#well...this is it.

BLADE arrives on the scene twenty minutes after Nessa’s comm to Elma. By that time, Syriahnydra has split Cocytios in half, the wild Miran oceans engulfing what little land remains. All but three members of the Desserta Caravan perish in the flood. Elma sees the three surviving Nopon - Froyoyo, Vanala, and Sprinkle Sprinkle - on the highest Cocytios mountain, hugging each other as they cry for what they’ve lost. Elma finds no sign of Nessa or Pongo, and with a heavy heart, she is forced to acknowledge that they won’t be coming to their aid. 

The Skell fleet holds its own for a time. They’ve also prepared ground combatants, who take aim at the great yggralith’s body from Primordia and Noctilum using hastily crafted harpoons and railguns. A third troop is sent to Sylvalum, but it doesn’t arrive at the target destination. Every BLADE on that mission is slaughtered by an army of the dead - the reanimated corpses of F’lenla A’slegn and Ganglion alike. Sylvalum becomes a graveyard, much like it had during the ancient war. And as Syriahnydra feasts on what pitiful ether the bodies can provide, it howls with laughter. It may not be a lot, but it’s enough to close its wounds, for now, and give it strength to keep up the fight. 

Sylvalum is the second continent to collapse after Syriahnydra lifts its tail from the sea, bringing it down on the sandy white plains. The continent cracks apart, bodies disappearing beneath the ruthless waves. Elma is not witness to it, but L’s dead body is the last to vanish, his once golden eyes bleeding black tar. He’d been dead the moment Syriahnydra possessed him. He floats among his people, the final F’lenla A’slegn, a race exterminated. 

When the battle becomes desperate, Elma orders Lin to retreat. She doesn’t. Lin’s rage is palpable, and it drives her to the edge, charging towards Syriahnydra’s neck in a futile attempt to slice its head off its body. Her Skell’s blades don’t cut deep enough. Syriahnydra clamps down on her Skell, and the frame crunches under its fangs like a chip. 

It’s in that moment that Elma knows they’ve lost. Humanity has faced catastrophe before, and it has overcome it. She’s faced with the knowledge that this is it, humanity has no way forward. Still, she fights until her dying breath, her Skell combusting under the pressure of Syriahnydra’s ether attack. Her charred body falls from the skies and splashes into the ocean, joining the thousands of other bodies below. 

Everything on Mira dies. It becomes Syriahnydra’s feast, its reward for a fight well fought. And when the only ether left is inside the planet’s core, Syriahnydra descends, splitting the planet in half to reach it. The debris scatters across space as Syriahnydra, sated, departs for the far reaches of the cosmos, ready to begin its torment on the rest of the universe. There is no one left to remember Mira and the people that once called it home.

No one, except Death itself.

It descends, time freezing as its hand extends towards the kneeling Pongo, and takes him away. The story does not end for him here, nor does it end for Nessa, or for Aidoneus. He will not let it be so, even if it means cutting the strings of Fate, destroying the hands of Space and Time. 

He brings their souls to the divide. He cradles Aidoneus, telling it secrets only godlings can know. And together, they wait for a choice to be made.

~

Pongo blinks, and the world snaps away.

He kneels in white clouds, a great blue sky above him. There’s no sun in sight, nor any of Mira’s moons, but sunlight kisses his skin all the same. His chest heaves as he drinks deep of this new, clean air. This doesn’t erase all he’s seen. 

And it doesn’t erase the probability that he’s dead.

Syriahnydra’s jaw closing on him - that’s the last thing Pongo saw. He glances down at his arms, discovering that there’s no wounds, no pain from the impact. Whatever world he now finds himself in is completely removed from his reality. 

He brings himself to his feet, his knees wobbling. The tension overwhelms, even now. Pongo tries to find the end of the horizon, some kind of landmark he can move towards. But the clouds are endless. They consume the ground beneath his feet, gentle wisps that fail to bring him any solace.

“Ngh…”

Pongo spins as he hears someone groan. He tracks the voice to his right, on the ground. A body peeks out between the clouds, struggling to right themselves. Pongo rushes over to help, eyes widening as he realizes who it is.

“Fuck.” Nessa groans again, squinting as she straightens her spine. “That fucking hurt. Where -”

Pongo hugs her before she can finish her sentence. He embraces her so quickly that she yelps, surprised. But he doesn’t care. Gods, he didn’t think he’d get the chance to do this again. He savors every second of their embrace, shedding a single tear when Nessa realizes it’s him, returning the hug by wrapping her arms under his, clinging to the back of his fur cloak. 

They sit in silence, sinking in each other’s warmth. Nessa is the first to break away, her tears dried and wiped away. “So,” she musters. “We’re dead.”

Pongo nearly agrees with her. But as he folds his hands on his lap, he takes stock of their new surroundings again. His memories of death aren’t clear enough to use as reference, especially since he’d died as an empty husk. Mira had repaired him when he’d fallen into the Grave the first time around, and he’d only gathered some details near the end of his time under the planet’s soil, only aware of how he was adrift, locked in stasis. This place isn’t enforcing stasis. He can move freely, speak freely. He isn’t waiting for Mira’s instructions or a release back into reality.

“I do not know,” Pongo says after he thinks it over. “Do you remember being here when you…when you died?”

“No,” Nessa confesses. “It was weird. I knew I was part of the planet, just floating around, waiting for something to happen.” A pause. “I followed you around, when I could.”

“I know. I tried to follow you, too. But…” Pongo swallows hard. “I know you are dead. Syriahnydra -”

“Swallowed me whole,” she finishes in a weak whisper. “Gods. Fuck, I failed. I saw Solstice get bitten, and I just -”

“You did not fail, Nessa. The ritual worked, you were making a difference by fighting Syriahnydra. I just hope we bought Elma and BLADE enough time to finish the job.”

“They do not succeed.”

Pongo and Nessa’s heads swivel at the same time, alerted by the newcomer. The figure, standing a few yards away, isn’t facing directly towards them. His coattails float in the nonexistent wind, and even though Pongo can see his feet, it doesn’t look like he’s touching the ground, hovering slightly above the clouds. A blue hood obscures his head, and really, that’s all Pongo needs in order to confirm the stranger’s identity.

“Death,” Pongo says.

The figure turns slightly upon being addressed, his hands raised, cupping something close to his chest. But still, it’s not enough to see what it is. “The planet Mira is destined to be consumed,” he continues, “by Syriahnydra, one of the great wyrms of this plane. It feasts upon billions of other cosmic entities during its lifetime before expiring, one million years after your present day.”

“So we never would’ve won,” Nessa breathes. “I was always going to fail.”

Pongo grits his teeth. Nessa doesn’t deserve to think like that. He stands up, hands balled at his sides, and begins to approach Death. “We saw your image in Noctilum. You were standing with us next to Mira. I thought that meant you would help us.”

“In a way.” Death affirms.

“How? Can you send us back to Mira? Can we go back and destroy Syriahnydra before that comes to pass?”

“Not in this timeline.”

“Then what the fuck can we do?! I refuse to just sit here and let Mira die, not after all it has done for me!!” Pongo’s voice raises, on the verge of screaming. 

“It will not die.” Death remains unfazed, his calm tone fueling Pongo’s rage. Before he can ask how, why, please - Death turns, revealing what he holds between his hands. A ball of white ether, sparkling as particles float upwards past his fingertips. The source of the light: a curled draconic tail, swirled around itself before tapering down. 

“Mira!!” Pongo rushes forward, and Mira’s true form flickers in response. In the presence of its physical form, and still connected to its subconscious, Mira speaks both out loud and within his mind.

Pongo, Nessa. I am so sorry.

Nessa runs up, stopping next to Pongo. “Don’t you dare apologize. What happened? We tried to talk to you, to find you before -”

I know. Mira hums, its etheric language translated in soft segmented melodies. He found me before Syriahnydra could feast upon my ether. He offered to bring me here, at least until it was time to summon you here. I knew I would have no way of reaching you, for a while, but agreeing meant we could all live.

Death’s hands part, allowing Mira to float closer to Pongo and Nessa. It trails weaves of light ether behind it, cascading like a gentle flame. As it creates distance between itself and Death, Pongo takes a moment to try and glance beneath his hood. But he can’t make anything out; his hood is too low to place any facial details. He’s only able to register that he has loose linen wraps around his exposed chest, a round pink gemstone placed atop it, and that his skin is as white as the clouds that surround them.

Pongo has never seen Death before. Not in a physical form, not like this. But why does something in his chest stir at the sight of him? This can’t be his heart. It’s in the center of his chest, below his clavicle, and it’s digging below his skin, yearning to be free, begging him to close the distance between them.

Death’s head tilts. “Your souls. I hear them.”

Pongo blinks, and Nessa stiffens beside him. Does she feel it, too? He steps forward, subduing his anger in favor of curiosity. He needs answers, more than he needs the rage to fill him. “You need to start from the beginning. Where are we? Why did you save us? What did you mean by ‘this timeline’?”

“We are between the planes,” Death explains slowly. “I am the guardian of this realm, this defined collection of lost spirits. Many souls wander from their corporeal forms, lost on stalwart journeys or seeking out what they cannot define. My primary objective is to guide such souls back to planes deemed as ‘reality’, whether it is their own or another’s. 

“Within the sheets of existence, there are infinite souls, infinite lifetimes. Impossibility has no meaning. Not here. In the acceptance of impossibility, I connect with souls of identical formation. Reincarnations, duplicates, twins of separate planar realities. I alone can differentiate between them. This is why I brought you here.”

In the silence that follows, Nessa and Pongo’s confusion becomes palpable. “Okay, so you’re definitely Death, carting souls along to wherever they need to go,” Nessa verbalizes in an attempt to grasp what he’s saying. “But I don’t get why you chose us specifically. Are our souls the same or something? Is that what you mean?”

“Not yours. But another you. Another time.”

Death’s hand rises, and with a curl of his fingers, the clouds at his feet rise to greet him, obeying his every command. As he speaks, they form loose shapes, images of people and places he has yet to understand. Pongo does his best to listen, to absorb, to understand.

“Before I became this realm’s keeper,” Death continues, “I was a man, living on borrowed time. Mortality is a fickle thing; most fear its eventuality. I was once prey to its whims, doomed to a short and insubstantial life. I knew the end was nigh, but still, I subsisted on the precipice, with the knowledge that a bridge between realms existed, that an escape could be created. I never found a way to cross it. I never wished to cross it. My time began to dwindle, teetering, alone. I could not sate it, and so, with fear all-consuming, I awaited the end.”

The clouds by his hand form a familiar shape: a woman slightly shorter than Pongo, with short hair and form-fitting armor, a flower perched above her right ear. Nessa’s cloud-form bends down as another smaller cloud takes shape, creating a small human. A child, Pongo realizes as they bury their head in their knees. Nessa’s cloud-form takes the child’s hand, holding it tight.

“You, of unwavering heart, took pity on my fear.” Death ignores the clouds, staring straight at Nessa. “You breathed into my weary soul and gave me the strength to rise again, at the cost of your own life. I didn’t understand the gravity of your sacrifice, then, but in my now immortal clarity, I recognize this as one of humanity’s greatest strengths: compassion. It is a memory I cherish, even when mortality abandoned me, even as I wandered through time and space bereft of companionship.”

“I don’t…I didn’t do that,” Nessa whispers. “It wasn’t me.”

“Another you. Another time.” Death tells her. “Identical souls. You existed, for a time, alongside me. I know the color of your soul, even now.”

As if to demonstrate, a ball of light emerges from the center of Nessa’s chest, engulfed in careful blue flame. Pongo has to squint to realize that this ball of light is in the shape of a heart. Her soul, he realizes. It hovers between them all, cobalt and navy and dark sapphire mixing between each other like a dance in the night. Nessa’s eyes flicker in its presence, entranced, enraptured. Mira backs up; though it has no facial features in this form, Pongo can feel its fear, despite Death’s peaceful demeanor. 

“And you.” Death addresses Pongo. “You, who saw beyond the veil. You, who gave me a greater gift than life.”

The clouds change, shifting to create new people, new memories. Where Nessa once stood, someone taller emerges, someone broader, well-built. A strand of heart-shaped hair pokes out of the hair, solidifying that this is Pongo - at least, a Pongo. 

Pongo’s cloud-form reaches inside himself, drawing out a pale version of Nessa’s soul - is this him, removing his own soul from his body? Puzzled, Pongo’s lips part, questions in his mind racing to be asked. But Death has been thorough so far. He will answer this, surely.

“Even gods cannot always bend the will of life and death,” Death explains, “and I, unfortunate crossfire, was killed when I was most needed. You appeared before me, inquiring about every method, every possibility to revive my broken soul. I gave you a solution, one that most would deny in accordance with mortality. But you…you accepted. You offered your soul unto mine, knowing the consequences.”

That means he died, Mira clarifies. He…Pongo saved you too, in a different life. 

“They both did, in their own way.” Death confirms. 

Just as Nessa’s soul emerged from her body, Pongo feels a soft but building pressure in the chasm of his chest. From beneath his skin, beneath the loose armor Vanala had crafted for him, a heart breaks free. Its flames are silent, mirroring Pongo’s eyes: indigo, violet, swirls of occasional pinks and reds and blues like galaxies in the far night sky. He tries to cup the heart in his hands, seeking its warmth. The flames lick his hands, leaving no trace, no burning sensation. Only the warmth he’s come to recognize as part of himself, part of all he wishes to emulate to the world. 

Death moves forward without a sound. He lifts his palms to Nessa and Pongo’s souls, and they flock to him, magnetized. Nessa startles, about to pursue, but rethinks when she finds Pongo motionless at her side. How can he still feel his soul’s warmth when it’s no longer in his body? He watches, waits.

Death says, “Because of you, I was given the chance to live. I wish to repay the debt owed to your souls.”

“But it wasn’t us,” Nessa responds. “It was whatever Nessa and Pongo you met in your own timeline, right? Why repay the debt to us specifically?”

“You are not specific,” he says. “This debt, I repay to all of your souls. Even if you, before me, are not the originators, I hold this promise true to you as a collective.”

Before, Pongo had been filled with wonder, a curiosity deemed near-insatiable. He wants to smile, to dance, to be grateful for the fact that they’re alive, that this entity wished to save them. But he’s weighed down by the fact that they are the only ones being spared. If Death’s speaking the truth, all of Mira is destined to die. Vanala, Froyoyo, Solstice, Elma, Lin, L…Pongo had failed them all, and here he stands, the lucky one. Unworthy, in his own eyes, to even stand at all. 

“What if I do not want to be saved?” He breathes, unable to stop himself once the question tumbles off his tongue. “Could I trade this chance so that the rest of Mira can live? If I choose to die here, would you spare the others trapped on the planet, or use my life as a sacrifice so Syriahnydra could die?”

“For fuck’s sake,” Nessa suddenly spins towards him. “Why the fuck are you offering that?! Did your promise to be kinder mean nothing to you, you piece of sh -”

Both of you, stop. Mira pushes itself between them. No sacrifices, and no yelling. We are in no position to bargain with Death right now.

“You ask for something I cannot give,” Death bows his head, lowering his hands. Nessa and Pongo’s souls still float next to him, unwavering, unyielding. “It is not my place to trade souls. I merely escort them. I already test the balance of Fate by creating this condition.”

“Then tell me something,” Pongo presses. “Was that why you were on that parchment in Noctilum? Were you trying to warn us that this was inevitable?”

Death hums, formulating an answer before he speaks again. “I grew curious of your world. I planted myself within its history as a warning, yes, but also as an offer of companionship. It was not my intention to imply assistance in Syriahnydra’s defeat.”

“So you met the F’lenla A’slegn?” Nessa pries. “And you told them all about how this would happen? Why didn’t they leave better clues? Could’ve spared us the heartbreak.”

“They knew the importance of revealing a story’s ending before it came to pass.” A pause. “That was when I was a prince. I was not as…eloquent…in my endeavors to touch the strings of Fate.”

“The Hall of the Prince,” Pongo offers weakly. “That explains the name.”

“Prince Death doesn’t have a nice ring to it,” Nessa grumbles, still upset. 

“I am a prince no longer,” Death says, “and I am not Death. Not when I offer you life.”

We got off topic, Mira redirects. You want to revive Pongo and Nessa as a token of appreciation. If they cannot stop Syriahnydra and the planet is destined to die, then what is the point of reviving them? 

“To begin again.” Death turns his back to Pongo and Nessa, and the clouds around his feet warp, revealing new scenes. Familiarity strikes Pongo, witnessing recreations of people and places he’s lived through. To his left, the moment when Elma discovered his body in an abandoned lifepod. Further beyond, the Vita, towering before Elma’s team. To Nessa’s right, her gun pointed at Pongo’s kneeling form, preparing to send his body into the Grave to be reborn. And beyond that, Starr, transforming into Aidoneus. Pongo’s soul, still by Death’s side, wallows a pitiful song, aching for what he once had. Why does it yearn for the pain? Does it see beyond, to how it became stronger for every moment it persisted?

“There is always another timeline, another path to the future,” Death explains. “There exists a parallel, one bereft of your presence. To the best of my knowledge, transporting you to this universe will result in a similar progression to the one you underwent in your original timeline.”

“Including Corvhesperikon and Syriahnydra attempting to kill Mira?” Pongo asks somberly.

Death raises a finger to his mouth, barely prominent beneath the shadow of his hood. “I am not at liberty to say.”

“You said ‘similar’, not ‘identical’,” Nessa clarifies. “That means, if both yggraliths appear, maybe things will be different enough that we can kill them both without breaking a sweat. Wouldn’t that be a dream come true.”

How would that affect me? Mira inquires. I created them both. If they are being inserted into this universe they are going to, does that mean my connection to them will no longer exist?

For the first time, Death suppresses a chuckle. It’s a singular, solitary thing, and it’s almost lost in the swish and sway of the clouds beneath them. “My abilities may be limited, but you believe me incapable of such possibilities. Should you wish for the same origin, I can will it so.”

“Yes,” Pongo says, at the same time that Nessa pleads, “I do.” 

Mira twirls, clearly pleased by their quick acceptance. Thank you, both of you. Here I was, thinking you would want nothing to do with me in this new timeline we are about to become a part of. 

“It’d be weird as hell without you,” Nessa explains. “I’ve gotten so used to hearing your voice that it wouldn’t feel right not having you around.”

“Same here,” Pongo smiles, bending easily to the truth. “We have been through too much together. You have seen us both grow into who we are today, and we could not have done that without you.”

Mira whistles, the song echoing the one Pongo’s soul had uttered before. Death looks between them, the clouds of their past memories returning to the white sea. “You have made your choice, then.”

“Yes,” Pongo speaks on behalf of them all. “We accept your offer to begin again.”

“You understand that, in placing you in this new timeline, you will not retain the memories you possessed in your original timeline. You will begin again, and one day, you will end again.”

Is this true for me, too? Mira asks.

“Not you, godling. You will remember.”

Pongo exchanges a quick glance with Nessa. He’s not entirely surprised that they’ll lose their memories in this new world; he’s not even sure he’d want to keep all of the memories from this world, the pain and guilt and grief that wormed their way inside of him. But beyond all of the terrible things, there are sparks of joy, moments of comfort. He doesn’t want to let these go. He’s not sure he’s got the strength for that.

Nessa steps forward, her hand slipping into his. She squeezes, and he reciprocates. It’s all the reassurance he needs. If they all enter this new world together, they’ll find each other again. Mira’s not the only glue holding them together, but it’s written in their very souls, the lives they once lived. 

So Pongo faces Death again, and says, “We choose to begin again. To find each other again, and make the best of our new lives.”

Death nods, cupping their souls in his palms once more. Mira comes forward, weaving between their souls before returning to their physical bodies. I know the color of your souls now, too, Mira says. This is not goodbye. I will find you again, even if the circumstances are different. 

“Not too different, please,” Nessa chuckles. “At least remember to give me good tits if you’re the one creating us in the new universe. I rather like being the prettiest avatar.”

Gods above, Mira’s tone is the vocal definition of an eye roll. If you get a request, Pongo gets one too.

Pongo doesn’t have to think about it long. “Create us both at the same time. I do not want Nessa to suffer the cycle of rebirth again.”

Nessa’s eyes widen, taken aback by his request. But eventually, she softens. “Well, now you’ve gone and made me look self-absorbed. You couldn’t wish for a fat ass again?”

“Gods,” Pongo turns red, sinking into himself with a nervous laugh. “I can go without that if it meant you do not have to endure the events of Cocytios again.”

As Mira floats back towards Death, Nessa takes Pongo’s other hand in her own. Staring down at them, she mumbles, “We’ll find a way to keep that promise, right? To be kinder. We might not remember it, but it’ll be a part of us somehow.”

Kinder. Pongo wants to believe that no matter where their souls may venture, they will be kind. They’ll find each other, keep each other in check. If he falls, she’ll pick him back up again. He doesn’t need to do it alone. 

He moves too quickly for Nessa to retaliate. Pongo wraps his arms around her again, hugging her tight, trying to remember the warmth. He won’t let that memory go, after their souls drift towards their new horizon. 

And, judging by how she hugs him back, breathing deep of his armor, she will hold herself to the selfsame promise. To be kind. To never let go. To remember the warmth, and to live within it.

When they break apart, Mira bridges the gap they create, caressing them both with its heavenly light ether. The sparks land on Pongo’s nose, and he laughs, erasing the tension he carries. Nessa tries to catch one of the sparks like a firefly, holding it in her open palm and watching it fade from sight.

I will see you both soon, Mira says. I love you. I love you both more than words could ever describe. Know that I am so, so proud of you both, and I cannot wait to meet you again.

“We love you, too,” Nessa replies, wiping a tear from her eye. “You said it yourself. This isn’t goodbye.”

“We will see you soon. Thank you for everything, Aidoneus,” Pongo says. 

Mira showers them both with one last cascade of light before returning to Death’s side. With Nessa and Pongo’s souls in hand, Death lifts them to the great blue expanse, the skies splitting open to reveal the stars beyond. Death had described this realm as a place between the planes, and it’s only when Mira’s true form ascends into the universe above their heads when he realizes just how small he is. One soul, within a sea of endless possibilities. What if he becomes something different, in this new timeline Death is sending them to? What if he doesn’t find Nessa? What if he loses his connection to Mira, what if he turns against everything he stands for, what if he hurts and destroys and desecrates the very ideals he’s protected for so long?

Nessa’s soul flutters, following Mira’s true form. Her physical body fades away, leaving behind one last smile, one last tear. Then, there is only Pongo, Death, and the questions that Pongo can’t answer.

Maybe it’s okay that he can’t answer everything. Maybe he has to let go, and believe in the power of his love. That’s what tied them all together: their love, their desire to protect one another. Mira was their cradle, their home, their hope. Pongo has to believe it’ll tie them all together again, and that he’ll emerge a hero, a protector, a lover. 

Before his soul drifts beyond the rift, Pongo says, “I do not believe you are Death. I know we are going to forget this place, but you…who are you, really?

Death stares at him, contemplating. Slowly, he raises his hands to the hood obscuring his face and pushes it back, revealing his face. His skin is stark white, but across his cheeks, there’s a splattering of loose freckles, a birthmark under his left eye. His cyan hair floats carefully over his face, curling at the back of his neck. His eyes are nearly the same shade of blue as his hair, but deep inside, there are circles of pink encasing his pure white pupils, made brighter by the radiant skies. Though they’ve never met, familiarity gnaws at Pongo’s mind, the echoes of a name buried on the back of his tongue. 

The man they called Death grins.

“My name is Caspian,” he says, “King of Souls.”