Chapter Text
“That really is a comforting answer.”
Herta’s voice carried easily through the open expanse, steady despite the impossible view stretching out before them, rings of distant planets, slow-drifting comets, the soft fracture of starlight bending around Amphoreus behind them. She folded her arms loosely, gaze angled outward rather than directly at Cyrene.
“Who knows?” she continued, a faint, almost wry lift at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe, in some distant universe… You and I work together longer than this.”
Cyrene inhaled sharply. The light reflected in her diamond irises trembled, not from fear, but from temptation. She turned her face slightly away, as if the stars had suddenly become too bright.
“Please, Madame Herta,” she said gently, though there was effort in it. “Don’t burden me with this wish, too.”
Herta stiffened. “…My apologies.”
Her shoulders eased as quickly as they’d tensed. “I’m sure now is the time you need to take the reality of all this in, not to entertain hypotheticals.”
Cyrene’s lips curved, small and helpless. She looked back then, fully, her expression achingly sincere.
“You misunderstand.” Her voice softened, carrying warmth over refusal. “This wish you’ve shared with me is so delightful that I may hesitate going where I need to go.”
Herta huffed, a quiet and involuntary sound that barely qualified as a laugh.
“It may be the thought of measureless loneliness setting in,” Cyrene went on, clasping her hands together before her as if steadying herself, “but I don’t think so. Your offer makes me forget the melancholy of this heavy choice… even if the peace it brings is fleeting.” She stepped closer, the starlight catching in her hair.
“If that is your wish,” Cyrene said, eyes lifting to meet Herta’s at last, “then mine is to speak with you like this again. Under a kinder, more fortunate sky.”
Herta turned fully toward her now.
“Why stop there?” she asked, tone calm but intent. “You’re not over, Demiurge. Where you’re going, what you’ll have is something I– as a human– don’t have nearly enough of.”
She raised her head firmly, eyes peering into the woman’s soul.
“Time.”
The word hung between them, vast and undeniable.
“And something tells me this season of yours will be boundless.” Herta’s gaze drifted briefly to the distant glow ahead. “You’ll have many things you’ll want to do. To see. I know I wish I had infinite time… to think, and to try.”
Her voice lowered into something gentler, “But this sadness you feel won’t last forever. When your mind is clear, write us one of those romantic stories of yours.”
Cyrene gasped, breath catching outright this time. “Ah…”
“The sky is the limit when you put pen to paper,” Herta continued smoothly, sparing Cyrene the effort of speech. “You know that better than anyone. I’m no poet, but I can appreciate the works.”
Cyrene laughed softly, shaken and radiant all at once. Herta’s heart ached in her chest. ‘Despite all of this, still laughing.’ the Genius thought, eyes furrowing.
“Words alone may not fulfill my wish, Madam Herta,” she said. “What will I do then, when the story calls for an embrace?”
Herta didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looked past Cyrene, to the seam of white light ahead, the threshold back to Amphoreus.
“Wish,” she said at last. “Continue wishing. Don’t stop until it comes true. The worst thing you can do with time like this is stop dreaming.”
She paused, then added quietly,
“Besides… you won’t be dreaming of this wish alone.”
Cyrene blinked. “…You?”
“Who else?”
Her eyes widened, then softened, something deep and grateful settling in her expression. She nodded, once, carefully.
Herta returned it. “And for reference,” she added, adjusting her stance, “I’m not an idealist. I’m a realist. But if you ever find yourself losing your charm, I’ll gladly take on the weight of your romanticism.”
A beat.
“Thank you,” Cyrene smiled.
“As much as I’d love to stay,” Herta continued, looking away now, “there are matters outside Amphoreus that require my oversight. This whole Irontomb fiasco has shaken more than a fraction of my databases.”
Her voice softened. “Including the one I intend to preserve. For you and your friends.”
Cyrene bowed her head slightly. “Then… forgive my indulgence. I apologize for taking so much of your time.”
Herta looked back at her, resolute. “I won’t leave before you do.”
Cyrene startled. “…What?”
“It means I’m in a hurry,” Herta replied plainly. “I’ll see you off. I’d hate for you to hesitate any longer over this choice.”
She gestured forward, toward the light.
“Go, Demiurge.”
Cyrene nodded. Then paused.
“One last thing.”
“I’m listening.”
Cyrene turned away and began to walk. The stars reflected off her silhouette as she spoke, voice steady despite the weight behind it– behind all of this,
“This last wish of mine is one you can grant, and carry beyond Amphoreus. It isn’t quixotic. Not like the others.”
She stopped just short of the white, turning back, and giving Herta a warm smile.
“Please,” she said softly, “call me Cyrene.”
Herta answered without hesitation.
“As you wish, Cyrene.”
Cyrene smiled.
Then she stepped forward,
into white,
into light,
into the past where it lay silently waiting in Amphoreus.
Herta remained where she was, surrounded by stars and slow-moving comets, watching until the glow faded completely.
And for a long moment after, she did not move.
She whispered an answer for herself, one to keep her company on this long walk.
“As for the one wish I still have trouble letting go of…
One will remain in the past,
One will walk toward the future.” The weight of solitude overpowered Cyrene, finally. A hot streak fell down her cheek, her vision, while enveloped in blinding white, somehow blurred. Nonetheless, she marched. She smiled.
“I believe the one I cared for most will witness on the behalf of the Ripples of Past Reverie…
Every starlit tomorrow.”