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An infinite torrent of brilliant gold pours down from the dark crescent in the distant sky, forming a sea of igneous gold extending as far as the eye can see. The seething magma would incinerate mortal or immortals alike upon contact, but the figure that walks through the shimmery heat haze is untouched. The recipient of Destruction’s ultimate blessing, Zephyro has always found his Aeon’s realm comfortably warm, the atmosphere brimming over with that person’s power. Zephyro feels THEIR presence in every atom of this space, but his even steps continue forward for awhile longer, letting the entropic heat of Destruction seep into his body, driving away the eternal annihilating cold that pervades his being.
Nanook would never deny him this. Still, he thinks, There should be a limit to your indulgence. Then, to himself: Enough. Earthly desires are a distant memory. He isn’t sure from where or whence this intemperance began to develop.
Coming to a stop, Zephyro speaks into the empty space. “I’ve brought him.”
“He” is no more than a bundle in Zephyro’s arms, the remains meticulously gathered and wrapped in white cloth, the total mass a third of the original.
Cosmic golden eyes open in the endless beyond, gazing down from the colossal figure that forms to cover the sky. As THEY observe what remains of Khaslana, the stellar dust within the realm shivers.
Zephyro is undisturbed, waiting.
The godlike figure vanishes, reforming into a condensed stature, a head taller than Zephyro, striding over to him. A simple gesture, an open palm, and the bundle floats over. Held aloft by the Aeon’s power, the cloth unfurls to reveal shattered pieces within, barely recognizable as something once humanoid in form, a pitiful sight. But neither the Aeon nor Emanator’s gazes contain so much as a trace of pity.
“The blazing sun was never meant to rise; the kindling was always meant to be devoured,” Zephyro says, a statement and a question. “He was granted a sliver of grace. He repaid this gift by turning his back on Destruction, burning his own blood and bone to cinders and joining hands with the troublemakers to topple Irontomb’s coronation.” It’s not his place to question his Aeon, but he isn’t one to hold his silence, nor has Nanook ever minded it.
Nanook is in no hurry to reply, examining the fragments of broken shell, scorched black. This little sun burned all the way to the end, dimmed but not extinguished, an unceasing flame. Eventually, THEY answer. “While you faithfully fulfill your duties, those that don’t involve devastation you find tedious.” Nanook turns a piece. Gold glimmers within the curve, every particle painstakingly gathered. “Yet you went to perform this tedious task without reluctance.”
Zephyro is silent.
“You tested this flame yourself. What do you think of him?”
The answer comes instantly to mind, unbidden: Beautiful.
The violent beauty of that final self-destruction; Khaslana raging to his final breath in unceasing resistance, burning himself to ash without restraint.
After a long silence, Zephyro says, “He will not carry out your will.”
The Blemished One’s answer is simple: “Good.”
THEIR voice resonates with satisfaction, with appreciation. An aspect of THEIR Path is destruction of the self. Who could desire their own destruction more than the one who presides over it?
Zephyro lowers his head in acceptance.
It would be a shame to let this one wither. With time to grow outside the futility of the cycles, perhaps Khaslana could bring them a more beautiful Destruction.
“If there’s nothing else, I’ll take my leave.”
“Mm.”
Having received permission, Zephyro withdraws from the realm. The act of creation is not meant to be witnessed.
“It’s just you and me now,” Nanook murmurs to the one cradled in THEIR power. Large fingers trace the curve of what was once a cheek. The thick digits are a contrast to the fine porcelain skin, Destruction’s touch an unexpectedly gentle caress. The motion pauses when near invulnerable skin catches on the sharp edge of the shard, slicing immortal flesh, wounding THEM as if that spirit of solitary defiance remains, ever burning, refusing THEIR touch.
Nanook’s lips curve, a slight smile. A single drop of golden blood flows down to meld into the broken corpus.
Whether you desire it or not, I will bestow upon you my every blessing.
“My Khaslana… how shall I remake you this time?”