up. Healer and Right Hand only tried to help, Whumpee knew, but it wasn’t working. Remembering hurt Whumpee, and not remembering hurt Healer.

Though Whumpee began appreciating Right Hand. Healer was too worried, too interested. And Whumpee couldn’t keep up with that. Still, they would prefer Healer being around to… this.

Being alone. The hut was too silent.

They needed something to do. Something to occupy their hands, their mind, anything to keep from spiralling further. Their gaze drifted to the small pile of ingredients Right Hand had left. It wasn’t much—some dried meat, root vegetables, a few herbs—but it was enough to make something simple. Something warm.

Whumpee busied themselves with preparation, gripping the knife tighter than necessary as they cut through the vegetables. The rhythmic slicing was almost soothing, the quiet crackle of the fire a steady backdrop. They tossed the ingredients into a pot to boil, pulling the meat in front of them. They squeezed the knife tighter, the motion too familiar and uncomfortable. Blood oozed to the counter. Whumpee could feel a headache start. They couldn’t start remembering noe. They didn't want to. But blood was important. Blood was honor, blood was being siblings, blood was smiling and laughing together, mourning together because they were only soldiers. Soldiers no one cared but Whumpee Cared, Leader cared.

Whumpee jumped with a sound.

The knife clattered from their hand. Their breath caught as a sudden wave crashed over them. The firelight dimmed, shadows stretching unnaturally along the walls. The warmth was gone, replaced by an aching cold seeping into their bones.

Darkness coiled at the edges of their vision, thick and suffocating. And then—

They were falling.

Or maybe they weren’t. Maybe the world was shifting around them, pulling them into something deeper, something unseen.

A voice—

Low. Resonant. Seeping into their very core.

“You are not meant to be weak.”

The darkness surrounded them, pressing against their skin like a living thing. There was no fire, no hut, no world beyond this. Just the void. Just the voice.

Whumpee swallowed, their throat dry. “Leave me alone,” they tried.

The voice almost chuckled, though it held no true warmth.

“You misunderstand,” it said smoothly. “I have always been here. And I will always be here.”

The shadows curled tighter, drawing Whumpee deeper into the void. The ground—if there even was any—felt unsteady beneath their feet. Their pulse pounded in their ears.

“You fight against yourself,” the voice continued, dripping with something that might have been amusement. “You break and rebuild, but you deny what you are.”

Whumpee clenched their hands into fists. “I don’t even know what I am.”

A pause. A shift. The darkness rippled, and for a moment, Whumpee thought they saw something—shapes in the abyss, echoes of movements long forgotten. A battle. A leader standing tall. Power thrumming in their veins.

Their power.

“You do,” the voice whispered. “You simply refuse to remember.”

Pain lanced through Whumpee’s skull. They stumbled, gasping. The memories clawed at them, half-formed and fleeting, slipping between their fingers the moment they reached for them.

“Enough,” they choked out, pressing their palms against their temples.

And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the darkness shattered.

Whumpee collapsed onto the cold floor of the hut, their breath coming in ragged gasps. The fire still crackled in the hearth, the scent of their half-finished meal still in the air. It now only twisted their stomach.

They curled into themselves, shivering, even though the fire burned bright. They couldn't move.

The silence pressed in, suffocating. Their breath hitched, their chest tight as the weight of it all settled over them. Tears slipped down their face before they could stop them, their body shaking with each silent sob.

They didn’t know how much time passed before the door creaked open.

“Whumpee?”

Right Hand’s voice camr. Sharp with concern. Whumpee wished they could follow the footsteps. Right Hand kneeled before them, putting their hand on their face. Whumpee flinched but didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.

Right Hand crouched beside them. “I'm sorry,” they murmured. “I shouldn't have left you alone.”

Whumpee couldn’t answer. Their throat burned, their hands still trembling. They curled in tighter, pressing their forehead to their knees.

Right Hand sighed, sitting down beside them. “You did this to me after my first kill.” they tried, voice quieter. “Gave me some space and it backfired. You didn't leave my side for the following week."

Whumpee shuddered. But slowly they let themselves lean onto Right Hand.

"Was I strong?" They asked, instead of letting Right Hand tell the story. This wasn't the same. And it felt too private, one that should stay between Right Hand and Leader, not… not Whumpee.

Right Hand hesitated. Their fingers curled slightly against Whumpee’s shoulder, as if weighing the truth in their palm.

"You were," they said finally, the words soft but firm. "But not in the way you think."

Whumpee swallowed. Their throat still burned, and the shadows of that voice still clung to their skin like oil, but they forced themselves to listen. To hear.

"You weren’t strong because you were fearless," Right Hand continued. "Or because you never faltered. You were strong because you cared. Because you carried all of us when we couldn't stand on our own."

Something twisted inside Whumpee’s chest. They wanted to reject it—to say I don’t remember, that wasn’t me—but the words felt hollow. Their hands still trembled. Their head still ached.

"How far I'd go for you?" Whumpee asked. "For all of you."

Right Hand’s breath caught, just for a moment. Their grip on Whumpee’s shoulder tightened, then softened. “You would have died for us,” they admitted. “And we would have died for you.”

Whumpee exhaled shakily. That should have felt comforting. It didn’t.

The fire crackled beside them, but its warmth barely reached. Their body still trembled, the weight of that voice lingering like a phantom touch.

Right Hand shifted, hesitating before speaking again. “You always thought strength meant sacrifice. That to lead, you had to bear it all alone. And at the end, you did."

Whumpee closed their eyes. The words settled deep, stirring something raw inside them. They could imagine it—a battlefield, faces smeared with dirt and blood. Voices shouting orders, calling their name—not Whumpee. Leader.

Their stomach twisted.

"The curse," they whispered, barely a breath of sound.

Right Hand nodded.

The fire crackled, its warmth an afterthought against the cold creeping through Whumpee’s limbs. Right Hand’s presence was steady, grounding, but it didn’t stop the weight pressing down on their chest.

"You were supposed to be dead. To make up for your lack of strength at that time with your own life," Right Hand murmured. "We couldn't lose you. So we… we had to."

Whumpee exhaled shakily, the meaning sinking in. The images, the memories, were fragmented—flashes of pain, of desperate hands reaching, of voices screaming their name. But beneath it all, the sense of inevitability remained. They were meant to die, but something had stopped it. Leader's—their troops stopped it.

"What did you do?"

Right Hand hesitated, fingers tightening against their knee. The firelight flickered over their face, casting shadows over the exhaustion carved deep into their features. "We used your power."

Whumpee's breath hitched. Their power. The force thrumming beneath their skin, the thing that had once been second nature—now nothing but an aching void.

"That's why—" Their voice cracked. "That's why I can't remember."

Right Hand nodded slowly. "It was the cost. The only way to bring you back. Your power demanded something in return."

A sharp pain lanced through Whumpee’s skull, memories clawing at the edges of their mind, slipping through their grasp like sand. A battlefield. A final stand. Their body crumpling to the ground, the rush of warmth spreading across their chest—

They flinched. Right Hand reached out, steadying them with a hand on their shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Right Hand whispered. "I didn’t know if you’d ever wake up. But we couldn’t let you go. I couldn’t."

Whumpee stared into the fire, its glow blurring through the haze of unshed tears. They wanted to be angry. They wanted to blame Right Hand, blame their troops, blame whoever had twisted fate to force them back into a life they didn’t remember.

But they couldn’t. Because deep down, they knew that they would have done the same.

"I'm not who you wanted to save."

Right Hand’s grip on their shoulder tightened, just slightly. "I have hope that you'll remember. You never let us down."

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