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———
Khaenri'ah didn't have a true sky.
The dome's artificial light lit and dimmed accordingly each day to imitate the solar rotations on the surface. Surtalogi liked to climb up the city walls before nighttime and sit on the tallest battlement to watch that light slowly become dark.
Not for any particular reason. Just that he liked watching it.
Other people seldom came to the wall. The majority of Khaenri'ahns avoided high places — living underground accustomed them to the feeling of stone over their heads. The walls were too high, to the point of making one feel uneasy.
Surtalogi liked that uneasiness.
"I knew you'd be up here."
Dainsleif's voice came from behind, followed by the slight panting that came with running up the stairs.
Surtalogi didn't turn back. "How'd you know I was here?"
"You come straight to here every day after training." Dainsleif plopped down next to him, legs dangling outside the battlement, "It's not like I'm blind."
"Training's over?"
"Yeah. Haden didn't keep us, probably because someone told on him yesterday."
"What'd they say?"
"They said I called him an old geezer."
Surtalogi finally glanced back at Dain. His expression was righteous — knowing he's wrong, but unwilling to admit it.
"You did call him that."
"It doesn't count if he didn't hear it."
"He heard it."
"Then he shouldn't have been listening."
Surtalogi's lip twitched. "Makes sense."
Dain paused, then started laughing. "You're agreeing with me?"
"You're right, why shouldn't I agree?" Surtalogi shrugged, "Haden's an old geezer, the whole Academy knows. You're just saying it out loud."
"You," Dainsleif shook his head, "are really interesting sometimes."
Surtalogi didn't reply, he turned around to continue looking at the dome. The light was beginning to shift from golden to crimson.
"What are you coming up here every day for?" Dain asked.
"To see the light end."
"What's so interesting about that?"
Surtalogi thought for a moment. "Because it'll go dark, then shine again tomorrow. It'll shine no matter what happened the day before."
Dain looked at him for a while, then spoke: "I never pay attention to these things."
"Because you don't need to."
"What's that mean?"
Surtalogi tilted his head at him, speaking more directly: "You have a home to go back to, a brother waiting for you. You don't need to check if the light will shine tomorrow."
Dainsleif frowned, but not in anger — it was a "what kind of nonsense are you on" type of bewilderment.
"Of course it'll shine tomorrow," he said, "this light's never broke before."
"I know," Surtalogi said "but I'm not sure."
"Why?"
"Because I was born on death row." Surtalogi's tone was casual, like he was saying the weather wasn't bad today, "My entire existence was an accident. Accidents can be taken back anytime."
Dainsleif fell silent.
Surtalogi thought he would say something in consolation — something like "you're not an accident," or "you matter," the kind of things he's heard from other people's mouths, polite but hollow words.
But Dainsleif didn't.
He thought for a while, then said: "You really are thinking too much."
Surtalogi was baffled.
"I just wouldn't think about it," Dainsleif propped an arm behind him, looking up to see the last bit of red on the dome. "The light will shine, there's food to eat, training's still on tomorrow. Isn't that all there is to it?"
"…you made it sound real simple."
"It was always simple," Dainsleif turned to him, blue eyes filled with earnest. "What's the point in overthinking these things? The light will still shine tomorrow, whether you believe it or not."
Surtalogi looked at Dainsleif's face.
This guy really meant it. It wasn't a dismissal or a consolation, he really just thought there was no point in overthinking.
Surtalogi suddenly laughed — not a twitch of the lips. A breathy, wheezing laugh, tearing itself from his throat.
"What are you laughing at?" Dain was puzzled.
"You're right," Surtalogi said, "The light will still shine tomorrow. It doesn't matter if I was born on death row or whatever."
"I'm always right," Dainsleif huffed, “you should've gotten there earlier."
Surtalogi shook his head without a retort.
The dome's light turned off completely, leaving only a few crystalline simulations of starlight. Dainsleif stood up, dusted off his pants and extended a hand to Surtalogi.
"Come on, dinner at my place."
Surtalogi stared at that hand, not taking it immediately.
"You drag me there to eat all the time, isn't your brother annoyed?"
"Why would he be annoyed? Food is meant to be eaten."
"I was born on death row."
Dain frowned — this time he really was a bit annoyed.
"I'm not taking you anymore if you keep saying that," he said "you're Surtalogi. You're my friend. Everything else is irrelevant to me."
Surtalogi looked into Dainsleif's eyes.
There was no hesitation in those eyes, no pity, no ill-intent. Pure, simple impatience, as if the "born on death row" in his eyes was no different from "left-handed," "likes sweets," or "short," just another insignificant trait.
Surtalogi took the hand and let him self get pulled up.
Dainsleif's hand was very hot.
"Why's your hand so cold?" Dain frowned.
"It's just like that."
"You're not wearing enough." Dainsleif took off his coat and tossed it at him. "Put that on."
Surtalogi caught the coat, unmoving.
"What are you staring at? Put it on." Dain already went ahead, voice coming from the steps below, "If my brother found out you caught a cold at my place, he'll never let me hear the end of it—"
Surtalogi put on the coat.
It's a bit big. Very warm.
He could smell Dainsleif — cleaned fabric, a dab of sweat, and some other smell like "home" that he can't put a name to.
He rolled up the hanging sleeves, catching up with brisk steps.
"Dain."
"Hm?"
"What's for dinner today?"
"Dunno, but it'll be good."
"You say that every time."
"I'm right every time."
Surtalogi laughed.
The dome's starlight hung behind them.
Not exactly bright, but it's enough.
———
At the dinner table, Surtalogi ate very quietly, but not slowly at all.
Vedrfolnir sat across the table, watching the two fight over the last potato strip.
"Your brother makes really good food," Surtalogi said, straight to the point, without any formalities.
Vedrfolnir smiled. "Thank you."
"I'm serious," Surtalogi said, "it's better than anything else I've had."
Dain sat to the side, smugly grinning. "Obviously. My brother—"
"I'm not complimenting you," Surtalogi cut in, "what are you gloating about?"
Dain choked.
Vedrfolnir let out a laugh.
Surtalogi looked at him, then suddenly said: "You should also laugh more, it looks better than your brother's."
"What?!"
Vedrfolnir only laughed louder.
"Shut up," Dain glared at Surtalogi.
"I'm speaking the truth." Surtalogi shrugged innocently. "Would you rather hear me lie?"
"…eat your potato strip."
Surtalogi picked up the last strip, dangling it a bit before Dain's face before stuffing it in his mouth and chewing exaggeratedly.
Dainsleif wanted to hit him.
Vedrfolnir observed the squabbling, his gaze peaceful and soft.
But underneath was something Surtalogi couldn't decipher.
Many years later, Surtalogi stood on the border of the universe, looking back on this scene. Only then did he understand what it was.
It was the expression of a seer looking towards the end.
He knew that moment would end, he knew everything would pass beyond redemption.
But he still made that meal.
He still let his little brother bring home a child born on death row.
Because the moment was worth it.