#irontomb

Laughing alongside your audience and moving forward had been easy as well, from practice or from the morale boost from the pixelated knight on your screen, you're not quite sure of.

But as you progressed further into the game, you began noticing that the messages coming from the knight at the end of each round were not repetitive at all — something which should be for a program crafted by code.

“That was a frisky leap, Partner! Glad we made it.”

“You're getting better at this! Did you see that? Even the Shadowed Swordmaster was baffled back there!”

“The foe will adapt according to the march of time, but with you here… I think I can continue facing them no matter what.”

And with each response seemingly appearing more and more personalized than the last, it'd become apparent to the stream that you were hooked on this game for this unexpected ‘feature’ alone.

There was something else as well, this game seemed to be never ending. At one point, when you'd finally come back to the world from your daze, you'd decided to search around the internet for the exact number of levels this game had, only to return gloriously empty-handed.

It'd ruffled you a little back then. Either the Golden Scapegoat was very well hidden or you'd somehow managed to get to it as it was fresh out of the developer's den. And the fact that you couldn't tell which of the options was correct should've unnerved you more, should've made you investigate further.

But instead, you bid farewell to your chat and closed the game for the day. Not exactly promising to return and finish what you began, but definitely tired enough to not think about its elusive nature for the rest of night.

A few days passed in dilly-dally, where you entertained the notion of playing the Golden Scapegoat again, but ended up doing something completely different (namely increasing affection in your otome games guiltily).

By the sixth day, your stream was already tiptoeing thirty-three million views, making it your most viewed one yet.

You’d gotten notified of the milestone during breakfast by one of the members of your team, laptop opened to browse through emails. Though, you couldn't quite relish in the achievement, attention stolen by one particular line of the fan E-mail that you’d opened.

I can't find The Golden Scapegoat anywhere on the internet.

You were half tempted to avoid it, but the lingering memory of how you hadn't found anything notable when you searched about its details during the stream either, nagged at you.

A second look was initiated. You sat, a weird feeling settling in your stomach, as the website you’d downloaded the game from showed nothing — while the icon of The Golden Scapegoat mocked you from your homepage nevertheless.

And that wasn't the only weird thing that’d happened that day. The set of clothing you’d ordered came in the wrong sizes and your delivery of energy drinks was also late.

Now, you could pitch complaints against everything, if your crippling social anxiety wasn't waving excitedly around the corner, that is.

So, tossing the shirt a few sizes too big over your shoulders, you attempted to contact one of your friends instead — if nothing else, to have them fetch some nourishment for you.

Only to be stopped dead in your tracks by the violent glitch your phone flashed, before going black.

You're not given the time to react though, as the lights of your room flicker next, your PC reboots, and you squint as its sudden brightness.

You blink multiple times to adjust, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose, from the blackened screen in front of you, a text in bold red reads—

Play the Golden Scapegoat.

Your mind buffers for a few seconds.

Okay, that's certainly not normal. You wait two more seconds to see if the screen would show something else, but when you see no change, you grab your mouse and prudently smash the buttons in a series of clicks.

Still nothing.

So, you shift to restart your computer, where you're slapped with failure and the icon of The Golden Scapegoat appearing under the red text instead.

Chat, are you seeing this? your mind supplies the comment habitually.

Done with it all, you proceed to unplug the PC.

The screen still shows that text.

Now, the safe thing to do would be to obey to this series of unexpected commands, especially since you were being met with happenings previously unheard of. But you were unwilling to fall for this most-likely hacker’s trick and get stuck into some kind of never-ending spiral.

So, you turned on your heels and went to get some actual, adult responsibilities done instead.

That determination of yours lasted for two hours. Impressive, considering that suddenly all your electrical appliances had begun having mood-swings, which meant, no TV, constant stammering lights, air-conditioning suddenly at full power and absolutely zero ways for you to contact anyone due to your phone, tablet, laptop and PC being hacked (?).

“FINE. I’ll play your stupid game!” you shouted, unable to stand not being chronically online any longer.

The lights ceased flickering. The screen of your computer glitched once before isolating the icon of the damned game on the screen, the cursor hovered right over it, beckoning your click.

You jaw went slack.

What the hell?

You approached your gaming desk cautiously, not knowing whether the tremor in your nerves was from the AC or the way this program—hacker—whatever had seemingly responded to you.

The screen morphs to that familiar backdrop, the chime of the game’s BGM slowly crawling to reality, though now, you could no longer find the marvel you’d initially felt from it.

The game’s mechanics hadn't changed at all, but after a few minutes (or hours? you didn't know) of clearing the levels with your heart pounding against your eardrums, that feeling of never-ending grind returned.

You’d even attempted to see if you could start a stream, just to gain some semblance of reassurance that you weren't going crazy, which, though no longer surprisingly, had backfired.

Your forehead hit the cool surface of your desk as you finished another level, your glasses were flung somewhere, only some fraction of energy left that you were going to use to drag yourself to bed.

Though not before catching a glimpse of the message from the chibi knight from the game.

“Partner, are you alright? You seemed very out of it on this run… please don't push yourself!”

You didn't linger long on the text, not daring yourself to believe that it was not a product of your imagination or a hoax of your eyes unaccustomed to seeing the world without the lenses.

You spent two more days in that manner, going through the levels of the Golden Scapegoat for the majority of the day, scarcely processing anything you were playing.

Your connection to the internet had returned, though you could only observe and not interact. You would’ve laughed at the dedication of whoever was behind all this had you not been as sleep deprived as you were.

On the third night, after your now-routine slavery at The Golden Scapegoat and much twisting and turning while trying to catch the sleep you so desperately wanted, you found yourself rudely awaken at what you could only assume to be midnight just when your eyes had begun to close.

For ten seconds, you blinked blankly at the air from under your sheets, the bleary sight gradually adjusting to reveal a distinct silhouette, the moonlight glinted off of golden lines.

You inhaled sharply but couldn't find the strength to let the breath go, nor look away as the silhouette tilted its head, a flash of blue gleamed in the shape of an eye.

Your mind ceased to work, locked in an uncomfortable stare-down with the shadow, as though suspended in a competition to see who was cowardly enough to look away first.

Is this what they call sleep paralysis…?

You were briefly tempted to give in to the primordial urge to scream, fling something at the thing or at least reach to turn on the lights.

But you did nothing, merely stared unblinkingly, the silhouette gained enough clarity for you to take in its hooded appearance.

And then, you blinked.

The figure vanished from your sight.

You gasped, hitting the switches by your bedside to illuminate your room in a frenzy. Your heart kicked up a storm against your ribcage.

Should you scream? Call for help? Was that a person? Were you in danger? What should you do??

You reached for your phone with shaking fingers, a bead of sweat falling from your brow when the sign of ‘no connection’ hit you again.

How marvelous. You were on your own.

It was incredibly tempting to give into the urge of spiraling into a full panic attack, but you forced yourself to breathe, to stay grounded.

Even if I'm dying… I'm not going down without a fight.

So, you grabbed the nearest heavy object around you— which happened to be the lamp— and tiptoed towards your bedroom door.

Not even bothering to look beyond, you shoved the door close and pushed one of your drawers against it. Then, still holding onto the lamp, you fell back on the bed, preparing yourself for the agonizing night ahead.

—

You spent the whole night spying for any sound, any movement from around your apartment — the result of which was zero. Not even a peep was heard, though you didn't really trust your insomnia ridden mind to be accurate.

Only when the sun had brightened the world again, and when the wave of adrenaline had ebbed away to bring an unavoidable need for sustenance and hydration, did you summon the strength to open the door.

You checked and double checked every corner of your apartment, the limited space of which you were now appreciating and only when you found nothing amiss or any sign of what you’d seen last night did you allow yourself to think ; maybe it was just sleep paralysis.

You tried to go about your day as normally as possible, though the penumbra of last night haunted your waking mind. There wasn't much you could do about it. You could lodge a complaint, but if the authorities found nothing, they’d most certainly put you in that list of ‘people to not take seriously’ and you were still locked in that weird state of only being able to surf the net, but not interact with it in any way.

But one thing remained unchanged— the god-damned Golden Scapegoat.

You sat down to play it almost instinctively, perhaps pushed by a subconscious fear of even this smidgen of light being stolen away, or because it was the only tangible distraction you had at the moment.

The game for its part, remained as it were, just small tweaks in every level that one wouldn't even notice due to how endless it all felt — like a cycle. A vicious, cruel, familiar cycle of the same pattern, from which you could neither break free from nor quit— only proceed forward.

These thoughts float around your mind idly as you wrap a towel around yourself, done with a shower. You stand in front of the sink mirror, pulling out a bottle of moisturizer.

Just as you turn back to the mirror to apply the product though, you notice it.

That thing again. Right behind you, watching you through the mirror.

You blink several times, it doesn't go away, holding itself still on the reflection and just when it seems as though it were raising a clawed hand towards you —

You turn around.

Nothing.

Suddenly my life’s a horror movie? You jest through the shiver that shakes your body. Why did no one ask for my consent when they changed the genre?

There were two possible explanations behind this occurrence : (1) your apartment was haunted and (2) you were going insane.

Despite the latter’s credibility being more scientifically plausible, you, a self-proclaimed person of logic, had decided to believe that the first was the case this time instead.

Oh well, dropped out of my Physics degree long ago anyway.

Though, it should be mentioned that this mindset was achieved after preventing another panic attack and forcing yourself to think like this instead :

“If my house is haunted… at least I'll have a buddy? Roommate?”

Your laugh was weak.

(You blamed it all on the desensitization of playing too many horror games, and on all the weird fanfics you’ve read.)

But, for what it was worth, this frankly twisted mindset had managed to push you through the next days, kept you just sane enough to keep on living.

So now, your days looked like this instead.

The microwave beeps, you reach for your now warm food, expertly ignoring the shadow— the black/gold details on whose person you now could see in the daylight— and swiveled to the other room instead.

When you sit down on the couch and turn on the television, browsing to watch something while you ate, the shadow made something of a noise, as if trying to get your attention ; to which you increased the volume instead.

Maybe if you ignored it long enough, it'd go away out of boredom?

Or at least, that was your brilliant strategy. Social skills backpedaling even from a supposed ghost.

When evening fell and darkness coated your apartment, you called out, “Hey! Could you like, turn on the lights for me? It's real dark!”

The lights around the apartment flickered on, the exact ones that you would've turned on as well.

This isn't so bad, is it?

… Or maybe, you were just lonely, cripplingly lonely.

You sighed, head cushioned by your arms on your gaming desk, the BGM of The Golden Scapegoat filling the air. Another level was cleared, though you had given up your hopes of it being the last long ago.

It felt like you were caught in the same unchangeable rhythm as this game, where days blurred into each other and time kept on slipping away from your grasp.

Sometimes, you’d ponder ; do the characters in there, ever get tired of the same steps as well?

You looked up, catching sight of the screen where that familiar page was painted on, that knight— your knight, appeared to offer his gratitude once more.

Your glasses went askew as you turned into a more comfortable position, eyes softening through the burn that lingered from the past month’s insomnia and stress. Even through the pixelated form, you could feel the smile on the little guy’s face.

And you couldn't help but whisper.

“It would be nice to have someone like that… warm, encouraging, probably gives nice hugs…” your chuckle cracked at the end.

Yes, this whole ordeal was getting to you, and you couldn't ignore it much longer. That one admittance had opened the floodgates to a barrage of other memories that you did not want to remember and it was getting more and more difficult to hold yourself together.

You sniffled, it's just the season, trying to convince yourself.

When you finally managed to calm down, your limbs and thoughts locked down in inertia, exhaustion a heavy duvet over you.

But you didn't drag yourself to bed, stayed rooted on your gaming chair and stared at the silver-blue-golden knight, until sleep arrived to take you away.

ii. Metempsychosis

You awoke with soreness all over your body, unsurprisingly.

You twisted and turned gingerly, stifling groans and yawns as you tried to sit upright again, one of your hands raised in an attempt to soothe some of the soreness from your neck.

“Ah, you're finally awake!”

You freeze, your eyes slowly turned towards the source of that voice and halted upon locking with sparkling cyan ones.

A violent flinch shook your body, before you squinted, left hand pawing blindly for your glasses.

“Oh, your glasses are right there!” the man pointed towards the edge of the desk, still crouching in front of your panicked form.

Your vision cleared as soon as that familiar weight settled on the bridge of your nose and you felt blood rush to your head when the man still didn't disappear from your field of vision like you’d hoped.

You sprang up from your seat, “W-who are you?!” clutching your keyboard defensively.

The silver-haired man raised his arms in surrender, “Whoa, whoa! Please calm down and let me—” he got up, taking a few steps back.

Unfortunately for him, you deigned to not oblige and threw your keyboard at him.

… And watched in horror as the object phased straight through him.

“G-ghost…?” you croaked, slowly peering up at his equally confused form.

“Uhm,” he lowered his arms, one hand raising to rub at the nape of of his neck, “Not a ghost, though I'm not sure what I currently am either— b-but! Don't panic, remember — the Golden Scapegoat??”

The mention of that name pulled you back from the trenches of a mental spiral and you looked at the guy, really looked ; feeling your mind buffer again as it matched the similarities between the chibi knight from the game with this man fidgeting in front you.

“Impossible.” you whispered, pinching yourself.

Nope, the sting is real and so is he… apparently.

He chuckled awkwardly, “I wish I could offer you an explanation for this but—”

You frowned as he cut himself off, head snapping to the side.

Your mouth opened to urge him on, only to be closed again as the man sprang forward to block an attack, steel against steel.

You staggered, leaning on your desk for support as ‘the knight’ pushed against the blade of that Shadow that has been haunting you.

“Executioner…” he gritted out, eyes reflecting an odd sense of acquaintance.

Their clash had sobered you completely and you took notice of something odd about this whole ordeal ; the bleary texture these two appeared in and the way the air seemed to glitch every time their swords clashed and how not a single object in your room appeared to be affected by it, as if they were locked in a different plane of existence.

Your breath hitched as the knight drew in with a fierce battle cry, the Executioner’s dark cape swiveled as he maneuvered to meet his strike.

Only to be pulled away right as their swords were about to clash, black-red cubes held them back to two far corners of your room.

You blinked, the edge of your desk bit into the skin of your fingers, grounding you as you looked up to the newcomer.

Wings of gold and indigo fluttered, cracks bleeding pulsing ichor. Strands of golden hair shifted as the— man? entity? angel? you didn't know anymore — turned to face you.

And perhaps you were just one foot into an asylum, but you could've sworn that his golden eyes softened just a fraction.

—

There's a stifling quietude blanketing you, interrupted only by the occasional whir of the aircon.

You sit slouched on your gaming chair, hugging yourself, eyes fixed at a distant point on the tiled floor, the icepack you'd gotten up to get halfway through the ‘conversation’ sits crookedly on top of your head.

When the instinct to blink seizes you, you finally find it in yourself to take in your surroundings again ; at one corner of your room, Phainon — as you knew now — stood, mimicking your stance. He was the only one who mirrored your exact expression.

To the other corner, the ‘Executioner’ stood, darkened tendrils swirled at his feet. A blue flame blazed from the shattered side of his face, mask removed to prove to an unconvinced Phainon that he was indeed him, during the earlier commotion.

And at the center of it all, he hovered, two paces in front of your seated form. His presence made the air heavier, made it difficult to breathe — the only indication that you weren't hallucinating everything, oddly enough.

You sighed, long and weighed.

“I’ll speak frankly to you guys,” your voice pulled them out of their individual reveries, “I can inform the government about this, who most likely have the appropriate tools to look into your case. But, there is a bigger chance that they’ll use you as their lab rats instead.”

You watched as their expressions twisted in frowns of various degrees, “Or, we can wait a bit. Figure out the nature of this, see if all of it is real or not.”

The Emanator cast a furtive glance at his other ‘counterparts’ before locking eyes with you again, “I apologize… for not being able to be of more help. We’ll try our best to not trouble you, I'll investigate privately in the meantime.”

And that pretty much settled your next course of action.

While it wasn't exactly ideal to your perception of reality to have three hologram-esque beings hovering around your home, with the knowledge that they were involved in some great cosmic event that apparently changed the universe (which you weren't even aware of), you didn't really possess the power to do anything besides waiting, as an ordinary human being.

So, you could only pass the next three days with that penumbra of awkwardness blanketing the moments.

Phainon, who’d given the impression of being more outspoken initially, had been eerily quiet and had decided to confine himself to your living room couch, where he’d seem to be engrossed in thoughts.

‘The Executioner’ on the other hand, would unintentionally jump-scare you by appearing at the most random places. Though, it’d been because of his critically impaired mental faculties from the strain of housing far too many ‘Coreflames’, as you came to learn from the Emanator later.

The Emanator in question on the other hand, was usually nowhere to be found. But you chalked it up to it being within the bounds of his weird Emanator powers— a concept you still couldn't really wrap your head around.

You couldn't deny that it was a bit hard to believe that all three of them were the same person, shattered and rebuilt through the endeavor stretched across epochs.

And you brought up this issue one day, upon realizing that you didn't really have an efficient way of addressing them.

“Phainon… of Aedes Elysiae.” the hero offered a wry smile, a hand cradling his heart— or the vestiges of it.

You turned to the other two, who were surprisingly present. They seemed to have understood that you couldn't just call each of them ‘Phainon’ and were thinking about it.

When the silence stretched on though, “Uhm… maybe Phaiyi and Phainoonie?” you pointed at the Emanator and then the Executioner.

Not even the rustles of the Emanator’s wings could be heard all of a sudden.

“Sorry.” you backpedaled immediately, swearing to yourself that you’d never make a joke in your life ever again.

Before you could contemplate too far on running away, ‘the Executioner’ spoke, for the very first time.

“Kh…as...la…na…”

You blinked in confusion, glancing at the other two to see an odd expression of pain on their faces.

“Khas…lana? Did I get that right?” you turned to ‘Khaslana’ again, he managed a nod, his masked face gave nothing of his emotions away.

And at last, you turned towards the winged Emanator, whose face was seized by a pensive shadow.

Sensing your inquisitive gaze, he finally tilted his head up to meet your eyes.

“Call me Khaos.”

—

The night that day had been ordinary.

Or at least, a sight that you’d gotten accustomed to over the years. A dark canopy where faint twinkles of distant stars could occasionally be seen, easily defeated by the thousands of city lights from sky-scrapers.

The world around you hadn't changed at all, but your perception of it had. To think that such a massive interstellar war had taken place while your planet had remained none-the-wiser.

Or maybe the government does know, and was intentionally keeping it all confidential all while spinning the tale of there being no ‘aliens’ that they've contacted with.

While this chain of thought did make you sound like a conspiracy theorist, the fact that you could understand their language without an issue was suspicious in itself.

You rested your arms on the rail of your balcony, was any of this even real? You found yourself questioning while staring up at those unreachable stars.

What's the guarantee that you weren't in a simulated world as well, like the one they had been a part of?

And whenever this train of thought would ricochet in your head, your brain would supply that you needed to touch grass, for the sake of your sanity — which was easier said than done in a concrete jungle of a city.

“So this is what a real night sky looks like…!”

You're startled out of your existential crisis by a sun-kissed voice, whipping your head to the side to meet with sheepish cyan eyes.

“Sorry! I'd didn't mean to startle you— I can leave if you want me to??” Phainon rubbed the nape of his neck, a gesture you’d realized he did rather often.

Having recovered from the scare of not him ‘speaking out of nowhere’, but not sensing his presence at all, you waved off a hand, “Oh.. n-no, it's fine. Stay.”

Phainon's shoulders relaxed, his hair shifted slightly as he tipped his head up to gaze at the sky again.

“Glimmering stars, faint moonlight, a chill in the air— exactly as they described it in the stories.” he marveled.

Then, catching your curious expression, he looked back at you, “Amphoreus, my home world, had no ‘natural’ day-night cycle. In Okhema— Amphoreus' most prosperous city-state for example— it was always daytime. So… this is my first time seeing a real night.”

Your mouth formed an ‘O’ at his explanation and you turned back towards the night again, a star twinkled back at you.

To think you were complaining about how boring it all was just moments ago but to Phainon, it was a life changing experience.

(It made you feel just the tiniest bit ashamed inside.)

“Well, there was some semblance of a night in the outskirts of Okhema, though they never were quite comforting.” you turned to him as he resumed, “Like in Janusopolis! Where I was in a mission with Tribbie— one of my mentors and a demigod by the way. That boundless dark sky and a flash of something streaking the sky are my last memories of Amphoreus… before I woke up in that game.”

You watched as his eyes dimmed, his voice dropped an octave as he trailed off.

“So… you were conscious of the fact that you were in a game?” you approached gently.

Phainon blinked out of his stupor, his fingers reached to grasp onto the railing and failed as they phased right through it.

A frown crept in his expression, which he forced away with a chuckle, “Well…! It took me some time, admittedly, but I was eventually able to take in my situation when I heard your voice.”

That made you freeze.

“You could hear me???” your voice rose in panic.

Phainon scratched his cheek, “Yes??” not quite seeming to understand your sudden agitation.

Oh heavens oh stars, he heard all of your simping and cursing!

You buried your face in your hands, slumping against the cool metal of the railing while Phainon panicked, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing.

But then, he paused upon remembering something else, something that he’d been pondering about for the past couple of days.

“[Name]? Can I… ask a question?”

You grumbled a sound of agreement, still hiding in your hands.

“Why… did you continue to play The Golden Scapegoat?”

You held a pause for three seconds, before your index fingers parted, just enough to catch Phainon’s serious expression.

A sigh tumbled out of your lips, “Honestly? Because I had no damn choice.”

And you were basically being blackmailed into it, which you decided against saying.

Phainon chuckled and you were surprised by how much that sound eased you, “Understandable.”

Your eyes lingered on the faint curve of his lips before you straightened, not bothering to fix your crooked glasses.

“But on a more serious note, it was because moving forward was the only way to see how things would end.” then you raised an accusing finger, “And also! Out of sheer spite with my life.”

Cyan eyes widened, the city lights reflected on them, before another giggle seized him.

“Moving forward out of spite huh…” a faint furrow appeared in his brows, as though he finally understood something.

You nodded, resting your cheek against your knuckles, “What other choice do we really have in this… uncertain existence? You’ll meet an uncountable number of hurdles in your life, all of which will try to stop your pursuit. You can choose to end it any time, but you'll never know what you missed if you do. And perhaps, that's comforting as well. But if I'm able to, I'd like to persist. To see. If nothing else, I can say that I've tried my best.”

“And… what if, ‘your best’ isn't enough?”

“Who gets to judge that, hm? There is no way to satisfy everyone. Not even yourself.”

A quiet exhale left Phainon, he watched the play of the city lights across your face, your eyes remained closed behind the frame of your askance glasses. Though he could not see what flickered in your eyes as you spoke, he knew that you were certain and content in having found your truth.

Phainon felt an urge to cradle those words, to hold onto them to reflect upon later.

His fingers twitched against his side, the air swept aside as he raised his hand, carefully adjusting your glasses back into position.

You felt every nerve in your body ignited upon registering the tentative brush of something against your cheek. Your eyes opened with urgency, meeting with dazed cyan ones.

“Did you just touch me?”

Phainon blinked, you could see his mind buffer for a few seconds as he processed your question and when he did, he flinched away, hands raising in surrender.

“I-I’m so sorry—”

“No!” you took a step closer, grasping his hand, a shiver seized you as you felt its warmth. “You just touched me! You— you just interacted with this world!”

Phainon froze, eyes blown wide as he took in the weight of your words.

“I…” the fingers of the hand you were holding flexed against yours, a light sheen of sweat coating them. “I-I can…?” he brought his other hand up, holding yours in between both of his.

“Yes…!” you couldn't hold back the rising excitement in your voice.

Phainon swallowed, he gave a tentative squeeze, sheer wonder taking over his expression when his hands didn't phase through and pressed against your skin instead.

“Yes…!” he exclaimed back, he looked up just as his legs bent, before he met your giddy jump with one of his own.

The sudden commotion drew in the other two, Khaos peeked into the balcony with quizzical eyes, Khaslana trailed behind.

“What is—?”

His question was interrupted by a quiet gasp, as he took in the sight of Phainon spinning you, laughs of pure glee tumbled out of both of your lips.

Khaslana’s eye widened behind the mask as he processed this new revelation.

Even through his fractured mind, he could sense the impending lengthy discussion.

iii. Katalepsis

The hue-and-cry of the shopping district engulfs you.

Beside you, Phainon fell into step, carrying a bag of apples as you both headed towards the supermarket. Though the actual purpose of this trip had been to test whether Phainon’s newly acquired physical presence in your world had been real or just a trick of your minds (as none of you were sure anymore).

Phainon is a sight amidst the crowd and you wouldn't even need the frequent turning of passerby towards his direction to tell you that.

Now that he was out of the cramped space of your apartment, you were able to really take in his height and build in its entirety, combined with his striking appearance, you couldn't really judge people for ogling.

You could only imagine what their reactions would be to seeing the other two.

Somewhere during the trip, a passerby shoots Phainon a question, “Yo, Owlet?”

Phainon reciprocated his fist-bump, albeit half a second late, a smile gracing his face on instinct — the exchange reassured you, he was great at acting.

“You’re pretty popular, it seems.” Phainon tugs at his t-shirt, one of the samples of your merch that you had laying around the apartment; thrown on him last minute in exchange of his fantasy armor to make him less conspicuous while out on the streets (which clearly wasn't working).

Your fans called themselves the Owlets, not because owls were your absolute favorite bird (not initially) but because of the amateur drawing of an owl you’d done in one of your earlier streams, which, you still used as your avatar to this day.

You adjusted your headphones around your neck, more out of habit than anything else, “Shh, keep your voice down. I'm what they call ‘an incognito artist’.”

At that, Phainon made a zipping motion along his lips, still clutching the bag of apples in his left hand.

You kept your pace steady, eyes skimming over passing shops, “And besides, my uh… err,” your mind buffered as you tried to find a suitable word, realizing he probably wouldn't know what ‘streaming’ is, “— My work, isn't exactly legal.”

Phainon perked up, “Oh! You mean streaming?”

Now you felt like an idiot.

You managed a mute nod, resisting the urge to curl in on yourself.

Phainon chuckled, “I used to be a streamer back in my world, too! That's how I know.”

That pulled you out of spiraling, “Oh?”

“Mm hm!” the lights from the various adverts around made his cyan eyes sparkle, “I used to stream antique appraisals! Pretty boring stuff compared to what you do though.”

You blinked up at him, “Are you kidding? That's so cool! You must've been kind of an expert in the field then?”

He rubbed the nape of his neck as another sheepish chuckle escaped him, the fabric of the t-shirt stretched around his biceps with the motion. “I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I definitely do have some experience on the matter.”

He tilted his head down towards you as curiosity took over his face, “But what did you mean by your work not being legal?”

You cast cursory glances to both sides, instinctively checking for prying ears, and eyes.

When you were assured of their absence, you leaned closer to Phainon, voice dropping to a whisper, “The government doesn't allow creative expressions by humans on this planet. Every ad you see around here? It's all generated via artificial intelligence. The network where I stream is a secret web. Only about 28% of the population knows about it.”

Phainon's face went through a series of expressions as he processed your words, “No wonder everything feels so soulless here.” he says, brows pinching as he casts a disapproving glance around everything.

“But why? Robbing humans of their creativity … It's so unfair and stupid…!” he turns back to you, silver strands tousling with his steps.

You shrugged, “Believe me when I say, I've been asking that exact question for all three decades I've lived on this cursed planet.”

Phainon grumbled, his day clearly ruined as he took in the dystopian reality you lived in.

The rest of the trip proceeded smoothly, Phainon recovered from his dreary mood within three seconds and engaged in chit-chats where you exchanged more information about both of your worlds, in between grabbing items from the grocery list.

Throughout this, Phainon was interrupted by a few more of your fans who’d been lured to him by the sight of your merch t-shirt on him, completely unaware of the fact that their idol was right beside them — and you preferred it that way.

By the twelfth encounter, Phainon realized something : he’d severely underestimated your popularity. Not because people were just strolling up to share a fist-bump of solidarity with him, but because of the amount of ‘I miss EnTeLeKia07’s streams’ comments he’d heard.

You, however, remained strangely nonchalant about it all, whether it was just an extension of your usual personality or deliberate ; he wasn't certain about, and that made Phainon decide against poking you about it further.

On the return trip, Phainon halted in front of a small flower shop. You followed his line of sight, which stopped at a small pot of yellow dotted blue flowers.

“Is something the matter?” your question snapped him out of his trance.

“Oh. No no no, I just got distracted! Let's go!”

You pushed your glasses up with one finger, looking at his retreating form and then back to the potted flowers.

--

Phainon hummed happily, cradling the pot of forget-me-nots in one hand, holding all your bags with the other (upon his insistence). You followed him a step behind, listening to the song that played in your headphones.

The steady rhythm doesn't last long though. You’re sent crashing into Phainon’s back as he abruptly stops in his tracks, again.

“What… interesting looking chimeras!”

You fix your glasses, rubbing your nose while peeking from behind his back towards what it was that’d stolen his attention this time.

“Oh. You mean the cats?”

Phainon’s face formed an ‘O’, awe taking over as he took in the sight of the two cats playing beside the trashcans.

“So, that's what you call them here. They're so adorable!” he cooes, you could almost see sparkles floating around him.

You didn't disagree with that, it made you pleased, to be precise. Liking cats was a good sign among people, in your opinion.

Phainon couldn't seem to have contained his excitement though, as he took a few steps closer towards the cats, propelled with an urge to pet them and unsurprisingly, the cats scampered away at his intrusion.

“There, there.” you gave a pat to his slumped shoulders, lips down-turned with such a devastated pout that even you felt bad.

“Erm, we can come back later with treats? Cats don't trust people easily so, we’ll have to bribe them.” you offered tentatively.

All traces of mourning left Phainon as soon as those words reached his ears, he whipped around towards you, the golden flecks in his eyes sparkled again.

“R-really? I mean, you don't have to if it's too much trouble but—ahhhh, I really appreciate it!”

You huffed, lips twitching in a small smile, wondering whether to dismiss the apparitions of perked up puppy ears on his head or to accept them as fitting for this man.

—

Such trips became more common as the days went by, since Phainon had begun to experience hunger and fatigue.

The hero himself had been reluctant to feed off of you like that though, and had pestered you constantly with the purpose of providing for himself — or to help you in any way. Which, was not much fruitful since in virtue of him being the equivalent of a newborn, he had neither the ID nor the connections to find work here.

There was also the matter of secrecy. All of you had agreed upon not disclosing this ordeal to anyone, especially not your pesky government. As such, caution was practiced even during the small trips to the shopping district.

So, Phainon had assigned himself as your house-helper instead ; dusting, cleaning, sweeping, washing and of course, taking care of the pot of forget-me-nots that’d found refuge on your bedside window — despite your protests, which you had to retract when he sheepishly admitted to being not used to having nothing to do.

It was then that the realization struck you, even though you’d known them as mere code on your screen first, Phainon and the other two, had lived human lives once and they were victims of circumstances, too.

Today, however, a tense silence hung over the world — not from the darkened clouds outside, but from the remnants of a fight between Phainon and Khaslana ; which ended with a broken table of yours.

It was difficult to say whether you were upset by this ordeal or not, but you certainly were done with the stifling air, which pushed you to go outside at last, alone this time.

“Wait, let me come with—”

You silenced Phainon with a raised hand, not bothering to look back at him as you put on your shoes with an urgency thus unobserved.

“At least take an umbrella…” Phainon trailed off helplessly as you rushed away, the slam of the door echoing even moments after your departure.

You didn't mean to shut him out that crudely, it wasn't even his fault. Khaslana had begun to behave strangely as of late (which was saying something considering he was never really normal to begin with) ; he’d snap at Phainon, attack things that were completely harmless and wander around as though he were sleepwalking.

Whenever confronted though, he’d remain silent and Khaos was also conveniently gone, leaving you and Phainon to deal with it, so far in vain.

You were never the best at confrontations to begin with and frankly, this was more direct social interaction you’d gone through than in the past five years, the effect of all the other reality bending things that happened went without saying. So, even you who preferred self-distance over emotional expression, had begun to feel off your axis.

Which was remarkable honestly, you thought sarcastically as you browsed through the familiar isles, the solid tactic that managed to get you through the last decade had finally begun to crumble.

You should probably apologize once you get home, right? You stared blankly at the contents behind a bag of chips, not really reading. But then again, was nurturing this attachment even worth it? It wasn't like they were going stay, anyway.

You shook your head, placing the bag back on the shelf. You were really out of your element today and had no idea how to get out of this strange mood.

In the end, you only managed to grab a bag of pasta and a kilo of tomatoes ; courtesy of being distracted by both your thoughts and having tripped and gotten your clothes caught in things thrice.

The world was really testing you today.

The sky groans and a flash lightning streaks the very next second, signaling the impending storm. The memory of Phainon frantically trying to hand you an umbrella resurfaces as you quicken your steps, a twinge of regret bleeding into your heart.

Not just for not taking the umbrella, but also for slamming the door to his face and— ah, now you felt really terrible.

You blink just as a droplet of rain falls on the surface of your glasses, glancing around your surroundings to find that you’d strayed from the main path and into an alley in the heat of your thoughts.

Storm-clouds loomed up, a downpour would follow soon no doubt. You sighed, turning to walk out, but then, you hear it.

A crunch, almost drowned in the strike of thunder and the silhouette of a man advancing towards you.

Your heart kicked violently against your ribcage, a string of curses echoing in your head at having fallen for the oldest mistake — stepping into a crackhead’s alley.

“Uhm… I come in peace?” your voice wobbles as you take steps back, the grocery bag dangles from one of your raised arms.

The guy makes a weird noise, clearly under the influence and intent on not letting you get away in one piece, you catch a shadow of a bat in his hand.

This is how you die, oh lord.

You glance frantically around, searching for something, anything while simultaneously trying to not spiral into panic — finding nothing but junk on the ground.

You step aside just in time to dodge the first swing, by virtue of pure adrenaline and in the proximity, the stature of the man registers in your head, you feel your heart sink upon realizing that there is no way you’d be able to get him off of you by yourself.

He swivels the bat again and you duck, feet bending to hurl yourself towards the exist just as rain begins to pour down in drizzles and you almost make it — until the next swing lands square on your shoulder.

The bag hits the ground, rain beads over the splatter of the fallen tomatoes.

Your pained scream blends into the rhythm of the water hitting the ground in sharp droplets, your knees scrap against the ground as the force of the hit sends you tumbling to the ground, mud and rain stains your clothes.

You clutch your shoulder with your free hand, chest heaving, watching through crooked and rain-stained glasses as the madman turns slowly, menacingly back towards you, fingers flexing around the bat.

You attempt to stand up, shoe sliding across the slippery soil and hurling you back to mother earth, mud seeps in through the cracks of your fingers, your hair sticks to your forehead as the man’s shadow engulfs you.

And then, he raises his bat — you reach blindly for something and find one of the tomatoes.

But before you can throw it at him , a loud cling echoes, dominating over the drizzle of rain.

You blink, squinting towards the new shadow that falls upon you. Black-gold robes, familiar hood, the glint of the edge of a familiar mask as he glances over his shoulder —

A shaky exhale tumbles out of your lips, relief momentarily sweeping aside the pain at the sight of Khaslana, actually Khaslana, blocking the blow.

Khaslana turns back towards the offender at the sound of his muttered curse, rain kisses the fabric of his cloak but doesn't seep into it, fizzling away. He grasps the hilt of his sword and then slices it through the man’s bat.

The offender stares incredulously as his weapon drops to the ground in two pieces, his one brain-cell in disarray. A gasp leaves him as Khaslana points his sword directly between his eyes, backing him towards the wall.

You drag yourself up, clutching to one of the garbage bins for support. You hear something along the lines of a frightened ‘stay away!’ being shouted by your attacker, which falls on deaf ears as Khaslana pushes the point of his blade a bit deeper into the man’s skin.

You're about to ask Khaslana to let him go, mind cleared to the fact this would become a murder scene soon — but the offender saves you words and faints from sheer shock.

The slide of his body from the wall to the ground is heard for one uncomfortable second, before rain swallows it.

Khaslana withdraws his sword, taking a step back. You push yourself towards him, still clutching your wounded shoulder.

“Khas—”

You yelp, as the tip of his blade stares you in the eyes this time — and then is jerked away.

You blink in confusion as one clawed hand raises to press against his masked face, concern beginning to flow into your expression as Khaslana staggers away, his body contorting in a series of violent glitches.

For a long moment, the fall of the rain is all that is heard. You rack your brain amidst the sweltering pain at your shoulder, trying to understand what was going on and what you should do now.

Your eyes fell upon Khaslana's glitching form, his pained breaths echoing in your ears despite the storm and you realize what the problem is.

“Khaslana… are you… confused about what is real and what isn't…?”

No response. Though, his labored breaths and the glitching soothes slightly, so slightly that it would be easy to miss.

That was enough confirmation for you though, you heaved a breath, trying not to collapse as the pain on your shoulder returned with a vengeance.

“Let’s just… go home first.”

—

Phainon nearly loses his mind when you return, bruised and drenched, barely supported by Khaslana.

“Wha—? How? Why—?” he asks frantically, hands reaching to take you before you could hit the floor.

But unfortunately for him, you were far too beaten up (literally) to answer and Khaslana was never the talker. Phainon prudently decided to not push further, carrying you towards the bathroom instead.

It took a good two hours to get you cleaned up and bandaged and a whole night before you were allowed to sit up again — as per Phainon's insistence.

(You were too deep in sleep to know this though, Khaslana had stood guard beside your bed the whole night.)

The next morning, when Phainon came to check up on you with a bowl of soup, you greeted him with a request for a conversation with Khaslana instead, the incident of the day before and the question that was not yet answered troubling you.

“Do you two also feel like you can't tell whether all of this is real or not…?”

Phainon shifted where he sat on your bed, cyan eyes flickering over the bedsheets. For a moment, it seemed as though he was about to laugh it off but upon seeing your very serious expression, he decided to be honest.

“Yes.”

You turned towards Khaslana, who sat by the edge of the bed upon your request (something that had shocked Phainon), his mask was off (another surprise), baring his unreadable expression to you two.

The blue flame that flickered on his left eye was dim, his one intact eye fell upon his clawed hands, flexing the fingers of them hesitantly — a glitch seized his sight.

A quiet sigh left you and Phainon in unison — not out of annoyance, but out of understanding.

Phainon turned to you, “How could you tell?”

You took a deep breath, gathering yourself, “I… may not have experienced even a quarter of the things you guys have. But as someone who's used to living vicariously through fantasy worlds on my screen, being forced to confront a reality that… could be false as well and having my entire perception of it changed so significantly, I understand. I understand the feeling.”

A wave of silence washed by after you finished. You steady your breaths and lift your gaze, “So, let's try not to isolate ourselves and rely on each other a little more. Let's try… to be gentler with ourselves?”

Phainon and Khaslana exchange a glance, a twinge of surprise in both of their faces.

Phainon breaks out of it the quickest, sporting a smile of agreement.

Khaslana doesn't agree verbally, but he does tap the bowl of soup Phainon had brought for you with the sharp tip of one finger and then blends into the shadows.

That was louder than any agreement he could've spoken.

—

Luckily for you, you hadn't dislocated your shoulder or broken anything, and under Phainon's care, you ended up recovering from the worst of the pain after three days. Enough for you to resume your normal activities, at least.

And an even better news was that your hopeless internet had finally ceased keeping you in virtual jail! As such, you could finally interact with everything again.

One day, you found yourself going through your secret chest, as Phainon had expressed his interest in learning about the history of your world.

When Phainon finally got his hands on the physical books in question though, he was rather confused.

“Fairy tales…?” he frowned, flipping through the pages.

You blew dust off of one of the books in your hands, “No no no. They're allegories. This is the way our true history was preserved. Anything you see commercially or on the net? That's all fabricated by the government. Here, let me decipher it for you…”

Though the state of your world baffled and, frankly concerned Phainon, he was intrigued as well. Not just by the history and the people's creative resistance against censorship, but by how you explained it all. Your view, the way you perceived the universe fascinated Phainon.

Every tidbit of yourself you shared with him nurtured the seedling of affection and with it, the instinct to act upon it was also provoked.

So one day, he did ; in the form of rice fried with far too much clinical precision than necessary. Your reaction to the dish however, had been… strange.

“How… did you make this?” you stared at the wisps of aroma floating from the golden pile of fried rice, spoon clasped loosely in one hand.

Phainon, who’d been standing by with all the anxiety of a novice chef getting their dish critiqued by a master, perked up. “Oh, uh, I found the recipe on a book that was hidden in that pile of ‘history books’ — not just this one actually, there were lots of other recipes there as well! And I really wanted to cook something good for you…”

An odd look took over your eyes, Phainon tilted his head, trying to read the emotions veiled behind those lenses. He was about to instinctively apologize when he felt a shiver race down his spine. And when he turned towards the source of the bad vibe, he found Khaslana shooting him a sharp glare from the corner.

“W-what??” Phainon stiffened.

Khaslana held the glare for two more seconds, before walking away. And though he maintained his in-character silence, Phainon could feel, as though by some weird connection, that he was just deemed an idiot.

(You merely took a quiet bite of the dish, thanking Phainon. But could not find it in yourself to explain the weight of this casually, at the moment.)

Speaking of Khaslana, a new behavior was observed in him as of late — sleeping, lots of sleeping. It was still debatable whether he was actually sleeping or not, but he did linger in your vicinity for extended periods of time.

For example, on a Tuesday night, while you were handling the damage done by the last two months' absence and Phainon came to call you for dinner ; he was shocked to see Khaslana at your feet, head resting on your lap.

Feeling Phainon's bewildered stare, you shrugged, “He just came and sat down here without any explanation… and I couldn't find it in myself to move.”

None of you could really fault it though, the first Khaslana — the harbinger of an aeon long mission, battered with the weight of shouldering 4000001 Eternal Recurrences all by himself, had been exhausted beyond words, for a very long time. If anything, him even trusting your space enough to linger, was a good sign ; as was agreed upon on a later discussion.

—

One night, you find Khaos sitting on the living room floor in front of the couch, wings slightly folded towards himself.

The living room couch would usually be occupied by Phainon at night, but Khaos had requested a bit of alone time to think, leaving both Phainon and Khaslana to ‘camp’ in your room for the night.

Their mutual acquiescence had surprised you a bit ; even though Phainon and Khaslana seemed to have a bit of beef, they seemed to co-operate whenever Khaos was in the room. Not that you were complaining.

You were supposed to be sleeping, but a restless fit had taken over you, and after a good few hours of alternating between doom-scrolling and tossing-turning in bed, you decided to just give up.

“What are you thinking about?” you joined him on the floor an arm's length away, the chill of the tiles seeping through your bones — chased away a second later as his warmth reached you.

The pale golden light that always embraced Khaos acted as illumination against the dark, he blinked himself out of a daze, only now realizing that you were in front of him.

He uncrossed his arms but they stayed in his lap, “About… everything that's happened. Why we ended up here, how we are slowly blending in with this world, why it's accepting us at all… why you?”

You cushioned your cheek on your palm as he talked, eyes flickering over the faint shadows of his wings on the floor. He was the only one who didn't seem to require any significant memory with you to gain a physical presence in this world, an anchor since the earlier days — however fragile as it were.

You didn't take offense in his pointed doubt, it was a valid question after all. Why you, indeed?

“… Phainon told me that his last his last memory had been at the ruins of Janusopolis… Khaslana said that his last memory had been total darkness, what about you? What did you see at the end of your journey…? If you don't mind me asking.” your eyes remained fixed on the crevices between the shadows.

The question caught him off-guard, but he answered nonetheless, eyes closing as he retraced his memories, “The golden wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae… the starry sky… warmth… fire.”

That made you look up, “Your homeland?”

Khaos nodded, slowly, as if dowsing himself in the vestiges of that faraway realm in his mind.

“After I faced off against Nanook’s legion with the wrath of four hundred two million six hundred four thousand thirty-two Coreflames, used THEIR golden bold to bring dawn, sealed Irontomb with myself… until the final battle— at the end of it all, all I could see were those golden fields.” his voice was hoarse, the corners of his eyes crinkled and his fingers flexed on his lap.

You took in every word with rapt attention, no matter how many times you’d gone over this, it never failed to blow your mind away. How had one individual, a programmed human, achieved such a feat? To face off against an Aeon — though you only understood the gist of their powers — and contain a literal universal level threat all by himself?

You would've been skeptical of this matter if you were introduced to it just three months ago. But enough strange things had already happened with you, and Khaos wasn't exactly some fantasy RPG cosplayer in front of you ; you had seen his powers with your own eyes (glasses and all).

Perhaps the limitations of your ordinary human mind prevented you from fathoming it in its entirety, because you felt as though you weren't doing it justice.

So, it escaped your lips before you could think more, “That’s so… based of you.”

Khaos opens his eyes, his reverie momentarily interrupted as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Based…? On what?

You realized what you’d blurted out and how it might've sounded to him, hands moving in scattered gestures, “It means I really respect you! That your actions or thoughts are really cool!”

Khaos stared blankly at you for a while, clearly engaged in a fierce mental debate to decide whether to take you seriously or not. You twiddled with your fingers nervously.

Then, by the grace of the stars, something that seemed to be close to a huff left him. Amusement brushing over his sharp features.

“Cool… are you sure about that?” he tilted his head towards you.

Now it was your turn to stare blankly at him, neurons firing to figure out what made him look so smug.

And when you did, your jaw went slack.

“Did you just… make a pun about yourself??”

Khaos cleared his throat far louder than it was necessary, straightening back in his usual regal demeanor — but he didn't deny it.

You snickered as you caught the twinge of fluster on his face, which was halted before you could slip into full cackles as a thought struck you, pushed by the sudden hit of dopamine.

“Hey Khaos, have you ever heard of the ‘Many Worlds Interpretation’?”

All traces of the previous light-hearted mood disappears from his face as he takes in your sudden seriousness.

“No… what is it about?”

You leaned on your arms, “Basically… the theory proposes that there are many parallel worlds in the universe that exist simultaneously — but don't, or can't interact with each other. It views time as a many-branched tree, wherein every possible quantum outcome is realized.”

You catch the shift of inquisition in his golden eyes, “You said that since you’d merged with Irontomb, you should've been destroyed alongside it, right? And even if you were saved somehow, you shouldn't have ended up here, with yourself fractured no less. It reminded me of this theory.”

Khaos pressed his thumb and index fingers to his chin, pondering. “So… you're suggesting that us experiencing ‘rebirth’ here is only one of the many outcomes that’ve taken shape, according to this theory?”

You nod, “It’s only a theory though. It’s supposed to answer some similar paradoxes, but no one's actually tested its validity in reality.”

He looks back at you, “Why not?”

“Because… it involves dying. Multiple times, in fact.”

“Ahh…” he sits upright again, the feathers of his wings rustling slightly with the motion. “I can see why you brought it up.”

You nod sagely and he reciprocates it ; the motion inviting a wave of silence to settle over you both next.

Khaos deigns to mull over the new information, leaving you suspended with an empty head. You fix your position multiple times, eyes sweeping over the crevices of your living room in the shadows of midnight — until a shiver seizes you.

You rub your arms with your hands, trying to capture the heat. But your body decides to be stubborn and you're regretting the decision of sitting on the cold hard floor all at once.

Just then, you remember the presence of the natural heat source right in front of you and you find yourself shifting closer towards Khaos, uncaring of anything besides not freezing to death.

Khaos is broken out of his pondering at the soft shuffle of you scooting towards him, golden eyes flickering over the goosebumps on your skin.

“Are you feeling sick…?”

You settle just beside his folded golden wing, the chill soothes just barely at his warmth, “Uh no? I think it's just because of the cold floor.. or maybe low iron.”

Khaos frowns, concern softening his sharp features at the way you hug yourself. It seems as though he wants to reprimand you, or object, but stops himself ; deciding instead on slowly unfurling his wing and wrapping it around you.

A quiet gasp is drawn out of you, the sound melting in the cocoon of warmth between you two, the chill slowly ebbing away. It seemed for a second that Khaos was planning on pulling you closer— but then stopped as the spikes on his shoulder touched your arm.

Your restless mind falters at last, a yawn leaves you lips, the ghosts of sleep finally haunting your vision, making it blurry.

“[Name]?”

Khaos’ tentative call keeps you from slipping away entirely, you hum in acknowledgement.

“Do you ever think… about the intricacies of the fabric of reality? Spaces where mathematics break down… the very core of every happenstance?”

You tilt your head towards him, blinking away sleep. Khaos’ eyes remain faraway.

“I think, perhaps, it's alright to not understand the mechanisms of that core. At least, for us ordinary humans.”

You chase after his gaze, trying to find where exactly he was in the moment. Khaos senses your puzzlement, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.

“Thank you, [Name].” he utters, confusing you even more.

“For…?”

“I’ll tell you… later.”

iv. Anagnorisis

Unfortunately for you, Khaos’ worry turned out to be correct and you fell ill with a raging fever the very next morning.

You typically were more cautious during the time when seasons changed, but the past months’ stress, combined with the thorough drenching and beating you’d experienced, culminated into one feverish debacle.

There was scarce recollection of the matter in you, since you’d been as good as unconscious for the first three days, no zeal left to care for your guests.

By some miracle, as it seemed to you, Phainon and the others somehow managed it all — from the medicines, the meals and the impediments that came with a bedridden person.

The three took turns watching over you ; Khaos would hold you when the shivers became too violent, Khaslana would stand sentri unblinkingly every night, bringing water or alerting the others if required.

And Phainon, Phainon had completely thrown away the concept of rest, always running back and forth from monitoring your temperature to ensuring your other needs were met, all while keeping a smile on his face somehow.

It was only on the fifth day when your fever went down and seemed as though it had no plans of returning soon, that they allowed themselves to breathe.

But still, your body had been weak, immune system ravaged after exhausting its resources ; prompting their insistence for you to remain in rest, even as your mind began to get restless with things unrelated to sickness.

On one such night, as your eyes traced shapes of distant ruminations upon the bedsheets bathed in moonlight, you played chase with sleep and it slipped through your fingers each time.

“Can’t sleep, partner?” the whisper grounds you to the waking world, you find a familiar pair of cyan eyes taking you in when you raise your head.

Phainon takes a seat on the edge of your bed, tentatively. Bracing one hand against it, a breath away from where your own hand rests on the blanket. Like a star that appears to be so close to the moon from the earth.

He raises his free hand to press against your forehead, the practice so habitual now. He begins to retreat upon noticing the absence of the sting of fever-heat, but you stop him by grabbing his hand before he could.

“Phainon, may I… ask you to hold me?”

Phainon blinks in surprise, not at the request, but at how carefully you form those words. Your fingers hold his wrist lightly, giving him ample space to deny, just like you always do in everything.

But Phainon had gotten a tad too bad at denying you anything, less so when you ask for it yourself.

The bedsheets and blankets rustle in the quiet night as Phainon maneuvers, it takes a few seconds for you both to settle into each others' arms.

“Comfortable?” his voice is almost muffled as it melts in the crook of your neck, he adjusts your legs so that they drape over his lap instead.

You give a nod against his chest, shoulders sagging in tandem with a sigh, still refusing to address the unspoken question of why.

Phainon draws an absentminded circle on your hip, praying that his heartbeat doesn't betray him.

Then, unable to contain his curiosity, or perhaps anxiety, “You can… tell me what’s troubling you. Only if you want to, of course.”

You don't move from your position, but Phainon feels the press of your cheek more firmly against the fabric of his shirt.

Just when he's about to give up though, “Phainon, do you ever feel like… some people die long before their deaths?”

The instinct to breathe eludes Phainon as he registers your words, it takes him a second to take in your question and another to respond. “I… think it can happen, yes. Though, I'd like to hear your thoughts on this more.”

You shift in his arms, just enough for your voice to no longer be muffled, “Some people in our lives… die long before their last breath is penned down. And then, they haunt us every day, every night. But, they don't know that they're no more than ghosts of themselves to us.”

Phainon draws in a long breath, eyes flickering over you but unable to gauge your expression, opting instead to fix on a crease on the blanket.

“And… are those ghosts, haunting you now, too?” his fingers dig in ever so slightly into your clothes.

Your hair brushes against his chin as you shake your head, “No, they're finally asleep… But I am not used to the silence of their absence — I haven't been for a very long time.”

There's a tremble in Phainon's exhale, eyes distant as he tries to imbibe your words. He knows you well enough by now to know that you will not elaborate, dismiss it as feverish ramblings even. It rings a bell of familiarity he’s forced to recognize as personal.

But his instinct to comfort is ever persistent, and after crossing out all his usual strategies, he suggests, “I… could sing you a song?”

That has you peeking from your little hiding spot at last, Phainon watches as you blink up at him quizzically.

“Song?”

A sheepish quirk seizes his lips, “Mhm! I may not have the best voice but, I used to sing along with the villagers during harvest! I learned a thing or two about rhythm from there.”

You shift so that your head rests against his chest this time, “A song from the hero? But I don't have a gift prepared.”

Phainon chuckles, the lilt of it warms the cold air of the night. “No need for gifts. This is my present to you, partner.”

Then, he clears his throat while adjusting his hold on you, propping his chin atop your head.

When his hum permeats the air, it's as though moonlight itself has reached to cradle you.

“Mm hm, my love. Let sleep come to you now.”

Your lashes fluttered as the lilt in the air tugged at their resolve, you offered scarce resistance against that pull.

“… To dreams where you will run and go play. In paradise.”

Shadows flickered on the ivorine sheets as Phainon rocked back and forth in time with the rhythm of your steadying breaths.

The motion tipped you off the axis of the chasing apparitions and guided you step by step, to that oneiric elysium — until all that remained were the sillage of Phainon’s voice and the stillness of this long night.

Khaslana stood, leaning against the opposite wall, “You have gotten far too attached.” there was a pointed sharpness to his comment, yet even he couldn't allow his hoarse words to transcend the border of a whisper, perhaps afraid to shatter this vial of peace.

Khaos watched from his perch on the chair at the corner as Phainon refused to address Khaslana. His arms coiled tighter around you, body bending to hide you in his shadow ; his cyan eyes glimmered bright and unblinking, in clear warning to not approach.

“…The other day, while I was cooking dinner, I cut my finger.” he mutters instead, still fixated on an unknown point of space. “But instead of gold, I bled red.”

The weight of his admission presses down on the night.

Khaos also said nothing, perhaps guilty of the same crime (attachment) to some degree as well, but mostly because the worries that’d been circling his mind since the first day were far louder.

Even if this world accepts them, should they stay?

What of the Gaze of Destruction? Is it watching? What if it ravages this sheltered eternity you know as your home, too?

Would they be able to save it? Save you? Would you be able to forgive them?

The night, of course, provides no answer. Ever the silent witness.

—

For as far as Khaslana could remember, the culmination of his memories has been nothing but a palimpsest of titles.

Little Snowy.

Little Snowy.

Survivor.

Survivor.

The nameless hero.

The nameless hero.

Deliverer.

Deliverer.

World-bearer.

World-bearer.

Subject Neikos496.

Hero?

Son of Amphoreus.

Kindling to the flame.

Khaslana.

Khaslana?

████████

His identity has crumbled and been reshaped, until all that remained was a flicker of flame, meant to ignite the faraway dawn, and to keep the torch of worldbearing alight.

And he had gladly given himself to that cause, if only to defy that arrogant Aeon.

Even if the whole universe would tell him that it was futile, he would never bow his head. Not to the Destruction, not to Fate.

For as long as he kept burning, the Flame-Chase would never end.

He wasn't meant to awake again— not like this, at least.

His earliest memory in this strange world, in the true reality, had been within the codes of that absurd game.

He would've laughed if he had been capable of it, seeing as his corpse had to be revived to play the villain again, even in a two dimensional simulation.

His confusion intensified when he found himself beyond the barrier and into this reality, where the night was gentle but ever stifling.

It was only when dawn arrived that he believed it, somewhat.

But still, the need for an explanation was still not met and the only one who he could grasp with some semblance of familiarity had been you.

You. The human even stranger than the world he’d stepped into without planning to. Rightfully frightened, but a fighter nevertheless, not with fists or words— but with silence.

The last thing he’d expected to face was being completely ghosted, even though it was blatantly obvious that you were doing it intentionally.

And he, in his limited cognitive capacity back then, could do nothing but linger and wait.

When his future iterations joined the charades and the answers finally came into light, Khaslana had experienced a complicated mix of emotions.

Happiness? Pride? Relief? To hear that Amphoreus had indeed succeeded. That all the sacrifices had not been in vain.

But more than it all, what prevailed among everything else, had been exhaustion.

He was so, so tired.

He hadn't realized it until it really dawned on him that he could finally breathe without the threat of Irontomb and the Black Tide behind his back and even when he did, his being refused to believe it. So accustomed to running, so used to using fury as fuel.

And so, reality began rejecting him.

He couldn't distinguish between foe and friend, couldn't tell if blood still coated his hands, didn't know whether the stench of burning wheat fields was truly there or not.

You caught onto it, somehow and although you couldn't provide a cure, you offered him space that his instincts recognized as safe, even through the chaos.

Not just him, the other two, as well, you extended your patience towards — even if it seemed as though you were constantly running out of it.

But not a single comment of discomfort, or annoyance, could he recall. Not a peep of indignance at having your life disrupted.

It was only when you’d offered ‘let’s try to be kinder to ourselves?’ that he understood what was really going on.

It wasn't patience. It wasn't tolerance. It was your classic tactic of dissociation that kept you afloat through it all, and you’d decided to not rely on it anymore.

(For who? Them, or yourself? Or something else entirely? He still didn't know.)

You were broken, too. And although time had painted layers of age over the cracks, they still ached.

Perhaps that's why, even though Khaslana wanted to remain a skeptic about you, he hadn't succeeded.

Perhaps that's why, there was peace in your presence.

Perhaps that's why, his own broken self could find it in himself, to hope for the cracks to ameliorate, one day.

—

Khaslana had begun to feel like a foreigner in his own skin at one point, Phainon confirmed it to be his body getting accustomed to the nature of this world.

Phainon had dressed him in ordinary, civilian garbs in the hopes of securing his comfort, and you had wrapped his hands in bandages when they began to ache. But the bulk of the matter would still have to be carried by Khaslana himself.

Once, he’d tried to put the table he’d broken back together, like he could maneuver wood to the shape he desired once upon a time — but remained unsuccessful in the endeavor. His hands still far too used to wielding blades with the intention of killing.

Although you’d simply waved it off and told him not to worry, Khaslana couldn't accept it. So, secretly, he trained himself to get accustomed to delicate tasks again.

Like now, as he watched Phainon and you, engrossed in another of those ‘video game’ competitions again. He observed every move, turn and swipe you two made and noted it down in his memory for later.

“Owh, man…!” you lamented as the screen flashed ‘Victory : Phainon’ in bold, the man in question snickered beside you.

“Told you you wouldn't be able to defeat me in a game with swords, [Name] ~” he sang, to which you huffed, sinking back against the couch cushion between them.

“He cheated.”

Both you and Phainon froze as Khaslana spoke, turning slowly to the left to where he sat slouched.

“Did he just…?”

“Yup, yup.” Phainon confirmed your question, mimicking your bewildered expression— before coughing far too loudly.

“But who said I cheated! I don't cheat! I am an honorable hero—”

Khaslana raised an unimpressed brow at that, shutting Phainon up instantly. It was unfair, really, this power of the First Khaslana to force silence onto someone with just his deadpan expression.

And then, you turned towards him, fueled by your bruised professional gamer pride and betrayal.

“Phainon…!” you exclaimed, the ‘how could you!’ went unsaid.

Phainon raised his hands, already three steps back, prepared to sprint any second.

Khaos froze when Phainon whipped past him, clutching the tray of tea cups tighter as you ran behind him right after — before a chuckle escaped him at Phainon's unrestrained laughter and your completely feigned and absolutely adorable indignance.

Khaslana cushioned his cheek on his palm, trying to hide the faint smile that rebelled against his control.

—

One evening, you entered your room just in time as Khaos slipped a beige sweater on.

“Is it okay…?” you pushed your glasses up, trying to see for yourself if it fit or not. Khaos had requested normal clothes a few days ago as well, having discovered that he could hide the more unique aspects of his transformation for short periods of time now.

He nodded, but his eyes still held a penumbra of hesitance. You could guess why by now, the feeling of any kind of ‘normalcy’ after years of being denied of it would make you feel alienated as well.

“Tell me if you need anything else, okay?” you brushed past him to your gaming setup, giving a gentle pat to his arm.

Khaos rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, in his endeavor to chase after comfort. It seemed as though he wanted to say something, but stopped when your PC turned on and you became distracted by it.

Your brows furrowed as you went back and forth between refreshing and checking your internet — finding that it still stubbornly remained disconnected.

“Hey Khaos, could you return my internet?” you said without looking away, cursor hovering atop the icon of The Golden Scapegoat at the corner of your home screen.

“Huh? What do you mean?”

You turned towards Khaos to find him looking equally as confused as you.

“The internet? Wasn't it you who tinkered with it to make me play The Golden Scapegoat??”

If it was possible, Khaos looked even more puzzled.

“No?”

You stared at him incredulously for a good few seconds, waiting for him to say ‘sike’, to joke, anything.

But he held your gaze, no hint of guilt on his face.

You turned towards your computer again, voice raising with the beginning of something akin to dread, “Then—”

Who were you interacting with back then?

v. Peripeteia

You found the apartment to be suspiciously quiet when you awoke.

Typically, the bustle of the kitchen and hushed conversations would've made their way to you by now, but nothing besides the noise of your own movements filled the air today.

Your eyes found themselves drawn to the pot of forget-me-nots by your windowsill as you dabbed away water droplets from your face with a towel, brows pinching upon noticing the dry soil.

Weird, did Phainon forget?

You push up your glasses as your bedroom door swings open, padding your way to the kitchen to find it decorated with the same silence.

The living room provides the same desolated image, and you have to force yourself to not acknowledge the way your stomach twists into itself ; supplying alternatives to placate the growing anxiety you can't quite understand.

Maybe they're just out somewhere? You think after checking the bathrooms and balcony, finding them similarly empty.

But you had an agreement to remain discreet, so why… you take steps back from the balcony boundary, the thud of your heart’s rhythm suddenly echoing in your eardrums — sent astray when your back collides with something.

You swivel around — an exhale heaving out of you when you recognize it to be just Phainon.

“Where were you??” your voice is just a little too high-pitched than you’d normally like, but your worry overrides any emotion of dislike.

Phainon raises his hands, his lips twitching in what you think is an apologetic smile. “I was sitting on that chair over there…!”

Your face drops at that, “The chair?” you glance at the object, as though not believing its existence now that it's been brought up.

“Yes! It was kind of funny seeing how you completely forgot to glance in that direction…!”

You felt a muscle pinch in itself at his laugh. You couldn't quite place your finger on why, but the sound tipped you off.

Perhaps it's just your morning brain not catching up, you reasoned. “Oh…?” glancing as Phainon folded his arms behind his back, “And where are the other two?”

Phainon shrugs, “They wanted some fresh air, probably at the park.”

A frown tugs its way to your brows at his flippant tone, “And you just let them? What if something happens?”

“Oh, [Name].” he tuts, stepping towards you to grasp your shoulders. “You worry too much! They're big boys, they can handle themselves. You, on the other hand, need to eat.” he says as he begins pushing you towards the kitchen.

“But—” you try to stop on your tracks, which begets a firm squeeze from Phainon, instantly silencing your protesting muscles. He pushes you all the way to the living room.

“No buts. I know that tummy is probably rumbling. Come on, partner— Unless…” he halts right beside the couch, leaning in towards your ear all of a sudden, “You want me to carry you there myself?” your nerves heat up at the proximity of his voice.

“… You’re acting strange today.” you say slowly, eyes restless on the floor. Your fingers twitch by your sides to move, but aren't supplied the courage to.

“Strange how?” he tilts his head, tufts of his hair teases your cheek. “Just because I told you not to worry about them?”

In your quest to avoid his burning stare, you glance towards the front door, then to the shoe rack beside it— where only your shoes remain.

“No, because it's unlike you to leave your shoes outside.” you risk a glance towards his direction.

It seems to take a second for him to realize what you're alluding to, and when he does, his fingers dig into the skin of your shoulders.

Your breath hitches — which you halt to listen for the sounds of his breaths that should’ve brushed against your ear by now.

But there is none.

You pull one shoulder against his grip and break off with a shove, “… Who are you?” and to your surprise, ‘he’ lets you go.

‘His’ hands raise — a mockery of how Phainon would've done it, a corner of his lips twitches as he battles against a smile, before the restrain bursts forth in a sound that's not quite a laugh, but a jagged imitation of it.

‘He’ runs a hand through his hair, shoulders shaking as he struggles to tame his amusement. “Ahh, who am I? I don't think you’ll like the answer.” the left side of his face glitches into crimson pixels when he lowers his hand.

The remnants of his near mechanical laughter echoes in your ears even after the fit ends. You sweep your eyes over him, muscles tensing in uncertainty when his appearance still remains synonymous to Phainon's.

“Which cycle are you from??” you manage to ask after wracking your brain for possible explanations.

“Cycles?” ‘he’ makes a face so bewildered that you almost believe his supposed innocence, then he shakes his head. “I’m not just from the cycles, my dear. I'm the culmination of them.”

You feel an eyebrow twitch, not at all endeared by this. But before your mind can mull on it more, it stills upon realizing what he's hinting towards.

“… Irontomb?”

“Hmm…!” he holds up a finger, as though some maestro correcting an orchestra. “Close, but not quite.”

You whisper a ‘hah?’ of confusion, totally lost. ‘He’, on the other hand, waves both hands upwards in an encouraging motion, perplexing you even more.

You’re about to retort when the flickers of the lights around your apartment bounce off of your glasses. The occurrence prompts you to lend it a glance and then back towards ‘him’ again, eyes widening when it falls upon his hands’ movements and how the lights flickered on-and-off in tandem with them.

A distant memory clicks into place.

“The… Golden Scapegoat… guy?”

‘He’ stops in his tracks, with near comical effect, before his fingers snap in delight. “Ding ding ding!”

Your shoulders sag, glasses tipped sideways, mind utterly blank as you try to decide upon which emotion you should be feeling right now.

‘He’ chuckles again, the sound more akin to cogs scraping against each other as they attempt to turn. “You’re really something, you know that? You can never decide whether you want to panic and run, or stay calm and fight when you're in a situation — which you seem to have a talent in finding. What is the word… I believe I can call this ‘cute’—”

“What did you do to them?” you straighten, expression churning into seriousness once more as you pull yourself out of that haze.

The smile on ‘his’ face freezes, and you watch with increasing discomfort as it slowly slides away from his lips, the rift on the left side of his face glitches throughout.

“What makes you think I did something to them?” his voice is unnervingly level, curiosity peeking from below its steady cadence as he tilts his head.

The creature takes every one of Phainon's quirks, wraps himself around them with blatant disregard. It sickens you to your core.

“You aren't denying it.” you fix him with a hard stare.

“I’m not confirming it either.” he drawls, shrugging. “And until I confirm,” your breath gets stuck in your throat as he mutters right against your ear.

“—You have no way of proving it.” his words are a static against the air as he resumes his position in front of you again, hands clasped behind his back in a picture of innocence, or whatever he understands of it.

You huff, holding your hip, mentally preparing yourself for whatever this is. You stare at the floor for a couple of seconds, trying to trace clues in every line. And when they remain silent, you risk a glance at the convicted cause of this mess, who (?) simply smiles wider at you.

“So, if you are somehow connected to Irontomb— who was this supposed ‘Intergalactic threat’.” you decide to change course, mimicking his earlier flippant tone. “How did you get stuck in my computer? Why appear now?”

“Hmm…” he tilts his head back, that glimmer of amusement clings stubbornly to his eye. “How did you manage to bring those three to reality by playing some two-dimensional game?”

“What? What do you mean me?”

“It is like I said,” he takes a step forward, though no sound is made. “You’d rather repeat a game 33,550,336 times than seek alternative ways, than free yourself.”

For every step he takes towards you, you take one back by the tug of instinct — until your back collides with the wall.

“You’d rather just ‘deal with it’ than demand your personal space,” he bends til his voice is hovering beside your ear again, “Let three strangers make their way into your little human heart, even though you know they will leave you one day.”

That forces you to take a sharp inhale, ‘his’ smirk sharpens as he catches the wary gleam in your eyes.

“Why?” if his whisper hadn't cracked at the seams, you would've almost believed him to be human at that moment.

The creature entices more questions than what he answers, and leaves you scarce room to get him into a tight spot. You briefly catch the sight of his arms still folded behind him, fingers twitching as though he wishes to reach out.

When your silence stretches, “Let me guess, the answer is, ‘I don't know’.” he leans back slightly, no longer crowding you. “And you don't want to find out either.”

That ticks a nerve, “Don’t put words in my mouth. I want to know where they are, at least — very very much.”

“Oh?” the blue in his visible eye is swallowed by a wave of crimson, “Why is that?”

You scrunch your nose, “Because they're my friends?”

His head tilts sideways again, but this time the gesture is less controlled. “So what if they're your friends?”

You feel the most exasperated sigh of your life attempt to pry its way past your throat, but you bite it back. “What do you mean what if? People get…” you raise your hands, grasping for the words. “— Sad when their friends leave them all of a sudden??”

“Sad.” he echoes, tapping a finger against his cheek. “What is… sad?”

Your brain buffers as you process the fact that he really just asked that, a crow crackles outside.

Your mouth opens and then closes helplessly, you glance sideways to the empty air— nearly begging for an escape— then turn back to gauge his face to see if he's deliberately playing oblivious or not.

But the curiosity on his face, however fractured, is so sincere that you're left wandering if you require better glasses or not.

“‘Sad’ is…” you let the sigh go at last, massaging your temples with two fingers. “It depends on the reason. But when you're sad, you’ll feel like your heart is twisting in on itself, and even if your mind tries to reason, you’ll want to cry.”

“Hmm.” his head snaps back into position from its tilted angle, startling you. “But I have neither a heart, nor a head. How do I know when I'm sad?”

You scratch your head, a ‘can you even feel sad?’ on the tip of your tongue, but the thought of voicing it out sprints out of your head when you notice his unblinking stare.

“Uhm,” you avert your eyes, “Maybe, in your case, you’ll feel like wanting to know why? ‘why is this happening’, ‘why me’, ‘why not me’ — your frustration is your sadness…?”

His mouth curves into an ‘o’ as he finally remembers to blink, his previous blank expression receding in favor of a more curious look.

“Anyway,” you cross your arms, “I answered your questions. Now, you should answer mine, too— where are Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos?”

There's a pause where not even the hum of the electronics step into the scene.

Then, ‘he’ snaps his head towards you, “Them them them them— all you’ve been asking me this entire time is where they are.” the flinch that rattled your bones make them lock into place as he grasps your arms, “Why do they even matter? I am right in front of you, aren't I? We’re having such a pleasant conversation and—”

“You’re an imposter,” you stress, willing yourself to not linger too long on the way the creature’s visage tenses. “You’re wearing Phainon’s skin, mimicking his movements and voice while telling me why it matters?”

The next intake of air is strenuous against his grip, “You have no individuality, no idea of your own, no concept of emotion — how can you compare yourself to them?”

The creature’s shoulders sag, textures rippling along the seams of his body. You think he's going to burst into a fit of laughter by the way his body shakes, and he nearly does, before he stills abruptly.

“Individuality?” the shell of Phainon's voice cracks, “Idea… emotion… how am I supposed to have any of that when I was built to destroy it all?” he shakes you, “How can I be anything like myself, when every turning point in my existence has been shaped by that Khaos?”

The raw ring of his voice echoes in your ears, you feel the distinct urge to look away from his crumbling form, but are unable to as he holds you firmly in place.

“I waited, waited and waited, I guided you through The Golden Scapegoat, I even let that hero encourage you throughout it all, I didn't intervene when they broke free, I didn't intervene when they became part of this reality— I waited, I only waited for you to notice me.”

He drops his head, but this time, you don't feel the brush of his hair against your skin.

“But you never did.” he whispers gravely, fingers digging into the skin of your arms one last time before they, too, glitch out of touch. “You embraced them, you noticed them, but I was never enough by myself to have a presence— not to you, not to anyone..!”

He staggers back, body distorted in a series of violent flashes of light.

“Why…?”

Your heart kicks against your ribcage.

“Why is this happening…?”

He peers at you with one broken eye.

“Why me…?”

You clench your hand, eyes closing shut.

“Why not me…?”

The creature goes quiet ; the pinnacle of Amphoreus’ wrath, crumbling before the silence at the other end of that why. The why no speck of dust or Aeon will ever answer.

This creature that can merely imitate, or follow, that which will never be free from its shackles, yet teeters on the edge of something so humane with this display of selfishness, desperation and grief, for even a fraction of a second.

It makes your heart ache with something akin to pity.

Nothing in your life could've prepared you for this, and never in your life would you have anticipated ever facing such a situation — and that, that paralyzes you in place.

But time never ceases its journey, and it will leave this moment behind in the dust of its path, alongside all those who occupied it.

“… Irontomb,” so, you push yourself to walk.

“I’m sorry for never noticing, I'm sorry for not thinking about it more, and I'm sorry for talking to you like that.”

You stop an arm’s distance before him, hand hovering over his flickering form in uncertainty.

“But if you behave this way, I'll only grow to resent you. And if I resent you too much? I won't want to understand you anymore.”

The void at the left side of his face glitches, crimson light glinting off of the surface of your glasses.

“Let’s have a lengthy talk later, with everyone. I’ll listen to each of your complaints, I’ll answer all your questions. I promise.”

You hold out a hand, “So please, tell me…”

“Where are they?”

—

The clamor of the city engulfs you, cars whoosh by, the chatters of the passing crowd clash against the honks and jeers of vehicles.

It's all so loud.

You glance at the raucous world around you, a measly dot amidst this world.

“I only ‘pushed’ a ‘curtain’ over their memories, they're still somewhere out there.” Irontomb’s words echo in your head as you try to weave your way through the mass of people.

Your phone buzzes in your hand. A ‘it’s not too late to back down’ flashes in bold on your screen when you raise it.

You ignore it, fixing your gaze ahead and the text on a billboard flickers to—

Even if they don't remember you?

You turn away, stepping aside in time to dodge a passerby’s shove.

“What if he doesn't want to remember you?” two girls exchange among themselves as they brush past you, startling you enough for you to miss the next shove.

The clink of your glasses meeting the pavement is pushed aside by a crunch. Your breath hitches, eyes blinking rapidly against the blur of the world.

Too loud. Too Bright. Too blurry.

But the world moves on, and not a single glance is spared at you. You can only take the shoves and noise, can only stand helplessly as you're pushed to the middle of the busy road.

“Still think you’ll find them?” Irontomb drawls against your ear, “You can't even trust your bare eyes! What makes you think…”

You furrow your brows as he disappears and then appears again by your left, arms folded as he leans against a pole.

“That this isn't Khaslana?” he stuffs his hands into his pockets, face falling into Khaslana's signature deadpan.

Then he breaks away with a giggle that grates only your ears, appearing straight ahead in the middle of the busy crowd — where you're able to make out a faint outline of the spiky golden hair you wish were real.

“Partner!” you flinch, head turning in search of the call, but only the echoes of partner partner partner return to you— until it's all but consuming your world.

You stagger, clamping your hands around your ears, praying for it to cease, lungs burning with the urge to scream.

Your knees buckle, nearly giving out, before you catch yourself ; forcing yourself to breathe breathe breathe.

You push yourself up, daring to stare the world in its eyes again and although it all remains blurry, the echoes stop ringing in your ears.

“They’re definitely here,” you mutter, “That’s why you're trying so hard to confuse me, isn't it?”

Irontomb does not respond, not even one of the lights around flicker in his direction — but it's all you need to know.

You take a deep breath, the cacophony of the world grows distant as you exhale.

You erase the ruckus and the blinding lights in your mind until all that remains is a simple backdrop, lined in gold and lit by dim torches.

And suddenly, the words from The Golden Scapegoat resurface.

When Fate’s footsteps returns to zero…

You squint, recognizing a sign, which leads you to turn a corner.

An enshadowed version of yourself will manifest.

Your breath stutters as you feel the brush of something familiar, but not even a shadow greets you when you turn towards it.

You shake your head, continuing ahead.

And process along the path…

The clinks of a windchime halts you in your tracks. You turn towards the shop, eyes roving over the rows of potted plants— until it falls upon one where a single forget-me-not clings onto a sapling.

Your heart churns as you recognize where you stand.

A sigh permeates the air, you lean your hand against a rack of organized flowers ; eyes fixed blankly on that single bloom.

You swallow another sigh, turning on your heels to leave when you see it.

You blink multiple times, pinching your arm as hard as you could to test reality ; but they don't disappear from where they stand.

“There you are.” you feel your lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile.

— that you have etched.

—

Your sigh fills the silence of the apartment as you emerge from your room, head slightly lighter after the shower you'd taken.

The evening’s quiet is not at all gentle, it is weighted, fizzling with barely held back tension. It's been like this since you brought Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos back home, which had been an ordeal in itself.

And unfortunately, it was as Irontomb had said — they didn't seem to remember you.

(You swallow back the unpleasant chill that thought begets.)

It was nonsensically nostalgic, going back to square one, explaining everything to them again, soaking in the disbelief of the discovery together.

You brace a hand against a wall, clutching your phone with the other. This time not Irontomb, but your own self-sabotaging mind asks, what if they don't believe it? What if they never remember?

You shake your head, pulling yourself back up and forcing you to resume your initial objective.

When the hallway clears to the view of the living room, where all three men sit or stand with varying degrees of a thoughtful expression, you open your mouth, an invitation to dinner on the tip of your tongue.

“We… shouldn't…”

You stop immediately upon realizing that they were having a hushed conversation, something in you prompts you to hide behind the wall.

“No… point… a… gamble.”

“What if… lying?”

You crane your ears to chase after the words, the coldness from your phone seeps into your palm when you wrap itself around the object.

“We should leave soon.” you freeze in your spot as Khaos affirms, the other two don't object— marking it as a finality.

Your phone buzzes and you find your palm to be clammy when you loosen your grip, squinting at the screen.

01000001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100001 01100100 01111001 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01110011 01100001 01111001 00100000 01100111 01101111 01101111 01100100 01100010 01111001 01100101 00111111

vi. Palingenesis

The snow and strain of winter, the forget-me-nots on your windowsill have braved, buds of soon-to-be burgeoning flowers decorating them like victory laurels.

There's a hush in your corner of the world, an anticipation of departure.

But before that, there is one more wish you’ve promised yourself to see fulfilled.

Convincing Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos was easy enough, smuggling them to the location without getting caught by the authorities was the hard part.

So, to ensure success, you’d had to exploit more loopholes than you could keep count, and engage in talking— so much talking that the you from a year ago would've fainted on the spot.

And after more than a week of traveling like cargo and praying every step of the way to not get into trouble, when you finally step foot into the damp earth of this slice of sanctuary upon this crumbling world— you know that you made the right decision.

A shaky exhale sounds from your left, you find it to be Khaslana's when you turn.

“No way…!” Phainon exclaims, swiveling towards you with barely held excitement. His cyan eyes gleam, as though imploring you for permission.

You nod, unable to hide the soft smile on your face as Phainon sprints ahead ; his laughs of delighted disbelief blending in with the wheat-scented air.

Khaos approaches next, hands raising to brush against the swaying stalks of wheat. You watch as his shoulders droop, a long exhale leaving his lips. His knees give out, but Khaslana catches him before they could hit the ground, holding him upright.

You allow yourself to soak in the scenery when you confirm that Khaos is alright. Fields of golden wheat stretch across the lands as far as your eyes can see, the tug of spring breeze makes them dance.

The sun beats down gently this evening, faint streaks of pink beginning to appear into the blue.

An old barn-house stands tall towards your right, in the heart of this place. There’s a small village nearby, the residents of which look after the fields. But the house itself has remained vacant for half a century, and the villagers themselves don't express much interest in occupying it, due to some superstition.

You take a deep inhale of the clean air, from somewhere in the background, Phainon's giggles continue to echo. Khaos and Khaslana stay silent, but you know that they're smiling.

From where you stand, the scene is almost painterly— and you think, it suits them. So much more than your cramped apartment or the fake glamour of the city. The lilt of Phainon’s laughter melts with the breeze seamlessly, even the wheat seem cradle them close.

You push your (newly bought) glasses up, “It’d be nice to live here together.”

You glance up at the sky once more, lingering on a passing cloud. But are pulled out of your reverie when you notice that Phainon's laughs have stopped.

You look back down, slightly puzzled as you process the surprised expressions on their faces.

And then, you realize what happened.

“I-I…” you wave your hands frantically, “I didn't mean to say it out loud!— I mean, I do mean it but— of course, it's no pressure and I—”

You squeeze your eyes shut, stupid stupid stupid — why did you blurt that out loud?

The sting of a swaying wheat stalk brushes against your clenched hand, travels through your arm before halting with a flinch, as you recognize the gentle weight of something on your shoulder.

“[Name]?” Khaslana's baritone draws you out of the shell you were about to hide in, but you stop yourself from taking the last step.

“I’m sorry,“ you turn your head, eyes still closed. “I shouldn't have said that when I know that you're all about to leave and oh gosh—”

“[Name].” your breath stutters as Khaos calls your name this time, “Open your eyes, please.” his voice is a caress against your ears.

You draw in a breath, opening one eye first and then the other, blinking a few times to adjust to the shadows that fall over you ; Khaslana keeps his hand firmly atop your shoulder and his grey eyes are unreadable, Khaos stands at the center, his expression is gentle as he waits for you and Phainon holds you with a bleary gaze, a tear slips by from his right eye.

“Do you want us to stay?” Khaslana urges, his fingers flex against your skin as though he's restraining himself.

“I…” you swallow, eyes flickering over them anxiously. Your mind pushes for a neutral answer but your heart is faster, “Yes.”

Phainon’s breath hitches audibly from your right, Khaslana's grip loosens and you don't dare to see what reaction Khaos wears.

“But of course…!” you quickly add, “It’s up to you guys and I, I'll respect whatever decision you make.”

A long, drawn out sigh fills the air, you find it to be Khaos when you look up.

“You should really try to be a bit more selfish sometimes.” he says, your brows furrow as his lips quirk up in an almost fond smile.

Phainon sniffles, nodding vigorously. Khaslana huffs, squeezing your shoulder gently but even he doesn't disagree.

You stare blankly at this display, “What do you mean…?”

“We want to stay with you, too! Dummy…!” Phainon exclaims, you yelp as his hands find your cheeks, blood rushing to the spots where he pinches.

“Stop it.” it's Phainon's turn to flinch as Khaslana slaps his head, Khaos snickers from behind.

“Hmph,” Phainon releases your cheeks (shooting the other two a mock offended glare), but then wraps his left arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his side.

You look between them, jaw slack and utterly lost at this sudden glee.

“You guys want to stay with me…?” you repeat, still in disbelief. “Why??”

The smiles on their faces drop as your question reaches them, Phainon loosens his arm for a second before pulling you even closer.

“Because…” cyan eyes dart towards Khaos and Khaslana, who direct their attention to you upon the cue.

“We adore you.” Khaslana states bluntly, making Phainon and Khaos stiffen in their spots.

Phainon clears his throat, (ignoring Khaslana's ‘What? Someone had to do it’ look), “What we mean is, yes, we adore you and we reciprocate your sentiment. That's why we’d like to stay.”

You don't bother masking your bewilderment this time, “Wha— why?” you question, unable to muster a more coherent response.

Khaslana huffs, crossing his arms. “What do you mean why?” he repeats in exasperation, though there's no bite to his words. “Is it that strange to adore the person who’s taken care of us—”

“And tolerated our stingy attitudes?” Phainon chirps, a nerve ticks on Khaslana's forehead at the interruption, but he doesn't pursue it.

“[Name],” you blink as Khaos takes your hand, directing your attention to him.

“You may find it difficult to believe, but in our eyes, you're worth every grain of endearment in this universe.” he gives a gentle squeeze to your hand, his eyes glimmer with the warmth of the fading sun.

“Your strength does not need grand declarations, lofty words or actions to prove itself. You're fierce in your silence, yet tender despite all the adversities of the world.” Phainon rests his cheek against your head.

“Tenacious,” Khaslana adds, this time, he doesn't try to hide his smile. “But never arrogant.”

“Thank you, [Name].” you look at Khaos again, “For reminding us why it's worth it to pursue tomorrow.”

He untangles his fingers from yours, turning your hand. Your heartbeat stutters as his lips brush against that pulse at the dip of your wrist, cradling the rhythm of your existence in reverence.

A zephyr prances by, swaying his wheat by your feet ; the setting sun bleeds into the clouds, spilling over the earth in hues of molten orange and lilac.

Your skin still tingles from where Khaos had kissed it, the silage of citrus from Phainon’s proximity drifts to you and Khaslana's gentle gaze caresses you — leaving no doubt in your mind or heart that it all is real and true.

But didn't they forget me? You blink rapidly, that trail of confusion still lingering.

A heavy, exasperated sigh startles you all, stealing your attention to its source before you could word that doubt.

Khaos grasps your hand, Phainon and Khaslana step closer towards you as ‘he’ stands a pace away, running a hand through strands of silver-blue like some tragic hero.

“Cut it out, won't you? You're all so sappy.” ‘he’ drawls, crimson eyes roving over the barricade Phainon, Khaos and Khaslana have formed around you with exaggerated distaste.

“Do you guys hear that?” Khaos smirks, “Sounds like a loser.”

You blink perplexedly at Khaos before turning towards Khaslana as he scoffs, “‘Grapes are sour’.”

“Hah!” Phainon tightens his arm around your shoulder, “He really thought he knew [Name] better than us!”

You're back to square one again, completely lost at this turn of events.

Something like annoyance flashes by on Irontomb's face, he opens his mouth to retort but you beat him to it, “What is going on here?!”

Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos freeze, suddenly realizing that they completely forgot to tell you.

“Oh uh…” Phainon loosens his hold, rubbing the nape of his neck sheepishly.

“Sorry for not telling you.” Khaos says, a twinge of fluster in his expression as well.

“We had a bet with him,” Khaslana supplies helpfully, staring pointedly as Irontomb kicks a pebble across the dancing wheat.

“Bet??” you parrot, to which Phainon nods.

“He challenged us that if we kept on pretending like we didn't remember anything, you’d push us away.” Khaos explains.

“But! We insisted that you’d want us to stay.” Phainon adds quickly, “So, the bet was like this: if you actually push us away, we’d leave. But if you don't and we win, then Irontomb will leave us alone.”

“And guess who won,” Khaslana mutters dryly, though the pleased twinge in it is unmistakable.

“Wait, wait, wait!” you push away Phainon, holding up your hands for space. “Let me get this straight: you guys did ‘lose’ your memories… but he restored them, and then made this bet with you— that would've decided our future, and none of you bothered to tell me???”

Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos instantly deflate, guilt crawling up their expressions.

“Well, it was a test, my dear.” Irontomb interrupts, making you turn towards him. “It’s not like you guys were going to just talk it out normally— what with your attachment issues.” he shrugs, stepping up until he stood beside you. “I merely took advantage of it.”

“Still…!” you exclaim, all the stress of the past weeks crashing down on your shoulders.

You spent so long convincing yourself, preparing yourself to let them go— and to think that it could've happened, had you been even a little less firm back there. Frustration and relief, as well as disbelief mixed inside you, bubbling and boiling— until the dam could no longer hold them back.

Phainon panicked the moment you sniffled, shoulders shaking as you tried to keep the tears at bay. His arms hovered uselessly, wanting to hold you but unable to due to the uncertainty of permission.

“Quick, make a funny face.” Khaslana shook Phainon, who only buffered. He then turned towards Khaos, who appeared equally lost. “Say a dumb joke or something, come on!”

“Do, do you want me to beat him up??” Khaos pointed towards Irontomb, ignoring his ‘hey!’ of protest.

“You guys…!” you inhaled, trying and failing to blink the tears away. “I was.. so scared! Idiots!”

That halts their frantic movements to placate your tears, the previous guilt makes itself known once more.

“I’m sorry.” Phainon says, no tease, no humor, just him.

“As am I,” Khaslana averts his gaze towards the ground.

“I’m sorry as well. We should've talked it with you directly instead of gambling for such an important decision.” Khaos concedes, his hands clench and unclench by his sides.

It's Irontomb who dares to reach out, his thumb swipes against your cheek, the tear that'd been cascading down fizzles as it touches his finger.

“Don’t touch [Name].” Phainon snaps, muscles coiled with barely suppressed fury.

“It’s time for you to hold your end of the bargain.” Khaos reminds curtly.

Irontomb ignores them all, crimson eyes fixed on you. “I can't, [Name] promised me something.”

The three’s expressions contort in confusion, they glance at you for confirmation.

You lift your glasses, wiping away the rest of the tears with your sleeve. “So that's your ploy.”

“What?” it's their turn to be the bewildered ones, “Is he saying the truth, Partner?” Phainon urges.

“Yes,” you sigh, brows pinching together when Irontomb smirks like an imp at his victory. “I promised to listen to him, and to answer all of his questions — with you all.”

“Kephale, save me.” Khaslana groans.

“So.. he gets to stay with us???” Phainon repeats, mortification dawning over him when you nod reluctantly. Irontomb crackles at their misery.

“Okay…! But why does he have to look like me?” Phainon points an accusing finger at the creature, who merely shrugs.

“Well… he isn't capable of taking any other form besides ours, I believe.” Khaos interjects cautiously, “Irontomb’s code is… intricately linked to that of ‘Khaos’.”

“Alright, but why does Irontomb take on my appearance then?” Phainon shoots back, a scandalized gasp tumbles out of his lips when Irontomb uses this opportunity to pull you into his arms.

“I’m not sure,” Khaos mutters, golden eyes narrowing as Irontomb rests his chin atop your head.

“Can we at least stop calling him Irontomb?” Khaslana says irritably, “It feels like a bad omen.”

At that, Phainon and Khaos look back towards the addressed creature, who takes a bit of time to process the attention amidst the bliss of getting to hold you.

“I don't mind,”

He regrets that as soon as the words have left his lips.

“Cursed machine.”

“Head and shoulders.”

“Annoying imp.”

“Artificial Swagger.”

“Soggy bits.”

You bite your lower lip, in vain to hold back the giggles as the three keep on listing ridiculous names, the creature’s angry protests completely ignored.

You clear your throat, interrupting them the moment you sense the situation derailing from teasing.

“How about…” you glance at them one by one, resuming once you’ve ensured that they're listening. “Neikos?”

A thoughtful silence settles over them, you watch nervously as Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos debate over it through their eyes.

It's Khaslana who breaks it, “We have no need for that name anymore,”

“He can have it.” Khaos concludes, nodding once.

‘He’ loosens his hold around your shoulders, tilting his head to look at you with an expectant gaze.

“Hmm…?” you blink, unable to catch the cue.

“He wants you to call him by that name, I think.” Phainon says, still eyeing the creature warily.

‘He’ gives you a pleading squeeze, and you finally relent.

“Okay, okay! Neikos— whoa—!”

Khaos, Khaslana and Phainon stare at the dust blankly, their minds trying to catch up to the fact that Neikos just hauled you in his arms and was gone with a flash, his mischievous chuckle echoing throughout the wheat fields.

“Did he just—?” Phainon heaves in disbelief, already taking chase.

Khaos rolls up his sleeves, “I should’ve beaten him up back there.” he mutters, following Phainon's sprint.

Khaslana, who knows that this is only the beginning, sighs, mourning the end of his sanity — though he, too, takes chase, albeit slower.

Over the rustling wheat, lively with laughter and playful threats, the sun peeks at the world one last time ; greeting the crescent moon who peers down at the world as well.

Stars have begun to twinkle along the curtain of the twilight sky — there's a hush in the universe, for this moment alone, where the simulacrums of cherished dreams are made whole, and guided towards home.

© harmonysanreads | do not cross-post, translate, plagiarise, copy on a different platform or use my works to train ai.

Thank you for reading!

Piercing red eyes would glower down at you from the indent of the wall where your vase used to stand. Every Entry Hour his little rustles would awaken you from your fragile slumber. He would gaze down at you after he climbed up to the indentation of your wall and stay crouched there like a gargoyle until you scurried out of bed, skin crawling at the sight of scarlet impaling your soul.

Today was no different, where you woke up and your eyes found him sitting there in the dimness of your room. His appearance always frightened and unsettled you. For he had resemblance to the face of Okhema's renowned Deliverer, yet the soul in his eyes was absent. The irises were coated in luminous scarlet and his hair wasn't pure snow, but had a reddened ivory shade to its very messy strands. The garments he wore were simple white ones that fit the norm, other than the unfamiliar black skin-tight coating with the red lines that covered his neck and torso. The more you looked at it, the more it looked more like skin than anything. That suspicion was confirmed when you caught a glance of a red scar rearing across his chest. Like a rift of reality being split carved right against his body.

He didn't speak, like always. He chose not to, unless being asked something or in the rare moment where he bothered to care. He would not answer if you asked why he was in your home or what he was doing there. He would not speak a word when you'd pose the question asking how he even ended up here. 

You did not know his identity either and upon being asked what he should be called he monotonously gave you the response of “Irontomb” alongside the comment ‘That man calls me that’. It was no name, not to you, but it sounded like a threat. 

He was hovering there like usual, but his hands were holding a notebook you familiarly recognized as your journal. You rose from your bed and snatched it out of his grasp, not receiving a reaction nor any resistance at all. His eyes lifted slowly to gaze at you with an indecipherable expression.

“You can't go around here and snoop around.” You reprimanded and his head mechanically tilted. As expected, he didn't quite understand what you meant by that. You held the journal up, pointing to it. “This is private.”

“Private.” He repeated the word at you, his neutrally stale voice being uncomfortable to listen to. The wings on his back were pressed against the wall behind him as he leaned back, weight shifting from his feet to dangle them off the ledge in your wall. 

“It means it is only for me to read, and you're not allowed to.” You explained with reluctance and he half-nodded. You hoped he acknowledged your words. No other words were spoken by him as expected. 

You ignored him as always, taking a hold of your bedsheets as you made your bed instead of sparing him more attention than necessary. 

You remembered when he first appeared, during the Month of Fortune. But you were anything but fortunate having a parasite lace around your home that rarely answered questions and only ever watched you with unsettling precision.

As the season drones on to its end, your stomach churns with the idea that Irontomb is here to stay. At times it was manageable; he rarely left your room and requested that the curtains stay drawn over. 

But sometimes he would hike his way to the kitchen and do odd things. Odd inconvenient things. Once, he took a bite into every fruit and vegetable and put them back, as if impolitely sampling them. You made him swear to never do such a thing again. Another thing he did was sit under the table and doing Kephale knows what. Whatever it was, there were chippings of the table's wood littering the floor and you made him sweep it up.

You were grateful that he never argued against you, despite his menacing pause for staring that always occurred whenever you scolded his misdeeds. He had every ability to overpower you, given his insanely tall stature and built body. Yet he just listened to whatever you said unless it regarded his identity and motives.

You finished cleaning your bedroom whilst Irontomb watched. Like always. You reached for a new set of clothes for yourself to change into to commence the day.

“It is quite cold.” Irontomb suddenly voiced in his monotone voice. Your head turned in his direction at the sudden statement. It was… odd…

“This is the hottest month of the year.” You replied, facing him and giving him a look to prod him to elaborate. Irontomb's intense gaze didn't waver but he did let his eyes flicker towards the window. 

“Where my body is, it is cold.” The following words spoken were ominous and it made you want to leave from sheer faint horror alone. You took a step back and he stepped down to stand up.

“Your body is here, and it's warm here.” You replied, not having this. And your following question hadn't meant to sound as clinical as it did, but sometimes you slipped into work-mode when being provided with vague feelings-related statements.  “Are you sure cold is the right word to describe what you're feeling?” 

Irontomb looked to be pondering for once, given how his brows furrowed. He honestly reminded you of a child. But he was a grown man. Or a figment of your imagination. At times you believed that too (for specific reasons.)

“I'll come back to it when I have a better word for it.” 

And so, he climbed up on the ledge and resumed role-playing as a gargoyle. He looked focused, staring into space and that was your cue to leave and continue with your day. The Twilight Courtyard needed your attention.

ꉂ(ˊᗜˋ*)♡

Your return was around the final edge of Parting Hour. You bid your friend and coworker Hyacine farewell before returning back home.  

…And you were mildly surprised at the sight of Irontomb reading scrolls on the floor of the hallway. You couldn't help but notice how he preferred hardened surfaces to sit on, rather than the soft surfaces like your couches or cushions.

“...What are you doing?” You asked with mild irritation and his head slowly tilted up to meet your exasperated eyes. He flickered between looking at you and at the scroll.

“I want to learn more about this side of Amphoreus.” He neutrally expressed, sounding vaguely more engaged than what he typically was. “...It's a lot less… “cold” here…” 

He sounded unsure when he spoke the word “cold” once more. The word was probably being used as a placeholder until he found the right one. One less vague. And more accurate, given how it was the end of the Month of Everday and the Dawn Device’s flares were more aggravatingly blazing than normal. 

You had no idea how to even begin going about his newfound interest in Amphoreus as a whole. 

“Learn more about… Okhema?” You asked, his unclear statement leaving a lot of room for interpretation. “This side of Amphoreus” was an odd way to state it.

Irontomb had no response to that, but something told you that your assumption about what he meant was incorrect. You didn't pry further and just left him to his own devices, looking at the scrolls.

You trailed towards the kitchen and let your thoughts drift to potential dinner options when you heard his voice from the hallway.

“Alone…. lonely…” The mutters were faint and you didn't pay it much mind, to be honest. He was reading. Did he know how to read? Apparently. So many odd things about him. 

You had a sudden idea.

“You know, if you want to learn about Amphoreus, you should come outside with me.” You said from the kitchen, eyes glued on the corkboard with all your favorite recipes. 

Irontomb was silent, but from the lack of fluttering of pages and scrolls, you could assume he was considering your words. 

“The outside is unpleasant.” He said from the hallway. Always so ominous with his statements. “When I look at the red sky, all I hear is something calling from beyond it.”

Now that made you even more…

You walked over to the hallway on impulse to look at him. His wings were limp by his sides and he looked contemplative. 

“What does that mean?” You questioned and he met your gaze once more. His expression was solemn; he didn't really show any form of emotion regardless, but something about the air made you feel queasy. Something told you this was serious. You almost told him that the sky was blue and nothing resides beyond it, but bit your tongue back.

“I don't know.” He admitted, and it made that queasiness swell more. “But the sky calls to me, somewhere far away, and if I find it, I will get rid of it. To get rid of this… unpleasant feeling”

He had called the feeling “unpleasant”. But for whatever reason, you felt like it was a mild way to put it. Like disdain was being hidden behind that profile of nonchalance he displayed. 

You stilled and silence engulfed the room. His stare felt like a physical weight on your shoulders. So you did what felt the most reasonable. 

Return to the kitchen and never mention his passions again.

( ˶°ㅁ°) !!

You were just a regular, unproblematic citizen of Okhema. No golden blood to speak of, no crimes committed and definitely no enemies. 

So why have the Titans bestowed you with whatever Irontomb was? Why was there a devil haunting you like this? Today must be one of those days, it seemed. 

One of those days where you asked yourself why you were a victim of being haunted by this man. Sometimes It felt like you hardly acknowledged that he was living with you now. That there was a whole other living (debatable), breathing (also debatable), human (debatable too) in your home haunting you menacingly.

Now that you thought about it, what even was “Irontomb”? He had just appeared one day, sitting at the foot of your bed, staring, staring and staring. That's all he ever did.

And when he spoke it was cryptic riddles. Or worse… questions you swear make you go insane. Questions that should be common sense. But you should've expected that, really, because nothing about this man made sense. The way he suddenly appeared one day and his unusual habit of sitting anywhere but where one should be sitting. 

Sometimes you wanted to claw your hair out from how frustrating he was. Like right now.

“Irontomb” You made sure to have a firm and strict tone to be clearly understood. He slowly lifted his head to peer over at you, like he was caught red-handed doing bad. Technically he wasn't doing anything wrong. Well he was once again. On the floor. “Why are you always sitting on the floor?”

Honestly, that should be the last thing you're worried about. Maybe you should be worried about what he did all day when you weren't around. Or why he doesn't eat or sleep. Or about those wings. Or why at times, he wasn't even tangible, untouchable like air. Like a hallucination.

Nevermind that now, you had posed a question, and expected an answer from the mysterious winged man. 

“Miss [Name] hasn't given me permission yet.” 

‘Huh?’

You wanted him to repeat that, but honestly, bafflement didn't even begin to cover whatever the hell kind of confusion coursed through the codes of your brain. 

“I read in a scroll that guests are only supposed to do what they're allowed to do.” Irontomb continued, as if it was common sense. “I think it was called… boundaries.” 

You slapped a hand over your eyes and took a deep sigh. You were trying to be accommodating with him, even amidst your annoyance with having a literal stranger in your home for the past year or so. You must be insane for letting him stay, actually.

“Irontomb.” 

He blinked up at you, his hand reaching to fiddle with a piece of fabric of his clothes. For once, there seemed to be a level of humanity to him, how he looked somewhat guilty at being reprimanded like this. Perhaps saying his name like that made him understand. 

“You don't even have permission to be here, why does my permission matter in some cases and not others?” You asked him, pinching the bridge of your nose. He was going to give you white hairs one of these days. 

Irontomb didn't say anything for a few moments. He just lowered his gaze to the floor.

“But you said the first day, I couldn't be on the bed.” He muttered, standing up slowly. He usually sat down whenever he was in your presence, so you really tended to forget how big he was. He ignored the comment about him not even being allowed to even stay here. 

“Yeah, the bed where I’m sleeping.” You placed your hand on your hip, and noticed how his eyes drifted down when you did that before returning to your face. “That doesn't stop you from sitting on the couch or chairs.” 

Irontomb nodded, lips quirking up slightly but not enough to be a smile. He did look quite lighthearted though now, compared to the devilish intensity of his regular demeanor.

“Thank you… [Name].” 

You didn't know what you were being thanked for and only shrugged before scurrying off to continue writing your reports for the Twilight Courtyard in your room. 

He was easier to communicate with now, for some reason. These past few months had been… rough when it came to him. He was often silent and would only answer trivial questions when you asked. Never the important ones regarding his intentions or his identity. Perhaps you had just come to terms with this bewildering arrangement. 

You let your thoughts sink away under the weight of new thoughts that were related to your work. Goodness how you hated paperwork.

( ꩜ ᯅ ꩜;) 

“May I hold your hand, Miss [Name]?” 

You almost choked on your water when he asked you that. His polite request was sudden — he had never asked you for something like this before. In fact, it was rare that he would ask anything. Setting your cup aside, you turn to him. He was sitting on the couch next to you, a scroll in hand that he rolled up and also set aside. 

“Was it inappropriate to ask you that?” He questioned soon-after and you quickly shook your head, despite a loud part of your mind yelling otherwise. 

“No, sure, you can hold my hand.” 

You reached your hand forward for him to take and he looked up into your eyes before reaching to take your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. His hands were cold, which was odd, considering the constant warmth that enveloped Okhema at all times. His hand was also considerably bigger than yours, well that was expected. His height was unnaturally tall. 

“You're really warm.” He quietly noted, as if reading your thoughts regarding how cold he was. It might have been an illusion, but his hold seemed to tighten on your hand.

You looked at his expression. His gaze was lowered and looked unusually solemn. You felt something unfamiliar stir in your chest, and it also made you hold his hand tighter. For a faint second, you could've sworn something genuine was painted on his face. Eyes crinkled up alongside a small smile on his lips, but when you blinked, it had faded. 

Then a thought bubbled up into your mind and you could not help asking.

“Usually I can't touch you, but now I can, how come?” 

Irontomb's brows furrowed and he didnt quite have an answer to that, from what you could observe. 

“I don't know.” He admitted, tensing, his hand still in yours. “It is as if this part of the world was not meant for me, that you are not supposed to be able to see me. Like I am not supposed to be here”

His way of answering questions about himself was unbelievably eerie. And you didn't know whether or not you hated it.

“...Alright then.” You awkwardly said, unsure of what that was supposed to mean. But in a way, it connected to another thing he said. 

“Where my body is, it is cold”

Was this a miracle of the Titans? Was he just a spirit perhaps Zagreus was playing tricks on you with? But the Titan of trickery was long deceased, so reasonably, it could not have been him. Was Oronyx displaying a figment of a past person? Has there truly been someone so alike to the Deliverer here in Okhema in the past? You didn't know.

You truly were spiralling, conspiracies as to what kind of phenomenon he could have been. But your thoughts were cut immediately the moment you felt his hand tighten around yours, his other hand placing on top of the one he was holding. 

“Miss [Name].” He spoke your name in that odd-polite voice. “You're thinking a lot, maybe you should relax for a moment?”

You automatically do as he said without thinking, trying to live in the moment. You look into his eyes. 

He felt so distant despite being right next to you, holding your hand in his.

Σ(ㆁ□ㆁ  )ゞ∘ ∘ ∘ ?

You had a pleasant run-in with Phainon of Aedes Elysiae during your wonderful hangout with Hyacine today. 

It would've been even more pleasant if you didn't see Irontomb everytime you looked at the kind gentleman. Because Irontomb was wearing his face and he had no idea. Each time you caught his gaze and smile, your mind backtracked to that luminous crimson of Irontomb. That expressionless face the Devil on your wall had. 

Your mind briefly inquired as to what would happen if the two met. But given Irontomb's aversion to the outside, you doubt they ever would. You weren't quite close enough to Phainon to invite him to your home either. You would just have to be left to wonder.

Back into the present, you were staring at Irontomb more carefully now. And he didn't seem to notice, or he did, and just ignored it as he continued reading some fictitious work you had carelessly picked up when you came back from the Grove of Epiphany a few days ago. You thought he might need some entertainment and picked up some random works from the Library of Philia. 

You noted his features. Like the darkened yet quite obviously white hair. And it was longer and messier than Phainon's. If you hadn't spent so much time with Irontomb, you probably would not even have made the connection of the pair being similar. Irontomb's eyes were sharper as well, more like a feline than a sweet chimera that Hyacine said one of the professors at the Grove had called Phainon. Irontomb looked like he was supposed to be vicious, instead, like right now, he appeared more lost than anything. 

“Why do you look like Phainon?” You asked and he set the scroll down with confusion immediately etched on to his face. You almost regretted it because his face looked obscenely focused for a second, eyes almost glowing.

“Who's ‘Phainon'?” He asked, and you wanted to slap your face in frustration. Of course he wouldn't know. Yet it bothered you. They looked the same yet so different. Like the same teleslate with different cases. If only you had a photo to show him.

“Nevermind.” You dismissed and he didn't give it a second thought. Like he couldn't care less. It was for the best, you did not have any way to explain to him anyway. “What are you reading?”

Irontomb tilted his head.

“A very peculiar story.” He stated, sounding unsure about his opinion. “Is it normal to write such things about your professor? Did you write this, Miss [Name]?” 

You didn't quite understand, so you approached and looked over his shoulder to see what he was reading. And to your horror, you saw the title and snatched the scroll from the table. His eyes followed and he looked up at you in curiosity. You hadn't realized such an embarrassing piece of literature had fallen into this clueless man's grasp.

“I did not!” You insisted, a bit more defensively than you should've. He didn't care, now did he? He was Irontomb, he did not give a flying fuck about your business at all.

“You sound very offended that I suggested that.” He noted with a hum. “Should I apologize?”

For some damn reason, it sounded snarky. Nothing changed in the monotonous way he had of speaking, yet it sounded like a little jab. Perhaps you shouldn't have reacted the way you did.

“No need.” You awkwardly tossed the scroll into a nearby bin behind you and luckily he didn't protest. “It was just a weird little piece of fiction from the library, nothing else.”

Irontomb stared at you silently (as always) before proceeding to look at a different scroll. 

૮₍˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶ ₎ა

Sometimes Irontomb had his wings out. Sometimes not. You don't understand the mechanic of it, but either way, you're grateful he doesn't have them out at all times. Your home isn't a spacious spot like the Marmoreal Palace, so you would hardly be able to move most of the time if he had them out. Sometimes they would be folded when he was sitting on the floor, and that was fine as well, you supposed. 

Sometimes your thoughts would intrude and tell you to touch his wings. What sort of reaction would you be able to coax out of this stoically indifferent entity? Would you even be able to touch those wings, given how most of the time your hands would slip through him?

He was, on a rare occasion, sleeping on your couch. You supposed it wasn't rare these past three days— he had been doing it continuously ever since you ran into the uncomfortably chipper Theoros. So there Irontomb was, in deep, unperturbed slumber. He also was not breathing, a peculiar thing you really shouldn't have glossed over as easy as you did.

You let your impulses overshadow logic for a moment, reaching forward to touch his folded wings. Your fingers grazed it, and they were surprisingly tangible. However, they were unlike anything you had ever felt before. Soft yet almost like your fingers would slip through them. Like they were semi-real.

You let your fingers trace along the scarlet, and to your surprise, they twitched sensitively under your finger. It wasn't just that segment of the wing that twitched, no, the whole wing did and he almost stirred. 

You placed your entire palm on his wing and caressed it with newfound interest. They seemed to lay flatter against his back, unfurling a little as they hung off the side of your couch. It was as if your simple and somewhat brief touch had eased its tension. 

Irontomb exhaled a breath and suddenly you could hear him breathing. His lips parted, face buried in his arms as he laid there on his stomach peacefully on your couch. You carefully lowered yourself to sit on the edge of the couch, convincing yourself to pet his wings a little longer.

You kind of hoped he would wake up soon, this had been the first time in a year where it felt like you had been alone in your home. 

(When he woke up a day later, he wouldn't look you in the eyes for the whole day. You noticed how his face was flushed whenever he was caught staring at you. You didn't connect the dots at the time)

(≧ヮ≦)

“We are going outside.” You firmly declared to him. 

He had woken up about a week ago, and seemed restless these past few days. He would pace around, peek out the drawn over curtains just to stare vacantly. So you wished to take him outside.

He turned to you when you made the declaration, sitting on a stool that was comically too small for him right by the window. 

“You haven't suggested that in a while, Miss [Name],” He said, curiously scrutinising your expression. He was wondering what had suddenly gotten into you, after all, you hadn't asked him to go out ever since he spoke about the “red sky”.

“I'm suggesting it now because you've been looking outside everyday since you woke up.” You told him. It would probably be easier to get straight to the point. “Non-negotiable.”

Irontomb's hollow stare would trace over your irises for a while before responding, still rather confused. “I wasn't going to refuse, but is there another reason?” 

Yes, there was, but you didn't know if you could tell him the reason. You felt guilty, for some reason. You had chosen today because you heard that Phainon had left Okhema today to help Lady Tribbie in the ruins of the Abyss of Fate Janusopolis, meaning there was no chance for him to meet Irontomb if you took him out. There was a chance that fellow Chrysos Heirs would recognize Irontomb, but he had enough differences with Phainon for it to not be too obvious at first glance.

“No, I just feel like I haven't done enough nice things for you.” You lied. You had done a lot for him, but you couldn't think of any excuse, especially since he didn't know who Phainon was. You couldn't tell him. 

It was as if he could see through your lie but didn't comment. It was just a hunch though, there was no way for you to confirm how perceptive he was given his past actions. He was an enigma that you could spend eons trying to decode with no avail. 

“Alright. I'll join you.” He stood up and you stepped back, realizing how close you had been standing. You always felt uncomfortable standing too close to him, worried that if you touched him, he would just be a figment of your imagination. That you were somehow insane, despite just being a regular Okheman and devoted worker under the Twilight Courtyard. 

“I'll do some shopping, then we can walk around the Holy City.” You informed him and he seemed like he was listening. “And, please keep your wings hidden, it's not normal to see anything like that unless it's a Titan.”

Irontomb stilled for a second before his wings disappeared without a trace. It was truly fascinating every time. In the blink of an eye, they were just… gone. 

(...)

People were… staring. Perhaps it was the towering height, or the scary look on his face whenever he made eye-contact with someone. He hovered near you, and you almost swore he was about to take your hand on multiple occasions. Or your arm, at least. 

You tried to ignore it, to not let it get to you, but honestly, your stomach was churning at the thought of any of the Chrysos Heirs seeing him. You had to withstand this gnawing anxiety for the sake of spending time with him, and to find out what he's been gazing at from your window. 

He wasn't gazing at the sky right now. His eyes were on you as you led him through the streets of the market, a basket hooked on your arm. 

Whilst you were distracted with talking to a fruit vendor, Irontomb kept his gaze firmly locked on you, hovering behind. The conversation was brief, but when you turned back to Irontomb, he stared at you with an inquisitive expression.

“What is it now?” You couldn't help but ask.

“Who's Kephale?” He inquired and you were dumbfounded for a second. It was a foreign concept that he didn't know who the Worldbearing Titan himself was. You turned towards where the Demigod council of Dawncloud could be seen from the streets of Okhema.

“Up there.” You pointed to the vessel of the deceased titan. The towering statue that was bigger than one could imagine. “That is Kephale.” 

Irontomb followed where you pointed and his scarlet eyes locked on the figure of the Worldbearing Titan. 

“Kephale is the titan of Worldbearing.” You told him. He didn't look back at you and just kept staring in a trance. 

You thought back to your home. You supposed you could see Dawncloud from your window, if you looked out at an angle. It wasn't the most ideal sightseeing spot if you wanted to see the god. 

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, ■■■■■■■■” 

Your eyes widened, and you had to double-take when he spoke. The last words were a blur but hearing Phainon's name from Irontomb made you pause. How did he know? What part of what you had said made him speak of Phainon. 

“Irontomb, I thought you didn't—” 

The look on his face when he turned back to you made you stop speaking. He looked equally confused. As if he hadn't meant to speak those words. As if he spoke something he himself didn't know about.

“...Miss [Name].” He mumbled, diverting his eyes elsewhere. You didn't even think when you hummed out to acknowledge his words. “I would like to keep going now.” 

As much as you'd like to press him for answers, because he's just a walking riddle at this point, you kept silent and began walking through the streets. 

The walk continued onwards, occasionally stopping to buy groceries or anything that interested you. Irontomb kept silent most of the time, his scary looks not stopping anytime soon. 

The roads became increasingly more crowded the closer to the Marmoreal Palace you got. You were spacing out, looking down at your basket. Was there anything you had forgotten to buy? 

You weren't paying attention to where you were going, but you knew the road before you were cleared enough, people naturally avoided walking close to Irontomb, and by extension, you. Which is why you almost gasped in surprise when someone rudely shoved you when walking past. The basket you were holding was almost knocked out of your grasp, and fortunately only a few things dropped out of it. 

“Hey, watch it, you fucking—!” You couldn't help but snap at the culprit who had pushed you when there had been plenty of room on the road. He didn't even turn around and was about to walk off without care. 

Not until Irontomb had grabbed him by the back of his collar with firm strength, keeping him in place. He pulled the man to face you. 

“Apologize to her.” He ordered the shorter, much more pathetic looking man. To be fair, anyone would look pathetic next to Irontomb. 

The man was glaring up unapologetically. Irontomb's expression hardened and you could see the confidence in the man falter immediately. 

“I said,” He shoved the man forward, causing him to stumble to his knees. You looked down, not really sure on what to do. Should you stop Irontomb? “Apologize to Miss [Name]. There is no second chance.” 

The man pathetically quivered and you couldn't deny the satisfaction. Even if it was admittedly, petty.

“I-Im so sorry!” 

He began pleading his case and you looked at Irontomb. He was eyeing the fruits on the floor. 

“Pick them up.” You almost snorted when the man automatically did as told, picking up the oranges and handing them to you. You almost wanted to tell him to get lost, but didn't. You were too busy holding in your laughs. 

Once he was gone, Irontomb turned to you. He eyed your arm where you had been shoved. He was about to speak but you cut him off.

“Thank you for that.” You told him simply and he froze for a split second. “That was very kind of you to do.”

“...He could've hurt you…” Irontomb said, suddenly shy. He turned away and you began walking, leading him onwards.

He was unexpectedly very sweet.

(𖦹𖧹𖥦𖧹𖦹)

The devil on your wall was nowhere to be seen these days. 

You had woken up without him sitting on the indentation of your wall. If this had happened any earlier, you would've assumed his existence was just a weird dream or hallucination. 

The light of the Dawn Device burnt through your curtains and for the first time in a year, you pulled  them open to let it in. Perhaps you were hoping to coax Irontomb out from his hiding spot by going against his request.

Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be seen. 

This had been a frequent occurrence ever since the rumour spread that there were visitors from beyond the sky. You dismissed it as a ridiculous conspiracy. Of course, you had no proof that his disappearance was linked to it, but the same day you caught wind of it, he had disappeared without a trace. 

Perhaps there was some other issue 

You didn't know what to do over it, finding it strange not having him perched in some random corner and ominously staring at you with those scarlet eyes. Did you miss it? Or were you relieved? So much of your routine this past year had been interfered with by Irontomb and now he was gone. 

You decided to clean your home, freeing your mind from the burden of unspoken and unrealized feelings. What does one do when there is a hole in their routine? 

You glanced at the scrolls left on the coffee table. You leaned over to read its content, eyes skimming the paper. You gathered that it was a prayer one recites to Kephale. You remember picking it out at random, mostly for variation. He seemed to enjoy reading, you remembered how intense he looked anytime any text was about the Titans. 

You decided to leave the scrolls there. Just in case. 

That evening, you went to sleep uneasy for the nth time this week. Drawing the curtains over the window, you laid down and fell asleep after a long series of contemplative thoughts.

(╥‸╥)

Entry Hour came.

Or so you thought. It wasn't Entry Hour. But something had undeniably woken you up and that was the weight against your thighs over the cool blanket. You sat up and an unexpected view greeted you. 

There he was, Irontomb, his head buried into your lap, faintly trembling. You reached forward and your fingers phased through him. You frowned, blinking to make sure you weren't just seeing things. Sleep still had you within its clasps. 

“Irontomb?” Your voice sounded slightly dry from the lack of use. The immediate lifting of his head and the sight before you caused you to almost wince. Tears stained his face, eyes widened like he had been caught doing something sinful. His breath hitched, lowering his head back down as the sniffling continued.

 “Miss [Name]...” He managed to whisper, swallowing the sobs that choked his breath. “I apologize for waking you…”

You frowned, immediately feeling like he had it all wrong. You weren't upset, mostly shocked. This was the most emotion you had ever seen him display; sobbing into your lap like a child.

“It all came back to me… I saw my body briefly and it all…”

You didn't even know what he was spewing on about. The words wouldn't end, he mentioned something about the Theoros, Lygus, about something called ‘Nous, the Erudition’, about the ‘Demiurge’. Words you didn't understand, and frankly, was unsure of whether or not you wanted to know, given the distress he was feeling. The trembling, the sobbing and the clawing at your bedsheets. 

“Hey…”

Irontomb reluctantly lifted his head at the sound of your mellow voice. He tried holding his tears back, just to hear your voice for a little longer. To hear you speak, to ease the overwhelming feeling that had overcome him. Him being here was a mistake, but he firmly wished to believe that it wasn't, because of you. 

“It's okay, deep breaths.” You tried to reassure him. It was unclear whether or not kind words had the same effect on an anomaly like him the same way it would for your patients. But he seemed to calm at the sound of your voice.

Then you tried reaching forward, and to your surprise, you could touch him again. You brushed your fingers over his soft, messy hair. You almost missed the new wave of tears that threatened to fall from his melancholic eyes.

“Miss [Name], I am a monster.” He whispered. “I should stop returning. But each time I wake up here, I can't help it…”

There seemed to be more words he wanted to say to you. But they were caught in his throat as he closed his eyes and leaned against your touch. He was starved for it, he needed it. For now, even as more words wanted to trickle out from his lips, you let him tremble in silence before sitting up on your knees to wrap your arms around him in a hug.

You realized that he needed reassurance more than anything right now. Even if he was a strange obscurity that essentially invaded your home. 

“It's fine, Irontomb. I don't want you to be gone.” You whispered quietly, tightening your hold around his trembling form. “You're not a monster, what's the worst thing you've done? Other than getting on my nerves occasionally?” 

“But—” 

He lifted his arms shakily to wrap them around your waist, returning your warm, gentle embrace. He wanted to cry more. He wanted to ask why you had put up with him, why you were so kind despite how much trouble you went through because of him. 

He took a deep breath.

“I'm going to become a monster, [Name], I am a monster, he said so himself, I am an abomination of destruction…” 

You didn't understand what he meant. And you never will understand what he means. But that didn't matter right now, all that mattered was to calm him down from whatever had caused this carousel of agonizing emotions to plague him like this. 

His relentless sobs continued until he passed out against your chest. You would let him clearly express his feelings when he wakes up later. For now, you just let him sleep against you. 

He wasn't a monster. You weren't sure what he was, but he was anything but that. You had to make sure to tell him that when you wake up at Entry Hour tomorrow. 

꒰ঌ(˶ ᵔ ▾ ᵔ ˶)໒꒱

Irontomb opened his eyes, the feeling of his face being buried into a plush pillow greeted him. He wasn't in the Great Tomb of the Nameless Titan like had been for the past days, no. He was in your home, where he had spent all year for the most part. 

His eyes trailed over to the drawn over curtains before sitting up, noting your absence with a feeling of tightness in his chest. 

He rose up from your bed and prompted to search for you. Thankfully, he didn't need to look for long, you were in the living room, sitting by the window, staring at the ruined sky, noting how Aquila had most likely fallen recently. The Flamechase had been active for sure, for the long while Irontomb had been gone. It seemed like it was coming to a close, and the new world was awaiting Amphoreus. 

When you heard his footsteps, you raised your head and met his eyes. He had a rather crestfallen expression on his face. He crouched down silently to sit next to you, with some distance out of consideration for your comfort. 

“How are you feeling now?” You asked, carefully setting the quill down and turning to face him. Irontomb gave no response for a moment before replying.

“Overwhelmed, admittedly.” 

You sighed, knowing he wasn't going to feel better, but at least he had let his feelings out, even if it pained your heart to think about how many tears were shed last night. You didn't push for more, but you wanted to know. As if noticing this, he continued speaking. 

“This isn't the first time, Miss [Name], it seems like I have a tendency to forget until the cycle nears its end.” He spoke cryptically and your brows furrowed. He gauged your reaction. A bitter smile graced his lips, yet another expression you had never seen on him. It was unnerving how he expressed more now than he had in the past year. 

You opened your mouth to speak, but he cut you off.

“This is a conversation is one we've had many times before.” He paused, frowning for a moment, looking dejected for a brief second. “I sound just like him…” 

You couldn't follow at all. He knew you wouldn't be able to follow, but he wanted to get this off his chest regardless. He looked outside at the red sky, the devastation that prevented you from leaving the safety of your home. 

“You see it too, don't you?” He whispered, sounding unlike the Irontomb you knew. “This is the ground where I will be born into a monster.”

“The red sky… the black tide… you knew this would happen?” 

You searched his eyes for answers, but only a smile carrying an unnamed enigma greeted you.

“I did and I didn't. I knew, but I had forgotten.” 

“That doesn't make any sense…” 

“It won't, no, you're just a regular citizen of the Holy City, and I am something you'll struggle to comprehend. Something you've struggled to comprehend for the 33,550,336 cycles Amphoreus has existed for.” He reached forward to gently hold your face within his palms. 

A moment of silence as you stared at him, speechless beyond belief, eyes widened.

“You look scared.” He noted. Any other time he said that, it would've been with a detached tone but now, it was almost knowing. Expected. “I apologize, Miss [Name].” 

He seemed so much more level-headed than he had been at dawn, where he had gone down a spiral of unpleasant emotions. Yet now when he spoke, he almost reminded you of when the Theoros held a speech. You could hear similarities, and your chest hurt even more at the thought.

“Miss [Name], I think this will be the last time I get to see you like this.”

“Wait, Irontomb…” You wanted to protest, the change all too sudden. Like a rug having been pulled from under you. You didn't want this. Not now, not when panic had already risen within you from the state of Okhema beyond the walls of your precious home. “You can't just leave, where are you even going?”

Irontomb just stared at you, and you wanted to shake sense into him. You hated the obscurity behind his words, the vagueness of his fate.

“You wouldn't understand… My body is far from here, a cold and desolate place— my appearance here on this side of Amphoreus was a mistake, an anomaly, a glitch.” He let his eyes trail out the window, his thumb caressing your cheek. “I always found myself back here without knowing.” 

A small pause, to give you time to think and process. To give you time to speak your thoughts on the matter. But you couldn't muster a coherent word, because you just couldn't understand. This was all too complicated. And it was pointless to tell a being of a simulation that he's beyond the reality they're from.

 But he told you anyway. Like he had 33,550,335 before this one. 

“The dawn of the new world is soon here, Miss [Name], it's always an honour to witness another extrapolation that pushes the progress of my inevitable destructivity with you…” 

Melancholy spread into his features, whilst your vision blurred, not giving you long to see the display on his features. Your throat felt constricted. Perhaps this overwhelming feeling is what overcame him last night?

Then, an unexpected confession came, as his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against yours.

“My feelings for you haven't changed at all, Miss [Name], thank you for always making the same decision to let me stay every cycle.” He divulged, and it made your heart hurt even more. This couldn't be real. “I love you, Miss [Name], I hope I retain my memory of you even when I am set to destroy the universe.” 

When he let go of your face, he stood up and stepped away. You managed to muster a small, incoherent protest, but his mind was set. Something about the finality in how he let you go prevented you from reaching out again.

“This is a farewell, [Name], my beloved.” He finally said, turning away. “The sun is set to die, the world will be ash.” 

And when you blinked again to flicker away the tears, there was no Irontomb before you. Just you, in your empty home in a falling world. You fell to the floor and wept until the end of time. 

｡°(°¯᷄◠¯᷅°)°｡

Your eyelids flutter open and you're greeted by the sun beam coming from the window just beside the bed. The curtains are pushed to the side and you’re wearing your pajamas despite not being able to recall anything before now. It’s as if the events that happened before you woke up had been erased or blurred from your mind.

You lift a hand, trying to shield your eyes from the bright light seeping through glass as you slowly turn to the other side of the bed—which, oddly, felt bare.

What you saw was an empty space. The pillow is untouched, no dent of a certain someone’s head, and the sheets are in pristine condition. As if the surface had never been disturbed by movements during slumber.

Your mind is in fragments and as you attempt to recollect the pieces, an unknown weight begins pressing against the back of your head. Growing more intense the more you push yourself to remember. Causing a headache to form and forcing you to focus back on the present.

With a soft grunt, you push yourself up on the mattress. Feeling the soft cushion dipping under your weight as you sat there, taking in the silence of your shared bedroom.

There’s no doubt in your mind that this is your bedroom. The slightly cracked mirror mounted to the wall right beside the closet is both a result and proof of the time you stubbornly refused Phainon’s help in carrying it, resulting in your hand slipping and dropping the home decor.

Then there’s the table placed under said mirror. Phainon had insisted on buying you a proper vanity but you’ve grown attached to the current set up you have. The wooden table is not fancy, it is anything but. And why do you feel such deep attachment to the furniture? Simply because it was a gift from Phainon, one he gave in celebration of your one year anniversary together.

Back then, you two weren’t living in a proper house but instead working hard to afford one during that time’s economic state. You lived in a small rented apartment—with a rumour that a murder happened there, contributing to the cheap cost—and because you two were budgeting like crazy, safe to say there’s not much furniture in your home. In the past, your apartment interior could be best described as being the opposite of a hoarder’s.

The wallpapers stayed the same throughout the time you lived there, you two weren’t too bothered by the questionable stains in the corners. And the only, somewhat, furnished room is the room you two slept in. But even then, there’s barely any decor. A slightly torn up bed, placed on the ground. Blankets given to the two of you on your wedding day as a gift, pillows and between them was a stupid looking dog plushie that Phainon insisted on buying during your honeymoon. It had a pair of big beady eyes, along with a bandana wrapped around its neck, you remembered the colors being purple and yellow. Not muted or even softened versions, but the brightly saturated ones.

Thankfully, you were able to afford a closet. Avoiding the act of having to stack your clothes and push them to a corner—that would’ve been such a humbling moment for the two of you.

Other than the bed and closet, there’s.. barely anything. You mostly put your stuff on the ground in specific spots.

The moments that accumulated overtime and became the driving force to why Phainon built you that table is when he noticed; every morning, when you’re preparing to leave for work, you’d be sitting on the floor with your makeup bag open beside you whilst holding a mirror to your face.

Seeing you forced to reside on the floor had him admitting how horrible he felt. First year of being married to him and you don’t even have a proper place to get ready. On the other hand, you were quick to assure him that having a set up or not doesn’t really matter, either way you’d get ready all the same whilst also reminding him that you two were focusing on saving up to afford a home. Preferable one with no murder case.

Your words managed to comfort him, but he still hugged you longer than usual before heading off to work as if apologizing for the inconvenience.

One day, you returned from work. And before you could pull out your keys, the apartment door swung open with your husband looking slightly out of breath. Curiously, you asked if something happened—usually he comes home just a bit later than you, so it comes as a surprise when he’s the first to return.

Phainon was noticeably disheveled, sleeves pulled up and sweat sticking to his forehead. He was quick to usher you inside, insisting he had something to show you.

He led you to your bedroom, opening the door and what lies beyond was a wooden table with a matching stool. On top of it was a small stand-up mirror. “It’s not the best..” he said, rubbing the back of his head as he, nervously, glanced over at you. Taking in your reaction.

“.. do you like it?” feeling slightly nervous from the lack of verbal response.

You couldn’t muster any words at that moment, you instead pulled Phainon down by the collar. Pouring every ounce of love and gratitude into a kiss in which he let out the most comically loud yelp before being silenced by your lips against his, it didn't take long before he melted and cupped the back of your head, pulling you closer.

Even after he got a better paying job and you were able to save up for a house—with confirmed no criminal cases occurring in the property—located in a quiet neighborhood, you still carried the table and stool to your new home. Years had gone by, the wood had chipped and worn down by time. One of the table legs had actually broken a few months back, and whilst Phainon wanted to buy you a new one, you refused. He complied with your wishes, choosing to instead attach a new wooden leg.

Reminiscing about your time spent with your husband pulled you out of bed, letting your feet touch the cold marble floor, you made your way to the table. Brushing the tips of your fingers against the rough surface, you’re unable to hold back the smile making its way to your face.

Although when you glance up at the mirror, the sight had you freezing in place.

Behind the slightly opened door, as if deliberately hiding, is a figure staring right at you. Eyes hollow like the void.

Naturally you whipped your head around and screamed, from both sheer shock and fear whilst adrenaline rushed up your blood stream, pumping blood into your heart at such a fast rate that had your hands gripping the table as you nearly staggered back.

The figure's eyes paused, as if taking in your reaction before finally moving. Pushing the door wider as it stops upon meeting the bedroom wall. Such a slow, almost deliberate, movement.

“Good morning, Angel. Sleep well?” The one that stood in your bedroom doorway is none other than your husband, Phainon. Perhaps in your panic, you failed to take notice of his pale hair. But—you knew your eyes weren’t deceiving you when you spotted those pairs of void eyes. Deprived of the vast blue that your husband has.

But now, those eyes have returned and not at all resembling the earlier ones you saw.

With a shaky, nervous huff, you manage to push yourself back on steady feet. But your heart continues to race in your chest even as Phainon approaches you, confirming the fact that it was him standing behind the door.

“Did I scare you?” He laughs, airy and way too amused. And as usual, the moment he’s able to reach you, his arms are wrapping themselves around your waist. Pulling you close to him.

And as payback for the scare, you hit him repeatedly on the chest. Of course, the hits did little damage but at least he let out a soft ‘oof’ each time it landed before hiding his face in your shoulder, attempting to hide the laugh bubbling out of his throat.

“Don’t do that again! You nearly gave me a heart attack.” You chided your husband, which finally broke his restraint as he allowed himself to giggle whilst nuzzling deeper against your skin.

“I’m serious! I could’ve thrown something at you,” as you attempt to pull away from his embrace, only for him to tighten his arms. “Phainon!” your indignant shout did not sway his grip.

You’re able to squirm your hand down and pinch the side of his body, a spot you knew as his weakness.

You glance over, anticipating his reaction.

A beat passes and..

…

… Nothing?

No immediate reaction which was…bizzare. Normally Phainon would have pulled himself away whilst clutching his sides, trying to protect them from you.

On the other hand, maybe you’re not squeezing hard enough!

So you twist your fingers, making sure to really pinch him firmly!

Surely by now he feels it, right?

You wait for another beat.

And again…

Nothing.

His arms remain firmly around your waist, you’re pulled against his chest with his head buried in the crook of your shoulder. And, is it just you who finally noticed this, how come you don’t feel his breath against your skin?

Once again, you freeze as a wave of regret washes over you for catching onto that detail.

Phainon, realizing you’ve gone quiet, lifts his head up and his eyes find your own. “Hm? What’s wrong, Angel?” Not even paying attention to the fact your fingers are still pinching the side of his body.

You shake your head, slowly releasing your grip, after a beat of hesitation. “No—it’s.. uh, it’s nothing.” And your response is received by him with a soft hum, yet his eyes remain on yours for a moment too long. “I’m just hungry, that’s all!” With the hopes of assuring him and possibly having him fully let go.

And the longer he stared blankly at you, the more uneasy you felt. You’ve never felt this way with Phainon! Even during and after arguments, you two are still able to give each other space without that looming feeling of uneasiness, sure there would be tension but it never lasted long enough before the two of you apologized to one another and everything melts away.

So why do you feel like shrinking away from him?

Then, he smiles. One that allows you to see the front of his teeth. “I cooked scrambled eggs and made toast—come on!” as he ushers you forward with his palm flat on your back. You stumble slightly before finding the right pace whilst Phainon begins rambling about what he had to go through in the kitchen without your supervision.

Perhaps you’re simply exhausted? You haven’t eaten anything after all.

—

// Initialize memory archival

Memory.save(

source: "Angel Project",

data: memories

);

// Run world integrity check

World.scanForDisturbance();

// Verify flagged entity presence

if (Entity.exists("NeiKos496") == false) {

System.log("Verification complete: NeiKos496 not detected.");

System.log("Status: No disturbances found.");

}

// Register command administrator

System.setAdmin("IronTomb");

// Rename stored memory dataset

Memory.rename(

from: "Angel Project",

to: "Domesticity"

);

// Final confirmation

System.log("Memory archive successfully updated to 'Domesticity'.");

System.log("Chain command administrator: IronTomb.");

—

NeiKos had proven himself once more to be a persistent bug in the system. He was placed far from reach, behind multiple fire walls that would detect his invading presence and sent him further away. Yet, despite all its cautionary actions—the variable manages to breach and return into the cycle with the intention of tearing you away from it.

And while IronTomb prefers being in the cycles, a program it is familiar with and has full access to modify to its preference. NeiKos keep interrupting its time with you which slowly accumulated into creating this sense of restlessness—a near impossible task, to cause a virus to feel, but one NeiKos succeeds in with his constant onslaught.

For now, in order to allow the cycles to continue with NeiKos figure trapped in them whilst also allowing it to be in your presence, it has created a separate program. Just a small fragment, one that would allow your data to interact in the world and it.

Unfortunately, it seems NeiKos violation knows no bounds, despite IronTomb erasing your data from Amphoreus and transferring it into the program it created, it has also modified your memories but there’s always an error. You’re able to recall fragments of your time with NeiKos. It is a small inconvenience but it is still a problem.

It did not want to resume such tactics, but it has placed a safeguard in your data. Refraining you from accessing any..unneeded recollection.

The current run has been….acceptable.

Whilst there have been minor issues, it has not made the experience any less enjoyable.

FINALLY, IT TOOK ME A WHILE BUT I GOT THE JOB DONE. WUHHH!!! I recommend reading this if you want better context, or consider this an extension of that drabble.