Archive of Our Own

When Sunday had been called to join in on another expedition to Amphoreus, he had first assumed that something had gone awry. Both Caelus and Dan Heng had seemed rather... frazzled, when they'd put down their phones, and March wasn't the least bit subtle with her apprehension.

Nevertheless, Sunday hadn't any qualms with revisiting the Eternal Land. Perhaps it was all but a slight hiccup. Amphoreus had only just been born anew, after all, and he hadn't had the pleasure of taking in its wondrous sights. From what he’d heard, the architecture and culture was surprisingly vibrant for what was once a simulation. He wouldn't mind spending a day or two perusing the libraries and museums.

If only, however, it were that simple.

"It's a hassle trying to arrange negotiations with different factions," Dan Heng huffed. "Even with the Astral Express' reputation, few are willing to lend an ear to a planet without any prior verifiable history, especially one which so happened to have risen from the ashes of a Lord Ravager."

"Mr. Welt said that the IPC was the first to extend an invitation, but... in my experience, they only care to wrangle any new planets into their network. I doubt they intend to help establish Amphoreus into its own without a great cost," Sunday said.

A long, forlorn sigh. Through the gorgeous hallways they walked, Dan Heng led the haloed man up a flight of marble stairs illuminated by warm candlelight.

"Even the Xianzhou Alliance is hesitant," he mumbled, before he shut his eyes and composed himself. "In any case, there is no need to rush. Things are stable, for now, and the Chrysos Heirs are weathering the current climate well enough. We should focus on other pressing matters."

"By that, you mean..." whatever was beyond these doors they stood in front of?

For what it was worth, Dan Heng did not leave Sunday in suspense, though the tension in his furrowed brows spoke of a strange sort of apprehension. He crossed his arms and waited a moment, perhaps to gather his thoughts before he next spoke, "The situation is complicated on all fronts, but as far as the universe is concerned, Irontomb was the only Emanator 'present in Amphoreus'. That's as much as anyone can assuredly claim without deeper investigation."

Well, it certainly was confusing. For the sake of simplicity, even Sunday would resort to that explanation despite the glaring technicalities. His own knowledge was better described as lacking at best, but he could reach the obvious conclusion here.

A cautious gesture to the doors, and the haloed man asked, "Is that what we're here for? The Emanator that drew the Destruction's ichor lies beyond these doors?"

A strangely solemn nod, a conflicted frown, a dark shadow cast upon the guard's eyes.

"Khaslana's condition is... yet undetermined," he said very, very slowly. "When Irontomb was destroyed, Cyrene had managed to separate them despite the merger. He's been unconscious ever since. But I figured you could take a look at him, if it's not too much trouble. This is already far outside anything Hyacine can do, after all."

"Of course." Sunday wouldn't dare object.

He steeled himself for the task ahead, ridding the ominous image of a wrathful Lord Ravager in his mind in favour of quieting his thumping heart.

It lasted only a single pulse, however, for a sudden commotion from inside startled him out of his wits. 

Sunday snapped his eyes toward Dan Heng. "What was..."

The guard's expression hardened, before the doors were slammed open into a dimly-lit bedchamber.

"Khaslana—"

The last Sunday saw was the golden light of a halo illuminating a man's face—one filled with... anguish, turmoil, and fear—just as he spread his mismatched wings wide at the balcony and disappeared into the skies with a powerful gust of wind.

Silence swept the cold, empty chamber. It had all happened so suddenly, so quickly, neither Dan Heng nor Sunday could utter a word as they stood frozen at the scene. Even as the curtains billowed, the candles swayed, and the air hung heavy, not a single soul dared comprehend the gravity of what may come.

"What do you mean he just flew away?!"

Caelus had practically screamed himself hoarse with that, yet Dan Heng remained as steady as stone—if somewhat even more frazzled over this predicament they now found themselves in.

"He woke up and flew off in a panic," he explained, again. "We hadn't any time to catch him."

"Well, now he's in space, or something! We have to find him!"

"I've already contacted Madam Herta and Lady Aglaea."

"What if he gets snatched up by a Galaxy Ranger, or someone from the IPC, or another Lord Ravager? What if he explodes a sun?!"

"Caelus, please."

Such a frenzy; though Sunday would be remiss to dismiss them. He supposed these sorts of major hiccups were commonplace within these Trailblazing expeditions. If only he weren't so unaccustomed to them still. He found himself at a complete loss on what to do. He hadn't Caelus' spontaneity, or Dan Heng's experience, nor even March's positive spirit. And he certainly wasn't knowledgeable of any Lord Ravagers.

Perhaps—

Wait a moment.

Caelus' ever-growing panic faded to a blur. Coincidentally enough, Sunday had pointed his eyes out a window for lack of anything better to do, and among the marble towers and tiled roofs that made up the view was... a strangely suspiciously-shaped figure hunched atop the edge of a sloped pediment.

Despite the bright and clear skies, Sunday recognised the brilliant halo shining upon a pair of gold and obsidian wings. It cast a faint shadow, invisible to the ground far below, yet from here...

His surprise betrayed his usual composure as he pointed a finger outside. "Is that... him, right there?"

"Huh?" Caelus was all-too quick to follow the trail, and he was quicker to dart over and place his hands and face against the glass. Only when the evidence of his eyes cut through the panic in his mind did he grumble beneath his breath. 

"Are you f—"

"I'll talk to him," Dan Heng said with all the assuredness that allowed for no argument. And yet, even so, despite the hastened footsteps marching out toward the nearest balcony, Sunday dared raise his voice before his mind could catch up to his tongue.

"Wait."

It shouldn't be so ominous, the way Dan Heng paused and peered past his armoured shoulder. The golden horns crowning his head made for a rather intimidating image.

Nevertheless, Sunday pleaded his case—with far less confidence than he would've preferred. "I just—well, perhaps I could try a hand at calming him? Who knows? At least I can sense his emotions and proceed accordingly." Nevermind that he hadn't a clue how volatile Khaslana may be; nevermind if he was even sane, or soundly aware, or in a fragile state governed by fear. Sunday had had plenty of practice speaking with all sorts of cases.

Perhaps that was the only reason why the guard refrained from declining immediately. Be it an underlying distrust or level-headed caution, Sunday awaited their decision, for he was asking to intrude on a delicate situation. One could only imagine the worst-case scenario...

Soon enough, Dan Heng chose to defer, rather than object. "Caelus, what do you think?"

"Me? Oh, uhm..." Caelus worried his lips with an anxious eye kept at Khaslana's distant shape. He seemed to dawdle for a touch too long, if only because there was conflict ablaze in his expression, till he ultimately settled on a risky gamble. "I guess it's fine? Sunny, you won't, like, trigger him or anything, right?"

And why in Xipe's name would the haloed man ever do that? Regardless, Sunday nodded as he placed a hand to his heart. "You have my word."

All things considered, the plan had been daringly simple; Sunday would climb to the rooftop and announce his presence without startling Khaslana into flying off—or exploding, as Caelus had so graciously warned. He would then initiate a conversation that shall sway the swordsman into a much more pleasant headspace and invite him back inside. It was perfect.

Then, Sunday nearly tripped himself off a cracked tile.

His ear feathers flapped frantically, as if they could bear his weight whilst he flailed his arms, but a sharp gasp had frozen him stiff in a single heartbeat.

He snapped his gaze toward the swordsman at the edge of the pediment. Golden eyes as piercing as a blinding sun. They seared themselves into him, pinning him in place despite a gust of wind threatening to sweep him off.

Carefully, easily, and very, very gracefully, Sunday righted himself and cleared the lump in his throat.

"G-greetings. I... mean no harm." 

Absolutely wonderful.

For once, he stood before a predator that may very well snap at him. His mind couldn't help but run wild with theories, things that sounded utterly ridiculous, yet terribly plausible the longer they stared. That was, till Khaslana's wings drooped, and he turned back round to pull his legs up to his chest.

Words could not describe the relief that welled up in Sunday's heart, but he pressed on with even more caution. His footsteps were light, yet audible, his distance kept out of arm's-reach. The haloed man settled just nearby enough to not risk a view of the ground.

With a silent breath and thinly-pressed lips, he said ever-so-gently, "We thought you had left for the cosmos."

Silence was his reward; heavy, stifling, ominous silence, at least until Khaslana had found his weary voice.

"I was... Then, I realised, there is nowhere for me to go."

Despite keeping his eyes trained toward the skies, Sunday could sense the sadness sewn into his words. It was akin to a soul-deep exhaustion, something born out of becoming completely and utterly lost, and disillusioned. He would know, out of many. Having been raised to fulfil a grandiose role he had never wished for was always such a confusing mess to untangle. And Sunday considered Khaslana as having had it much worse than even that.

The aftermath was a tumultuous unknown; that which was as terrifying as digging himself deeper into what was familiar. He hadn't any real consolation to give, save for an assurance.

"You could stay," he urged, "Amphoreus is your home, after all, and your friends wish for you to live peacefully. You have no need to flee."

The swordsman tightened his embrace around his own legs. Evidently, he refused, for one reason or another.

Then, "Do you want to leave? Even if it's for a short while, I'm certain the Trailblazers will welcome you in without hesitation."

Admittedly, the prospect sounded a little absurd in Sunday's head. Just imagine: a Lord Ravager hitching a ride aboard the Astral Express. The Trailblazers may be known for their... bold escapades, but the haloed man wondered if there ever was a line drawn in the proverbial sand. An Emanator of the Destruction was simply—well, Sunday was in no right to judge, yet the prospect of them being caught and accused of intergalactic crimes to that extreme was rattling his nerves—

"No."

Oh.

What a strange answer, yet also terribly familiar. Such a lost soul without purpose or drive, having come to terms with the tragedy of what's come to them. That weightless, suffocating, and disorienting feeling, like a horrid sickness that refused to abate.

Despite the temptation of prying further, Sunday instead offered a reasonable suggestion, "Then, how about you remain here, in Amphoreus, but in a different place entirely? Something similar to a quaint retirement home out in the wilderness."

Somewhere else—anywhere else—where living memories wouldn't haunt him at every corner. According to Dan Heng, Amphoreus was a modest world boasting beautiful, bountiful landscapes, plenty of which spotted not a trace of human civilisation. It would be difficult to reject all that it had to offer.

Khaslana glanced upon him, a burning look that harboured little frustration, even when he sighed long and hard.

It wasn't a rejection; yet it wasn't an agreement, either.

Sunday pondered deeper, something that would seal the deal.

"This may be forward of me, but if you'd like, we can... tour Amphoreus for a little while together, and I can help you settle on a place to live."

"Hmm?"

"Yes. Admittedly, I do lack much knowledge of this world, and I have been meaning to explore its wonders. Perhaps, if you would be so kind, I could join you in seeking out a few... picturesque sights?"

It was nothing more than a suggestion, an offer, something that would beckon, rather than command, for Sunday could sense that anything less would spark rejection. From what the Geniuses had unveiled from the scepter's logs, Khaslana was a man of duty and purpose. Give him a task, and he shall see to it that it was personally, promptly fulfilled, if for no other reason than because he wished to be of use—such was his flaw of 'perfection'.

Sunday understood that on a level he would rather not stew over, but surely, taking that into account wouldn't be cruel, would it? What harm was a little nudge?

It certainly made Khaslana consider, anyway.

Eventually, he turned away; and be it exhaustion or indifference, he rose unsteadily to his feet. "I... suppose."

Amazing. Sunday was almost too quick to celebrate his success, if only Khaslana hadn't asked the simplest of questions.

"Can you fly?"

Oh, "I'm afraid not." Curses, of course it wouldn't be that easy, "B-but I can surely—huh?"

The tiles beneath his boots were gone, and the world spun as he was suddenly hoisted into the swordsman's arms.

"Wait—"

The moment's glance Khaslana spared him was filled with an iota of amusement, and his smile was but the tiniest curl at the corner of his lips.

Of all the indignity.

"Hold on."

"Waitwaitwait—"

The rushing winds drowned out the rest of his pleas—and it hopefully washed away the embarrassing squawks that burned his throat raw. Sunday clung to the swordsman's robe and shut his eyes tight behind the cover of his ear feathers.

The higher they went, the further they flew, till even the colossal monument of Kephale, the Worldbearer, shrank into the distant horizon. Khaslana's wings were a majesty of their own. With every beat against the winds, they crested the skies overlooking Amphoreus' untouched lands. It was only when Sunday dared peek a single eye past the bristles of his ear feathers did he finally catch his first glimpse upon this newborn world.

Suffice it to say, his heart thundered against his chest for a new reason entirely. The sheer vastness of the open forests, the billowing plains, the steep mountains, the crisp clouds...

It was nothing like the stringent splendor of Penacony, nor even the ashen wastelands of a planet ravaged by war. The land far beneath them was one which had stood against its predestined fate of destruction and earned its freedom. That, in itself, was worth more than any other metric pushed unto this unique world.

An ocean had gradually come into view from a great distance, and Sunday risked taking an arm which had found its grapple on Khaslana's shoulder to point ahead.

"What about there?" he asked, and he was thankful for how gentle the winds now were. He needed only to raise his voice a little higher. "Living by the sea is often a calming environment. Too much silence is never a good thing."

"Styxia..."

"Pardon?"

In Khaslana's eyes were a flood of memories, returning to a bygone era once relived over and over again. "This ocean... borders Styxia's region."

"Oh." Was that one of the many city-states? "Is it well-populated?"

"Sirens, titankin of Phagousa," the swordsman answered. "They relish in banquets and hypnotise people with their lilting songs. It seems... they also once simulated a path called the Nihility..."

"I see..." Not exactly the most conducive place to neighbour, then. "No matter. We can look elsewhere. How about... there?" The haloed man pointed toward the sun's path. Perhaps going westward may bear more fortune.

If Khaslana had any objections, he spoke none of it aloud in favour of obliging. With a beat of his wings, they rose high above the tallest tree and made a gradual turn toward deeper inland.

The weather was kind on their journey. Despite the high altitude of the clouds, Sunday wasn't the least bit breathless. If anything, the unsteadiness of his heart would better be blamed on the beautiful world he couldn't bear to turn away from.

Rivers, lakes, canyons, ravines. Ancient monuments, abandoned temples, towering stone statues, withered bridges... Such a rich history that beckoned for study, it pulled the haloed man's awe as Khaslana flew absently toward the horizon.

For how long had they searched? Sunday couldn't quite recall, for they were chasing the sun till it stood frozen ahead of them in the great beyond. The beauty of Amphoreus had quieted every bit of anxiousness simmering beneath his skin. Why, the haloed man had even forgotten about the task he had taken before he'd been swept up in this impromptu tour.

No matter. Surely, both the Astral Express and the Chrysos Heirs could wait a little longer without hearing from him... It'd be such a shame to stop here, when Khaslana hadn't even settled on any singular place.

Every now and then, Sunday would ask about the land they flew over, and Khaslana would answer; sometimes curtly, other times with a hint of warmth that resounded like nostalgia.

"That tree," Sunday pointed toward its majestic grandeur that towered over the entire forest. He squinted his eyes and shielded them from the wind with his ear feathers. "Is that also an ancient monument?"

The swordsman spared not a glance. This time, he merely answered with a name, uttered through a ghostly sigh, "The Grove of Epiphany."

Interesting.

A place with a lot of history with him, perhaps?

"Do you want to talk about it?" Sunday asked.

For what reason did Khaslana laugh? It was nothing more than a faint huff, yet there remained the ghost of a smile as he looked ahead, toward nothing, and everything.

"It is a place of learning. Often, I had confronted my teacher; both as a student, and eventually... an executioner."

Oh.

Another place budding with pleasant memories, now burdened with heavy sins.

"My apologies."

"Hmm."

"But would you ever consider going back?" Sunday dared ask. "No longer are you a student or an executioner. You are free to visit as you please. I'm sure your old schoolmates would be glad to see you again."

There was a spark of hesitation before Khaslana's smile disappeared, gone like a flame snuffed out between two fingers. 

"No."

Sunday hadn't pressed further.

They continued their aimless journey, passing the forest for the plains; and the plains for the yawning chasms. Eventually, they came upon a mountain range that pierced through the denser clouds. The cold began to seep through like water, and it wasn't long before Sunday was clinging to the swordsman for the warmth he radiated.

"What about this?" he suggested, despite the chilling gale howling through the snow-capped peaks. "The cold wouldn't be such a bother to you, would it?"

"No. But... I prefer... someplace brighter."

Well, it was worth a try. Sunday took it as a good sign that Khaslana would avoid such a dreary place.

From their vantage point, the ground was but an endless plummet into a deep, dark void. A thick fog permeated the lower levels and sounded an ominous hum the closer they got.

Rather than soaring above, Khaslana weaved through the narrow cliffs as he glided across the mountain range. The tattered tails of his cloak billowed behind them, catching the thin mist whilst he parsed the world a rather uninterested glance.

Sunday cupped one of his ear feathers against his head, for the stray bits of snow falling upon them sent shivers down his neck. His halo thrummed quietly, his earrings catching the cold as any gold was want to do, and his other arm, well... He was truly grateful that the swordsman was a warm beacon. Khaslana didn't seem to mind the tighter embrace, either. If anything, were Sunday to dare assume, he would think that man to be taking some amusement in his nerves.

How rude.

It was frankly childish.

However, when the silence stretched for a touch too long, even Sunday felt an urge to strike up something to fill their time. Without many interesting sights to point and ask about, he was left with small talk amidst the bristling winds.

And yet, in spite of that urge, he couldn't place a finger on what exactly to start with—and it was then the realisation struck that he hadn't once introduced himself properly.

Oh, how embarassing.

All this time, Khaslana hadn't called him by name even once—and he hadn't even questioned his relationship with the Trailblazers.

"What's wrong?"

"Hmm?" Sunday snuck his eyes between his fingers—when exactly had he done that?

"You're blushing," Khaslana said without a hint of judgement. "Are you sick?"

"Oh, no, no, not at all. I just—" Aeons above, what an embarrassing moment. "I just remembered that... I hadn't told you my name, or... much else."

The look that descended upon Sunday may as well send him to flames. Khaslana's expressions were a brick wall, difficult to decipher and even harder to interpret when he would show no other signs of emotion. Those heavy, golden eyes framed by thin, yet impassive brows, with lips pressed flat. He made for a picture of indifference—patience, even.

Was he waiting, then?

Sunday took a moment to breathe, slowly, deeply. The air may be thin and his heart in a frenzy, but he poised himself to speak somewhat cordially. It would be remiss of him to do anything less, after all.

So, with a cordial hand extended toward the swordsman, he calmly, easily, and oh-so gracefully introduced himself. "My name is Sunday, presently a passenger aboard the Astral Express. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

He had managed a presentable smile. Unfortunately, a thick gust of wind had washed away his perfectly-scripted words right as he spoke, and Khaslana's voice was just as muffled as his confusion.

"What?"

Splendid.

Despite all that Sunday had been taught, he chose to hide himself behind his ear feathers.

Like a child.

The rest of their journey through the mountains had been silent.

Styxia, a city-state of sirens that mirrored the path of the Nihility.

The Grove of Epiphany, filled with scholars and teachers, presiding over the Erudition.

Castrum Kremnos, a moving kingdom bustling with warriors of all ages, reminiscent of The Hunt.

The ruins of Janusopolis, once a place of worship destroyed by the ruinous black tide, once correlated to the Harmony...

The more Sunday learned about Amphoreus, the more fascinated he became, drawn by its natural beauty and endless history. Though it had taken some time before he found his voice again, he was quick to ask and quicker to suggest any promising piece of land for a home. For Khaslana's benefit, Sunday had even dug as deep as he could about his wishes.

"What exactly do you picture when it comes to 'home'?" A simple question, all things considered, yet the answer he received came through a wistful sigh.

"Golden wheatfields, a quiet hamlet, fishing..." 

Strange.

Was that Khaslana's home? The land from which he was born, at least. Sunday needn't probe about that, but it did raise another delicate question.

"Do you want to go back to that home?"

Hesitation riddled the swordsman's eyes. A storm seemed to rise within them like the roar of distant thunder, and the memories that surged were a tempest.

Eventually—long when this particular bout of silence had begun to grate at Sunday's nerves—Khaslana shook his head once, and only once.

"I... shouldn't..."

"That's alright. You can take it one step at a time," the haloed man assured. He'd even pointed towards the western shoreline. As the sun gradually outpaced them, the sky had darkened to a beautiful wash of orange and gold. It bathed the world beneath them in a dazzling spread of warm, radiant colours. The oceans had turned gold, and the fields spanning their entire view was akin to a bed of sunflowers.

It made a perfect picture of what Khaslana had described; peaceful, quiet, serene... Sunday couldn't help but wonder if this was exactly what the swordsman was thinking of. An untapped land without conflict or strife, where time stood still in honour of the waning sun.

Sunday felt his heart flutter upon the gorgeous sight.

No film or picture could ever capture its splendor. Be it a production backed by Penaconian sponsors or an artists' brush painting a brilliant scene, none could compare to its sheer lustre.

Such wonders were one-in-a-million amongst the stars.

When the cliffs bordering the eastern horizon came into view, Sunday asked if that was a suitable place to live.

"Somewhere nearer to the clouds may be preferable," he reasoned. "With an ocean for fishing and ample space to stretch your wings. What do you think?"

He had asked with no rush, for Khaslana had taken to slowing their path. His feathers, ruffled as they were—perhaps Sunday should even offer to help preen them soon—bristled in the crisp winds they glided along.

However, just as Sunday began to wonder if he had been heard, he felt himself slipping from Khaslana's arms.

"Uhm, Mr. Khaslana?" The swordsman seemed absent, as if he were lost in his thoughts again—but it wasn't just a momentary distraction this time. Rather, the shadow cast by his hair betrayed a sense of... horror.

That blank and inscrutable countenance froze Sunday stiff, even as Khaslana's arms began to slacken.

"Khaslana? Are you alright?" Was there an issue he found with this particular location? Some awful memories, perhaps?

His answer, however, was a deafly cruel silence as they slowly descended. And as Sunday grappled at Khaslana's shoulders, he was finding himself teetering at a precarious edge toward falling.

He couldn't quell the panic that surged from his heart.

"K-Khaslana? Are you alright? You're slipping."

The ground was far, yet only now did it cause his vision to spin wildly. Sunday's ear feathers fluttered in a poor attempt to keep him afloat, even if he clung to the swordsman who kept his gaze mindlessly affixed toward something beyond reality.

Suddenly, the thought of plummeting toward the earth was a gravely possible end.

"Khaslana? Khaslana! Are you there? W-we're—I'm going to—"

As if lightning had struck through, Khaslana was snapped out of his reverie and reminded of the flightless bird in his arms. He steadied himself and grasped the haloed man carefully into his arms once more, and in his face was the most palpable spread of emotions that Sunday had seen of him yet.

"S-sorry! I... I'm sorry." A look of regret, burdened by eons of exhaustion. It skewed something within his eyes, both dull and distant, yet terribly human.

Khaslana couldn't bear to look Sunday in the eye, turning away to look elsewhere, anywhere, as his lips curled to an expression that spoke to him more than he realised.

Not a word was spoken, for the tension remained even as they passed the cliffs. Sunday spoke nothing of the way Khaslana had made a sharp turn, heading far, far south till the ocean quickly began to swallow their view. The scent of the salty seabreeze permeated the air, and the cool winds carded through Sunday's feathers, though it failed to ease his nerves.

Had he said something? Had he pushed too far? For a man as inscrutable as Khaslana parsed to be, there were cracks that showed a semblance of humanity; a true face hidden behind an old, worn mask, or an eternity of torment and confusion.

A lost soul left to wander without guidance, abandoned out at sea where the currents were harsh and fate was unpredictable.

When it came time to finally land, it was by a strange formation of mountains bordered by floating islands. The Grove of Epiphany could hardly be seen beyond the great distance over yonder, bathed in the early hours of evening.

In all the time they'd spent touring Amphoreus, Sunday's legs had gone numb, and he struggled to find his footing for a short while. Regardless, Khaslana's wings fell limp behind his trail as he marched toward the border of the rocky alpine, like a train of obsidian feathers splattered with gold. He seemed uncaring of tracking dirt and mud on them, too.

Sunday dared not question that, and he instead stepped quietly into his shadow.

The walk was not long, though suspense had wound itself tight in his footsteps. Khaslana came to a stop before a peculiar shape etched into the mountainside, not unlike scars having long disturbed the rock, rather than any natural formation.

Through the haggard sigh that left the swordsman's weary lips, his shoulders slumped, his head dropped low, and he fell to one knee as he uttered beneath his breath.

"Let's just... sit here, for a while."

Sunday hadn't the slightest clue what this was about, but he heeded the atmosphere that hung heavy on his own halo. Thus, did he place a hand to his heart and close his eyes, if only to let the seconds pass without incident or interruption. He offered no consolation, and he did not place himself in Khaslana's shoes. Perhaps he had been ahead of himself, after all, and all he'd done was stirred the melting pot of confusion that erupted beyond one's comprehension.

For a Lord Ravager, Khaslana made for... an intriguing picture of serenity. The stillness with which he exuded was no different to a state of meditation. Crowned by a shining halo as he was, Khaslana stood stark against the darkening world as the sun finally descended.

The winds were kind, as was the passing flock of passerines that sang a tuneless melody. For however long this silence carried, Sunday was left none the wiser to the swordsman's mind. He may as well be staring at a blank wall, whose imposing height cast a dark shadow over him, hiding him within the umbra when Khaslana's memories eventually overflowed.

"This... place, it was once the entrance to the thirteenth Titan's tomb." His voice had taken a heavier rasp, weighed down by a torment closer to... grief, than anger. "The Demiruge... That was who she was—who became her and left for the past."

That—

Well, Sunday hadn't heard anything about that, save for passing mentions about another emanator having ascended from within Amphoreus; that of the Remembrance.

He asked, then, "Was she family to you?"

The Demiurge, the thirteenth Titan, an emanator... Such grand titles were nothing to family. With how Khaslana spoke about her, they seemed to be quite close, and Sunday couldn't help but be swept away by those mournful sentiments. He couldn't help but place himself upon the giant's shoes and imagine a reality just like this.

"We hailed… from the same village, Aedes Elysiae," Khaslana said. "She used to be a diviner, playing... with cards that revealed one's fate. Mine was always... the 'Deliverer', someone who takes the wishes of others and fulfills them, without exception."

An empty laugh sputtered at that, a sound nearly ashen, hollow of any true joy. "That's exactly what I did. It's all I'm good for, to become… the Worldbearer and usher in the new dawn.

"It all started from a dream. Everything I did, all this... torment, and slaughter, it was because of her wish, her gamble—but… now she's gone, and I'm still here."

A heavy confession lacking much coherency, yet Sunday understood perfectly.

"You miss her, don't you?" Perhaps Khaslana felt it unfair how fate had ripped her away from this peaceful future she had wished for. The guilt that wracked him must undoubtedly be heavy, like an iron collar biting into his neck.

Khaslana needn't answer, for there was no reason to confirm the obvious. It was merely something to ponder, and comprehend, for grief never had an easy remedy.

Sunday held a hand to his heart, wishing oh-so dearly to connect to the swordsman who mourned for family—blood-tied or not. "While I cannot claim to relate, I understand your grievances, Mr. Khaslana. Having to live on alone feels... like abandoning the one who was left behind. Even if we hadn't been the ones to decide it so, there is just that guilt that eats away at us."

Of course, Sunday could still count his blessings. It wasn't as if Robin was fairing much worse back in Penacony than before. If anything, her sacrifice to set him free was something he could never pay back. The least he could do was carry on with her wishes held close, to venture the stars and see outside of the narrow lens tailored for him by Gopher Wood.

For Khaslana, however, this devastation must dig so much deeper. A Lord Ravager wracked with grief... Why, his status shouldn't matter in regards to such human tragedies, yet it made clear how even the mightiest, most destructive forces could still feel. They were human, in essence, no matter their origin.

"I know I am in no place to offer counsel, Mr. Khaslana, but I can promise you this: no matter what you may believe, I am in full confidence that she only wishes for you to live on happily in her stead."

"Hmph..." That quiet huff lacked any amusement, and it resounded like rumbling thunder. "How can I... when I can't even see this world as my home? Millions... upon millions of Eternal Recurrances... In all that time, I had only thought about... the cursed fate it was given, and how it was my duty to save it from that very destiny disguised as... paradise."

Of course. "And you shouldn't deny yourself the very world you've fought so hard to save," Sunday said. "After all you've accomplished, you deserve respite among your peers. You may desire isolation, but is that truly what you crave? Or do you fear that they may reject you in some way?"

"What does it matter? Exile... or exoneration. I've plunged my sword through their hearts countless times. It's all I see, now, whenever I think of them. Even if they forgive me, that doesn't erase the memory flashing before my eyes..."

Was that it, then? Was that what he truly felt? Did Khaslana consider himself unworthy of ever mending his relationship with the other Chrysos Heirs? Did he believe himself to be an unrepentant monster who should never set foot into the dawn?

No, Sunday didn't believe so.

All he saw was a mortal man who loved this world with all his heart, and wanted nothing more than to save it from its predetermined path of destruction. The sacrifices he made had never been selfish, nor had it ever been made in apathy—even if it scarred him, tired him, and dulled the humanity he had.

That was all just human.

Perfectly, flawlessly human.

"The most important thing is: do you ever want to see them again?" If not to live among them, then perhaps as... newly-reformed acquaintances, or penpals? Sunday braved an encouraging smile when he saw no slight. "You needn't answer that out loud, and you needn't spare a thought about their feelings. Be selfish with it. It wouldn't hurt to think about your own wishes for once."

It was spoken like a fact, a convincing enough statement to pass off as gospel, yet it seemed to confuse Khaslana—as a riddle would a naive child.

"My own wishes?" he said with a tinge of wistfulness; and for a moment, Khaslana sat in another bout of pensive silence, wondering, pondering, mourning... As if making a wish was a privilege, a luxury he was never afforded.

Patience, however, was key, and Sunday had plenty of it. This was little different to coaxing a skittish dove into his hands, or skillfully playing his cards at the negotiation table. All it took was a clearer picture, a careful hand, and a steady shoulder to offer. He wouldn't turn a blind eye to someone in need, even if they made for an imposing figure. If one as seemingly irredeemable as Sunday himself had been offered a chance, then Khaslana was worth that dozens over.

For winged-beings like them, tasting freedom for the first time was both daunting, and illuminating. They needed only to take to the skies and feel the wind through their feathers.

The moon rose high above them, casting the world beneath its gentle light. The breeze, too, soothed the weary soul in its blanketting cold. In the time it took for Khaslana to shift, he may have thought only a moment had passed. Though his wings remained heavy behind his trail, and his body a fettered weight, Sunday could swear he looked a little more at ease—just a smidge.

What turmoil that ravaged his mind had been quelled, somewhat, with a few kind words. Clearly, it did not convince him entirely, but he refrained from objections, which was one battle won against the war.

Sunday had stepped forth toward the scarred cliffside and offered his own sincerest farewells for a soul long-departed. Strangers they be, he felt it apt to wish for this Demiurge to one day find peace, as she undoubtedly did for all the children of Amphoreus.

However, mournful as the atmosphere was, there remained the task at hand to broach once the heaviest grief had subsided, "Do you... want to continue searching for a place to live?"

"Hmm?" As if the memory had caught up to him, Khaslana tipped his head in an amusing likeness to a curious puppy. "What about... the Trailblazers? We've been gone for a day."

Ah, of course.

How careless of Sunday. He quickly fished out his phone, only to be greeted by a small mountain of texts to file through. Frantic messages along the lines of, "Where in hell are you???" and, "Did he explode???" along with, "Please don't tell me he cooked you."

Over, and over, and over, in varying degrees of drama from the others, as well.

Sunday couldn't stifle the quiet laugh that snuck through his smile, before he slipped his phone back into his pocket calmly, easily, and gracefully.

"They'll be fine for another while," he assured. "You, on the other hand, mustn't settle on anything less than perfect."

"'Anything less than perfect', huh?" A long sigh was heaved, for the swordsman turned to confess, "I... don't know what is perfect for me, but if I must choose, then... Someplace here will do. I want to stay near her, and... talk, even if she's gone."

A kind and gentle smile, a patient nod, "That, itself, is perfect." Perfectly human; perfectly selfish. It sparked an idea inside the haloed man's head.

"Let's make her a proper grave," he said, a suggestion that was quick to be taken up, and the swordsman's wings fluttered like that of a wistful halovian.

Despite spending a day flying about Amphoreus quite literally in Khaslana's arms, it hadn't occurred to Sunday just how gentle the swordsman was with his strength, especially under the silver moonlight, when his golden halo did not cast such a harsh light unto them.

The tomb of the thirteenth Titan... Well, grand as that title was, Sunday was loath to pin one's memory to only their status. Besides, whether the tomb existed at all in this reborn Amphoreus was yet to be seen, and even if so, it was best to leave such an important landmark untouched.

Unfortunately, neither of them had the tools to build a more dignified grave—nor was there even a body to bury—but the hours spent gathering stray rocks and wild flowers made for... a haphazard, yet respectable headstone.

Gentle was the way Khaslana fused the rocks with the heat he commanded. Careful was the method he used to mould the molten sludge into something recognisable; and once the stone had cooled much, much later, the flowers were laid to rest before the nameless grave.

Dawn had begun to rise soon after, and with it came the first warm breeze of another day.

Sunday would consider it a job well done—if only he hadn't remembered a most basic of questions.

"How are you with surviving in the wilderness?"

"Hmm?" For some reason, that seemed to confuse Khaslana, as if the concept of cooked food, clean water, and sturdy shelter was utterly foreign to his ears.

Eventually, he answered with far-too dull a voice, "I haven't eaten in... over thirty-three million Recurrances."

Oh. 

"And, might I ask... how long is just one Recurrance?"

"Somewhere between three thousand to seven thousand Amphorean years."

"Ah..." The urge to judge was a reflex, but Sunday bit the inside of his cheek to stave it off.

That was a battle they needn't confront right now.

In any case, Sunday supposed shelter would be the highest priority. Khaslana shouldn't live out in the open cliffs without even any shade to hide from the rain. He held out a small, yellow flower he'd kept in his hand, offering it to the swordsman who seemed clueless on what to do with it.

"We should return," Sunday said. "I know you have heard this time and time again, but everyone is worried about you. It'll be best to let them know that you're well, and that you'll be taking up to living someplace away from the capital."

Surely, with only that, the Chrysos Heirs will understand and refrain from convincing him otherwise. Khaslana shouldn't give up his own peace for the sake of their wishes. A quiet retirement suited him well; and if they simply insisted on keeping frequent contact, Sunday supposed a phone with decent service would suffice.

They had phones in Amphoreus, didn't they?

Regardless, Khaslana had agreed, if mostly due to the apparent predicament that Sunday hadn't any means of returning on his own two feet. The swordsman had taken some time to regard the sun rising beyond the horizon, however. He'd spent the better part of the morning basking in the golden light without ever flinching, letting the wind card through his still feathers whilst his halo sat high behind his head like an all-seeing eye.

By the time Khaslana had taken Sunday into his arms and breached the skies, the morning sun had crowned Amphoreus in the warm afternoon.

The silence here was almost golden. The quiet was paper thin, and Khaslana scrutinised the world beneath them with eyes only slightly less haunted than before. For how he marvelled at the world below, one would think it was his first ever time taking such an unabated look.

Perhaps that sentiment was written all over Sunday's face, for Khaslana sighed into the air as they glided past the cloudline.

"All I've known of Amphoreus are... memories carved from bloodshed." A quiet, empty, and distorted laugh rumbled. "Pathetic, isn't it? In all the time I spent here, I've barely... seen anything."

"It's not pathetic. It's an injustice, if anything," Sunday assured. Their circumstances did not define them, and there was always a chance to begin anew. "But now, you have all the time in the world to explore. You can make new memories."

"Hmm." This time, another bout of laughter rang—lacking the hollowness from moments before. "You always seem to know exactly what to say." And, strangely enough, Khaslana sounded just the slightest bit accusatory.

What else was Sunday to do but shrug his shoulders? "Just think of it as... personal experience. I wouldn't dare exaggerate my past doings, but I feel that we are somewhat alike."

A long and thoughtful look—almost more than a blank stare. "Is that so?"

He pressed no further, but Sunday could sense the curiosity that bubbled within the swordsman. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to share his own story one day, if ever he were to return for another visit.

Better to leave that up in suspense.

Something mundane to look forward to in the future.

"Woah. You're actually alive, Sunny!"

"That's a relief."

Truth be told, Sunday sort of missed Caelus' absurdity juxtaposed with Dan Heng's composure. Perhaps the emotionally-charged day he'd had was to blame, yet it felt like a heavy blanket had been thrown over his shoulders the moment he was placed back onto solid ground. 

He swayed as the world spun, grasping for the first thing his hands could find purchase in—that being Khaslana's arm.

"Yeesh, you look like you haven't slept a wink."

Ah, perhaps Sunday had indeed forgotten about having spent the night wide awake... He must look a mess.

Oh, well, that was unimportant. The trailblazers had dealt with far worse, anyway. If Sunday were to be so forward, he may think it little more than a trial run. A tiring, emotional, frenzied trial run...

Perfectly imperfect.

Still, his ear feathers were in need of preening, and his hair was itching to be brushed—oh, and he mustn't forget laundering his dirtied clothes, and cleaning his halo, and shining his shoes...

"Come on, Sunny, lighten up! I can hear you fussing over yourself," Caelus teased. "We'll get Pom-Pom to iron your trousers all neat and straight!"

Absurd. Getting the conductor to mind his laundry was a prospect far too indignifying. However, Sunday recognised the quiet gleam in Khaslana's eyes. Though he lacked a proper smile, there was amusement rumbling beneath the surface.

It was somewhat akin to an impish smirk.

"Come on, we should inform the others that you two are well," Dan Heng said.

"Yeah! Even Mydei's been stress-baking! Little Ica's going to become Big Ica really soon!"

A needy hand snatched Sunday's wrist and began to drag him back inside. From the footsteps behind, careful, yet assured, there came along the golden swordsman whose shadow no longer cast a grim reaper.

Rather than the haunting treading of someone lost, and frightened, there was chatter, and laughter, even when a golden halo sat silent.

When Sunday dared a look past his shoulder, he found Khaslana staring at the ground he walked. His eyes spoke of a confusing mixture of emotions both wonderful and anxious, but not fear. It was a miniscule, yet precious step forward, having budged an impenetrable wall.

A smile graced the haloed man's face. Perhaps he wasn't as ill-suited to the Trailblaze's way as he thought.