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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.
no subject
Khaslana’s grip tightens for a moment, the bones grinding under his hands, and then he lets go completely, his face pale with shock, the grief naked on it.
He remembers doing the same thing. Reaching up at the verge of death to Phainon, to this same face, begging him to not lose faith. But never in all of those recurrences has someone else done this for him, for Khaslana; never has anyone been able to comfort him in the spaces between cycles. When he had to ignite the hatred and mourn for the long road ahead. Again and again and again.]
Don’t… [Nobody else, too, has looked at him like that. Like he’s wanted as he is.
He tilts his head, infinitesimal, into the touch, and hates himself.]
no subject
Was he ever actually in danger? Maybe. Maybe he can only be injured when Khaslana wants him to be. Whichever it is, he doesn't particularly care. It doesn't matter, not when Phainon has Khaslana leaning into his touch, even the weight of his loathing unable to keep him from wanting so desperately.
Phainon spends his moment of victory gently stroking his thumb along Phainon's cheek, a fragile, tender caress. A reward, for leaving him intact — the bruises around his throat already fading. A reward, for giving in — Phainon leans in closer and rests their foreheads together, gifting Khaslana this quiet moment of warm, (in)human touch. A reward, for wanting Phainon so much that Khaslana pretends it's a need — and Phainon tips his head, angling it so they're sharing breath, only the barest sliver of space between their mouths, poised for a kiss.
Then he asks, teasingly: ]
Don't... stop?
no subject
The- this planet- this memory zone- is under surveillance. You won’t break out of it again. [Every muscle is frozen and tense with restraint. Khaslana inhales. Every word brushes against Phainon’s lips.] Even if you infect me. They will kill you. [Us.] This is folly.
no subject
[ To leave you, remains unsaid. He doesn't need to say it, not when he can let hot breath against Khaslana's lips say it for him, when the gentle touch of his hand still on Khaslana's face drives home exactly what Khaslana would lose if Phainon decided to abandon him.
Instead, the words are chiding as much as amused, as though Khaslana is some thoughtless child asking silly questions he should already know the answer to.
He doesn't point out that the surveillance hasn't found him yet. That if he can remain hidden from the attendant, he can just as easily stay out of sight from the so-called geniuses and their ilk playing at wardens.
He doesn't point out that he has no need to infect Khaslana when Khaslana made him. That he's already buried so deep in Khaslana's flesh and bone, hooked and bloody around Khaslana's spine and snug against Khaslana's heart, that not even an Aeon could rip him out.
No, none of that. What Phainon does say is a low murmur, something charred through with licking tongues of possessive heat: ]
Why would I want to be anywhere but here with you?
no subject
[Him? The look on Khaslana’s face is an old, well-worn argument. It’s the look of frustrated inadequacy Phainon only wears when he looks in the mirror. That he doesn’t deserve jack shit, how could he, when he hasn’t done enough? Anything, if at all?
It’s something Irontomb would have seen in his memory data, but never directed at him. Not when Khaslana had anger to burn, before that final battle spanning the universe. It’s a visible crack in Khaslana’s foundations, even as he draws back ever so slightly.]
What do I have to give you?