They Who Remember The Dead were acting as always. Teaching each other, those retired from previous roles. Warriors who did not want to continue. Scouts who've suffered but don't want to forget. And theorizing. Creating futures from the past. An action forbidden, too much, and She Who Decides What Is Forgotten would be given authority over them. But with no authority left, a historian could still theorize.

And that is what they were, or at least, that's what I see them as. HIstorians, and those who choose to suffer still. For reason of their own fault, and for some their own superiority. It seems they did not have the authority to really help. But they could act, they could send thoughts to others. And those who trusted them with the memories of their dead trusted them enough to act on their sending. A sort of personal debt that our kind aren't used to dealing with.

She Who Flies separated from me to make sure they all got food, they would gather and try to help. As they remembered dead from a similar event. But as the only listeners, their influence was minimized. I think the fear of them comes from a fear of memory. But I don't know the history so I find one I can communicate clearly with.

Still, they are not one thing. They are many, and their communications aren't very understandable to me. At least not until I met He Who Remembers The Enemy. He understood my thoughts better than others. And we had a shared language. The thoughts and marks left upon me by the enemy. Thought the enemy are like us as well. And it is only their past that makes them different.

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Exactly, and we are not as we were, and we are not as we could be. And if we were like the enemy then we would be our own enemy. Though some are like the enemy within our hive. I am one of those, at least according to him. And if they still held authority, I would be replaced.

But some enemies were allies once as well, another had butted into our conversation and some enemies are no longer so.

And another came in, we are the enemy, some of us are as one kind, of one hive, but only some. Those not of our kind are among us. And they have lost their place.

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Ur-Im was in a center of a gathering. And while she had traded thoughts with most of them, they were not as deep as Ur-Im seemed to be getting himself into.

She who flies watched them gather, then reached to as many of them as possible, invoking memories of starvation-death. A wave of stillness followed them, and before responses could echo across the chain, she sent thoughts. Of an endless war. Of a false war. And of the end of it.

They had a solution already. Put all to sleep, and hope nothing kills us before we wake.

It was not the solution she was looking for. But communicating with such a multitude took a lot out of her. She requested more solutions and shared with them more details. And when Ur-Im extracted himself from their gathering, she handed them a shard to record solutions to their trouble, and before they could ask how best to inscribe she left.

Being there would exhaust her. And she does not like the memories they share.