Venture Through the Mist

“She’s getting worse again.”

The murmur drifts into the air, barely-there amongst the subtle sounds around them. Almost as if it’d never been intended for anyone to hear it. Almost.

Vilcor can’t say that he doesn’t agree. He can’t say that he hasn’t seen the changes in his wife’s mood ever since, well…

Ever since she learned that her father—he will never tell her what he truly thinks of him. As much as their marriage has had its issues, he cares about her far too much to do that—sheared through any connection that they still had as if he’d taken an axe to her spine.

He can’t say that he hasn’t noticed the frigid flames of her anger returning. Or how the waves of paranoia have gotten worse, how she’s starting to accuse them of turning against her from time to time.

Again.

And he sure as hell can’t forget the fleeting flash of something that’s way too familiar for him to ever be able to ignore. It’s a look that still colors his nightmares sometimes, right before the feeling of his flesh splitting apart overtakes his body.

The dreams have lessened over time, but there are still nights when he jolts awake in a cold sweat, jagged scars aching with memories that he wishes were never there in the first place.

So, with a sigh, the Orokin manages to answer his daughter, though his gaze lowers to the ground for just the briefest of seconds, pupils fixing on the vines that lay on the floor between them, before his focus shifts back in her direction.

“I know.” Kaelli’s brows furrow, as if the response just isn’t good enough for her, her eyes narrowed behind the ornate frames of her glasses. When she doesn’t snap immediately, surprise twists through his mind like the Infestation coils against the walls next to them.

She’s angry, Vilcor knows. For her mother, for her brother, for herself.

Honestly, they all are.

They might not always see eye-to-eye, but they’re still family. They’re all they’ve got.

They might have hurt each other in the past, but gods-help Albrecht if he ever comes crawling back. Not that he will, the Orokin muses with more bitterness than should probably accompany the thought.

No.

He threw his family away without a single word. He discarded his daughter and grandkids as if they were just spare parts that he didn’t have a use for anymore.

And he knows that all of them would likely have some choice words for the man if they ever saw him again. Or, well, Kaelli certainly would. If there’s anything that he can say about his daughter, it’s that her temper has always skirted the edge of a knife’s blade.

Just like her mother’s. It only lacks the ice.

He scolds himself for the not-quite-bitter thought as soon as it passes through his skull.

“Should we…talk to her about it?” The words that fall into the still air are tentative, his daughter’s eyes flicking in his direction, then to the doorway that leads into the hall adjacent to the center of their home. He doesn’t get a chance to respond before a wry sound beats him to it.

When he turns his head, Vilcor finds himself a bit surprised to see his son joining the conversation, popping up from the tunnels that connect his sister’s ‘room’ of the Necralisk to the hallway before it.

“If you want your head bitten off, be my guest.” With a huff, Kaelli rolls her eyes, though he notices that her tone isn’t entirely angry with her brother.

“How long have you be—Never mind. I—We can’t do that shit again. Someone needs to talk to her, or something.” For a moment, that’s all she says; until a murmur just barely makes its way into the room.

“I don’t want everything to go back to the way it was before.”

He can’t say that he blames her.

They’ve all grown, they’ve all changed, and Vilcor finds that unease drips down his spine at the thought of that disappearing, of the anger and hurt crawling from the walls again, just like it had not that long ago.

But again, it seems that Kermerros has something to say. Something decidedly unhelpful, though he forces himself to keep his jaw clenched shut.

“She won’t listen. She never does. Not when she’s like this.” Of course, his sister has a response prepared for that, but Vilcor finds that he really isn’t in the mood to be listening to them arguing. A part of him hates how his voice sharpens.

He used to be better at this, he thinks. Before.

He can’t remember enough to be sure one way or the other.

“Enough, both of you.” And, evidently, that’s that, with his son gliding back into the tunnels, a huff hanging in the air behind him. A sigh wrenches itself from Vilcor’s throat as his thoughts tangle together.

They don’t stop twisting through his head, even as the days keep passing by.

A part of him wishes that he could be upset with their Ayatan, he really does. But it isn’t as if he doesn’t understand why she did it.

Soldiers sometimes have to make decisions that go against everything they once thought was right. Sometimes, that means lying to the people that they care about.

He knows that all too well.

And he has seen the guilt written across her scarred features every time she ventures into the Necralisk. He has seen, from time to time—he does leave his post sometimes, after all—, the split-second twitches of her muscles towards the atrium, the movement surely second nature from all the times that she has returned from the Cambion Drift to give a report to her.

He has seen the way that her expression crumples for just a moment, before being hidden behind that warrior’s mask, when she passes by him to speak with his mother instead.

He also understands, though, why his wife is doing what she’s doing. Not that that makes it any less frustrating for the rest of them.

Honestly? He isn’t quite sure that she trusts them anymore.

He isn’t sure that she trusts him, anymore.

He tries to ignore the one scolding whisper that reminds him of the fact that he hasn’t exactly given her much reason to do so. Not with what she now knows that he has been doing behind her back.

He’d come clean about his little ‘errands’ in the ruins after everything. It’d felt—

Ha.

Nope.

It hadn’t felt right. He’d be a liar if he said that it had. It’d felt so absurdly wrong to admit that he’d been personally taking out the odd stray hand trying to crawl its way out into the Drift. It had felt as if he was baring his flesh to be flayed from his bones by confessing to his wife that not only had he known that something was up, but that it wasn’t just his Mechs that were dealing with the problem.

He doesn’t know why he kept it a secret. Maybe it was to protect what was left of his family. Maybe it was because he finally found something to make himself feel useful again.

Once a soldier, always a soldier.

How could he have ignored the call to arms?

He didn’t know then what he knows now. Didn’t know about Loid, didn’t know about the real identity of the beings made of stone and sand somehow given sentience. He knew what the Arcocanids were, but that was because he’d had some experience with Albrecht’s prototypes years ago, when they first came to Deimos.

But no, he didn’t know about everything else; no matter how much his wife wants to believe otherwise.

No matter how much he tries to tell her, he knows that she doesn’t believe him. So, he has stopped trying.

He can swear up and down, until he’s blue in the face, and none of it will matter because she doesn’t trust him.

And anyway, regardless of that, why would she, the bitter thought keeps reminding him. If she can’t even put her faith in the one person that she’s supposed to, then what the hell’s the use of trying to believe anyone?

After all, a parent’s the only one who a person’s instincts are supposed to know to trust, even from the moment when said person is small and helpless and new to the ways of the world.

Of course, that logic ignores the simple fact that Albrecht was never ‘there’ for her. Vilcor isn’t quite sure what real difference the fact that he’s alive makes. If it weren’t for the fact that their Ayatan and Loid had hidden it for so long, he doesn’t know if Gomaitru would’ve taken it as badly as she had.

But, they did, she did, and now he’s once again left trying to pick up shards that were broken long before he ever met her.

He still wouldn’t do anything differently, he finds.

Maybe at first, he’d had the stupid idea that he could ‘fix her’ like one of his damn machines. Like anything to do with people is as simple as soldering together some hunks of metal. It was ridiculous and he knows that.

And anyway, he fell in love with her mind so quickly that his previous notion slipped from his head as if it were one of the fish that their daughter has always been so inexplicably keen on.

And he found himself awe-struck by that rare, genuine smile which seemed to dance across her lips on the very infrequent occasions that it made an appearance.

That’s one of the few memories that the Infestation hasn’t stolen from him, one of the few pictures that still remain almost untouched by the hive-mind.

He has seen it, once or twice, in the time since her new name has graced their halls. When everything was calm, when things were quiet, a falsely-annoyed roll of her eyes had flickered into something different, something that was never exactly soft, but it was content.

It has only ever lasted for the briefest of seconds, but it was there. Just like when they were younger.

But it’s gone again. And a part of him knows that, if nothing changes, it might not come back this time.

Because now, the betrayal actually happened. It wasn’t just an—admittedly poorly thought-out—attempt at trying to help her cope, it was real.

His wife hates lies. She always has. Granted, he isn’t the biggest fan of them either, not when he lived in the world that he did, but she has always had an almost-uncanny knack for picking through what people are saying to get to the truth. It’s what she was taught, Vilcor assumes, given the circles that her father was involved with, the circles that she would later be involved with in kind.

For that lie to have been perpetuated by three people that were part of her family, and for her to not have known about it at all?

That’s a wound that cuts deeper than she’ll ever let on. It probably runs deeper than he’ll ever know.

So, she’s closing herself off again. To the Tenno, to the newcomers, to their Ayatan.

To them.

He knows that their children are both right, that someone needs to actually talk to Gomaitru, but that getting her to take their words as anything but deceit is going to be a challenge.

So why can’t he just do something about it?

He tries, but his movement falters every time that he tries to pass into the atrium with his mind set on talking to her. His throat becomes dry, as if he’d just choked down a mouthful of sand.

Until one night—he thinks, at least. Predicting the time is something of a gamble now—, almost a week after that talk with Kaelli.

Until he pokes his head through the doorway and notices that, strangely, she’s still awake. Which wouldn’t have been as much of a surprise, if it weren’t for the fact that he knows that she has been using sleep as an escape. That has been happening since the Infestation really started to take parts of them away.

She didn’t used to do that, Vilcor is pretty sure. He can remember fragments of arguments had in the early hours of the morning, can re-capture scraps of the nights when she would stay up buried in her research until both he and Loid were practically begging her to at least try to get some rest. Since the Tenno arrived on Deimos, she’d started getting back into that routine, staying awake more and more while examining whatever they’ve brought back for her.

Maybe it wasn’t exactly the healthiest, but then again, it was familiar, at least. A small taste of normalcy emerging from the shredded ruins of what used to be their family.

He hadn’t had the nerve to argue with her about it anyhow. Not then. Not even after he gave her her new name. Some things are just supposed to stay unspoken.

But now, she’s sleeping more again. Not as much as before, since she’s busier, but enough for him to take notice; and certainly enough to make it surprising that she’s still awake at this hour, when there isn’t a Tenno in sight and the only parts of the Necralisk that aren’t asleep are the numerous vines and boils littering the place.

She’s tense, Vilcor notices from his place beside the doorway. Her muscles have drawn themselves taut, her shoulders raised slightly, the set of her jaw rigid. Her hand hasn’t moved since he caught sight of her, quill posed to write but not putting down a single word.

Maybe that’s why his mind screams at him to just go over to her.

Maybe that’s why Vilcor manages to go down into the tunnels, feeling the Infestation shift around him as he moves through the interconnected network that serves as their means of transportation now that they don’t exactly have…legs. Well, not like they used to, at least.

He pops up near her, a quiet question on his tongue.

“Hey. You okay?”

His brows furrow as Gomaitru stiffens, almost like she didn’t know that he was there, as he hears a quiet but sharp inhale jolt into her lungs.

She recovers quickly—not quite quickly enough. Not when he has known her as long as he has—, leveling him with an unimpressed stare.

“I am fine. I have work that I need to finish.” The look that he gives her must accurately convey the amount of bullshit that he thinks lies within that answer, because his wife just glares at him as she lifts her attention from her notes fully. His name comes as a warning, hissed between her teeth in a tone that he knows.

A murmur escapes him before he properly realizes just how bad of an idea it is.

“You don’t seem it.” Her brow raises, her expression entirely unamused, irritation evident in her features.

But, for whatever reason, when he continues, she lets him.

“Look, I know that you don’t want any of us to say it, but you really don’t, Gomaitru. And you haven’t for weeks. I just…We’re worried about you.” A scoff answers him, a blade slicing through the still air.

“Do not be. I am fine, Vilcor. I do not appreciate you acting as if I cannot handle myself.” Frustration laps at the edges of his tone, roughening them slightly as he shakes his head.

“You don’t have to. You don’t need to go through this on your own.” And that’s his fatal mistake, that’s what causes her grip on the quill in her hand to tighten until he wonders if it might snap.

“That is enough. I have work to do.” His protest is met with a flame circling within that icy glare.

“Stop, Vilcor. Just leave me alone!” Worry and a small flicker of annoyance tangle together, the emotions heightened somewhat by the weaving murmurs in his thoughts, and he throws up his hand in surrender, a sigh forcing itself from him as he relents.

“Fine.” As he starts to lower himself back into the tunnels—it’s getting late anyway, he may as well actually get some sleep—, something moves past his lips that he doesn’t entirely intend to say; it’s an offering, sort-of, as much as a part of him knows that she probably won’t take it.

“If you do end up wanting to talk about it, you know where to find us.” And then, a quiet murmur joins it, though he isn’t sure if it’s an apology, a reminder, or…something of a mix of both.

“I—I love you.” It falls awkwardly into the air from a voice that’s still unused to saying it, after everything.

When they were younger, he said it often…at least, he thinks so. When they were alone, away from any prying eyes—not that he cared, but her reputation would’ve suffered for it—, the words fell easier from his lips than he ever thought that they could.

But that changed, after Deimos, after the Infestation took hold, after they all grew so far apart that it all seemed hopeless to try.

And he’d stopped trying. He’d grown bitter, had told himself that nothing would ever change and he’d be better off without any of them.

And those words which once flowed smoothly into the air, like a spoonful of honey into the cups of tea that used to rest atop her desk—apparently his mind still recalls the scent, even if he can’t quite gather the name—, disappeared.

Since those cracks have started to mend, they’ve made a tentative return. Not nearly as often—he doesn’t think either of them are ready for that yet, honestly—, but they’re there.

She never says it back, but then, he doesn’t think she ever has. Not verbally.

But Vilcor can usually tell, by a faint shift of her tone—as if she’s putting a guard over the edge that always sharpens it—, by a slight relaxation of her expression, by a somewhat-amused huff entering the air between them. He can tell that the reminder isn’t unwanted.

Usually.

This time, though, Gomaitru doesn’t even acknowledge that she heard it.

And maybe that’s the truth. Maybe she really doesn’t.

But either way, the silence hangs atop the atrium, feeling as if he’s suddenly suspended between two beds of Predasite teeth. It seems to crush his lungs, even as he retreats into the tunnels to leave his wife to her research.

The concern never leaves him, though. Even as he settles down beneath his place by the doorway, Infested petals and vines clustered around him like some crude excuse for a blanket, Vilcor’s head still swims, trying to figure out how to fix this.

‘People aren’t machines’, his mother has always reminded him. They can’t just be repaired with a simple replacement of a few bolts or some oil.

And some things, he knows, can’t be ‘fixed’ at all.

But he wants to help, to take care of her, to support her in any way that he can.

He just…doesn’t know how.

And so, days pass by without any change.

Until, finally, they don’t.

Her grandfather is such a gods-damn hypocrite.

The thought swirls in her mind, thudding and scratching and screaming against her skull until she swears that she’d probably be better off if the Infestation just finally took hold completely.

She never actually means it, of course.

She doesn’t even want to be reminded of the fact that she’s supposed to be trying to find some impossible way to slow the disease’s progression. Not now. Not when her family might be falling apart again. Not when a part of it has already been practically banished from at least one of the halls of the once-‘great Entrati mansion’ that they call ‘home’.

She misses Ayatan. Sure, the Tenno still comes by on occasion, but it isn’t the same. She’s trying, Kaelli knows, but no matter how hard she tries to get excited over whatever fish she’s found that day, there’s always that guilty look weathered into her scarred features.

Her family is turning to ash in front of her very eyes. And it’s all because of him.

‘No God above knowledge’, her lower sigmoid. Apparently their ‘family motto’ doesn’t mean anything now, not even to the man who coined it. Especially not to the man who coined it.

Apparently he just gets to lie to his own daughter, to his own grandchildren.

All those ridiculous plans that her mother had, all of those nearly-obsessive—or…definitely obsessive, if one were to ask anyone other than her—attempts at finding him, those were all for nothing. She dragged their family through Hell—more times than she’ll ever be able to count—, for nothing. All for a man who didn’t even deign to say ‘Goodbye’.

Her grandfather never wanted to be found. He certainly never wanted to be found by them.

And the fury that accompanies that realization has woven itself so deeply beneath Kaelli’s skin that it burns.

Her brother might not care, he might just pity their mother—she knows that’s more of a lie than he lets on—, but she can barely go a single cycle of Fass or Vome without feeling that maelstrom of anger and betrayal blistering against her flesh.

And sometimes, frustratingly, she slips back into old mindsets, wondering why on Earth she had to be born into this family. She’s pretty sure that’s a feeling her brother always knew way better than she did; at least, before the Infestation.

And, some days, today included, Kaelli finds herself wondering, as she watches her mother’s temper start to boil them alive like they’re just fish in a pot, as she watches how she’s begun to completely disregard their opinions again.

She was so relieved when the other Orokin had finally started to listen, after Ayatan had given them what they needed to start to heal from the mess they all made.

She finds herself wondering what might’ve happened if things were different.

If he’d just…told the truth about where he was going, instead of leading them to think that he’d ’given up’. She didn’t even know about that until recently, until her grandmother said something about notes that he’d left for them.

If he’d cut her off then, instead of just…disappearing and never acknowledging his family again.

If her mother had never been so fixated on finding him. If she’d never needed to be.

Would that have made any sort of difference? Would it have done anything at all?

Would they have even ended up Infested if Kermerros hadn’t been trying to snatch up any scraps of attention that he could from a parent who had often been too ‘busy’ to look his way?

It isn’t the first time in her life she’s wondered about what could’ve been; but it is the first time that she’s really seeing the impact that her grandfather likely had on even more aspects of their lives than she was aware of, the chain reaction that probably started way before she and her brother were even born.

How much pain could’ve been avoided had he just told the truth outright?

There’s a wound within her. It’s not a new one, not even close. Because she was supposed to have a life. She could’ve been an Archimedean—sure, maybe she was barred from entering the Collegium, but that was just over a stupid technicality anyway. She could’ve tried something. Maybe. Not that she’ll ever know now—, could’ve been something other than one of the last members of her kind rotting away on some Infested husk of a planet.

Her brother was supposed to be married. Maybe he would’ve had a family.

Inwardly, a piece of her chuckles at the thought. He’s always been closer with animals than he ever was with their peers. It would’ve been strange, seeing him with a kid.

In many ways, he’s too much like their mother.

…In many ways, maybe they both are.

The thoughts slam against Kaelli’s skull, causing that brief refuge of amusement to falter, slicing open the emotions that have barely begun to scab over.

And it burns, pain and betrayal and anger beating with her heart, bleeding scarlet across her skin, flesh rubbing itself raw. It’s just as fresh as it was years ago, when her legs were overtaken by the writhing petals that now surround her, when she realized that she wouldn’t be able to run across the Drift studying the rivers—the fish within were the only things making Deimos worthwhile—anymore.

And the worst part? She isn’t even just furious for herself anymore. Hell, it’s even extended past being angry for her brother.

How much of her mother’s life has been wasted by a man who cared so little for her—and by extension, the family she’d created—that he’d go against his own supposed values just to cut her off?

It confuses her, sometimes, just how angry she is for a woman who, for the past however many years—she lost track ages ago, long before the Tenno found them—, has been a large part of why their lives were a living Hell.

The only thing she knows for certain is that she wishes she was the monster her grandfather is running from.

She doesn’t, however, know if she’d rather drag him back to the Necralisk kicking and screaming, and force him to explain and face the consequences of his damn actions…or if she hopes to anything that might listen that he stays far away from them.

Honestly, the latter option sounds more and more tempting by the day.

If he doesn’t want them, fine. They don’t need him. They never did.

She’s so lost in thought that she almost misses the quiet rustling of nearby petals. Even still, Kaelli almost jolts when her head turns towards the sound and, instead of gently-undulating masses of Infested tissue lining the walls, she spots her father. His head tilts slightly, clearly noticing her reaction.

“Everything okay?” It’s…strange, being asked that again. Like she’s just a little kid, one who’d skinned her knee in her sprint to get to the small, Orokin-made pond outside her classroom’s window.

Why she remembers that, Kaelli isn’t really sure. But, likewise, she also recalls getting chastised for it, more than once.

She doubts that she’d ever really cared too much, though. The teacher always let her take a glance at the decorative fish inside, even if it was just for a second before she was ushered off to wherever she needed to be next. It wasn’t like she was a bad student, not by any means.

He’s expecting a response, she remembers as memory turns to the present moment, as her eyes focus on her father’s waiting expression. With a nod, she gives the simplest possible answer.

“Yeah. I was just…thinking.” A slight hum of acknowledgement follows, though that doesn’t seem to be the end of it. She wonders if there’s something she’s forgotten to do, or if he’s going to make her sit through another of his ‘survival’ lectures.

He hasn’t done that in a while, though, Kaelli reminds herself, quickly banishing the thought from her mind—thinking about that always makes her skin crawl with discomfort. And…twisting vines of guilt, even if she doesn’t want to feel them—as she listens for his response.

“Did you find out anything—” A pause, like he’s searching for the right word.

It doesn’t take him long to settle on one.

“—interesting with your fish today?” It’s…not the question she was expecting. It’s almost awkward, hanging in the air like it wasn’t meant to be there.

He’s trying, at least.

So, with a shake of her head, Kaelli decides to allow the conversation to continue.

“Not yet. None of the Tenno have come back with anything today. Besides, unless they come back with a Myxostomata o—or, hell, even an Ostimyr would be ni—” Quickly, her thoughts begin to swim with possibilities, with ideas that she just needs to prove are true—or if they’re aren’t. Either way, she needs to know if they’re even possible—, though when she catches the look on her father’s face, the faint furrow of his brow, she pauses.

She’s gotten carried away again.

It isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last.

They all do it, if she’s being honest. That’s what happens when there are three researchers and an engineer living within the same set of walls.

So, Kaelli reels herself back in, resolving to actually stay on-topic this time. Because as…nice…as it is for her father to be showing interest, she doesn’t have the energy to try to explain things that, for her, are just second-nature. Not right now, at least.

Maybe another time, she muses.

“No, I haven’t. Hopefully one of the Tenno will come back with something that I could really use. Maybe Ayatan wi—” She doesn’t see the slight rippling of the Infested masses lining the floor in enough time to stop herself.

Not that she’d anticipated the form rising from the tunnels to be her.

Her words dry up on her tongue as, for the first time in about two months, her mother actually shows up in her area of the Necralisk without her needing to have practically forced her there.

Narrowed azure eyes meet her own in a warning as the other situates herself by the doorway, one that doesn’t even need to be spoken aloud.

Despite herself, something almost tentatively excited coils beneath her skin like electricity, something strong enough that, if she wasn’t practically rooted to the floor, Kaelli knows that she’d probably have to stop her limbs from launching herself across the room towards the other Orokin.

The emotion seeps into her voice, sending a lilt through her tone that she can’t quite stop before it escapes.

“Mother! I—Um—” Before she loses control of her tongue completely, before her words devolve into rambles, she manages to take a breath, her mother’s voice repeating in her mind, hazy memories of a much younger version of herself accompanying it.

‘Think before you speak.’

‘If you need to collect yourself, then do so. Someone of our standing must be eloquent.’

“Hello…?” Other than the greeting, Kaelli finds herself at a total loss for what to say to her. Somehow, all the things she’s been mulling over ever since Loid came up those stairs seem to hide themselves away in the deepest crevices of her mind, refusing to emerge.

She wants to scream, wants to ask her how she could just pull away from them again. And yet, another part of her just wants to know if she’s okay.

After a quick glance at her father—he seems just as surprised as she is, his eyes widened slightly, brows raised like he really didn’t expect for her to just appear like that—, her gaze fixes on her again, trying to decipher a code that’s always been practically impossible to properly figure out.

Her expression is just as stony as it always is, her back stick-straight, arms crossed at her chest in that mildly unimpressed posture which strikes something deep within her memories as familiar. Though, as she looks closer, Kaelli realizes that a couple of the nails of her left hand have started to create small crescent-shaped indentations in the skin of her other arm where she’s holding it.

And, she notices how the petals around her have risen slightly, heightening her already-imposing stature; it almost reminds her of the hackles on some of the Kubrows that the Tenno have brought through their halls.

She wonders if this means that, for once, her mother is just as unsure of what to say as she is.

“Hello, Kaelli.” The tone is clipped, rigid, but not, to her surprise, much more-so than usual.

And then, silence falls across the room again.

Gods, while she might not wish for her family to be back to the way it was when they weren’t talking to each other—she’d actually prefer that not happen ever again, thank you very much—, sometimes she wonders if she’d have more luck communicating with her specimens. Hell, maybe the Infested outside would have a better chance than her parents seem to.

“Oh, look who finally decided to talk to us.”

The sudden mutter causes her mother to stiffen, slicing through the leaden silence—Kaelli isn’t quite sure if that’s a good thing yet. Only time will tell if she would’ve been better off just dealing with the graceless attempt at conversation on her own—, though it’s her own voice that comes in a low hiss as she notices her brother several feet away.

How is he always this quiet?

“Kermerros. Don’t.” She knows that a part of him isn’t really trying to be cruel, but this is ridiculous.

They’ll be lucky if their mother doesn’t leave immediately after that. He knows how she is.

Like clockwork, a scoff forces itself into the air, petals drawing themselves tighter around the taller Orokin, her voice coming in a harsh snap.

“I am not dealing with this as well, I—” She doesn’t know why she says anything, doesn’t know how her vocal cords manage to actually utter the near-shout that tumbles from her lips.

She can’t leave. She can’t. Not when they still haven’t spoken about any of this.

Not when she’s still pushing everyone away.

Not when they can all feel the walls of their home freezing over again.

“Mother, wait! Wait, we—We’re all here, can we just talk for a second? Please?” Shockingly, her mother freezes for a moment, her muscles stiff, stony mask dropping just enough that she catches a hint of something surprised within her expression.

It only takes that split-second for her father to reach out, his hand making contact with her shoulder. For a moment, they just stare at each other, a entire discussion happening without a single word falling into the air.

Until a sharp huff wrenches itself from her mother’s lungs, her azure gaze snapping to each of them in turn as she shrugs his arm off of her.

It lingers a bit longer on Kermerros, her brows furrowing slightly. A part of her wonders if the other is trying to discern whether he’s actually going to take part in the conversation.

“Fine. What is this about?” She can almost see her brother trying to keep his thoughts to himself.

Apparently none of them have decided to bring up the fact that they aren’t all present. Not that she thinks her grandmother will mind all that much. Somehow, the older Orokin always seems to know everything that goes on around the Necralisk anyway.

“I think we all know what it’s about.” And there it is. But, to his credit, Kaelli notices that her brother doesn’t seem to be trying to be antagonistic. Even still, she picks up as soon as he finishes speaking, though she quickly finds it difficult to say what she needs to.

Or, rather, she finds it difficult to re-word the thoughts that thud against her skull in a way that won’t shut the conversation down entirely.

“We’ve…There are some things that we’ve noticed and…” When she trails off for a second time, her mother’s eyes bore into her own, another snap falling into the air.

“Kaelli, just speak. You all wish to talk, so talk.” Shadowed fragments of memories drift forth at the tone, at the words that seem so familiar, other moments, other points in time passing through her head as she pauses for a second.

Sometimes, it’s still so hard to ward off the part of her that just wants to snap back at the other Orokin, the part of her that just wants to put the temper that she’d inherited to use.

But, that wouldn’t exactly do them much good now, so she forces herself to bite back that urge until only a hint of frustration makes its way into her voice.

“Fine. We’ve noticed that ever since…everything happened, it’s like things are going back to the way that they we—Mother, just listen for a second, please.” The taller woman opens her mouth as if to protest, forcing Kaelli to interrupt herself. Apparently she wasn’t anticipating that, because something shifts within her features, and she allows her to continue.

“You’re snapping at us again, you’re acting like we’re going to turn against you, or like we already have and we get that you’re angry about what happened and about what Ayata—” A sudden hiss interrupts the name which falls inadvertently upon ears that she knows don’t want to hear it.

“Do not call her that.” In response, her mother’s name cuts through the air, a warning sighed by the man next to her.

And then, her brother speaks. The petals around him tighten slightly, almost defensively, his tone echoing the same frustration that coils within her very bones.

“This is exactly what she’s talking about. Stop taking this out on us. We didn’t do anything. Did it ever occur to you for a second that we’re just as angry as you are? That your children might also be hurt by the fact that we were abandoned by our grandfa—” The moment that the word enters the air, their mother’s spine stiffens, the Infestation rising higher around her, puffing out slightly just like it did when they found out.

And Kermerros’s voice is sliced from the air, a single word lashing through the illusion of normalcy like a whip.

“Enough!” Her father’s arm comes up, as if to calm the taller Orokin, but she shrugs it off immediately.

She’s going to leave.

The thought slams against Kaelli’s mind as the shout rings through the air, as her brother’s gaze narrows, as the icy glare in her mother’s eyes fixes on him, her lip curling into a near-snarl.

She’s going to leave and it’s all going to get so much worse because now they’ve actually done something that has, in her mind, probably struck a chord that should never be spoken about.

And her voice raises, even if only to be heard above the cacophony in her head and the one that’s surely about to start once her mother actually moves to leave.

“We don’t want everything to go back to how it was before! We can’t do that again.” Just as soon as they rise, the words quiet to barely a whisper.

“I…None of us want to go back to hating each other.” Stress tangles within the words, emotions catching on their edges, fragments of everything she’s felt for the past two months seeping into the sentence.

Maybe she’s acting a bit too much like a child. Maybe she’s being foolish for trying to have some hope that this can be turned around if they just try.

Maybe this, maybe that, maybe she doesn’t care if she seems fucking desperate.

They can’t go back to that, can’t go back to the screaming, the fighting, the suspicion, the hurt.

Not when it became far too easy to sink into; not when, for so long, their only answer to the pain was just to inflict more and more until each and every one of them had so many wounds etched into their flesh—and even more in their minds—that the agony had dulled into something worse.

Something numb.

Something so empty that sometimes, it had felt better to relish in the burning hatred that surrounded them, because at least that didn’t leave holes in her chest that the Infestation couldn’t knit back together.

She doesn’t want to feel like her home is lined with thousands of shards of broken glass, their edges jagged and ready to slice through anyone unlucky enough to move a muscle in the ‘wrong’ way.

But it’s starting to feel that way again; she’s caught herself screening through her words before they even enter the air, filtering out anything that might cause those frigid flames to scorch the Infestation from the walls. She’s caught her heart hammering against her ribs when she senses that silent blanket of tension within the air, the one which makes her hair stand on-end and her mind scream in preparation for when the inevitable knife drives itself right through the peace.

And she’s caught herself wondering if she should even say certain things because it seems like all the stress is taking more of her mother away even faster than it was before. Her memory for anything that happened before they got to Deimos is already bad enough some days, but it seems to have gotten worse lately.

A part of her hopes that maybe, once everything calms down a little, the disease will too.

Maybe it’ll loosen its grip on the other Orokin’s memories just enough for things to feel ‘normal’ again.

They’re already in a race against time. And the Infestation is already winning. Just like it has been from the start.

It really doesn’t need to drive the point home by getting worse.

Stuck in her thoughts, Kaelli misses the slight twitch of her mother’s fingers against their opposing arm. She misses how that furrow in her brow changes, the rigid wall of anger yielding to a split-second flicker of an emotion that she’d never attribute to the other woman.

As she feels the Infestation around her curling slightly, its malformed ‘flesh’ drifting against her skin, the young Orokin doesn’t catch sight of a similar shift within the petals which surround her mother.

“Do you think that I want that either?”

The near-whisper escapes her before she can put an end to the insufferable twinge of guilt which ripples through every thought.

She knows that what they are saying is true, as much as her mind screams at her for admitting it, as much as the rot snarls saccharine suspicion at the mere fact that they are even speaking to her about this.

Despite everything, she does not particularly enjoy harming her family.

In fact, a piece of herself reminds her—despite the fact that she has forced it deep within the crevices of her thoughts—, she had actively made a decision to refrain from allowing that to happen again.

Gomaitru watches—every muscle in her body screeches at her to leave, to go back into the atrium, to get away from this discussion entirely—as her daughter’s gaze flicks upwards, darting from what seems like a vine weaving itself through a crack in the floor, to her.

Her words thud against her skull as she attempts to fight the almost overwhelming noise within her thoughts.

You should hate them.

They will lie to you.

“I do not hate any of you.”

For a moment, the fact that the sentence emerges from her own lips is lost on her. For a moment, the words seem so wrong that they simply cannot be her own; it would be factually impossible.

Yet, three sets of blue eyes remain fixed on her own.

She wishes that they would stop.

Nails press shallow crescents into the skin of her biceps whilst the realization that she was the one speaking seems to sit atop Gomaitru’s chest as if one of those beasts that her son is constantly bringing into their halls has just launched itself at her.

“Could’ve fooled me.” Her muscles stiffen at the mutter, her attention whipping in the direction of her son—at least he has the wherewithal to seem somewhat surprised at the statement which lingers in the air like the echo of a gunshot—, hardly noticing the flicker of fire in her daughter’s eyes as her jaw tenses against the screeching within her thoughts.

Tendrils of whispers coil across the wound stretching through her mind, knitting themselves into something defensive to conceal the pang of hurt which threatens to spill at the fact that her son believes that.

He should know otherwise, they all should, this is utterly ridiculous, of course she does not hate the—

It is not as if she has behaved in a way which suggests anything but, a tentative murmur of a thought appears, struggling to be heard beneath the waves of unyielding, shrieking reminders that she is in the right.

She must be in the right.

A scoff escapes Gomaitru as she shakes her head—perhaps the action is intended to dispel that errant murmur. She ignores the thought the moment that it flickers through her mind—, a prepared excuse on her tongue before she even realizes that it has formed.

“I have been busy. I do still have duties to attend to, even whilst we are stranded here.” It is an excuse which seems natural to the walls that surround them. Despite everything that is so far removed from a life which she cannot recall in great detail anymore, those words have been embossed into her very being over a lifetime.

A missed ‘date’, a night spent poring over her research until the glow of dawn rose over the horizon, an invitation to yet another meaningless social outing unceremoniously discarded in the waste-basket beside her desk. The shredded scraps manage to dart forth just enough for her to glimpse them, before the Infestation steals them away again.

She was busy, she was always busy, she was far too busy for any of it.

Her husband has the gall to give her a look, one which Gomaitru knows is a challenge to the integrity of her statement. At least he has the sense not to speak a word.

Unlike her son, evidently.

“Are you seriously using tha—” With a scoff, Kermerros interrupts himself, shaking his head; the action rings as far too familiar within her mind, though she dismisses the thought at once.

“Of course you are.” Her jaw tenses, the edge of her lip curling into the beginnings of a snarl.

“Do not take that tone with me. If this is how this discussion is going to go, then all of you can find someone else to berate. I have better thi—” Kaelli’s ‘We’re not berating y—’ is promptly drowned out as her son throws his hands up, the Infested petals surrounding him drawing themselves close to his form as their tips lash in malcontent.

“‘Better things’? Really? You have ‘better things’ to do than have an actual conversation with your family who, in case you’ve forgotten, you are stuck on this gods-forsaken rock with so you might as well just talk to u—” Her mind shrieks as the words seem to strike her, the rot snarling within her skull, tendrils twisting around her thoughts, pushing, pulling, distorting them until a part of her wishes to scream for everything around her to just stop.

Talk to them?

Talk to them?

Her muscles protest the tension which stiffens them, her skin dips beneath the pressure of the points of her nails biting into her upper arm.

The disease lashes in fury, its voices clawing through her mind as its flesh weaves through the air around her.

They speak about you behind your back.

They only lie to you.

Lies.

They knew about it, they had to have known about it, they hid everything from you and now they wish for you to speak?!

She does not know what the truth is, does not know where reality ends and the whispers begin, and she cannot bring herself to put forth the effort that it would take to discern it.

Do not speak to them.

They will betray you.

How dare they, how can she speak to them, wh—

“WHY WOULD I?!”

The shout—why is she doing this, she does not want to do this, why does she keep doing this?—is embedded with thorns, its words scraping at Gomaitru’s throat as they barrel past every part of her being which does not want them to. The final word catches, the dual tones of her voice cracking open as far too many emotions twist themselves around Infested vocal cords.

She hardly notices the way that both of her children stiffen, hardly notices the way that her daughter’s gaze flicks between her and Kermerros, over the sound of her own blood roaring in her ears.

They are going to turn on you.

Quiet, she thinks, her teeth gritting together so hard that a jolt of pain shoots through her lower jaw.

They already have, they have lied to you.

Enough, the thought comes more forcefully this time as Gomaitru attempts to rein in her errant thoughts as if she is trying to contain a pack of damn Kavats.

She does not hear the frustrated—angry? Hurt? It all sounds the same now—tone that escapes her son.

You trusted them, you trusted her, you trusted hi—

Stop, the Orokin berates her own thoughts, a dagger poised to slice her mind free from the rot which drips its saccharine deceit like blood through her veins.

Chained by the cacophony, Gomaitru does not see her husband reaching towards her shoulder. The insufferably familiar action remains lost on her as her anger threatens to claw itself free from her chest; it remains lost on her as the remaining shreds of her sanity attempt to stop it from doing so.

Out of the corner of her eye, she manages to notice one of the writhing petals halt in its movements, just before it lashes even more forcefully than before; she does not see how her husband’s hand darts back towards himself as if he has been burned.

Her fingers tighten around her biceps as she fights the part of herself which just wishes to scream until everything stops.

This is not proper—does it matter?—, she needs to keep her damn composure—why should she?—, she does not want to do thi—

Suddenly, Gomaitru feels her body plummet, her vision encased in darkness as the undulating flesh of the Infested tunnels surrounds her, forcing her away from the ‘discussion’, away from them, away from the whispers.

The tendrils do not stop, no matter how quickly she moves. They do not stop, they do not quiet, and they certainly do not grant her any reprieve from the paranoia which chokes her lungs and grates her nerves until there is surely nothing left.

The realization that she is no longer in the area of the Necralisk in which Kaelli chooses to spend her time does not truly hit her until she finds herself in a familiar section of the network.

Various scientific instruments lie neatly organized against the walls of the tunnel, instruments which Gomaitru knows more intimately than any being that has or will ever exist.

The quiet rippling of the Infestation behind her sends unease prickling down her spine; a few vines curl from their places at the walls, drifting atop her skin as if reminding her of their presence.

She could laugh at that, were she in a better mood; how could she have ever forgotten the disease which involves itself into every aspect of her life, her surroundings, her mind?

The Orokin knows before he speaks that the identity of the being emerging into her section of the chambers beneath the Necralisk is not one of her children. Nor is it her mother-in-law; it is a mercy that that is true. She does not have the capacity to deal with the older Orokin at the moment.

“Out.” A part of herself cringes inwardly at the way that her voice splits, damaged cords vibrating at different frequencies to make the single word seem as if it has taken on multiple notes.

Usually she can somewhat control that. Usually she can prepare her tone in a way which does not allow the Infestation to take hold of her voice as well. Or, at the very least, the split is far less audible.

To her chagrin, Vilcor does not listen, does not leave, does not go back to his section—or their daughter’s, or out into the Drift, or quite literally anywhere else other than where she currently is—of the Necralisk.

Why can he not just leave her alone to deal with the damned nonsense thudding within her skull so that she can actually think clearly again?

“He wasn’t wrong. And you know that.” His voice is low, almost tentative—a part of her hates the fact that she knows why it is. A part of her hates how she can feel the weight of that shard still in her hand, just as vivid as the day that she released it—, though there is a firmness behind the words which proves to her that, unless she puts this to an end now, he will insist on continuing whatever this is.

Gomaitru forces herself to draw a shallow breath into her lungs, just enough for the jolt to relax her voice enough for the tendrils to withdraw themselves, yet not enough for her to truly feel the effects of the oxygen and certainly not enough for it to dispel any of part of the wild coagulation of conflict within her chest.

“I am not doing this right now, Vilcor. Get out.” Again, he does not do so, though she refuses to turn towards him.

“Do you want us to end up back where we were?” Her teeth grit against each other, one of her molars creaking with the strain—she just answered that, she is not going to say it again. Once was humiliating enough—as she grounds out her response. Tension coils within her muscles, causing them to protest even the act of remaining still, her back as straight as an arrow.

“What I want is a moment alone.” The poison within her thoughts has not lessened, it still speaks honeyed lies that, if she is being entirely honest with herself, a part of her wants to believe.

It would be so much easier if she just believed them.

“Nothing’s going to get solved if you keep doing this. Taking everything out on us, that won’t fix anything. You know that it won’t. Can you please just…think about what they said?” The snap escapes before she can temper it.

“Of course, because thinking about how my children believe that I hate them is certainly going to make me want to engage in any type of conversation more than I already am. I have already told you, multiple times, that I am busy. That is even more true now.” She manages to stop herself from digging deeper, from sinking the talons of her voice in so far that they cannot be removed.

Barely.

She does not wish to think about how easy it almost was to say something that she would never be able to take back.

With her back turned, Gomaitru does not see how her husband’s brows furrow into some confounding amalgam of concern and frustration, nor the way that his lips shape a silent ‘That isn’t what I—’ before he stops himself.

He does not do a good enough job at concealing said amalgam when it seeps into his voice, however.

“Well, not thinking about this isn’t doing any of us any favors.” Before she can react, before she can tell him again to just leave her be, she hears Vilcor drag a breath into his lungs.

The Infested vine at her shoulder shifts, curling against her skin as he exhales.

“If it means anything, that…isn’t how this was supposed to go, I don’t think.” What the intended result of the discussion was does not matter, her mind snarls. He knows that.

When her voice emerges yet again, her snap does not burn nearly as cold as it likely should.

“Leave me. I am not speaking about this right now.” Although she cannot see his face, Gomaitru is certain of his expression; she knows him well enough that she can envision the conflicted nature of his features well before the not-exactly-harsh sigh reaches her.

“Fine.” She does not acknowledge the reminder which follows, the low murmur that her mother-in-law wishes for them to eat together tonight, as she hears the rippling of the tunnel shifting to allow her husband’s departure.

A part of her is relieved when he does not speak that trio of words which she still does not quite know how to respond to. That would only make the cacophony inside of her mind worse.

He betrayed you, the tendrils taunt, the vine coiling across her skin almost pointedly, as if it is certain of the words.

A groan escapes before she can stop it, addressing the poison within her mind aloud, much to her displeasure.

“Enough.” She does not know the point of attempting to silence the thoughts anymore, not when they are like this, not when her mind is filled with half-knit truths that seem so plausible that they could be her reality.

Why does she keep doing this?

Wordlessly, Gomaitru turns, pressing the heel of her hand against her brow-bone in an—admittedly ill-fated—attempt at warding off the pangs which have evidently begun to lap at her temples, the pain almost certainly related to the argument, or the Infestation’s claws within her mind, or a combination of the two.

She had told them that she would stop doing this.

She had told herself that she would stop doing this.

She does not care when her anger gnashes its fangs at anyone else, but she had sworn to herself that she would not behave that way towards her family again.

She hates this.

A twinge ripples through her frame, catching on her bones, her nerves, her very thoughts, as if the Infestation has taken personal offense to the thought. Even the vine at her shoulder curls upwards, its end turned towards her face.

Perhaps you should have listened to Us, the thoughts seem to growl. The Orokin reacts by almost shoving the vine away from herself, shifting to the center of the narrow tunnel so that it cannot reach her easily.

How fitting, she muses bitterly.

They betrayed you, her mind echoes. Her jaw tenses against the realization that she does not know if the voice is her own, or if it is the disease.

He lied to her. They all did. It would be so much simpler if she could just hate them.

It would be so much simpler if she could fully believe that every being amidst these halls knowingly kept those details from her. It would be so much easier if she had not seen the anger on her daughter’s face or the almost-hidden surprise on her son’s when the reality of the situation had settled.

It would be so much simpler if she could not feel this insufferable regret and the guilt which seems to gnaw at her very bones, digging in its fangs until it hits marrow and then burying itself deep within the cavity left behind.

She wishes that she could hate them.

They seem to believe that she hates them.

Her arms cross again, hands coming to close around her biceps, just as they had when she had ventured towards her daughter’s area of their home.

She does not want to hate them.

The whispers combine with her own pride, surging in defiance when a piece of her attempts to scream that she was in the wrong.

She knows that they cannot return to how they were before the Te—

Gomaitru stops herself, her very being feeling as if it lurches at that reminder. Thus, the thought amends itself.

They cannot return to how they were before. She knew that. She still knows that.

She is not certain that her family would remain intact, not if hatred and suspicion were to seep back into their halls.

Yet, that is what has begun to happen. She knows that.

She has still allowed the blades to be returned to her voice, her words, her actions. She has used them herself, and has not placed a guard over them as she should have.

Yes, she has always been sharp, but this is not merely ‘sharp’.

She has been cruel.

You would not have needed to do so if they had not lied to you, the rot warns. Gomaitru huffs, turning her attention—if only to distract herself from the growing pain in her skull—to a tablet which sits atop a nearby pedestal, its gilded stand now half-embedded into the crimson wall behind it.

She scans the readings, allowing the numbers to seep past the turmoil, though is unsurprised to discover that, just as it always is, the Heart remains intact and beating, providing a connection between their world and the Void.

It has not been damaged since the moon has returned to orbit.

She has her suspicions about the reason behind that seemingly-rogue Necramech. Perhaps she was too focused on fixing the issue to piece it together at the time, but her mother-in-law has never been particularly subtle. Well, not subtle enough, at least.

Not enough to fool the woman who had watched the Heart’s construction. Not enough to fool the woman who had been overseeing it even before her family was permanently relocated to Deimos.

The memory strikes her mind in just the ‘right’ manner to cause the whispers to quiet for a moment.

Despite herself, she never wishes for them to get to that point again.

She does not enjoy behaving in this way towards her family.

Even if it might be easier to keep them at arms-length. Even if it quiets the screeching in her mind for a moment longer. Even if it is so much more difficult to convince herself of something other than the ‘truth’ which seems far too real to be anything but.

Even if she does not trust them.

She does not trust them. Not now. Gomaitru knows that that is going to take effort to change, if it does at all.

She hopes that a part of that effort lies upon her husband’s shoulder. As much as she can acknowledge the faults of her assumptions—she does not want to, but she can—where her children are concerned, he did lie to her. By his own admission.

She does not care why. She has never cared about the reason for someone concealing the truth from her.

She only cares about the existence of the lie itself.

With a huff—and the rot shrieking at her to abandon that line of thought entirely—, Gomaitru stares at the tablet in front of her, though almost absentmindedly, her index finger swipes across the screen, shifting to an image that is different from the data points which are collected every several minutes in order to inform her of the Heart’s condition.

As the mechanism pulses, the live-feed catches it beat-by-beat. Her eyes narrow as she inspects the gilded plating, pupils flitting across the screen to attempt to discern any minute imperfections from the somewhat-hazy image. The cerulean energy of the Void billows around it as the Heart continues to pump its life-blood through the metal arteries that it is connected to.

She sees herself, for a moment, standing at the top of those stairs, knuckles blanched a pale cobalt against the golden banisters which line the edges of the platform leading down to what he had built.

The memory emerges with a strength that she has not experienced in far more than an age. It flickers, like an old film, and its edges are torn, mangled to near-shreds as are many of the pieces of herself.

But it lingers longer than an instant.

It lingers, long enough for Gomaitru to recall how she had stared at the Heart, on those rare—were they?—nights when not only sleep eluded her, but clarity as well. Every pristine calculation wrong, somehow, every neatly-scrawled number mislaid, every flawless pattern taunting her.

She recalls how she had glared at the mechanism, as if, with one great pulse, it could grant her the answers that she sought.

When the memory is snatched from her grasp, she is left with only the very same feeling of empty anger that had sunk deep into her bones back then.

A scoff escapes her as she swipes back to the other screen—the data is infallible, predictable, certain. There is no need for those useless recollections—, her head shaking as a thought settles itself amidst the very mind in which it will never be welcome.

Of course everything was perfect.

Of course it was all wrong.

It would never have been anything but, no matter what her approach had been.

He had made it so.

Deliberately.

He lied; the thought is voiced by her own mind and that ever-present consciousness in tandem.

‘Live for the sake of the living’, she had once told herself.

Her light is her own. Her mind is her own, everything that she has written, built, curated, in his absence is hers to claim.

Why should any of this change that?

Why should any of the emotions which she will never deign to describe—for she has never known how and she is certainly not going to discover it now—impact what she knows to be true?

Why should she allow him that victory over her when he cannot even admit to her face that he never wished to sire her in the first place?

That conflict be damned, she can at least control what she does next.

Perhaps she cannot control the thoughts, nor the complexities within her mind, nor the rot twisting through her until a piece of her seems shadowed by paranoia as deep and treacherous as the very Void which she has devoted years of her life to studying.

But, Gomaitru knows, she can make one singular choice. It is one which she has made before.

She will not allow her anger, nor her turmoil, to take what is left from her.

There is no great moment of realization. Not with this. Not when she has known from the very start that she has been going too far; she has simply elected to ignore that fact and suppress the threads of guilt which have accompanied it.

Her mind protests. The disease does as well. Even her body seems to stiffen, muscles tensing at the thought of forcing herself to refrain from hiding behind a fury which was not caused by her family, not truly.

Well, not by most of them, at the very least.

Gomaitru surprises even herself when, hours later, she joins her family for their weekly supper together, for the first time in weeks.

The petals tighten against her back, folding themselves into a nigh-impenetrable wall of crimson ‘flesh’ behind her, the ones at her sides lashing slowly at their tips.

Her son’s mouth is pursed into a thin line, his eyes narrowed as he tracks her movements, as if he has been transformed into one of the very beasts which he keeps in his corner of their halls.

She remains quiet as they begin to settle in, a feat not unknown to her family—when she does join them for something like this, it is not often that she contributes to their chatter—, though spots her mother-in-law shoot her a knowing look, the corners of her eyes crinkled with that gleam which has always irritated her to no end.

Gomaitru simply raises a brow, allowing herself to listen to her daughter rambling on about something related to the composition of the exocrine rivers and the Infested fish which reside within them.

It is not a comfortable occasion. More than once, one of her children stops mid-sentence, their gaze flicking to her as if they were about to say something that she would not approve of. More than once, she has to consciously stop herself from snapping at any of the four when the distrust stretches its shadows too far from the confines of her skull.

At best, it is an awkward, inelegant excuse for a meal.

At worst, it will be fuel for her thoughts to utilize at a later date to convince her of events which never occurred.

But, Gomaitru supposes, it is a start. It is something.

It is more than she has been committing to for around two months.

That night, she forces herself to sleep too quickly for the thoughts to take hold, a feat which she is made to regret the following day when the memories lap at the edges of her mind, when a part of her snarls that she should not take her chances, that she is better off keeping everyone far away from her, no matter who they are.

But still, the choice is made. She will not allow her anger to turn its talons against what is hers.

Not without fighting tooth and nail to force it into submission.

It can turn against anyone else. That, the Orokin finds, she cares much less about.

So long as it is not them.

One day passes, then two, then several. She tries.

It is difficult. Perhaps far more-so than it should be, especially when every fiber of her being twinges in protest when she attempts to actually put forth the effort of engaging with them.

Sometimes, the tendrils are too loud. Sometimes, she cannot dismiss the idea that they are not to be trusted. Sometimes, she cannot choke down the fury before a frigid hiss forces itself from her lungs.

She snaps at her son when one snide, off-handed comment strikes her in a way that a part of herself knows it had not been intended to; he slips back into the tunnels before she can even attempt to explain herself, leaving her with naught in the way of ‘company’ but the petals which surround her.

Hours later, Gomaitru finds herself out in the humid air of the Drift, having been notified that a group of Tenno was in the area of one of the ruins which she has been keeping a close watch on; evidently there is an instability mounting within the tunnels, forcing fissures through them. It is an issue which must be dealt with promptly, which the four seem almost too eager to accomplish. Now that they have disappeared underground, she has transferred their communications to the Necraloid, the Infestation around her poised to carry her back into the once-great mansion in which she resides.

Before she can slip into the tunnels, the Orokin catches something out of the corner of her eye. Her brows furrow as she recalls the identity of the fronds and, before she can talk herself out of the action, she reaches out towards them, her long fingers deftly plucking the ganglia from the tips of a few of the fibrous growths.

They weigh heavily—more-so than they likely should, given their sizes—in the palm of her larger hand as she makes her way back to the Necralisk.

This is absurd.

Even when a part of herself tells her to throw them back into the Infested lands of the Cambion Drift, Gomaitru cannot bring her muscles to do so.

When she emerges from the network again, it is not in the atrium of the familiar gilded halls.

She is not certain if Kermerros notices her presence at first, lingering in the doorway as he corrals some creature against the wall of one of the makeshift cages that he has insisted upon moving into this ‘room’. She does not know why she waits until the beast settles before she clears her throat pointedly.

Her son’s shoulders stiffen only enough for her to notice, though whether that is because he had not realized that she was there, or because he is expecting a continuation of the—admittedly, one-sided—‘argument’ from earlier, she does not know.

A part of her hopes that it is not the latter. Even if she attempts to convince herself that she should not care either way.

When he answers with a low ‘One moment’, Gomaitru does not protest, does not demand his attention. She simply raises a brow as he injects some substance into the creature before holding out a few morsels of what must be its food source. The viscous-seeming thing hesitantly takes them from his palm, though retreats away once it is finished.

This is ridiculous, the rational—is that what it is?—part of herself warns. Still, when Kermerros turns, his brow raised in something which seems caught halfway between suspicion and a faint hint of surprise, she does not leave.

Even if discomfort rolls down her spine in waves.

For a moment, mother and son stare at each other, neither wishing to make the first move. The ganglia in her closed hand seem to burn a hole into her flesh the longer that she remains silent.

Gomaitru chastises herself; she is used to academic conferences—was, rather—, she is accustomed to speaking with others, this is nothing when compared to that.

So why, even as she forces the words to emerge, does it all feel so incorrect?

Deep down, she knows the reason. Guilt has never been an emotion to which she has paid much mind, if any.

An Orokin cannot afford to be in the wrong. Especially not someone of their standing.

Especially not when duty and expectations and greatness loom over their heads like a noose, with the snapping jaws of disavowment and ostracism waiting for the faintest scent of failure.

“I just came back from the Prospect.” A pause sinks into the air, cyan eyes fixed on her own, clearly wondering why she is telling him this; he at least has the sense to keep the question to himself, even if she can discern it from the faint twist of his features.

The desire to leave this already-awkward attempt at whatever it is that she is trying to do is almost overwhelming.

Yet, her fingers unfold, though she keeps her arm close, not reaching out. Not yet.

A branch blooms within the gesture, verdant leaves cradling the tangled bundles of nerves and whatever else lies within the masses that she had collected in her palm. A part of her hopes that he accepts it.

When Kermerros’s gaze lands on the offering, confusion flickers momentarily within the expression which has always been far too similar to her own.

“You…” He trails off and Gomaitru refrains from allowing the part of herself which is forever an Orokin to remind him to speak properly.

Instead, a low explanation wrings its way across her vocal cords.

It is not an apology. But her actions are as close to one as she can muster.

“You have a use for these, correct? I seem to recall seeing them here before.” Slowly—as if he is attempting to process the words—, her son nods; she takes note of how the Infestation surrounding him seems to shift slightly, pulling itself a bit further from his form, as if the petals each take a breath of their own.

“I do. One of the—” When the words halt mid-air, Gomaitru feels the muscles in her back knit themselves together, a stiff tapestry forming as she wonders if he has elected to refrain from speaking with her.

It would not be undeserved, that discontented piece of herself which still holds the thing that is still far too similar to regret murmurs.

“Could I show you?” The near-whisper causes her brows to furrow together, confusion circling her thoughts as, for a split-second, she does not see the grown Orokin in front of her, but a hazy facsimile of the child that she hardly remembers.

Had he ever asked her that back then?

Had she listened?

She does not remember; even still, a piece of her knows the truth with almost-unnerving certainty.

In the seconds which grow shaded by silence, Gomaitru catches the way that her son’s form stiffens slightly, catches the way that the dark petals draw themselves close to him again, perhaps even more tightly than before.

A wordless sound of acknowledgement coils in her throat, her head twitching downwards into a nod just as he seems ready to reverse the question entirely.

There is an odd ache in her chest at the surprise that he cannot quite hide from her, its presence seeming to gnaw at whatever is left between her ribs as his narrowed gaze widens just the slightest amount.

Her mind screeches to point it out, to scoff at the mere notion that he seems this shocked by her answer; she silences the thought as best as she can, for deep within her being, she knows the reason for her son’s reaction.

Still, when he turns towards another of the makeshift cages, her bones itch to leave before this becomes worse, before something slips, whether it be her patience, her temper, or her sanity.

She can feel the Infestation against her back, larger petals resting against the half-exposed viscera left in the wake of the disease.

Why one of the thinner ones elects to press itself against her shoulder, she does not know. Nor does she know the reason for why she does not immediately brush it away when Kermerros turns back to her.

With a hum, he gestures towards the cage’s occupant, an odd, insect-like creature, though it is far larger than what she would have anticipated. Its carapace is colored the same as exposed tissue—she supposes that that likely proves useful for it in the wild, at least—, though its legs, jaws, and underside are a similar gray of petrified wood.

Then, her son holds out his hand in her direction, his question clear; she passes a single ganglion to him.

Despite herself, despite every part of her which has never found interest in fauna in the way that either of her children do, despite the still-lingering twinge of an emotion that she cannot call resentment anymore at the fact that neither of them had followed in her footsteps, Gomaitru finds herself almost curious.

The insect skitters around the cage, strange chirping sounds emitting from it—she does not have the faintest idea of whether those sounds are a positive thing—, though when her son holds his hand above it, something within her mind screeches to warn him not to get too close.

Deimos is filled with horrid beasts. It does not matter if her family is already Infested, she would rather that none of them were injured further.

He drops the ganglion into the cage and the creature snaps it up with a ferocity that certainly does not do that suspicious side of her any favors.

“What is it?” She cannot quite keep the edge from her tone, though it must be guarded enough that Kermerros elects to ignore it, as he simply glances from the beast to her.

When he states the name, Gomaitru realizes that she has heard it before—likely from him, or her mother-in-law. Gods only know what the older Orokin utilizes in her makeshift ‘remedies’—, although she has never actually witnessed one of the creatures up close.

“It’s a Cryptilex. These ones specifically were almost driven to extinction because the Grineer—” The word is said with a scoff as he rolls his eyes.

“—weren’t exactly fond of how infectious they are.” When the word registers, the tension which pulls at her muscles must be visible, because his gaze hardens for a moment.

“Don’t scowl at me like that, they’re fine as long as you don’t let them bite you. It’s not like we can get any more Infested than we are, anyway.” She raises a brow, his name escaping in a warning.

“Kermerros.” Her son’s jaw tenses, though he lets out a sigh, his gaze falling on the Cryptilex again.

“It isn’t that type of infection. I wouldn’t bring them in here if I thought they were a threat to us.” Instead of stating the obvious, instead of reminding him to forgive her for not exactly believing that, Gomaitru drags a breath into her lungs, feeling the oxygen loosen the dregs of Infestation coiling around the organs as she does so.

“So long as you do not allow them to roam freely.” He nods, a quiet ‘I know. They don’t’ answering her.

Despite herself, she finds that a question falls into the still-not-quite-comfortable air.

“They feed on those, then?” Again, Kermerros nods, a quiet hum escaping him, weaving through his answer, coloring it with something which seems to be similar to what escapes her when she speaks about her own research.

That quiet passion is why she can no longer bring herself to be furious at him for pursuing biology as a career. She has not been able to for years.

“They do. They have other food sources, but the ganglia are a delicacy to them.” A murmur escapes him that she almost does not hear.

“…And I’m rather fond of them. So I don’t mind it.” The admission seems as if it should not have been intended for her ears.

She recognizes it for what it is.

She accepts it for what it is.

That branch finds its way towards her, changing hands as her son accepts the one which grows from her own palm, as he reaches out to take more of the bundles that she had collected, as the chirping insect snatches them up one-by-one.

For a moment, it seems as if he will leave one, as if he is going to ask if she wishes to feed the creature; Gomaitru finds herself far too relieved when, after a moment, he takes the last of the ganglia from her.

The beast might seem intriguing, but she would rather not get any closer to it than she already is; she will leave him to that. It is not as if she has ever been exceptionally fond of wild animals anyhow.

They speak for a few minutes more about the Cryptilex, about how it had come to be in their halls, about what Kermerros is doing to rehabilitate it—she allows herself to truly listen to what is being said—, though she soon takes her leave, allowing him to continue his routine as he turns to yet another creature.

A mental note weaves itself into her mind, knitting into the folds between the Infestation and her own thoughts; if she comes across more of those fronds—which should not be too difficult, they are not uncommon, from what she has seen—, she will collect a few of the tangled bundles from them from time to time.

A sort of tension seems to have lifted itself from her shoulders by the time that she emerges in the atrium. She had not even realized that it was there.

The whispers are still there, but Gomaitru finds that she does not need to put as much effort into ignoring them at the current moment.

It is not perfect.

But it is a start.

That night, when her daughter emerges in the atrium, she does not dismiss her; instead, she engages in conversation, as brief and relatively mundane—just the younger Orokin’s thoughts on a new method of preparing the few simple meals that they are able to consume. It is likely a better conversation to have with her mother-in-law, as opposed to herself, but she does not tell Kaelli to leave—as it might be.

To her surprise, her daughter lingers, even after the conversation has reached its conclusion. To her surprise, she allows it, permitting the younger Orokin to settle near her as she turns her attention back to her work.

Her presence is calmer, quieter, than it usually is.

Gomaitru finds that there is a piece of her, buried deep within the errant rot eating away at her mind, buried deep within the bones and nerves and vessels which make up her frame, that had forgotten what it felt like to be a part of simple, peaceful company.

Even the Infestation around her seems to notice, the petals lowering somewhat; they are not quite relaxed, but it is something, at the very least. For a moment, the whispers seem to hum in a tone which she has not encountered before.

The days that follow are similar. They have their points of improvement, they have ones which seem as if nothing that she does is working to control her behavior, nor the heightened paranoia lashing inside of her skull.

But at least there is a balance where there once was not.

To Gomaitru’s growing dismay, however, her attempts to subdue the anger when it comes to her family has left her with far too much to think about, regardless of how she attempts to throw herself into her work.

Why is she even considering this?

She betrayed her. She lied to her.

She hurt her.

That thought begins to replace the anger far more than she had ever wanted it to, fury giving way to something bitter and acrid and painful.

It is different from the bitterness which surrounds Loid’s presence in all of this. Of course it is.

He would never have gone against her father.

Her A—No, the tendrils remind her. The Tenno never even knew him. Yet, she lied, even with everything that she knew about her.

Gomaitru does not know if she can ever forgive that. She is certain that, even with the disease rotting away pieces of herself memory by forsaken memory, she will never forget it. Nor does she want to.

She should not need to forgive a being who lied about something that important. No matter what the reason was.

But every time that she hears the quiet voice manage to cross through the air of the once-grand halls, something in her chest aches. Every time that she finds herself wrapped up in her research in the middle of the day, when the other Tenno are still milling about the Necralisk, that ache only grows.

She wishes that she did not miss her. But she does.

No matter how much the Infestation and the rot and her own practical sense attempt to discourage her from it.

No matter how angry she is at the lie, no matter how much she wishes that she could twist the hurt into loathing.

But the more that she forces herself to try for her family, the more that Gomaitru begins to wonder if she could try for her as well.

Would the Tenno do the same? If she needed to earn her trust again? If she needed her to prove that she would never do something as infuriating and hurtful and borderline-cruel as lying to her about something that important again?

It is a foolish thought, a childish thought, but it is one which keeps forcing itself from beyond the walls within her mind, slipping through the cracks, weaving its way past the tendrils which snarl at her to never open herself up to something like that again.

If they needed to start from the very beginning, would she do that?

Could she herself allow it?

More and more, Gomaitru finds herself conflicted, her answer shifting every time that the question crosses her mind.

Especially because she does not know if it could ever happen. She does not know if she can forgive her. She does not know if she will ever be able to quiet the shrieking sounds which infest her mind enough to truly be able to trust the Tenno again.

There is a part of her which wonders if it would even be worth it to try if she is not certain of if anything can change.

But she misses her little star.

The thought wrenches her very heart, tearing at the edges of a wound which has lain itself atop another that had never properly healed. She tries to cover it, tries to bandage it with the anger which has always come far too easily to her, but the makeshift dressing always lifts up at its edges, exposing the raw viscera again and again.

Despite every part of her which does not want to, Gomaitru is forced to confront the fact that she does not want to continue like this.

Not without knowing if anything can be done to salvage what might be left from the wreckage. Even if a vast part of herself does not wish to do so.

Perhaps that is why, two and a half months after her perception of reality was shaken to its very core, she gives the Necraloid instructions to bring the Tenno to the atrium the next time that she arrives on Deimos.

She cannot give back her title. Not yet. Not until she has proven trustworthy enough to be their star again.

Perhaps it will never be returned; something deep within her lurches at the thought, but it is true. She does not know if this can be repaired, nor to what extent.

But, Gomaitru finds as she spots that familiar blue and green Warframe for the first time in over two months, those almost-ephemeral lotus flowers gently raining down around it, galaxies swirling in its helm, she is willing to see what is possible.

Her trust is not a simple thing to earn. It is far more improbable that one who has lost it will ever regain it to its full extent. The Tenno knows this already and she has to choke down that festering anger as the thought rears its ugly head.

But she is willing to try.

She cannot promise anything, cannot force those thoughts from her mind, cannot force herself to act as if the newest member of her family did not betray her. She cannot tell the other that this offer will not be snatched away much faster than it will be given, should the need arise.

The Warframe’s steps falter as the Tenno within seems to realize that she is not being taken to Grandmother’s corner of the Necralisk, though Gomaitru hears Otak’s too-excited voice over the din which extends through her halls. She cannot discern the words that he speaks, but it seems to be enough to coax the other forward, the Warframe’s long, Void-swept cloak billowing behind it as its boots click against the stairs.

It pauses several feet away and for a moment, the Orokin wonders if the effort has been halted before it has even begun.

Until that familiar sound rings through the air and suddenly, she is not just looking at the Warframe, but at the scarred face of the being who, while she does not view her as her child exactly, she had found herself growing fond of.

You allowed her close before and look at what happened, the disease warns, snarling even before anything has truly begun. The sentiment lashes through her thoughts in waves, almost loudly enough that Gomaitru considers calling the whole thing off entirely, if only to force it to stop.

She cannot grant that title to her again.

But, when the unpracticed words flow from her lungs, something else does as well.

An offering.

A branch.

Something which says—in a low tone that has barely more than a flicker of something that is almost uncomfortably close to relief—that she is willing to see if her mind will allow her to try again.

It is not an apology, nor an admission of guilt, because that is not her place and she is neither apologetic, nor regretful, of what she said or how the words had forced themselves into the air.

But, it is a message that she is willing to attempt to allow her trust to be earned again by the being who was once that shining little star for her family.

As promised, here’s just the lil bug herself.

She came out super cute and I’m very pleased about it, considering the fact that I went through several sketches to find something that I was happy with.

Anywho, that’s all for the art itself, for the most part, but now I’d like to go into a bit more detail about the process (because it was an experience XD). If anyone’s interested in those rambles, feel free to stick around!!

This was supposed to be a ‘quick’ piece that was just the Lotus floof, and then I showed it to a friend and they (very correctly) stated that she needed a friend. I’d already been wondering what I was going to do with the rest of the page, and this idea actually worked out quite nicely. So, I decided to add my Kavat, mainly because of a ridiculous headcanon that I have, though I was also inspired by my own cat and his attachment to his own toys. And then it became a whole scene.

And oh boy. This was a process XD. I’ve been slowly getting myself back into art over the past couple of months after hardly drawing for about four years, and I definitely haven’t drawn cats in like…two of those. Mistakes were made, lessons were learned, the ‘Undo’ button in my art app was used enough that I’m surprised it didn’t get up and walk away 🤣. There was a lot of trying to get the posing right, and then a lot of going back and fixing things (and then fixing more things when that ended up ‘breaking’ something else). My previous style from when I used to draw more frequently did not lend itself very well to a hairless Kavat, so there was quite a but of experimentation lol.

It was very much a ‘Trust the process’ situation, which art tends to be for me anyway, especially for the first couple of days that I worked on it.

But I’m very glad that I stuck it out and finished it.

Also, here’s a fun little tidbit: I designed the background after my in-game Personal Quarters, since I have a little corner where I’ve put some Lotus-related decorations, as well as a bunch of Xenoflora (and my Kavat seems to enjoy lying down in the middle of the flowers whenever I go into that room).

As I went to take screenshots for this, Ren immediately decided to prove my point by going directly over to the ‘Lotus corner’ and making himself quite at home XD.

My style for backgrounds has become very simplistic, especially now that I’ve somewhat decided to skip the shading altogether for most of my art. My general thought process is to go at it with very basic shapes and convey the essence of the idea, rather than driving myself mad trying to get every detail perfect. Admittedly, that tends to work better when the setting is not a man-made structure, but it’s been serving me well enough. But, that’s why the background y’all see in this is relatively simple.

Not gonna lie, other than the Xenoflora, I think my favorite part of the background is how the Lotus Noggles turned out XD. They’re so cute.

Most days, he finds himself wondering if this madness is all nothing more than a dream, nothing more than the too-vivid visions which have tormented his mind for as long as he can remember.

For how else, Lyon wonders, would he ever explain his current predicament?

The Necralisk was a sight to behold, once. Or so he has been told. And, to the credit of those who have spoken with him, he can recognize the opulence in the remaining gilded etchings on the walls, in the ornate fixtures littered amongst the crimson Infestation. He is certain that it was once a mansion that would put to shame the farm on which he spent his childhood.

However, that knowledge does not make the pulsating nodes beside him any less…disconcerting.

More than once now, Marie has made it a point to drag him—sometimes in the very literal sense of the word—from Le Cathédrale. Her excuse is two-fold; they must watch over the devil and, now that they have more freedom than when their Brothers and Sisters helped to conceal them within the crypts, they might as well utilize it.

He knows that she is rather enjoying herself greeting those whom she has only heard stories about. Thus, he never finds himself complaining…much.

At least it gives him a change of scenery as he reads over the familiar scripture which has been a centerpiece of his very life for so long.

Conversations are difficult for him. They have always been. Thus, Lyon evades the opportunity, most days. He is far more content to remain in the atrium of the strange new place, closer to Roathe as well as to the doorway which leads to the Sanctum—and with it, Le Cathédrale—, than he would be to wander the halls attempting to find the proper words.

The Tenno do not pay him much mind, at least; he remains tucked to the side, away from any of the true reasons that would draw them to this particular hall.

At least one of those is just as content to remain in solitude as he is.

Even now, weeks after the revelation which expanded their range from two sets of walls to three, he remains uncertain of his position regarding the Entrati. He is…pleased that Monsieur Loid is able to reconnect with them, of course. The man does not deserve all that he has gone through, and it is no secret that the ability to see his family again has lightened his mood significantly.

They were certainly not what he had been anticipating, however.

Even with the warning bestowed upon them by the Drifter, it would have been nigh impossible to properly prepare himself for the sight of the Infested Orokin.

For the only ones of their kind that he has ever known were quite different.

Still, Lyon supposes that, at least some of the members of the family seem amicable enough.

The matriarch, however, is another tale entirely. She is a reticent being, especially with them, hardly deigning to say a word if it does not pertain to that which she deems important.

He concedes that that trait has seemingly taken a turn for the worse after that…ill-fated attempt at conversation between her and the Sister of his soul. Marie had been quick to tell him of the goings-on when she returned from the Necralisk that day.

Truth be told, a piece of his heart had ached for both of them; for he understood his Sister’s argument well. Yet, he does not have her—at times unwavering—faith in Entrati. Even with the Drifter’s words and the agreement that they had settled upon, there are still days where his good deeds far outweigh his sins in her mind. A part of him cannot fault Marie for that.

But he is also keenly aware of the struggle of a child…estranged from their parents.

Some actions cause far too much harm to ever consider reconciliation.

Some actions cause the threads of familial loyalty to snap as if they have been burned above a roaring flame.

Who are they to decide which acts should or should not be forgiven?

In any case, the tale of Gomaitru’s reaction had granted her few favorable marks in his mind, if any at all. He had been warned of her…temper by the Drifter, and he had seen the wounds that the Orokin woman had left on her husband.

There was a moment, in the very beginning, when he had just barely stepped foot into the atrium and had noticed that the two were seemingly caught in a discussion. It was not a productive one, he had presumed when he noticed the furrows of their brows and the frustrated tones of the man’s voice.

When he connected the numerous, seemingly healed gashes—they were large enough for him to decipher, even at that distance, even with his sight being what it is, and that had told him all that he needed to know—marring Vilcor’s flesh to the hinted-at point which had been made about her, his skin had crawled with memories far too unpleasant to think about for long, his back aching with phantom lashes and scars too deep to forget.

His hands were already trembling as Lyon had forced himself through the doorway back towards the Sanctum. Frustratingly, the thoughts did not leave him be as quickly as he had hoped.

After hearing what had happened between her and his Sister, Lyon forced himself not to imagine what could have happened, had things gone far more sour than they already did.

Perhaps he should have found some other area of the Necralisk in which to spend his time. Yet, he did not.

He is still uncertain as to why.

So there he stays, a few feet away from where Roathe seems to enjoy taunting the Tenno as they return from their excursions out into the Cambion Drift, his ‘good’ eye—not that it is much of a competition. Most things would be more ‘effective’ than the empty socket on his left side—poised so that he keeps the blurred form of the Entrati matriarch in his sight, even as he reads from his book.

It is a habit which has served him well over the years. He would rather be too vigilant than be caught unaware.

Admittedly, he is curious about her, or rather, about her work. The Drifter had informed him that Gomaitru studies the very same science that he had found himself so fascinated by when Entrati had spoken of it. That intrigue has only continued to gnaw at his mind with the changes that have befallen it since he had taken the serum.

How can he recall his life as it was, and yet, also as it was not?

What is the explanation behind the two souls whom have been bonded to his own?

He finds himself curious of what conclusions someone of that discipline might come to, what theories she might have as to the science of it all.

But, seeing as she seems to keep many things unspoken—to them, at least—, Lyon presumes that that is a question to which he may never find an answer.

Thus, when Roathe shoots him a rather feline-like smirk, his tail flicking in the air as he states that he is going for a ‘walk’, Lyon simply sighs, shaking his head in exasperation, though he stays put as the Orokin stalks off.

So long as he does not provoke anyone, he supposes that a bit of socialization might do the devil some good. Then again, he wonders, how likely is it that he will not cause trouble?

With a quiet exhale, his focus turns back to the scripture; at least there are no pastries around for him to steal, a part of him remarks with a mild hint of amusement. At least, he hopes that there are not.

He does not particularly wish to think about what sorts of…other changes the Entrati have gone through.

It is quiet, the priest realizes. The dull hum of voices has slowed, the ever-present stream of the Lotus’s war-children trickling down as it seems that most of the groups have returned from their outings and have accomplished what they came to the Necralisk to do.

It is almost…peaceful.

If he had not lived through what he has in the past few years, Lyon would swear that he has lost his mind.

Yet, when the Tenno have gone, when the atrium has fallen into a near-silence, it does not seem quite as daunting as it often does. It is never still, he has noticed. The Infested boils lining the floors never truly stop their pulsing movements; the vines creeping up the walls always sway in a breeze that he cannot feel.

But it is an interesting type of calm, he supposes. The only sounds are the low rustles of pages turning under his touch—Mother Lua’s words often ground him, even if he has had every line of the page memorized for many years now—, as well as something slightly different, coming from the direction of the Infested woman several feet to his right.

Finding his periphery ineffective in pinpointing the source of the quiet scratching, Lyon turns his head slightly, his eye squinting in its attempt to bring the scenery into focus faster. It is then that he notices the book resting atop one of the many large ‘petals’—whether or not that is what they truly are, he does not know. But that is what they appear to be, and he has chosen not to inquire further—which surround Gomaitru. The Orokin in question seems to be deep in thought, quilled pen held in the smaller of her two hands, intermittently shifting to scrawl something across the page in front of her.

Despite himself, curiosity laps at the edges of his mind, though he elects to simply turn back to what he had been doing. The thought of attempting to start a conversation sends discomfort rippling down his spine anyhow, especially if the other participant is one who most definitely would not take kindly to it.

So, the relative silence stretches on.

“Why are you here?”

Until it does not.

The sharp, level voice causes Lyon’s muscles to jolt, a faint hitch of his form reacting to the sound as it startles him from the words on the page. It takes a moment to register the fact that the Entrati matriarch is speaking to him.

Forcing his head to move, he notices that her gaze remains on the parchment in front of her, as if she does not care enough to deign to look at him when she speaks.

Curious.

Still, his voice does not seem to wish to work, the words not appearing within his mind with the clarity that he wishes they would.

He settles for a simple response.

“I am ensuring that Roathe does not do anything…foolish.” He can just barely make out the shift of one of her brows, as if it quirks upwards at the sentence.

“You say that, yet he is not here. So I ask again, why are you here?” Gomaitru picks apart his words with the precision of a falcon swooping from the air to catch a wayward mouse.

Somehow, he has the distinct impression that there is a reason for the words that her mildly irritated tone seems to emphasize.

His mind drifts, attempting to string several thoughts together in a way which will not invoke the other’s ire. As such, Lyon does not realize that he is taking far too long to answer her.

“If you have any intention of following in your ‘companion’s’ footsteps and attempting to gossip about that which you have no right to speak on, then you can find conversation with anyone else. I have little reason to permit you in my halls as it is, I would advise you not to give me a reason to see to it that you are confined to the Sanctum.” A chill drapes itself over the Necralisk, ice-coated words stated just as matter-of-factly as if they had been speaking about something far more benign.

Yet, the tone remains dagger-sharp, each syllable a blade’s edge pressed against his throat in an almost-tangible warning.

It is one which forces Lyon to compose himself, to reel his thoughts back to the moment enough to pry an answer from the conflicted depths of his mind.

“That…is not my intention, no. We were tasked to watch over Roathe. I am simply doing so in the way that I see fit.” She does not believe him, he presumes. The way that her gaze bores into him—not unlike how a cat might watch from the rafters of an old building, judging silently before it chooses to pounce—is a challenge. One which he can very well decipher the meaning of.

He doubts that she will hesitate to do what she speaks of. It would be far from the most severe reaction that she could have.

There is, begrudgingly, a small flicker of a thought within his mind, one that finds it almost amusing how thin her tolerance seems to be for lies, when compared with her silver-tongued predecessor. The observation is dismissed shortly thereafter.

After all, with little more than a moment’s thought, the connection makes far more sense than the absence of it would.

Still, Lyon is not entirely certain that he has found the proper words when he continues. But they are the ones that he has. That will have to be enough for now.

“I do not make a habit out of making assumptions about others’ lives. I would much rather preserve the little peace and quiet that I still have left.” Hence why he often finds himself here, of all places. The stream of Tenno entering and exiting the atrium is somehow less of a menace to observe than those who enjoy testing out their…weapons—their strange, strange weapons—with Vilcor, or the excitement that surrounds the Entrati children and their seemingly-endless supply of creatures.

His head seems to throb with a phantom pang at the very thought.

Despite the others being far more agreeable, oftentimes, it is all simply too much.

As a low-toned huff acknowledges his statement, Lyon attempts to decipher the being to his right, attempts to read into her movements in a way that should be almost second nature to him. Yet, the endeavor proves fruitless. Her posture is poised, stiff in a way which is not dissimilar to Monsieur Loid’s at times.

There is a part of him which wonders what reasons she might have for that. Until he recalls what little information Roathe has let slip about the society in which they once lived.

A society in which rewards were bestowed upon whoever dealt best in toying with their peers.

Her expression is largely unreadable, the lines of her features sharp, yet not in a way which seems different from any other time that he has seen her.

Well, he amends, perhaps there is more irritation within her gaze. Even that does not tell him much.

At any rate, it seems that Gomaitru has deemed the conversation to have reached its conclusion, because her attention turns, shifting back to that almost-neglected book, which still lies resting atop its petal. She adjusts it, moving it away from the edge—it might have shifted when she had turned, he presumes—before those quiet scratches of the quill resume themselves.

For a moment, his curiosity gets the better of him, and Lyon attempts to catch a glimpse of the page; of course, the blurred image does not grant him anything useful. It is too far away to make out anything other than the change of color where the burgundy-hued Infestation gives way to the pale parchment.

Thus, he too directs his focus elsewhere, his gaze scanning the words which he knows in his very soul, his thoughts drifting silently between Mother Lua’s wisdom and…elsewhere.

Flickers of memories that are not his lap against his mind.

The ringing of chains is just as unnerving as it always is. He can feel their heft as the links sink around his form.

Children’s laughter roars in his ears, a cruelty to the sound, twisting the jeering taunts until they are unrecognizable, a mangled language which he does not know the translation for.

The acrid tang of iron burns his nostrils, just as vividly as if he is witnessing the rending of flesh with his own eye.

His chest seems to tighten, the air within his lungs almost agonizing.

Then, it all fades, drifting from his focus until all which remains are whispers of laughter. Even that is quiet enough that it can be overlooked with a small effort.

It is as if his mind is the sky during the summer months that he recalls from his childhood, as unpredictable as the storms which used to appear then disappear within minutes. It roars with thunder, drowns him with rain enough to soak his flesh to the bone, yet the thoughts leave him nearly as soon as they arrive.

They do not disappear from his memory, however. Just as one cannot suddenly conjure a dry set of clothing when their own has become sodden with rain, he cannot forget the horrors that he has been shown.

With a few blinks, Lyon brings reality back into focus, the words in front of him becoming clearer now that his attention has been directed at them once more.

‘—, the lost shall find their way home.’

In little more than an instant, he recalls the passage which he had been reading before his mind brought him elsewhere. Celestine 18:19. It is one which has survived the trials of time, to his surprise but not his dismay.

He still recalls how strange it had been to hear the words from the Drifter, of all beings. To know that the words which ground him have survived, if not to this future, then at least to the one in which she lives, is a feeling that Lyon doubts that he will ever be able to fully discern, nor will he even attempt to describe it to another person.

There is only one other who may understand anyhow.

As his senses return to him—or rather, as he begins to process them properly again—, the quiet sounds of quill to parchment form a predictable rhythm, one which works in tandem with the undulating Infestation that he can glimpse from the corner of his sight to re-orient the priest to his surroundings.

Perhaps it is the vision which grasps his tongue. Perhaps the almost-tangible reminder of the other souls entwined with his own sends his curiosity into the still air of a place where even the walls seem to have a beating heart.

“May I ask what you are writing?”

The Orokin hardly skips a beat with her reply, her gaze scarcely moving from the page for more than the faintest hint of a second, the movement of her writing implement never pausing even as her voice cuts the inquiry from the very air.

“I fail to see how that is any of your business.” Every fiber of his being screams for him to leave this attempt at ‘conversation’ be. He will simply have to deal with his desperate wish for answers.

But it seems that something within the depths of Lyon’s mind has other plans, the memories that were never his to know seeping into the folds of his mind like an elixir, loosening his tongue for what he knows should be the final time.

“It is not. May I ask something else then? The Drifter has told me about your work and I…find myself with a question which I am told that you might have an answer for.” As he turns to face her, he notices that the scratching of the pen halts, just the briefest absence of sound as her gaze shifts, icy irises fixing in his direction. The Orokin’s brow quirks upwards, the action sharpening her features.

Yet, her bladed tongue returns—not that it had ever truly disappeared, he amends—, again poised as a reminder. 

“That is wholly dependent on what information you wish to know, priest. I have dealt with plenty of beings disregarding the validity of my research. I have little interest in debating the natures of science and religion with you.” His jaw tightens somewhat at the assumption, at the disdain with which Gomaitru speaks the title. With more effort than he would care to admit, a response is ground out through his teeth, though he forces himself not to react with as much of the irritation which curls through his veins, whispering amidst his very blood.

“I would appreciate it if you did not presume that I wish to do that either.” After all, while he is certainly no stranger to those with other viewpoints, and while he is open to learning from said beliefs, this is not the time, nor the place, to do so. Especially when it is clear that the other would view such a conversation as something to be won, as opposed to something which could provide a mutual understanding of one another.

At the very least, it is difficult for him to come to any other conclusion. Perhaps he is misjudging her. But, he has not yet experienced anything which might prove otherwise.

With those unnerving eyes seemingly piercing his own, Lyon continues, noting how, with his earlier statement, the Orokin had neither seemed to relax, nor become angered further.

“It is my understanding that you are a scholar of the Void, and that you have dedicated many years to the study of the laws of time and reality.” At that, something shifts, the change scarcely visible. It is just a faint lowering of the petals around her, just a slight twitch in the muscles of her brow, just enough to betray something that does not seem to quite be confusion, nor intrigue. Perhaps it might be a mixture of the two, he wonders.

Her tone remains matter-of-fact, with the same professional neutrality that he has heard in her conversations with some of the Tenno.

“That is the basis of much of my research, yes.” By Lua, he does not know how to word what he is truly desperate to ask. He hardly knows where to start.

He knows even less of how to begin to address the souls entwined within the roots of his own without sounding like a complete mad-man.

When Lyon finds himself once again stuck attempting to string simple words together, a huff from the woman to his right forces his attention outwards.

“If you are going to ask me something, do so. I have little patience for wasted time.” A part of him wonders if this will even be worth the effort, if attempting to speak with the reticent Orokin will garner him any sort of answers or if it will leave him more befuddled than he already is.

But, it seems that his voice has managed to find its footing, for now.

Out with it, he supposes.

“When I became…what I am now, I was suddenly bonded…molecularly, spiritually, I am not certain, to two others. It was as if my memories were re-written, two versions of events happening simultaneously, one how I remembered it, the other not. I have never been able to decipher the science which is at the root of what has happened.” He trails off, the question on the tip of his tongue but refusing to move into the air. His gaze fixes on Gomaitru, attempting to decipher anything within her blurred expression which might clue him in to how she is going to react.

For a moment, near-silence fills the atrium. Somehow, its weight is not such that he feels that he might collapse under it.

“You are asking for an explanation.” It is not a question, more-so a statement of fact, spoken with a nearly-hidden air of something which is not entirely irritated. When Lyon answers with a hum of agreement, he watches as her brows furrow slightly.

She does not speak for what seems like the larger part of a minute, her expression almost inquisitive as she seems to be deep in thought. When she does, it is only to ask a simple question.

“You are aware of Eternalism, I presume?” As soon as his nod enters her vision—she does not seem surprised, Lyon notices. Then again, why would she be?—, she continues.

“In theory, I suppose that it should not be impossible to presume that the changes that you underwent would be enough to create this. If what was used to transform you into this w—” A sudden pause causes confusion to twist within his thoughts, though he notices her narrowed gaze widen for only the faintest moment, almost as if in realization. Her eyes turn back to the book, still lying neglected where she had left it, her fingers deftly turning the pages, searching for something that only she knows the identity of.

The murmured ‘Fascinating’ which falls from Gomaitru’s lips is one that he almost does not catch; in fact, he doubts that it had been intended to grace the air at all.

Equally so, Lyon doubts that she would desire for anyone to hear the strange tone which the word takes, something which is somehow equal parts a quiet amazement, barely-hidden frustration, and an intrigue that he likely should have anticipated.

After all, the priest muses, she is cut from the very cloth which had begun this endeavor in the first place.

He has not known her long, but he can see the familial similarities to the man who once called himself ‘le Cardinal’, both from what he has observed by simply being in the same room as her, as well as small scraps of information that he has gleaned from those who know them both. The parallels are there in the way that they both mull over their work for hours, in the diligent—bordering on obsessive, as many seem to believe—focus which absorbs every waking thought.

The thoughts fill his mind as he notices a faint shift of the Infested woman’s expression, a faint strand of tension releasing itself from the collection which draw her features taut. He is so occupied with the minute, hardly noticeable difference that the sound of her voice is almost lost on him.

“Do you know of any others who are like this?” The question is unexpected, though at least it is one which he knows the answer to, somewhat.

“To my knowledge, there are none who exhibit the same traits of the serum as I do. The Drifter has mentioned other aspects of the Infestation that have transcended my presumption of ‘time’, but it is not the same. It seems that the others do not have this change to adapt to. I…wonder if a part of that reasoning might lie in the fact that, from what I have been told, one of the beings bound to me was a Tenno who had already entangled himself with every Harrow that would exist.” A low sound escapes her, one of near-curiosity.

She does not know of Rell, he presumes. Why would she? It is his understanding that she did not work closely with the Tenno ‘program’, if at all.

Then, as if she is thinking aloud, Gomaitru’s voice emerges again, quieter this time, a tinge of realization lapping at its edges, dulling the blades—slightly, at least—which have been poised against him all throughout this…discussion.

“If the Infestation produced slightly different results within each individual, then that would make sense as to wh—” She pauses, seemingly remembering that he is still there, her gaze drifting in his direction again.

“This requires far more research to know with any amount of certainty, though I suppose that I can theorize as to what occurred to contribute to the state that you are in now. You have the samples of a Warframe’s biology within you. Equally, you have that of your own, that of the Tenno, and that of the Infestation. It is possible that the Infestation’s hive-mind aided in the process, leading any connection between your molecules to become more permanent than they should have been.” A low, thoughtful sound escapes the Orokin, one of the fingers of her larger hand tapping quietly against the book in front of her, the sound of her long nail striking the page barely audible.

He is able to make out the movement of her eyes as she must scan whatever writing is on the parchment, but only just.

“The structure of the human mind does not lend itself particularly well to quantum entanglement in practice, but it should be possible in theory. Once that had happened, under Eternalism, there would be versions of reality in which they exist, as well as ones in which they did not. But both should not be accessible simultaneously, unless that is also due to that particular Tenno’s involvement.” Her voice lowers, again as if it had not been entirely meant for another’s ears. His head spins as he attempts to process what is being said.

It is not as if he does not understand the concepts. Entrati had told him about them. But he had not had the chance to inquire about their relevance to the situation within his mind before the man had disappeared.

Intriguingly, despite her earlier demeanor, Lyon notices that the Orokin has a skill for explaining her area of expertise. Her words are clear, poised, yet comprehensible for one such as himself, and he recalls the work that he has read, the book which she had written in order to aid children in strengthening themselves against the Indifference.

He is not certain that he had ever presumed that she would also be adept at teaching.

Now, however? He can certainly picture it.

It is not often that those who are blessed with knowledge have the skills to articulate it to those who are not similarly inclined.

It is almost as if she is completely separate from the woman with whom he had spoken earlier. There is a faint glow of passion within her expression, the barriers to visualizing it having dropped briefly. Even the Infestation which surrounds her seems to hold itself in a different manner, the petals simply flowing slowly like the rest of their brethren within the once-grand halls.

Perhaps that is what guides him to lend an offering of intrigue, his words reaching out—somewhat tentatively, but they still do so—towards the being whom he is still uncertain of his thoughts on.

“I admit, I am curious about the science behind all of this. We…did not have this knowledge where I am from. Would you be open to sharing more of what you know?”

He does not know how his words echo.

He has no way of knowing that his voice is not the only one which seems to drift through the air.

But, in an instant, the doors to her expression seem to slam shut, the edge of her jaw clenching beneath her skin, so much so that the rigidity is obvious even to him. The intrigue which had planted itself across her features is forced away as if a massive gale has suddenly appeared to blow all traces of anything that was not neutral from sight.

Before he can speak, those blades settle themselves back against his throat.

“No. I am not.” The words slam against her mind with a ferocity that she had not anticipated, the tendrils coiling through her thoughts, whispers taunting her with their self-satisfied jeers.

You know better.

What happened the last time that you did this?

She had dropped her guard for only a few minutes, Gomaitru attempts to reason with herself. She had only wished for knowledge.

She had let her curiosity get the better of her, she had sworn that she would not speak with them unless necessary, and certainly not about something like th—

Why can she see a much shorter being in front of her, an unruly head of auburn curls tilted to look upwards, gold and emerald eyes staring up at her with a nervous excitement hardly hidden within them?

‘Would you be open to teaching me a bit about Eternalism? I…I really want to understand it.’

The question tangles with the priest’s and, for a moment, Gomaitru finds herself stuck in time, past and present braiding themselves together until a piece of her cannot decipher which is her current reality. The memories stick in her chest like daggers, twisting themselves within each wound until she swears that she can feel the blood dripping from them.

She hardly notices the other’s low-toned acknowledgment of her refusal, hardly notices him turn his focus back to the book that has been firmly planted within his grasp this entire time.

She simply attempts to ensure that the turmoil screeching within her mind does not wrench its way forth.

Why does this hurt?

The question slams through the barriers within her mind as if she has been struck by one of the beams fired by the massive wyrms which wage war just beyond her doors.

As much as the Orokin does not wish to admit it to herself, she had been curious about what he spoke of, she had wanted to know more, she had wished that there was a way for more research to be done on the topic—perhaps that is something which she will think about further, in time. She had not known the specifics of how the serum had been created until the information within this conversation gave her the remaining knowledge that she needed to discern it—, so what happened?

Why does the prospect of sharing her knowledge feel as if there are thousands of shards of glass embedded just beneath her skin, digging in further whenever she so much as attempts to breathe?

She forces herself to turn her attention back to the page in front of her, turning it to what she had been working on prior to the interruption, familiar diagrams and equations poised as tethers, allowing her to keep her thoughts somewhat rooted in reality.

But the pain does not fade away as she had hoped that it would.

Even as the time ticks past, even as the priest’s ward returns, even as they both leave to begin their journey down those stairs which had been hidden from her for so long, she cannot fully distract herself.

Once they leave, Gomaitru takes her notes in-hand, forcing herself down into the tunnels for some peace, feeling the Infested petals fold themselves closed around her.

She is fine, she fervently informs herself as she settles back into her work. She is fine.

But she betrayed you. She lied to you.

The saccharine cruelty within her mind only sends those shards of glass digging deeper past her flesh, memories that she never wished to relive thudding against her thoughts, threatening to break through the barrier which her research has always provided.

She has never disliked sharing her knowledge before. She would have never chosen teaching as a career, but she remembers that she had done a few series of lectures before the Old War had forced her to move her entire family to Deimos permanently.

Why that is one of the scraps which the Infestation has left within her mind, the Orokin is not entirely certain.

She is adept at it, in her opinion. Besides, she would be remiss to turn down an opportunity to talk about that which consumes nearly every waking moment—and many of the unconscious ones as well—of her life.

That very trait is what had led Gomaitru to begin teaching her A—the Tenno in the first place.

Of course, the Orokin had told herself that it was simply more exercise for her mind, more work to strengthen her memory against the disease which threatened to steal every last scrap of her identity from her. Well, it would not take this. Not if she had anything to say about it.

Images burn themselves across the backs of her eyelids, quiet moments of intrigue filling her thoughts, a familiar scarred expression screwed up in concentration as the other had attempted to recall what she had been taught.

The diagrams in front of her suddenly seem far less concrete than they had a mere half an hour ago.

Her gaze drifts, landing on her quill, then on some of the instruments which she utilizes to conduct her studies of the items which are brought back from the Vaults beneath the planet’s surface.

Gomaitru’s inhale catches in her chest during the agonizing moment that she recalls ‘loaning’—she had never truly expected them to be returned, if the Orokin is honest with herself. She does not wish to be—a few spare instruments to the Tenno for use on her ship. She had no use of them anyhow, and the other being was curious.

Why does this hurt?

She should be angry, she is angry, she is furious that she had been lied to for so long, so why does it HURT?!

The Infestation swirls within her mind, hissing paranoia—is it if it has all turned out to be true, a part of her wonders bitterly—, the vines that tangle along the walls of the tunnel drawing themselves closer to her. Her hand twitches, forcing the Orokin to put her notes and writing implement down before they are ruined.

She attempts to calm herself, attempts to run through the script which keeps her grounded to reality, but the Infestation shrieks before she can even answer the first question, the hive-voices within her mind seemingly intent on driving her utterly mad as their cacophony only grows more thunderous by the moment.

The revelation happened weeks ago, she should not be having this absurd reaction. She should have forgotten it all by now, she should ha—

Why does a part of her still care?

The question lurks within her thoughts, a challenge in its presence, seeking an answer. An answer which Gomaitru finds that she does not have.

The walls of the tunnels suddenly feel as if they are suffocating her, memories flickering within her mind despite the fact that, for once, she wishes that the rot had stolen them from her.

Does she truly, a fragment of herself wonders, though the thought is lost amidst the noise within every fiber of her being.

Why had she allowed herself to let the Tenno see such an important facet of her identity?

Ragged scraps dart past her grasp, almost too swiftly for Gomaitru to process, faded images of a lifetime ago, of her children, of arguments, of the gnawing ache of disappointment and her own voice dripping with an ice which a part of her wishes that she had never used in that way.

Neither of them were ever going to follow in her footsteps.

She has learned to be somewhat content with that fact now, but there was a time when she had not.

The rot snarls at her, a biting insult snapped through her mind as the Orokin attempts yet again to listen to it, to force herself out from the memories and back into the burning safety of her rage.

She had only wanted to share her work with someone.

The familiar heterochromatic gaze taunts her even when her eyes squeeze shut for a moment in an attempt at resetting her vision.

She opens her eyes and, for a single moment, Gomaitru is struck with that resounding fact that she is alone. Alone in the tunnels, alone in her work.

That is what she wanted, is it not? For ages, she has been wishing that others would leave her be, so that she could focus on that which has always been more necessary than even oxygen to her mind.

The vines next to her lash fervently, coiling themselves against her flesh, just as the murmurs within her thoughts snarl venom poised as honey, the disease incessant in its attempt to convince her to listen.

But if she is supposed to be angry, then why does this feel as if her still-beating heart is being torn from her chest?

Why can she not just hate them all?

Why can she not just be furious and that be the end of it?

Her chest tightens, the pressure within her mind doing the same as each and every tendril snakes itself into crevices that she had never known existed. Claws seem to dig into her flesh, the sensation replacing the subtle lumps and veins within the vines serpentining themselves around her arms.

She swears that she can feel where her skin gives way, where the viscera beneath is slowly ripped to jagged shreds, the scorching flames of an emotion which has always been familiar drowning beneath one which has sharpened into something that she finds herself unable to ignore.

Her thoughts swim, colliding with each other, conflict brewing, bubbling, overflowing past the mask which has always been an essential part of her being.

Gomaitru’s gaze locks onto the parchment on the floor of the tunnel, visualizing the diagrams, mentally repeating their equations in an effort to drown out everything else.

But they only begin to blur as the current which she had not anticipated needing to fight drags her beneath it.

When the tears prick at the corners of her eyes, the Orokin finds herself unable to dispel them. Instinctively, her hand darts to cover her lips, her jaw tightening as the muscles in her chest begin to constrict.

The emotions hardly make a sound as they spill forth, scarcely-audible gasps and hitches of her breaths the only clues that something is not as it should be. They are stifled as if their existence is some great sin, as if the mere notion of the drops rolling down her cheeks and the shudders of her shoulders are to be concealed even within the enclosed tunnel, where the only witness is already privy to her thoughts anyhow.

Briefly, the walls begin to crumble. Briefly, each and every thought which has been forced into the depths of her memory since it was revealed that her father still lives—that Loid still lives, that she has been made a fool of by her own family—rushes forth.

Briefly, just this once, Gomaitru Entrati shatters.

Jagged shards of her heart, of her mind, lie crushed into dust under the weight of it all.

Betrayal lodges itself in the wreckage, leaden distrust sinking down into her very lungs, forcing air from her in a shaking breath, the sound melding into a nearly-silent approximation of a sob.

She does not notice how the writhing Infestation next to her has slowed in its movements. She does not notice how the thrashing of the vines has become far less aggressive than it was.

Her muscles jolt when she feels the brush of something along her arm, her cries choking themselves within her throat as the Orokin distantly wonders if she has been discovered. After all, just because her family does not venture into this particular branch of the network often does not mean that it would be impossible for them to do so.

But, she finds that she is still alone.

Again, the sensation repeats itself, this time curling against her skin; when Gomaitru manages to turn her gaze in the direction of the touch, she can just barely make out a shape through the dark crimson light of the tunnel and the curtain of emotion which sticks to her lashes in clumps and causes her vision to blur.

Confusion slices through the agony within her mind as, for a moment, she attempts to piece together what she is seeing.

There is a single Infested vine creeping around her forearm, though, somehow she manages to comprehend the notion that it does not seem to do so in an attempt to bind her. The contact is loose, and it curls back onto itself before it is able to fully encircle her limb.

Why?

A strangled sound manages to force itself into her throat, disease-ridden vocal folds betraying her as their vibrations form something that is audible.

Why have the whispers quieted themselves somewhat? Why is that venom not nearly as potent as it had been mere minutes ago?

The Orokin feels her muscles shudder with the effort of silencing herself, hand clamped across a rigid jaw, fingers feeling the expression beneath them crumpling.

The ache of something which she cannot name—something which she refuses to name despite knowing, deep within herself, what its identity truly is—has transformed, a serrated edge driving itself further into her being, sharp pangs emanating outwards into her lungs, her cells, her nerves.

She hates the small droplets that roll down her cheeks. She was taught better than this. She knows better than this.

The hollow of her throat stutters as a splintered inhale attempts to jolt into her lungs; the breath is soon shoved right back out in a fractured facsimile of a sob, just barely slipping through her gritted teeth, the sound muffled against her palm.

Distantly, Gomaitru feels the raised lumps along the Infested tendril around her arm shifting, rubbing against her skin in a manner that a very quiet part of herself recognizes as almost familiar. Ragged shreds of memories flicker through her thoughts, darting past her reach in only an instant. Said instant is long enough for her to catch a glimpse of a recognizable pale pelt, a lithe form weaving itself around a figure whose identity is certainly not her own.

She cannot think about him. Not at this moment.

Not when everything suddenly feels so raw once more, as if the once-healing wounds have been torn asunder, jagged edges pried away from each other with no consideration as to her opinion on the matter.

The movement along her skin continues slowly, a mannerism which the disease has never once afforded her before.

The Orokin does not know why it is doing this, why the rot is not screeching at her—rather, why it is not doing so as loudly, at least—that she should have listened, that she should not trust them, that she should lean into that rage which she knows so intimately. But, even so, she finds herself focusing on the feeling of the oddly-textured vine curling against her forearm, and she forces her mind to tether her to the sensation.

Soon—perhaps far too soon, some might say—, Gomaitru straightens her spine—not that the action is necessary. Her posture had scarcely changed from what it should be—, a sharp huff entering the air. She does not wish to acknowledge how the sound shakes just the faintest amount as it does so. Once she is certain that her outburst has concluded itself, she removes her hand from across her mouth, brushing the edges of her fingers across her cheeks; inwardly, the Orokin curses at the dampness that the action meets.

That does not stop her from continuing the motions until she is satisfied that the evidence of what has occurred has been utterly destroyed.

A breath drags itself deep into her lungs, the oxygen expanding the organs and, in turn, coiling itself around the leaden emotions which threaten to drown her.

With a still-shaken exhale, Gomaitru feels some of those escaping her being. It is not effective enough, in her opinion. But it will have to suffice for now.

She blinks, feeling the dull pain of pressure behind her eyes, the presumption that their edges are rimmed with scarlet sinking against her thoughts. Her cheeks feel warm, and she knows that there is likely a slight violet flush that has been left behind.

Her arms shift, her larger hand brushing away the vine while the other lowers to collect her notes from the tunnel floor.

At the very least, she is not needed for much else tonight. It would be far from the first instance during which she has neglected to spend her precious time with her family. At any rate, she has time enough to collect herself, to reform that mask of mildly disdainful neutrality.

At any rate, she has time enough to stoke the embers of her anger before they burn out completely.

Thus, that is what Gomaitru resolves to accomplish as her clearing gaze fixes itself on familiar equations, on the one thing which she has always valued above anything that she should have.

The tendrils twist and pull at her mind, resuming their incessant attempts at leaving pieces of herself shredded beyond recognition. Their murmurs lap at the edges of her thoughts, steeling them to what she should do.

Hidden amongst the rest, in the very depths of her consciousness, concealed amidst memories deemed too painful to think about, comes the faintest whisper of a question.

Why can she never truly loathe those whom she deems to be family?

No matter how hard she tries, no matter what she deceives herself into believing, why can she never entirely despise them?