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the ghost of you // reilo + jarlo

John is a phantom that exists between dream and memory, both a faceless shadow that lingers in the back of his mind and a vivid apparition that drapes itself on his shoulder, whispering words he can’t quite understand. Arlo tries to remember him. Tries to remember the shape of his face, the colour of his eyes, the sound of his voice that lulls like a distant melody drowned in the crashing of waves by the seaside.

It’s a fruitless endeavor, trying to remember a relic of his past. Gods don’t dwell in bygone eras, in past entanglements, in foolish, mortal sentiments of grief and mourning. You cannot dwell nor mourn the things—the people—you can no longer remember.

What he does remember is this:

Arlo surrenders his humanity with a shudder. Kneeling at the feet of his god, bathed in the sunbeams illuminating the cathedral hall in gold, he accepts the circlet weaved from nebulae and stardust. He purses his lips, the crown weighing heavy on his head despite how weightless it appears to be. A shiver races down his spine as the god anoints him in ichor and oil, the liquids cold against his warm skin. He hears him murmur words in a language he once had no understanding of, and when the last syllable leaves his lips, a jolt of power spreads through him. It sinks deep in his bones, crawls in every vein criss-crossing beneath his skin and Arlo couldn’t help but tremble at how raw he felt as it sears itself in his very soul, giving him the power ordinary people could only dream of.

But Arlo is far from ordinary.

“You will succeed me,” His father—his god—says. His tone leaves no room for arguments, not that Arlo will ever rebuke his whims. The life he will live has already been decided long before he was even born; before he could understand the weight placed on his shoulders.

“Of course, father,” He says, of course. No one can run from their fate; not mortals, not gods, and certainly not those who stand in between.

The moment he had surrendered his humanity: the memories, the people, the places fade into obscurity, any attachments to the material world wanes piece by piece, subtly, until there is nothing left to notice at all. John must have meant something to him in the past, before the anointment, before his rise to godhood, before he had savoured the taste of ambrosia on his lips. Now, John is nothing but a name that hangs on the tip of his tongue, that lingers in the hidden crevasses of his memory. The ghost that will never see the light of day. He has no face, no identity, and yet there is an ache that ebbs at Arlo’s chest whenever the name surfaces in his mind.

A sigh escapes his lips as he tries not to dwell on it any longer than he should, he is a god after all, and they can only move forward regardless of the circumstance. So Arlo moves, he moves through the thicket, through the underbrush, through time and in-between one era to another. He fights in battles, rises to power, starts and crushes rebellions—it's a path wrought with death and bloodshed, but having lived an eternity has long desensitized him to the cruelty of it all.

But then he meets Rei.

He meets him at the cliff's edge with flowers in his hair and the warmth of the sunset sitting just right on the plains of his face that for a moment, Arlo can see a striking resemblance. Pine green hair fades to black, and the irises of his eyes suddenly glow molten gold—a shiver runs down his spine when he sees it, the face of the faceless ghost haunting his memories.

"John," Arlo whispers breathlessly.

"Pardon?" The mirage fades as Rei's voice startles him back to the present. Arlo takes a deep breath, composing himself in front of this familiar-but-not-quite stranger.

"I'm sorry, I mistook you for someone else," He answers, slipping on the practised mask of indifference and apathy. The man chuckles, a smile curling on his lips as he fully turns to look at him. Rei is breathtakingly beautiful in the way the sunbeams highlight the sharp angles of his face and illuminate the lustrous sheen of his green hair. Standing there, the sun in ascent behind him and the gentle breeze billowing his cloak in the air, he reminds Arlo of a king riding into the break of dawn, victory and glory painted into the seams of his armour. Arlo couldn't help but stare.