If he argued for his own madness, would that be rude? Was it rude to tell someone else they probably weren't real, even if you began to think they were? He had a vague notion it was, and kept his mouth shut. There was no point in wallowing in his own pit of misery and dragging her down, too. It was not out of duty she walked with him (or was it? did specters need protectors from Kri's wrath?), but rather it felt as if it was out of kindness, and then there was no point in wearing her thin with his doubts and self-damning words. It was, if he stopped to think about it, rather pitiful. But it was something, and as long as whatever pitiful existence he had was better than oblivion he would stay alive. And if he stayed alive, he would, perhaps, one day make it home.

It was too distant a goal, too distant a dream, and he didn't know how much longer he could hold on.

"You did," he countered with another shadow of a smile, a trace of his former — true? — self. She did not see his trees, but he could not unsee them, nor the ocean lapping at the sand just a few feet away. Though in his memory he knew this to be barren desert, no trees at all for her to pass through. He even glanced behind him himself, at the thick darkness of the empty forest and the shadow of Dragon's Blood, but the hazy movement of her wing unfurling brought his attention back. It was as if she was going to poke him teasingly for making her walk through a tree, a gesture between friends and not icy acquaintances, and for a short moment he braced for it, expecting it to tickle.. but instead it felt gross and odd how she slid through his body, and with a shudder he sidestepped. Some part of him wanted to apologize for not being corporeal, but it was hardly his fault, and as he hesitated the moment slipped past.

And slowly they were both convinced that they were mad. At least, that was how it felt to him — he was mad for seeing her, and she was mad for believing him about the forest and ocean. They were not lies to him, at least he thought not; if he stepped into the ocean, would he drown? Or would only his mind believe it drowned, to wake up somewhere else, or cling so fiercely to that belief that he would not let the light in again?

Was dying so bad?

Yes.
Alright, Irma. Dying was bad.

"It certainly wasn't what I had expected," he told her dryly, something vaguely amused in his voice again, echoing through the ages. If he saw it as weakness to act himself around the alternate idiots, was it weakness to act himself against someone who might be real, or might be a thing conjured by his mind? It wouldn't surprise him if he was just getting deranged, but it was too painful to try and detach himself from her. The slim chance that she was truly real.. to be able to be himself without worry, without tarnishing the memories of those he met again... To be so close, yet so far, felt like being torn asunder.

The Gods? He glanced up at the sky and the fiery, hot sun, remembering a forest on fire and a dragon's head flinging Hellena into a tree. He remembered vicious anger, drought, the flicker of flame in his flesh. He remembered Aylin's voice, speaking of the Moon, and a murder of ravens rising to the night skies. For a moment King Mauja frowned, flicking his tail, wondering if they were out there at all — if they still existed. Would they not have noticed if he had gone amiss? Not for his presence, as he was, after all, nothing but a mortal, but surely being spiraled off in time would create some ripple? Something they would notice?

All the times he had cried for the Moon, and she had not answered.

"Maybe," he said, hesitantly, after a moment, unaware that it was the work of a God he was there at all. "I.. I would be grateful if you did." And even if they had no answer, it still would show, that she cared. While he felt thankful now, he was quite sure that terror and shame, guilt, roiled beneath.