third eye

So, this is what it feels like. Earth, that great bluish globe, smeared with blotches of green and tufts of white, floating among stars and celestials in space’s speckled distance. A millennia ago, Magnus knew it well: the seeping chill of Kova’s decrepit plains, the imposing leer of its craggy peaks. It was an unwelcoming nation then, its people embittered and rebellious, but it seethes with desolation now. It is barren, grieving, a starving country starved of warmth. Emptied of hope and happiness, abandoned by light.

A sudden gust of wind howls its shrieking melody through the wide expanse of dead grass before him; a shiver jolts down his spine at the sound. This is no place for a god. Nothing holy can live here, nothing good. The atmosphere itself leeches: its ancient claws, dull from centuries of disuse, sink deep into him as the frozen earth crunches beneath his feet. It siphons from him, the gnawing hunger of a thousand years lapping desperately at the ichor flowing through his veins. Though part of him feels compelled to sate it, he knows one angel’s sacrifice cannot absolve the land of another’s ruin. He cannot fix this wasteland; he can only save it.

Jove and Persia cannot do either. Their presence, though divine, lays unknowable waste to the Earth. Cities, once great, turn to dust. Kovan children scream for mercy. Blood never ceases to flow. He has witnessed these horrors countless times: their devastation is Magnus’ past, present, and future. He knows they are not righteous warriors, but reapers daring to masquerade as such, bound by oath and honor to a queen ravaged by suffering, the likes of which they will never know.

He remembers vividly the wild look in Nehelenia’s eye as he pressed a sword to her throat in a bid for peace. It was so many centuries ago, and yet, he remembers with absolute clarity seeing her, finally, for what she was and is and will forever be: not a queen, but a mother, hurting and howling, inflicting upon the world no more evil than it had inflicted upon her. He remembers that look, and as he stands here, the wide berth of a forgotten battlefield between himself and Jove, he can imagine it in his eye, too.

AH, HERE THEY ARE at last. The teller of truths and the executioner of wills. The keeper of the gates and the destroyer of worlds. They may be angels of the same galaxy, but it seems like an infinite universe stretches out between them. They are not destined to stand side by side, and even now, as she walks to stand next to him that their shoulders almost brush, the divide is still palpable. There is an unseen chasm opening up to keep them apart. Still; it grows and it grows.

He has taken the freedom he has for granted, Naiya thinks, and yet — does she not have the choice to do so if she wishes? She tells herself it is because her duties precede all, because Selene would never let her, but even if she was presented with the choice, would she have chosen? Maybe she and Magnus are not that different after all. And yet — she cannot swallow the bitter taste still.

She keeps a small distance from him, perhaps unnoticeable to the passing eye but clear as day to the both of them; regards him with the same indecision he holds in his tone. She made her first move, and he has responded, but now Naiya is unsure of what it is she wants from Magnus. She lets a small sigh escape her parted lips, lets him have a little more than the formidable Jovian she so often is.

But she takes it away as soon as she gives it to him. Her face smooths over again, as if this conversation holds little meaning to her. “Thank you,” she offers. His politeness in return for hers. Then, a sharp smile stretches across her lips. Not meant for him, but perhaps meant for him to see anyway. “The festivities can wait for an angel, no? I will join them, when I wish so. — And you? Will you spend the night in solitude?” Again?

Whether it is a barb, or a voice of concern, she leaves that up to him to decide.

Something sharp crackles in the space between them, filling the inches and eternities with the unmistakable scent of burning. Fractals of scar tissue form delicate webs across Magnus’ seared heart. Ugly reminders of loss. Dull remnants of grief. Naiya’s presence—formidable and awe-inspiring to some, an uncomfortable ache to others—pulls them open once more and bleeds him dry. His sadness is cosmic, spilling out of him in undiluted waves. In the safe void of outer space, it ebbs and flows, but at her side, the floodgates burst. He feels. He feels.

And yet, somehow, he remains the collected image of aloof indifference, even as his vision swims with the memory of Levi’s ruined neck. 

(Once, Magnus dreamt of leaving bruises of his own there, blossoms of aubergine and crimson smeared across the pristine hollows of a divine throat. His tongue, his teeth. His sighs, trembling against a broad expanse of beautiful, blemished skin. Instead, Naiya’s hands. Instead, the black mar of her betrayal. Instead, the guttural, gurgling sound of Levi’s death rattle, swallowed up in her electric grasp.)

His expression is unreadable as he stares at her, drinking in her angles and curves. She is almost unrecognizable, and the gulf between them, already impossibly vast, seems to widen with each second that ticks by, whatever bond they once had in a perpetual state of decay. Though she allows her guard to falter momentarily, permits a sigh to escape her weary lungs, Magnus cannot find satisfaction in the sight. It rouses nothing in him. Still, something makes his mouth twitch in intrigue.

Lan was never accustomed to familial warmth or even the sheer concept of it. Though, perhaps he had a closer look on the definition ever since had started his private rendez-vous. With Magnus, there was an unspoken mutuality that one could say they shared. Public acknowledgement wasn’t necessary for the silent Angels. All it took was a brief nod and a glance and more than enough was said between each subtle gesture. 

 Lan observed him again, the reticence of his exterior perhaps stirring something deeper from within. It was a reflection that Lan knew well, sentiments unspoken that made him ponder of his own choices. He took looked back at the centuries gone past. A time that never touched holy things like them. 

“There’s more than just change,” Lan murmured. The Mercurian stood next to him. Perhaps it was uncharacteristic - almost unfathomable and entirely absurd to make sense of what happened next. But nevertheless, the siren speaker learned that he too was capable of sharing even the most small lights of flickering comfort. His arm rests on the other’s shoulder as he points outward from the moon, index finger directed at the Earth. “imagine it, the devastation of the tides, the rise and fall of the ground.” his own voice hollows out again. In his head he could already see the chaos, the smell of burning - the shadows of death. How hopelessly terrible, misery thriving in it’s anguish - a pain that would devour all. 

“And there’s only nine of us to piece it together. As if we were made to be the pins that kept the breaking seams in place.” He removes his arm now, eyes gazing into Magnus. 

“What would you do to save it?” 

Devastation. Lan says the word so effortlessly, but it slices into Magnus like a knife between ribs. He bleeds sadness as visions of ruin swirl behind his eyes. Undeserving cities reduced to rubble. Blood streaming through the shallows of cobblestones. Kovan babies’ shrieks as soldiers tear them from their mothers’ desperate arms. Decay, its unmistakable stench flooded through every corner of Nehelenia’s impenetrable fortress of bone. One neck blackened, a second severed, and a third crushed. Breath stolen. Life snuffed out. Devastation of the highest degree.

He knows, as his gaze bores into the distant Earth, that these visions are not of the danger to come. He knows they are not visions at all, but memories, painful echoes of their galaxy’s bleakest hour. That those horrors are on the horizon once more is almost too much for Magnus’ tender heart to bear; the weight of Lan’s hand resting delicately on his shoulder is of minimal comfort.

“What I must,” is his solemn reply. Minutes have passed, or perhaps only seconds. He can’t be certain, not with this distracting anguish festering inside of him. Not with Earth, in its striking cerulean beauty, within such close proximity. So many centuries of nothing have elapsed since he last stood there, fooling himself into the belief that his advisement was righteous. Masquerading. Concealing the truth from himself and the mortals alike: that he is a harbinger of the very devastation Lan speaks of now.

CERTAINLY BY NOW a multitude of celestials from Selene’s court would have descended to Earth to attend the ball, but the day is still young, and Naiya cannot help but enjoy the solitude of the deserted Lunar Court. After all, it is not often that the court is ever this quiet, and this, perhaps, is the closest thing she would have to a break from her court duties and all the other angels, albeit how short the period of time is. 

Now Naiya wanders. Just as rare as the court is desolate, it also isn’t often that she traverses aimlessly, much preferring the sanctuary of her quarters when she isn’t attending to her duties. But today — maybe one could call it a hunch, or maybe an impulse, but regardless, — here she walks.

And she walks right into the one angel that she particularly does not wish to see.

“Magnus.” His name escapes her lips as she stands a distance away from him, just close enough for him to hear her call. I thought I was alone. She could’ve pretended that she hasn’t seen or heard him, she could’ve just walked away. But perhaps, despite the bitterness she can’t keep away at the sight of Magnus, curiosity festers too inside of her. Her arms are clasped behind her back, her shoulders straightened. She stays in this posture, waiting for him to turn. “I’m afraid no, you aren’t alone.” Not yet. Not until Naiya wishes to walk away. Still, she says, “But if you wish it, I’ll take my leave.”

She says it like a challenge, like she dares him to turn around and face her.

Delicate fingers curl into a fist atop the windowsill, knuckles nearly as tense as the unease coiled tight inside of him. Naiya, it sighs, exhaustion creeping in, too. Of course. A sort of bitterness swirls helplessly in the syllables of her name; her presence sours him. He broke the world, and for that, he is immeasurably sorry. But Naiya? Naiya broke their universe. She crushed their family between her electric palms, splintered it in two, and although his grief for the immense atrocity that he has committed will forever take precedent, there is a part of him that still simmers with grief for Levi, too, centuries later.

He cannot forgive himself for what he has done, and he cannot forgive her, either. Not yet. And so his back remains turned, the wide expanse of his shoulders a quiet act of defiance. He can hear the challenge in her voice, knows that to face her would bestow upon her a victory that she has not earned.

The calmness of his demeanor was expected, the same familiar tendencies of his soft spoken nature unveiled like clockwork ticking patiently. Lan remains remote, knowing the boundaries that they both have always maintained. And yet it was those very lines that resulted in the camaraderie. Was it too much to call such a relationship? Well, it wasn’t like Lan knew much better of what to call their ties. 

He thinks again, wondering if it were too callous to have requested for a clearer vision. There were thousands of possibilities weren’t there? But perhaps this was one of the fixed devices in life that would be inevitable. Perhaps it had been too bold to have requested for answers - knowing that the talent he had been given was more than anything he could recklessly enjoy. And for that, Lan composes himself again, restraining the what ifs that whisper in his ear. 

Lan nods, acknowledging what information Magnus could provide. “So it continues, this darkness that we’ve known. But only, it’ll trickle into the rest of this world,” he murmured. There was no relief in confirming the expectant but nor was the weight of the burdens any heavier. It was as it should’ve always been. 

“I found text, fragments of the warnings. It’ll bring great change for the best and the worst of us all.” He remarked quietly, a sigh escaping his lips. So many things were destined to occur, disasters and celebrations alike perhaps. But he wouldn’t even be able to lift one finger upon it to re-arrange it all. 

The tension in his belly gradually uncoils, a viper loosening its death grip on him. Lan is the same color, a different shade, but he must remember that he is, too. They are made of the same stardust, supernovas stitched together in the shape of man, and to lose sight of that is immeasurably foolish. To pretend they are anything but identical in nature is, too. He cannot, in good conscience, keep Lan at arm’s length like he does Cedric or Ilo, blinding in their rage and radiance.

And yet he does. He subjects him to this reticence, even as his unease wanes, because somewhere in all his centuries of solitude, he forgot how to be warm.

“Great change, indeed,” Magnus says, head dipping forward in solemn agreement. His gaze fixates on nothing, dark eyes distant and glassy, composure impeccable. “It is not wholly inevitable, though. We—nine of us, among the stars—must seek the edge of light. Then, hope can return. But—” His words are an echo of the prophecy, a fragment of the future that Lan must already know. His archive is a vast treasure trove, this vision only its latest addition. He does not need Magnus to recite it. 

Loneliness - the essence of solidarity shared between the forsaken, a quiet stillness that rarely revealed it’s tormented face. A ghost weight chained gods like Lan, like Magnus at the ankles, invisible but never gone. Lan never forgot the mutual agreements, the nods - a figure who would suffice as the definition of a ‘friend’, a proper one with a history that spanned far into the galaxies. Their pasts were colored in the same isolation. 

But where Lan had found a taste of freedom, perhaps Magnus had been left behind. the Mercury Angel would never speak of his new found discoveries. The experiences in itself were too taboo for the tongue. But he would always respect the other, supply his company so that the solitude of one’s abandoned existence would be forgotten even for awhile. The gift that Magnus shared was one that Lan trusted - a curse perhaps just like his. How terrifying the future and knowledge could be, causing waves of chaos far greater than any sort of bloodshed. And perhaps it was their purposes to act as vessels for the greater good that made each and every choice more consequential than the last. But even these things grew wearisome. How much longer must they guard the gates of humanity? 

“You were. But up until the last minute, I decided otherwise,” Lan murmured, voice matching the stillness of the others. But unlike his usual interaction with the other Celestials, there was a softness at the edge of his syllables. “What have you made out of the … future?” The last word tentatively forced from his lips. Lan wanted to understand. And he was willing to shoulder the responsibilities, as he always did. 

Despite the exhaustion, the repetitive cycling - Lan carried on. 

Seconds tick by before he turns to face Lan, but in them is an eternity of hesitance. Forced into a space far too small to hold it. Smothered, like he is. Forever is claustrophobic, as is his reluctance to engage with the assembly of celestials that call Selene’s bedrock home, but he is learning. Adapting. Growing more accustomed to this way of life with each passing night, though remnants of his apprehension still remain. Lan is different, but only slightly so: the same color as the rest, but not quite the same shade. His presence still, to some degree, instills Magnus with a sense of unease.

Distantly, he wonders if that feeling is, instead, a consequence of the dilemma they are in. Of the disaster they are fated for. He suspects that his resistance to his siblings is misplaced entirely, but he is not yet comfortable thawing himself for their sake, and so he and Lan stand at opposite precipices of an icy canyon, kept separate by the stiffness in his voice and limbs. Magnus is quiet, polite. Soft-spoken and brooding, his gaze smolders with some unknowable angst; it flares when Lan questions him about the future, as if he is anything more than its mouthpiece.

He wishes that he could tell him the truth: that he knows little more than the rest of them. That he spends his hours waiting, praying to nothing, for another vision, this time disclosing an ancient secret that would save the empire.

Something stale and heartrending hangs heavy in the atmosphere; it is a sharp scent, one that is at once unfamiliar and unmistakable. It buries itself in Magnus’ throat, makes a home there, flanked by a confession that he will never give and an apology that will never matter. He will carry it until their universe collapses, flinging his home and hers into the most distant of galaxies, just meaningless bits of bloodied shrapnel, wretched fragments undeserving of forgiveness. He will carry it until they are swallowed by the gaping maws of ancient black holes, their hunger even more consuming and primordial than Cosmos herself. He will carry it after then, too. He will never put it down. He will never be able to so long as a single shard of his being exists somewhere among the stars. He will never have the privilege.

Even so, he knows that he must press forward, through the gore blanketed upon the Bone Fortress’ throne room like snow: brittle bones crunching underfoot, dried rivulets of blood and ribbons of decaying flesh, grotesque accoutrements for a grotesque queen. The scene before him is enough to bring any man to his knees, heaving his innards onto the tile, but Magnus continues on because he must, even as his gut twists in helpless disgust. This is a mess of his own creation, moreso than it is Jove’s or Persia’s or even Nehelenia’s. It may have been them to deal the killing blows to this infantry, to slice them open and tear them apart, but it was he who took Kova’s revolution and turned it into a slaughter. It was he who trespassed a family and broke the world.