For not having the answers, Ghost still gave a good one. Good in the sense that it deflated Aoba’s bewilderment some, offered a solid and sensible argument. A centuries-spanning golden age with no soldiers to be had…so they’d had to bring them back from the past. But without their pasts?

Aoba’s expression was tense, brows furrowed with thought. It was another good thing that Ghost didn’t go overboard in defending what was done. He explained it but withheld judgment, staying unbiased, and as such saved himself from becoming a target as Aoba himself did no such unjudgmental things.

He looked up again, across the temple to where Declan still stood with Lord Saladin. It struck him to be an even sadder thing for his friend, so brave and giving and yet so lonely. The past was out of reach. Wasn’t that hard enough? Why forbid the Guardians from learning where they’d come from? Why not give them that choice? Why not let them have their memories?

“…It’s not right,” he muttered, looking down at cracks in the stone. “People aren’t made in a void. Their pasts are what made them. Just taking that away from them…there’s no way that’s the right thing to do.”

Well you’re one to talk, aren’t you?

There was no outward cause of it for Ghost to see, but Aoba gave a jolt at that thought, eyes darting side to side as if he thought he’d heard someone call for him.

“Aoba?” came Ren’s voice at his hip.

“I—I’m fine. I think I just…hit on a sensitive topic all of a sudden,” Aoba answered, pressing a hand softly to his temple. There was no headache, no pain of any kind, but that particular bit of internal commentary had just felt…off, somehow.