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You missed the-one-who-made-ducks. They were nice. They made ducks. They sang to you.
It's not as if you didn't miss the rest of the-ones-in-red. You did. The-one-with-books still was there, feeding you sad things and old things, memories and moments. Your body rippled and shuddered with the effort of not letting it all go. The-one-with-books asked you not to. The-one-with-books asked you to keep it all.
Sometimes it hurt.
And it's not as if you don't like the-sad-one. You love them! They play pretty music on all sorts of instruments—preferring the violin—and every piece is just as pretty and heartfelt as the last. You loved their music and their stories. You wish you could have given some of them back but you don't trust yourself to keep a hold on the rest. You never had the chance to learn.
But the-one-who-made-ducks was your favorite. Is your favorite. Their gift, that day on your home, with all those other brilliant works of art that your family accepted and sent back with joy. That small, knobbly duck carved of wood, spattered with dark copper stains and not even varnished. It wasn't pretty, but it was heartfelt. It was their best. That's why you chose it.
That night, when the-one-who-made-ducks came to see you, you were yelled at by your family. You didn't care though. They didn't see what you saw. They only saw beauty/not beauty. You saw love. You saw appreciation. You saw effort.
And the-one-who-made-ducks saw you.
But then, like magic, decades later they were in front of you again! More of the-ones-in-red! Not just the-one-with-books or the-one-that-broke—you miss them as they used to be—but three more! The-bright-one, the-one-who-grows, and the-one-who-made-ducks!
But—!
They didn't see you. They couldn't see you. You pressed your tendrils against the glass of your home (prison) and crooned sadly. The-sad-one pressed their hand against the glass and looked at you with concern. You crooned the song that they taught you. You called for the-one-who-made-ducks.
You were...sad.
They drank, of course, but they didn't remember everything. The-one-with-books made sure of that. They took your child. They took your baby. They used you.
(You hoped that your baby wouldn't think that what the-one-with-books was doing was all they could achieve. You hoped that they knew they could give back. You hoped that they knew you were. You hoped.)
And when the-three-who-were-lost look up at you, awe and shock crossing their faces as they wipe your water from their lips, they do not remember you. And you cry.
But, as it seems Istus deigned it so, the-one-who-made-ducks comes back and talks to you like they did when they wore red. They ask questions and sometimes carve—you delight in the ducks they make but sometimes it's a dog or a bugbear or even a half-finished figure of someone that makes them cry—but they spend time with you again. The-sad-one doesn't like it so much, often bitterly grumbling about how you pay more attention to the-one-who-made-ducks than you do them and they always perk up when you sing at them.
(You learn that they like to hear their own music but also new songs. You talk to them with notes and melodies and they write them down. You hope they will never feed them to you.)
Time. Time passes. You try to talk to them but—! Your child. Your baby. It keeps them quiet and forgotten. The-one-who-is-broken, the-one-who-grows, the-bright-one, and the-one-who-made-ducks. They cannot remember. They do not remember.
(You wonder, idly, what became of the-burning-one and the-patient-one. Then you feel the-patient-one walk by but see the-one-who-imbibes and you sing out. They stop and look at you and hold a finger to their lips. You flash in response.)
(You never see the-burning-one. Not once. You feel them around the-bright-one but that's it. You wonder what happened.)
You speak with the-one-who-made-ducks and they understand. You eat the memory of the-one-of-multitudes. You cry as you make the multitudes they have forget.
The-devouring-one draws nearer and you grow frantic. You draw the-one-who-made-ducks into your tank and tried to tell them. They cannot see. You try again and again, abstracting the idea until your child cannot take it from them and they see but they don't quite get it. Then they touch you and you cry in sorrow because their hands are rough and their heart is hurt and they want to forget but you want them to remember.
The-devouring-one is nearly upon this world. You watch as the-one-with-books, a seventh of the Light hidden in plain sight, walks another seventh of the Light back to the room of fakes. You watch as the-small-smart-one follows, brow furrowed and body tense. They do not trust the-one-with-books. You send him a silent flash of encouragement.
(You understand why the-one-with-books was doing what they did, but it didn't mean you had to like it.)
And two of the-three-who-were-lost came back but not the-one-who-made-ducks. You scream and cry. And then they are there. It is a body made of wood, crawling along the ceiling, knocking the-sad-one unconscious, and hopping into your tank. They talk to you and you know they can remember. The dead always remember. They are dead, but not dead. They can remember.
They ask you if they were one of the-ones-in-red. You flash for yes. They ask more questions and you answer as best you can. You show them. They thank you. Then the-devouring-legion appears and the-sad-one-is-slain and you scream and the-devouring-legion are blown away by your attack and your fury and your pain. You lost your child once, you will not lose another.
The-one-who-made-ducks met your eyes and asked you a question. One flash. They turned their featureless face back to the-sad-one and the-devouring-legion. They attack the glass tank. You help.
As the water drowns many of the-devouring-legion, you float to the-sad-one, singing one of their songs. You crush the-devouring-legion with your tendrils and tear them to pieces as the-one-who-made-ducks fights as well, a worn axe, buckler, and armor all they had.
But they fall. You cry again. They look at you and smile as they do not go to the Astral Plane, where the dead reside, but instead go to...themself? They have returned and they have forgotten and you are sad/happy and you sing. You sing to the-one-who-made-ducks and the-sad-one—whose spirit stares at you with wonder and awe and begs you not to let them be forgotten. You will not take them. You will let them be remembered.
And then—!
And then—!
The-devouring-one themself descends. It is time. The fight has come. And you decide whether to let everyone remember or to just let them remain ignorant. You decide whether you forgive the-one-with-books or not. You decide if you go see your baby or you stay with the-sad-one.
And you hold tight to a knobbly wooden duck.
And you wait for sunrise.