of his bones are coral made

“Yeah, I like onions and mushrooms in it too. There’s already some beef in the fridge.” Akira stops for a moment, halfway through digging the requisite pot and cutting board out of the cupboard. He thinks he sees a rice cooker back there, too, but– 

“Seeds?”

Does his roommate plan to plant their dinner ingredients? Does he only need to eat once every… however long it takes to grow potatoes and carrots? (Akira has no idea, because he is a good, respectable city boy and all food comes from grocery stores to him.) Does he not know that plants take time to grow? Is time an illusion to him? 

Akira should probably ask some of these pressing questions, but he wants to see what will happen with The Seeds, and so he opts for rescuing the rice cooker from the cabinet and then turning to trail quietly after what is apparently the Ark’s newest local farmer.

Yasa pauses in his search for The Seeds and looks at his roommate blankly. “Well, yeah. There’s a greenhouse connected to the kitchen,” he answers, as if raising ingredients from the earth with your own two hands rather than simply purchasing them from a grocery store is a perfectly normal and common thing to do. It only takes, like, a single day for vegetables to grow. Oh, but that’s probably too long for a human, right? Yasa should have considered that. His harvest song isn’t that skilled, but he should still be able to cut grow time by half with it… thank goodness his lyre wasn’t confiscated along with his longbow and dagger. “I may not be able to provide the mushrooms, though… Fungus, you know…”

A bit more rummaging, and Seeds Acquired! With the little packets in hand, Yasa enters the aforementioned greenhouse and sets them down on a nearby bench before turning to survey the viable land. A little plot along the side wall would be good— dappled sunlight for the carrots and potatoes, full sunlight for the onions. There is what looks to be a tool shed, and a quick peek inside does indeed reveal a variety of garden tools. Yasa grabs what he needs and sets to work, his newest companion trailing after him all the while.

It’s all very tedious, with much digging and watering and burying and such, but Yasa is practiced and swift, and there need not be any detail added to this section. The point is, Yasa plants the seeds. And then out comes the lyre. It comes to Yasa’s attention that he left his music scrolls in the bank, and he highly doubts that his account would still be active after his… er, murder doubled as banishment from the entire realm of Erinn, but it’s not like he would have access to it in this world anyway— but what if he does? Maybe it’s worth a trip to the commerce hub, but that would take far too long for his human roommate, like, there’s no way Yasa would be back in time for dinner— and he should really get to strumming before said human’s curious stare burns holes into the back of his head.

The staircase spiraling through the building’s core is a curiosity. How far does it go? Are all the floors the same as the one Sauron occupies? Is there access to the roof, the sun visible past a thick canopy of trees? Well, there is no way to find answers except to go up. 

Floors pass by and by, each the same, until Sauron reaches the fourth floor and spies a figure standing near the stair landing. They look dazed, clouds in their hair, clouds drifting as fog in their eyes. Sauron stands silent for a moment, his own hair free of any ties and draping with the curve of the staircase and a single hand resting on the railing. He lifts it in a greeting. Best to be polite with his neighbors.

A pressing energy makes Yasa pause; a chilling anticipation that numbs the tips of his fingers and prickles the hairs of his neck that stills his stride, just on the last stair step before the landing, as if forbidden from moving forward. He is not alone.

Glittering gold on endless black, a star rising from the void, cresting over the horizon to sear Yasa with its rays. Burning in silence. Movement draws his attention— this star is waving to him, and that is what breaks Yasa from his reverie. He blinks away the impressions of light from his eyes and rearranges his kaleidoscope focus, clicking glass pieces into place around an image, a complete image, a mirror image: he raises his hand in kind. This is a greeting. The first since his awakening.

At the edge of the stairwell stands a figure, large and looming— an elf, seeming to occupy all available space in the hall. But that could simply be an illusion made possible in the low light. The stairwells aren’t nearly as well-lit as his bedroom. It’s a bit claustrophobic, honestly. Yasa feels abnormally small. Especially in the presence of this elf, whose stature blocks the stairway leading down.

Down. He can’t go down, so he must go up. That’s the way of things, isn’t it? Find an alternate route, find some avenue wherein to keep pushing forward, never to stop, never to falter, keep going until his very being is stretched so thin as to be wire-sharp and wrapped around the fingers of gods he so wishes to cinch tight enough to cut off— The hand that waved to him was missing a finger, and the claustrophobia is seeping into his skin now. He needs to see the sky.

Yasa turns. Begins the long trek upward, peripherally aware of the stranger following behind him and the quiet, rhythmic click of heeled boots on grainy wood. Floor after floor. Nameplates yet to be marked. Windows devoid. The railing is smooth and polished; Yasa fears to leave handprints. Proof of his continued existence.

It would be useless to count the stories, the steps, the seconds they have passed on their ascent. Definites do not exist in this liminal space, this in-between of here and there, carved out of time and suspended in the unknowing. As he thought, there is no end, not truly— there is only transition. The destination is but one point among many to have been and many to come— and there, his destination approaches: a door, outlined in faint red light. A simple thought appears in the fog,

We must be facing the sun.

Yasa grips the doorknob, thumb on the lock, and pushes. Sunlight floods the stairwell, burning away the lines and curves until there is nothing but red, gold, white, and Yasa himself is lost in the blur, hair and skin alight and shimmering. He raises a hand to shield his eyes, ineffective as it is, and steps out onto the roof of Lampadias. He counts the heartbeats it takes for his eyes to adjust. Five. Ten. Fifteen, and the last details come into clarity, rooftop garden dyed black with a sun that nestles against the outline of forest canopy. Perhaps it is evening. Or morning, rather. There is no way to know but to watch where the sun goes. So Yasa sits, comfortable among the foliage, waiting to witness the inevitable rise or fall, waiting to melt in the heat so that his fragments come together as one.

It helps. Just a bit. Just enough to ground him, and what irony that is to say when he is an indeterminate amount of meters in the air. Just enough to bring his focus to the immediate, the physical. Surprisingly, the stranger is still with him, sharing this space. Perhaps that helps, too.

@fathomline·—

The station is crowded today, likely due to the fact that everyone is trying to get out of the dry, stinging sandstorms of the Sea of Tranquility. The weather is as fickle as a certain goddess, Enkidu muses as they stretch their legs out slightly in front of them in their seat on the platform bench. They don’t mind it, but as ever, humans don’t tend to like sand when it’s flying into their face at great speeds.

They stand up so that someone else more in need of it can take their seat, and in doing so they nearly jostle someone else, their foot landing just shy of the instep of the stranger’s. “Ah—I’m sorry,” they say, looking up with a small, wry smile. “It’s busy here today, isn’t it?” It’s an unnecessary question, said just for commentary, when the platform is packed to this degree.

How bizarre. The weather patterns here are just as incomprehensible as the rest of this world, apparently; Yasa must admit he wasn’t expecting to wake up to a sandstorm whipping through the greenery of Mare Tranquillitatis. But it made him curious— what was the weather like in the other Seas on this day? Were they the same, or completely independent of each other? (Unbeknownst to him, this information is easily accessible on the “weather app” on his holophone. If he knew this, he would still likely opt to go check in-person, like, it gives him something to do, and it’s not particularly time wasted because he is an immortal with a poor sense of time, after all—) It was this curiosity that led him to the train station, all bundled up in his Connous wraps to protect from the sand. It was basically like trudging through Longa desert. Just with more trees.

A lot more trees.

“That’d be nice,” Akira says, flashing him a small, genuine smile as he heads to the sink to wash his hands.  “I was planning on making beef curry. Is there anything else in particular you want to eat?”

“Hi,” Akira says. He’s seen enough strange things over the last few hours that a person of indeterminate everything seems fairly normal, in that they’re at least human-shaped. Like, they’re not a bear. It’s fine. “You okay?”

He slides his shoes off near the door and pads over to where the beary normal person in question is clinging to the dishwasher. It’s nice, as far as dishwashers go; Sojiro would probably like it, even if it looked like the kind of newfangled, overpriced appliance he claimed was a waste of money.

“Were you doing dishes? I was going to make dinner, but if you’re already washing up, I can help with that first.”

Moreso than suddenly being approached and then towered over, it’s the question that catches him off-guard. He stops himself before he can ask something that would sound terribly stupid— so it’s for doing dishes?— and closes the Washing Dishes Machine now that he no longer has business with it. Since he knows what its purpose is. That’s really all he wanted from it. “No, there are no dishes to wash, but thank you for offering…”

@fathomline·

By midday, Akechi had visited most of the important parts through the three Seas. Mostly the populated parts, as he noticed there were more things to see that could not be covered in only a couple of days. It was enough exploration for now, he assumed. The birds that resided at the Mare Nectaris were awfully pleasant to chat to. With a little bit of effort, Akechi managed to find the address to a really quiet cafe in the midst of such a populated area. 

It made him nostalgic for Leblanc. Sojiro was fantastic, but maybe it was the pleasant conversation that made his coffee all the more palatable. He was reminded of that because apparently he was the only customer of this over-excitable scarlet macaw that seemed delighted to have Akechi there.

The coffee was not all that bad. Though he had to wonder how a bird could prepare it, curiously watching the owner go around their shop and talking about what a sunny day it was, not a cloud in sight. He thought it was cute (perhaps it was his weird affinity with birds that made him more at ease there), his attention only being caught elsewhere when he heard the doorbell and said door opening. What made him distracted was the appearance of the man who came by, hair blindingly white (even more so under the sun, it seems) and appearance of a person who had crossed the boundaries of their humanity a long time ago. A tiredness that only one who shared the same soul-crushing fatigue could perceive. The teenager smiled all the same, a small wave coming from gloved hand. 

“This seat is free, if you want.” He said, pointing to the empty chair to his left side.

He has watched hues of soft pink and orange shift to a deep, endless blue, watched it melt into the horizon so that sky and sea seem one and the same. Moments unmoored from the passage of time. Dawn here in Mare Nectaris has done more to calm his nerves than anything that could be offered even in the so-named Sea of Tranquility, whose lush greenery reminds him all too much of forest labyrinths and hidden ills. For the first time since coming to awareness in this world, Yasa feels… not at peace, no, but quieted. The sea air fills his lungs with one deep breath— two— and the milletian feels his heart beat slow, gentle, following the waves as they lap against the shore.

The sun is high in a cloudless sky before Yasa takes note of the tremors in his fingertips. Hunger, he supposes. It would do no good to starve— though, what if he does? Will he still resurrect afterward? The thought comes unbidden— so Yasa stands from the cushioned bench he had occupied since last night. If he retraces his steps, he will come back to the main square, where he remembers exploring in miniature on his holophone during the train ride in. The holophone wasn’t too difficult to understand, after some fiddling, and especially after realizing he can simply give it verbal commands. A simple request: directions to the nearest cafe, and the map follows his location as he walks, guiding him along the rows and rows of colourful storefronts until he stands underneath a simple wooden sign with only the outline of a steaming mug to denote its purpose.

A chime overhead. As Yasa enters the shop, glancing around, curious, his eyes come to rest on that of a stranger’s— deep red, like garnet— and the unexpected contact makes Yasa stutter in his movements and avert his gaze. At least, the (very large) bird that seemed to be manning (birding?) the counter, provided more than enough distraction, its vibrant plumage fluffed as the bird practically shudders in delight with its second guest in a single day. It asks him his order—

It... Asks him. His order.

Yasa caught his expression before it turned into a full-on gape. He has seen humans turn into animals, and animals who understood human speech yet could not speak it, seeing as they were animals who lacked human vocal chords— a human-sized animal who could not only understand human languages but speak them as any other human being was new. It had been a very, very, very long time since Yasa had encountered anything new. This world was full of unfamiliar things. Perhaps it would be refreshing, if his soul weren’t too weary to take it all in.

A voice behind him, inviting him to sit. Yasa turns his attention again to the same stranger he had locked eyes with moments before. The only other guest in the cafe. This time, he takes longer to study the other: a young human, with a charming smile and a posture that conveys the same natural grace as royalty. Somehow, there’s a sharpness to the air around them, and Yasa feels cautious. Like, why are you inviting me? and what do you want?— but there is no Pantheon here, and he need not feel suspicious of every invitation made to him. So he answers with a nod, gives the barista his order, and takes it when it’s done to the table offered.

Measuring cups of every imaginable size. Shove, and the cabinet drawer stops itself partway to close with the softest click. It’s rather interesting. Yasa opens a second cabinet to test if that one’s drawer is the same.

Ladles, spatulas, whatever those utensils meant for scooping noodles are called. Shove. Soft close. Interesting.

The kitchen is remarkably well-stocked, as least with all the dishware and utensils one could possibly need. He has to admit, it took him a bit of exploring to realize this space even was a kitchen, his only visible clue being the pots and pans hung from ceiling racks, same as any other— but the stove is far more advanced than anything he had ever seen. And the icebox is massive. Both were of sleek, smooth metal, as were the myriad of other… appliances, whose exact applications Yasa could not determine with a cursory glance.

And he is nothing if not an explorer, so the next logical step for him would be to take a closer look.

He had just crouched down and opened the dishwasher— not that he knew that is what it is called; he sees a deep container with metal racks and some sort of spinning fan, and of course that does nothing to tell him what the purpose of this device is for— when he hears the faint woosh of air displaced by a well-set door opening. The sudden awareness that he is no longer alone causes him to flinch, his head hitting the top of the as-of-yet unknown appliance. He ducks back out to acknowledge the newcomer, too aware of the embarrassment that must be plastered on his face.

A young-looking human with inkwash hair that falls over his eyes in curls messy enough to rival Yasa’s own. He regards the sharp academy suit (and how old are humans when they attend school? Their teens? He knows it’s somewhere in the early double digits…) before he stands, fingers locked on the appliance door as if holding a shield. There is not much else to say other than,

The sun. The red sun. His eyes are fixed on the sun and the goddess’s voice is merely an incoherent buzz against the unforgiving beauty of the sun which glints against the flat of her blade and that is the only warning before it pierces his chest. Liquid metal rushes up his esophagus like grasping vines, angry and hot. He tastes iron on his tongue and knows it as holiness. Starlight sings in choir— off-key, too sharp— as his soul is pulled outward, outward, outward into kaleidoscope shapes, sharp and jagged and reflecting this god-forsaken universe a million times over in bloodstained miniature. He spills and spills and feels nothing but emptiness gnawing at the last pieces of his mind—

Yasa opens his eyes. Blinks once. Twice. Rubs the ache out.

It’s not healthy to keep the moment of his death replaying on loop, he knows, but there is not much else he feels wont to do. He was not expecting to open his eyes. He was not expecting to have eyes to open, for that matter. He was not expecting—

Well. Perhaps there is no end after all. Perhaps there is only a new world to arise in, after the previous one is destroyed. Perhaps it shouldn't be surprising.

It is disappointing, however.