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The baths are empty during the Curtain-Fall Hour, the water still without the Okheman people enjoying it. The faint ripples on the water's surface are caused by the movement of a grey seal sleeping among the colourful, rubber ones.
Calm. Peaceful. The people of Okhema are deep in slumber. During this time, one can spot a lone figure walking the halls, tugging at threads to maintain a semblance of order on that intricately woven web covering the whole city.
Today though, her golden hair and white robes are nowhere to be seen, the Goldweaver's tight net of threads becoming loose.
“Are you sure, Agy?” Faintly, a child's voice can be heard through closed doors. “Is this the only way?”
Inside Aglaea’s quarters Tribbie squeezes her pupils wrist with her tiny hands. The threads quiver. The demigod’s worry for her clearly laid open.
“I assure you, Teacher, I have weighed my possibilities. This is a well-thought-out decision.”
Aglaea tries to give them a reassuring smile, but Tribbie furrows her brows and starts to pick at the hem of Aglaea’s sleeves. They do not seem convinced at all.
“Please, Teacher, do not worry.”
“We are not worried!” Trianne shouts a bit too loud and shrill on Aglaea’s left side, both of her hands clinging to her bare shoulder.
“It's just that…” Trianne fumbles for words searching for a reasonable excuse. “We… we wanted to show you something! But it's not ready yet.”
“Trianne was too busy.” Trinnon deadpanned, coming closer too.
Aglaea sighs. Her Teacher only means well, but she will not change her mind on this matter. Tribbie is still picking at her sleeve with a frown on her little face, tugging at the hem as if wanting to drag Aglaea away from her decision.
It has to be done.
Aglaea gives Tribbie a reassuring smile and turns her palm up and calls for the golden threads. They sprout from her hand like a young sapling in the Garden of Life, eager to head her call and grow at her will. Her Teacher's unease tenfold as soon as they lay eyes on them and Tribbie grips her wrist harder.
The threads pulse and wind around themselves, as if trying to weave another masterpiece. In a blink of an eye Aglaea finds the suitable form she wants to continue with.
“I'm looking forward to seeing your creation, Teacher.” Aglaea tells Trianne, which puts a small, determined smile on their face. The Holy Maiden, for all her wisdom and knowledge, is still a child at heart after all.
“We'll do our best and finish it as fast as we can!”
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The Garden of Life is quiet at this time of the day. Empty, where usually people enjoy the lush green and the fresh air after the humidity of the baths. No scholar’s discussions, no children’s laughter - only the soft snoring of the chimeras can be heard during Curtain-Fall Hour.
It’s still Aglaea’s favorite time of the day.
Her threads only pick up a fraction of information of what they usually deliver to her. Gone is the constant chatter of the people. Gone are the myriads of emotions flooding her mind.
Somewhere in the city a child wakes up from a bad dream. In the quarters close to the garden lovers whisper sweet nothings to each other. Around her the only presence are the chimeras sleeping in the Garden of Life.
The things her threads pick up are like the occasional touch of a nymph, delicate and unassuming, rather than the heavy presence of a dromas. Aglaea can focus on simple things, if only for a short time before the city awakens and her duty commands her back to her desk and the many responsibilities of leading the Chrysos Heirs.
Warm wind caresses her bare arms, carrying the smell of the flowers planted in the garden. Aglaea pauses, concentrating on the sweet scent and the chill on her skin. A few stray hairs tickle her cheek, but she doesn’t mind at all.
Every feeling, every sensation is welcome. Everything she can experience with her own senses rather than through her threads.
She has come to appreciate these simple things - be it the stillness of the Curtain-Fall Hour or the warmth of a bath. Few are the things she can truly enjoy nowadays, with her humanity disappearing and her threads constantly providing her information from all over Okhema. Permanent influx, never ceasing and always worth her attention.
She can only afford to suppress the threads for a short time to indulge in her own, personal desires, instead of the well-being of the city.
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“Enjoying your blissful numbness again, Goldweaver?” Cipher says when she finds Aglaea standing barefoot on the moist grass.
Aglaea, engrossed in her so-called bliss, had not noticed the stealthy demigod approach. She commands a single thread to reach the other woman, but otherwise doesn't move.
“I wonder when Mnestia's blessing will consume you?” Cipher muses, curiosity evident in her voice. She circles Aglaea until she's standing in front of her.
“If you see the end coming let me know. I'll make sure your money is in good hands.”
The demigod of Trickery is gone in a blink, not even giving the other woman the chance to respond and leaving Aglaea’s thread hanging in mid-air.
“Cifera.” Aglaea sighs at Cipher's sassy attitude and wonders when that fateful day will come. Pressing her toes deeper into the wet grass, she hopes that day still lies centuries ahead.
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Aglaea gracefully slips out of her sandals and takes a deep breath when the grass blades tickle her soles. She closes her eyes and concentrates on the new sensations beneath her feet and cuts off the threads connecting the entirety of Okhema to her being - if only for a short time - leaving her alone with her own thoughts and the humidity under her feet.
The feeling is duller than last time, she notices with disappointment, as she flexes her toes and digs her heels deeper. Soon, even this pleasure will be nothing but a distant memory.
One tentative step forward, then another. Without her threads to guide her, every step is like a gamble. At the same time it is enthralling, not knowing what she will encounter next - surprises she hardly gets to experience these days.
Will she touch grass again or fall over the threshold with only Kephale above as her witness?
She reaches out a hand so that at least she won't bump into a tree or the furniture she knows is stationed around. Her Teacher would scold her for being so reckless.
“Are you sure, Agy?”
Her Teacher's words echo in her memory as if they had asked this question only yesterday and not over half a millenia ago. She would always give the same answer.
“Teacher, do not worry about me.”
Aglaea opens her eyes, her greenish, milky gaze unfocused. She turns her head left, right and to the sky where Kephale's Dawn Device shines bright. As expected, all the demigod sees is a dark golden web, slightly flickering with her movements.
“It’s a blessing, not a curse.”
Measured and cautious, she takes one step after another, focusing on the tickling beneath her feet and flinching in surprise when her hands come in touch with her surroundings.
“But, how will you..uhm…admire the pretty flowers?”
Aglaea’s feet touch moist earth as she reaches a flower bed. Toes sink into the earth and hands blindly search for the flowers she can already smell. Her fingers find one and dance over the stem, feeling their way upwards to the delicate petals like a hesitant butterfly. Fingertips circle around the semi-closed bud, taking in the texture and patterns. The petals are soft and slightly cold, arranged in layers upon layers like the fabrics stored in her quarters. In the end, one finger dips inside, careful not to damage the fragile flower.
“There are many ways to admire beauty, Teacher.”
The softness she can feel belongs to a rose. A red one if she remembers correctly.
Color is another concept that is fading along her humanity. The longer she has been relying on her threads to see the world, the more abstract colors have become to her. She doesn't dare to think of them as unimportant; she, as a dressmaster, is well aware of the impact the different-colored fabrics she uses to create her garments have.
To navigate the affairs of the Flame Chase Journey though, her threads are just much more useful and do not rely on visuals to reveal the truth. Few are the moments when she misses her eyesight, the nostalgia usually surfacing when she is in her Teacher's company.
Trianne had shown her around the wide patio some time ago and had told her everything she knew. From the many different plants growing in the Garden of Life to the chimera's favorite places to fall asleep. Their joy was evident in their voice and Aglaea’s threads were singing with Trianne's enthusiasm.
“This flower reminds me of you, Agy.”
Trianne had tugged on her sleeve to get her attention as they reached a rose in full bloom. “ It has so many petals and so many layers to explore. And it is the prettiest flower in the entire garden!”
Her threads had wrapped around the rose, eager to understand what her Teacher meant. However, as they enveloped it in gold, Aglaea realized she would never see the flower the way her Teacher did. She could never compare the beauty her Teacher sees with her own eyes to her way of experiencing the world through her threads.
Outwards she will always take pride in Mnestia’s blessing. Sometimes though, she wishes her human and godlike traits could find a way to coexist. Like her trusted puppets which over hundreds of years have become a regular sight in Okhema like the dromas and chimeras.
Silently and as if listening to her inner monologue, her own creation moves beside her, the only sound giving away its presence being the rustling of fine garments on metal and the soft clinking of its joints.
“Lady Goldweaver.”
Aglaea imagines Garmentmaker bowing slightly with its hands folded at the front as it always does when greeting her. She is surprised Garmentmaker hasn't approached her earlier. It must have observed her awkward stroll in the garden for quite some time.
“My Lady, I am sorry to interrupt. But I must remind you of the reason for your visit.”
Ah yes, perceptive as always. Garmentmaker must have picked up everything through her threads beforehand. Aglaea sighs and retreats her hand from the flowers.
“You are right. It seems I have indulged in my pleasures far too long.” Aglaea holds out her right hand in the general direction of her puppet.
“Lead, Garmentmaker.”
Garmentmaker grasps Aglaea’s outstretched hand and, in a twirl of fabrics and bare feet resembling a well-rehearsed dance, guides her to the small, unassuming place near the entrance she had unconsciously avoided.
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Nothing on Amphoreus could have prepared Aglaea for the agonizing pain of her own golden threads.
She wants to jerk her head away, seize the threads and pull, pull, pull.
But, it has to be done. And it was her decision alone. Mnestia would be disappointed in her. And so, even though everything hurts as the threads bury themselves deeper into her eyes, she doesn't move.
Instead, she screams.
A blood curdling, agonizing sound unbefitting of a demigod.
Her hand commanding the threads trembles and spasms, but Tribbie has her wrist firmly secured with her own hands. At the edges of Aglaea's pain-filled consciousness she can make out panicked voices and little fingers clawing for her shoulders to keep her firmly in her seat. Her Teacher is determined to help, even though Aglaea can feel their fear resonating from her threads.
“Agy!”
She wants to tell them everything is fine; that they don’t have to worry.
But, as cold, golden threads worm their way inside her, all she can feel is pain.
This is what drowning must feel like, Algaea thinks while darkness envelopes her, her vision shrinking to the size of one of Cifera’s coins. The rest of her body feels numb, deprived of all warmth, floating in a state between divinity and humanity, until the last speck of light is woven shut by her threads. Her eyes feel as if they are going to burst from the pain and pressure, filled to the brim with gold.
One last tortured scream leaves her lips and then all threads’ loose ends have buried themselves inside of her.
Exhausted, Aglaea collapses into the comforting arms of her Teacher like a puppet whose strings have been cut, not wanting to open her eyes ever again.
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Garmentmaker is already back at its post when Aglaea opens her eyes again, the connection with her threads reestablished. In peaceful slumber still lies the city of Okhema with no urgent matters that could keep her busy before the Entry Hour starts. Hopefully, she will enjoy a few more hours of quiet solitude. Yawning, a chimera with fur as red as her Teacher’s hair rolls over. It falls asleep just a moment later under the questioning gaze of the Chrysos Heir.
“Somehow, I fail to recall the last time I slept myself. Has it really been that long again?”
The feeling of fatigue has long left her. Ascended to godhood, a demigod’s body deems rest unnecessary over a prolonged period of time.
She remembers how once, when the affairs of the Chrysos Heirs kept her especially busy, she had worked through several Lucid and Curtain-Fall Hours, only to be interrupted when Tribbie brought her breakfast. Her bleary eyes had stung from concentrating so much she had forgotten to blink and her neck had hurt from her hunched-over position at her desk. However, these had been mere discomforts in the back of her mind, not nearly as important as the mountains of papers surrounding her. Sleeping didn’t even occur to her.
“Hm, I recall resting a few days ago when - “
When she held Tribbie and Trinnon close, distraught and crying into her shoulders. When she tried to calm them, combing through their hair as their tears turned into sniffling. When she had the feeling she was incapable of comforting someone with her face indifferent and her words devoid of emotion.
But then, her Teacher had fallen asleep, one arm embracing Aglaea’s sides with tears still drying on their cheeks and Aglaea had followed the Holy Maiden’s example and rested too, if only for a few hours.
Thus, she has been running on a couple of hours of sleep again for who knows how long. Apparently, her memory is beginning to lack too. But she is getting distracted again…
Aglaea approaches the small space beneath the great tree in the Garden of Life which has been serving as a shrine for Trianne. Surrounded by flowers in a basket, the small doll resembling her Teacher lays upon a bed of fresh petals, sword in hand and eyes empty, Castorice’s parting gift at its side.
For a minute, the Seamstress seemingly freezes, blind gaze fixed onto the doll in concentration. Then golden threads appear from her hand and float towards little Trianne, mapping out every seam of the fabric and tracing every nook of its shape.
Good craftsmanship, even though the stitches could be cleaner.
Aglaea retreats her threads, a frown forming on her face. Why must she always be so rational? She was neither looking for imperfections nor does she want to alter Trianne’s memento.
She should be mourning. She should cry. Shed tears like everyone else who visited the shrine. Even Anaxa had spoken his condolences with sadness lacing his voice.
Her heart, though, feels nothing.
Aglaea closes the distance and crouches down in front of the shrine, taking the doll in her hands. Fingers explore its shape this time, tips wandering over Trianne’s face and smoothing down the red hair. What is left of her soul is searching for something, anything that might stir the cold heart beating in her chest. This was her Teacher, her family and her friend for nearly a millennia. Why is she unable to mourn their loss?
Her hands cup the doll and bring it to her face, her forehead touching its wobbly head. Aglaea reaches inside of herself, feeling deep into her soul as if immersing in a hot bath. She cannot be that far gone already, can she? But all she finds is a cold and empty space devoid of emotions.
Her past self would have screamed in frustration, perhaps would have thrown the doll into a corner in the heat of the moment. Her present self simply puts the doll back into the basket with empty eyes, before rising to her feet.
“Oronyx marches on and has ultimately withered the last shreds of my humanity it seems.”
Like Trianne she too has become a mere puppet whose strings are loose and whose eyes bear no warmth.
Aglaea doesn’t know how much time passed, but at some point her threads pick up the playful pitter-patter of Tribbie’s feet. The demigod bearing Janus’ coreflame naturally knows where to find her. Soon Tribbie enters the Garden of Life making a beeline to where Aglaea is standing in front of Trianne’s shrine. Perceptive as ever, Tribbie knows exactly what to ask.
“Are you drifting further away again, Agy?”
Aglaea simply nods, unable to form words at this recent revelation. She thought she had more time left, but it seems she won’t witness the end of the Flame-Chase Journey.
“And you haven’t slept for a really, really long time too.”
Again she simply nods, her golden locks tickling her cheeks.
“Is Cinny’s medicine not helping?” Tribbie asks, full of concern, coming closer to grasp one of Aglaea’s hands. Her Teacher's small hand is warm and soft and squeezes her own to comfort her.
“Lady Hyacine is doing her best. However, the decay of my humanity can only be slowed down, not stopped.” The Seamstress doesn’t tell Tribbie that she has already stopped taking it. Even the best medicine from the Twilight Courtyard has its limits.
“Oh, Agy.”
Briefly, the threads tremble with sadness and despair as the small demigod realizes the looming consequences which will befall Aglaea sooner than desired. Then, Tribbie’s mood changes and the threads pick up a hopeful glimmer in the dark.
“We miss Trianne. On some days very much. But these days, we remind ourselves that our goal is closer than ever. We have accomplished so much in the last thousand years. Together with you, Agy.”
Tribbie is leaning into Aglaea’s side, hugging her leg as if clinging to her last remaining hope. Aglaea doesn’t know who needs the comfort more, her Teacher or herself.
“We will succeed to lead the world into the Era Nova. And after that, we will all meet again at the end of the west wind where the flowers bloom in spring.”
I am sure we will, Aglaea thinks and brings Tribbie even closer to herself as her hand smoothes a stray strand of red hair. She dislikes seeing her Teacher not being her usual carefree and childish self. She hopes she has enough humanity left in her so that her words will serve their purpose. Perhaps she can put some spark into them too.
“I thought Trinnon is the one in charge of prophecies?”
Aglaea tilts her head downwards to face Tribbie, even though her eyes only see the familiar dark-golden glow, and tries to put on a convincing smile. The threads resonate with joy coming from her Teacher.
“Of course Trinnon is the one, but we are one and that means that I know too and…”
Tribbie goes on and on explaining to Aglaea how all parts of them are connected before delving into the history of Janusopolis and prophecies in general. Aglaea simply listens, asks a question here and there, but overall is genuinely happy that her Teacher’s mood has changed for the better. Something in her chest blooms with pleasant warmth as her coreflame stirs.
“Agy, do you want breakfast?” The question catches her off-guard in between the history lesson and her self-reflection, but she approves of it. Besides not knowing when she really slept the last time she cannot recall when she had a proper meal either.
“Great! You have to try that special oatmeal. It’s super new. I got it from the market the other day. Actually, it looks a bit suspicious.” Tribbie is tapping their chin in thought, not wanting to disappoint Aglaea, but at the same time not wanting to serve her awful-tasting food. They look around and find their solution standing motionless not too far away.
“Can Garmentmaker try it first?”
“I am sure they would be delighted by my request.” Aglaea can feel a real smile tug at her lips and feels Tribbie’s mood brighten further. Her Teacher never fails to lighten her spirits.
She ends up being pulled to their quarters by an energetic Tribbie, whose big smile she could imagine even without seeing with her golden threads. The new oatmeal could not surpass the recipe her Teacher had perfected for her in the last millennia. There was a strange taste to it, but Aglaea emptied her bowl all the same. It was her Teacher’s way to show they cared after all.
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Teacher, please don't cry she wants to say, but her mouth is full of her own golden blood. It spills down her chin as she tries to speak, flowing in rivulets down her neck until it mingles with the pooling gold on her chest.
She can hear Tribbie cry and feels their little hands press down on the wound. Dimly, she notices Trinnon urging Hyacine to hurry, but her threads are loose now, their information becoming unreliable. Across Okhema her Garmentmakers have collapsed, reduced to nothing more than a lifeless pile of fabrics and metal.
“Ho-hold on, Agy!” Tribbie manages to choke out between sobs. “Help is co-coming.”
Aglaea’s eyes open, hearing Tribbie's desperate plea, seeing nothing but the ever- present dark, golden sheen she had come to love. She hadn't realized she had closed them, but now she can feel the exhaustion creep into her bones. She blinks slowly, her eyelids as heavy as the Dawn Device weighing down the Worldbearing Titan.
Her body is numb, feeling little to nothing. Neither the cold, marble floor beneath her, nor her blood-soaked robes clinging to her torso. No pain at all.
Beside her Hyacine falls to her knees, crushing golden threads underneath her. A moment later pleasant warmth floods Aglaea’s chest.
It's futile, Aglaea wants to say as she can feel the warmth fade into nothingness. This human body is beyond saving.
Another healing wave flows through her and Tribbie, not knowing what else to do, takes hold of Aglaea’s hand and presses it to her body.
Aglaea turns her head towards the demigod and it feels as if she is wading through the thickest haze the hot baths have ever seen. She needs a moment to reach the threads which are wound around her fingers Tribbie is currently holding close. She is so tired.
Her threads tremble and fresh tears begin to fall from Tribbie's eyes. One by one they drop onto Aglaea’s face, rolling down her cheeks as if they were her own. The sensation is most foreign to her, yet a wave of nostalgia washes over her.
Aglaea smiles, gold spilling from her lips once more.
In the end, the demigod who has lost their humanity is somehow able to cry again.
Hyacine has gone silent, hands stained with gold hanging useless at her sides. Tribbie is furiously wiping their eyes while holding Aglaea’s limp hand close, but their tears and sobs won't cease.
“Agy!”
Aglaea closes her eyes and it takes all her willpower to open them again. The time has come to face Thanatos, after a thousand years of serving the Flame-Chase Journey.
She tries to speak. She wants to say a few last words to her Teacher, who has guided her for all these years.
But her throat is full of gold and all she can muster with metallic, glistening lips is mouthing a few words.
Tribbie nods and gives her a watery smile, understanding her silence. Aglaea's threads pick up one last emotion, before losing their glow and dissolving into thin air.
“Yes.” Tribbie chokes out through fresh tears.
“See you tomorrow, Agy.”