Chapter Text
Nous has revealed to me two paths.
And on both paths, I see you standing.
But if you take the second one, then you may have already lost the chance to say goodbye.
Spirals of cosmic matter converge in the middle of the otherwise empty Path Space, distant countless asteroids orbiting around its center. Time doesn’t flow here but it doesn’t matter – Cyrene is already used to an endless wait.
She’s heard stories of this place from the gray-haired Nameless, of how she stumbled in here once and earned herself Qlipoth’s blessing and the fiery Lance of Preservation. Back then, Cyrene had listened with that all-encompassing attention people reserved for things sparkling with novelty: things larger than oneself, things that tug at your soul and set it ablaze with passion. She’d treasured the stories and set them in the little nook of her heart reserved for all the other things she finds priceless.
She understands them now, standing here and seeing the place for herself, its magnificence a sight for eyes that have only just seen the outside of their cage.
The surface beneath her heels shimmers like walking on a low tide sea as the sun peeks over the horizon, the small ripples spreading outward in concentric patterns before fading away. A short distance away, or perhaps impossibly far, a beam of light stretches upward without end from the center of the Path Space, piercing the starry sky.
Cyrene takes a deep breath, just as she had encouraged the Trailblazer to do when they were about to finally fight Irontomb. The sound seems muffled, as this endlessly vast place doesn’t allow for echoes, for repetitions, for hesitation. She thinks of that very first cycle, of how the false sky was set on fire and it cracked like an old wall, revealing the true one, the one that really belonged to the children of Amphoreus. She thinks of Lygus’ words, of how he explained his plan and the look on Khaslana’s face when they decided, in that very moment, that they would do anything to stop him.
Just two children against the most dangerous powers in the cosmos.
Thinking about it now only makes Cyrene feel that her heart is consuming itself with grief.
But there’s no time for this, not when the fate of the universe is at stake.
The air grows thin as Herta’s words finally settle in, yet another crushing weight on Cyrene’s ribs. She feels like she should have expected it: a world gazed upon by the Destruction, how could there ever have been a happy end?
How foolish, how naive.
A spark-less gaze meets a curious, purple one.
“I have made my decision, Madam Herta.”
A small, surprised quirk of the eyebrows. “I thought you would need more time to think it through.”
There’s nothing to think through, because Cyrene didn’t have a choice to begin with. It’s so obvious to her, after she sacrificed herself countless times to try and save her precious, doomed world. Cycle after cycle, repeating the same actions: looking at the horrified expression on the white-haired boy’s face and accepting the sword that would pierce her moments later. Then going back again, just to record all those memories and offer them to an absent god.
What’s one more time?
“The answer is clear, is it not?” And yet, Cyrene’s voice trembles, the steady facade naturally cracking under all the pressure. “Still, I do need a little time…To quiet the sorrow in my heart.”
The admission is surprising to her, unplanned in its sincerity.
Herta, however, looks like she expected it.
The woman who’s just held the authority of the Remembrance smiles – small and anguished – and for just a moment her mind wanders back to that young, kind Nameless.
“Her kindness is always just right for the moment.” A resigned sigh, soft and barely audible. “I believe… She will forgive me?”
The question isn’t really directed at anyone, just a stray thought given life. The woman standing in front of her says nothing, both of them knowing the answer already. Stelle would forgive her anything – Cyrene has seen it already, how those bright yellow eyes soften at things that should’ve filled them with rage. An extraordinary quality, insisting on believing anyone can be good, even after such grave mistakes, because she thinks mistakes are just that: mistakes.
“I will say no more. I’d rather not break the mood.” Even now, there is a curious glint in Herta’s eyes, the scholar in her incapable of standing down. “But may I ask you one last thing?”
“Of course”, Cyrene answers immediately.
“Why?”
The word falls simply, and yet there is something layered beneath it – something that has the texture of a fresh wound, not yet tended to. Herta is not asking what Cyrene already knows she's asking. She's not interested in the reasoning, in the chain of logic that leads to self-sacrifice, because she understands that chain better than most. Had all of this gone differently, she might have been the one to pay the ultimate price.
She wants to know why Cyrene is doing this.
Cyrene chuckles lightly, devoid of humour. She takes a few steps towards the center of the Path Space, her eyes locked onto the towering beam of light rising upward.
A distant memory comes to her mind, a conversation with someone whose face Cyrene doesn’t remember, yet she believes it looked exactly like hers.
“I once heard a saying that went something like this:”
She lets the words flow slowly, the way she used to recite prayers to Oronix.
“Divinity is ‘flawless humanity’, and humanity is ‘flawed divinity’...
“We children of Amphoreus gave up on gods long ago. Those beings who love to play pranks on the universe…” Her voice steadies as she speaks, each word landing more firmly than the one before it. “I believe in her much more than I believe in THEM. And I believe in who I am, as a human.”
The silence that follows has a different quality than the one before, as determination shines through the clouds formed by grief.
Cyrene is overly aware of Herta’s intense gaze on her, the woman letting out a surprised, breathless sound – not at all a polite sound, but the involuntary kind that escapes people when something reaches them in the most guarded yet vulnerable part of their heart. It seems like the answer Herta got is exactly what she needed, as she says so herself: “That really is… a comforting answer.”
For a moment neither of them moves, letting their conversation settle.
Then Herta starts walking away, back towards the real world, gentle ripples spreading out in the water-like surface with each quiet footstep. Her figure grows indistinct, fading in the distance until she becomes a colorless silhouette, then melts into one with the stars.
Cyrene stands alone.
She thinks she has made peace with the ending – her end. She had made peace with it before she even arrived here and got confirmation that she wouldn’t get to live long enough to see the fruits of her hard labor. The grieving happened quietly, spread across all those days spent trying to save Amphoreus with the Nameless, plastering false smiles on her face and participating in pointless banter.
So many nights spent writing stories and daring to hope about how this journey would end. Just as many sleepless nights spent crying, teeth on knuckles to muffle the sounds so no one would hear.
What’s one more time? And then again, and again, and again…
Then she takes one step forward, ready to go back towards her past and –
A thousand eyes gaze right at her.
The sensation hits her immediately: a stifling uneasiness that wraps around her chest and squeezes, not painful but heavy in the way one would feel in front of a powerful presence.
Cyrene freezes mid-step and looks straight ahead.
A woman stands just a few paces in front of her, blocking her path.
She’s dressed in white and blue silk, the elegant dress a sight that holds Cyrene's gaze despite herself. Her posture carries a steadfast composure, the kind only gained through experience. Her blue-violet eyes, sharp and deep, are fixed on Cyrene’s colorful ones with an expression that suggests both assessment and amusement, as if Cyrene is a puzzle she has already solved.
The woman was not there a moment ago, though she is here now; as if fate had always meant for it to happen this way.
“Sorry about that.” The woman's voice is low and unhurried, each word seemingly placed with the precision of someone who doesn’t like to waste any. “Apparently the ‘little bird’ took quite an interest in you.”
She offers no explanation for who or what the ‘little bird’ is.
“I see it in you – that will to keep living, that resolve to change fate.”
A smirk grows on the woman’s face – the kind that shows off all her confidence.
"What if I told you," she says, leaning slightly towards Cyrene, "there's another path you can take?"
The Path Space feels suddenly smaller, and Cyrene has never felt so exposed.