Mithos knows nightmares, he knows because he spent centuries wading through Kratos', Martel's, his own. He knows that there is no reason for Lloyd to share any nightmares with his family, and yet stumbling into a nightmare so vastly different than ones he has encountered before (usually, harsh neon lights illuminating bound wrists and wires plugged in to burning skin) still causes him to flounder for a few moments more than he should as he tries to take it all in. A place he recalls vaguely from having sifted through Lloyd's memories before. The singing ring of metal on metal, sword on sword, dread so thick in the air he can taste it, and--
Then it all stops, image caught for an eternity on Lloyd's swords slicing through tender flesh. Zelos' frame, illuminated by dissipating orange wings. Horror and regret on Lloyd's face. Horror that grips the very dreamspace, chokes all air out of Mithos' lungs.
He knows when a nightmare is more than just a nightmare.
He knows when a nightmare is more like a memory.
Lloyd killed Zelos.
Time passes strangely in dreams, so it could have been an instant or it could have been an eternity that Mithos stood there, trying to take in the truth and also the weight of Lloyd cradling Zelos as he died. Zelos - another Zelos - the Zelos that Lloyd knew, from his world - even though Mithos sees Zelos and thinks of the nervous artificial Aegis - sees Zelos and thinks of a moment they shared just before he died, consumed by his own ether - eyes far away but body relaxing as Mithos sang a cautious, soothing tune --
Mithos fumblingly grabs hold control of the dreamspace and wills it all to stop.
No Zelos. No Tower of Salvation. No blood on Lloyd's clothes.
A cold cradle of endless white, replaced habitually with a room from the Tower - Mithos' Tower - the Tower he calls home, a bedroom that might be Kratos' or it might be Mithos', it doesn't matter. Mithos realizes after the image has settled that Lloyd is not Kratos, and that the endless white would have only set Kratos on edge, but it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.
Mithos sits down on the ground near Lloyd, not too close, but close enough that Lloyd could touch him, if he wanted. If he wanted.
"Sorry," Mithos says, after a moment or two, hopefully long enough for Lloyd to have realized what has happened, to have realized this was only a dream. A dream that Mithos has invaded, reshaped. "I know... you didn't want me in here. But I didn't want to leave you to a nightmare if I could stop it. I just... I was a little too slow. Sorry. I wish I'd gotten here sooner. Then I could have stopped it, before... Before..."
He can't say it. He tries not to think of Zelos, bleeding crimson.
ARE YOU KIDDING THIS IS HORRIBLE!
Mithos knows nightmares, he knows because he spent centuries wading through Kratos', Martel's, his own. He knows that there is no reason for Lloyd to share any nightmares with his family, and yet stumbling into a nightmare so vastly different than ones he has encountered before (usually, harsh neon lights illuminating bound wrists and wires plugged in to burning skin) still causes him to flounder for a few moments more than he should as he tries to take it all in. A place he recalls vaguely from having sifted through Lloyd's memories before. The singing ring of metal on metal, sword on sword, dread so thick in the air he can taste it, and--
Then it all stops, image caught for an eternity on Lloyd's swords slicing through tender flesh. Zelos' frame, illuminated by dissipating orange wings. Horror and regret on Lloyd's face. Horror that grips the very dreamspace, chokes all air out of Mithos' lungs.
He knows when a nightmare is more than just a nightmare.
He knows when a nightmare is more like a memory.
Lloyd killed Zelos.
Time passes strangely in dreams, so it could have been an instant or it could have been an eternity that Mithos stood there, trying to take in the truth and also the weight of Lloyd cradling Zelos as he died. Zelos - another Zelos - the Zelos that Lloyd knew, from his world - even though Mithos sees Zelos and thinks of the nervous artificial Aegis - sees Zelos and thinks of a moment they shared just before he died, consumed by his own ether - eyes far away but body relaxing as Mithos sang a cautious, soothing tune --
Mithos fumblingly grabs hold control of the dreamspace and wills it all to stop.
No Zelos. No Tower of Salvation. No blood on Lloyd's clothes.
A cold cradle of endless white, replaced habitually with a room from the Tower - Mithos' Tower - the Tower he calls home, a bedroom that might be Kratos' or it might be Mithos', it doesn't matter. Mithos realizes after the image has settled that Lloyd is not Kratos, and that the endless white would have only set Kratos on edge, but it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter.
Mithos sits down on the ground near Lloyd, not too close, but close enough that Lloyd could touch him, if he wanted. If he wanted.
"Sorry," Mithos says, after a moment or two, hopefully long enough for Lloyd to have realized what has happened, to have realized this was only a dream. A dream that Mithos has invaded, reshaped. "I know... you didn't want me in here. But I didn't want to leave you to a nightmare if I could stop it. I just... I was a little too slow. Sorry. I wish I'd gotten here sooner. Then I could have stopped it, before... Before..."
He can't say it. He tries not to think of Zelos, bleeding crimson.