For a figment of her imagination here to plague her, this one wasn't doing particularly well at convincing her to let go. She struggled to focus on him, trying to keep the advancing miasma of her pain at bay and wondered. Her fingers explored his face again, tracing over lips and cheek, staring into his eyes. His features weren't what she remembered, this specter was not the Daimon she'd known, the memory she would have expected to haunt her. If he wasn't a ghost then, that meant that somehow that he was real.
"Daimon," she repeated his name, not a question, surprise overruling despair. Wanda's thoughts had more clarity now, this anomaly was a distraction to her misery. The things he was saying made her feel more than anguish, breaking through her resignation. Death wasn't supposed to go this way, she was sure. At least, not the death her demon had promised her with cackling inevitability. The demon's threats, his intentions, not her own. Wanda didn't want this.With an arm hooked around Daimon's shoulder, she raised herself up to look around, watching as the edges of the decaying chapel wavered and blurred.
Of course she knew this place, but they couldn't actually be here, it was gone, with the Earth. Wherever here was, it wasn't real, it couldn't exist. The thought had power, it made a crack form, webbing over the walls and the ceiling, and then the stone began to crumble. Fascinated, she clung to Daimon and watched the building collapse around them, but no tumbling stone touched them and when it was finished all the debris was simply gone. They were huddled on overgrown discolored grass under a starless sky. The horizon met the shadows of hulking buildings, murky treetops, and obscured sea. Wanda knew now where they were, now; it was a tenebrous world of her own creation and with that realization, its boundaries foggy and dreamlike where her own consciousness wasn't filling in the details. Wanda hated this place, but it was her place, it was in her head, she'd made it and something had trapped her in it. That made her feel angry. Something pulsed in her, her piece of soul finding power without the demon and her own terror to oppress it.
"This isn't the end," she murmured, echoing what he'd said to her and finding that she did believe it. In spite of everything, Daimon's caustic faith was hard to reject. He was here, and she was dying, but she wasn't dead yet. There was still hope. "Tell me how to get it out."