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From the beginning, you knew that Zooey would not last forever.
You knew that someday, she would have to return. Someday, she would disappear and become the air around you, dissolve herself into the veil that shields this world from terror. You knew this all along, and yet—
and yet—
it’s too soon.
“Did you see her leave?”
“No,” Djeeta says, and a sob chokes her voice. “She didn’t even tell me. I thought if anyone, she would tell me. Are you sure she’s gone?”
“I can’t feel her presence anymore. We have had... some sort of link, since a while ago, and usually I can tell at least if she’s still present in her bodily form, and… she’s not.” You dig your nails into your palms, biting back any semblance of tears. Watching the captain cry is always too much to handle, and Lyria… she’s been curled up into herself for the past few days, unable to muster up her usual positivity, and you’ve been unable to comfort her, save for just letting her cling to you. At this point you’ve long given up on insisting she not touch you, and it’s become more comforting than unwanted. But it is hard to get around the ship and make coffee and get enough sleep when Lyria insists on holding your arm the entire day, and you wonder how bad it’s been for the captain and for Katalina especially, seeing as they’re much closer to her than you are.
“I should have known,” she says, burying her face in her hands. “She wasn’t saying anything about it, but I wonder if I missed something. She can be... vague sometimes, but...”
Djeeta cuts off, unable to say anything else with the pressure of tears building up in her eyes. You don’t know what else to do but put your hand on her shoulder.
“Isn’t there anything you can do?”
“Me?” The question startles you. You didn’t think you’d be of any use in this, but... it makes sense. You were especially close to Zooey. And your new status as the Supreme Primarch makes you inextricably bound to the same responsibilities that Grand Order is— the watching. The observation and protection of the world, whether close enough to touch or from high in the stratosphere. There could be something, possibly, that links you to this conflict. Something that only you can do.
Djeeta looks at you expectantly.
“Maybe. There may be something. But I’m going to need everyone’s help.”
And that is how you and the rest of the crew end up battered and bruised and half-conscious after repeatedly fighting multiple powerful primals to get your hands on some ridiculous orbs.
“Ugh,” you groan, as you and the captain make your way into town to find Sierokarte. Lyria is tagging along, since she had wanted to buy a cute new accessory, and Katalina, naturally, had come as well. “I never thought I’d have to actually fight Olivia, much less see her again.”
“You knew her?” Djeeta raises an eyebrow.
“From Pandemonium. She fell too.” You scoff, remembering her pointed glares, her proud drawl, the way she fought you on absolutely every word that came out of your mouth— and then something softens, when you see her battered and broken on her cell floor, drenched in her own blood, and remember pressing down on her wounds and using strips of your own shirt to bandage the deep gouges on her half-clothed torso. How she wrapped her arms around you and stroked your hair, wordless and comforting, after you had been particularly roughed up by Belial and his cohorts, struggling to breathe, trying to numb out the sensations, the horrible sin— “We barely got along, but we looked out for each other.”
That’s really all you can say about her. Djeeta nods, like she knows she shouldn’t ask. Katalina walks ahead to show you to a shortcut. Lyria lags behind, and you wonder if you shouldn’t remind her to stay close to Katalina, but then she suddenly closes her small, thin fingers around your wrist. She has a firm grip for such a tiny hand, and you don’t shake her off. You look down at her, and her face is questioning, concerned.
“Don’t worry about it,” you insist. You don’t really want to think about that place more than you have to. You block it off, erecting a stone wall for now around those thoughts— Lyria especially shouldn’t have to see that. She pouts at you; you give her a look. You hear her huff, exasperatedly, as if she’s giving up, but she doesn’t let go of your wrist.
Siero meets you at the market, pushing a big cart, stocked high with all sorts of odds and ends. She’s heading towards her storefront, and it seems you’ve caught her bringing in supplies, but she seems affable enough about it. Djeeta runs up beside her, and you follow her back into the curtained-off section of the market that houses the ubiquitous and mysterious Knickknack Shack.
“Usually, I would ask how you all were doing. But just looking at you tells me everything I need to know,” she giggles, sliding behind the counter and hopping up onto her stool, so that she can see you all behind the stacks of goods on the tables. “What have you been up to? You look like you were caught in a brawl with a tavern’s worth of drunken Draphs.”
You sigh, rolling your eyes, and grab Djeeta’s bag from off her shoulder, opening it to reveal the multitude of glowing animas inside. “We have some trades to make.”
Until now you were unaware of just how expansive Sierokarte’s inventory actually is. But when you hand the animas over, wondering if she has this one or that one in exchange, that there’s got to be something she doesn’t have, she nods sagely and rummages through some chest or another before pulling out the corresponding anima and handing it to either you, Djeeta or Katalina with a mysterious smile.
“Just how do you get all of these?” you ask her, bewildered, the sixty orbs you had collected from so many trials finally reduced into a meager six glowing omega animas. “And why do we have to trade so many?”
“A shopkeeper never reveals her secrets,” she singsongs. “And you know, I can only give the Peacemaker Star to those who are strong enough to handle the consequences. I can’t let it fall into the hands of just anyone. People could get hurt, or use it for evil...” She trails off, before turning back to her inventory and looking through a strange glowing purple chest to pull out a bottled wispy spirit of some sort. “They have to prove themselves before they get what’s on the shelves.”
Lyria bursts into gleeful laughter. Katalina just glances between her and Siero, who is acting very proud of herself. You and Djeeta both bury your faces in your hands.
“But enough of that,” Siero goes on. “I need your Nezha, Twin Elements, and Apollo animas to give you this—” she takes the bottled spirit and swirls it around, dissolving it into a flurry of light which reforms in seconds. “—And then Macula Marius, Medusa, and Olivia for the other one,” she says, setting another bottle on the counter, the spirit inside this one looking like a flame of blue-black void. “And then! I can give you the star.”
“Sounds good,” Djeeta says, pulling out the six glimmering orbs and handing them to Siero over the counter. Then she picks up the two spirits, and waits for Siero to put the animas away, holding one glass bottle in each hand. You realize just how unwieldy this entire process is.
“Why couldn’t you just take the sixty animas and give us the star,” you say, flatly. Siero laughs.
“It’s simply protocol.”
“Under whose orders, exactly?”
“My own,” she hums, before coming back to the counter. There is a glow in her closed fist. Your core jumps.
“Here,” she says, holding it out to Djeeta, who shakes her head and points to you instead. “Oh, for him? Hmm. All right. This is yours.”
Looking at it, your heartbeat settles immediately, like it has some sort of soothing effect. It’s the size of a regular pebble, but it glows with holy light, and its surface has a golden metallic sheen, soft enough to run your thumb over. Siero leans over the counter as far as she can, and places the Peacemaker Star in your outstretched hands.
“Bring it to the Azure Sky Sanctum on Zinkenstill. Don’t doubt your convictions,” she tells you, her voice quiet and uncharacteristically serious. “You know what you have to do. Please be careful.”
And then, like she had never said anything at all, she waves at Djeeta and the rest, who are packing up to leave. “Thanks for stopping by! Come right on back to the Knickknack Shack!”
You stare down at the star in your hand, burning its gentle glow into your eyes, a little piece of Zooey’s light. Checking to make sure no one is looking, you press it to your chest, and breathe.
You ascend, propelled on your own wind, from the fields on Zinkenstill. With the Peacemaker Star still clutched in your hand, you find Grand Order just above the stratosphere, manifesting from light, drawn by the glow. You know this is not Zooey, anymore; this is not a person, but an embodiment, a veil or a void. It is a concept, a being much bigger than a body or gender or personality can encompass, and Zooey is only a fragment of it. Its eyes open, then fix onto you, and they shine red, piercing in the dusk of space. You hold the star out to it, an offering.
“Supreme Primarch,” it says.
“Grand Order.”
You approach, cautiously— it holds its hand out, silent, asking for the favor you have brought. Its presence is so overwhelming, so all-encompassing that you nearly tremble, but your hand is resolute as it brushes Grand Order’s own, dropping the star into its palm. Its skin is softer than you had imagined. Grand Order’s tense expression softens at the glow of the star, and it clutches it in its fist and holds it close, like a child clinging to a comfort blanket. You are surprised at the emotion, the tenderness in that gesture. “We have been expecting you,” it tells you, softly. “You have come for Zooey, have you not?”
“Yes.”
“I have let her go. She and I are no longer one. I cannot allow myself to love in the way she does... closely, connected… but I will not prevent her from loving. So I let her split from me, like a fragment of a star. She belongs to all of you now.”
“Belongs to us?”
Grand Order looks at you, like it’s trying to decide what to say.
“When she returned to us, when she and I were the same... I felt the attachments she had formed. There were a few especially strong bonds. Those that she cared for most...” Grand Order looks at you, the red glint of its eyes soft. “The Singularity, the girl in blue... and you, Supreme Primarch. She missed you.”
Your breath catches. “Me? ...That much?”
“You still doubt yourself?”
“I couldn’t be that important.”
“You are her best friend.” It blinks, resolute. You waver under its gaze, under the surge of assurance. “She will tell you this, someday, soon. But know it.”
You don’t have anything else to say to that. It’s hard to take in. But you nod, because it’s all you can really do, and look down at your hands, then up again at Grand Order.
Its gaze hardens. It presses its fist closer against its chest, and the glow within its hand disappears, absorbed into that body of light. A vague sense of unease veils you; you knit your brow.
“Where is she?” you ask.
“She is sleeping,” it answers. “However. There is something we need to discuss with you, beforehand.”
“And that is...?”
“I have decided to test your convictions,” it says.
Your core freezes.
“It is not that I am loath to let her go. I have already prepared for that. But we must know the depth of your resolve.”
Your skin prickles; your breath silences itself. Your hand drifts unconsciously towards your side where your sword is sheathed. Every synapse in you lights up with instinct, with the impulse to fight or flee. “Is that… are you challenging me?”
“Yes,” Grand Order answers. Your jaw clenches as you stare it down. Neither of you move yet, but your hand wraps around the hilt of your sword, and you can see the beginnings of blue light at Grand Order’s fingertips, little streaks of sparks, so bright against the void that they linger as afterimages in your retinas. “You have gained a power, a role. A set of wings. But you have not yet claimed them as yours. I will not allow her to return until I can ascertain that the world is safe in your hands— that you will be unwavering, when you are forced to protect these skies with the power that rightfully belongs to you.”
You feel it all, in one moment. The weight of grief and loss. The self-doubt lingering just under your skin. The mottled brown feathers that grow at the tips of these otherwise perfect wings, polluting his legacy. The memory of Lucifer, cradled and fading in your hands, asking a question you still cannot answer. You know Grand Order is right. That you still do not believe these belong to you. That there is a reason it should be worried.
But this world is worth protecting, now. These skies, so cursed, so cruel, are filled with moments and corners of light. There is radiance here you cannot allow to be extinguished. You will not let anything snuff out the places where the fire burns bright and warm, the places that make this world worth saving. For him, and for every mote of light he resides in— and for the Singularity, and the girl in blue, for Yggdrasil and the Rose Queen and the various crewmates that take their coffee with you, that take the time to sit with you in the afternoons, content just to talk and to listen. And for Zooey. For the single azure feather you keep tucked away in your pocket, close to your core as anything. For the radiant smile, the gentle, husky voice— the hand that traced your hand, the hand you covered with your own.
If all that is to be erased, to be shattered— of course these wings are yours. Of course you will not falter. Of course.
“Come, then,” you tell Grand Order, drawing your sword, steeling yourself. You can feel its presence all around you, shaking each atom of you. Every part of your body wants to give out, wants to withdraw; there is fear in you, telling you that there is no possible way you can win, that you have not yet mastered this power and these wings, telling you to back away, to run— but that is not what you came here for. You came here for Zooey. For your best friend.
Your wings spread, each pair unfurling, feathers scattering, light driving away the void around you. They stretch behind you to their own limit, wide and all-encompassing and radiating with potential you are still unsure how to handle.
You feel a presence behind you. A hand on your face. A sigh of breath. A wordless whisper in your ear. Something like a blessing.
He is still alive in you.
“Do not run away. Let me see your heart, Supreme Primarch.”
The light swirling around Grand Order’s hand finally solidifies into a gleaming, translucent blue sword. In its other hand, the shield that symbolizes the balance of the skies. You stare directly into it, see your face reflected in the crystalline surface. For a moment, you don’t even recognize yourself. But it is you. It has always been you. This steel resolve, this sheer persistence. Struggling upwards, out of the mud, into the light.
You scoff. There is no venom in it; it is a twisted smile, but one that means strength, at the end of the day.
“You think I would run?”
Grand Order’s eyes gain that searing red glow, blotting out its pupils, its irises, its sclera. They become embers, crimson coals. No longer pretending to see in human ways.
“I do not know what to expect from you. Show me what it is I should.”
The Peacemaker’s Wings descends in a shower of cosmic light.
You meet it halfway in the rush forward, and the recoil of the impact nearly blows you away. Blue sparks fly. The sword you carry does not falter, but your breath is stolen by the sudden force, and you throw your wings wide to catch yourself. Grand Order’s eyes glow harshly, leave red streaks behind against the darkness as it spins, slashes, glides across empty space to push forward on your defense. Its human hands are on its sword, but its dragon’s claws curl under it, sharp and glinting as blue as its blade. It no longer looks recognizable. You are reminded, momentarily, of the abomination you became with those six stolen wings; a chimera, something pieced together, both in harmony and discord with itself, never seen before. Monstrous and unknowable.
There is so much more weight to its body than yours, and it takes everything you have not to spin out of control. With each parry you feel yourself being pushed back, and there isn’t enough time or space between its attacks to start driving forward. Another dragon swoops by, clawing a hot streak over your face, quickly drawing blood and causing you to cry out in surprise.
You find yourself on a constant defensive, the battlecry on your lips hoarse and staccato with the effort of blocking each stroke, with the concentration it takes to predict and counter every movement. Grand Order has no shortage of energy or breath, however, and you struggle not to shrink back at its harsh, unusually intense shouts. Zooey was always relatively quiet as a fighter, preferring to keep her voice to a solid, calm sort of insistence. To soothe her teammates, and to induce fear in a different way— passion burning low and white hot, looking tranquil until touched. But Grand Order has Zooey’s voice, though a tone more grave, and the way it speaks, the way it uses that voice— it shocks you, a little, to hear that kind of intensity, that violence, from what seems like the vocal cords of your usually calm, serene best friend. You know this is not Zooey—
you think—
and then you see, as you turn to block another strike that threatens to knock your sword out of your hands, the streak of red painting the blackness interrupts itself, and your eyes meet as you whip around— and you recognize that look, that gentle, almost curious gaze, as unmistakably, undoubtedly her—
(I know you are strong enough. Don’t be afraid.)
— you falter. Blown backwards by Grand Order’s raw strength, sent reeling and dizzied. Your face is bruised and bleeding, your body aching down to its bones, and you know you are much more fragile, much more human than Grand Order in any form, made of flesh and blood rather than light. You know it will not kill you, that even if a sword pierces through you and out the other side, you will survive as long as your core is unharmed. But there is only so much this form can take before it collapses, unable to move, a loss by default.
But something else takes shape in you. A fervent wish. Seeing Zooey’s eyes, even for just a moment, has changed something in you. Her voice has reached you, the way it always has, the way it has broken down walls and shattered glass and touched and moved you. You feel a surging of power, of heat and electricity, and you’re about to activate Ain Soph Aur when—
the brush of a feather over your cheek, a beam of sunlight through the dark, a quiet murmur of assurance in that low, breathy, familiar voice. His presence floods your veins. Your wings gain a new sheen, a prismatic shimmer, and they spread wide, wide enough to cover a world with warmth.
His voice echoes in yours when you speak his words.
And then, a rain of light— branches of the tree of life splitting and diverging and streaking down, a million little meteors, each a bolt in its own right. You are blown back by the recoil of it, still unused to just how much more stunning Lucifer’s power is than your own, how you can barely contain or direct it even now. Some of the streaks of light deflect, redirect, grow confused and miss, and none of them are parallel in the way his own used to be, but those that are straight and true find their target eventually.
Grand Order can barely blink or raise its shield before one bolt of light pierces its chest and embeds itself into its form. You hold your breath, afraid, watching it crackle between the plates of its armor. It doubles over, curls into its dragon half in pain, clutching with its claws and burning itself on the light. Feathers scatter. The eerie glow in its eyes sputters, and then its eyelids fall shut, and you fold in your wings and rocket down towards it, ready to pull it out and make sure Grand Order isn’t actually hurt— you don’t know, with your new powers, what it could do, even to something as immortal as Grand Order is. But you have to catch yourself halfway down. Its voice is proud, when the glow leaks from the cracks in its armor, when its embodiment breaks apart and releases beams of prismatic light from every gap in its body, and then vanishes into shimmering dust.
You wait, your core in your throat, afraid enough to vomit. Staring down at the place where those glinting scales reflected light, your wings begin to tremble, and you clench your fists. Of course this would happen. You’ve always been a villain. Overusing this power, breaking the balance, losing Zooey to your own hubris— it really is all in a day’s work for you, isn’t it? Just as expected. Just like always. How pathetic—
But thirty seconds later, Grand Order reforms from reflective particles of light. Its sword and shield are gone. It knows you have won.
“Be calm. I cannot be broken.”
It almost seems... apologetic. Its voice is strangely emotional, soft and soothing, as if it’s trying to comfort you. Like this, it sounds more like Zooey than anything, and it has the intended effect. You swallow the choking lump in your throat.
“I thought I had gone overboard,” you admit. Grand Order shakes its head.
“We are not like you. You were made, a constructed body— we were born of light and desires. Do not fear. We cannot disappear.”
Grand Order brings its hands to its chest, and something rises from its core. Like a drop of water on a glass surface dividing, or a cell multiplying. One becoming two from its own will. It glistens like moonlight trapped under its surface, a swirl of shimmer inside it, moving like a cloud over seemingly still skies, how you know the air up there moves faster, cuts deeper than anything. The orb detaches from its body, and it holds it in its hands, offers it out to you. You take it, run one finger over the glassy surface. It is cool to the touch, ripples gently at the drag of your fingertip, but something under it stirs. An egg from which a universe will someday be born.
“Is this…”
“Hold on to it closely. She will reform from it, when she wakes up. She has been… sleeping,” it says. “She is the part of us that did not give up on reaching out, on being touched by the world. Be gentle with her. Let her love... let her be loved.”
“I will.”
“…Supreme Primarch. You have watched me evolve... have you not?”
Its voice— is that a smile you hear? Its face is emotionless, still as a pool of water, but there is a light in its eyes you don’t recognize.
“Even you, something unchanging and stable… yes. You have the capability to evolve. Just this is proof.”
There is power in your voice you’ve never heard or held before.
“Those wings suit you,” Grand Order tells you, simply. “Take care of Zooey for us.”
You’re headed straight down, six wings tucked in, bearing down slim and cutting through the airless sky, when the silver orb between your palms begins to gain a warmth. Something moves in the core of it, a wisp of a shimmer, a wave upon the sea, washing glitter onto its own shores. The quickening of a spiral galaxy within it. You spread your wings wide like a parachute, catching yourself, more skillfully than you thought you could, and wait for it to open.
When it does, it blooms like a lotus unfolds, layers and layers of it peeling themselves back to reveal the spark of light at its center. Silver petals fall away from the outside, drift around you in the void, dancing then dissolving into nothing. The point of light grows stronger, larger, to the size of a person, until Zooey uncurls from it, forming from the glow.
She’s featherlight in your arms, her body still not quite solid, her eyes hazy and heavy-lidded. You feel the vibrations of a sleepy noise against your chest, and look down at her, curled up in your arms, trying to wake.
“Sandalphon…?” she mumbles, slow and vague with sleep.
“Hey,” you say.
“Did you come to take me back?”
“Mm.”
“Grand Order said I could go. I’ve never not been Grand Order. I don’t really understand...”
“Shh,” you tell her. “We can talk about this when we get home. Sleep for now.”
“It’s telling me goodbye,” she says, closing her eyes. “It’s telling me that I can become a person.”
“You already were.”
“Was I...?”
Zooey’s voice drifts. She wraps her arms around your neck and presses her face into your shoulder. You tuck her closer to you, making sure she doesn’t fall, one hand cradling the back of her head as she drops off into sleep again. Her hair is soft between your fingers. She is still, even now, made of light.
“Come on. Let’s go home.”
“Mm,” she mumbles. You don’t know if it’s because she’s heard you or if it’s just a reaction to the sound, to the feeling of your voice against her ear. But it’s soothing either way. She’s there. She’s taken form again, the form of your best friend. And she isn’t going to leave you this time.
“Hold on tight. We’re descending.”
She nestles closer to you. You stroke one hand through her hair— some sort of lullaby.
And then you tuck your wings in, tilt your body downwards, and plummet back to the island, an ancient comet returning to the sky.
After all the tearful reunions, all the grateful, choked voices and arms thrown around each other, you settle down onto the couch, your head spinning, overwhelmed with all the noise and the recent overuse of your powers. Zooey silently follows you, sits next to you and rests her head on your shoulder. It’s so much like the first time, and yet— it’s so different. There’s a warmth between you that you never imagined you’d experience. Her breath shudders with tears, still. You wrap one arm around her shoulder and gather her close. She still smells like ozone, like space dust, but you know you do too.
You hold her, quietly. She nestles close, always warm, always gentle. Her heart reaches out to you; her voice resonates in your core, the link between you resolidified and as comfortable as it always was.
Grand Order gave you a hard time, didn’t it? I’m sorry.
Yes, you say. But I’m glad it did.
Why is that?
It... reminded me. Of just how much I would do for my friends. For you.
Sandalphon, she says. I think it wanted me to tell you this outright. But I think of you as my best friend.
I know. It told me. I didn’t believe it at first. But now...
You stroke through her hair.
Do you understand now? Zooey’s voice is more curious, more a question than a gloat of “I told you so.” Though you wouldn’t blame her if it was.
I think so. As close as I can. Without feeling completely confident. But what it is... I can feel it now. Or accept that feeling.
Then I am happy.
She closes her eyes slowly, like a cat displaying its trust. When she speaks out loud again, her tone is higher, softer, less assured.
“I’m not sure what to make of this now that I’m... myself, I suppose.” Her voice is small, a little nervous. “Where do we go from here?”
(Let’s go together, you remember her telling you. And you know— she said we. She still intends on going with you.)
“We can go anywhere we want,” you tell her.
“Then I’d like to go to a baking class, this time. You promised me you’d come.”
“I never promised anything,” you insist flatly, but you’re already taking mental notes, making a list of possibilities. It is a list that you know will never be complete; there is so much left to do. You can show her a sunset. You can take her to that coffee plantation where Lucifer’s tree still blooms. You can take her flying, let her drift and hover alongside you. You can sit next to the lake in Lumacie with her and watch the fireflies light up at night, that little sky in your palm, a microcosm of the galaxies she knows so well.
And even you still have so much to learn. Two thousand years of imprisonment and trauma have taken their toll. You may not, upon reflection, be the best guide to the world of skydwellers. But you can learn together, as you always have with her.
“I never promised anything... but I’ll go.”
Her face lights up. Her hands find yours again, and she grips it in excitement, shaking it up and down insistently. “Really? I’m excited. Can we go now? Right now?”
“Not so fast,” you tell her. “I don’t even know where they hold those kinds of things. And anyway, it’s the middle of the night.”
“Oh.” She looks crushed. “I forgot skydwellers do that.”
“Do what? Sleep?”
“Close their stores.”
“...You really are a strange one.”
She doesn’t let go of your hand. Her fingers curl around yours, pressing it between her own. Her skin is so soft. You wonder if she can feel your calluses, the proof of years. You wonder how long she has known you. How long she has seen you, been a part of you from afar. How long your wishes have lingered in her existence.
“You’ve told me that before.”
She smiles up at you. You smile back, softly.
“I know.”