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Dead Reckoning

Chapter 15: Sunset

Notes:

Thanks for reading this far everybody. This is the biggest project I've ever taken on, and I'm really proud of how it turned out. You all have been incredibly encouraging. I've gotten so much feedback on this — a bunch of you have been leaving comments on nearly every chapter, and I appreciate that so so much. It has made this so much more rewarding to work on.

I also made a playlist for this fic. It's divided into sections, with a few songs for each chapter. Keep in mind that the songs for this chapter are a bit spoilery, so read before you check those out! https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5mXL2b5JGEvji8ao8OdFWn?si=524d1955bb8f421c

Chapter Text

At first, there is nothing.

No light. No sound. No Gideon. No Harrow. Thought and comprehension and existence are gone, leaving behind only a void of emptiness.

And then, we exist.

We?

Yes.

We.

Us.

That feels right.

We think two sets of thoughts. We feel two sets of emotions. We are not one person.

But we’re not quite two people either, are we?

There are two streams of thought and emotion and sensation, but they are not divided. Both of us experience both of them at the same time. Our thoughts blend together. Our emotions intermingle.

There are two of us, two distinct minds, two distinct beings, but there is no line between them. We blur into one another. Both of us experience both sets of thought and emotion at the same time, until there is no distinction between which one of us is thinking what, which one of us is feeling what.

It’s a breathtakingly unfamiliar sensation.

We explore this new existence, reverent and curious. We are so excited to discover precisely what we are. We try pulling our mind in opposite directions, tugging the bond to see how far it will go. The more we pull, the further we separate. The gradient of us narrows, though it never becomes a clear, unbroken line. We’re still blurred together in the middle, but we can pull apart until we’re more distinct, more noticeably two.

We stop pulling and let the bond relax. As it goes slack, we blend lazily together, until we can barely tell one another apart. There is nothing but a sensation of oneness, of unity, the two streams of consciousness so intertwined that they appear as one cord. But even then, we are not one. The cord is still made from two strands, no matter how tightly they’re woven.

An awestruck breath slips through our lips. We suddenly realize that we’re smiling. Our cheeks are wet with tears.

We did it.

We’re together, beloved.

We are us.

Slowly, gradually, noise filters into our perception. It fades in like somebody carefully cranking up a volume dial. We hear it through two sets of ears. Two streams of sensation, filtering into both of our minds at once.

What Gideon’s body hears and what Harrow’s body hears are subtly different. We perceive the differences in both bodies, hear how the slight distance between them effects the way the sound hits them in tiny, almost imperceptible ways.

The next thing to return is touch. We are holding ourself in our arms, pressed up against one another. Gideon’s body, and Harrow’s. And yet, the division of our mind is not so clean. We could not label one half of us as Gideon, and the other as Harrow. There is part of us in one body, and part of us in another, but it’s not static. It’s like we can shift which parts of us go where, focus ourself in one area or another. It’s not as simple as Gideon being in her body, and Harrow being in hers. The division isn’t quite so neat anymore. It’s just us.

The world continues to fade in around us. The pain of our ordeal reasserts itself, a bone-deep ache settling into us. What before had only been an indistinct, muffled blur of noise solidifies into proper sound. We hear the roar of the flames, the drone of the heralds, the distant, staccato thunderstorm of the orbital bombardment.

And we hear him.

Are you ready, love? We know we’re tired, we know we only want to rest, and be together, and explore this new existence of ours. But we’ve got a job to do.

We take a deep breath, taking in the smell of flowers and smoke and each other.

We open our eyes.

The first thing we see is not Gideon’s golden eyes, nor Harrow’s obsidian ones. It is our eyes, black as ink, flecked with chips of gold and precisely one speck of lavender. Our eyes are the sky at night, a galaxy of stars glittering in the firmament of our irises. The sight of them takes our breath away. We’re still in our arms, foreheads pressed together, the tips of our noses only a fraction of an inch apart. We brush our thin, bony fingers through our fluffy ginger hair. Our rough, calloused hands hold our narrow waist. We sigh, and it comes out shaky, awestruck.

Oh, beloved, we are beautiful.

We stand up, first in one body, then the other, and take in the world around us. There is the physical world, the false beauty of the Seventh House. Then there is the blue glow of thanergy, visible again now that we’re together, infusing everything around us. Then, finally, there is the golden tapestry of thalergy weaving through it. The sounds of the collapsing city still fill the air, loud, but distant. The thrum of the swarm sits beneath it. The sharp edge of the Emperor’s power is still in the air.

So she’s not asleep yet.

Good.

The Emperor stands above his Death, holding her head in his hands. And we’ve got a bone to pick with that motherfucker.

We walk toward him. He stands in the center of a broad lawn, framed by trees on either side, with a huge rosebush behind him on the other side of the grass. Our greatsword lies on the ground where it fell when he threw us. We pick it up. The weighty metal feels satisfying in our hands. It feels right. The Emperor’s influence sharpens more and more the closer we get, but with a gesture of our hands, we draw thalergy around our bodies, like a cloak, or a suit of armor. The presence of his power is still noticeable, but we feel no fear. It cannot touch us.

The strands of thalergy dance like puppet strings beneath our fingers, and the rosebush erupts with life. Its roots rip through the ground behind the Emperor. It explodes outward, thorned, flowering vines growing and unfurling across the grass. Once they’re right behind him, we twitch the strings just so, and the vines leap from the ground and wrap around him. His eyes go wide with surprise. He pulls against them. The thorns dig into his skin. We whip the vines backward and yank him off his feet, away from Alecto. They drag him across the ground. He instinctively struggles against them, before he realizes what’s actually going on. With a sweep of his hand, the rosebush instantly decays to mulch.

We walk toward Alecto with Harrow’s body, and the Emperor with Gideon’s. He gets back on his feet, the gashes from the thorns already closed up, and looks at us.

The weight of his power intensifies as he tries to hold us in place, but our cloak of golden energy disperses it like it was a single feather. His eyes narrow.

He tries to boil our blood in our veins. He tries to turn our organs inside out. He tries to wither us into an ancient husk. He tries to pull our soul from our body. He tries to turn our bones into a construct and tear us apart from the inside. Each assault falls upon us like a tidal wave, the wrath of God unleashed as a cataclysmic storm, and each assault breaks harmlessly against our armor.

We walk confidently through the gale.

“What did you do?” He takes a step back. “What have you done?”

Blood erupts from his wrists, crystallizing into twin blades, sharp like obsidian, hard like crimson diamonds. We twirl our greatsword in a circle with one hand, then hold it steady in front of us, ready to fight. Our lips twist to the side in a lopsided smirk.

“Get fucked, my Lord.”

Our strike hits harder than a sledgehammer. The force of it hitting his blades sends him stumbling back. We redirect our sword’s momentum and spin it around into a sideways slash that slices open his gut. He counterattacks and thrusts with one bloody blade. It shatters like glass on impact.

He flees.

Dozens of ogre-like bone constructs spring to life around him as he backs away. They fall upon us. We struggle to push through them; their osseous limbs dissolve to ash the longer they touch us, but they’re bulky as hell.

We kneel down before Alecto. A gesture of our hand dissolves the bone restraints holding her in place. She collapses into our arms. Her body is limp, her breath shallow, but she is awake. She brings one arm up to rest her hand on our shoulder. Her fingers flex weakly. We hold her patiently, stroking a hand along her spine as she recovers.

Now that we can see thanergy again we can see the core of her — see the ball of blue light that fills her chest, bright like a supernova. The power of ten billion lives, collapsed into a singularity in her sternum. Chains of thanergy criss-cross her body, tied around her over and over, holding those souls prisoner.

We break through the horde of skeletons, and advance toward the Emperor. He throws everything he has at us, every school of necromancy, every trick up his sleeve, but none of it can hurt us, because he does not understand what we have done.

He renews his blades, trying to defend himself as our sword hammers him relentlessly. We have no reason to hold back anymore. We cannot run. We cannot take Alecto and escape. The Nine Houses are already doomed. But the last of the Resurrection Beasts are within the radius of the singularity. There will never be a chance like this again.

He parries, parries, parries, but he’s not fast enough. We slip past his defenses. Our sword arcs in a broad, sweeping slash, and slices through his neck. He topples to the floor, his head rolling to a stop beside his body.

We turn to look at Alecto and our other body. Her breath slowly evens out, still heavy, but steadier than before. She’s no longer totally limp. Arms shaking, she pushes back to kneel unsupported in front of us. We reach out, and slip the blindfold off her face. She holds no fear for us any longer.

Without the dread influence of her power, we are able to look into her eyes properly for the first time. Even without her power she doesn’t look quite human — she isn ’t human — but she merely looks alien now, as opposed to looking like death given form. More than anything, she looks afraid.

We open our mouth to speak, but before a single word leaves our lips, the ground beneath Gideon’s body explodes. We’re thrown violently forward, skidding and tumbling across the floor. The moment we come to a stop we are back on our feet, turning to face the threat.

The Emperor stands there, whole again, with an array of gigantic bone spears hovering in the air above and behind him. He is fury personified, stanced to fight.

With a single gesture, he launches the spears, not at us, but around us. They pierce the dirt and the brick footpaths and explode beneath the ground like landmines. Huge plumes of soil and stone burst outward, because we can dissolve thanergy, but we can ’t dissolve a goddamn rock.

We’re thrown skyward, buffeted by earthen shrapnel. We tumble through the air and hit the ground behind Harrow’s body like a sack of particularly unhappy bricks.

But we don’t let him distract us. While we groan and clutch our sides, we also brush Alecto’s hair out of her face, and tuck it behind her ear.

“Ready to go, grandma?”

Alecto nods.

The Emperor walks toward us, arms outstretched on either side of him, palms open as he channels his power. Spinning rings of crystalline blood encircle him. Dozens of bone spears fill the air behind him. A swarm of tendrils made from muscle and tendon carpet the ground around him, squirming and writhing as they search for a victim. His eyes are the death of light.

“That is enough!” he thunders. “Give it up. No matter what tricks you pull, no matter what powers you have, this isn’t a fight you can win. I cannot die!”

We’ll see about that.

We gather thalergy around our hand, and place our palm flat against Alecto’s sternum, high up, fingers touching her throat. And then we pause. For a moment, we’re tempted to make a quip. To get in the last word.

But you know what? He’s not fucking worth it. Instead, we look Alecto in the eye.

“We pray that you may find peace.”

We draw our hand down the meridian of Alecto’s body, straight through the bonds of thanergy wrapped around her torso. The gold dissolves them to nothing, and one by one, the chains break.

The supernova in her chest explodes. The spirits of the dead burst from her body by the thousands. They erupt from her chest in a tidal wave of thanergy, millions of ghostly blue faces filling the air.

And every single one of them goes straight for the Emperor.

They grab at him, countless hands grasping and pulling, all at the same time. His eyes go wide. All his weapons of magic and death dissolve to nothing, abandoned, useless against the onslaught. He struggles against their grip, trying to do something, anything, but he can do nothing. They pour from Alecto’s body like fire and fury, streaming toward him in an unstoppable torrent.

“No!” he shouts as more and more of them descend upon him, “No, stop, you have to stop!”

Their presence whirls through the air like a hurricane, like a physical wind buffeting our bodies. We brace ourself against it, anchor ourself in place as best we can in the roaring gale. He thrashes desperately back and forth, but there are too many of them, they overwhelm him with the sheer volume of their fury. A myriad of anger and resentment is unleashed upon him all at once. His existence cracks and distorts as they tear chunks out of his soul. His voice warps like a computer glitch.

“Please, I’m doing this for you!” They pay no heed to his desperate pleading. His skin flays from his bones. His blood turns to vapor. They pull him in every direction at once. He screams, “All of this was for you!”

We watch in horror and awe as God is ripped apart by ten billion angry ghosts.

His last broken, distorted scream reverberates through the air like a punctuation mark. He is shredded to nothingness. Not a single trace of him remains. After ten thousand years, John Gaius, the Emperor of the Nine Houses, is dead.

Alecto’s eyes abruptly switch color, from gold to lightless black. The torrent slows. The horde of ghosts disperses as they return to the River, where they belong. Finally, the last of them streams from her chest, and the supernova is gone. The darkness that fills her eyes — that filled his eyes as long as we knew him — fades away. It clouds, the whites of her eyes becoming visible again, before diluting to nothing. Behind the eclipse, her true eyes are a warm, friendly brown, perfectly lovely, and perfectly ordinary. They are etched with a relief beyond anything we can possibly comprehend. It remains there as the life leaves them, and Alecto’s body collapses into our arms.

It is done.

We lay Alecto’s body gently upon the grass. In death she finally looks peaceful. For a moment we consider bringing her body with us, trying to honor her in some way. But no. There will be no funeral for her, no grave. We think she’s had quite enough of tombs.

The bombardment has stopped, the city razed to the ground. The roar of fire is a low, white noise that fades into the background. The droning buzz of the Heralds almost drowns it out. They darken the sky all around the city now. Great plumes of smoke darken it even further. The other side of the lake is a vision of hell, of fire and monsters and destruction. But the palace remains untouched, a bubble surrounded by a shield of azure water. The eye of the storm.

A great, tremulous rumble shakes the world, and gravity wavers. The blue and gold energy that surrounds us squirms. Something changes in the air. A sharpening. A breath of anticipation and dread. Though it is far enough away that the sight of it won’t reach us for minutes, we know exactly what’s happening. After a moment of fluttering indecision, gravity makes up its mind.

The entire world shudders, and millions of miles away, the sun goes out.

In the center of the Empire, the cradle of humanity, Dominicus dies with its god. The world buckles and groans as gravity swells. The blue glow of thanergy that infuses everything around us warps and changes. The golden threads of thalergy thrash and sever as the balance of energy in the system goes absolutely haywire.

It’s time to fucking go.

We run for the stairs, and up to the next terrace. We pick out the ship that looks the fastest — a gorgeously sleek number decorated in true Seventh House style, lavish and handsome and classy. It’s a simply matter of channeling thalergy to undo the wards protecting the door, then thanergy to break the physical lock. We fling the door open and get in, jumping into the pilot’s chair in Gideon’s body.

It’s some kind of personal transport for somebody who must be fabulously wealthy. The cockpit is tiny and cramped, but the passenger area is plush and roomy, with two comfortable benches along the sides, and big plex windows on each wall. Two railings run along the ceiling, to provide something to hold on to for those who want to stand. We strap ourself in and start the engines; they hum to life with a smooth purr. It joins in with the low rumble of the earth beneath us, the planet itself quaking and shuddering. No time to fuck around.

Buckle up, babe, this might be rough.

We slam the throttle. Before we can even pull the steering up we rocket past the edge of the terrace and into open air. The drop into the lake hangs below us. We pull up and away from the surface. The great cloud of Heralds covers almost the entire city now, converging toward the center, blocking out the sky.

We push the ship as hard as it will go, flying straight up. The cloud closes, surrounding the city like a bubble. We slam through the thinnest layer of them in the center, splattering half a dozen Herald bodies against the hull. The flaming ruins disappear beneath the swarm behind us. Next comes the great cloud of smoke that fills the air. We plunge into it, and the visibility outside falls to nothing for just a moment before we punch through the other side.

The huge Blood of Eden battleships are still above the planet, but one by one they blink out of sight, grabbing onto the long-distance stele and warping away from the calamity. At least we won’t have to worry about the blockade. If we were a Lyctor we could just dive into the River, but we’re not a Lyctor. Our magic isn’t the same. There’s no guarantee it would work, no way of knowing whether we can survive it.

Fire streaks across the hull of our ship as we scream through the upper atmosphere and into the vaccuum. The moment we’re clear, we tap at the targeting display, grab the other end of the stele, and flick the switch.

Space stretches and blurs, and the Seventh House disappears in an instant as we latch onto the pathway and blaze forward into the tunnel. We don’t have long, all we can do is hope that we’ll be able to put enough distance behind us.

The view outside the front window means nothing anymore now that we’re in the pathway, but the ship can pick up the system on its sensors, and we can see it displayed on the screen. Each well of gravity is shown like a gradient circle, and the one where Dominicus used to be is growing. It reaches further and further out, the color growing darker and darker, like a spreading puddle. The little dots of each of the planets fall towards it, slowly at first, but picking up speed. We keep our eye on the Seventh. It falls further and further towards the singularity. Its gravity used to be a sphere, but it stretches as the planet is pulled apart.

Only a few more seconds, come on, come on.

The Seventh House falls into the black hole, and the stele goes with it. The pathway breaks. We’re spat out, thrown violently through space, tumbling wildly. We wrestle with the controls. Space blurs past around us in a dizzying starlight spiral.

We fight to even ourself out and get oriented, pushing and pulling at the controls until we’re able to align ourself, pointed directly away from the singularity. We throw the regular engines back into action.

The Blood of Eden fleet lies before us, thrown into jumbled disarray. Two of the battleships are still spinning completely out of control. They slam into one another, shattering to pieces in a frightful explosion of metal. The debris flies off in every direction. No time to divert our course, to go around. We have to go through it.

The great sea of scrap metal fills the sky before us. We duck and weave our way around them with sharp, precise jerks of the steering, keeping our speed up as we twirl around them like a feather in the breeze. The great flagship of Blood of Eden, where the Commander had taken us hostage, rockets forward alongside us. The behemoth vessel does not bother with dodging, it simply plows straight through the debris cloud like a juggernaut.

It isn’t enough. Our speed steadily decreases, no matter how hard we push it. The gravity well is utterly enormous now. It is catching up with us. The engines scream with effort, but this is too much for them to fight. Slower, slower, slower. We’re not moving forward at all anymore. We hang suspended in space, the flagship similarly arrested beside us.

And then we begin to fall backward. The black hole pulls us in, inexorably. We fall faster, faster, the Commander’s flagship pulled along with us.

We’re too close. Nothing else for it.

We plunge into the River. The front of the ship slams into the surface of the water. The deathgrip of gravity releases as we submerge into the realm of unreality. Water pours into the ship, sprays through the edges of the plex window as if it wasn’t actually airtight.

A spray of water hits our skin, and it burns like acid. We cry out and flinch away from it, unbuckling out seatbelt and climbing out of the pilot’s chair to get out of the way.

We’re not immune anymore.

The water pools on the floor of the ship. It rises, slowly, steadily. We rejoin our other body in the passenger area. We jump up onto the benches along the walls of the ship, Gideon’s body on one side, Harrow’s body on the other, with the water filling the space in between us. We look at ourself, and the fear in our eyes is clear. We’re not going to make it.

The water rises. It pours over the top of the benches, burns at our feet, then our shins. We pull ourself up, standing on the narrow ledge of the window to hold ourself a little higher, escape the pain a little longer, but it’s futile. It creeps higher, higher. It reaches up again. We whine desperately at the pain, and screw our eyes shut. Is this really it? After everything, is this honestly how we’re going to die?

Fuck, babe, we’re sorry. We deserve more than this. We deserve better than this. It’s not fair, but there’s nothing we can do.

The water reaches our knees. The pain is unbearable, but it seems… lessened? It’s agony, to be certain, but it’s less intense than it was at first. Maybe we’re imagining it, maybe we’re just adjusting, but…

We open our eyes. The water bubbles higher and higher, but the color is different. The dark, rusty red is paler. Thinner, almost. It no longer looks totally solid, it looks cloudy, like dye dispersing in water. And the clouds are moving, flowing from the front of the ship to the back. We follow it, and look out the back window.

In the distance, visible only as a darkened shape in the red cloud, is the soul of one of the Resurrection Beasts. It appears as a gargantuan mass of writhing tentacles, silhouetted in the fog.

And it is being pulled into the singularity. The soul thrashes and fights, but ultimately it is dragged along with its body toward the event horizon. The clouds of red flow along with it, though we can’t say whether they are following the Beast or simply being pulled into the black hole. The fetid pollution plaguing the waters of the afterlife flows back to its source, blood returning to the cut as the wound in reality is violently cauterized.

But the water isn’t clear yet. It eats away at us like bubbling acid. It’s almost to our waist. We have to hold out, we have to survive long enough for the corruption to clear. Along the ceiling of the passenger area is a railing — a bar for people to hold onto so they can steady themself if they need to stand while the ship moves.

We grab it, and let our feet fall from the window ledge as we curl our body up and pull ourself out of the water. We hold ourself there, hanging in the air, close to the ceiling, above the surface. With Gideon’s body it’s easy — our long arms easily reach it. Not so much in Harrow’s body. We stretch as far as we can, but it’s too far.

We leap for it, our body half-submerged. We snatch at the bar, but the resistance of the water slows us down too much. We miss. We’re falling, falling into the death that waits below.

We grab our hand. We hold onto the bar with only one arm in Gideon’s body, reaching out with the other and grabbing Harrow’s hand just before we plunge into the deadly water. We grit our teeth and groan with the effort as we pull ourself up. We grab onto the bar with Harrow’s body and pull ourself up. We swing back and forth and use our momentum to bring our legs up and loop them around the bar, holding ourself nearly parallel to the ceiling, as high up as we can manage.

We’ve bought ourself a little time, as much time as we can possibly hope for. Now there’s nothing we can do but pray that it will be long enough. We’re clutching the bar too closely to turn and see what’s beneath us, to see if the color has changed.

The water rushes higher, higher, we can hear it getting closer. Our muscles burn with exertion — god, Harrow’s body is not meant for this. Our core trembles. The water is almost upon us now. We squeeze our eyes shut, and it finally overtakes us.

Agony.

Pure, blinding agony.

It burns — not as intensely as before, but it still burns. We scream, unleashing a torrent of bubbles into the water.

Please, please, we just need to hold out a little longer.

Just a little longer.

Our grip fails, and we sink down into the water. The burning lessens, lessens, but we can’t hold on.

We can’t, we can’t…

Our vision blurs, then goes dark.

 


 

 

We gasp for air. Water floods our lungs. We cough violently, hacking and choking at the phantom sensation of drowning. Our eyes snap open.

Clear. The water is clear.

We’re floating, suspended, in the middle of the passenger area of the transport. It takes our vision a minute to fully come back, for the blurriness to fade. We turn with both of our bodies to look at the other.

The pain is gone.

Relief flood our bodies. We take a deep, steadying breath.

We made it.

Once the instinctive panic fades and our hearts stop racing, we take a minute to just float. We hang suspended in the water, and simply let ourself be. We close our eyes, and sigh deeply.

We’re okay, beloved. We’re going to be okay.

Once we decide we’re satisfied, we open our eyes, and turn to look out the windows.

The dark, stagnant mire is gone. The River is a clear, crystalline blue; we can see for miles, endless water in all directions. It is dappled with light, like sunbeams near the surface of the ocean, though there is no source for it.

Far in the distance, we see the last remnants of the bloody cloud as it is sucked toward the singularity. The monstrous souls of the last two Resurrection Beasts struggle futilely against the pull of the supermassive black hole. It is all dragged toward that final point, and then, in an instant, it is gone.

The Resurrection Beasts are dead.

The River is cleansed.

The Nine Houses are no more.

The water is so clear that we can see all the way to the bottom; there are no dark depths here, no murky abyss waiting down below. Instead there is an endless expanse of sand. It is broken up by a regular pattern of dunes — it takes us a moment to realize that those are the stoma, lying dormant beneath the sand, their monstrous maws closed with no prey to devour.

It is breathtakingly beautiful.

We relish the sensation of seeing two views at once, of feeling two sets of emotions at the same time. Outside the ship is the afterlife, restored to its full beauty, and we drink it in with two sets of starlight eyes.

There are no rotting corpses around us anymore. The souls of the dead drift peacefully through the waters, whole and unmarred. They all swim unhurriedly in the same direction. We follow their movement, and as we turn to find out where their path leads, we see it.

The other side. The place where all souls go to rest, where all souls are supposed to go to rest, finally revealed again after ten thousand years hidden in the murk. The dead all swim toward that distant shore.

There is a part of us that wants to go there. There is a part of us — and if we’re honest, that part is entirely Harrow — that wants to find out what lies on the other side. It itches at our brain, telling us to go, to discover.

But we don’t. For that is not our destination. Not today. The dead are at peace, and the living are not. They will need our help.

We guide the ship away, and carve gently through the water as we steer toward our goal.

 


 

 

The survivors of the Nine Houses float in deep space, frightened and adrift. It doesn’t take us long to find them. Basically everyone had routed through the Third House stele during the evacuation, and when it broke they were all spit out in the same region of space. By the time we emerge they’ve already begun to regroup, the scattered ships clustering together as everybody tries to figure out what the hell they’re going to do. It’s a chaotic, disorganized swarm.

The Sixth House is here, an absolute colossus amongst the normal ships. It’s the only thing bigger than the Erebos. Which is technically called the Seat of the Emperor now, but… yeah. We’re going to go ahead and keep calling it the Erebos. There’s no sign of the Seventh’s fleet here; they left through their own stele rather than the Third’s, so they must have been spat out in a different region of space.

We are sitting the pilot’s chair in Gideon’s body, focused, planning a course of action, arrange to board the Erebos and join the meeting that will surely be coming together. But we are also in Harrow’s body in the passenger area, completely overwhelmed, staring at the fractured remnants of an entire civilization.

This is all that’s left. We know that a sizable majority of the population got out in time, but looking at it like this, it looks like so few.

How many? How many lost? How many dead? The Empire had to end, the Beasts had to be destroyed, but god, at what cost?

We have the sudden urge to cry, but it only strikes us in Harrow’s body. In Gideon’s body we are still focused, our attention directed elsewhere. We are simultaneously aware of our grief and unaware of it, and the contrast is off-putting. It feels intensely strange, to the point of being disorienting, even frightening. The distress the feeling causes only makes the disconnect more intense, more noticeable. We are staring at a bereaved people and we are staring at the screen in front of us and we are overwhelmed and we are focused and we are trying to grapple with the immensity of what has been lost and we are trying to figure out how to contact the Erebos and we don’t know how to do this, we don’t know how to handle this, we don’t, we don’t—

We burst into tears. Our hands grip at our arms, folded across our chest. Great, heaving sobs wrack Harrow’s body. We shake from the intensity of it.

We finally register what’s going on and leap to Gideon’s feet, running back to the passenger area, coming to our own side. We gently prize Harrow’s hands from our arms, our vice grip coming undone with gentle coaxing, and loop Gideon’s hands around the back of Harrow’s neck. We press our foreheads together. We sob freely in Harrow’s body, and some of it spills over to Gideon’s, a few stray tears spilling down our cheeks. We try to remain calm, try to be an anchor for ourself. We wrap Harrow’s arms around Gideon’s body in a painfully intense embrace.

It’s all so terribly confusing. We don’t know how to be us yet. Some of it feels as natural as breathing, but some of it is strange and overwhelming. We wish that Gideon was here, we wish that Harrow was here. It feels stupid, but we want to be touched. We want that reassurance. And they can’t do that for us, because they’re not here. They’re gone. It’s just us.

But that doesn’t mean we’re alone. We sit down on the plush, padded bench in Gideon’s body, and pull Harrow’s body down into our lap. We want to be comforted. We want to be held and told that it’s going to be alright. Nobody has ever done that for us, not once in our fucking life, and goddammit, if we have to do it ourself we will.

“It’s alright, beloved,” we say, “we have you.”

We hold ourself through the tears. It doesn’t feel like talking to ourself, like holding ourself. It feels like hearing the murmured affections of a lover, like hearing the steady reassurances of a lifelong friend.

We might be overwhelmed, we might be confused, and frightened, and sad, but we are not alone. And we never will be again.

We remain like that for a long time, Harrow’s body softly shaking in our lap, in our arms. We don’t try to hold it back. There’s nobody to hide from, nobody here but us, and truth be told, this has been a long time coming. We pet our hand along our spine soothingly.

Eventually, the tears slow. Something within us feels achingly, satisfyingly empty, a total purge that leaves us relieved to feel hollow. We hold one hand on the nape of our neck, a reassuring, grounding touch. We know what we need. There’s no need to say it aloud, for we are of one mind, but we do anyway, relishing the feeling of companionship.

“Touch us?” It’s quiet, shy, as if there was a possibility we would refuse ourself.

Our touch stays light and innocent at first. We run our hands along Harrow’s body, without any heated intent. We just explore, touching every part of ourself lovingly, gently, because Harrow might have claimed that she wasn’t capable of being soft, but we are not Harrow anymore, and we certainly are. Maybe it’s the Gideon in us.

Each touch grows heavier — not rough, but hard, like a massage. Our fingers dig into our muscles, pressing, dragging, and we sigh, pressing Harrow’s tear-stained cheeks to Gideon’s shoulder. We turn and press a kiss to the side of our head, feeling the prickly sensation of our shaved hair beneath our lips. We dig our thumbs into our inner thighs, and a tiny, muffled noise escapes us. Steadily, rhythmically, we brush our hands up and down our thighs, pressing with our thumbs each time, going higher and higher up with every pass. We squirm, almost panting. Finally, we bring one hand all the way up and cup our sex through our pants. Our other hand grips our hip, and encourages us to rock gently back and forth.

It’s all slow rhythms and hard pressure, not chasing an orgasm, just luxuriating in the feel of being pressed together, the steady pleasure and intimacy. Everything stays above our clothes — we’re pretty damn filthy, and we might have crazy healing magic now, but we’re also not stupid. The hand on our hip comes up to clutch the back of our head, holding it against our shoulder. Our lips stayed pressed to the side of our head, murmuring endearments and encouragement into our ear.

Just like that, beloved.

Keep going.

We’re doing so well.

Good girl.

Ride our fingers.

We’re exquisite.

Slowly, unhurriedly, we build ourself up until we come, toe-curling pleasure pulsing through us. Our teeth sink into Gideon’s shoulder as we come — a thoughtless, instinctive action that draws a low, breathy moan from our lips. Everything is spilling through us and between us. We feel the pleasure in Harrow’s body, but we also feel it in Gideon’s body. It’s like both of us are coming at the same time, pressed together until it’s unclear where one body ends and the other begins, Harrowhark-and-Gideon, Gideon-and-Harrowhark at last, blurred together in a single crescendo of warmth and pleasure and love.

The climax doesn’t come as a single peak; it is a long, slow wave, overcoming us, building to its crest, then gradually tapering off. We’re left breathing heavy and slow, pressing our bodies together as if to make them follow suit with our souls.

We stay like that for a long time. Time blurs, perhaps five minutes going by, perhaps twenty, we cannot be sure. All we know is that it is quiet, and it is warm, and we are together.

A noise comes from the computer in the cockpit.

Goddammit, somebody is hailing us.

We sigh. For a moment we could pretend the universe was nothing but us. It’s so tempting to stay like this, to stay in our arms. But we won’t.

We clamber reluctantly out of our lap, and we walk into the cockpit in Harrow’s body, sitting down in the pilot’s chair as we lean against the doorway, looking over our shoulder. We press the button to receive them.

“This is Sergeant Amos Quell, hailing from the Seat of the Emperor. We’re trying to take a census of who is left. To whom am I speaking?”

“This is Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of the—“ we pause. Our parents are gone now. We know Aiglamene will have left their bodies behind on the Ninth. There is no reason to pretend anymore. “Reverend Mother of the Ninth House.”

There is a pause. “I’m sorry for your loss, Reverend Mother.”

“There are only two of us here — Harrowhark, and Gideon Nav, our cavalier primary.”

If our weird phrasing throws him off, he doesn’t show it. “We’d like for you to come aboard, if you will. We’re attempting to gather the heads of all the Houses, to discuss… well, everything. Your Seneschal is already here; she wasn’t sure if you had made it or not. I can secure a docking bay for you.”

“We will await your word.”

The communications channel cuts out. We sigh. Aiglamene made it. The Ninth made it. We can take comfort in that, at least. We suspect that there will be little comfort once we exit our little bubble and rejoin the rest of the survivors. That’s fine. We’re ready to face it. It feels like something has been purged from within us, leaving us satisfyingly empty, like the pleasant ache after a good workout. We’re ready to face the world again.

It’s time to pick up the pieces.

 


 

 

The scene on the Erebos is total chaos. The heads of all the Houses — plus all sorts of nobles, advisors, attendants, and retainers — are all packed into the chamber. The room was built to be a meeting place for the admirals, and isn’t equipped to handle this many people.

The central table isn’t big enough to fit everyone, so people are spread all throughout the room, broken into separate, overlapping conversations. Many of them are injured, and the medics bustling to and fro certainly don’t help the crowded feeling. There’s a huge bank of displays mounted on one of the walls, which are being used to patch in the Seventh House, so they can participate in the discussion.

The rest of the walls are decorated with memorials to great generals and heroes of the past. Their skulls line the perimeter of the room, each of them mounted above their own stately plaque and surrounded by wreaths of sad, wilted flowers. The ceiling is tall and vaulted, with great plex skylights that make it look like a planetarium.

We survey the crowd, catching snippets of conversations — arguments, really — as they happen.

“—already told you, we will not allow the Ninth to become an appendix to the Second House,” comes Aiglamene’s growling voice.

“That’s not at all what I’m suggesting,” Judith Deuteros says, adjusting her grip on a cane made of bone, “I’m simply saying that with the resources of the Cohort at our disposal, the Second House is best equipped to offer aid and—“

Aiglamene looks like she’s about to skin her alive with nothing but her eyeballs. She holds herself as tall as she’s able on her bad leg, somehow glowering down at the poor woman despite being shorter than her. Judith looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. Good to know the Ninth can still instill at least some fear in the hearts of the other Houses.

The Tridentarius twins are at the main table, facing a group of Cohort admirals on the other side. Ianthe looks like she hasn’t slept for a week, with dark bags beneath her eyes, her body folded in on itself to make her look even skinnier and less substantial than normal.

The glowing thanergy that pervades her body is… wait, hold on, why can we see thanergy within her? She’s a Lyctor, we shouldn’t be able to do that. But we can see it clear as day. Did she… lose her necromancy? Is that why she looks like she’s about to pass out? She’s resting her weight on Coronabeth, who is animated and fiery, doing most of the talking for the two of them.

“This is pointless,” one of the admirals says, “we need to have this discussion with the King.”

“The King refused to leave until all of his subjects were safe,” Ianthe says, her voice almost as hoarse as it was after she fought the Beast, “I’m afraid that he didn’t make it, in the end. That leaves the two of us as the heads of the Third.”

Ah, so they killed him then. Good to know. He was a huge piece of shit, so we don’t really blame them, but what the fuck happened while they were on the Third?

Juno is visible on the other side of the crowd — she’s pretty impossible to miss, given how comically tall she is — arguing with a group of people we can’t quite make out. There’s no sign of Warden beside her, but we wouldn’t be surprised if they needed more time to heal before anything like this.

There are dozens of snippets of conversation going back and forth, all of it angry, and growing angrier by the second.

“—the Eighth House does not have the authority to—“

“—we refuse to let the Cohort undermine the sovereignty of the—“

“—well then the Seventh can damn well fend for themselves!”

“—no we will not let this fall to a vote, the Ninth and the Sixth’s populations are a tenth the size of ours, we will not let a tiny minority dictate—“

This is going to be a disaster. We can see it now, unfolding before our very eyes. The larger Houses will bully the smaller Houses until they have no say in their future. If we had to guess, we’d wager the Second will call upon their authority over the Cohort, and use the chaos as justification to take command. No matter what happens, it’s going to be ugly.

These people are desperate and frightened, and that is a dangerous combination. They have no guidance. They have no leader. They have no home.

Because of what we did. We chose to accept Alecto’s deal. We chose to try and flee, rather than turn her over to the Emperor. We knew it was risky, but we did it anyway. We took these people’s lives into our hands. That was our decision, and that makes this our responsibility.

We know what we need to do. Maybe it’s the Harrow in us, but we recognize a lost flock when we see one.

We step forward into the horde of people. The cacophonous din envelops us. We stand in the middle of the crowd, side by side, surrounded by people. We raise two hands — one as Gideon, one as Harrow — and stretch them to the sky above us, palms facing the ceiling so that the tips of Harrow’s fingers and Gideon’s fingers almost touch one another. We listen to the devolving arguments.

“—don’t you dare suggest that—“

“—you can’t possibly think—“

“—we will not stand for—“

We close our hands into fists, and every strand of thalergy in the room pulls taut.

Light — real light — erupts from our fists, casting beams of glowing gold upon the crowd like a newborn star. The wreaths of flowers erupt with growth, unfurling to the floor in a waterfall of vines and blooming colors. Everybody’s injuries all heal up at once.

Broken bones snap back into place.

Gashes close.

Bruises fade away.

All the exhausted faces that surround us brighten with renewed energy. It’s like a shock of fresh air flooding into the lungs of every single person in the room.

We release our power, and the light disappears. The sea of people instinctively parts around us, backing away to make a circle of open space.

We look like death. Gideon’s body is especially bad; our leather jacket is beat to shit, and we’re completely covered in soil and ash. Our sunglasses are cracked. We’re holding our absolutely massive sword in our other hand, resting its weight on our shoulder. Its length is coated in blood. So are our hands. Our face is covered in skull paint that was deliberately ugly even before it got smudged beyond recognition. We look like we’ve emerged from the bowels of hell.

We lower our hands.

“We are the daughter of God,” we say plainly. We do not raise our voice. We do not need to. The crowd has fallen to silence. “We are the heir to the House of the First. By imperial law, command of the Nine Houses falls to us.”

There is not a trace of doubt in the sea of awestruck faces. Nobody dares interrupt. The entire room breathlessly awaits our words.

“The admirals and the leaders of each House may stay. Everybody else, leave.”

A moment of silence. For a second, we think somebody might challenge us. But then everybody begins to shuffle out of the room. Some of them whisper amongst themselves as they go, but nobody speaks outright. Eventually the last of them leaves, and closes the door behind them.

We survey those who remain. The Tridentarius twins. The twelve Cohort admirals, including Judith Deuteros; we hadn’t realized she’d been promoted. The Grand Judge of the Eighth, looking like they’re about to compulsively kneel and pledge their undying devotion. The Seventh, participating remotely. The Commander of the Fourth and the King and Queen of the Fifth. Aiglamene, who we guess is probably unsure what the status of the Ninth’s leadership is, given our new form. The Sixth has a larger presence than the other Houses, since they’re ruled by a council, not a single monarch. We don’t recognize most of them, but Juno is there, standing beside a person in a wheelchair who… wait…

“Warden?”

Their skin is warped and gnarled, as if it’s melting off their body. They’re completely bald. The bottom half of both their legs is missing. One of their eyes is milky and sightless. Their wheelchair must be borrowed, because it’s not the right size for them at all. They smile at us, but they do not speak. Instead, they use sign language.

“Good to see you again, Ninth.”

“We — shit, we’re glad you’re alright, Warden.”

“Likewise.”

We bite our lip. We want to talk to them, to have a proper conversation, but there are more pressing matters at hand. We turn to the assembled crowd.

“Well. Lot to talk about, hmm?”

The Grand Judge drops to one knee and bows their head. “You have the loyalty of the Eighth House, Lord. As we once offered our fealty to the man who became god, we offer it now to the woman who has done the same.”

“Oh, no, that’s really not—“ we attempt to dissuade them.

“Long live the Empress.”

“Don’t call us that.” We abruptly contradict them. “That is done with. No more Gods or Emperors; we have no intention of dragging these Houses along for another myriad. The Empire is no more. It’s time to let it die.”

A murmur sweeps through the crowd. They speak in hushed, frantic whispers. They look like they’re drawing straws to decide who has to be the one to speak up.

“Where will we go?” Coronabeth asks at length. “We have no home.”

“We sue for peace. We don’t need to rebuild. We will find a new home for us, for our people, amongst the rest of humanity.”

“So that’s it, then?” the Commander of the Fourth asks quietly, “You are the inheritor of the Nine Houses, and you’re simply going to let them die? You’re going to abandon your people?”

We shake our head vehemently.

“We’re not abandoning shit. We’re not sticking around forever, but we’re not leaving you behind, either. When all our people have found homes, when all our people are safe, only then will we leave you to your new lives. We will guide you through the sunset of the Empire.” Our lips twitch into a small smile. “We will be your Sunset Queen.”

And the Grand Judge is back on their knees again.

“Hail, to the Sunset Queen.”

We pinch the bridge of our nose and sigh wearily. Ianthe looks like she’s about to burst out laughing. Warden is better at hiding it, but we can tell that they’re not far behind. Ianthe fixes us with a shit-eating grin. She does not bow, but inclines her head. “Hail, to the Sunset Queen.”

Coronabeth echoes her. Then the Second follows suit, and the Fourth, and the Fifth, and on and on, until all of them have said the words. As the last of them finishes, we nod in acknowledgment.

“There’s a lot to do,” we say. All of them look at us expectantly. We look down at our utterly filthy bodies. We look back up at the assembled crowd. “But first, we’re going to need someone to point us to a goddamn sonic.”

 


 

 

It goes on for hours. Dear lord, it goes on for hours. Of course it does, an entire solar system ’s worth of people were just rendered homeless at the same time. There’s so much to do, so much to plan, so much goddamn, insufferable bickering.

The basic plan is not that complicated, in the end. The admirals were rightly concerned that the rest of humanity might not be too keen on taking us in, given, you know, the whole ‘millenia of brutal, unrelenting war’ thing. But necromancy is a hell of a bargaining chip. Dominicus is dead, and new necromancers cannot be born outside its light; the survivors of the Nine Houses are the last generation of necromancers that will ever live. There’s a lot that can be done with that power, and we reckon that people will want to take advantage of it while they still can.

But just because the basics are uncomplicated, that doesn’t mean that the details are. The political infighting is insufferable. Everyone is tired and stressed, and it makes for a volatile dynamic. We have to order the Fourth and the Fifth to walk away and cool off after they get into an outright shouting match. Juno snaps at the whole group and berates them for talking over Warden, whose injuries have left them fully mute. Ianthe pisses Aiglamene off so badly that the admirals have to physically restrain her. Honestly, we kind of wish they wouldn’t — we could really use some entertainment.

The planning and arguing goes on endlessly, but eventually, people start to flag. Everyone has had a long, stressful day. Many of them were injured, and even if we healed them, it still took something out of them. At a certain point, we have to make it clear that people can go and get some sleep if they need to. Everyone is reluctant at first, but one by one, they start to trickle out.

The group is whittled down until it’s just us, Aiglamene, the Tridentarius twins, the Commander of the Fourth, Warden, and one of the other members of the Council of Six whose name we cannot remember for the life of us. Everybody is slumped in their chairs in increasingly tenuous states of uprightness. Papers and tablets lie scattered all over the table. Coronabeth picks idly at a bowl of salad — the admirals arranged for the cafeteria staff to bring food over after things started running long.

“I think I’m going to call it for the night.” Warden signs.

“Yeah, of course, get some rest. You’ve had a hell of a day — even more than most of us.” They start picking up their things, and the Commander of the Fourth and whatshisface from the Sixth follow suit. We haven’t been able to properly talk to them, it’s been so frustrating, but we’re certainly not going to hold them back now. Once they have everything together, they turn their chair to leave.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow. Goodnight…” their hands flutter indecisively for a moment. “Hmm. I’m guessing that calling you Gideon or Harrow wouldn’t be accurate anymore, would it?”

“No, we don’t think so.”

“What should I call you?”

“We’re still working on that, to be honest.”

“Well you’re going to want to figure that out pronto,” Warden signs with a deadpan expression on their face, “because if you don’t, I’m going to start nicknaming you, and while that will be very fun for me, I doubt it will be for you.”

We give them a Look. They Look right back.

“Just think about it, Griddlehark.”

We blink.

“Yes, honestly Navegesimus,” Ianthe smirks, “you really should think these things through.”

“Stop that.”

“What, are we bothering you, Hav?” Warden signs.

“We—“

“Are you bothered, Griddow?” Ianthe asks with faux concern.

“That’s—“

“Don’t get so flustered, Narrowhark.”

“Yes, really, don’t get so—“

“One more word and we will rip your radii from your bodies and use them to play a sick drumbeat on your exposed skulls.”

We stare them down, eyes narrowed. Warden meets our gaze, completely expressionless. Our little staring match is interrupted when Coronabeth bounces in her seat and says,

“Ooh, ooh, I’ve got one!” she pauses for dramatic effect. “Nark.”

We point a finger at her. “We’ll let it go this once, but only because you’re nice.”

Warden’s shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“Goodnight, Ninth.” They look to Coronabeth. “Goodnight, Princess.”

“That’s Queen to you,” Coronabeth corrects, though there’s no heat to it.

They head out the door, and we realize that the Fourth Commander and the Sixth councilor left while we weren’t paying attention. Aiglamene is still here, staring at the Third duo with narrowed eyes, like she’s debating whether it’s worthwhile to slap them for their disrespect. She stumps over to us. All this activity must be making her leg act up, because she’s limping more than usual.

“Finally worn out, captain?” we ask. That’s not technically her title anymore, but old habits die hard.

“Not by half, my lady.”

“You really should get her to replace that creaky old thing,” Ianthe says. She’s staring right at Aiglamene’s false leg. She looks Aiglamene in the eye and holds up her skeletal arm, turning it back and forth as if to show it off. “I can personally attest to the quality of her work. Couldn’t recommend it higher, really. Rave reviews.”

“I get the impression that not enough people have told you to shut up over the course of your life.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“No, I really wouldn’t be.”

We fight to contain a smile. “She’s not wrong, you know. We could replace it. It would probably give you less trouble if we did.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Ianthe shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

Aiglamene moves to leave, but we put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. We lean in closer, and speak low enough that the twins won’t hear us.

“Thank you, captain.”

Even though we spoke to her using Harrow’s body, Harrow’s body is not the one she responds to. She looks us right in Gideon’s eye.

“Of course, my lady.”

She leaves, and suddenly, it’s just us and the twins. Coronabeth picks at her salad some more. We stare at Ianthe. She busies herself collecting papers from the table. She’s been speaking to us pretty normally the whole night — which is to say, she’s been a snide, sarcastic little shit — but despite that, she has not looked us in the eye even once.

“You planning to tell us what the hell happened to your necromancy?”

She does not lift her eyes from the table. “Hmm, well you see, we encountered the Death of the Lord directly during our daring escape, and she used her dread powers to drain us of our necromancy.”

“Both of us,” Coronabeth pipes in, with affected solemnity, “it’s tragic, really.”

“We’re beside ourselves,” Ianthe deadpans.

“It’s going to be so hard, adjusting to life without necromancy. I don’t know how I’ll manage it.”

We narrow our eyes at them. “Fine. Keep your secrets, then.”

“You seem to be content keeping your own,” Ianthe says.

We laugh. “Honestly, we didn’t mean to be so opaque about what we’ve become. Everyone seemed to catch on fairly quickly. Or perhaps they were just too polite to question us.”

She pauses. “So you really did it then?”

“Yes, we suppose we did.”

She considers this for a moment, then shrugs and tips her head to the side in a sort of ‘fair enough’ gesture. She makes a show of busying herself, gathering up the last of her stuff. Then she turns to Harrow’s body, and finally meets our eyes.

“Well, I think it’s time for us to retire for the night. But Ninth? Do feel free to stop by, in case two ever starts to feel like a lonely number.”

Coronabeth chokes on her food, and punches her sister in the shoulder.

“Are you serious, Yanthy?” she gestures at the bowl, “Right in front of my salad?”

Ianthe could have just been joking, just needling us like she always does. But no. She made certain that she could play it off like that’s what she was doing, but her offer was serious. It’s not like we have no interest — Harrow’s attraction to her plus Gideon’s general ambient horniness is… quite a combination. But when we try to think about it, all we can see is the way her face looked as she stood over our broken, bleeding body.

“No, Ianthe,” we softly say, “we’re glad you made it, but we think it might be best for you and us to keep our distance.”

Ianthe’s face falls. There’s a brief flash of anger, just for an instant, before it slips away, replaced by something that looks almost like shame. She nods, not quite meeting our gaze anymore.

“Yes, of course,” she says. Coronabeth stands up to join her sister. “Shall we, Cori?”

“Why don’t you go on ahead?” Coronabeth replies, “I’ll catch up in a moment.”

Ianthe nods, and moves to leave, but then she pauses. Her eyes flick briefly up to ours before looking away again. “Be seeing you, Gideon, Harrow.”

We nod in acknowledgment, but say nothing. She leaves, and we watch her as she goes. For a moment we just stare at the door, as if looking at an afterimage.

“I hope that doesn’t apply to me as well.” Coronabeth breaks us out of our reverie. We turn to face her in Harrow’s body, and we’re greeted by a soft smile that seems too small for her outsized personality. We place a hand on her arm.

“Of course not. Our doors are always open to a friend.”

Her smile turns absolutely beaming. She nods enthusiastically, placing one hand over ours and squeezing briefly. We return her smile, and she leaves with a skip in her step that really shouldn’t be possible for somebody who’s been awake this long.

We are alone. Or as alone as we are capable of being, anyway.

Holding up alright, beloved? It’s been a long day.

This room felt so crowded and claustrophobic earlier, but now that we’re by ourself it feels huge. The chairs aren’t perfectly pushed in, sitting askew where people left them. There are still some stray papers scattered across the table. The tangled waterfall of flowers spills down the walls. Somebody will probably have to clean that up at some point.

We sigh wearily, and walk out the door. How long has it been since we slept? Gideon got a few hours on the shuttle on the way to the Sixth, before she got captured. As for Harrow… well, she never got much sleep at the best of times. The admirals arranged for rooms to be set aside for everybody in the meeting, and that includes us. A comfortable bed and a full night’s rest awaits us.

 


 

 

But despite our exhaustion, we don’t head to our room immediately. We wander aimlessly through the halls of the Erebos. It isn’t like we’re lost in thought — frankly, we’re too tired to do much thinking at this point — but we’re certainly lost in something. After a while, we figure if we’re going to be contemplative, we might as well go somewhere that’s actually conducive to it. We head for the observation deck; we remember enjoying the view during Harrow’s stay on the Erebos.

The deck is built at the end of a long, narrow section of the ship. The back wall of it is solid, but the rest of it is a great bubble of plex, criss-crossed by metal supports that break it into triangular panels. The door leads out onto a walkway that terminates in a broad, circular platform in the middle of the bubble. Thin metal railings form the frame of it, but the floor and the sides are completely transparent. When you’re in the center, it gives you an almost completely uninterrupted view of the stars on all sides.

And sitting right there in the middle is a familiar figure.

“Mind if we join you?”

Warden nods, and gestures for us to do so. The two of us stand on either side of them, and we stare out at the expanse before us through Gideon’s eyes.

The whole sky glitters with stars in every direction. The bright band of the galaxy wraps around us. Brilliant light glows from behind the vast, patchy clouds of dust. Shades of blue and purple of orange suffuse the blackness. We see star clusters and nebulae, distant galaxies and supernovas. Even after almost a year of living on a space station we’re still not used to the beauty of the universe.

At the same time, we can’t help but stare at Warden. Their skin is twisted and gnarled. Their blind eye is clouded and empty. Before, their eyes had been heterochromatic, but now their one good eye is split evenly in half, a diagonal line cutting across their iris where it changes from brown to grey. We wonder if their hair will grow back, or if the burn goes down to the roots. Their legs aren’t quite the same length, one of them ending just above where the knee would be, the other ending about halfway up the thigh.

It really isn’t fair. We wish we could undo what was done to them, but we can’t. We can’t heal them — they’re already healed. Just because a wound has closed doesn’t mean it won’t leave a scar.

“You can stop worrying.” We look up at them at the sight of movement. Ah. We guess our staring was not as subtle as we hoped.

“We apologize. It’s just… we’re sorry.”

They shrug. “I’ll adjust.”

“Yeah.” Our lips twitch into a smile. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. You looked like you were thinking Deep Thoughts.”

“I was thinking that Palamedes would’ve loved to see this.”

God, he would have, wouldn’t he?

We miss him, all of a sudden. We remember when we last saw him — saw him, not Warden, because even if he became them, they’re not the same person. It was in the bubble in the River. We remember him hugging Harrow, remember the naked relief on his face when he realized Gideon was still alive. He was our friend too. Perhaps it’s the tiredness catching up to us, but we find ourself feeling strangely melancholy.

“Do…” we start, then bite our lip as we try to choose our words, “Do you ever miss him?”

They sigh, and look back at the stars. Their face is lined with thought as they consider. At length, they sign, “Yes.”

“We miss him too. He was a good man.” We say. Warden doesn’t respond. We sigh. “It’s such a bitch. He should still be here. He should be here with his wife and his cavalier, and he should get to see the stars. He should get to find a new home with us, and stay up way too late reading until Cam bullies him into getting some rest. He should get to kiss the woman he loved.” We pause. “Women he loved?”

“It was complicated.”

“Either way. He deserved far better than he got.”

Warden’s hands grip the legs of their pants absently, curling thoughtlessly where they rest upon their thighs. Their lips are pursed, their gaze distant. Their fingers pluck at the fabric before they lift them to sign, “He did. I don’t… I don’t really know how to reconcile those things in my mind, if I’m being honest.”

“What do you mean?”

“If he was still here, I wouldn’t be.”

We hum in acknowledgment. We chew Harrow’s lip — a nervous habit of hers that seems to have carried over. Curiously, we only feel the urge in Harrow’s body, no matter which part of our mind is centered there.

“We think we know what you mean.”

“Yes, I suppose Gideon and Harrow didn’t exactly get a fair shake either, did they?”

“Yeah, it’s… we’re angry for them, you know? They never got to have anything good. Not once in their life were they happy.” We hesitate for a moment. “They should have been. They deserved to be.”

“They did,” Warden signs, “and if I properly understand what you are, then… I’m going to miss the two of them, too.”

Our hearts skip a beat. Fuck, we are not prepared for the emotion that sentence stirs in our chest. We open our mouth — we’re not even consciously aware of which one — but we can’t find any words. A shaky exhale is all that comes out. Our eyes stare sightlessly up at the stars.

“Yeah.” It comes out thick, almost choked. Warden places a hand on Harrow’s arm, the touch immediately reassuring. We want to look at them, to do something to indicate we appreciate the gesture, but we can’t bring ourself to meet their eyes. “Is… is it bad that we wouldn’t give this up for them? That we wouldn’t stop being us, even if it meant they got to live?”

We fight the urge to look away from them, to hide from their gaze, their judgment. But they don’t look judgmental, just thoughtful. They take a moment to consider before responding.

“You know, when Palamedes figured out the theorem — figured out how to become me — he refused to do it. He told Camilla that it wasn’t fair to her, that she should get to live her life.” They pause for a moment. “Do you know what she said?”

“What?”

They smile. “She said it would be an honor to become something new with him.”

Our lips part. We try to respond, but we don’t know what to say. They gently pat us on the arm, and with that, they bid us goodnight. They turn their chair around, and head back down the walkway. The door slides shut behind them with a gentle whoosh.

The deck falls silent.

The stars are beautiful. The whole sky sparkles, an ocean of color and glittering light. There are no lights on the observation deck, nothing that might dim the view. It is dark, and when we stare away from the back wall, it’s like we’re standing suspended in space. There is nothing — no walls, no floor, no light, no sound but the barely-there hum of the engines. The universe envelops us.

Neither of our bodies looks at the other as we speak.

“It’s been an honor, babe.” Our fingers intertwine. We hold our hand and squeeze affectionately. Though there are tears rolling down our cheeks, we’re smiling.

“It’s been an honor.”