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Flanais was no stranger to crossing paths with travellers. As the one who diligently charts the Citrusverse’s chaotic landscapes, they often spent their days jumping between worlds, drawing new locations onto their maps or simply hanging around and doing some sightseeing, so running across a couple of weirdos who were also travellers like them wasn’t anything new, heck, they’ve started to recognize some of them with the amount of times they run across some of them in the Multiversal Hallways.
The oddball they crossed paths with this time however… Flanais squints at the man in front of them while being covered in sprinkles of rainbow confetti mixed with streamers. The stranger returns their suspicious look with a mischievous smile beneath a wide-brimmed witch hat, paying no mind to the messy predicament they put Flanais in.
”Oh, darling Flanais, what serendipitous timing!” The man spoke with an air of whimsy. “Don’t you recognize me, or has it been so long Cycles has turned your memory to soup before I returned?” They tilt their head, the gold and silver ornaments decorating their hat tinkling with the movement.
A stray strand of streamer floats down from their head when Flanais tugs at the hem of their hood, the multicolored tinfoil soundlessly drifting onto the marbled floor. God, this was going to be a pain to clean up, wasn’t it?
Flanais sighed deeply. How could they forget? “Verthandi.” they greeted plainly, making their irritation clear by swatting off of their shoulder the shiny remains of a well-hidden confetti bomb. “I still prefer you continue staying out of my sight after many years and cycles.”
Verthandi’s grin widened at the comment. “You wound me, fellow traveller, but alas, I have found myself indulging in this wanderlust that has captured my heart just like it has for you, too.” They hum. “It’s a welcome change of pace in this new era of peace, if I were to comment on my experience thus far. I don’t need to be as careful when zipping through worlds now.”
Flanais furrowed their brows, but no one can fully observe the firmly-set frown on their face under their mask.
Verthandi, God of Time. Flanais has experienced many things ever since their birth, but the previous guardian of the Temple of Time, or the Kronos Temple was not a significant part of it. All they remembered about them were a few snippets of their interactions with Laverne during their inauguration into their current duties before they disappeared for a long time. Still, it was enough for them to get an idea of their character— lousy with their duties, impulsive, Citrusverse’s most notorious prankster, and very very cryptic.
Perhaps they’ve changed since the last time they’ve met, Flanais thinks, but they quickly retract the thought when Verthandi cackles at their silence, the sharp, intrusive noise an absolute crime to their ears. No— the God of Time hasn’t changed much at all.
”Alas!” Verthandi poses dramatically, kicking up some of the confetti that landed on the floor. Flecks of glitter and foil sparkled like stars under the golden light of the ever-day Hallways. “That new god of ours has fully kicked me out of retirement and confined me back to the Temple! That’s so cruel, don’tcha think, Flanny?” Flanais’s brow twitches at the use of that nickname. Ugh.
”It was your assigned position that you neglected for cycles.” Flanais grumbles. “Your absence has caused Cycles and your substitute many troubles. I think your house arrest is well-deserved. In fact—“ Their furry antennae flicked once, their lime colored halo bobbing with the motion. “— why aren’t you at the Temple? I thought Mr Wong confined you there.”
Verthandi scoffs. “Correction. Mister Tristan only made an order after my… defeat to return to my duties, get it right.” They paced around Flanais, playing languidly with the indigo hem of their robes. “He didn’t lock me behind bars, which was a total mistake, because I can still traverse as I please.” They smirk. “I am free to roam provided every time he looks my way I’m hard at work, and of course, if the clock doesn't malfunction and sets us in a loop 5 minutes in the past.”
Flanais raised their eyebrows. “Are you trying to get Mr Wong to lock you in the Temple?”
Verthandi giggles, as if bashful. “Ha ha! You overestimate me, Flanais. I wouldn’t dare test him, I know he doesn’t bluff most of the time. I only rebel because I think he’s being unnecessarily mean with the present terms of my survival.” They trail off, their ultraviolet eyes scanning their face, then lingering momentarily on their fluffy moth antennae, to Flanais’ displeasure. “And I do prefer keeping my freedom the way it is for now, unless our new lord has news for me through you?”
The traveller considers telling the other something blatantly false to mess with them, but they decide against it. “He doesn’t.” Flanais shook their head. “That’s why I wasn’t looking for you.”
“Hm, okay.” Verthandi’s demeanor flips from their usual blasé to something more thoughtful. Something passes like a shadow over their gaze, gloved fingers resting on the precipice of their chin, as if considering something, then — a spark, their brows arch upwards, and a fanged smirk breaks free on their face, to Flanais’ dismay.
”Well…” Verthandi croons. “Tristan might not be looking for me, but I have a few messages of my own, if you would be so kind as to pass it on for me.” They fluttered their eyelashes.
Flanais raised a brow, questioning. “Why should I do that?”
”Pleeeeeeeeeaaaaaaassseeeeee? I swear, if I said it myself instead of you, I’m going to die 50 billion painful deaths at his hand! It’s very, VERY important!” Verthandi pleads, desperately clutching onto their pearly white cloak, as if the action would make Flanais care more about a guy they haven’t seen since Laverne started drawing up ideas for Calliope’s character.
Flanais cringes. What could they possibly say that needed them to pass it on instead of them themselves? Tristan shouldn’t intimidate them at all, considering they didn’t bat an eye at the ultimate ruler of the Citrusverse in Cycles’ heydey, wrecking chaos and doing as they pleased even in front of Laverne herself without an ounce of regret.
Though, most of the time, Verthandi did indirectly follow Laverne’s commands, just not in a way anyone expects them to, and definitely not in the most efficient manner.
Flanais gritted their teeth, they were making a big mistake, weren’t they?
“…Go on.”
Verthandi’s eyes lit up at their answer.
“But make no mistake. I am merely curious about your message.” They quickly added.
”Aha! Brilliant. I’m glad we’ve come to an agreement!" Verthandi snaps back into their usual wide toothy grin, as if nothing had happened. “Well, my message concerns what I’ve been seeing in the flow of the timeline. Contrary to popular belief, I do take my job very seriously.”
Yeah, right. ”When you bother to do it.” Flanais quietly mutters under their breath.
That foreign look of thoughtfulness is back on Verthandi again as they started to pace. The concept of the God of Time being serious was at least creepy and terrifying at most. “I saw something curious in the timeflow. I perceived the current period of peace and rest, but then, a glitch. I thought nothing of it initially, but further along the stream, I saw even more breaks and frayed threads, ones that pointed to an anomaly powerful enough that it is affecting the future of the Citrusverse in real time. I tried sensing what and where they were, but the anomalies multiplied too fast in the future, like a virus.” They hummed. “In those interruptions, I sensed a thread of a future storyline, one new and untainted, but pulling the flow into absolute chaos the more it went on. It didn’t stay singular either, it was like it had gravity of its own, pulling many old threads of fate along with it with itself at the lead, agitating the anomalies wherever it led, as if a rain of shooting stars were wreaking havoc on the very timeline of the Citrusverse, then that's where everything faded to nothingness.” They turned to Flanais. “Do you understand what I’m getting at?”
”A new universal threat has befallen us and we need to go deal with it?”
Verthandi tuts. “Well, I never said we had to deal with it. I’m only saying something is starting to and will mess up the Citrusverse badly and it might be beneficial for Tristan to know that someone powerful enough to mess up the timeline is currently poisoning his peaceful era or some shit like that.” They turn to pace around Flanais again, and the traveller flicks their shark tail in irritation. Their constant need to move was so annoying, so maddening Flanais almost wanted to trip them with their tail just so they could stop. “In my opinion, it’d be wise for us to leave the matter alone.”
…
What?
Flanais’ expression contorts into confusion. How could leaving an universal danger to fester be a wise choice? Their nonchalant attitude screamed anything but worry for the continued survival of the Citrusverse, so what exactly were they thinking? Was Verthandi that out of touch? Danger to the Citrusverse meant all of them will be affected, so in no reality would just ignoring the problem be the best course of action.
”So you dump the prophecy of a world-ending disaster on me, then expect me to tell Mr Wong and then do nothing about it?” They set one foot forward, but the other doesn’t seem fazed at all.
Verthandi huffs, crossing their arms. “Well, it’s because there is nothing to do about it! If the timeline’s future prophesizes total annihilation then there will be annihilation on the way no matter how much we try to negate it. The flow doesn’t carry visions of possible fates, it shows an absolute for the future, like plot points, can’t change no matter how much you and I try to fight it. Heck, not even Tristan can do anything about this.”
“Mr Wong has Cycles’ authority.” Flanais refuted. “Cycles could change reality as she wished, how would he not be able to change anything?”
Verthandi chuckled as they looked away, the shade of their wide-brimmed hat shadowing their expression until Flanais couldn’t tell if the god was intending to gloat or if their laugh was a mirthless one. “Well, you just haven’t heard of my prophecies before. Laverne never escapes the ones destined by the flow of the timeline. She just knows how to twist it in her favor.”
That seems…much like something Laverne would do. Flanais thought. Should they? Should they really hear out a person they haven’t seen in many Cycles, a person who has abandoned their crucial duty within the Citrusverse in times of need, a person who had attempted to pose a threat to this fragile peace Tristan was upholding? Their mind screamed distrust, for them to just turn away now and stride off back into the wide gold and tangerine expanse of the universe they pledged to protect.
“Don’t make me regret this.” Flanais folded their arms. “I’m only concerned because of the sheer magnitude of what you are implying this new…threat can be.”
“Haha, I won’t! I won’t.” Verthandi reassured.
With a wave of their hand, they conjured a round pool of water next to their feet with a surface so still it looked almost like a mirror. From its surface, interconnecting patterns overlaid with tiny visual glitches here and there were displayed in crystal clear clarity. “Anyway, according to my personal interpretation, what this means is that we are much too late to eliminate whoever is causing these glitches before it happens, it’d take way too long to find them. With how close the first few signs were to our present while I was going through the flow, these glitches are bound to show up very soon.”
“Why didn’t you tell us earlier, then?” Flanais opens their hand to summon a long scroll and a feather pen, which settled perfectly into their waiting grasp.
Verthandi shot them an incredulous look. “I said it already, it’d be useless to mention it when it’d happen so soon with such certainty. If anything, had I said it earlier, Mr Tristan would try to prevent it and it’d cause a bigger ruckus than I needed this to be.”
Tristan does tend to overreact to the smallest of incidents. They ponder.
Flanais looks up from the brim of the scroll positioned in front of their face, not enough to obscure Verthandi’s face, but enough to clearly show they were more interested in their message instead of whatever small talk they attempted to initiate. Verthandi sighs, as if not yapping for a moment was something regretful that Flanais just failed to understand.
“As I was saying, there will be a timeline-endangering threat, and I foresee that if Tristan or someone else makes another story now, it will be the catalyst of an event that might just revive old, finished storylines and drag characters old and new into the fray. This chance to affect the timeline will surely attract this anomaly and spell the end of our universe as we know it.” The traveller scribbles away fervently on the scroll, deftly composing an elaborate message in looping cursive as the other continued. “If the anomaly gets its hands on the story, it will worm its way in and disrupt the script, destabilizing it and allowing it to take over. It will consume everything for power, reality, dreams, whatnot. Once it’s here, it will not stop until nothing is left.”
”So, no stories?” Flanais looks up.
Verthandi shrugs lackadaiscally. “That’s Tristan’s call. Honestly, whatever he does would probably singlehandedly either kill or save us all, he’s just built like that. I’m just notifying him I’m spotting some odd signals in the timeline. In my opinion, he shouldn’t be making stories, but for a wholly different reason—“ Their lips curve into a smile. “—but who am I to say anything about our new sovereign?"
Flanais stares at Verthandi, whose expression betrayed nothing but violet eyes that crinkled at the edges, and a grin so wide their dimples marked the corners of their face.
“Besides, if something really went wrong, time finds a way.” Verthandi chuckles.
The prophecy they foretold clearly marked that if a new story was created and deployed right now when the anomaly hadn’t been dealt with, it would spell disaster for the Citrusverse, so not warning the god who had all the power to write those stories seemed greatly counterproductive, if not deliberately vague, poised simply to mess with Tristan. Their hand clenches tight around their feather pen, pooling ink at where their pen nib halted on parchment.
Yet, the prophet still wishes to play enigmatic.
As if this would help avert the current crisis at hand. Flanais bites back a groan of exasperation and reluctantly puts Verthandi’s words to paper, even if every instinct in their body told them to rebel against the motions of their hands, yelling at them not to trust the god that stood so calm and collected in front of them despite armagaddon. Bah, to hell with it. If it concerned the safety of their lands, Flanais was willing to put their judgements of the god of Time aside for just a moment.
“Anything else?” They ask. Verthandi shook their head. Flanais couldn't help but feel the urge to remark how it was them helping them, that maybe they should be more grateful they were willing to help this strange traveller they barely knew, but did they really want to spend more time arguing with Verthandi than forcing themselves to complete this spontaneous task then quickly returning to their routine?
“Right. I’ll get your message to him.” They grumbled.
With a practiced flick of their hand, the scroll rolls shut and remains floating in the air until they pluck it out of the air, stuffing it into the many pockets inside their cloak. “I shall depart swiftly, then, considering the urgency of this message.”
Verthandi waves them goodbye as they summon a gust of wind to swirl around them, gently levitating them inches off the ground. “Alright then, safe travels! I shall continue my journey as before.”
They don’t even bother gracing Verthandi with any words in return. In a verdant flash, Flanais was gone with the breeze, mind set on finding a singular person.
Too bad that in their rush, they failed to hear how Verthandi’s guffaws echoed throughout the hallways.
Nighttime in City 3 was quiet as always, and in the unforgiving climate of the Core Cities, it was not abnormal for the only noise to fill his ears to be the howl of a particularly strong wind. He stares at the empty roads through the lens of his reading glasses, chips in the weathered stone tiling of the pavement now clearer than he was used to. In fact, everything seemed much more detailed with his glasses on. He could see stray sprigs of grass escape cracks in concrete, colorful lights lighting up windows near and far, tiny sparrows that landed on streetlamps for a breather before taking off in a flurry of flaps… details he normally didn’t care to notice.
His finger twitches, restlessly fiddling with the corners of a certain letter, elbows chilled against the railing separating the streets below and his plant-dominated balcony. He finds that in some way, despite him not favoring a lungful of smoke every time he was met with a head full of thoughts anymore, his fingers missed curling around the lean, cylindrical body of a cigarette.
Maybe he needed to invest in some pen-spinning tricks to stave off the itch permanently, or a serious amount of lollipops, but for now, ripping tiny lines into aged paper will do.
“It’s almost 3.”
Tristan turns to find Rae beside the glass sliding door, returning his surprise with a querying look. “I thought you’d be heading to bed by now.”
“Not now.” Tristan replies, waving the aged parchment in his hand. “I’m reading something a moth sent me. A suggestion, from you-know-who.”
A moment of silence passes between them. Rae blinks.
“Who?”
“Verthandi.” Tristan clarifies. “Who would even send letters in this world? Paper letters are practically gone in the Core Cities.”
Rae deadpans. “You do.”
“I forget there aren’t traditional post offices anymore and I get framed as an old-timer. Blasphemy!” Tristan pouts, before clearing his throat. “Ahem. Anyway, since you’re here, I want to ask you something.”
“Go ahead.”
Tristan scratches his head. “You’ve been closer with the management side of things in the Citrusverse, closer than I was. You have to have some knowledge about how things run if you’ve been running around with the Systema and once even had access to the Console, right? So I was wondering if you knew a thing or two about Verthandi. Laverne didn’t even tell me Verthandi existed back then.” He added.
Rae hums thoughtfully. “I do, somewhat. I bumped into them a lot whenever Wishy needed Laverne for a couple of discussions, but that occurrence was few and far between. We talked only a bit once, but I do know a little more from snooping around in conversations after Cycle 4 and during the time when the Citrusverse was connected directly to my brain.” She pauses, her eyes now intently studying Tristan’s face. “Why do you ask?”
Tristan’s eyes flit back and forth from the parchment to Rae. “Right. Verthandi mentioned something about… fates and stuff? Ah, right, being able to see into the flow of the timeline, and thus technically being able to see into the future, prophecies and shit. Is that true?”
Rae moves to stand next to him, dangling her arms outward on the balcony railing into a stretch. “Well, yes and no, I suppose? From what little I know about them before they had that massive quarrel with Laverne, they could go back and forth as they pleased in a timeline, but that was when…”
“When the Citrusverse still had a script.” Tristan finishes the thought, his grasp around the letter now marginally firmer than before. If what Rae said was true, and the script was still blank right now, would Verthandi see anything, or nothing at all? What did the flow even look like? Did it even exist? What did Verthandi see?
Most importantly, what did the god of Time want to say?
“Now I’m confused.” Rae mumbles, leaning over his shoulder to peek at the contents of the letter. “Verthandi couldn’t have possibly seen anything. The Citrusverse’s script is empty, there’s nothing you can do to see a painting that doesn’t exist. They could go back, view moments in the current timeline, and create alternate timelines by proxy from changing the past, but nothing exists in the future right now for Verthandi to see, not even when they are actively archiving the present timeline. You told me the script only had everything up until BMC ran off set in print, and everything else was just natural occurrences and chance.”
“They are warning me from creating a new story in this period of time.” Tristan let out a low groan, thumbs already making biscuits on the paper. “Dude, I literally just was about to finish the script for a new story. This sucks.”
Rae gestures at the letter, now slightly crinkled in his tense grasp. “Can I take a closer look? Knowing Verthandi, they aren’t the type to be straightforward with what they really want to say.”
She’s right. Tristan grins, handing over the scroll. “Gladly.”
Rae takes the scroll into her hands, and begins to scan every stroke of moonlit ebony ink, formed into elegant cursive English absent of strikethroughs. Meanwhile, Tristan takes the liberty to sit back and wait, fiddle with the frayed ends of his bandages, comfortable to leave a god’s correspondence to a long-time work partner and friend.
Okay, what to occupy his thoughts with now? He was already quite suspicious of the letter when it first arrived alongside an exhausted Flanais, hair tousled and sticking up in 7 different directions, complaining about how tiring it was to fly all the way from one end of the Citrusverse to another. Knowing it was an urgent letter from Verthandi of all people made it even more head-scratching, and the contents of the letter didn’t alleviate any of it. Instead, it had given him an even bigger headache than if Laverne rose from the dead and told him she was going to nuke him and the Citrusverse in 2 hours.
This is why he hated it when Verthandi spoke in riddles and hidden agendas. He could understand why, heck, they came from similar motives and similar origins, but knowing the language doesn’t mean he liked speaking it.
He inhaled a breath of cold air, then exhaled through his teeth, his warm breath quickly condensing into a cloud of vapor. It was supposed to just be a deep breath to calm his nerves, but it sounded more like a forced sigh. Verthandi’s words looped in his head like a film reel forced to repeat the same ten seconds of a scene for what seemed to be forever. A timeline endangering threat was no new news for the new god, having more than enough experience dealing with them. What truly befuddled Tristan was the fact Verthandi was the one to pass on the message, the Tristan-Laverne hating God of Time warning the new Administrator seemed bizarre. Additionally, Verthandi would have known nothing about a threat to the timeline. Was he getting pranked?
No, there was something behind this, the assumption felt right to his gut, but what exactly was the intention behind it?
All the thinking at this time of the night was really putting a strain on his head, the familiar pressure of a migraine was now comfortably settling itself in the crevices of his brain like a particularly annoying thorn that wedged itself deeper every time he tried picking it out.
“If you make a new story, it will be the catalyst of an event that will bring together plotlines and characters old and new. This chance to affect the timeline will attract the anomaly and spell the end of our story as we know it.”
”It will consume everything for power, reality, dreams, whatnot. Once it’s here, it will not stop until nothing is left.”
“Whether you heed this or not is up to you. Time finds a way.”
An open ended invite, promises of a powerful effect and a threat so power-hungry it will consume reality, dreams and beyond…
Tristan’s eyes widened.
Wait.
Power-hungry, the specific mention of dreams. Verthandi could’ve just said reality and the timeline, but instead they specifically mentioned dreams instead of any other. The letter also mentioned it was too late to prevent the anomaly because it was already there, and that the story would attract the anomaly…
”Tristan.” Rae’s voice snaps Tristan out of his whirlwind of thoughts.
“Mhm?”
“I think Verthandi knows something about Sune’s plan. You remember you told me that Sune and Verthandi were working together when you were in Administrator Euterpe’s world, right?”
“Yeah?” Rae shoves the letter back into his hands. “Y’think they know she’s going to do something soon?”
”Sune has some of their power.” She replies as Tristan pushes his reading glasses farther up the bridge of his nose, skimming across the contents of the letter again. “They probably noticed something that led to the conclusion that they needed to do something about it. Not only that, it’s pretty obvious the anomaly that Verthandi is referring to is Sune, the mention of dreams and that she does know her way around manipulating storylines to get what she wants.” Rae’s brows knit. “Like last time.”
”Like last time.” Tristan repeats. Thinking back, their previous encounter with Sune in the last Cycle couldn’t be described as anything but a disaster. She kidnapped Euterpe once, threatened Suni and Bory twice, then killed Rae, then indirectly caused…
Oh wait, no. He’s zoning out, too much, too far. Sune was a major threat, but—ugh, there’s no point in looking back at past mistakes now, everything was back to how it was before anyway, he concludes gruffly.
“Honestly, I was about to conclude it was Kyomura who Verthandi is referring to, but now that I think about it, maybe you’re right.” He pauses, then continues delicately. “I… think it’s both Kyomura and Sune. Makes sense for them to be in on this together, they are pretty close even now. Maybe Verthandi wants my help in reclaiming the part of Time she stole from them?”
Rae nods. “That is for certain. However, I think there’s more.”
“What more?”
“Verthandi included a very detailed description of what would happen if you started a storyline right now—” Rae stops, then sighs at his confusion. “Uh, what I mean is that Verthandi is giving you advice on how to go against Sune and Kyomura, or rather, supposedly suggesting, but with how much they’ve said about the possibility of a new story, I suppose…?”
“You’re saying that Verthandi wants me to make a story to lure those two in.” Huh. That— made some sense in an odd way. Stories could bend the rules of the Citrusverse if nudged around, why wouldn’t Kyomura or Sune want to use this chance to try something? Even if they ended up being the villains, they were anomalies. In the past, Tristan was sure Laverne had ended up pulling some strings and added some amendments to the script when she was writing in more threats to end the story, but this time, Sune had quite a chunk of Time’s power, and Tristan knew they would probably not fall for whatever trick Laverne pulled to force them into the story initially.
So setting them as the villain would be too obvious… What else could Tristan do, then? Well, he could just make a story and hope that they’d magically appear and crash everything…that’d likely happen regardless if he wanted to or not. If he chose to simply deal with Kyomura and Sune himself, that’d be too obvious, and despite dying over and over, the duo’s genius probably expected Tristan to fight them head on if they brought chaos to the Citrusverse again, and thus would likely have something to counteract that.
Even then, if he was to follow the suggestion, what to make a story about, and where?
“Rae.”
“Mhm?”
“Won’t they immediately know this is a trap?” Tristan asks. “This suggestion seems a little too similar to what Laverne did before to torment Kyomura.”
Rae goes silent, and for a moment, Tristan thought she had fallen asleep standing, but she answers just as he was contemplating nudging her awake. “It depends. Worst case scenario and they do realize, there’s a nonzero chance they’ll decide to walk into the trap anyway because they think its consequences will be more favorable than otherwise.” She shrugs. “Its definitely better than facing them head on, you’ll be putting yourself and Laverne’s powers directly at risk of them.”
Oh, right. Sometimes, he forgot how high up the hierarchy he was now.
The wind picks up again, and it assaults the duo still standing out on the balcony. Tristan’s hair buffets his face, and Rae fights to swipe her hair out of her eyes.
“Are you going to stand out here for longer?” She interrupts his thoughts yet again. “Euterpe is probably wondering where you are.”
Euterpe, right. Last he saw him, he was still in his office, engrossed in a myriad of machines and holographic screens. He had offered to snuggle with him on the spare chair, but Euterpe had to solder something and promptly shooed him out. The pain! Being barred from spending more time with his favorite person because he would rather focus on his machines than him! Honestly, not that he minded, Euterpe was a genius, he would do no favor for anyone if he didn’t let him do his thing as he pleased.
Hm, it has been 4 hours since then, surely he must be asleep by now?
”Yeah, gonna get a little more fresh air before I go.” Tristan replies. “There’s just a lot I want to think about before that.”
Rae pats his shoulder. “You do you ,then. I think I’m gonna turn in for the night. For the record, I think this will all turn out fine.” She adds, worry clear in her tone. ”Don’t sweat over it too much, okay?”
Her reassurance didn’t do much as a balm for his heightened nerves, and surely his work partner definitely knew he was going to get paranoid about it, but Tristan will gladly take what is given. “Sure, sure. See you in the morning.” He mumbles with a tired smile. “I want to do some deep cleaning for the bar, better get some good shut-eye.”
Rae raises an eyebrow, being privy to the nonexistence of his sleep schedule, but she doesn’t call him out on it. Instead, she nods, russet curls flurrying around her face, then turns to slide the glass screen open again, whispering a “Goodnight.” barely heard above the strengthening howl of the wind.
Perhaps that was why he didn’t recognize that the door didn’t slide closed. Next thing he knew, he was met with a familiar body next to his, arm curled around his waist, slender fingers resting on the contour of his hip. A beloved presence joins him at this ungodly hour.
“It’s late.” Euterpe remarks.
Tristan grunts in agreement. He thinks about shredding the letter then letting the scraps fly through the wind, but knowing the people of this world, they’ll try to piece it together for a reason he cannot fathom then make a conspiracy theory. “It is.” He replies, hands moving to fold the letter into a square.
“You’re wearing your glasses.” Euterpe points out, and Tristan self-consciously reaches to push them up the bridge of his nose. “You don’t normally wear them, what’s the occasion?"
“Ah.” Tristan continues to fumble with the letter. “Just doing some pre-bedtime reading, y’know, going through my letters and stuff. Better to read with these flimsy things on.” He points to his rectangular frames.
“They look nice on you.” Euterpe’s slight smiles were clearer now with the correct prescription. “You should wear them more.”
“I look old with them.” Tristan groans. “Too old. I’m only 30-something physically, just a tad bit older mentally, and I look decades older if I have them on.”
Euterpe deadpans. “You’re like, actually super old, if we count all the cycles, and you still look alright.”
“Well, I don’t want to look like I’m going to a parent-teacher conference all the time!” Tristan huffs, but without any real bite to it.
“You are a parent.” Euterpe chuckles. “And even if you looked way older with them on, you pull off the dad look spectacularly, like you do in anything else.”
Tristan shook his head with a grin, before their conversation fell into silence. Should he tell Euterpe about the message now?
“Something up?” He can feel Euterpe glancing at the parchment in between his fingers, and his shoulders tensed.
Their eyes met, exhausted red and equally tired but expectant silver. The wind tousles up more of Euterpe’s hair, ruffling it into even more of a tangled mess. He can vaguely hear some birds chirping in the distance over the noisy in and out of his breathing.
“Just some Citrusverse shenanigans.” Tristan averts his eyes, tries to push down the anxious feeling bubbling in his throat. “Verthandi told me about an incoming threat.”
He swore the wind stilled when Euterpe’s focus snapped to attention like a blade sharpened on a whetstone. Threat, it has been so long since they had to deal with one, and for people like them, it spawned nothing but anxiety.
Tristan tips his head, bumping gently against Euterpe’s, shoulder pressed to shoulder. “I’m sure of what we need to do, but…” He mumbles under his breath. “I dunno.”
Euterpe presses his cheek into his curls.“What’s your plan?”
A story, a new event bigger than before, all for two threats. A risk that he would have to take if he wanted Kyomura gone, one that could possibly kill them all if something went wrong. Now that everyone knew gods could be taken down with enough force and a story so massive in scale it overtakes the universe, another one of the scale as the previous one will undoubtedly put his life and everyone else’s at risk, as well as the peace he worked so hard to maintain.
Even worse, he promised the man right next to him he would allow the main story of worlds to rest after their endings. Rae didn’t mind, but Euterpe might, even if he tried to sound otherwise. He’ll hurt and hate if he knew he was going to doom another to the same suffering and fate as he had before, wouldn’t he?
Did he have the heart to tell him? To reopen an old wound when it had just started to fade?
Tristan sucks in a breath, then speaks, now quieter. “I think I need to break a promise that I want to keep. I-it’s about a new story…” He trails off, ashamed already.
Silence, and for a long time, the world held its breath. Tristan dared not to meet the other’s gaze, keeping his eyes trained on the far horizon. Above, moonlit clouds float soundlessly across the endless sea of stars like ships in navy-black water, veiling the moon in a shroud of mist. Below, streets lit up in amber showed no signs of life, and the ones shrouded in darkness betrayed none. The constant chirp of cicadas and nightlife quieted in his peripheral into something uncomfortable, they too seemingly waited for the inevitable answer, the rejection. There was nothing to interrupt the fragile moment, and even if there were, Tristan wouldn’t allow it. If Euterpe must lash out at him, he will accept it as he deserved. With everything they’ve gone through, how could he not? After knowing his years of suffering were planned by a scriptwriting god, what he was about to do felt hypocritical to a laughable degree.
The letter crumpled in his fist. Was this why Verthandi wanted to suggest this idea? He wouldn’t put it past the trickster to knowingly force his hand.
A sigh finally breaks the heavy air. “If you must.”
Huh? He didn’t even realize he vocalized his thoughts before Euterpe replies.
“I said, if you must break it, do it.” Euterpe reiterated calmly, as if the thought of him playing with the lives of many the exact way the previous god did didn’t bother him a single bit. “It is needed to ensure Citrusverse remains alive, yes?”
Tristan almost chokes on air. “Y-yeah?”
“Then if you must.” Euterpe’s hand remains steady on his side, stable, grounding. “I won’t like it, but if you must, I’ll support you.”
That felt wrong. Letting this be the way it was felt wrong. He could do something about this, he was god now after all! What could he not do? He could find another way to compromise, to avoid doing the single thing he still can’t bear to do, it didn’t have to end like this.
Tristan pulls away, fully facing Euterpe with mortification. “No. If you’re really uncomfortable about it, I won’t— I’ll find another way to fix all this.”
Euterpe raises an eyebrow. “I didn’t say I was uncomfortable with it.”
“It’s just I know all this is so unfair to you and we literally just came out of our story after so many years and—“ He giggles, dragging his hand through his hair. Nothing about the situation came anything close to fun, and yet, the irony of it all. It was so utterly absurd that even without a formal story, it all turned out like this, a perfectly weaved scene that marked the initial signs of his descent into a predictable and poetic end. Yet, it did, somehow.
“Tristan—“ Euterpe starts, but he spirals further and further and—
“I’d really just be a hypocrite if I said: ‘Oh guys! I’m so glad we finally defeated the god who locked us into their personal story sandbox playground that controlled everything we did and everything we experienced. Let me lock more people in the same hell we came out from, repeat the same mistake just so I can finally end Kyomura and Sune once more! That’d be fun and not selfish!’”
“Tristan, that’s— I never— you—“
”You know, I think this is all just a mistake. I shouldn’t even have these powers and yet here I am acting like I’d be a martyr if I dragged the entire universe in with me. Honestly? It’d be better if I just went and defeated Sune myse-“
“TRISTAN!” Euterpe snaps.
A flock of birds on a nearby balcony startles, flying away in a flurry of frantic flaps, barely masking the faint clattering heard from the rooftops, the clinking of plastic clips bumping against each other on clotheslines that danced freely in the breeze. He blinks, dazed. His eyes flit to focus on Euterpe’s hands on his shoulders, then to the man himself.
Euterpe shakes him. Even with his mind stuttering to catch up, he knew that look of disappointed frustration. “Listen. I’m not going to hate you if you do this. You’re trying to get rid of a serious threat to everyone that is bound to be a disaster down the line.”
Tristan stutters helplessly, but Euterpe cuts him off with a glare before he could even think of speaking.
“I am going to say it as many times as you want to hear it from me. You aren’t her, and you’ll never be!” He huffs. “Now, will you tell me what the plan is or will I have to guess?”
He desperately wanted to refute the claim, to say something back instead of letting the moment stew in taut silence. However, even if he tried to speak, words died in his throat, translating only into hitched breaths and garbles of word confusion.
Tristan hesitates, then he looks down at the crumpled square of paper. It wouldn’t hurt to tell. Right? I do trust him, after all. Euterpe wasn’t helpless by any means, he had helped him tremendously all this time even in his death, it would be an insult to even think of him that way. If he insists, then…
“…Fine.” He concedes, but he stops wallowing when he hears Euterpe sigh in relief. Well, less moping, more explaining to do, of course.
“According to this letter,” Tristan gently unfolds the abused paper. “Verthandi is strongly suggesting I make a story to lure Kyomura and Sune back into where we can fight them.” He smooths it out on the curvature of the railing, then hands it to Euterpe. “They won’t fall for the same trick Cycles did to get Kyomura out of the way though, so I’m a bit unsure about it.”
“Uh, sorry, I don’t follow.”
“It’s okay.” Tristan shook his head. “ I don’t think I’ve told you this before, or at least I don’t remember. Laverne realized that Kyomura wasn’t fully dead within Clarissa after Wishy had Rae kill her pretty late during the development of the Central Universe story, so she remedied it by allowing her to take control of Clarissa and do as she pleased, then wrote her in as the villain.”
He could feel Euterpe tense even if their shoulders were barely touching, but his eyes were still pinned onto Flanais’ looping cursive. “So was the story for…?”
“Not necessarily to keep Kyomura under control, no.” Tristan explains quickly. “It just happened to coincide. Laverne did intend to tell a perfect story from the beginning of your creation, but it just so happened that she possessed one of the most important people from the rival organization.” He sighs. “I just don’t know if this plan is way too similar to what happened before such that she would never fall for it.”
Euterpe hums for a moment, deep in thought. “You said Laverne wrote her in, right?”
“Yeah?”
“Do like, characters who get written in without any knowledge get any– supernatural pull to anything?” He asks.
Huh, did they? Tristan gives it some thought. Laverne didn’t always write him into stories, and the last time he was truly involved in one was back in Atlas. Well, technically he was also in the Central Universe’s one, but he wasn’t sure if Laverne had written him in by then. If he felt a pull, he didn’t really think about it, maybe that was the point. But suppose Kyomura was already quite aware of everything and had memories of the previous cycle, surely she’d be able to deduce if someone had written her in, right?
“I guess?” Tristan answers. “If I did, I didn’t feel much of it, it just felt like something I’d always do even if the action was…somewhat questionable, maybe. Did you feel any of that?”
Euterpe looks at something beyond the edges of the parchment, somewhere beyond the decrepit buildings that lined their view and into the far horizon, right at the faint outline of City 5 in the fog. “I suppose I felt something when I ran away and broke the script. It was like… a sense of wrongness, like I was doing something not even I’d imagine myself doing.”
“Huh.” Now that he thought about it, he felt something quite similar when he first met Laverne, then was led to the edge of the world. The feeling of unshakable dread that coiled deep in his stomach as he stared deep into the lurking void only a few paces away from his feet, of voices that told him to look away, of the intense urge to run, as if the world itself was about to grow hands and drag him away from the ledge.
“If that is true, Kyomura likely knows exactly how it feels like, especially if she does remember everything.” Euterpe explained. “So as long as you don’t write her into the story explicitly, I think it’ll be fine. If anything, they are definitely going to try something at least.” He starts folding the parchment back into a square. “What it will be though… I have my predictions, but I’ll save them for when they actually come.”
They’re going to try and kill me for sure.
Tristan watches Euterpe fold along the previous lines he pressed into the paper. “Where are you going to have this story?” Euterpe asks.
He stills. Right, he didn’t really know, and he can only think of a few options off of the top of his head. Initially he had thought of creating a whole new world with a completely new script, but to be honest, he wasn’t a very good writer under stress, and he didn’t really want to contend with a reality-warping enemy in a half-baked world made just to fight them, that’d be a waste of a fine script and its characters.
Unless… he doesn’t. He could pick familiar territory, write a story that would attract them, one that’ll be easy to keep tabs on all the time, make it all inconspicuous and try to destroy them that way. But weighing all of his options left only a few, and one of them was the universe he was in now.
The Central Universe was made as a prison just for them, so it had an immense resistance to any sort of reality warping. He knew the lay of the land as much as Kyomura did. She knew Tristan’s home was here, she was probably still somewhere in EdEN Corporation, and Sune is likely ready for whatever plan she had next, so to her, he would be putting everything on the line — the people he loves, his life, his power. Would that not be tempting enough for the duo to come and disrupt a story?
It’ll be easier to write too if I can keep an eye on everything all the time. Tristan pondered. He could weave an arc fairly quickly if he didn’t have to world-build alongside it or really think about the rules of the world, and he was already familiar with the workings of this universe.
He could try using an old script just like Verthandi did last time, or he could borrow another world for a story, but he wasn’t all that enthusiastic about using Laverne’s old works again after knowing how many alternate versions of him she made, and honestly? The denizens of other worlds were innocent. As much as he already had the blood of thousands on his hands, he didn’t want to hurt more people in the collateral, completely blameless people who didn’t even know who Kyomura was.
And Euterpe wouldn’t like me to do something like that.
He steals a glance at the other man, who was so focused on folding the parchment with perfect lines. His fingers, used to fiddling with delicate machinery, glided along the edges of the parchment, creating new creases that were practically geometrically perfect. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea for him to bear such responsibility when the perfect candidate is right there.
It’ll be fine! He was a god now, the sole sovereign of the Citrusverse. Even if he wasn’t as all-seeing as Laverne. He is capable of protecting them, all of them.
He can do this. Surely.
“…Here.” Tristan decides. “Right here. That is our best shot.”
Euterpe furrows his brows, his lips press into a thin line as he hands back the parchment, re-folded into a perfect square. “Alright.” His eyes evade his. “That’s alright. I was the protagonist after all.”
Did Euterpe think he’d make him to be the protagonist again? “You’re not being involved.” Tristan stated.
It certainly wasn’t meant to be a joke, but the corners of Euterpe’s lips quirk upwards by an inch. “If not me, then who?”
He had a few ideas already, but if it really came down to it… “I could make a new one. I already have the gist of most things, so it’ll probably be fine. After all, not every story has world-ending stakes.” Tristan pauses. “Until Kyomura intervenes, that is.”
Euterpe’s eyebrows raise, before he nods in agreement, repeating. “Until Kyomura intervenes.”
The conversation dies there, but the silence, which was normally nerve-wracking for Tristan, was rather calming under the watchful gaze of the moon, lights of neighboring cities in the horizon blending in with the stars. Sounds of revving engines periodically echo from afar in brief bursts of sound, masking the rustle of wind against vines of ivy curled around the pipes that ran from the roof to the first floor. His grip loosens on the railing, his clammy hands leaving prints on the metal.
Of course, the knowledge that the man right next to him didn’t mind the quiet also greatly contributed to his comfort. He steals a glance at the subject of his thoughts, and his eyes linger on his moonlit profile for longer than he should. As much as he really should wear his glasses all the time, he just doesn’t, mostly because he would really hate to have to get a new pair every time he gets his ass kicked. But now that he has mostly resigned to owning his bar and administering the Citrusverse, he doesn’t get into fights all that much and has to read and write more, so sight correction it is.
Well, at least this means he has more chances to really admire his husband (god, he’s married.) and how his raven hair looked like it were intertwined with threads of spun silver when the light hit it right, how his extended time spent away from having to fight for his life all the time has made his eyebags less prominent, and yet those muscles were still as defined, just hidden under the loose graphic t-shirt that the wind tugged at every once in a while. How does he make baggy shirts look so cute on him anyway? Totally unfair when he looks like he walked out of a thrift store every time he tries to pull that look off.
Ah, he liked it when Euterpe smiled like that, slight curve of the lips and crinkled eyes, like he found something amusing yet endearing. Wonder what it is, hmm.
Oh wait, he was looking at him, he’d been staring for too long, hadn’t he? Warmth crawled up from the base of his neck and settled on his face as a deep shade of rose pink. He quickly tears his gaze away in embarassment.
Deep down, something in his gut wormed with unrest. He knew this peace won’t last forever. The storm was on the horizon, and soon, he’ll reunite with an old enemy.
He stifles a yawn.
Tomorrow, he’ll have to get up, run his daily errands, go check up on the systems of the Citrusverse, then focus on setting up this story as foolproof as he could make it. There was no time to dally at all — Verthandi sure sent this at a very short notice.
Hm, should he head back in to-
Euterpe pulls on his arm, and his hand drops to hold his.
“It’s really late.” He said. “We should head to bed.”
Okay, change of plans it is. He can just write that reply tomorrow.
“We should, yes.” Tristan squashes down a yawn again before tugging Euterpe along back to the glass sliding door. “C’mon. Let’s go.”