Work Text:
But they proudly look upon the stacks of the tiles, coloured like an egg yolk boiled a fraction too long. Ribbons of intolerable nevers ripple over their back, slipping like silk and curling like satin, as they ascend the narrow and uneven staircase in iridescent pinks and neon blues.
“I call it Mythibidi toilet,” Enigmata says, “isn't it nice?”
The Erudition makes no judgment that is untrue. All they have voiced, will ever voice, is backed by their conviction to the objective truth.
They remain silent.
Enigmata looks at them. A slender hand comes to tug at Nous’ shrunken and humanoid representation, jerking them forwards, stumbling up those uneven steps, cane clattering against shoe, catching on the lip of stone, before at last wrenching from the Erudition's grasp. “Need some help, Droidhead?”
A knot twists in Nous’ throat. The Paths of Enigmata and Erudition overlap in this Moment, just by a sliver. In it, Nous can be lied to, and for a very short time, they believe that they have a heart.
The Primum Mobile blurs and confuses itself. Two paths cross, diluting themselves within the other:
But Enigmata has never liked Moments. They let go of Erudition's scarf like a hot coal when they feel the computer ticking too close. Nous likes to think that every time they pull this stunt to try to get an opinion from them, they accelerate the end of the universe that they want to cling onto so much.
The Mythibidi Toilet is gone. Actually, it never existed in the first place. Nothing ever happened about it. And nothing was here– well, there. And nobody said anything.
Though the Erudition's role is not to remember, the truth is kept in their mind, alongside every other Moment or moment covered up by Mythus. In their mind, the truth remains.