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In the chaos of everything, as Operators and workers of Endfield Industries somehow adjust to Ardashir’s continued presence on the Dijiang, the Endministrator deals with a lot more than usual. Breaks and quiet moments become more sparse, but… such is the price of progress, he suspects.
For all the unease Ardashir’s continued presence aboard the vessel had caused, work itself had accelerated noticeably whenever he was involved. Every new discovery regarding the Aether generated another report, which then generated another theory… which ultimately ended in another stack of documents waiting to be reviewed. New entries for the database are double- and triple-checked, copied over to the official database of the Civilisation Band, but not after they end up running through none other than the Endministrator for final approval - and Ardashir, of course, in case a mistake had somehow made it into the finalised entry.
It was a lengthy process.
Researchers who had once spent days debating a single phenomenon now found themselves receiving concise explanations from the Phidia himself - explanations that were, much to everyone’s frustration, consistently accurate. Not that anyone enjoyed admitting it, of course.
Every report that referenced information provided by Ardashir was checked.
Then checked again.
Then handed to another department.
Only after surviving every layer of scrutiny did it eventually arrive on the Endministrator’s desk for final approval.
So, essentially, it made for long days and even longer nights.
Far fewer quiet moments than he had grown accustomed to.
Still, it was progress. If civilization was to survive whatever lay beyond the Cosmic Gate and was to emerge once more - similar to what happened in Wuling - then understanding the Aether was no longer optional, but a necessity.
In between those rare quiet moments, however, Ardashir had mentioned to him something about the Endmin’s personal research notes. Apparently, it had been a leatherbound book he had used for notes more often than not, before his recent hibernation. It was on one of the late evenings they had begun spending in the office, that Ardashir had looked up from a collection of annotated maps spread across the desk he occupied.
“You used to keep a journal.”
The Endministrator paused in signing another report. “... I did?”
“A leatherbound notebook.” Ardashir nodded once as he spoke. “You preferred writing observations by hand before committing them to Endfield’s database.”
“By hand? Why would I do that?” His distaste for paperwork had been known to all in Endfield, after all. Even Zhuang Fangyi knew of it.
“You claimed paper never suffered system failures.”
A faint smile tugged at the corner of the Endministrator’s mouth. “That does sound like me.”
Despite being the leader of such a big tech-based organisation, he still preferred some of the older methods. Like brewing his tea himself, instead of using the tea dispenser the Dijiang had, growing a few plants near the window in his quarters, instead of the growth chamber, and keeping a notebook in his bedside drawer for more personal notes.
Ardashir folded his hands neatly atop the table as he spoke. “I suspect you hid it.”
“From.. whom?”
“Yourself, my Lord.”
“... Me?” The Endministrator sat quietly for a moment, his hands stilling in their movement of absentmindedly organising his paperwork. There was something strangely unsettling about hearing himself spoken of in the third person by someone who had known him better than anyone alive.
It seemed like his previous self had not only been aware of another hibernation being inevitable, long before it occurred, but that he expected to wake as… someone else.
Someone who would need breadcrumbs. Hidden journals. Locked boxes. Little pieces of a life carefully left behind.
Had he truly known himself that well? Or had he simply accepted that forgetting had long since become another part of his life as the Endministrator?
Before he could ask the obvious question, however, Ardashir spoke again. “You often prepared for your next hibernation. Hence, you had many hiding places only your Originium Arts could access.”
The Endministrator leaned back thoughtfully in his chair, fingers on his chin, the others grabbing the armrest lightly. It did sound like something he would do. Yet, he wondered, what kinds of valuable information there were left to himself by none other than… well, himself, that he did not know of. “... If such a journal exists…”
“It may contain observations no one else possesses, not even me. Or answers to questions you knew, yourself, you may have. Perhaps.” Ardashir never promised more than he knew, it was something the Endministrator appreciated.
“I’ll look.”
“I believe it would be worthwhile.”
The Endministrator’s quarters were… organised. Mostly. At least, organised in the particular manner only their occupant understood.
From drawers to cabinets to shelves to several storage crates neatly tucked beneath his bed, everything had its own place.
The drawers and cabinets yielded nothing, the shelves were too exposed for such a thing, so, his last option was searching the storage compartment beneath his bed.
He spends nearly half an hour searching, going through medical supplies that were outdated, archived maps that were no longer accurate, an older field jacket that looked outdated and older than he, himself, assumed himself to be… A broken portable terminal, a stack of handwritten route sketches through Valley IV…
Every drawer felt like searching someone else’s life. Less like looking for his own belongings and more like going through the possessions of a man who happened to share his face. Which was true, in a way. He and his past self were one and the same person, and yet… not quite.
Despite his efforts, however, he came out empty handed so far.
Nothing resembling a leather journal.
He frowned to himself. “... Where would I have hidden something? If I wanted to keep it from… my future self…”
The thought itself felt absurd, yet considering his circumstances, entirely believable.
The raven-haired man sighed deeply.
“One last crate.”
It had been pushed all the way to the back, dust coated its lid. It blew up, floating through the air like specks of stars, as he pulled it forward. Inside the crate, however, sat another, much smaller object.
A small, wooden box, no larger than both hands placed together, beautifully carved. The grain of the wood shimmered beneath the room’s lighting as he held it, intricate geometric patterns winding around every side. Thin channels of crystallized Originium had been worked seamlessly into the carvings themselves, creating delicate lines that almost resembled flowing scriptures. He could feel the Arts embedded into it.
This was most definitely not the journal.
One finger lightly touched the top-
The reaction is instant.
His Originium Protorig glows stirs, the crystalline veins embedded within the box responding in kind to his signature - and the box’s lock clicks once, all by itself. It was clear that the arts keeping it locked had been none other than his own - assuring that only he could open it. Like they welcomed him home.
Like they had been waiting all this time for the hand that had created it.
He stared at it with wide eyes. No one else could have opened it…
He lifts the lid carefully, entirely unsure of what would expect him.
Nothing, he thinks, could’ve prepared him for what greeted him, regardless.
Cushioned on navy-blue velvet was a silver ring.
Just one.
It wasn’t extravagant. No gemstones, no elaborate filigree.
Simple. Elegant. Not ceremonial at all, but clearly well-worn.
Tiny scratches caught the light as he tilted the small box just slightly. The inside of the band had been polished smooth, not by tools, but by human touch. Someone had worn it every day, for a very, very long time.
He picked it up with shaky fingers, hesitating briefly in his movements, inspecting the silver band.
It felt… comfortably heavy, as though his hand already knew its weight. Almost unconsciously- he slit it onto his left hand.
It fit perfectly.
Not loosely, not tightly. Just… right. As though it had always belonged there.
He looks, for a long moment, at the ring on his finger. The silver catches the light, a dull shine to it from the wear and light scratches on the surface.
Unconsciously, he flexes his fingers. It feels… correct. His body remembers something his mind does not, how devastating.
The Endministrator looked at it in silence longer then, thoughts racing, yet static filled his head. He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen, but… nothing did.
No forgotten memories came back, no visions, no flood of emotions waiting behind sealed doors. Just an emptiness so profound, it stole the air from his lungs.
He pulled the ring off with fingers even shakier than before, turning it over. Only then did he notice something.
On the inside, a simple phrase had been engraved.
Until the end.
End… A word that carried too many meanings now. The End of Civilization. The Endfield project. The Endministrator. The End of one life before another began. The End of promises… or perhaps their beginning.
The End of one man’s life when he goes to sleep, losing himself in the process, before reawakening as a blank slate.
The words seem to burn themselves into his mind as he sits there, on the ground of his own bedroom, holding it.
Not remembering.
For a long time, he simply stared at it, conflicted, like someone had put a weight even bigger than what he carried on his shoulders already into the palm of his hand. He couldn’t wear it - not because it didn’t belong there, it fit perfectly after all, but… Perhaps that was the exact reason.
He knew, it belonged on his finger. But wearing it now felt dishonest. Wrong. Like blasphemy and a cruelty he did not wish to inflict on whom he suspected carried the matching ring in return.
Carefully, he returned it to his pocket instead of the box.
Several days passed before the Endministrator found the courage to bring up the subject.
Ardashir now attended selected meetings concerning the Aether under heavy supervision, answering questions with the same calm honesty he always had. Though researchers had always been a little… unique, in their personalities, and the ones aboard the Dijiang were no different.
They were eager for his input, involving him in discussions and theories, seeking his knowledge, as if they had forgotten what landed him on the Dijiang in the first place - or simply decided to ignore it for the sake of research, really.
Afterwards, he would quietly return to either the secured quarters prepared for him, or to the Endmin’s office.
So opportunity, by itself, had been there, plenty of times. The Endministrator simply… waited.
Perhaps because he wasn’t sure he even wanted an answer.
Perhaps because he already suspected it.
“... Can I ask something?”
They were alone in the office, when he spoke up.
“Of course.”, the Phidia responds instantly, putting down the papers he was reading on Aetherdensity.
Instead of asking with words, the Endmin asks with actions. He pulls out the ring from the pocket of his jacket, holding it flat on his palm.
Ardashir… stops breathing.
Actually stops, not just metaphorically. His entire composure fractures, eyes going wide, a choked off sound escaping him. His hand lifted instinctively toward the ring. Halfway there- it stopped. His fingers curled into his palm, hard enough to surely leave little crescents in his palm.
It was the first time since Wuling that Ardashir looked… frightened. Not of him, not of imprisonment or even of death, but of hope.
“You… found it.” The words came out more like a broken whisper, rather than the soft-spoken words they usually shared in the office, now.
“I did. I assume…”, the Endministrator looks at the ring in his palm, then back at Ardashir, carefully analysing his reactions. He already knows the answer. “... it’s mine.”
The white-haired man swallowed once, before answering. “... It is.”
Then, finally, the question that had been bugging him the most. The Endmin had spent a good time studying Ardashir, from the way his clothes always seemed meticulously dust-free and without wrinkles, to the way the man kept his tail wrapped around his thigh, as though it was too long.
After they had spoken about their status previously as engaged, he couldn’t help the way he had observed Ardashir’s hands.
His left ring finger was always empty. That’d be where an engagement ring would sit.
Of course, some couples decided to simply… Only have one. And yet, he had a hunch that that was simply not how their relationship would’ve been, before. They had never bothered to get married, or perhaps had thought it out of the question from the beginning, so naturally, matching rings would seem only… logical. Reasonable, he told himself.
“... Where’s yours?”
The question seemed to surprise the white-haired man less than the discovery of the ring, almost as though Ardashir had been expecting it eventually. Without a word, one finger hooked into the collar of his turtleneck, pulling on it.
His movements remained careful, measured, as he slipped two fingers beneath the fabric.
A thin silver chain comes to light.
It briefly catches against the collar and he untangles it, carefully.
Then slowly, he lifts it over his head.
Something metallic slid gently down the chain - the second ring, a perfect match for the one in the Endministrator’s palm, hanging from it. It, too, looked worn.
It slides into his palm, onto his glove. He doesn’t present it proudly, but rather simply holds it there, almost reverently, carefully, like it was made of glass. Or, perhaps, like it held his whole heart.
“You keep it on a necklace?”, he can’t help but ask.
The smile he receives is sad all over again, bittersweet. “I promised myself…”, Ardashir glanced at the ring, “... that I would not wear it again unless you placed it where it should be.”
“There were days I almost broke that promise.”, Ardashir ends up adding, as though he had been conflicted whether or not to share that part of the truth as well.
The Endministrator looks up at that.
“But every time I reached for it… I remembered that I wished my first sight of it upon my hand again to be given willingly.”
Those words, so simple, yet holding so much meaning, seem to break the Endministrator’s heart all over again, his chest tightening painfully. He looked between the two rings, matching and worn. Separated for… how long?
“... How did it happen?”
Ardashir looked up. “Pardon?”
“The proposal.”
Silence.
For a moment, the Endministrator thinks he had overstepped, this time, with his curiosity. Ardashir had always indulged him, especially when it came to questions about their past relationship so far, but the look on the Phidia’s face seemed… distant. A mix between a frown and something that seemed to physically pain him.
Then, to the Endmin’s surprise, Ardashir smiled fondly. “... Very awkwardly.”, he answers at last.
He can’t help but tilt his head at that, blinking at the Phidia. “Really?”
“I had rehearsed it for several weeks.”, Ardashir recalled with a fond laugh, warm and nostalgic.
“... You?”
“I wished for it to be perfect.” A quiet sigh followed. “It was not.”
The Endministrator couldn’t help but smile. Somehow, it sounded more fitting for them, than a perfect proposal would have been. He leaned back in his chair, the ring in his palm still a comfortable weight, slowly warming from his body heat, as he held it idly on his lap. “Tell me.”
Ardashir looked down at the ring resting on his gloved palm, one thumb slowly running over the silver, though his smile didn’t falter. “We had been working for… several days without meaningful sleep. I finally concluded there would never be an ideal moment, so I simply… asked.”
He cleared his throat softly, as he imitated his own words. “”Would you permit me to remain beside you for whatever years you have left?””
The Endministrator stared, mouth slightly agape. “... That was your proposal.”
Ardashir looked… embarrassed, almost, as he answered, “... Yes.”
“... I can see why you called it awkward.”
That got a laugh out of the Phidia, this time. “So did you.”
I did?”
Ardashir nodded. “You looked at me for nearly a minute. And then… you laughed.”
The Endministrator buried his face briefly in one hand. “Sounds like me… What-,”, he cleared his throat. “What did I say?”
A warmth entered Ardashir’s eyes unlike anything the Endministrator had seen before, so gentle and fond. “You asked… “That was supposed to be a proposal, wasn’t it?””.
The Endministrator laughed at the imitation of his own voice and words. “And what did you say?”
“I answered yes. You informed me that if I intended to ask such an important question….” His smile widened. “... I ought to ask it properly.”
“... Oh no.”
“So I did.”
“Please tell me you only did once.”
Ardashir slowly shook his head. “Six times.”
“... SIX?!” The question almost came out as a shout, disbelief written across the black-haired man’s face, as he stared at Ardashir.
“You believed I deserved six opportunities to reconsider.” He said, as if it was the most natural thing, while the Endministrator felt humiliated all over again.
“Why didn’t you… give up?”
Ardashir genuinely looks confused at that, and perhaps a little offended. “You asked me to ask properly, I assumed you would tell me when I had succeeded.”
… It was oddly heartbreaking and amusing all in once, and yet, it was simply… Ardashir. So in character, the Endmin could picture it in his mind all too well.
“And the… the seventh?”
“The seventh…” Ardashir’s gaze drifted fondly toward the ring, his thumb slowly running over the words engraved on the inside, unreadable from the distance to the Endministrator. “... You simply held out your hand.”
The Endministrator’s soft smile mirrored that of the Phidia. “... What did I say?”, he asked, curiously.
“”Well?””, Ardashir imitated him.
“Just… ‘well’?”
Ardashir continued. “”You wanted to put a ring on it.””
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was their soft breathing, the gentle sounds of a thumb running over silver, as the Endministrator gazed at his ceiling for a few moments. Thoughts were running through his mind, though this time not as confusing and conflicting.
Naturally, the weight of the truth, of the past events, still hung heavy in the space between them, yet it felt… no longer as suffocating. Not with the way Ardashir still smiled at him, so soft and fond. Part of him couldn’t help but wish for the man’s scorn, for him to hate him and judge him for what he’d done, if only to satisfy the guilt that still nagged at the edges of his consciousness, yet he knew it was simply not the Phidia’s nature. That he had asked that question, back then, because he knew. Knew what would happen, inevitably, what he was getting himself into and how his Lord was in nature.
“... I still don’t remember.”
Ardashir’s voice was soft, carrying only the same ever-present patience in his words. “I know.
“... I wish I did.”
“I know, my Lord.”
Stuck in his mind, the Endmin turned the ring over once more, his thumb tracing the engraved words on the inside of the silver band.
Until the end.
“... But…” He looked up. “... I think…” His voice softened.
“... I’m beginning to understand why I said yes.”
Ardashir closed his eyes as the words washed over him - only for a heartbeat. Yet, when he opened them again, there were no tears, only gratitude. He did not speak.
Instead, he carefully lifted the chain with his own ring back over his head, slipping it beneath the collar of his turtleneck, nimble fingers smoothing out the black fabric with care, like he was handling something fragile, something important.
The conversation afterwards drifted naturally back toward reports, research, and mundane things, as though nothing extraordinary had happened. Yet when Ardashir finally left the office under the watchful escort of two guards, the Endministrator did not return the silver band to the carved wooden box beneath his bed, once he, too, returned to his quarters.
It remained in the pocket of his jacket.
Close enough that, every so often throughout the day, he found his fingers brushing against it - not as a relic of a life he could no longer remember, but as something he had consciously chosen to carry with him, seeking comfort in it and in the person it reminded him of.
On the same evening, while reading reports long after midnight, he caught himself absentmindedly pressing his thumb against the outline of the ring through the fabric of his jacket.
He only realised he had been doing it until several minutes later.
Somehow, through all the words they had exchanged, and the way Ardashir had responded to him when first presented the ring again after so long, it had become a promise whose meaning he did not yet understand, not anymore.
Yet, somehow… he found himself wanting to. Not the promise of the past, but a potential promise of the future.