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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's infantile 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 already inextricably tangled with his systems and waiting like a familiar skin.
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's infantile 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 already inextricably tangled with his systems and waiting like a familiar skin.
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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[ 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?
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[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?
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What do you mean?
[ His brow furrows slightly, the picture of inexpertly veiled confusion. But he answers that first, swallowed question with another tender stroke of his thumb beneath Khaslana's eye, the digit moving so slowly and with such light pressure that it seems more like an absent gesture, driven by need rather than any conscious thought.
Of course it's Khaslana. He's already Phainon as much as he is Irontomb. Who else would he want? What a ridiculous question, even if he knows perfectly well the yawning voids of insecurities it stems from. ]
no subject
[He tries to say it in anger, like a reason for Phainon to leave, but his tone ends up quiet - defeated, almost. He shouldn't show weakness, but he's just. Tired. He's been exhausted for so long.]
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Well. As recovered as it can be, heh. Still, Khaslana should have more than enough remaining to him to see that this fact is meaningless. ]
I don't understand why that matters. [ A disgruntled note edges his tone. Surely Khaslana isn't so deep in his pit of insecurities that he can't even see that Phainon is the one person in this world who is here with him unconditionally. ] I just want to be with you.
[ Another little brush of his thumb. ]
I just want you.