Anger was a blade that brought more than just death. The wrath of a woman was sharper than a thousand of these blades.

And the wrath of a witch even more so.

The entire city had felt the extent of it that night. The cultists had been prepared. But they had underestimated you.

Screams had coloured your throat sore. Blood had soaked the streets beneath your feet, feet that had been floating in the air for as long as you could remember.

That night you had raged, fuelled by the loss of a possession that no gold in the world could have made up for.

Your (H/C) hair had danced around your head like snakes while darkness and splinters of the void had embraced your body.

And yet. It hadn't been enough.

You didn't remember how long you had followed them. They dragged him up a mountain, into the very heart of it, past bare stone and grey dust.

The eye. You remembered the eye of the god.

Which god had it been?

Did it even matter?

His time was over and the void needed a new ruler.

Him. They had chosen him.

You followed their robes of red velvet, killing every last one. They were ready to give their lives.

How many had you slain that night?

"Not enough.", you whispered into the darkness.

Tears streamed down your cheeks.

Anger. Frustration. Regret.

All these things cut your heart open, clawing at your lungs. Every breath should hurt. Every minute you lived in endlessness should be a sin.

You remembered the feeling of a thousand hands reaching for you. They pulled you out of the air, forced you to the ground, first your feet, then your knees.

Their blood painted the stone red. It smelt of iron. You tasted death, tasted despair. But nothing could tame the fear inside you.

What if you lost him?

What if they cut out your tongue to silence your echo?

It drove you on, on and on. Bare feet trudged over bare stone. Cold and pain bit into your flesh for the first time in centuries.

Immortality could be a curse, because just like happiness, suffering can also immortalise itself in everyone. It was only a second and you had lost sight of him.

A sea of red robes piled up in front of you. Their blades reached out for your throat, your chest, your eyes.

Why had you lost him?

How had you lost him?

You couldn't remember.

But you remembered your lips opening to call for him.

What was his name?

"My little echo...", you whispered.

You found him again in a place where the void overlapped with the real world. The air shimmered. Stone crumbled like dust only to form again, to be reborn.

Although you were a being of the void yourself, drawing your magic directly from it, this place made you nauseous.

At the very tip of this place you found him, the boy with hair as black as a raven's feathers. Where light and darkness intersected, they had tied him to an altar of stone.

Arms and legs pulled apart, he was still trying to defend himself. Cold fear blurred the green of his eyes. He still had hope of escaping.

The robes of red were trying to hold you down all the way down the stone steps. Steel and iron pierced through your flesh. Black blood dripped down your head, over your legs and feet where they left bloody marks.

It didn't matter.

Why didn't it matter?

You didn't remember. Nor did you remember what name you called out at that moment. Red blood mingled with yours.

You killed and killed. And then you killed some more.

He was so close. Your immortal heart stopped in pain at the memory.

"No!", you cried. "Don't take him from me!"

Your hand was already outstretched for him. He cried, but only a boy begging for a little more time at the sight of death.

The knife cut his pale throat like a cat's teeth on a sparrow. Your screams echoed so clearly in your memory that it almost deafened you.

And you remembered the pain that exploded in your body when your outstretched hand was chopped off.

How long had it been since a mortal's weapon last had harmed you?

It must have been so long ago that you had felt invulnerable. But this moment had brought the truth back to light.

Weakly, you fell to the ground. Knees and elbows tore open on rough stone. Your own blood soaked your clothes as you climbed up to him on the altar with the last of your strength.

Blood ran from his throat like wine. He gasped for breath. Green eyes searched desperately for something to hold on to, to feel alive one last time. He found you and suddenly the fear of death was gone.

Your tears dripped down his cheeks as you bent over him.

"Don't.", you whispered as the darkness closed its fingers around your neck. "My little echo... I... will never... leave you."

There was so much fear in him. Not of death but of indefinitely loosing you.

"F-find... me...", one last request to you. "No matter... when... find... me..."

He died.

At least that's what you thought you remembered. You didn't know how many millennia had passed since that horrible night, but it was so long before you woke up that your hand had grown back.

Since then you have been trapped in this cave, in this very place that united emptiness and reality. But for you it was nothing but torture, an eternal reminder that you had refused to see the bad in immortality.

A trembling breath escaped your lips. You felt the wound from back then tear open again. Lost in thought, two fingers travelled to your wrist.

A pale scar still gleamed where the knife had severed your hand. Sometimes it felt like a fire was burning in your flesh underneath, an eternal punishment.

But what caused you much more pain was this eternal question, this endless puzzle.

What was his name?

And why did a tiny shred of memory of him fade with every passing thought?