I stand at the back of the gathering because I don't belong at the front of human grief. The Hall of Heroes has seen many memorials. Fighters who fell in wars, warriors who died protecting others, champions who sacrificed themselves for causes greater than personal glory. But this feels different. Heavier. Like the weight of what was lost transcends normal mourning and becomes something closer to cosmic injustice.
Two statues stand where bodies would normally be placed. Because there are no bodies. Just memory, sacrifice, and holes left in the world where two people used to exist.
Maeve's statue captures her mid-gesture. Hands moving through temporal manipulation, expression peaceful despite knowing what the technique would cost. They carved her young, the way she looked before aging herself through desperate battle, because that's how her friends want to remember her. Not the grey-haired woman who spent her life in minutes, but the girl who chose to spend it anyway.
The inscription reads: "She gave us memories of what could have been, and gave her life so we could fight for what still can be."
Johann's statue stands beside hers. Starlight carved into marble through techniques I don't fully understand, creating impression of light emanating from stone. They captured him smiling. Not the hollow expression he wore while Vazroth controlled him, but the genuine warmth his friends remembered from before possession, before sacrifice, before he chose dawn over darkness.
The inscription reads: "He became light so others could find their way forward."
The five survivors stand at the front. Alexander, Astra, Ivy, Lisa, Noel. Each carrying injuries that go deeper than flesh. Each wearing grief like second skin.
Alexander's Ragnarök is dormant now, but I can see traces of fire and ice still flickering at his edges. Like his power can't quite accept that the friend he promised to save is gone. That standing up against impossible odds, that refusing to abandon Johann, that declaring faith in someone trapped - none of it was enough.
Astra's eyes are normal again. No pure white light. No cosmic fire burning where pupils should be. Just brown eyes, red from crying, staring at statue of boy who loved her across multiple timelines and chose ending that ensured she'd survive.
Ivy's poison is contained, but her hands still shake. Lisa's connection to nature feels muted, like the plants are grieving too. Noel's barriers are down, leaving him vulnerable in ways he hasn't been since learning to protect himself.
They look broken. Not in body - those wounds are healing. But in the fundamental understanding of what their power costs, what being strong enough to save people actually means when saving isn't possible.
I hate it. Hate watching them learn lesson that every god knows: that power and pain are inseparable, that strength comes with price that compounds, that being capable of changing the world means being capable of failing to change it in ways that haunt you forever.
The ceremony is simple. Words spoken about sacrifice and courage and the tragedy of potential cut short. Flowers placed at the base of both statues - stargazer lilies for Maeve, white roses for Johann. Each survivor saying goodbye in their own way, in words that hurt to hear because they're so inadequate for what's been lost.
When it's finished, when the others have left to process grief in private ways, I remain. Just me and two statues in hall that's seen too many statues, honoring too many people who died being extraordinary. And I think about what I am. What I was created to be. What I've spent existence doing. I watched. I witnessed. I hated every moment of it. Now I stand here, looking at statues of two people who should be alive. And I wonder, not for the first time, whether power is worth what it costs.
These kids had power. Real power. Abilities that let them fight ancient evil, that let them breakthrough limitations, that let them become strong enough to wound something that had survived centuries.
And it cost them everything. Cost Maeve her life. Cost Johann his freedom then his existence. Cost the survivors their friend, their innocence, their understanding that being strong enough means being able to protect what matters.
Power didn't save them. Power created the problem. Vazroth existed because he had power and wanted more. Johann was targeted because his power made him valuable. Maeve died because her power let her sacrifice herself. The survivors are traumatized because their power wasn't quite enough to change the outcome.
With great power comes great pain. Not just risk of pain. Not possibility. Certainty. Absolute guarantee that being capable of extraordinary things means experiencing extraordinary suffering when capability isn't sufficient.
I've watched it happen across centuries. Watched warriors grow strong enough to protect kingdoms, then watch those kingdoms fall anyway. Watched healers powerful enough to cure diseases, then watch them fail to cure the people they loved most. Watched heroes capable of impossible feats, then watch them choose death because living with their failures hurt more than dying with their principles.
Power creates context for pain that powerless people never experience. Because when you're weak, failure is expected. Inevitable. Just the nature of being small in large world.
But when you're strong, failure becomes choice. Becomes not trying hard enough. Becomes being inadequate despite capability. Becomes proving that power isn't enough, was never enough, will never be enough to prevent every tragedy or save every person or fix every problem. And that hurts in ways weakness never could.
I wish souls never had this power. Wish I could unmake abilities, strip techniques, return reality to baseline where the strongest person is just whoever trains hardest, and training only makes you marginally better at hitting things.
Would that prevent tragedies? No. People would still die. Still suffer. Still experience loss and grief and pain. But maybe they wouldn't carry the additional weight of thinking they could have prevented it. Wouldn't torture themselves with the understanding that if they'd been slightly stronger, slightly faster, slightly more precise, the outcome would have been different.
Maybe powerlessness would be kindness.
But I can't unmake what exists. Can't strip abilities that have manifested. Can't return souls to baseline once they've transcended it. Can only watch as power creates problems power can't solve, as strength enables tragedies strength can't prevent, as capability becomes curse wearing gift's disguise.
The statues stand silent. Maeve mid-gesture. Johann emanating light. Both frozen in moments of choice that defined them more than any ability ever could.
Because that's the real tragedy. Not that they had power. That they had choice. That they could have run, could have hidden, could have chosen survival over sacrifice.
But they didn't. Because power gave them options, and they chose the ones that cost everything, and that choice is what made them heroes worth commemorating in hall that's seen too many heroes.
I hate it. Hate that power creates context for pain. Hate that two statues stand where two people should be living. And I stand in Hall of Heroes, surrounded by statues of people who paid the price for being powerful, and I wish with everything I am that souls never had this power.
That strength wasn't burden. That capability wasn't curse. That being extraordinary didn't cost everything. But wishes don't change reality. Power exists. Pain follows. And all I can do is witness, and hate every moment of being a divine being who watches tragedy while doing nothing to prevent it.
The statues stand. The hall is silent. And somewhere outside, the survivors are learning to carry weight that power created and couldn't lift. I wish them strength. Not the kind that comes from abilities or techniques or breakthrough beyond limitation.
The kind that comes from choosing to continue despite knowing what continuation costs. From living when living hurts. From carrying grief while refusing to let it crush them completely. The kind of strength that makes statues unnecessary because the people being honored are still here, still fighting, still choosing dawn over darkness even when dawn is impossibly far away.
That's the only strength that matters. The only power worth having. The only force that might, eventually, be enough. Everything else is just tragedy waiting to happen.