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Doom fallen, sky broken.
The end is near, in the domain of Death. Long ago, golden blood traded leader’s hands, carrying on fate’s prophecy. Once again, they reunite, at the end of the world, meeting again in a stare.
The Servant of the Afterlife has left to see to her people, leaving the Weaver to her devices.
The Weaver of Romance wonders of the fate of the Deliverer and Prophet. Her subordinates, left in the mortal realm. She knows they will succeed, training them herself. Their bravery will not heed to the Tide.
She will not allow her efforts to be for nothing.
Here, she can breathe again. Here, her divinity is relieved from her. In her respite, she hopes for the best in the new world. The Era Nova, a goal always so faraway, finally achieved. Two thousand years ago, the Weaver sacrificed her soul to save, to make a dream reality, and to keep humanity safe.
Here, for these hours, she is free. She has bought them enough time. She wonders what the world will be, when it is born anew.
– ————————— ~ • ~ ————————— –
Doom fallen, flower blooms
The Scholar has been dead for a long while, immortalized in tale of tapestry. However, this day in the Netherworld, souls of gold arrive in numbers, numbers enough to theorize an answer. This day is the last day of the world. This day is the day Amphoreus turns to Era Nova once more.
In these wee hours of a dawning world, he seeks out the Servant of the Afterlife, Demigod of Death. She is never far in the Netherworld, overseeing and welcoming myriad souls. Before he formulates his question, the Servant of the Afterlife answers. “She is here. Quite lovely how people find each other even in Death’s drowsing embrace.” The Scholar swears he catches a hint of a smile in the ghostly apparition. “Shall I escort you?”
“...I suppose so. A scholar doesn't travel quite as fast and far as a dragon.” He responds dryly, resorting to sarcasm.
“A Titan’s abilities are powerful, wouldn't you say, Professor?” The Servant refers to him by his old honorific. Professor… He was a wise one. A teacher. In a story, all good masters die.
“A Demigod must not get too high on their power, else they become unreasonable, Castorice. You wield Death like none other.”
“You speak in riddles today?” The Servant asks, her tone catching on confusion. “Normally, it is an easy conversation with you. Straight to the point, as they say.”
“Who told you that? I am the Great Performer. Anyhow, you must learn to take a compliment, student. You have much to learn still, even as a Demigod.” The Scholar remarks, his face betraying triumph. “Thousands-year student that you are.”
“As if you are not the same.” The Servant laughs at The Scholar's hypocrisy. “In fact, the Month of Reaping is far into summer, before the Month of Mourning, is it not?”
“Perhaps. Let us continue this conversation in the new world then.”
“Have fun!”
“What do you mean, have fun?”
He sees her, the Weaver of Gold, Aglaea.
– ————————— ~ • ~ ————————— –
The Weaver has been granted sight. She can't even remember clearly the last time she saw without sensing everything.
The decoration of Death is aesthetically pleasing to her relief. Only one of the heirs knew not how to decorate. Flower fields are spread out endlessly under the gently broken egg of the moon, glowing in vibrant purples and blues. She remembers fondly, and sorrowfully, proudly, the day before the Servant’s ascension.
——— ~ • ~ ———
She had walked down to the secluded house of Castorice, who lived on the outskirts of the city, where brick and stone turned to cobble and wood. Her emotions were stable and resolved as she knocked on the door and saw the purple elf. Castorice, who wore a gentle smile opened the door.
“Lady Aglaea? What brings you… here?” Castorice gestured to the empty garden, and barren weeds growing between the path. “I apologize. It’s not as gorgeous as you first gave me.”
“You need not apologize. I only arrived to check on you.” She explained, slightest hint of worry crossing her face. “Are you nervous about your ascension?”
“No,” Castorice responded, no tremor’s betrayal of fear. “I have finally found my purpose. I am ready.”
“Yes. I only fear for your regret. Romance is already a heavy burden, but to control a Calamity, one can only hope to overcome.” She paused, realizing her mistake. “However, I know that you can conquer this. You did so in the last cycle of Amphoreus and you shall now.”
“Of course, Lady Aglaea. The Chrysos Heirs have given me a home, and I cherish this home with all my heart. I will not fail.”
“Then… I wish you luck. Set upon the Vortex at nightfall, as Thanatos commanded.”
“I hope to give you the view of Death’s coreflame lighting up a constellation.”
“Then,” she hesitated, sensing- knowing finality in her next words. “Farewell, Castorice.”
“Farewell, Lady Aglaea.”
——— ~ • ~ ———
How the Servant has grown since then. Another thousand years have passed in a slow closing of eyes.
The Weaver’s ears alert her of a flapping of wings. Even in her short span of stay in the Netherworld, she’s noticed the Servant is loyal to her title. The familiar wing-flaps of Pollux greet her at every corner, helping out lost souls and guiding the misled.
That’s how she knows Pollux is looking for somebody. She notices the dragon’s butterfly-like wings, and flowering bones, as it approaches her at mach speed. The Weaver is stood still, more shocked by the passengers of the dragon.
Of course, not specifically anyone.
The familiar face is different from how she’d imagined from her threads, a-
The Scholar of Reason, Anaxagoras.
Anaxa.
She averts her eyes. An unnatural gesture, after not needing mastery of them for so long. She doesn’t know why they are so inconvenient. She seems to remember a courtesy known as eye contact. Once again, unnatural.
So she does what she knows best. She is a politician, at mind. Speaking comes to her as intuitively as breathing. “What are you looking for this time.?”
Short. Barely noticeable as a question.
If only words did not have meaning.
“Suffice to say you know.” The Scholar drawls, “A more appropriate question is what are you here for?”
“Common sense dictates I died.” She senses around- at least she tries to, before she realizes she can't. Turning her eyes to look for support, she finds Castorice and Pollux have mysteriously disappeared. “It’s the dawn of Era Nova. The Prophet and Deliverer are fighting their way into the Vortex of Genesis.”
“Ah. I knew,”
“Why even ask.” Has her voice always been this hard to control? Such monotonous movements. “If you knew already.”
“The egg flows golden. Contrasts againsts the purple Netherworld quite nicely.”
“Are you seriously bringing up atrocity in disaster?” The Weaver scowls. Genuinely. How long has it been since she's done such a thing? “There is but one good combination of purple and yellow. It will not be found in this Amphoreus nor will it be found in the next.”
“Heresy, against your patron? Romance believes in beauty.” The Scholar laughs, less empty than she’d known he could be. “All roads lead to blasphemy. Even if you took 2000 years to do so.”
“I no longer feel like conversing with you.”
“And yet you are still here.”
They walk.
Across fields of glowing Antilas and lilac grass, there is a peaceful isolation. A lulling violet breeze wavers through the plains leading them toward a spring.
It almost distracts the Weaver from the impending end.
How strange.
She can't recall this feeling in her memory.
What was it?
Ah right.
Fear.
– ————————— ~ • ~ ————————— –
The Scholar is no stranger to reading the Weaver’s expressions. They are the slightest changes, changes that have gotten even littler over time. To see such… fear, is a sight that he’s forgotten.
Not that it is any less frightening than a simple fast blink. Rarely has the Weaver’s fear been wrong.
There is something wrong.
“I see the fear in your face. How long has it been since that happened? Two thousand years, or so?” His voice is stuck on a mocking tone, that he shuts down gradually. “This is what w- you worked for, isn't it? You saw the Flame-Chase until the end.”
“I suppose so. I do not know why, yet at the end of this journey, I am afraid.” The Weaver admits. “I- but this is everything I’ve worked for. Even in my mind, now sound. I am ready. My body does not obey, however.”
“I suppose all humans have their instincts. You are afraid, because you still have your will to survive.” There it is, a logical reason. Comforting, in his opinion. The best comfort he can offer. “Admirable.”
“One thing I am more capable at than you. Your sacrifice was absolutely, utterly, unnecessary.” The Weaver throws a pointed glare at him, most likely about his experiment that went perfectly to plan. It only resulted in him dying. “I- never mind. It is not wasting my breath on.”
“How offensive.”
So it is mere coincidence. His hypothesis… it is going to have to be kept down. There are only few hours until Era Nova. He has no time to experiment, test, sample.
Curiosity is Reason’s greatest flaw.
So he must remind himself.
I do not need to seek answers.
I do not need answers.
I do not have to know everything.
I do not have to know.
There is no answer enough for his last question. What was the first Nouspore?
He needs a distraction.
The spring in his view’s waters are tinted, warm and different from the cold Netherworld around. Almost reminiscent of an Okheman bath.
——— ~ • ~ ———
It was a trip for the Grove’s students, to Okhema’s relaxing bathhouse. A well deserved break before the finals. He was graduating his secondary schooling soon.
In isolation.
He wandered to an empty bath, and settled into it’s empty seat in a corner. It was admittedly, enjoyable. How long had it been since he unwound like this?
It must have been only two years ago.
Though it felt like a decade ago that Diotima died.
That he was left, grieving and barely hiding his lack of guardian.
He opened his eyes, blinking them awake. It was not the time to think about such things. His thoughts are quickly interrupted with a voice, he assumed in the accent of priests. It painted a picture of wealth.
The infamous Aglaea of the priests of Mnestia. Her clothing was woven in gold, eyes immersing teal and green. Golden blonde locks and unworldly yellow underlayers were flowing until her waist, adorned with flower decorations. Priestly innocence, and nobility's beauty.
Strange. He never was good with describing people to himself.
If he remembered correctly, she was tutored by her own personal teachers. What was she doing, invading Grove of Epiphany school’s trip? She certainly was not a part of his school, and he was sure she had access to private baths and no need to indulge in the makings of commoner students.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice was teasing, patronizing and infuriating. “These are the private baths, don't you know?”
“I’m not dealing with this today.” He muttered, loudly enough for the girl to hear. “I’m minding my own business, and enjoying my day before my stupidity of finals comes up. I don't need a guaranteed-diploma-having rich girl frolicking into my relaxation.”
“Okay- that’s hurtful, genuinely!” The girl laughed. “Civilians are so peculiar.”
“Teenagers tend to be like that.” He remarked. “As are all the Grove’s students.”
“You’re a Grove student, aren't you?”
“Don’t remind me. I already hate learning enough.” It wasn't learning itself. He hated how much more work it was to keep up his mask in front of his stupid teachers and conceal his grief and just survive. “I’m sorry. Ahem. Please leave me alone.”
“Oh, no. I simply need to show you around and talk to you. I haven't talked to many people you see, and I always have to be cheerful perfect princess and it doesn't even make sense I’m a priest for Mnestia’s sake!”
The awkward silence was thick as honey.
“I mean- no need stranger! I don’t need human companionship!”
“...okay then. So, err. You know what. Okay.”
——— ~ • ~ ———
Those memories… are bizarrely something the Scholar’s fond of.
“Come feel the water. It's quite familiar.” What is that composition of a sentence? “Like an Okheman bath. I remember how passionate you were about them, even after Mnestia took your mind slowly.”
That isn't it. That’s… not what he means, is it?
He doesn't lose composure at least.
“I mean, not that it made you any different,” he adds, a statement sped up by a tad.
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The Weaver 's last bath was laughable. Her death is one of her most regretted moments of her life. Why should her last bath in this world be in her own golden blood anyway?
“Well then,” she replies to the Scholar, joining him at the spring’s edge and feeling the water. Instantly, it reminds her of all the memories of safety and comfort that she found in bathing. “Shall we do as the Okhemans do, and bathe?”
“I suppose so. It is tradition.” The Scholar agrees. “I would like to do so.”
Is that?
No, she is imagining things.
She conjures herself bathwear- the Servant had told her how, and slips into the spring. It’s pleasantly warm, the right amount of refreshing. The water is clean, not tainted by metal’s rust or choked with a broken throat. She is just existing, feeling the small waves and glittering golden flecks of the spring.
A splash of water gets thrown at her face. “What was that for?” She coughs, glaring at Anaxa. “I certainly do not remember agreeing to a water battle.”
“Might as well enjoy this.” The Scholar says, matter-of-fact-ly. “Last hours of living as mortals, isn't it?”
“Fine… take this!” The Weaver returns the favour, drenching the other in water.
How childish of them.
——— ~ • ~ ———
Priestly life was in itself gruelling, and even worse for her, she was a noble priest. She was allowed to interact with other followers of Mnestia, yet still, her family lived separate from the Temple. She was trapped in the mansion most days, no one but her tutor to keep her company.
How boring! She was 19, and no one could control her!
She snuck out, through a back-side exit, the one she’d found recently. It was dusty and cold, probably because no one else had taken care of the upkeep. She’d complain normally, but it was to her advantage now.
She wriggled her way out. Sunlight, a welcome sight. The mansion was fairly quiet at this time, afternoons being break for all the servants. Nobody would notice her disappearance.
Where to first? Hmm… she always loved the baths of Okhema. If she remembered right, her family had a reserved pool too. So she’ll pick herself up, saunter over and just… lie!
Yes. She would do this!
She wanted to live her life and nothing was going to stop her!
Her mansion was not far from the city en dromas but it sure was en foot. She sighed, nursing her sore ankles. Hoping a dromas taxi would arrive off the side of the road a receive her was a faraway wish…
That was fufilled. A dromas! She waved them over, dromas and rider, and paid for a ride to Okhema.
She was going to do what she wanted today!
——— ~ • ~ ———
The Weaver laughs. She has forgotten how she used to love the games of her childhood, playing with the kids in the Temple of Mnestia. When her parents still took them out to trips with her, and they play-fought in the baths. She remembers how they would make up silly games like holding their breaths underwater, or water tag.
She gets assaulted with a huge wave of water. It drenches her, even her hair and face which are nowhere near the water level. “How does a wiry person such as yourself do that? Strength is not a trait of yours.” She wonders aloud.
“You’ll have to be left wondering.” the Scholar replies, effortlessly.
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Time passes in the Netherworld and The Scholar looks up to the sky. How long will it take? Have the Prophet and Deliverer been delayed by some means? The cavernous crystal stars have no response for him.
He gets out of the spring, sitting idly at the edge. It was nice for a while, but the curiosity is back, grappling at his mind.
What if his answer is only partially correct? In that case…
The world rattles with a crackling strike of thunder. It is as if time itself is inverting as space becomes expansive.
Is this what the end of the world feels like?
Perhaps in the next life, a better, new Heir of Reason will solve the world’s mysteries.
The sky is torn apart as it all turns to white-
“Hey,” The Weaver’s voice is fragmented, but calm, contrasting her earlier demeanour. “So, this is it. The end.”
“Not much worse than dying, right?” He asks, in an attempt at humour. “Fading away, and ending up at a new land.”
“No. This is nothing like death at all. Have you forgotten, has it been so long that you've acquired dementia?” The Weaver laughs, a gentle sound more than mocking. “In death, you are tied to the world, holding on as your vision blurs. You are returning to the world. This is more like being erased.”
“Oh. I mean, I suppose.” He follows along, with a sarcastic cadence. “Even disintegration is only like turning into fine dust.”
“Why are you debating death with me while Era Nova is happening right now?”
“What? Pinning the blame on me, when it's clearly you who took a joke seriously?”
They’re interrupted by the whiteout blinding them, a light slowly getting closer.
“Goodbye,” he calls out.
“Farewell.” she responds.
“See you in the next life.”
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