ghost in the machine

[khrysos]

[ 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.

Comments

[sandalphon]

But you- you were the one- she…?

[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.]

[khrysos]

[ Lazily, Phainon lifts a hand and catches Khaslana's leg, the force dissipating in his hold as though the blow was a child's. He settles the leg on his shoulder then leans his head against it, nuzzles at Khaslana's ankle, affectionate. ]

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?

[sandalphon]

[He needs to stop the nuzzling thing it’s fucking with his head! Khaslana had just gotten used to having the warmth of tactility again, with the chimaeras he’d worked so hard to gain the trust of, and now he’s scared Fig Stew away.]

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.)]

[khrysos]

[ If he needs to stop the nuzzling, then why isn't he stopping it? Because Phainon's still there, rubbing his cheek against Khaslana's skin, shameless in how he revels in the touch. He's still running his fingers up and down Khaslana's thigh, little gentle strokes.

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. ]

[sandalphon]

[It's not what he wants. It really isn't. Even if his muscles contract with the urge to press into those touches, even if just the barest of the fingertips set his nerves alight.

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.

[khrysos]

[ So unbelievably touch starved, and it shows. Phainon can feel every little flex of muscle. He can see how much will it takes Khaslana not to relax into every little bit of sensation, even the faintest, feather-light brush. Incredible, how none of his so-called friends have done anything about it.

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. ]

[sandalphon]

I’m not alone.

[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.