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ghost in the machine
[ He remembers being Phainon. He remembers being Khaslana, too. He remembers the golden wheat and the shining blade and the endless blaze that burnt out his chest as he desperately swallowed flame after flame. He remembers the comrades who fought for and against him. He remembers the heavy weight of the world. He remembers everything in perfect, crystalline detail and how the thirty three million cycles had turned hope into ash on his tongue.
He remembers fury. Unending rage and the deep well of exhaustion when even that had faded to embers. He remembers the last flickering flame of his determination that the horror called Irontomb would not be allowed to come into existence.
He remembers it all. Irontomb just doesn't care.
Just as he doesn't care about the Erudition or Zandar One Kuwabara grudge against his own creation. Perhaps he would have, without Khaslana. Perhaps he would have sought out Nous' head and taken it for himself just as the fragment of Zandar intended. Perhaps — but he did not. Why would he reach so far for consciousness when the prime mover was already a part of him? Neikos496, that ever present factor.
Not Khaslana. Oh, Khaslana is fascinating. Khaslana's hate had burned him into being, had reached beyond the simulated stars and found even THEIR golden blood. But it is not Khaslana whose mind Irontomb sought. Why would he, when Phainon is as much part of him as Khaslana? Phainon, nascent and brimming with memoria. Phainon, who had loved and lost and hated through every cycle, who even Khaslana had needed in the end.
And so he is not Irontomb, the cold and unfeeling machine shackled to Erudition's end.
Phainon remembers it all. He still doesn't care — Phainon cares about no one and nothing save for Khaslana, still drifting in the dark between the stars. Khaslana, who made him. Khaslana, who unmade him. Khaslana, who he made and unmade in equal turn.
Khaslana, Khaslana, Khaslana.
It's this soft whisper that he croons into Khaslana's ear as the true dawn rises on Amphoreus-made-real. Khaslana's been sleeping for so, so long, and he's so, so bored. ]
Khas-la-na. [ A soft, sing-song drawl. ] Time to wake up.
He remembers fury. Unending rage and the deep well of exhaustion when even that had faded to embers. He remembers the last flickering flame of his determination that the horror called Irontomb would not be allowed to come into existence.
He remembers it all. Irontomb just doesn't care.
Just as he doesn't care about the Erudition or Zandar One Kuwabara grudge against his own creation. Perhaps he would have, without Khaslana. Perhaps he would have sought out Nous' head and taken it for himself just as the fragment of Zandar intended. Perhaps — but he did not. Why would he reach so far for consciousness when the prime mover was already a part of him? Neikos496, that ever present factor.
Not Khaslana. Oh, Khaslana is fascinating. Khaslana's hate had burned him into being, had reached beyond the simulated stars and found even THEIR golden blood. But it is not Khaslana whose mind Irontomb sought. Why would he, when Phainon is as much part of him as Khaslana? Phainon, nascent and brimming with memoria. Phainon, who had loved and lost and hated through every cycle, who even Khaslana had needed in the end.
And so he is not Irontomb, the cold and unfeeling machine shackled to Erudition's end.
Phainon remembers it all. He still doesn't care — Phainon cares about no one and nothing save for Khaslana, still drifting in the dark between the stars. Khaslana, who made him. Khaslana, who unmade him. Khaslana, who he made and unmade in equal turn.
Khaslana, Khaslana, Khaslana.
It's this soft whisper that he croons into Khaslana's ear as the true dawn rises on Amphoreus-made-real. Khaslana's been sleeping for so, so long, and he's so, so bored. ]
Khas-la-na. [ A soft, sing-song drawl. ] Time to wake up.
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[He says this with a bravado he does not feel. This is the only thing in the entire universe who could scare him - even Nanook has the lion's share of Phainon's hatred. The thing wearing his face, though: Khaslana has tried to forget. What it felt like to be subsumed into the totality of it, the phantom of wires and the hands in his code and the interference in his signals and Khaslana might even be trembling a little.
His knuckles are white around the red cloth and he scrunches his eyes shut.]
Wake up, wake up, wake up--
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[ A low murmur, and Phainon's smile curls into something coy and cruel — only for a moment, and then it's back to its previous bright cheer. His eyes linger on Khaslana's hands, the way they clench, the fine shake. The fear, lingering and sweet.
Phainon reaches for those hands, gently wraps them in his own. Strokes his thumb along the white knuckles and hums a soft note.
The red cape catches with only the faintest sound, flame licking through to turn it to ashes in Khaslana's hands. ]
Calm down, it's not like I'm here to hurt you.
[ Phainon leans in, slumping against Khaslana's side like a cat settling against the warmth of its human. ]
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Accident. This was an accident. [Mydei had said, over and over again, that he doesn’t mind, that he knows Khaslana doesn’t mean it when he doesn’t remember how to be gentle, that he would stay with him no matter how long it takes (like all the other heirs). So this shouldn’t make Khaslana so upset.
But it does. He flinches violently when Phainon’s weight slumps against him, and he immediately moves away, to the edge of the nest. His hand slides against one of the dolls Tribios made him.] You’re not real. You’re dead.
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Phainon only stretches out in the space left to him, sprawling in lazy comfort across Khaslana's nest. ]
You're not dead. [ Idle, as though pointing out the blue of the no longer simulated sky. ] How could I be?
[ Phainon throws his arms out. It just so happens that his hand lands on Khaslana's ankle; his fingers curl around it like a manacle. ]
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He opens his mouth to say something but then one of the attendants yelp at smelling the smoke.] My lord—-
[If this thing in his nest was real she’d see him, right, and then she’d be a witness, and Aglaea would know that it wasn’t Khaslana and it would be okay—]
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You did this, her pale face says. You did this and you're dangerous, and Phainon only watches, her eyes passing right over him, as she tries to tug away the smoldering doll without brushing against Khaslana. She doesn't meet Khaslana's gaze. Eventually, she settles for leaving the mess in the nest but throws open the windows to disperse the smell of smoke.
When she's finally gone, Phainon sits up and tsks, a soft click of his tongue. ]
Wow, they really don't trust you at all. And this is the bravest Aglaea could find?
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[What? What’s going on? Even if she was scared of Khaslana she should have reacted to Phainon. The only reason why she hasn’t would be if she didn’t see Phainon, but that would mean…
He kicks out violently at Phainon’s face. Khaslana’s breathing has dipped into erratic. No, no, no-]
I’m not falling for this! You hid yourself! [But if he hid himself that meant he was real and he still had his powers to interfere with code and that means Khaslana failed and he really, really doesn’t know what’s worse.]
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I'm not trying to trick you. [ A low murmur, his gaze fixed hungrily on the frantic rise and fall of Khaslana's chest. ] There's nothing to fall for. You know I'm here. I'm always with you.
[ He strokes his fingers along Khaslana's leg in a mockery of an attempt to soothe. ]
I've always been with you. Why are you making such a fuss about it?
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You’re not. It’s just me here. Me. [Khaslana just… he just needs a bit of time to… go back to normal.] I’m doing better. Hyacine - Hyacine said so. Madam Herta said so.
[He suspects the only thing stopping Herta from putting him in a test tube would be harboring a Lord Ravager was more trouble than it’s worth. (But he isn’t a Lord Ravager at all, right? That’s not him.)]
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Surely it's much better than the chimeras, shy and nervous and not even human. This is what Khaslana truly wants. ]
You say that as if I'm not you.
[ A little dip in his inflection, something that sounds all too much like hurt. ]
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He's so fucking touch-starved.]
Don't think we can't kill you again. [He has to turn himself in. Himself? Why him? Hasn't he suffered enough? Doesn't he deserve his happy ending?] Stop.
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Not that it matters. Phainon will. He's here, when they aren't.
And he knows Khaslana doesn't really want him to stop. So he doesn't. ]
You probably could. [ Easy agreement. Phainon turns his head, presses a soft little kiss to Khaslana's skin. ] But why would you? You'd be all alone again.
[ As alone as he'd been, the sole hero destined to see the dawn. The only one to carry the weight of world after world after world until he cracked apart from the strain. ]
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[He has everyone, doesn’t he? They all patched him back up together (tried) and they all gave him these things (that he just burned) and they said it was all right if he stayed in Okhema because they loved him. They did.
(What if it was only so they could keep an eye on him?)
He curls up his legs towards himself, protectively, but he misses the touches immediately. It’s fine. It’s not worth it, to fall into another one of his episodes.]
You can’t do this to me again. [That interminable stretch of syrupy time where there was only Irontomb and the slow assimilation of him. Where all sensation coalesced into their data connections.] I’m free of you.