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Again. Again. Again. They'd lost count. It was hard to keep count, to think, to exist in anything outside of battle. There was never time, the clock was always ticking, Nova looking over them for eternity with complete apathy. A will, a wish, to become stronger than anything in this galaxy. Again, again, again, and again. Never-ending, never stopping. Vision tinted in pink crystal. The feeling of being thrown through time and space like a puppet, the strings getting tighter the more they struggled. Nothing lasts, nothing, nothing lasts except for the anger that refuses to leave. It boils and bubbles outside, burning anything it touches.
It's only when a butterfly lands on their lance that the anger finally abandons them.
"I can give you the freedom you seek. I can make sure the crystal never consumes you again. We will survive, lasting eternally and bringing peace. All I ask is that two become one, and we shall keep our will."
They could never truly say the words that had been spoken to them by the butterfly, but it was what they understood. An escape. There was nothing worse that could happen if this was a trap, after all. No- maybe the destruction of hope, but that had died all too long ago. It wouldn't matter much now.
"Judgment is quite a beautiful thing."
They're almost sure they close their eyes and feel nothing but acceptance. Warm, bright, hot like a burning star acceptance. It's so warm they can hardly stand it, and the moment they can't, they keep a hold onto their definition of self even harder. They are not sure what their "self" is at this point, so much of it being lost to the crystal, but they hold on.
They die.
They live again.
And it is this exact moment that they realize the emotions they feel towards things like judgment are too many to understand.
"Judgment has been made."
They are not sure what has been judged. It feels gross, in a way. Said way is absolutely indescribable, but it is one and that's what seems to matter most. Much of this event seems hard to understand and describe, it seems. It's as if they themselves are not accustomed to the mere act of living. And perhaps, truthfully, they are not. Was it even right? Was it right to think of what has happened as living? Perhaps, truly, they would never live again.
The clashing of weaponry hardly is even heard. Yet, they feel themselves moving with the effort of complete and utter desperateness. No, not desperate. Something else. Someone else. Someone? Yes, someone else is there. They are there, holding themselves carefully.
Please don't get lost.
Why would they? That doesn't make sense.
Block an attack. Do other attacks. Keep moving. The crystal is closing in.
There are no crystals. You are I. And so, I am you.
Their wings flutter. It feels freeing. Why? They don't have freedom. No, this is the only part they're allowed to be alive. This cruel game, made by a clock with complete and utter apathy.
We must live to pass judgment.
Every emotion feels as if it's merging. Every thought feels more so. The movement is in sync to a dance with this butterfly. And yet, is their will slipping away? No. It's merging, creating a wave that crashes on sand. Two become one, and we shall keep our will. Yes? Correct.
Isn't metamorphosis a beautiful thing?
Maybe. They aren't sure.
The final blow hits them. And yet, despite this, it doesn't hurt as much as it should. It is not followed by crystals trapping them. No, it's followed by a moment of pure inexistence. And then, once again, they exist. No crystals. No trap. They aren't sure where they are now, now that they exist again. However, the dreams in the sky look wonderful.
Their name is Galacta Knight. What a horrible name, with a horrible past connected to it.
How do you feel about the name Morpho Knight?
It's a wonderful name. An indication of the death of their much more miserable self. Of course it's a wonderful name.
Time passes. The realization that they can travel through space and time out of free will is something that they don't recover from. No, not that it hurt them, but that it becomes somewhat a hobby of theirs. Time, space, dimensions, all forthcoming and merging.
Being one being, however... That's harder to cope with, even still. Yes, they both exist as one, but they still keep their will, which means their opinions and thoughts seem to battle each other whenever the most unfortunate thing arises: having opposite opinions. It's... More than just annoying.
But even still, existing like this... It usually requires quite a bit of trust. They understand each other's memories and feelings, their emotions and opinions. But they hadn't known themselves for long at all, and, well, that was concerning somewhat. It wasn't exactly just one side having detriment from this, it was both, both wills not exactly understanding fully how to handle this. At the very least, they had made it possible for one of the wills inside themselves to understand what mortals usually couldn't. It was preferable that both wills stayed sane.
When they exist as a butterfly, it feels odd. The wings flutter, each one the sound of a soul. To eat dreams is an important part of judgment, and to that one must hear the sound of a soul. There's some weird feeling of lack of trust. Then again, a dead self tended to not have much of that. Betrayal hurt, after all. Being sealed away like that. It was strange to comfort themselves but not a single will only.
When they exist as a person, they do not only have to kill or fight. They can exist. They can exist and feel and believe and hope. But could they? What of the crystal? What of the ancients? What of the clock that called towards them?
No. How foolish. They shouldn't worry about that anymore.
It's funny, too, how much they seem to prefer being outside the form of a pure butterfly. They could fly into space or to a new planet, and sometimes they would judge and eat dreams. It didn't matter. It did matter. Their head hurts so, so badly. And so do both wills, struggling at something, pulling at everything all at once.
Was the death of themselves to be celebrated? It was a confusing question. They can't care. No, maybe? They should. Absolutely. Maybe. No. No, no, no-
Calm down.
Shouldn't I mourn myself? My self who I will never see again? We will never see either self again, you know. We've died just as much as us.
What of the prison we are in? It is not just one prison, but a prison of will and existence. Ripping apart into the night sky of where a flower blossoms, of the space of where zeros multiply.
Is it a prison? They aren't sure. They don't know. They don't know. Why don't they know?
Should they?
They sigh, sitting on the stem of a strange flower. A portal opens in the sky.
Ah! Judgment was to be served, and dreams should be eaten today! They immediately decided they should see the poor one to be judged. After all, perhaps a third will...?
No. That'd be obnoxious. They already struggle enough.