Archive of Our Own

How does one describe it, an emptiness? He discovers he wants to, though it's hard to find the words. He does not know what it is he is missing, only that he is, and that he wants to record this experience so he does not forget it.

Forget– he knows the meaning of the word, abstractly, and in thinking it up it sort of occurs to him that that is what's happened. He's forgotten something, perhaps everything, about himself.

He grabs a strand of his hair and holds it in front of him just to see the color– blue. He lets it fall, and looks around for a mirror, but comes up empty. Then, the shape of his face, the color of his eyes, will remain unknown to him. He doesn't like it. He really doesn't like it, this not-knowing.

The self-hatred that's started to bubble up is something he finds he recognizes. It makes him wonder about what sort of person he was, if that's the only thing that's made him feel so grounded. The fact that he's– locked up, it would seem, complicates things further. There is a door to the room he's in, large and quite imposing, but upon investigation he finds it does not open from this side.

Something happened to him. Perhaps he did something to himself. He doesn't know, and the grandiose room is empty aside from him.

So he, with nothing else to do, waits. He checks to see if this feeling is also something he recognizes– not really, he decides. He's done it before but it's not something he knows intimately.

He does not have long to sit with the feeling, for soon the waiting ends. He can hear someone coming, and his chest fills with some emotion he finds he cannot recognize. He tries to chase it for a moment, holding his hand against his chest as if he could catch it in his fingers, but whatever it is it's just too complex. He does not have the words to describe it.

The door swings open. The man who opened it stands there, breathless and exceptionally beautiful. He supposes that he doesn't have anything to reference, but he finds himself believing steadfastly that this man, with pale eyes and pitch black hair, is the single most wonderful person in all the world. He looks back at him like the reverse is true.

He enters the room with several grand strides, coming closer, closer, and finally sweeps him up in a protective embrace. He buries his head in his shoulder, in some attempt to hide the tears forming in his pretty eyes. He smells familiar. The heat of him is almost too much, but he pulls him in as close as he possibly can.

He's done this before, he thinks. He knows this man. He cannot recall his name, or what they are, but the shape of him is etched into his soul. Of this, he is certain. He does not want to let him go, would be happy to stay like this, forever.

“Zandik,” he mumbles softly. “Don't leave me like that again.”

“I won't,” he promises, and then regrets it, because– he doesn't know what happened before he woke up, but in forgetting him he certainly has abandoned this beautiful companion of his in a way he does not deserve.

And– Zandik, is this his name? It feels like it might be, in a distant sort of way. When he says it, at least, it sounds right. Has he said it before? What were the two of them, before? At any rate, it is a disservice to him and to them that Zandik does not remember who he is. He feels as if he has betrayed him with his own amnesia.

“Though– I'm sorry, could I get your name…?”

He pulls away slowly, his face expressionless. His eyes– beautiful things filled with stars– glaze over for a moment, but he's back as if nothing had happened before Zandik can say anything. A moment of grief, perhaps.

“So you lost your memories?” He asks, tone all business. This, he finds, is not so jarring, though perhaps it ought to be. He trusts the tenderness will return. He trusts him.

Zandik nods.

“I don't know a single thing about myself,” he confirms. He feels bad. He doesn't want to upset him. “But you're familiar. I know that I knew you.”

He ponders this answer for a long time. Zandik begins to worry that he's said something wrong, but soon enough he smiles down at him.

“My name is Feofan,” he says, a little strained but not unkind. “You and I are partners.”

Zandik mouths the shape of his name. He's said it before, thousands of times, he's sure. It feels as natural as breathing.

Feofan pulls off his cloak, and wraps it around Zandik's shoulders. He adjusts it while looking him over with careful eyes, pulling up the hood so tight that the black fur trim covers his face.

“Why don't you come home with me?”

“Yes,” he says, because he trusts him. He is sure that Feofan would never hurt him. Wherever they are going is better than here because they are going together. He latches onto this truth like a lodestone.

~

Feofan lives in a castle. A fortress, he supposes, but some romantic part of him is inclined to call it a castle. Was he an artistic sort of person, then?

At any rate, the place feels familiar, even as Feofan rushes him through it. He must have spent a lot of time visiting him. He becomes more sure of this when they reach a set of doors Zandik is absolutely sure he recognizes. Feofan unlocks them, holding him close like he's afraid someone might steal him away, and then shoves him through before turning to lock them up again.

Inside, Zandik finds a set of private rooms. He feels safe to assume they're Feofan's. They're in a sort of office at the moment, but Zandik can see a bedroom in the back.

Feofan sighs, then pulls the hood away from his face. Zandik is glad he lent it to him. It had been terribly cold outside.

“This is where you live?” he asks.

Feofan nods with a slight smile.

“And work. Most of this building is for that purpose, actually, but some of us are allowed to reside in the domestic wing.”

“You're a higher up, then?”

“Something like that,” he answers, stifling a laugh.

Zandik is curious, but he supposes it can wait. It's getting late, and Feofan must be tired.

“Are you going to stay?” He asks. It is part question and part request.

“... Yes,” Feofan says. “I admit I don't want to let you out of my sight.”

Zandik wonders what happened to him. Something must have, for him to have lost his memories. It's even strange that he woke up alone, and not even in a hospital– it was more like a vault. Why would an injured person be there?

Feofan wraps his arms around his waist, and Zandik's mind goes blank, but it's only to pull him to bed. He'd felt quite awake mere moments ago, but he finds sleep comes quite easy curled up with Feofan.

… Maybe he should question this? But, on the other hand, he likes it and he's tired. Let Feofan lie next to him every night, for all he cares.

~

He wakes up alone. His worries flare for a moment, but he can still make out the indent of his shape next to him– he must have left not long ago, and didn't want to wake him. He's quite thoughtful, Feofan.

Zandik, though, is brimming with curiosity. He hadn't been told to stay put, so naturally the first thing he does is to get up and try the door. He finds it locked, from the outside.

He tries it again. Nothing changes. He feels sort of miffed, but not as angry as he expects. Why is that, he wonders?

“My name is Zandik,” he says. This feels right.

“Feofan is my partner,” he continues. The same thing happens, where he feels vaguely that this is correct. It is time to try his hypothesis, then.

“I don't trust him,” Zandik says. This immediately feels wrong, his chest tightening in a painful sort of way.

His ability to run the experiment is admittedly limited with how little he knows, but for now he's happy with the conclusion– that being, though he does not have his memories, he retains his emotions. At the very least, that would explain his desire to trust Feofan as a less desperate decision than one made by a man who has only met one person in his life. He wants to believe himself to be a more rational creature than that.

Feofan must be out with other people now, doing business or whatever it is he does. Given that he'd left without a word, and locked him in at that, Zandik decides it's acceptable to snoop a little to try and figure out what's going on. His emotions do not object to this, and given that he used to work with Feofan, he extrapolates a guess that the other man won't mind.

There's all sorts of documents piled on the desk. From these, Zandik gathers that this building is the head of an organization called the Fatui, and that Feofan is one of their top-ranked people. He seems to handle money, in various ways. Most of the finer details escape him.

“I worked under Feofan,” Zandik tries. This makes him feel like laughing– not true, then, and false in a way that's funny. He wishes he knew why.

“I worked with Feofan,” he tries. This feels correct. If anything, it makes him feel a strange sort of pride he cannot identify the reason behind. He simply lacks the relevant memories.

Still, he's gained something. Was he one of these Fatui Harbingers, then? That seems right to him, though it makes him wonder how Feofan is getting away with keeping him locked away if that's the case. Wouldn't someone notice if he went missing?

Unless, of course, something else happened before Feofan put him in this room– no, in that bank vault. And, he remembers, Feofan came running the second he woke up. He knew, somehow, and did not see fit to mention any of these details to Zandik.

Perhaps it’s because it’s only been one night, and Feofan hasn't had enough time to explain what happened. It's one theory, at least. At any rate, he doesn't want to be left in the dark. Though he trusts Feofan, he's suspicious, and Zandik is determined to get the truth out of him.

The handle starts to turn– Zandik hadn't realized that it's gotten late. He does as much as he can to pretend he wasn't digging through his documents in the short few seconds before the door opens.

Feofan enters with a long-suffering sigh, looking more tired than Zandik has ever seen him, at least in the brief time he remembers. He feels very sorry for him, but he cannot let himself be distracted.

“Is there any reason why you saw fit to keep me locked up in here?”

Feofan looks at him with a wild glint in his eyes as he shrugs off his coat. He crosses the room with one step, another, and Zandik feels like prey backed into a corner. On some level, this excites him.

– excites him?

When he's finally pushed up against the wall with nowhere left to run, Feofan grabs him by the shoulders and presses his lips to his. The movement is passionate, brimming with all sorts of pent-up things Zandik can hardly describe, and he's absolutely sure they've done this before. Feofan shoves his tongue through his teeth, and Zandik could push him off but he doesn't; he likes it.

They separate eventually. Feofan looks almost like a Harbinger of death, not finance, with his kiss-bruised lips and gold-rimmed eyes.

“Here's a rule of negotiating,” he says. “If you're upset with someone, you shouldn't let them kiss you like that.”

“... I want to know more about a lot of things,” Zandik replies, after a long moment of processing that he must look the same as Feofan does right now, with mussed hair and swollen lips. “I learn something if you answer me, and something if you subvert my expectations, so either outcome is acceptable to me.”

Feofan blinks, and laughs, and slides his hands down towards his hips.

“It's just like you to say that,” he says. “You were always so curious, about everything, and in the strangest ways…”

His expression has completely changed, now. Gone is the hunger, and in its place is something far more difficult to name. It's like he's remembering something good that he no longer has and which he cannot get back. 

For a moment, he looks off in the middle distance over Zandik's shoulder at someone who isn't there.

“This trick you played was cruel,” he murmurs, and looks away.

Zandik feels again like he knows nothing. He may as well be back in that vault, alone, with only the vaulted ceilings and dust dancing in the light for company.

“Feofan,” he asks quietly, “what happened to me?”

Feofan at once cradles him back tightly in his arms, but only to bury his face in his shoulder. With a start, Zandik realizes that he's crying, and his instinctual drive is to comfort him as best he can. Feofan does not resist when he runs his fingers through his hair.

Zandik feels two things: One, that Feofan is hiding something– potentially several somethings– from him, and two, that nevertheless Zandik is inclined to trust him.

It's a very strange feeling, contradictory, but one that he doesn't find unfamiliar. It was an odd sort of partnership they had, then, one where keeping the other person imprisoned in their room might even have seemed appropriate. This, at least, Zandik is determined to get to the bottom of. The rest of it, he can dismiss in light of how his soul aches at the sight of Feofan like this.

Feofan, eventually, stops crying. He stays where he is, all curled up around him, with his head to his chest like he's trying to listen to the beating of his heart.

“You died, Zandik,” he says softly.

He tries to remember this. All he feels is a warm sense of comfort, like he is finally going home. He remembers how familiar it felt to hate himself.

He looks down at Feofan. He wonders if he knows what Zandik suspects. His lilac eyes are nearly red, swollen from crying, and Zandik elects to say nothing at all. He can't ask his questions now, and certainly can't ask the new one that's come to his mind: why, if he died, would he ever choose to come back?

~

Feofan is gone from bed the next morning, but not the room, and Zandik quickly finds him drinking a cup of tea by the window. The sight is almost nostalgic, and Zandik briefly wonders how long their “partnership” lasted. That question will have to wait, though, as right now he intends to press some more important things. He mustn't allow himself to get distracted again, though he hardly regrets yesterday.

He– did mean it, really, when he said he didn't mind an unexpected result, but he wants to know who he is outside of who he is to Feofan. He has to know so that, if nothing else, he can do their partnership the justice he deserves.

And, more pressingly, he wants to know the secret of his resurrection. It's an oddly childish impulse, in how it feels to me. He wonders if he was a scientist, and if so when he started. He thinks he was, and that it was when he was quite young.

“I know what you're going to ask,” Feofan says, looking out the window watching the snow. Flakes of it crystalize against the glass, forming brilliant patterns and tricks of light, but only for a moment before they melt and disappear.

“Then why won't you tell me how I came back?”

He stares outside for a moment more, then sighs and sets down his teacup.

“Life and death are the affairs of the gods,” he says, a hint of sardonic venom managing to lace its way into his tone through his neutral mask. “It would be frowned upon if anyone knew you came back. I'm hoping to keep you out of sight until I can come up with an excuse for how you survived.”

A familiar tingle crawls up his spine. Some part of him death locked away is screaming at him to remember one single truth– that Feofan is a clever liar. Zandik is sure that what he'd just said isn't entirely honest.

“And?” He asks. “How did I survive?”

“As I said, you didn't,” Feofan replies smoothly.

Zandik waits a moment. Feofan takes a sip of his tea and looks at empty space.

“You're really not going to tell me?”

“... That should wait until you get your memories back.”

“Why? Don't you trust me? Aren't we–”

He cuts himself off because he does not know how to describe it. They're partners, he supposes, but he knows it is more than that. They've kissed, obviously, but it is beyond the physical too– there is a kind of peace that he feels, even now, simply being in Feofan's company. It is the sort of feeling only developed with time. They must have spent years together doing nothing just like this.

Feofan sets his teacup, empty, back on the saucer with a dissonant clink like the grim reaper laughing.

“I could not live without you,” he says. Zandik notes that his words are in the past tense.

“I trust you more than anyone,” he says, in present now– strange. “Really, I am only following your own wishes right now. You'd want to prioritize getting your memories back above all else.”

It's a bit strange, hearing about himself before he remembers. He wonders what sort of person he was. Feofan seems to think he was practical. Zandik doesn't think that was quite true.

Nevertheless, his memories– he'd like them back. Perhaps Feofan is telling the truth, and this is how his past self would have thought about it, too.

So he might as well keep playing along with him. It is not like he has anything better to do.

“Then tell me about myself,” he says. “What sort of person was I?”

“You were my doctor,” Feofan replies. “I drove you mad, and outlived you– I do not refer to the most recent incident.”

“You've done this before?”

“No. The immortality you had previously was of your own invention.”

“So I was someone who found a way to cheat death?”

“... To some extent, yes,” Feofan says. His eyes flash gold for a moment in the sunrise. “You were a genius.”

This sounds right. Zandik almost laughs at his own narcissism, but a moment of thought reveals that it can only be deserved praise. He does, after all, have some sense of himself that endures through his amnesia.

“Then, as I am now–”

Someone knocks at the door and Feofan rises, cursing.

“I'll come back,” he promises. “But excuse me for a moment, would you?”

“Do I have a choice?” Zandik mutters as he's already leaving. 

He turns back and smiles at him before he slips out the door, and then closes it behind him. Zandik hears the key turn in the lock.

Naturally, the moment Feofan leaves, Zandik starts brazenly going through all his things again. Or– he intends to, really. He ends up staring at the door for a while, trying to remember what's behind it. He had thought it unimportant at the time. The only thing he'd cared about was Feofan's hand in his.

He’d liked it. He still does. And that hallway– draped with blue, he thinks, he really hadn’t been paying attention– did he like that? He must have walked through that hallway hundreds of times, and now all that time may as well be gone. Why did he have to lose his memories, anyway?

His reverie snaps, broken by an icicle falling against the windowpane with a sharp thud. The sun, it seems, has risen high enough to melt it.

He wanders back towards the actual bedroom. It seems somehow too big, perhaps because he is alone. The bed itself is carved from dark wood, and fitted with silk sheets. They appear to be new, though mussed by his sleeping in them. 

He turns to leave, but catches a glimpse of something he doesn't recognize behind the closet door. After a moment, he realizes that it is a mirror and that he's looking at his own reflection. He approaches, transfixed.

It feels sort of strange that the person he's seeing is him, that this is his own face. Blue hair like he observed earlier, though it looks different in this light, red eyes that seem almost to have a star-shaped pattern in the iris, a nose with a curve on the ridge– did he not see these features all that often? They aren't familiar to him. The Fatui, he's gathered, usually wear masks. He must have done so religiously.

Hesitantly, he adds that to the list of things he knows about himself. His name is Zandik, he was a researcher smart enough to find immortality, and yet nonetheless he died. He thinks he might not have minded that outcome. He's back now because of Feofan, somehow, who is deeply unwilling to tell him anything and who Zandik nevertheless has faith in.

He sighs, and presses his forehead against the cold glass. He's never going to learn anything new like this. A closed system needs an outside variable to induce change. Perhaps, if he's lucky– something might happen?

~

The hours stretch on and Feofan does not return. A work emergency, certainly, one so immediate and so important that he could not return to inform Zandik that he'd be gone longer than expected. Given his occupation, and the nature of the Fatui, such things are only natural.

Nevertheless. 

He starts to worry. It's almost strange that he does, he knows so little about Feofan, but then again he knows more about him than he does anyone else. Feofan hasn't allowed him the opportunity to so much as see another person. Yet, on a base level, one more in touch with who he used to be, Zandik– doesn't mind? He and Feofan must really have been strange.

None of his musings distract from the simple fact that Feofan is still not home, and that this upsets him. What sort of relationship did the two of them have for him to worry like this, really? And besides–

He freezes. There is someone new at the door. 

He is sure of this– Feofan slips in and out quickly, like he doesn't want anyone to see what's– or rather, who's– inside. This person is different. They're pulling at the lock from all sorts of curious angles. This person is, most certainly, breaking in. Are they clever enough to stage some incident elsewhere to distract the Fatui long enough to commit their little crime? Zandik wants to see.

The door, eventually, gives, and a blonde-haired girl comes tumbling in. She scans the room with practiced eyes, and points her sword at her throat on instinct the second she spots him.

“Dottore,” she says, her voice as cold as ice, “was this your plan all along?”

“Dottore…” he muses. It feels quite right, like a well-worn coat. It in many ways feels more natural than Zandik ever did. “Is that my name?”

The girl furrows her brow, but does not allow her grip on her weapon to falter. He looks her over, and finds her familiar. His feelings towards her are quite simple for someone who wants him dead so intensely– he neither likes nor dislikes her, but simply finds her interesting.

“Don't play games with me,” she threatens. “I have already defeated the Ruler of Death once, I can do it again.”

“The what?”

She stares down the cool steel of her blade into his eyes. She won't detect any lies in them, if that's what she's looking for.

“Ronova?” She asks, like she's trying to get someone's attention.

“Is that the Ruler of Death?” He asks. He's quite curious about this figure– is she responsible for his resurrection?– and quite happy with how this conversation has gone so far. Even after this short back and forth, he's already gotten such a big piece of information. Feofan will be angry. He wants to see that emotion on him.

The girl lowers her sword just a little, and he recalls that she has been threatening to kill him this whole time. The threat means so little he'd almost forgotten about it.

“What nation are you from?”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. Answer the question.”

It seems very out of left field, but nevertheless he tries to think of home. The first thing that comes to mind is this room, and the second thing is a deluge of emotions so intense and so mixed that he almost feels nauseous from the force of them. That place, whatever it is, was his home a long time ago.

But what was the name of the place that makes him feel that way? If he just thinks, maybe he'll remember– didn't Feofan's documents have some nation names? They must have. He might just have to guess one, if he can recall any, and see if it feels nostalgic. It started with a sharp sound, he thinks. Perhaps it was–

She sighs before he can say anything, and lowers her sword completely, though her posture stays taut and ready to strike.

“You really have lost your memories, then.”

He wonders why she chose that question to ask, and why his lack of response confirmed her suspicions. He doesn't like that she knows him better than he knows himself, and doesn't like the feelings the question unlocked. He feels more than he ever has at Feofan's side that he must, no matter what, get his memories back.

And this girl– who is she, and why does he have the vaguest glimmer of a feeling that she might be able to help? He decides to pursue this thread.

“Yes. I don't remember a thing before waking up.”

“How long ago was that?”

“A few days.”

She takes a moment to think about that. It was an answer that required some consideration, apparently, though Zandik has no idea why. He should watch his words carefully if he wants to avoid showing too much of his, already half visible to the table, hand.

“My name is Lumine,” she says, measured, staring at him like she suspects he'll try to kill her at any moment though he's shown no sign of it yet. “I think you should come with me.”

“You’ll take me away from here?”

She nods. He takes one look back at the room, and wonders– is he going to see this place again? Feofan he'll come back to at some point, of course, that much is out of the question.

He does not doubt that Feofan will know what happened here. Zandik may not have his memories, but he isn't the sort of person to abandon his convictions. 

He'll learn what he can from Lumine, and then find him again. This is his decision, and so he steps forward to follow her.

~

Lumine leads him on a route across the roof which avoids all people and uses several strange technologies he's itching to get his hands on, but he knows better than to ask about that right now. Instead, he focuses on himself, and allows his mind to wander.

Feofan will know why he left. He'll also know that Zandik will want to come back to him if not the room. They are bound by their very souls– surely, Feofan doesn't think Zandik will throw that away on a whim. Unless he already has, in that time he can't recall? Was he really so different before from how he is now?

His musings distract him all the way out of the city, right up until Lumine leads him to a train resting on a rural set of tracks. A strange white fairy waves at her from the window, and recoils in fear at the sight of his face.

“It's fine, Paimon. He lost all his memories,” Lumine explains as she steps into the carriage.

“... Are you sure? Even if he did, Paimon doesn't think we can trust him.”

“Did I do something to you?” He asks.

Honestly, he has no idea. Looking at Paimon makes him feel nothing at all. He’d doubt that they'd ever met if it wasn't for the way she's looking at him.

“... Huh. You really don't remember,” she says.

“Listen,” Lumine interjects, “he was in Fatui custody. I think that they must have been testing the authority of death on him– it's for the best I got him out of there.’

“The Fatui had him? That makes sense. He'd be the perfect test subject, though it's a little ironic if you ask Paimon.”

“Excuse me,” he says. They both turn to look at him with guarded stares. “Might I ask what you're talking about?”

They exchange a kind of look, and Paimon frowns.

“Paimon thinks it's a bad idea. He's not a good guy, even if he isn't trying to hurt you right now.”

His emotions flare. It seems that he would disagree that he's ever wanted to seriously hurt her, despite all obvious evidence to the contrary.

“... No, we should tell him. He might be able to help us,” Lumine decides.

She turns to face him with a serious look.

“How much do you know?”

This is a question he has to consider carefully, because even after running away and abandoning him he still does not want to betray Feofan. He should hold his cards to his chest here.

“I was dead, and now I'm not,” he says. “Did the authority of death have something to do with that?”

Lumine nods. He's grateful that his nonanswer has seemed to satisfy her.

“Several days ago, I killed the Ruler of Death,” she says. “Her divine authority was then stolen. I suspect that the thief tested their new powers by bringing you back to life.”

“You think I was an experiment?”

She shudders at the way he says the word. He'd love to remember what kind of experiments he’s run. They must have been wonderful.

“... Do you have any ideas?” She asks, through nearly gritted teeth. “You're– not unintelligent.”

“I've been told as much,” he says absentmindedly.

“You've been told? So you've met with someone else?” Lumine asks. He curses himself internally for revealing more than he'd meant to.

“Could that person be the one who stole death?” Paimon wonders.

“No,” Zandik replies automatically. “I don't think so.”

He isn't lying. For some reason, it strikes him as impossible that he'd go out of his way to steal a piece of divine authority, even though, really, the only person who could have known he was alive again so quickly after it happened was the one who undid death. And even if it was him–

Feofan, he is certain, loves him deeply. His revival was not a way to test that the theft was successful. It was the point of the theft in the first place. He and Feofan must have been– a dream, a fantasy, the sum total of ten thousand nights spent in each other's company. It has been less than a day they've spent apart, but Zandik already misses him. He cannot imagine what he put Feofan through.

And yet, he thinks of death fondly. He wanted it, he's sure, and Feofan had ignored that want for his own selfish gain. Zandik's heart nearly bursts with admiration when he thinks of this. He must, no matter what, find his memories, for now he can no longer understand himself.

“It's late, and I've already seen a lot more than I expected to today,” Lumine states with some authority. “Why don't we talk more tomorrow?”

Zandik finds that amenable. He needs time to think.

~

It might just be that the bench in the train's passenger car is uncomfortable, or maybe it's that he's not used to sleeping alone, but he finds that he cannot manage to fall asleep. When the hard back of the bench stops distracting him, his own rambling thoughts about death and himself and what Feofan might be doing right now keep him awake. With nothing better to do, he rises and makes his way to the next car.

Lumine seems to use this carriage of her train for storage. There's all sorts of things scattered about, from dolls to weapons to a table carved with strange symbols. Most of it means very little to him, especially the leather bag on the table, but his eyes keep coming back to the unremarkable thing anyway.

Something about it is familiar. He stands there for a moment, just reveling in the feeling. Some piece of him, he's sure, is in that bag.

He glances back to the next car. Lumine and Paimon are still asleep. He takes a step toward the bag, and carefully pulls it open.

It seems to be filled with various mementos of her travels, most of which mean nothing to him. He knows where the something he's looking for is, he finds– it's got a pull that's nearly magnetic.

It's a smooth little thing, hard and shiny, like solidified tree resin. It is warm to the touch, and emits a soft glow with no clear origin. When he holds it up to the early morning light, he catches a glimpse of himself with someone who upon reflection he places as– Pantalone, the day they met. He's much younger, and with eyes that don't resemble the ones he has now.

Dottore is glad he had the forethought to make a backup. He'd hate to lose that memory, when he thinks of it so often and so fondly. The rest of them, of course, aren't half bad either.

Everything else is, of course, a mess. The descender knows about his return and so everyone will know, and after that it won’t be hard to figure out about Pantalone. She has such a way of inspiring others to come together against the two of them.

It is a shame things couldn’t have happened more smoothly. His amnesia had been an unexpected wrinkle in Pantalone's plans, he's sure, but he supposes such things can't always be avoided. He wonders if it wasn't a spiteful trick on what remains of Ronova's part, and feels quite pleased with himself that he's managed to outfox her with a simple data backup.

Someone knocks on the carriage door. Lumine rouses in an instant. She looks over, gestures for him to stay low, and approaches the door with his sword at the ready. Dottore makes no real effort to hide, or even to pretend he wasn't snooping. She hadn't seemed all that surprised he was up anyway, but perhaps she doesn't realize what it was he’s stolen from her trophy collection.

He feels a rush of cold air as Lumine slides open the door. He can't see the person standing outside and wishes he could.

“You have something of mine,” Pantalone says.

“Something?” Lumine parrots accusingly.

Pantalone steps onto the train. Lumine pulls back, relinquishing some ground, but maintains her battle-ready posture.

“We have a contract, of sorts,” Pantalone says. “He belongs to me.”

He looks over at Dottore and smiles sweetly. The way he thinks is so delightfully novel, and has always charmed him. Of course, by his logic, Pantalone belongs to him, too. They are partners in life and death, and even at the end of the world the two of them will be together hand in hand, perhaps having long dried the other of everything they're worth. This is the nature of their relationship and has been all along.

He glares over at Lumine, and then looks back at Dottore again. He is still as clever and enchanting as he was when they met, and Dottore can tell he suspects that he remembers him.

He takes a step forward, and Lumine begins to point her sword at them both. It is of no concern.

“She seems to think that you ascended as the Ruler of Death,” Dottore asks. “Is that really true?”

“If it was, would you forgive me?”

“Of course,” he answers.

Lumine falls to the floor in a heartbeat, dead. She'll come back when they're both long gone, he's sure.

Pantalone smiles. When he opens his eyes, Dottore is able to place that the stars in them are those of the Ruler of Death. He misses their original appearance, but he quite likes the idea of Pantalone daring to spite every single person in Snezhnaya just to save his worthless life.

“So, I belong to you?”

“Your life and death are in my hands,” Pantalone says.

“Isn't it a wonderful feeling?”

Personally, he feels a touch off-balance without the elixir of immortality in his ear. He supposes there is no need for it anymore, though.

Pantalone blinks. The rest of the car is quiet, without even the sounds of breathing.

“You really do remember, then.”

“Yes, Dottore says. “Everything.”

He has seen this man's beating heart and held it in his hands. He could name every bone in his body, every surgery he ever had, and still–

“You never fail to take me by surprise,” Dottore says, fondly.

“You're really not angry with me?”

“You didn't think I'd accept it,” he realizes. “You thought I'd reject you if I knew that you made yourself divine.”

“... You're a hypocrite, you know,” Pantalone says. “You've always held me to a higher standard than you do yourself.”

“Only because I–”

He means to say something more, but then he casts a look around the train. It is filled with things that belong to someone else. He does not like it here.

“This is no place for that conversation.”

He had liked dying. It was kinder than most things in the world of the living had ever treated him, but if Feofan loved him enough to find a way to pull him back, then perhaps that alone is enough to make it worth his time to stay alive. It'll be forever, maybe, if this is the curse of immortality. That state of affairs might be rather pleasant, given that he's not alone.

It is not like he has a choice, really. The power of death is in Pantalone's hands. But this is the same man who convinced him to go on living for four hundred years– he can surely manage to entertain him for four hundred more.

“Shall we go back home?” He asks.