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Chapter Text

Lanz falls asleep, and Mio’s hesitant feeling of relief finds steadier footing inside her chest.

As harrowing and nerve-wracking as it had been – her fears of her perfect mask breaking apart under N’s lifeless, sharp eyes becoming more and more consuming with each nightmarish day – her one-month undercover stint as a Consul at Agnus Castle had let her gather first-hand intel on their enemies, as an organisation... and as individuals.

Moebius are, largely, hideously prone to gloating, cold-hearted beings. Frozen in time, unchanging in both appearance and behaviour. Stagnant.

They’d revel in discussing every single detail concerning their guests, chattering among themselves, around her, or directly to her – to “M”. Some of them would gossip and crow about the fast approaching Homecoming, others would coldly and disinterestedly comment on her friends’ swiftly deteriorating condition, week after week. A fun anecdote to chit-chat about, or a unsightly nuisance to walk past without sparing a glance. Mio still doesn’t know which behaviour had unsettled her the most.

They had talked so callously and lightly about her beloved friends’ tense silences, and their frustrated screams as they bashed and kicked the unyielding prison bars again and again. About how they had come to terms with their situation; their sudden, progressively shortening bursts of energy, all gone to waste; their longer stretches of absolute stillness, tired, tired, tired.

And Lanz. Always awake. Haunted, so haunted. With nothing else to do other than watch as Noah slowly lost something. He’d been unable to do anything to keep his friends safe, unable to stop N, and she’d just known that he’d heaped all the blame up on his own shoulders, too heavy to bear.

His desperate determination to carry on, forced to stop in sleepless stasis. Thoughts that had been carefully kept at bay through sheer momentum thanks to the unstoppable rhythm of his steps, always moving forward, no longer confined away. She knows them well – a mirror of her own. They must have resonated so loud inside his head, in the hair-rising silence of a cold prison cell.

At some points his body would… give up, a Consul would say, lightly, as if discussing a crawling, struggling insect’s unexplainable behaviour. It shuts down, were the exact words one of them had chosen to use, and “M” hadn’t disagreed, because the physical exhaustion beyond recovery, the palpable weight of unfulfilled sacrifices, of his friends’ distress, of his twisted self-worth and rotting guilt, all of it… It turned his unconsciousness into something simply unworthy of being referred to as sleep.

The ether-powered razor purrs on, a continuous high note, but is stopped with the barely audible click of a button. The touch of Lanz’s freshly cropped hair and the furnace-hot warmth of the skin underneath it are pleasant under Mio’s hand as she carefully positions his head this way and that, checking over her work so far... and is unable to resist gently tracing meaningless, wandering shapes with her fingertips in the process.

He’s slumped over their camping table. His back rises and falls, slow and steady, in a deep, contented sigh that puffs out against his crossed arms, where his head is pillowed, and Mio smiles in sheer joy. What an honour it is to be here, with him, and witness how he truly rests, for the first time in months (in terms), with her. His headstrong, unstoppable iron will, slowly rekindled, burning brighter with each deep breath.

It’s no wonder he has fallen asleep. Safe, and no matter how hard Aionios’ distortion has tried to twist the understanding he has of the value of his own life... always worthy, unconditionally beloved.

She traces a recent scar on his left shoulder, and another one, older, near his neck, and for a sudden moment, irrationally or not, she strangely misses her own scars – her own skin, and the ten terms of history marked there, hers.

It’s disorienting, and uncanny, but getting a new chance at breaking the endless cycle makes it worth it beyond doubt. She’s here. After her own ten terms… and her borrowed twenty-three days. And counting.

Red eyes open, languid and sleepy and as observant as ever in spite of it. Mio isn’t aware of what it is he can see on her face, and she makes no attempt to hide whatever it might be. There’s no need.

Lanz blinks slowly. He frowns, trying to fight back his drowsiness, but Mio nods, encouraging him back to his well-needed nap. They are fortunate – they have some time left before the final stretch of their journey begins. To talk, to laugh and argue about anything they want, to spar to their heart’s content, to simply be, together.

She picks up the razor once more, runs her hand through soft silver hair, and lets herself fall back into her task, following the slow, familiar and comforting rhythm of her friend’s breathing.

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Sena turns her head, and when their eyes meet, when the warmth of her adoring smile – the one she reserves for Mio alone – reaches into her heart and nestles there, bright and light, fluttering behind her ribcage… Mio has to dig her nails on her own skin, gripping the comb’s handle so tight that something creaks, with the effort it takes to hold back her relieved tears.

It still seems unreal. Sena is alive. Lanz is alive.

Mio realises that she has been combing one section of Sena’s hair repeatedly, not noticing how the comb’s teeth had begun sliding through it without coming across any tangles, awareness of time slipping away from her grasp as she continued to replay everything in her head, looping again and again. She tries to centre herself, tries not to let her mind wander off, tries not to let it get lost among terrifying what-could-have-beens that were so, so close to be.

She smiles back at Sena, apologetic. It’s a wan, shaky one, but it’s enough for her friend – she turns back around on her seat after a split-second pause. Her loose hair follows her movement, sliding over Mio’s hands in a soft caress. As close to it as she is, Mio can feel the energy that radiates from each strand. She can feel the path it traces on her skin, the energy that spreads along her fingertips and up her arms.

And she can feel the harmless heat of her blue ether flames. They flicker in a steady, hypnotising pattern… Their cool glow is so familiar. Comforting, unlike...

The two of them, rising, soaring so high into the sky. Their parting words – so determined, and so accepting of their fate, and so heartbreaking – searing themselves into her mind. Red-hot, the body of their Ouroboros form, their bodies, burning alive. And then… they’d disappeared, engulfed by the clouds.

The weight of Aionios, uncaring, so persuasive, convincing them that their worth was that of cannon fodder, necessary casualties, and not that of precious people, endless potential. Their lives, reduced to an offering of time.

Mio had thought she would break, just then. Trapped inside her own body, the weight of unfamiliar armour constricting her breathing. Unable to do anything, not even scream, because their only chance of survival had fallen on her shoulders, on her ability to keep her facade up as everything came crashing down around her.

She’d done so. Observing them in silence, blinking passively while sheer horror seeped inside, marrow-deep, at the thought that a distant spark in the sky would be the last memory she’d have of them both.

But it wasn’t. They fell.

She continues to comb Sena’s hair, from deep indigo to fiery sky blue. The reassuring sensation of those gentle flames flickering between her fingers… it isn’t enough, Mio realises.

She’d bury her face in her hair, she’d cradle her tight to her chest, until her hands stop trembling. She’d hold his wrists, his shoulders, his face, trying to get him to see, to get them to understand, to make sure they stay with her.

Feelings of anger and relief become louder and heavier, trying to overpower each other. Guilt follows them and swallows everything else up, because she couldn’t do anything at all to stop that idea from ever manifesting in their heads. And she knows Sena wouldn’t ever hold it against her – but that only makes it hurt so much worse.

Nothing she has ever done or said had been enough to even begin unravelling her friend’s distorted sense of self, had it? Had she tried hard enough to reach her? …Had she truly noticed anything before everything changed, before that one fateful mission?

How could she have? Each time she looks back at her ten lived terms she is shocked that she had accepted any of it as normal – what she once would have regarded as a soldier’s duty and yearned-for honour spreads jagged ice inside her heart. Would it have revolted this violently against their sacrifice, back then?

Now she knows that there could be more to life than ten short terms harvesting Flames and a meaningless final sacrifice offered in earnest to a false ruler... and she wants to make it happen. She wants everyone to get there, to seize an unknown, terrifying, open future with their own hands, with her.

No more needless loss of life. It doesn’t matter at all that a new body to inhabit will be waiting for those that are lucky to die before falling at their Homecoming – enough husks have been left to decay, to crumble into dust and become forgotten all over Aionios in Queen knows how many cycles, Mio reckons. Each of them unique, just as unique as each of their predecessors had been. Each of them shaped by the people they had met and lost, by the meals they had shared, by the battles they had fought.

Her own Blade had been the one to cut short many nameless Kevesi lives throughout these doomed loops, one after another, without a stop. Fighting because there were enemies to kill.

What else is there?

So many possibilities, she answers herself. So many paths to walk.

Sena turns around once more, and Mio’s racing, meandering thoughts finally slow down as her friend’s kind, exhausted brown eyes find hers. This time she holds herself back from summoning up a smile, dreading the grimace it might turn into, and Sena doesn’t look away. Her gaze flickers elsewhere for a mere second, before it darts back to her.

She reaches out and holds one of Mio’s hands, gently turning it until its empty palm faces upwards, and she places her bright yellow hair tie there. Hesitant fingertips brush battle-scarred skin, marked by shapes that no longer match those Mio remembers as hers, and they waver above it before they keep on moving, wrapping Mio’s hand in familiar warmth.

The adoring smiles Sena offers her day after day are many, each of them precious, but this one… It isn’t sad. It isn’t a particularly cheerful one, either. Even so, the fire-forged resilience that shines through it overshadows them all.

If only I could get her to see herself as she is...

Mio’s hands return to their task. Sena’s head turns back around. Why not something new? she had said, a few long minutes ago. Something… different? she’d suggested with a peculiar determined frown.

Blue hair is gathered and loosely tied into a small, wavy bun. A few wisps of fiery ether seem to follow Mio’s fingers for a moment, as they draw away.

Sena is, she is alive. And Mio won’t rest until she finally becomes aware of her own radiance.

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Noah’s hands had healed completely, but...

Treating the deep, layered abrasions on his knuckles had taken Eunie mere seconds once they’d reunited after the battle, Blades and Arts freed from Moebius’ seal. It hadn’t been quick enough for them to leave small scars, though – they remain clearly visible against his skin, painful-looking starbursts marking the curved top of each of his joints.

Mio’s eyes keep lingering on them while they sit across each other, taking up all the available space on one of their smaller camping tables and making slow, meticulous progress on their weekly flute maintenance routine.

...They might be overdoing it. Well-cared-for instruments like theirs don’t really need such frequent thorough care.

It simply had become a habit along their journey, to sit together. Sometimes chatting away, others quiet and thoughtful, but never in silence. On those calmer occasions they’d notice how they both would listen to their friends’ voices, their laughter, and everything else. Tea poured into an empty cup. The counting of exercise reps. Air displaced by flapping wings. A chopping knife against solid wood. Ether cylinders clinking together... The sounds of their existence.

They never needed to say anything to each other – the gratitude they felt in those moments was right there, crystal clear, on the shape of their echoing smiles. A gratitude that has deepened even further, now that they know about them.

They had been so fortunate to find these people, to grow with them, to be changed by them. The ones that are here right now, sharing the warmth of a campfire with each other... and the ones long gone.

Noah stretches his fingers, and Mio observes how the scars twist on his skin, following their movement. He picks up his polishing cloth, previously soaked in Clear Almond oil, and he coats the bore and the outside of the flute with well-practised, measured movements.

Mio remembers feeling an intense rush of regret, the moment Miyabi’s flute had left her hands. It had only lasted until the first of their get-togethers since the exchange, though – she’d observed how careful, how reverent he’d been in his handling of the instrument, and she’d realised she’d had nothing to worry about.

She wonders if it’s her memories and feelings, untouched by the passing of time and shared through their Interlink, influencing his behaviour. She wonders if those memories help him sense Miyabi’s presence right there, a vibrant, sweet sound, in the hollow core of painted, lacquered wood, or if it’s simply his own caring, considerate nature manifesting itself in his actions.

One of Noah’s hands raises towards his face, and its quick movement is enough to interrupt Mio’s musings. He unnecessarily brushes his fringe, now too short to bother him, aside. A reflex that he stops halfway, giving Mio a puzzled look before letting out a helpless little laugh and focusing on the instrument in his hands.

Right after Mio had cut the mane of silver hair M had left her into something manageable (and familiar), she’d noticed him, eyeing the scissors she’d had to borrow. She’d studied his face, and... she’d seen it. The way he’d look sometimes, when he’d catch sight of his reflection. Staring absently, for a second too long for it to be brushed aside, head filled with the sort of frantic, obtrusive thoughts that an Interlink could only watch from a distance.

At a loss for what to do, she’d offered to cut his hair short. It... might help, she’d added.

He’d thought hard about it – he hadn’t said a word, but it had been plain as day on his expression, on the way he’d traced his scars, again and again. But in the end, he’d refused. His expression had softened, almost peaceful, and he’d asked her to trim the damaged ends. One or two cetri? Maybe the fringe, too? It’s a bit bothersome in battle, he’d said. Nothing else, and Mio hadn’t pushed, even though...

She hadn’t been the one that had had to face N’s soul-rending void of a smile and recognise her own soul there. She’d wondered how he could possibly bear it.

She looks at his eyes, the same familiar bright blue narrowed in concentration, and lets out a soft, fond laugh of her own. It hadn’t been mysterious at all, in the end – he’s Noah, in all his wonders and horrors. He knows very well that closing his eyes won’t make the monsters vanish into harmless intangible fog. He’s not one to look away.

...Mio doubts he has ever been, ever since that Homecoming ceremony over eight terms ago, among three beloved friends and the golden light of weightless sacrificial motes. The one so clearly engraved in his heart, and therefore, in hers.

So it’s no surprise that he would acknowledge himself. He faces him, head held high, not ceding a single cetri, as a full person on his own merits, just as deserving of his existence as ‘Noah’.

She remains in awe of him. She might always be, long after they leave the last of Aionios’ echoes behind.

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Eunie laughs, loud and cheerily. She elbows Mio in the side, she doesn’t stay still on her chair for more than a few seconds at a time. Her whole body moves as she talks.

She’s so lively.

Her hands are sure, their movements quick and practised as they weave Fourtune Clovers together into a bracelet with a degree of expertise Mio hasn’t managed to reach, herself; no matter how many times she has intently observed the way Eunie’s hands move, no matter how many times she has been (lovingly) badgered into helping her out... as if Mio needs that much convincing to join her.

Eunie’s face twists in concentration. She peeks at Mio’s own attempt at weaving and says something that succeeds in coming across as both encouraging and faintly mocking. Her left leg bounces, she hums to herself.

It’s day and night.

Mio hadn’t resisted the chance of delivering one of their meals herself, the moment it had presented itself. She had needed to see, to make sure they still fought, to dispel the shadows and doubts that kept on spiralling higher and stronger, worsened into nightmarish scenarios after enduring the Consuls’ incessant gossiping and jeering.

It had been simple to arrange. Who would have dared deny Consul M anything?

She’d had a few moments to look at them. None of them had looked back, at first. She’d understood why – their clenched jaws and fists had been answer enough. She’d realised who they’d noticed there, silently observing them beyond those bars, but it had shaken her to the core all the same.

One quick look, nothing more. One quick look had to be enough to carve their tired, worried, still determined faces into her mind.

But she’d stood there, unmoving, for seconds too long, and they’d begun to react. Sena, looking up at her for a split second before curling up tighter, knees pressed to her chest. Manana, at her side, staring at Mio with too dull eyes before turning away, wing resting protectively on Sena’s head as she’d trembled and dug her fingers into her arms, barely holding herself together, and in that moment Mio had wished for nothing else than to step inside and hold them.

She’d had to avert her eyes, and she’d focused her gaze on the prison wall across them. Lanz, sitting, head leaned back against the wall – the picture of exhaustion, if it hadn’t been for how alert his eyes were, following her movements with a hair-rising sort of hateful intensity that’d made her feel the impulse to take a step back. Taion and Riku, cutting short their hushed conversation to eye her in silence. A glare and a frown. Taion’s arms had crossed tightly, shoulders hunched defensively, his face a expressionless mask beyond the fury in his eyes. Riku’s had met hers, without hesitation, coldly observing. Glinting like steel, and just as unyielding.

And Noah and Eunie, huddling together in a corner, her hands holding his. Inspecting them for severe damage to the joints, cleaning his wounds. Mio hadn’t had time to discern much else before Lanz had risen to his feet, planting himself squarely in her line of sight and staring her down, jaws clamped shut and fangs bared like a snarling, cornered guard Feris about to rip apart armour, flesh and bone, and she’d frozen, because Eunie had–

It hadn’t mattered how briefly Mio had looked at her. It had shocked her how still, how lifelessly she had carried herself while examining Noah’s wounds. No movement, except that of her hands.

Her hands. They had shaken so, so badly, as they held Noah’s, dabbing at the broken skin with a pitiful strip of cloth, using whatever small surface of it that had yet to become stained with darkened, dried blood...

The jerk of a wing had been all the warning Mio had got before Eunie had leaned away from Noah, no longer hidden by Lanz’s coat. Her eyes had darted to meet Mio’s, and she’d frozen there, startled. She’d frowned, face twisting into a thunderous grimace, muttering something harsh under her breath, and she’d faced away, back to her work, face hidden behind her hair. Back to that unsettling stillness after a short burst of angry, defiant energy.

Even from that distance, an unbridgeable chasm between them, it had been impossible for Mio to miss the sheen of unshed tears.

They stay sitting together, side by side, warding off the dry cold of the night. Pressed shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. A wing that no longer stays unnaturally still brushes against Mio’s left ear every few minutes, the light weight of its feathers ruffling her fur in a strange but not unpleasant way.

Mio shows her how her woven bracelet is shaping up, in all its haphazard, barely held together glory, and Eunie cackles so loud, so suddenly, that a nearby flock of sleepy Flamii take hurried flight. Mio looks at her, soaking in her contagious joy, and finds she doesn’t mind it at all, her heart feeling full of warm light.

Eunie’s loud laughter and her rekindled vibrant energy feel like reassurance, an omen of their certain victory, after all.

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Manana has never been one to skimp on the quality of the ingredients she uses in her cooking, but there’d been only so much she could do, when more often than not facing the terrifyingly stubborn and moneymaking-savvy force known as the Nopon Merchants was a necessity.

On more than one occasion, Mio has accompanied Manana when she stays behind to stock up on provisions. She remembers the first one vividly – she’d been armed with G to spend and dreams of delicious recipes to try out... only to quickly realise, the moment the merchant had begun rattling off sky-high prices with a wholly unconcealed calculating glint in her round eyes, that she’d just entered another kind of battlefield, one she hadn’t been aware of at all.

It did involve just about the same amount of sweat and tears. Not as much bloodshed, thankfully.

In truth, Manana really really hate it! Despise it! Abhor it! she’d declared on their way back, incensed over the low quality (and not low at all price) of their purchases. But Manana’s love of cooking stronger than any-all merchant’s greed! Cooking triumph over all!

Mio sets down a heavy tray, piled high and colourful with enough vegetables for a dinner for eight, on the camping table. Her senses have sharpened by now, thanks to Manana’s meticulous mentoring, so she quickly notices the excellent condition each piece is in. Filling onions, rich soil still clinging to their outermost layer. Comet carrots, firm to the touch. Gromrice, its fragrant floral scent drifting towards her as Manana readies it for cooking. Vibrant purple peppers, meaty clusterelles and tender pillowshrooms…

It’s not a rare occurrence – it hasn’t been for the last few weeks. Ever since the eight of them reunited, the ingredients Mio has handled while helping Manana cook have been of the highest quality she has ever seen. They must be taking untold amounts of G, effort and delicate, calculated negotiation to procure, week after week.

Mio looks at Manana, tiny and bubbly and so deeply caring, singing sweetly to herself as she sharpens one of her knives, and is overcome with heartfelt gratitude.

Everything had tasted of ashes, at Agnus Castle.

Lavish, gorgeously plated meals, prepared by clearly skilled hands, accompanied by fine wine and fruits she hadn’t known of, and yet… Eating had felt like nothing, like a meaningless chore, without them. Without those seven hearts, tied to hers so tightly, physically close, but terrifyingly distant all the same. She’d think of them, locked up in that cold cell, kept alive with scraps, and her mind and senses would conjure up the taste of rot, growing fouler with each bite, and nothing else.

But the way her silent, helpless fury had consumed her heart whole during the few safe opportunities she’d had to bring them one of their meals had been so much worse. Unbearable.

This isn’t enough. Day after day, it hadn’t ever been enough. Obviously intentional – a basic necessity used as another tool to break their will with, another way to ensure their misery.

Manana would meet Mio’s eyes behind M’s mask, each time. Her wings would pick up the tray, gripping its raised edges as she glared at it with contempt, and the angry powerlessness Mio had needed to conceal deep behind her masks had been mirrored in Manana’s eyes, just for a brief moment. A spark of energy that would become barely perceptible with the passing weeks.

She would bring each of them their share, and Mio, nothing more than a silent, impassive jailer waiting for the prisoners to return the empty bowls, would observe her. Wings holding trembling hands and patting exhausted shoulders, encouraging words that fell flat, crushed under the tense silence – Manana had kept trying to help, in spite of the weariness evident in each of her movements. She had witnessed their bodies and spirit weaken, her talents useless in that dark prison cell, her voice unheard… but she had persisted.

Mio couldn’t say anything. They would finish their meal, too quickly. Manana would stack those too-shallow bowls and cutlery on the tray, she would pick it up and approach the bars, pushing it towards Mio with such sad eyes, and Mio couldn’t say anything, not even a whispered Thank you, thank you for everything, before turning away, her chest hollowing out further with each step she’d taken.

Aromatics, cooked gently over the low heat until they caramelise, golden and soft. Vegetables and greens, chopped into slightly irregular pieces, Mio’s not yet fully honed skills manifesting themselves there. Manana’s sweet singing voice, lulling Mio’s hyper-vigilant senses, guiding their ever-shifting focus back to her task, each time they wander.

Vivid reds and purples, golden browns and yellows, deep greens; a warm rainbow of colour that spreads across both chopping boards. The handle of the knife, chipped here and there. The sizzle that intensifies each time Manana adds another ingredient to the pot, one by one, carefully timed. The scent each one of them releases when they fall inside, standing out distinctly for a moment before it blends with the rest, harmonising together into such a mouth-watering aroma that she can almost taste it, just like that.

Mio finds the process behind each meal extremely rewarding in and of itself, but when they gather around the campfire and she sees the delighted smiles on her friends’ faces, their joy, the way they seem to be filled with energy, their bone-deep exhaustion easing away, their spirits lifted higher with each bite they take… The peaceful, warm pride she feels then surpasses everything else.

She really can’t thank Manana enough. Even a lifetime of gratitude seems inadequate.

Mio have shown true promise as chef. Mio able to make hearts sing in joy of sharing good meals! And Mio understand its importance. But Manana not telling what to do. Have to come from heart-deep, yes?

...A chef, huh?

Gentle wings hold her hands, guiding her, and that narrow, suffocating future spreads out, a myriad of paths branching off right where she stands.

Chapter Text

Taion’s eyes flit here and there. They widen behind his glasses, and he’s too enthralled by the monuments, by the old metal plates and the vast terms – years, decades, centuries – of lived history engraved there to hide their expressiveness behind his usual distant mien.

Someone clears their throat – Taion doesn’t even blink, completely unaware of the loud pointed sound. Mio pokes him in the side. It does the trick: he stares at her for a second, still spellbound, before his eyes follow the direction of Mio’s nod and he notices the queue of around a dozen people that has formed behind them and the display of frowns, crossed arms and exasperated huffs across its length. He moves out of their way without a word (and with less grace than he’d probably find acceptable), activating his Iris as he leaves the room, and Mio follows after his hurried steps and the embarrassed slant of his shoulders.

She says nothing that could reveal her amusement. Taion easily reads it on her smile anyway. He rolls his eyes, he pushes his glasses up, dignified and oh-so-poised, but his face remains free of tension, and he regards her with barely disguised fondness.

Mio thinks about him, in the cell – he’d stare at nothing, lost in frantic, futile planning; motionless except for his hands, until the moment he’d notice M’s presence beyond the bars and he’d turn to look at her with cold fury in his eyes. She thinks about the shadows she has seen reappear in them ever since, on nights of interrupted sleep, when they sweep their camp to ensure everyone is safe and near, still there, alive.

She looks at him now – from the moment they step through the Medical Facility’s main entrance his gaze roams over every little detail, bright with curiosity. She feels that same fondness, returned tenfold.

Doctor Hollis receives them with a kind smile. He shows them to the cramped storeroom adjoined to his office, its walls covered in ceiling-height bookshelves that hold the reference manuals, teaching materials and textbook copies he keeps on hand for his work in the Facility’s mentorship program. Mio is struck by how casually he gestures towards them as he explains the categories they are classified into and how they are sorted, without much ceremony. She guesses their existence must not be all that noteworthy, to him.

But the knowledge recorded in some of them is several times older than Mio’s and Taion’s ages added together.

Taion picks up one and studies its time-worn cover, trying to make out the faint lettering on it. He slowly turns the first pages, so slowly that they make no discernible sound as they fall weightlessly on the front endpaper. He winces whenever its binding emits a creaky complaint each time he spreads the book open to get a better look at the hand-drawn diagrams and the neatly written labels within.

These textbooks and case study compilations, whether ancient or recent, have probably hardly ever been treasured like this before… The thought makes Mio smile, for some reason. She approaches the nearest bookshelf, stacked full with datapads and bound paper alike, and finds herself another unusual treasure to admire.

At some point Taion leans towards Mio, bony shoulder to hers, pointing at one of his book’s chapters. From its title and the adjacent diagrams she deduces it’s on the variation in hearing range thresholds among fanged Agnians like her, which seems like an interesting read, but her eyes stray to Taion’s face before she gets to the second paragraph. She notices them again: those widened, warm brown eyes, his raised eyebrows, that subtle joyful smile. He looks full of life like this, studying the words of long-gone generations and distant lives, words that have remained in the world behind them, long after they had breathed their last.

It’s not the first time she has noticed the little things that make her friends them. She follows the whims of her contemplative mood, lets herself wonder, and she thinks back on the handful of terms he has been in her unit. He has always been like this, hasn’t he?

This him has. She knows there’s no sure way for any of them to find out any details about their past selves beyond a superficial look at what had been, like Eunie had, and… She doesn’t know if it’s wrong of her to do so, but she thinks of N’s twisted rage and M’s weary soul, unimaginably old and consumed by numbness until the day she’d faded away in a spiral of golden motes, and in spite of the strength she’d gained in facing them a small part of her feels deeply relieved for her friends. She wonders if Noah and Eunie feel the same.

Nevertheless, her curiosity remains. Do their original little quirks and interests, read from the data gathered by Origin, act as a persistent, unnoticeable force that tries to push them in certain directions along the flow of each cycle? Had all of their copies, their previous attempts at surviving Aionios, held within themselves that same core of self, an everlasting remnant of a faraway world? Had they ever noticed, inside themselves and inside their fellow soldiers, that inexplicable yearning for something that didn’t quite fit inside the jagged gaps and voids of a world under Moebius rule?

Who have they been throughout the cycles? Who had they been in their homeworlds?

She shows Taion the cute, simplified drawings in the manual she had picked up – a first-aid guide for children, she’d realised, looking through its cover and first pages in wonder – and she memorises the delighted smile he doesn’t bother hiding.

It ends and begins with us, she thinks. It’s both freeing and terrifying. Does it matter?

Life beyond Aionios is an absolute unknown. The living templates from which they were created, just as much. Any promises they might make to each other up to the moment Origin finally stills might become nothing more than meaningless wishes, impossible to fulfil. Temporary farewells might turn final as two worlds split apart, severing their bonds, all rewritten to follow the flow of time as it should have done, once.

It might be the biggest attempt at self-deception of them all, but when she experiences her friend’s joy, the warmth of his presence, and what she identifies as the essence of his self… she feels so certain of her bonds’ strength that there’s no place in her heart for doubt to take root in.

Fear won’t be what guides her – she’s witnessed the barren stagnation it leads to. She’d rather choose hope.

They will find each other. Their lives will become entwined with many others’, and they will interweave their own threads into that history resumed anew, together.

Chapter Text

Riku is many things. A multifaceted mystery wrapped in soft teal fur and adorned with cute, observant eyes.

He may be somewhat distant, but he’s a surprisingly good listener. He’s skilled at putting his thoughts into words, when he feels he has to. He has an uncanny ability to know exactly what to say, when and how, to get them to think for themselves, to help them take a different approach when Aionios seems suffocating and inescapable as it forces them into a path they don’t want to tread, and letting fear take over seems like the only available option.

He is a brilliant mechanic and gem crafter. He knows power frame architecture like the back of his skilled wings and hands… and he apparently knows a thing or two about Blades, as well.

He’d asked her to let him take a look at her Blade one night, during a shared watch. She’d passed them to him, observing how carefully he’d set them down on the ground between them. He’d typed something on his portable Iris terminal, and he’d taken a few pictures of her Blade right after, with a wide tablet he’d managed to keep under his jacket until then… somehow.

Front, back, side views and a handful of close-ups of the handles had been clearly displayed on its screen, one after the other, and when she’d tried to ask him what he’d needed those for he’d frozen on the spot. It’d been followed by an awfully unconvincing answer – he’d confessed his lasting curiosity about Agnian Twin Rings-type Blades, how he’d just felt like studying Mio’s to pass the time, nothing more, and then he’d asked her what she’d thought of the City’s various archives, now that they’d had more time to go through some of them…

Mio hadn’t minded his evasiveness – getting to have a conversation with Riku while he’s in one of his more talkative moods is somewhat rare – so she’d sat down in front of him, she’d let him scribble whatever it was he’d been writing on those mysterious snapshots, and she’d answered.

They’d talked about the archives, about what is and isn’t there; wondering how much information has been lost to time over the years, or considered superfluous to store, in view of the limited physical and digital storage the City has at its disposition.

She’d talked about the City itself, how strange everything about it feels, both cold and welcoming at once. Riku had stopped writing to look at her, and there’d been something in his calming presence that had let Mio’s words flow out of her heart, uninterrupted. So she’d kept talking – about how the faint impression of M’s memories on her own make her feel a familiarity that isn’t hers, and how disorienting it is. How insignificant the weight of its history makes her feel, sometimes.

How all of it might have been wiped out, alongside any hope of overcoming Moebius once and for all, had she and M played their cards differently.

Its people are still paying the price of the hurried relocation, rebuilding and adapting to the dramatic, massive change in altitude, reworking Queen knows how old systems and securing a steady influx of supplies with the tentative help of the alliances forged with the colonies that had chosen to stand against Moebius…

So close. It had been so close. Mio had noticed then just how hard her hands had been gripping her knees, leaving pink marks on her skin, and Riku had looked at her with the gentlest expression she had ever seen on his serious little face.

Mio unbelievably brave, he’d said, big eyes gleaming ether-bright yellow with her Blade’s edge’s reflection. Never mind archives. That important, yes, but Mio saved friends, saved Agnus Castle soldiers under Moebius control, saved City. Mio saviour of many-much lives, with courage and quick-thinking. Mio deserve to feel truly proud… so Mio should make sure to do.

She’d earned a flustered squawk and tiny, pointy fingers poking in her ribs when she’d hugged him as hard as she’d dared, but that had been okay. He’d put up with it until she’d stopped trembling with sheer relief.

It’s true that Riku is good at many different things… but he isn’t that good at maintaining his reserved, sometimes gruff attitude. Mio gets the impression he’s been getting worse at it, actually.

She sees him and Eunie, walking up the path on the hillside between the old Kana Battlefield and their current camp on Seilas Terrace. Even from that distance she can make out their movements while they talk: Eunie’s eyes, fixed on something she’s holding in her hands, close to her chest; and Riku’s own, kept trained on her face. When they reach the camp whatever Eunie had held is nowhere to be seen. Her eyes might be slightly red-rimmed, but her wings are folded at a low angle, the most relaxed Mio has seen them be in a while, and her steps have recovered their familiar energy, leaving shoeprints on the ground with each stride. She shrugs off Noah’s concern and Lanz’s blunt questions, shooing them away with both hands and wings. Later, Mio hears her promise. They back off, but Mio keeps watching as she offers Riku a fist-bump, after the two have turned away, and he… accepts it?

She observes him and Noah, sitting side by side in the early dawn, talking. She doesn’t listen in, but she can tell enough from the way the line of Noah’s back relaxes from its tense hunch into a gentle curve. She sips her tea, lets out a soft sigh, and a previously unnoticed knot of tension in her own spine fades away.

Sena has her own conversation with him, that night. When she steps away she’s deep in thought, and when Mio asks her about it she just smiles, dismissing any worries directed her way, as always… But there’s something about her eyes, or the determined set of her shoulders, or maybe it’s the way she sits without curling up as small as she can get herself to be that tells Mio that she truly means it, that it’s not a facade put on just for her sake.

Next morning, she sees him, perched on Lanz’s back, taking the role of training weights. There should be nothing remarkable about it. In fact, it would be a very common sight… if it weren’t for the way Riku lightly pats Lanz’s head with a tiny hand, so lightly he doesn’t notice at all, which isn’t surprising, considering how hard he concentrates on his own movements and not much else whenever he works out. But that isn’t what makes her stop brushing old feathers off Eunie’s wings, stunned – Riku is smiling at him, so warmly, almost beaming, and when he looks up at Mio, after noticing her wide-eyed attention…

Ah.

…Never mind! She hasn’t seen anything, actually!

Days pass. They’re staying the night in Colony 9, among allies and friends, so there’d been no need for any of them to stand guard… and yet, there’s Riku, awake and alert, looking furtively round the tent. She’s barely awake, so it takes her a moment to figure out what he’s doing, but her senses are sharp enough: he’s brought out his tools, and he’s working on what appear to be Taion’s kettle and Manana’s portable stove… in the dead of night. Of course! This makes an awful lot of sense, in her sleepy brain’s opinion, so she’s fallen back asleep by the time he returns everything to its place, careful not to make any noise. She realises all of this hadn’t been a strangely mundane dream hours later, when Manana lets out a happy sound the moment she notices that her stove’s ever malfunctioning timer has fixed itself, somehow. She remembers Riku’s sneaky appliance upkeep session once again when, a few days later, Taion is pleasantly surprised by his kettle’s ether efficiency and the noticeable, mysterious improvements to it. Perhaps we’ve been harvesting higher quality ether from the last channels we’ve come across, he says, deadpan, eyeing Riku while he hands Mio a cup of tea. She shrugs, smiling. Riku doesn’t even blink.

And then, after much travelling all over Aionios and reaching its farthest, most breathtaking unknown corners, she gets her hands on her upgraded Blade.

A protector’s Blade. As lead of Blade-upgrading design Riku did best to make Blade match strength and radiance of Mio, he says. He smiles up at her so proudly that she can only nod past the rush of emotion gathering at her throat, left speechless with gratitude. In spite of own pain and doubts, Mio and friends have brought Aionios together. Aionios’ wish for a different path never been stronger, and now it up to Aionios to take steps towards its future outside the cycles. Please to remember this, he adds, as his wings raise to envelop her hands in soft warmth, Mio and friends will never be alone, whatever may come. This is promise of Riku.

He looks into her eyes with such absolute certainty that whatever little spark of doubt that might have remained deep in the back of her mind is snuffed out in that single moment.

This is it, she thinks.

Fiery anticipation runs up her spine as she rejoins her friends, with Riku at her side. They look back at her, standing tall, shoulders squared. She takes a moment to observe those beloved, determined faces – she knows they’re feeling that same energy within themselves, she knows they can read it on the expectant, charged silence, just like she does.

Nothing left to do, other that to take the last steps towards a new beginning, as one.