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“You’re a long way from home,” the tall woman said. “Aren’t you?”
Khaslana didn’t know when she got here. For some reason, the fact that he didn’t see her coming didn’t worry him. He willed his hazy eyes to focus on her. Purple hair. Flowy sleeves, a fragile looking umbrella. A sword on her hip, long and thin.
He realized very quickly that this woman was incredibly powerful. For some reason, this also did not worry him. He turned back to the sea, waves meandering to their destination on the shore. A black storm roiled in the distance against a gray sky. It was raining, Khaslana realized. Of course, he remained dry without an umbrella, the heat of his body annihilating any water that touches it. He didn’t feel it.
He didn’t feel much at all, really.
Maybe he’d feel something if he flew into that vortex. Maybe the rain would be so fast, so strong, that it would remain on him, if only for a moment. Or maybe, more attractively, he’d feel nothing at all. See nothing at all. Hear nothing but the roaring winds, so loud it drowns out all sound, heard so long it becomes silence. Would it be like sleeping?
Khaslana couldn’t remember. He has not slept, not for billions of years.
He was tired. So tired. And yet, when he is finally allowed to sleep, he finds that he can’t.
“...Yes,” the husk answered. “I am.”
The woman hummed.
“That’s true of most people I meet here. Nobody is born in this place, and no traveler plans it as their destination. You can say it is not a place people go, but end up,” she said. She was eyeing the storm ahead, he realized. When was the last time someone was able to tear the eyes from him, unafraid of him, the feral thing he had become? He can’t tell if the action is foolish, terrifying, or merciful.
Perhaps all three could be true.
“How did you end up here?” The woman asked, eyes on him again. Khaslana could see the countless years in her eyes, the weariness. She was old. Not as old as him, but old. What must his eyes look like, now? Did they hurt to look at? Did they frighten people?
“I was…searching,” Khaslana finally said. Yes, that’s right. He’d forgotten. “For somewhere to rest.”
“There is no greater rest than in one’s home,” the woman said, wistfully. “Even those without a home, those who never have, yearn for one.”
“I can’t go back,” Khaslana replied. “It will turn to ash underneath me. Even if I could, I do not deserve it.”
“Why do you not deserve it? You appear to be a noble pathstrider.”
His wings fanned out, heat increasing. She didn’t look at him.
“There is nothing noble about Destruction,” he hissed.
“I don’t agree. It’s as true a Path as any,” she responded, as if he didn’t hear the change in him.
“ There is nothing noble about hate, and anger, and violence,” he sneered, that same hate sizzling to the surface, but dying before it was set fully alight. There’s not enough in him to fan a flame. His knees tucked into his torso. “I hate this world. I hate what it has done to me. It is cruel, and it made me a part of that.”
The woman was quiet for a moment. Or perhaps it was for hours. Eventually, she spoke.
“The gods see no difference between praise and revulsion. They admire curses to their name, just as they admire hymns. I’m sure you know this, and I’m sure it angers you.”
Khaslana thought of THEM, THEIR impassive gaze, THEIR unwanted blessings. THEY enjoy it, his scorn. Why else would THEY give him power enough to make THEM bleed, but not enough to hurt?
“I do,” he said, setting his jaw. “It does.”
“That’s good,” she smiled, small and tinged with grief, yet happy, truly happy. “The ones who can still hate are more likely to reach a better shore.”
She wants to help, Khaslana tried to say to himself. She’s being kind. She’s trying.
Yet Destruction wins, like always.
“What better shore? What is so encouraging about THEIR mockery at our anger? About utter helplessness?!” Khaslana spat. “What do you know of me?”
“More than you think,” she said, still unheeding of his venom. “You were given great power by an Aeon, power you did not want. As have I. It has eaten away at you, as it has eaten away at me.”
She says placed her hand in front of her, catching the rain. It splashes red on her palm, and for a moment, all color seemed to leave her.
She put her hand back, and the color slowly returned.
“How did you know I was—?” Khaslana trailed off.
“How did you know I was not what I seemed?” The swordswoman asked. Khaslana had no answer to that. He just did, he supposed. “That’s not all of it, though. A friend told me to keep an eye out for you.”
He squinted.
“Who?”
“The particulars of my memory tend to escape me. I cannot recall their name or face. But they laughed a lot, and had a heart like a North Star. They were kind, and very brave, and saw everyone as a friend.” Another small smile. “They told me I might meet a man with white hair and wings with different colors. They asked that, if I did, I would make sure we did not fight, and would tell them where I saw him.”
Ah. Of course. Who else would it be, in this expanse beyond the sky? It hurt his heart, to think his Partner worried for him. That everyone, foolishly, worried for him.
He wished they didn’t. He wished it wouldn’t hurt to think about. It would be so much better to be like THEM. To be rid of this soft heart, still somehow too soft, that hurt so much and so often.
“Will you tell them?” The worldbearer asked.
The woman shook her head.
“No. That’s not my place. If you do not want to be found, I will not go against your wishes.”
Khaslana nodded slowly. “Thank you.”
Thunder rang out. The tide got closer. It would be so easy to get a closer look… oh, but…
“…You didn’t answer my other question. About the gods.”
“Ah,” she said, hands adjusting her umbrella. “That’s right. You asked why the gods’ amusement is encouraging. It’s not.” She took a breath, thinking. “I met a man on my travels, a holy man who felt betrayed by both of his Aeon. He didn’t understand how THEY would allow such suffering in this world, how the innocent would hurt and the wicked would not.”
He didn’t understand either. He didn’t forgive THEM either.
“He attempted a great blasphemy, to usurp the Harmony and ascend to aeonhood. He would make a world that was just and kind, a world where no one suffered or disagreed. He was thwarted, and his faith lost. I heard he lives as a fugitive now, searching for purpose. And yet still, the Harmony blesses him,” she blinked slowly. “The gods exist only for what they rule over. His anger at the Harmony came from his desire for it to be fully realized.”
“I was not betrayed by THEM. THEY have taken everything from me. I have always, always hated THEM,” Khaslana said. “I have never wanted anything from THEM.”
“When everything was taken from you, did you blame yourself?”
“…I was supposed to protect them. I was supposed to be a hero. But THEY made me a monster. They held the universe hostage. Made me, made me kill everyone I love, over and over, millions and millions of times, even though I was supposed to be–”
He choked. He could see the rain turn to steam around him. He was getting hotter, boiling. The woman did not react, if she noticed at all.
“You were supposed to be strong enough to defeat your enemies. Strong enough to resist.” She finished for him, slowly. “Your Destruction was supposed to be greater than your foe’s. Is that not betrayal?”
“I—“ Khaslana floundered for an answer. He used to be so good with words. When did he stop? “THEY cause destruction for no reason! I wanted to defend people! I never wanted violence, I never wanted power–”
“But you needed it.” She interrupted him. “You needed it, like so many others in this universe,” she said, sternly but not unkindly. Her hand never touched the sword on her hip.
Did he need it…?
When Destruction took the village, what was it he prayed for? What were the words?
“…Destruction is not inherently evil, just as Harmony is not inherently good. That holy man, had he achieved aeonhood and his perfect Harmony, would have become Conquest. That is what he chose, knowingly or not. Even Harmony can become violence,” She turned to Khaslana. “You were given power, and you did not choose it. But you can choose what to do with it. Protection can be your Destruction. The Aeons have no say in the matter. Even if you want THEM dead.”
Khaslana was quiet. He didn’t like the thought. It made him uncomfortable. It felt wrong. He felt wrong. How could he come to terms with being this?
“What did you choose?” He asked, eventually. “If—if being good can be bad and bad can be good, if Harmony can be Conquest and Protection can be Destruction, what—“ His wings drew a bit closer to him. “—what’s the point of all this?”
The woman looked down at the water. Khaslana blinked. The tide had gotten so close. That it nearly touched their feet. How did he not notice?
“It’s funny, you asked the same question twice without realizing it,” she said, though her face was humorless. “The Nihility is an odd Path. All who end up walking it must be like you, in a way; resisting and accepting at the same time. Those who accept the nothingness fully become nothingness. Nihility’s Aeon is nothingness, and THEIR gaze is focused nowhere. You gaze at THEM, and once you do, you cannot undo it. No matter how hard you try.”
The color drained from her again, red tears falling down her face.
It was terrifying as it was peaceful.
“There is no point, I’m sorry to say. Love and hate and hope and despair, all will end in nothing. All swept into the storm. Any belief to the contrary is a story we tell ourselves. This is true even of the Aeons.”
Khaslana, burning and molten, felt hollow.
“…And yet, a story is not judged on its truth, is it?” She continued. “Have you not loved a story you knew to be untrue? Have you not loved the parts of it that are imaginary?”
A romantic story like none that came before.
“Yes.” He rasped. “I have.”
“As have I. That is why I come here, what I chose to do. Why I ask travelers to turn back, even though they will all end up here eventually. Some things must be done, even if they are pointless. The inevitable will pass, but it doesn’t have to pass today.”
Khaslana understood, then. He understood why he was here. He understood the storm ahead.
He was…he wanted to….
Khaslana heard a sound. A quiet sound, heard so long ago that he did not recognize it at first.
He sobbed.
“I’m tired. I don’t want to do this anymore. It hurts. I—I held on, I held on all this time, I held on forever and now it’s over and—“ he sobbed again, frustrated and exhausted. “I don’t want to hurt anymore. I want it to stop!”
He heard a crunching sound, felt a presence next to him, heard the rain against the umbrella, now above his head. He didn’t need one. Or perhaps he did, just not for the usual reason.
“It’s your decision. I wouldn’t dare make it for you. All I can do is remind you of your options. The way in front of us will not bring you pain, that is true. But it will not bring you peace. It will not bring anything, for it is nothing.”
Khaslana didn’t look up. He looked at nothing, and it was neither beautiful nor ugly.
“I first arrived here when my home was washed away. When I realized the war we fought was of no consequence. I am all that remains,” she sighed. “I have nothing to go back to, but I think you do. Our friend seems to want you back, at least. I can’t imagine them asking after you, ensuring your safety, if you could only bring hurt. If you would truly turn your home to ash, would they ask you to come back?”
“…Just because they think that doesn’t make it true.” Khaslana said.
“Do you trust them? Do you trust in their strength, in their ability to Protect through Destruction?”
“Yes, but…”
He felt her gaze on him, kind and dark.
“Do you want to go home, wandering hero?”
He tried to deny it. He shouldn’t want to. It was selfish, it was cruel. He tried to refute it, but the words wouldn’t come out. He wanted to lie, he wanted to not be lying when he said it. He wanted. The shame flushed through him. He wanted.
“Yes,” he confessed. “I want to go home.”
“Then go. Go home and rest. Remember what you fought to protect. Remember your story.”
He looked up at her. Her colors returned, her gaze gentle.
He couldn’t speak it. If he spoke, he would scream, and he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop. It would break him, if he spoke, after all this time, after everything.
But he had to.
“I’m scared,” he whispered, voice trembling like a frightened child.
“Yes, I’m sure you are. I hope I’d be scared too, if I could go home. Holding something precious to you always comes with risk of breaking it. But it’s that fear that tells me you will not hurt them, and that they will not hurt you. Those who fear are cautious, and thoughtful. Those without fear are the greatest danger. They are what the gods cannot accept, the true opposite of both prayer and revulsion: apathy.”
The wind was loud. Somehow, the living Sun felt a chill.
It was nice. He felt nice.
“…Can I stay here, just for a while? I’m—I’m not ready,” Khaslana asked. “I want to go, but… I need to remember what it's like. Being…” He trailed off, searching for the right word, only to realize he had it already. Being.
“You don’t have to go right away. The long way home takes you there just the same. But you can’t stay here.” The swordswoman's hair swayed in the wind. “The tide is coming. If you stay, you won’t be able to return.”
Khaslana nodded, downcast.
“But I can walk with you,” she continued. “And we can find somewhere safer to wait.”
“…I would like that,” he nodded. “I-I apologize, you’ve been talking with me all this time and I never asked your name.”
“Acheron,” she said.
Somehow, despite everything, despite himself, he smiled.
“Thank you, Acheron. For listening, and for sharing. I’ll tell our friend how you helped me.”
“No thanks are needed, but I appreciate it all the same. May I ask for your name, knowing I will forget?”
He hesitated, but not long.
“Khaslana. I’m Khaslana of Aides Elysiae,” he said. “But my friends call me Phainon.”
Acheron rose from where she sat next to him, her hand outstretched.
“Let’s get out of the rain, Phainon.”
Phainon took it, and stood up.