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Another sunset.
Phosphophyllite looked blearily upwards at the sun, before rubbing their face with their golden hands and sighing gently. It was rare for them to feel truly physically tired these days, but their mind often desired a rest that they would not, could not grant. They glanced around the school— brilliant white marble reflected the omnipresent oranges that suffused the Land with the dying of the sun. Yellow Diamond and Zircon, there, jogging towards the large wooden table where Jade would be holding the daily debriefing— Hemimorphite, in that wide patch of waning sunlight, walking steadily from the east, Watermelon Tourmaline dancing around them with a wide grin— the Amethyst twins, barely visible in the shadow of the hill they descend from, walking in measured, familiar, nearly identical gaits, Eighty-four (or was it Thirty-three? Phos found it hard to distinguish, sometimes) offering a wave and a call to Morganite and Goshenite as they too returned from whatever branch of the Land they had been assigned.
Phos had already handed in their report, and felt no real obligation to join the rest of the patrolling gems around the table tonight— most nights. Not with the way Morga had entirely stopped teasing them, now they had changed, nor with how the twins could hardly bring themselves to meet their gaze on the best of days. Not with the way Melon refrained from interacting with them but for the most pressing circumstances, or how the other gems all stood a few respectful feet away from themself when the gems all gathered around the table, or the way their collective eyes always lingered on them whenever they talked, moved, merely existed. Not with the way Phos found themself always dreadfully separated, physically or otherwise, from those that once they had been so deeply connected to.
Treading along the darkening ground, Phos kept their gaze focused on the sky. (Looking for sunspots, they would say, if asked.) Their focus was solely on the sunset, ever-captivating, beautiful, ever-present in their mind and reliable. Dry, determined grasses wound through the hills, a few small depressed paths revealing the daily movements of the gems. It had just begun to regrow, regaining some early, primordial measure of its glory from the winter that had just receded as it spread like virus through the temporarily empty earth. The barren trees, just beginning to burgeon with the small buds of leaves now that the world had thawed, stood silent through the landscape, casting great shadows that fell like chasms on the ground, yawning pits of darkness breaking up the otherwise resplendent Land. Upon the now-receding face of the School, small bundles of twigs and grasses had begun to take form nestled high in the insurmountable reaches and supports of the structure, each of them housing the few birds that had returned from wherever it was they spent the winter. A mystery, perhaps, for another time, another age.
Sunsets seemed to come slower and slower, now, with each passing day, time slowly building the day back into the long stretch of sun Phos was used to. Winter had only just passed along when they took to their new schedule: patrol during the day in some of the most dangerous areas— ever alone, now, though they had noticed a few gems sending them contemplative glances— followed by some sort of mundane activity to last them through the night. Sleep was relegated to the absolute ends of their endurance, often days apart.
They protected me, I watched it, they took them, Antarc, I failed them, I was not strong enough, I will be better, nothing I could do, nothing I could do…
They were a fighter, now, so different than what it was they were before— nothing, they were tempted sometimes to say, based on what they had heard from the others. A small voice within them would whisper, something greater than what I am now. More alive, more honest. Their remaking was a change for the better, though, empirically, by most of the other gems' accounts. With their increasingly fractured memory, well, Phos found it hard to genuinely disagree but for that ineffable little feeling in the back of their head.
Night, though, served them just as well as day as of late, loathe as they were to spend a moment in repose. The sun continued to set, and Phos began to feel under their heel the slow transition from the rough grasslands that made up much of the Land to the minute give in the earth that signalled the border into the marsh. The coarse, dry grasses of the Land fell away, replaced by the tall, grasping bushes and reeds that marked this particular stretch of land, a transition from the common rolling hills, well-traced and marked, into the mostly-forgotten and shunned marsh. A particularly striking shade of brown-muddled orange was cast about them, the mingled colors of the resplendent sunset casting vast shadows on the Land, and themself, as it hit the flora about them. Phos paused a moment, sighing again, and they closed their eyes as they basked in the light and the warmth and the cool, salty wind from the sea.
Respite was an unearned treasure for them, sleep a new sort of unbearable torture. A sickness, Phos reminded themself, that will fade with time and friends and openness about their troubles. Sensei has not been wrong before, and I must trust him in this, too. The words had become something of a mantra, to them, and a line on which their thoughts resided ever so often, ever since Phos had, in their exhaustion, finally spoken to Sensei of their fears and dread regarding the world, and of them .
A sickness, I must trust him, they protected me, not wrong before, a sickness, I watched it, he is not oft wrong, they took them, a sickness, Antarc, will fade with time and openness, I failed them, a sickness, I was not strong enough, I can trust him, has not been wrong, I failed them all, I will be better, it will be me next, I will get better, nothing I could do, a sickness, a sickness…
“Talk to someone," he had said, "Even if they are not myself. To let your troubles into the air is to free the pain and the horror from within you. You are strong. You will heal, and we are— I am here to help you, should you ask it."
Phos' newfound reluctance to sleep aside, night was welcoming; twilight always served to inspire them, the twilit world so much softer than the harsh day that found its greatest glory in its ending, the purple-orange rays of dusk heralding the peace and tranquility to come. Where once had the setting of the sun announced the end of the day— Phos’ inclusions unadapted to such a low level of light— their tenure alongside them had served to deepen their endurance, allowing them to brave the dark of night alongside Phos' new (old?) friend, Cinnabar.
Sharing as they did the same sense of general alienation between them— Phos due to their unique nature, and Cinnabar their, well, similarly unique nature, but in far less an alluring way— Phos had begun to search them out. Confusion and curiosity was the general rule of their life at first, as the other gems awoke— relearning their names, demeanours, how to act around them— but with Cinnabar, it was blessedly different. The promise was one of the few things Phos well and truly remembered, Cinnabar’s name and being seemingly brought along through that hard-line connection. This being the case, they quickly sought them out as one of the few gems Phos knew that didn’t seem entirely alien, or alienated by their new attitude and features.
Phos began to wind their way through the reeds, heading deeper into the marsh that lay on the western side of the isle— Cinnabar's newest brooding spot, it seemed— to await their newest friend at their pleasure. The sun was very nearly set, and, judging by their patchy memories and more recent observations, most of the gems would be by now at the school, if not already settling down to sleep through the night. Phos pushed past the reeds, thick as they were near the edges of the still water, small schools of fish and insects fleeing from their tread as they stepped from the earth into the once-still mirror of the marsh itself. The ground sunk under their heels, each step creating a small disturbance in the now-muddy, brackish water, sending ripples out like a sort of halo with Phos at their center. The croak and buzz of the small creatures of this part of the island wrapped themselves around Phos, a constant, cacophonous drone that set their mind into a sort of ease. Phos could easily see why it was that their friend was drawn here, the warm water and comforting sounds stilling their constant inner monologue, partially grounding it in the comforting present.
Friend. A word Phos knew once to have been innately familiar, now faded, tarnished by recent events and the same all-encompassing fuzziness that they now knew to be the haze of their onset amnesia. Diamond— Dia, the other gem had insisted— had been their friend, at some point, always willing to spend time with them, comforting and kind. Rutile was almost a friend, with how often they had spent together, once-familiar jabs and demeanors creating a sort of companionship. They had been friends with Antar— with them, Phos liked to think. And certainly some former shard of themself would have felt they had more friends than even those three in the school, the sort of warm, endearing personality Phos hardly remembered having been much more palatable to their peers. As it stood, only Cinnabar seemed to treat them as something of an equal— Sensei excluded for obvious reasons— with even levelheaded Rutile more interested in them as an experiment above anything else.
Fair-weather friends, or gems that had befriended someone very different than the Phos that was now. Some small shard of themself felt a sort of almost-envy, the same shard that found some fault in the accounts of their once-were friends. Allies, to be sure— no gem would see another taken, no matter their opinions— but rarely friends, now. Since their reintroduction, standing there alongside Sensei as they tried to recount the abduction of them, they had always remained on the other side of that grand wooden table, unable to take again their place within the crowd. Those same few names ran through the stream of their thoughts, mingling in that partially stilled river with Phos’ comforts and pains.
A sickness, I must trust him, your mere existence is blinding, they protected me, not wrong before, a quack doctor, a sickness, take care of the winter, I watched it, he is not oft wrong, Cinnabar might know, they took them, a sickness, walk until you can’t, Antarc, will fade with time and openness, I failed them, welcome to the team, a sickness, nothing if not our courage, I was not strong enough, I can trust him, I have many shortcomings myself, has not been wrong, I can trust them all, keeping up with me better than I thought, I failed them all, I will be better, it will be me next, make sure Sensei isn’t lonely, I will get better, nothing I could do, a sickness, just don’t say you’re going to the moon…
The marsh was one of the smaller subsections of the Land. Soon after first stepping past the barrier of thickly-grown reeds that nearly reached their head, and into the small world of loud, plaintive calls intermingled with the waves of both the ocean and the reeds billowing in the wind, Phos reached the inconspicuous grey rock that had become a sort of refuge for both them and Cinnabar. It was vaguely round, separate from many of the surrounding copses of reeds and banks of sediment; a solitary foundation to match the two that sought it out. Some few hardy plants had taken root about its base, purchase found in the mud and soil collected there, and shot up along its landward sides, a sort of concession made by the stone to the world around it. It stood otherwise inviolable, affording any who took to it an expansive, almost intimate view of the Moon as first it rose when night was young and the sun yet lingered in the sky, however tenuously.
It hurt. More than they thought it would; more, perhaps, than it really should. They had lost so much, now. Phos knew— that little spark of defiance deep within them— that they had changed in an entirely irreversible, incalculable way. How could it be that so many others were intact? How was it that they and they alone had become some new bastardized form of life, unfamiliar even, it seemed, to Sensei? Alone, but for some tangential connection with one of a similar affliction. Another gem, wholly separate from the rest but in conception and conception alone. Their memories didn’t even assure them that this was entirely the case: it was the rest of the gems that made well and sure that Phos knew they were different, strange; though the rest seemed to express their appreciation of Phos’ new form in a sort of pseudo-respectful gesture, their words were walls, thrown up in haste and with little regard to the consequence.
Whatever it was that they had fought for before— not that they had really fought, mind— had been utterly lost to them. Phos drifted, now, more than anything else. Existing merely to exist, more habitual than by any desire. Some few things still marked their life and hopes. Guilt for losing them, fear of the Lunarians, obligation to their fellows (however distant they may be), the promise. Even that they could not fulfil. Failure was what they knew best, aside from destruction of their enemies. All the gems seemed to agree— little Phos, so much better now that she has a use. Bort, Morganite, Rutile, Jade, Dia; all seemed inclined to laud them for losing so much, changing so drastically. If not a shift from ambivalence or toleration to admiration, it seemed that some few gems from before the Winter had outright held them in contempt, and only now found them acceptable.
A sickness, idiot, I must trust him, you could have gotten hurt, your mere existence is blinding, why not leave Phos like that, they protected me, a quack doctor, maybe this will teach you a lesson, not wrong before, a sickness, take this seriously, take care of the winter, I’ll turn them to dust, I watched it, he is not oft wrong, useless scrap like you don’t—
A small splash, not far off, towards the land.
Phos jumped, startled, and turned to look towards the source of the sound. The moon was beginning to rise fully into the sky, with the sun vanished behind the horizon. A full moon rose, seemingly filling the darkening sky entire. In the moonlight, the marsh was dark glass, reflecting delicately the brilliant white that now began to permeate the Land. There, just now crossing the expanse of the marsh, lit by the moon and surrounded by small stars, was Cinnabar. Phosphophyllite’s thoughts froze at the sight, before settling into a sort of warm contentment that always seemed to precede their nightly meetings. Phos turned back around, and settled down on the rock, removing their shoes and assuming a now-familiar position laying down with their feet dangling slightly into the cool water. They closed their eyes, reveling in the clear-mindedness that they now held, and focused on the ever-approaching steps of Cinna as they moved through the marsh.
The drone of insects had grown louder as night fell, with a chorus of calls by various amphibians answering in kind. The dim roar of the wind was ever-present, ruffling their clothes and hair as they lay against the stone, brushing over their skin, tingling and sweet. The drifting drones of various winged creatures approached and retreated with the rhythm of the wind, sometimes coming close, landing on a rock or a blade of grass or their skin, before being whisked away, by choice or nature, off to explore the rest of their small world. An occasional splash of water could be heard, its source unknown, and the rustling of reeds and grasses in the wind joined with the steady crash of waves in distance. The pace of Cinnabar rung out above all, though, remarkable and solitary in its innate regularity, a bell and a call that drew Phos into the closest thing to sleep they consciously allowed.
(Something idly remembered through the thick fog otherwise muddying Phos’ mind— the way Cinnabar always walked as though marching to some unseen drum, their tread measured to exactitude and perfection, much as the rest of their mask crafted over centuries of isolation.)
“Hello again, Phosphophyllite,” drifted that serene voice, piercing still in its familiarity, in the breadth of emotion just hidden below whatever tone Cinnabar had affected. Phos opened their eyes, lazily glancing towards Cinna before refocusing on the moon, the sky, anything else.
“Cinnabar. I think you’re earlier, tonight. Miss me that much?”
A small breathy laugh was the answer they received, before Cinnabar took those last few steps through the marsh to reach their shared rock. The clinking of a gem settling down next to Phos followed, with Cinnabar taking their own place on the rock a small distance away. Their small, personal moons of mercury floated about, darting and drifting much like the bugs that they shared the air with, almost as if the beads of poison had some measure of will and personality to them. The stars overhead shone with a demure sort of light, surrounding and accentuating the moon like the jewelry supposedly popular on it. Patterns and constellations long forgotten tingled the back of Phos’ mind, lessons of centuries past lost to forgetfulness and injury.
“Another sunspot came today, you know. The twins were with me, again. They seem to seek me out.” A bead of mercury stilled in its flight, before jumping slightly, as if startled.
“I assume you took good care of it? I must wonder how it would be to fight as you do.”
“Oh of course. The twins decided that they would be better suited to playing support, this time. Left me the honor of taking the Lunarian’s head.” Another bead slowly lifted to clear the path of some small insect, brilliantly colored while moonlit.
“Of course. It seems many of the gems… defer to you, for lack of a better word.”
Phos closed their eyes, sighing, and waited.
“But then, you’ve said as much before. How are you doing, today?” A small star formed, and floated closer to Phos. They raised an arm, and batted it away with a small half-dome of golden alloy.
“Better, maybe. The same as ever, maybe. It can be hard for me to tell, sometimes. Fighting like this usually makes it much worse, but today, well. It didn’t seem quite as bad as usual.”
A sickness, I must trust him, they protected me, not wrong before, will fade with time—
“I’m glad to hear that. You know we’re here for you… that I’m here for you.” One small speck zipped through the air at this pronouncement, like one of the little four-winged insects during the day.
“And as ever, I thank you dearly for it. I know I’m not the most resilient, even with the augmentations… because of the augmentations…”
“You were, back then, some small comfort for me. I gladly will do the same, however much you will let me.” More clinking, and Phos saw Cinna sit up out of the corner of their eye. They followed suit, looking over fully at their friend.
A background of coldly-lit nature hid just behind Cinnabar, the reeds now pale and foreboding in the darkness. Water was still but for the presence of its denizens, small bugs and creatures flitting about it, ripples announcing their comings and goings as their short existences resumed after the end of the long frost. While the rest of the world was flattened, the moonlight seemed to fully bring out Cinnabar’s colors and beauty. Mercury shone about them as it hung still in the air, almost anticipatory, little drones that followed Cinna’s will and emotions, heralds that announced their master’s singular importance and unique nature, alluring as they were deadly to most others. Phosphophyllite blinked once, and cast their gaze down and to the side, staring at the thin curtain of grass that hugged the rock.
“I would apologize for never finding you a job—”
“You really needn’t.”
“...If I thought you would let me. As it is, I hope whatever good my company is will suffice.” Phos looked back up at their friend, meeting their eyes.
“More than you know, Phos.” Cinnabar looked away once they spoke, and their sporadic cloud of mercury flew a little faster after, orbiting in an almost frantic pace, always carefully, habitually avoiding Phos in their paths.
Phosphophyllite laid down again, and a short while after, Cinnabar followed.
A sickness, grind them into dust, nothing if not our courage, maybe this will teach them a lesson, will fade with time, take care of winter—
“I know I was supposed to be the one making the encyclopedia, but could you tell me more about the things that live in this swamp?”
“Of course, Phos. What do you want to know?” Cinna was nice like that, at least to them.
“Tell me about the flying ones, again.”
“Well, there are the ones with two pairs of wings. They’re usually around at the start of night, but don’t linger overlong. They fly very fast for their size, and I’ve always liked them. I once asked Sensei what they should be called, and he looked really pensive for a while, before telling me he had his own name but that I should make a new one. I didn’t really settle on one until a few days later, when…”
Phos let Cinnabar’s talking wash over them. Nevermind the marsh and sea, the wind and stars; this must be what tranquility was. Phos listened in, half-awake, and closer to any sort of peace than they had felt for the entire day.
Those first few weeks had been arduous, with no-one to talk to, no rest nor respite to be found. Phos had lingered in this world more than lived in it, hardly conscious of their surroundings with exhaustion, but adamant to avoid sleep. Then they had seen Cinnabar while walking the Land, late one night, and had approached them. Solace, it seemed, could be found there. A shared disfigurement, a mutual something. Phos didn’t really know. But they had found that the raging torrent of emotion that underlay their every thought, action, and waking moment was calmed by Cinnabar’s surprisingly willing affirmations and company.
The dance of mercury above them reflected most ardently the light of the moon, as if vying for their attention. Phos blinked lazily at the show, before again sitting up.
“...And I do think that they actually hunt other insects, which seemed strange to me, at first, but when I asked— Oh, are you ok?” Cinnabar looked at Phos, a gaze that mingled concern and curiosity in a way unique to them, as far as Phos was concerned.
Phos said nothing, but scooted over towards Cinna. For their part, Cinnabar adopted that slightly hunted look they always seemed to have when another gem grew too close to them, but this relaxed into a warm smile almost instantly as though they had remembered something particularly pleasant. They patted the spot next to them, a sort of invitation. Phos nodded, slightly, their face relaxing into a sedated grin. They settled down next to Cinna, and leaned into them slightly, their arms grazing and Phos’ head cushioned by Cinna’s brilliant hair, a thin surface of gold growing from Phos to separate the two.
A sickness, I’ll be next, useless scrap—
“I’m sorry, Cinna, I interrupted. Won’t you continue?”
Phos could feel Cinna’s hair through the gossamer layer of gold as they nodded ever-so-slightly, the movement of their head brushing it against Phos’ face. Phos felt themself slip further into that peaceful abyss of sleep, this time, as every time recently, cradled between the comforting press of stone and the warm, reliable presence of Cinna at their side, separated however slightly by a thin film of gold. They sighed softly, content, shrouded in the small breaths of their friend, the dulled atmosphere of the marsh eclipsed by every hint and fragment of Cinna’s being.
“Of course, Phos.” A pause. Phos shut their eyes, and savored the voice, the smile shining in Cinna’s tone and inflection, the slight way they lingered in the saying of Phos’ name, the kindness in their acquiescence. An arm reached around Phos, settling over their shoulder, and Cinna turned ever-so-slightly into the half-embrace.
“I had thought that insects eating each other was strange, at first, but when I asked Sensei about it, he reminded me about the whole ‘transfer of energy’ thing, and that the mortal races don’t always just take in energy like we do through our inclusions. Well, that got me thinking about what it was that did do that—plants being the closest— and so I decided to look through exactly what grew where, starting with the marshes, of course, and the reeds here…”