Petrichor

by Huinari

Tomoe Hotaru is a reincarnated princess of Saturn who has died more than once, protects the solar system, and can destroy the world. Somehow she is NOT the weirdest person to live in Namimori.

52. Interlude IV

Traditionally, humans recognized five senses in their methods of perception. Sight, taste, smell, touch, sound. Give or take some depending on the individual, but for the most part these five were the universally recognized ways of perception, the first in line of a person's way of knowing.

Of course, the five were only the traditionally recognized ones, not the only methods known. There were other types of senses that also taught a person throughout their life.

And the utmost important method that taught the most valuable lessons effectively, the absolute standard of life was pain.

---

Helios did not often feel pain in his dreams. That wasn't how dreams worked, but for him, whose dreams were tied to this planet, to Elysion for its protection, his conscious was directly affected by its state.

The planet was in turmoil, with the births of those bearing star seeds happing in rapid succession, and though people did not know it consciously, the realm of dreams was another story entirely. Elysion was a magic haven, and magic tied his being to the land. Anything that affected Elysion affected him directly.

It was unusual, but not entirely a surprise, to wake up from what felt like a nightmare he was already beginning to forget with a stabbing pain in his head. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids met light resistance, in the form of a cool, damp cloth draped over his forehead and eyes.

Helios raised a hand to tug it off, but another hand stopped him – a hand too big to be that of his Maenads, but familiar. There were no more callouses from playing different instruments, not anymore, but he knew that hand.

"It's me," Acheron said unnecessarily.

"Wha-" his voice was a croak, his voice strained as if he had screamed for hours.

Acheron shushed him, and Helios fell silent, which was deeply appreciated. His throat felt parched, and throbbed with pain as if he had screamed for hours.

"Princess Venus was reborn a few days ago," Acheron told him. "You fell unconscious. It'll be fine now."

Helios knew, from the lack of details, that Acheron had done something regarding his duty. The duty that . . . that he didn't know much about, just that it was something to do with the planet's safety.

Because Helios watched over Elysion, and Acheron watched over the planet outside, he thought reflexively, the definitions of their different duties floating up to the front of his mind, and felt dizzy. He shouldn't have been tired, not after being unconscious, but he was, the fatigue of restless sleep trying to tug him back into the abyss like sirens crooning to sailors enchanted by their songs.

A cool, curved edge pressed against his lip, and Helios sipped at the water Acheron held up for him to soothe his parched tongue and throat.

"Are you okay?" he asked, voice barely above a rasp and not pleasant to hear even to his own ears. If he had been affected, there was no reason to think that Acheron would not have. Arguably lesser than he was, because where Helios was directly tied to Elysion, Acheron was more of an overseer and therefore one step removed, but still.

"You don't have to worry," Acheron told him. "Go back to sleep."

It was curt, the way he spoke, but rather than be hurt by his attitude, Helios reached out, holding onto Acheron's hand before it could pull away from him.

"Can you," he croaked out, half-delirious, "stay with me? Just a little longer?"

Even without sight, Helios knew Acheron hesitated. A soft sigh filled his ears, and Acheron's hand shifted so that it came from the direction of someone sitting at the bedside, rather than standing over his head.

The cloth was cool on his face, soothingly so. It felt nice, especially with his brother there. Like old times. Times that didn't feel all that long ago to him, times that were precious to him because Helios had little else.

"You're never around," he mumbled, words he thought often during his times awake but didn't say slipping out. It was childish, immature to do so. Acheron was – as Helios always pointed out in arguments – only two years older than him, and he was busy besides, doing the duty of what thirteen people had once.

But he did whine, maybe because he was sick, and Acheron, for all that he was only two years older than Helios, listened quietly. Maybe there was some truth to his default rebuttal, that Acheron might only have been born two years before Helios, but he had lived for far longer because Helios was asleep through most of it.

"I just miss you, sometimes," he said. Every word except the last was truth. He missed Acheron all the time. "I miss the others, too, but they're dead and you're alive. I shouldn't miss you. I don't want to miss you."

Because Helios was always asleep. And he had volunteered, to be the caretaker of Elysion, but as his family slipped away, one by one, and he missed out on their lives in his sleep, Helios was lonely, because he was the outlier, the outsider, the one who was only there after death took them, one by one. And now there was only one, and while the prince they had been waiting for was finally born, if Acheron died, then Helios would be well and truly be alone in this world that did not remember the him from when he was just a boy, who lived his own life outside of being the dream keeper tied to this planet.

But Acheron was always busy, because he had the entire planet to watch over. He worked so hard, too. Helios stopped himself before he did something he would regret.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I shouldn't have . . . I'm sorry."

Acheron didn't answer, but a moment later, through the darkness, came a familiar voice singing an old lullaby from centuries ago. He was a good singer, had always been, though it had been a long time since Helios him sing. A hand gently pressed down on his forehead.

His head and throat hurt, and the pull of desire to sleep was just too much to resist.

---

"That was the last time I saw him," Helios reminisced, "until Queen Nehellenia attacked."

Mamoru winced, feeling phantom pains in his lungs from where a curse had taken root once. It was a day when he was off, and as Usagi was sleeping and he wanted to speak with Helios, he was in Elysion again. Helios apologized in advance for being unable to speak of the other guardians, but he had been more than delighted to spill things about Acheron.

Although the conversation had taken a bit of a grimmer tone.

Helios grinned sheepishly. "Acheron was worried, in his own way, I think. He told me that I was the younger one so what did I think I was doing, dying before him. He was very unimpressed with how I somehow managed to be attacked in Elysion without alerting him."

"Would he have been alerted?"

"Usually, yes," said Helios, "but the Death Busters not long before had left him ill, and he didn't notice Nehellenia's invasion of Elysion until it was too late."

Mamoru caught something odd about that. "He's not connected to Elysion?"

Helios shook his head. "Not as you and I are, and Nehellenia's attacks were subtle until it was too late. And . . . I was trying to keep the curse from reaching you and him, taking the burden more onto myself. He was more removed, hence why he was less affected."

He had mixed feelings about that. Gratitude, certainly, but also a desire to tell Helios that he shouldn't try to shoulder everything alone.

Apparently, Acheron had thought the same.

"And when he found out, he was furious." Helios didn't look impressed. "It was rather hypocritical of him, given that he's always been one to do things first and seek forgiveness after. A lot of things have changed but that hadn't."

---

Technically, Mamoru could have returned back home without taking the roundabout way of the plane.

But, he'd come to make friends over his time working with Doctors Beyond Borders, and there were a few who would be on the plane with him to the layover point.

His second plane, he would be alone in, but there wasn't any point in not taking it. Records were a thing, after all. While Ami could probably hack it, better to not risk it.

An hour after the plane was in the air, and most of the passengers asleep, a voice broke Mamoru out of his thoughts.

"Not first class?"

He knew that voice, despite only having 'met' its owner once in his life, as an illusion. Wide-eyed, Mamoru turned to see his neighbor, who had been an old man in a suit when he last saw him.

The master illusionist sat in the seat next to Mamoru, in the same robes he'd worn that evening. A way of dress that would have made him stick out like a sore thumb, and yet no one – even Mamoru – had noticed until now.

Hotaru told Mamoru about illusions, although she hadn't been able to properly demonstrate them herself. Still, Mamoru had a gut instinct that Acheron wasn't really here. That this was an illusion, just like he had been when he came to tell them about the past lives of Hotaru's reincarnated friends.

There was no proof of his thoughts, but.

But he didn't feel like he was there. Something more than just the difference between a picture and the subject, but the subtle difference that came from the lack of a person's presence. Acheron, before him, lacked that certain element.

"No," he said. Mamoru wasn't a fan of first class, not what it meant, and certainly not after everything he had seen on this trip. It didn't feel right, in a way.

"Hmm," said Acheron, and the sound could have meant a lot of things.

"Would you have preferred a seat in business?"

"While it would have been easier to infiltrate, not really. I'm not a fan of air travel, personally."

Mamoru didn't like it either. He still remembered the feeling of being killed by Galaxia at the airport. But flying long distance by himself, with his luggage trailing after him in the sky, was something he preferred to not do, so. Airplane it was.

Acheron picked up his complementary bag of salted peanuts and then handed it to Mamoru. The action was so casually done that Mamoru accepted it before he could question anything.

"Thank you?"

"I can't eat it," he said, and for normal people that was hardly the response to an expression of gratitude, but for the odd ancient priest, it didn't seem out of character.

"Because you're an illusion, or because of dietary restrictions?"

"Because I'm here with the aid of a Mirage Box, and my illusions. I have no dietary restrictions," was his reply, "though I wouldn't and haven't eaten some things. Like humans."

Mamoru glanced around his surroundings to see if discussions of cannibalism disturbed anyone who had the misfortune of being seated near them. The cabin was dimmed in light, and though he could see a few seats lit up, most were asleep or enjoying a movie.

"No one can hear us," Acheron added, in case Mamoru hadn't picked that up.

He leaned back, and a sudden thought made him smile. "Is this the prelude to a murder without witnesses?"

Acheron's ice-blue eyes slid over to Mamoru, and he didn't look away. His voice was mild, almost like banter. "Rather morbid, your sense of humor."

"Doctor." Mamoru shrugged. "Comes with the job. And I'm not the one who brought up cannibalism, so that's all on you."

Acheron snorted lightly. "My trust in modern medicine has been greatly raised."

The sarcasm was thick, but this was almost peaceful. For a moment Mamoru could almost pretend that Acheron didn't dislike him.

"What brings you here?" Mamoru asked, instead of letting the silence sit comfortably. Acheron did not show himself to Mamoru, not unless he thought it was necessary. Helios said there was a reason for it, though he could not give Mamoru the specifics. Why was he here as a projection, then?

"A need to inform you of things. As a doctor," he said, turning his eyes to the back of the seat in front of him. He seemed to stare at the black screen like there was an answer there, if only he could look at it closely enough. "You've sworn the Hippocratic Oath."

Mamoru nodded.

"My . . ." Acheron trailed off. "We became what we were about two thousand years ago."

We. Him, Helios, Sephira, and all the others that had died before Mamoru had ever had a chance to know of them.

"Things change over time," he continued, the confessions of a tired old man. "A lot of things. And that meant that we needed to understand to let go what could not survive, and take on what came. Adapt to the times. Accept that there was always an end."

Mamoru listened, a doctor lending an ear to a patient.

"The one thing that we decided that had to stay as our Polaris, the fixed standard we couldn't give up on, other than the fate of this planet, the world we lived in." Acheron paused and exhaled.

"That was the value of a life. I suppose, the life of a person, to be more accurate. That belief was what we could not let go, no matter what else we had to give up or change."

He waited, but it didn't take long to realize that Acheron was now waiting for him to speak. If this were chess, it would be his turn to move a piece, because otherwise Acheron would not make a move.

"What was the value of a person's life?" he asked the man who lived two thousand years with such a pole star. What a question to consider, when it was so hard to determine. How did one measure the unmeasurable?

"Another person's life."

The words were dull in the way of the much-recited. It was sound, both logically and ethically, but it was also a weight that was heavy, something Mamoru knew as a doctor. Words were easy to recite. To practice the action such words meant . . . That was harder.

"When the world seemed too eager to say that the value of life was close to nothing, that things as trivial as gold and jewels were worth the extinguishing of a star . . ." Acheron trailed off. "No, but I digress."

Still staring ahead at nothing, Acheron continued. "When we came to that conclusion, we also came to the inevitable line of thinking – that the sacrifices of the few were necessary for the masses."

Mamoru's heart quickened. He didn't mean –

"And put ourselves on the altar," Acheron added after the pause, and finally turned his head to look at Mamoru. The shit-eating grin told Mamoru that he had done that on purpose, to tease him, and Mamoru was defensively angry even as he felt a bit of shame for thinking that-

"And others. I won't lie, when we weren't enough, it wasn't just us that bled for the good of many. We were the ideal few to put on there, mind, but even we weren't enough. The weight of the world and all. We were too few, too measly an offering against such a weight."

Maybe, Mamoru thought, with a light glower at Acheron. It was a good thing he hadn't grown up with this man in his life, because then he'd have become a very twisted individual.

"The one exception to that standard, however," Acheron said, "was you."

Mamoru could hazard a guess – that because he was the Prince of Earth reborn, because he had the Golden Crystal, that was why he had been made the exception.

"Because of the crystal."

The star seed of Earth.

Acheron didn't deny his guess. "And that made you – or rather, ensuring your survival – key to keeping more lives on this planet alive, in the long run. So, maybe it wasn't an exception, but if we looked at the immediate value rather than the potential, then you were definitely an exception."

Lives were more than numbers, Mamoru knew all-too well, but when the value of a life was another life, sometimes, it did come down to the mathematics – that the larger number was prioritized.

It was the uncomfortable, unfortunate truth that every person in the medical field learned sooner or later – that not everyone could be saved. That their job was one seeking to deny the inevitable from occurring sooner than later.

"When you died," began Acheron, and paused before clarifying. "When Sailor Galaxia killed you and stole your crystal."

Mamoru winced at the memory.

"Did you ever wonder why the Earth didn't die?"

A sound escaped his lips. His mention of sacrifices, of lives and prioritizing the majority.

He'd been more of a spirit, unable to act within the Golden Crystal that Galaxia stole, and made a puppet along with the others to face Usagi at the Galaxy Cauldron. When they all came back by the miracle that happened, they returned to Earth, and that had been their happy end to that battle.

Earth had not been in chaos, not been at risk of an apocalypse other than Galaxia's silent invasion, and Mamoru had not been concerned after everything was finished and they were all restored. If he did think about the repercussions, he assumed – like everyone else – that their home was safe because they had returned soon enough. That the planet hadn't had the time to collapse and die with the lack of its star seed.

But he'd been the first one slain by Galaxia, the one that was gone the longest.

And none of the sailor soldiers had noticed something odd about the planet, as they were picked off one by one by Galaxia's soldiers. They thought his lacking contact was disturbing, and were wary of the new foes that came, but nothing about the planet itself had raised itself as an issue.

"It was you," he realized.

"No," denied Acheron, but the thoughts in Mamoru's head rampaged and could not be stopped from going down their paths.

"That's why you –" he nearly said 'hate', and replaced the word at the last minute, "dislike me."

Because he had been living off the sacrifices of those he did not know, did not even think to find out about, always assuming that everything was alright when the status quo had been maintained by –

Acheron sighed. "My dislike of you stems from Sephira's death."

His thoughts screeched to a stop.

"Sephira was our leader, and the greatest Seer on Earth. She Saw in your future coming hope, for more lives to be saved, and staked her everything on you, including her life. The very thing that we put as our standard. Because you are the most special of all of Pandora's children, and perhaps the one that could make her wish come true."

"Pandora?"

"Pandora was the beginning, who held hope in the potential of diversity. Creusa came after, and she was a turning point between the age of gods and the age of mortals, and she held belief in mortality. And Sephira."

Acheron stood up. Mamoru was in the window seat and Acheron closer to the aisles, which meant that he had no difficulties stepping out from his seat into the aisle.

"Sephira wanted to live but gave her life for others because the self she saw reflected in the faces of countless strangers was more important to her than her actual damned self. Sephira held love for all, even those that didn't deserve it, and she paid the price for a new beginning with her own end, and that is why I cannot afford to fail. When you realize the whole truth at last," said Acheron, and he sounded like a prophet speaking of unavoidable doom as he looked down at Mamoru from where he stood, in the aisle of the dark plane, "and become king."

Mamoru reached out to the man in the shadows. He felt like if he didn't, he would one day regret it terribly. "What truth?"

But Acheron took a step back, and that one step was enough distance to take him out of Mamoru's reach. The seatbelt that he hadn't taken off since the plane took off held him in his seat, and he fumbled with the buckle for release.

"Don't give into despair," said Acheron, just as Mamoru unbuckled his seat belt and stepped closer. He spoke through gritted teeth, like every word was painful to spit out. "Don't you dare give up and reduce her sacrifice to nothing. No matter how hard hope is to hold on to. No matter what you have to do."

Just as Mamoru's fingers reached Acheron, he disappeared, evaporating like last night's dream touched by morning's sun. A small cube dropped to the ground, clattering softly.

Mamoru picked it up, finding it was a box, maybe just large enough to be hidden if he encased it with his hand in a fist. There was a hole in its side, and though it looked like it could open, he couldn't get it to reveal what was inside.

---

Once, in a different age, the gods made in their image Man. And life on this earth was good, and plentiful, and Man lived in awe of the heavens.

But when Man was given Fire, and became greater, the gods in disapproval wished to see Man fall.

They sculpted out of clay Woman, bestowed upon her gifts, and gifted her to Man, and for her gifts and being a gift she was Pandora.

Her gifts were many. Beauty, cunning, craftsmanship, music, and so on.

But one of her gifts was curiosity, and another a sealed jar the gods bid her to never open. It was a trap of the gods, one she fell prey to, and upon the opening of the jar the world that had once only been good and in harmony was filled with chaos.

Frightened by what she had released, Pandora closed the jar once more, but it was too late. Its contents were already a blight upon the world, out of control, and the golden age was no more. Suffering was a part of life that could not be removed, not without death.

Within the jar, however, was one last spirit that which had not escaped, that still remained at the side of humanity, and that was hope. Even in the darkest times, this small spirit would remain with them, so that they may be able to endure the despair.

So long as they lived, they had hope. Their suffering would end with death, but with it was the end of hope for that life.

And the cycle would continue, souls reborn to life, returning to death, a circle of suffering.

That was the story of Pandora.

…

Wasn't it?

…

…

…

NO

---

"In other words," said Acheron flatly, "the myths were a lie."

Sephira winced. "It may have had some elements of truth but was changed over the years."

"A half-truth cannot become a whole truth," he deadpanned, as if to tell Sephira that her attempt to shield his innocence was pointless and that he was too entrenched in cynicism.

Next to him, the more innocent one looked shaken – the response that she'd been trying to shield him from.

"Then," said Helios, "what happened to Pandora?"

Cynical as he liked to be, even Acheron looked curious at the truth of the woman from the myths.

It wasn't Sephira's tale to speak of, not anymore, and yet Sephira could never deny them anything.

"She Saw," said Sephira, and though there was more that connected her to the Seer of the distant paths that defied the gods, the same bond that connected Pandora to Creusa and Creusa to Sephira, it was the Sight and the weight of what it told her that she empathized with most.

"Despair. A lot of despair."

Not just the despair of those that would die, but her own as well.

(How many have to die, how many have to be killed before we can learn to coexist, before we learn to not kill each other, before we can learn to love our differences instead of hating them –

Pandora screamed at what flooded into her mind's eye,

the potential paths the people would and could take

thousands of billions to be murdered before we learned as a whole

it could be less

it could be more

millions of billions?

billions of billions?

there was a chance, and it was a good chance, that they would die out before they learned how to love differences, how to not kill)

But if that was all, then Pandora would not have returned, even at the cost of her own pain.

"And hope."

(But there was also a chance that they learned how to love, how to tolerate, how to live and not kill.

And so, when Queen Serenity tried to give immortality to the people of Terra, Pandora turned her down, because they weren't ready for it yet. They weren't strong enough to not be erased yet -

Creusa was ready to fight and kill and burn, until she was reminded –

Sephira sequestered herself away, tried to avoid her visions, until the End came and she realized she had a choice –

There was a chance. A chance built on blood and death and suffering, a lesson carved into bones by the chisel of pain and tears, a difficult chance for a love that defied the oppression of hate.

It was okay to fail, because they could stand again, learn from the mistake and grow from it)

Sephira smiled at the people who gave her hope. "And she chose to hope."

And returned to pain, even after death, so that Earth may have a chance to learn and survive.

There was a difference. Her soul might have once been Pandora, once been Creusa of Troy, but right now, in this life, she was Sephira, the priestess of Elysion who chose her name and was born anew when she swore her oaths. Who made a family of her own, who faced a manifestation of the inevitable and survived destruction with others.

Pandora thought it was necessary, the learning curve ahead of Terra's humanity, and she turned away interactions with the Silver Queen and offers of immortality, fearing loss of Terra's strengths by assimilation. Creusa wanted the gods to burn, for destroying her home, and though the sight of her son reminded her that there was more to her than just rage and loss, she was dying, dead by then as Troy was ravaged.

Sephira understood, in some ways, the thoughts of her past lives, but she did not fully agree with them, and her choice was different from theirs.

Imperfect as this world was, there could be love in it, and so Sephira chose to love.

---

Would it be possible, to think that all the Chaos in the world – all the evils of this world – could be sealed into one jar? To believe that there had once been a world full of nothing but goodness?

To think that it was one woman who released it all unto this world?

Or was it something else?

Pandora became remembered as the foolish woman who gave into temptation, and unleashed upon the world all the evils that would cause suffering.

But was the so-called Golden Age before as perfect as the myths claimed? Was it truly mere curiosity that opened the box?

In the bottom of that box was Hope, that which carries souls through the suffering of existence, for to exist, by nature, was to suffer.

Pandora did not release the evils upon the world. She inquired, she searched, she refused to be blinded and bow in the faces of the gods.

Her curiosity looked to the heavens, and drove her to seek her answers in those so-called mysteries that mortals could not fully comprehend. And she named the evils that caused suffering and by doing so made them recognizable. That was Pandora's curiosity – her 'sin'.

Later generations would call the actions of others who did what she did 'philosophy' and praise those who inquired, but none pardoned Pandora's 'sin'.

---

Ungracefully, he rolled on the ground. Usually Acheron hated getting dirty, but between turning dirty and battered, and ending up dead, he'd take the former gladly.

Not even a second later, the monstrous thing he'd been fighting slammed down an acid-imbued tentacle where he once was, and if he had the luxury to spare a breath of air he would have sworn.

As it was, every breath needed to be saved and turned towards survival, because the ground hissed as it corroded from the touch alone.

The whale-sized monster that the invaders had released was – though he hated to admit it – a perfect counter for him. Illusions had little effect on something that had no true conscious thought or intelligence. A jellyfish-like creature made of a semi-clear gelatinous substance that had no brain, much less any visible organs, and therefore could just ignore his greatest strengths was something he had never imagined fighting, but it was a counter to him like something out of a nightmare.

Even real illusions, with their ability to interfere with reality because they were based on the indigo Mists, were useless. Were less than useless because this mindless blob fed on energy, of which Flames were unfortunately a concentrated source of.

Acheron seethed at that. The indigo Flames were his primary method of offense – as well as defense and support – and while he could use the red and purple Flames, they were lesser than his primary color.

And purple, unfortunately, was just offering up a feast to this brainless blob that wanted to dissolve and devour him.

Red it was. A fight between acid and disintegration, and he had no intention on losing to a brainless jellyfish.

The massive alien jellyfish didn't make a sound when he blasted it with red Flames, even as parts of its body was disintegrated. It lost a floater – one that was too thick and strong to be just a floater – and received several large holes in its body.

It was as if he'd dipped a bowl into a pond to remove some water. The gel-like substance it was made of, despite having shape, spilled in to fill the missing parts until it was whole and its original shape.

Acheron did swear this time, and pulled up more red Flames. The jellyfish, while lacking a brain, began to attack him as well, and soon the ground below his feet was hazardous from the acid and red Flames disintegrating it.

He should have pulled up a real illusion to secure his footing, because he ended up tripping. And of course, that jellyfish, who had no feet and did not walk, had no such problems.

Before the acid tentacle could pulverize and dissolve his body, a shield intercepted the blow easily.

"It's alright," said a familiar voice. "I'm here now."

Acheron slumped in relief, as Sephira shoved the tentacle back with her shield. Forged by Daedalus, a perfect conduit of her Flames, it couldn't be as eaten away by some blob's acid.

"Thanks," he rasped out, feeling like his heart was in his throat. For a moment he had truly thought he was about to die.

She patted his shoulder, and her mantle rippled with the movement of her arm – the second part of her Aegis, woven and enchanted by Agamede, both crafters determined to give Sephira the protection she gave up with her birthright. Acheron stood, wincing at the ache in his ankle, and stepped back so he wouldn't get in the way as the strongest protector of this planet stepped forth. Though he saw only her back, Flames danced across her skin, her mantle, and he could easily see the image of her eyes alit with resolve.

What Flames would work on this thing, he wondered, creating a splint to keep his ankle straight. Blue, to freeze its movements and functions? Green, to rip through it like bolts of lightning? Yellow, to force it into overgrowth and exhaustion? Or orange, Sephira's primary Flame, the rarest of the seven?

The Flames sputtered, and Acheron stiffened in alarm at how they flickered so erratically. If she wasn't standing, back straight and shoulders strong, then he would have thought she was on the verge of death.

Then, something in the air shifted – like a sudden drop in pressure or temperature, like the time Scylla, without any warning, threw him off a cliff into the cold lake below in the name of 'training'.

From Sephira's hands, where the source of that shift had come from, and the creature she fought, ice burst out. Not a thin layer of frost, or some icicles, no.

A massive burst of ice, that encased her foe. A pillar of ice stood, glittering in the light like a diamond, and frozen within was the being that tried to kill him. No longer was its amorphous body fluid and shifting – it was all frozen now, a glacier on the ground.

Sephira stepped back, dropping her arms to her side, and let out a soft sigh.

"What was that?" he asked, as soon as he was able to stop gawking.

"Something new," said Sephira.

"Yes," said Acheron, who had been trailing after Sephira so long that he barely remembered a time when he hadn't, "obviously."

She smiled, and ducked her head to try and hide it. "It's a reversal of Flames, because they're pure forms of energy. Take it from a positive state, and make it – negative."

Acheron looked at the new mountain of ice, how it was clear – but also had a slight sheen to it, like a layer of oil. A faint sheen with the seven colors of the rainbow.

"What are you going to call it?" Names were important, in defining and limiting. He asked, though, because neither of them had much talent in naming anything. Him because illusions should not limit and define or be weakened, and her because she Saw so easily the true nature of things.

Sephira didn't disappoint. "Ice."

Flames and Ice. Acheron groaned, and it wasn't because of exhaustion or pain.

---

It was time to choose, Takeshi knew. And though he wanted to be selfish, he couldn't.

Tsuna and Hotaru were both precious to him. But to compare them, to rank them like Futa used to do would be incorrect. Like comparing milk and sushi. That wasn't how it worked.

Tsuna was the friend that Takeshi would gladly walk into hell with. Takeshi knew that the day Tsuna told him, and asked if he wanted to leave. To stop the mafia game that wasn't a game, that wouldn't be a game.

The friendship he struck up with Squalo – though the silver-haired man would deny it – taught him that there was more to the game that was far from what he'd been treating it as, but he had been waiting for Tsuna, because he knew what his kind friend would want – to push Takeshi away to safety, even if it propelled him deeper into trouble. Because that was Tsuna.

"It's dangerous," Tsuna said, trembling with fear. He hated the idea of losing Takeshi as his friend, but what he hated more was Takeshi being in danger because of him.

"You're in it now," Squalo had said, volume uncharacteristically low for him. "There's no getting out of this world. No way but death."

And rather than run or cower in fear, Takeshi's thoughts had been – what kind of a friend would he be, if he were to leave Tsuna in a world like that alone?

Takeshi told Tsuna that he wasn't leaving. Tsuna cried, but he also smiled, and promised that he would keep Takeshi safe. He made a joke about how Tsuna's grammar was pretty bad if he didn't understand the meaning of 'guardian'. It had been a mostly happy day, all things considered.

That was the difference though. If Tsuna was someone Takeshi would walk into hell with, side-by-side, ready to face any demon together, then Hotaru was someone he was going to push into heaven even if he fell deeper into hell for it.

It couldn't be like the other girls – though Tsuna had tried, so desperately, to keep Haru and Kyoko out of it, and they had refused, ever so stubborn. Gokudera and Haru yelled at each other for what felt like hours, Gokudera yelling about Haru needing to understand Tsuna's sacrifice and be safe like he said and Haru refuting that she wasn't going to leave her friends so he could take that self-righteousness and stop telling her what to do or else she was going to kick him so hard he'd taste her shoe. And Ryohei had tried, especially after the kidnapping, but Sasagawa just refused to not be involved when her brother was, where Tsuna was, and Ryohei couldn't win against his sister.

But that couldn't be the same for Hotaru. Not Hotaru, who had healing powers that weren't like Sun Flames. Reborn said it was special, unusual, unique, and Takeshi knew that someone like Hotaru did not and could not belong in what he was about to set foot in. What he had already set foot in.

Not her. Never her.

"Tsuna said I could cut ties with him." Hotaru sounded confused at the permission given for something she had never asked, never thought about asking, "but he said I should talk with you first . . .?"

In their last semester of Junior High, they had been busy, less able to spend time with each other. Some things hadn't changed, but others had.

Like how he felt. And what he was about to do.

"Tsuna wants us to be happy," Takeshi said, because that was a truth beyond dispute. "You said your parents were considering school in Tokyo, right?"

Hotaru shrugged.

"Just a suggestion, and it wasn't Michiru-mama. More an acquaintance who thought I should attend because Tokyo is obviously better than anywhere else." She rolled her eyes like it was ridiculous. Even if Takeshi could see it. Hotaru was meant for bigger things. Brighter things. More opportunities, to meet with other brilliant minds that could challenge her.

"You should do it." The words hurt when they left his mouth, like he was spitting out broken glass, and every shard extracting a price in pain and blood from him.

Hotaru stared at him, as if she couldn't process what he had just said.

"Tsuna can't explain, because then you won't have a choice," Takeshi explained as vaguely as he could. "But – you should."

"I should what?" Hotaru's voice was surprisingly neutral.

"Go to Tokyo. Cut ties with us." Broken glass and rusted nails scraped at his insides, drawing blood painfully by shredding him. Hell for him, but he'd take it gladly if it meant she was safe.

Dark purple eyes, ones he had been familiar with for most of his life, kept their gaze fixed on him for what felt like a very long, painful time.

"Is that what you want?" It was a quiet whisper, from a blank face. Recently Hotaru had been more reserved, withdrawn, but Takeshi could read the question – what she was really asking.

Honestly, no. He figured out what his feelings for her were a while back, and even without that he would have still wanted her in his life. But Takeshi had been there with Tsuna when they learned that Kurokawa and Sasagawa had been kidnapped. Was part of the rescue squad, saw Sasagawa bleeding, the ground around and under her red as if a paint can had been spilt, and Kurokawa crying as she tried to staunch the wound, hands stained with the same red leaking out from her friend.

That day Takeshi cut someone down and realized that this person would never again rise and speak, never live again, and was in a world that was dark, and bloody, and cruel.

And Squalo, he had warned him that there was no way out.

If he was the anchor about to drag her into that world, then Takeshi was going to cut the weight of himself away from her.

"Yes."

The word was short, barely a whisper, but in that moment, it cut sharper and deeper than the Shigure Kintoki ever could.

Yamamoto Takeshi cut out Tomoe Hotaru from his life.

---

Tsuna still remembered the ring battles – fighting with the Varia, over rings. Hesitant and unwilling at first, until he realized that Xanxus would not end with just victory. That there was more at risk than just old rings of value he didn't want to know, and the position of the boss he didn't want.

Or so he had thought at the time.

Tsuna had not been wrong, not entirely. There was more to the battles than that.

With their victory, with the rings, started the very life that Tsuna had been trying to avoid ever since Reborn barged into his world. Violence, and death, and blood. More ill intent than he had known prior to this – dark and full of malice and greed to the point where Xanxus and his angry violence was almost a relief, in how blunt and straightforward it was.

Ironically, it was the very people who got him into this life that kept him alive as he floundered in his adjustment. Reborn was always at his side, the tutor, and so was his father.

Iemitsu was awkward to be with for months, not just as the weird father who wasn't home often but as the suited mafioso with a reputation that gave Tsuna whiplash at the discrepancy in what he knew. They had a distance, not physical but emotional, and Tsuna didn't know there was frustration building up between them until they fell into an ambush.

It was the weirdest father-son-bonding experience, if it could be called that. Tsuna yelling at his dad for being a shitty dad and his dad just yelling back that he could call him whatever he wanted so long as he got out of this alive so not now, and both of them taking out an enemy after each other's life at the same time.

And then Basil got hurt shoving Tsuna out of the way of a bullet and both of them got their heads back in the game.

That day, Tsuna and Iemitsu had a talk over Basil's hospital bed. It was more like pulling teeth at first than healing, because it was new, and not something either of them had done with each other, but Tsuna realized it needed to be done.

"I didn't want this for you," said Iemitsu, and he looked old. He was old to Tsuna, in the way that all parents were old to their children, but for the first time he looked old, in the tired way.

But Iemitsu hadn't had a choice, in the same way Tsuna didn't have a choice.

"My father, your grandfather," he said, slowly, a story not shared until now finally being recited, "didn't have his Hyper Intuition sealed."

Giotto, the first boss of the Vongola, had sealed his son, and his grandson, but wasn't alive to do that for his great-grandson. It might not have been the only thing, but the objective facts were that Sawada Ietsuna had made bad decisions. He used drugs, drank constantly, was violently paranoid, and just violent.

But not towards just anyone. Somehow, despite the constant flow of liquor and mind-affecting substances he made use of, Ietsuna was aware just enough to not get himself imprisoned. He knew the line, and he kept on one side of it.

The violence, he turned on his wife and two sons, who were under his control and lived in fear of his tyranny.

"If Ietsugu lived," Iemitsu whispered while Tsuna listened with wide eyes, hearing about his father's younger brother for the first time in his life, "you would have had an uncle."

The picture Iemitsu gave him was old, and faded, but he made out the image of three young boys. The biggest one was somber, staring at the camera with serious eyes, but the younger one that Iemitsu pointed out as Ietsugu was smiling. He held his brother's hand with one and a teddy bear in the other. The third boy, Iemitsu identified as Ietsugu's friend Riku, a boy who looked so thin and frail that Tsuna just knew he was ill.

"I don't have many pictures of him," Iemitsu admitted. "That was taken by Riku's grandmother, who was always trying to get our mother to take us and leave Father. We weren't exactly a picture-taking type of family, and when I was twelve, he was seven."

He paused, like the words were stuck in his throat, swallowed, and tried again.

"It wasn't a good day," he said, "I just had that feeling, the one where your gut just feels heavy and you know something bad is going to happen."

Tsuna knew that feeling, that intuition buzzing to warn him of danger. Not immediate, but not to be ignored either.

"But Mother was in the house, so Ietsugu and I had to be there. We had to protect her, because we knew when it was bad, but she didn't. I tried to go by myself, I told Ietsugu to go to his friend's house, but he wouldn't listen. But I didn't listen to my gut either, so I guess I can't blame him."

They went in, two young boys who couldn't lose their mother.

"He was drunk, and I thought it wouldn't be as bad. He wasn't swinging a bottle or his belt, just using his fists." Iemitsu grimaced at his own words, as if hating how low the bar was. "We thought it wouldn't be as bad."

Ietsugu, Iemitsu recounted to Tsuna who had never known him, was a heroic kind of boy. Where Iemitsu had been cynical and pessimistic about the world they lived in, resignation beaten into him, Ietsugu somehow always had hope.

Seven years old, he reached out to beg his father and stop him from beating his mother.

But what the two boys had not realized was that while he might not be using objects to lash out, Ietsuna was not in a good state of mind.

For all that he was drunk frequently, Ietsuna was a grown man, and Ietsugu was a scrawny seven-year-old boy.

A backhand to his head threw him backwards, and he fell. A bad injury any other day, except he fell over the furniture, fell badly, and broke his neck.

Sawada Ietsugu was only seven years old when he was killed by his father.

Iemitsu screamed, tried to help his brother, tried to wake him up, but that pit in his gut had become an endless abyss – there was nothing that could be done to help Ietsugu now, no way out.

Ietsuna didn't realize, tried to get Iemitsu to shut up because the loud noise made his head hurt, and Iemitsu, having just seen his father kill his brother, lashed out. Subconsciously he knew that if his father could kill Ietsugu, he could damn well kill Iemitsu, and that his life might be in danger, and he did not want to die.

Consciously – if that wild-eyed, terrified state he was in could be considered conscious – he wanted this man gone from his life. He was a threat to his life, he had killed his brother, and Iemitsu was scared.

Sawada Iemitsu was only twelve years old when he first went into Hyper Dying Will Mode, so desperate to live and not die, not be murdered like he had just witnessed, and he was only twelve years old when he became a murderer. In self-defence, but it did not change the fact that he had his father's blood on his hands.

Not that he had time to think about everything in that moment, because he fainted, body and mind shutting down to protect him from the physical and emotional strain of everything he had just gone through. And when Iemitsu woke up, everything in his life was changed, though not in the way he would have expected after killing his father.

Iemitsu wasn't carted off as a murderer and shoved into prison. Not because of his age or the circumstances, because that would not have stopped his social assassination, but because of a series of coincidences. The Vongola kept tabs on Primo's descendants. Not in detail, but just enough to see if there was any that would approach them for some kind of attempt at a coup with bloodline claims. To make sure they weren't going to be heralded in by anyone with wrongly directed ambitions as puppets for the bloodied throne of the Vongola. A subtle way of respecting the descendants of Primo without directly interacting with them, a peaceful way to keep them out of that bloody fight for the crown.

The leader then, Timoteo, had grown up with his mother telling him and his sister about the great man that Giotto had been, and he had been curious. He was in the area when his men brought him the tragic news.

Unable to ignore that, Timoteo approached Iemitsu and offered him help.

"We left Japan and came to Italy," Iemitsu said. An illusionist's efforts and some strings pulled, and the people forgot about the Sawada family, but it was best to not stay around and risk memories coming back. People did not look favorably upon the family of murderers, and especially not father-killers. No matter what kind of a man that 'father' had been in his life.

Timoteo gave Iemitsu a new life. Iemitsu gave that new life to Timoteo and the Vongola.

"What happened to Grandmother?" The word felt weird on his tongue. Even if it was the correct word, it was unfamiliar.

"She died not long after." Iemitsu's voice was rough and quiet. "She was . . . it was easier for her to love Ietsugu because he didn't look like our father, and the stress of losing him and being in a foreign country, combined with everything that happened was just too much for her."

Iemitsu was alone, in Italy, and from a young age he was being threatened.

"If it weren't for Gabriel back then," he said tiredly, "I would have died."

Gabriel Ferrari. The man who died shortly after the Varia's coup failed. Tsuna never met the man, but he had heard of him. Heard that he was the main reason why Tsuna was dragged into the position of Vongola Decimo, because it was him who revealed that a candidate for the position lived in Japan when the other three were killed.

"He had a son in a similar position," he said, "Matteo also had the Blood of the Vongola, through his mother – Nono's sister. Even if he didn't want it, his very presence was a threat."

Just like Iemitsu. Gabriel and Matteo gave him a family, and Iemitsu fought to live. He had to live, because he didn't want to die, and he had a reason to live.

To keep Matteo and Iemitsu alive, Gabriel pushed his brain and knowledge to its limits and suggested that both of them enter CEDEF.

"That way," he said, "we were removed from the line of succession and couldn't be involved with the main Family's dealings. We couldn't be used as puppets in some crusade to seize power internally."

Using the external advisory agency's rules to counter the significance of their blood had been a stroke of genius. With Timoteo's three – four, counting Xanxus – sons present, Matteo and Iemitsu were long shots.

Especially Iemitsu, more foreigner than someone the Vongola and the rest of Italy could accept easily as a leader of the strongest Family.

It was safe, or as safe as he could ever be.

And that, Iemitsu said, like a confession, was why he had been unable to stop himself from falling in love with Nana, and from trying to build a happy life, a family of his own.

"I have a lot of regrets in life," he said, at the end of a very long story, a story that was overdue for good reason. How would he have ever told Tsuna all of this before? "A lot of them. But you and Nana are the best things that have ever happened in my life, and I'm sorry for dragging you into this."

Iemitsu would not have blamed Tsuna if he hated him. He thought he would deserve it.

Maybe he did, but Tsuna couldn't hate him, not when he understood.

"I used to think that you were useless," Tsuna said, because Iemitsu had bared his soul, and Tsuna, well, Tsuna could only return the favor. "I hated that you weren't there, and I was embarrassed, and then you were-"

He gestured wildly, without much purpose except as a wordless expression of frustration. "You were CEDEF advisor and pushing me into the mafia? Okay, so that was Reborn but honestly when you showed up back then I was just so confused."

Iemitsu nodded like that was fair, and Tsuna was frustrated. Not at Iemitsu, maybe, or at least not only at him, but – at himself. At the world. At everything and nothing simultaneously.

"I still hate all this," Tsuna said. He hated fighting, he hated the violence, he hated that the people he cared about were dragged into danger because of him. "But I get it now. I get that you tried to keep me safe."

He used to think that he was the normal one, that Hayato and Bianchi and Reborn were just weird. Dino, for all that he was cool, could be weird as well. Lambo and I-Pin, young, but still weird. Futa? Definitely weird.

It wasn't until later, becoming the one and only candidate for Vongola Decimo and officially starting to fight for his life that Tsuna realized where that weirdness had come from. They were habits made to protect the self, evidence of a life where death was common, dealt like currency. Where life was fragile, no illusion about it, and safety was a myth.

Traits that were unfamiliar to Tsuna because Iemitsu had done everything he could to make that myth the reality for him and his mother. Just so he could live a normal, boring life free of dangers, cutthroat engagements with hitmen, constant threats to his life. Where the biggest worries were the next math test or waking up late for school. Everything, including staying away from his family so he wouldn't lead anyone on his end to them.

Even if it ended with Tsuna still being dragged in, those years were some of the best in his life. That, Tsuna could not deny, especially now, when he knew just how precious that gift was.

"Thanks, Dad."

Iemitsu covered his eyes. Tsuna, recognizing the vulnerabilities of a man who hadn't been able to bare his weaknesses without risking being torn apart by constantly circling enemies, gave him time and pretended to not hear the soft stifled sobs.

"You're too good to me. For me," he said, eventually, eyes rimmed red. "You and Nana are everything I don't deserve."

"Don't be too hard on yourself," Tsuna mumbled. He was emotionally exhausted, but – it wasn't a bad day, all things considered.

---

Tsuna tried, at least, to get his friends out of it. He was in it because of blood. They didn't have to be. They could still get out of it, still not be stained with blood and tied to danger.

They didn't have to follow him into hell. That way, they could be safe, and he wouldn't have to watch them be hurt, have to suffer because of him. They didn't have to be his guardians, with all that it meant.

Tsuna had nothing but mixed feelings when none of them backed away. Even Hibari, who did not do what he didn't want to do, chose to stay. Even Chrome, who was Mukuro's by her own will and definition first and foremost, kept in their orbit, silent but present, one step removed but always in the corner of his eyes.

Devastation, that he would be their ruin. Joy, that the people he would give his life for were in his life. Worry, that he would be their death. Happiness, that he was lucky to have them.

His nightmares were always that of himself, standing amidst bodies cold and unmoving with familiar faces. Alive, but with nothing, the poorest soul alive.

It was a fear he lived with constantly, and that was what drove him to make this radical decision.

"We can't break the rings, Tenth," protested Hayato.

And Tsuna knew why his right hand disagreed, when usually he was his staunchest supporter. He was worried that the loss of the rings would strip away the protection of tradition, that the rings had chosen them, and gave them legitimacy. The power they provided, so that they could fight to protect if necessary.

They were protection, for a leader who was more Japanese than Italian, whose blood was the only thing that gave him legitimacy in a world full of treachery and death.

But there was too much blood shed over them in the first place, and Tsuna refused to let the blood be that of his Family. The rings were dangerous to have, and dangerous to allow in the hands of other Families.

The mindset of 'if I can't have this then no one can' might have seemed a little childish, and perhaps dangerous, but Tsuna knew this was the right choice as he watched the seven rings be broken.

---

It was seven days before Acheron was able to accept – somewhat – that Sephira would die. Seven days after he rushed to her side, feeling a disturbance, only to see that she was mortal once more, death hanging over her shoulders, ready to take his sister, queen, god from him.

He begged, he wept, he screamed, he threatened, and Sephira was like an unmoving mountain.

Only once did she react.

"You are murdering me!" he screamed, and she had flinched.

Acheron almost wished he could take back those words, but he had meant them and she knew it. It had been Sephira who told him, taught him that they were not singular creatures, that they lived on even past death in the memories of others. That everyone he had ever loved was still alive in those who remembered them.

That all his siblings, and all his nieces and nephews and friends and wives were still alive as the people he knew them as. The Orpheus Acheron had learned music from, the Yiren that Acheron raised after Peleus died with the second woman he married, the Teresa that Acheron married as Niccola Fiume, they were alive even after their physical deaths because he was alive, he who remembered aspects of them, he kept them alive, would do so until he died.

And even now, there was him, in physical form, he, Acheron, but there was also within Sephira Acheron, Sephira's brother and fellow guardian of this Earth, who had entered the temple of Elysion at a young age and followed her into a long life of wandering this planet after the Apocalypse.

The Acheron that was Sephira's loyal brother, who held onto her tightly for his reality in fear that he would lose himself to the madness that plagued illusionists, who reassured himself with the knowledge that the greatest Seer in the world could always see through him, no matter what, was about to die with her.

A tear escaped and ran down her face, and Acheron wanted to scream and cry, because he knew her too well – knew that she wept because she would not change her mind, and she felt and saw his pain at that decision.

Nothing he said or did would make a difference then, if even the thought of his murder at her death could not move her.

Acheron accepted the decision of his sister, his queen, his god.

That did not mean he had to like her decision, however.

"I don't like it," he said, on the seventh day when he came to not scream or plead or weep, but to surrender.

"I was born mortal," she pointed out, and in her eyes were an apology. "And it's fitting that I die a mortal, a human."

His god declared her mortality, and her decision to die for the promised prince and the people of this planet.

---

Tsuna wanted to laugh. Even if he could, though, the sound would have been dry and tired.

But he did want to laugh because of the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

"I know it sounds unbelievable," said Irie Shoichi, who sounded just as tired, just as frazzled as Tsuna felt right this second.

Tsuna shook his head and cut him off. "I believe you."

It was wild, it was something unexpected for sure, but Tsuna trusted the word of Irie Shoichi, who was known as Byakuran's Sun Guardian and friend. Who was offering what he claimed to be information regarding Byakuran's power, both literal and the reason as to how he was able to be the influential force he'd become in so short a time.

Sometimes it was the truth that was far wilder than any fiction could hope to be.

And the truth was, he and everyone he cared about was in danger. Grave danger that he had only the hair's width chance of avoiding.

He – no, the Vongola – needed a miracle against these impossible odds.

Ten years ago, Tsuna wouldn't have wanted to laugh at the seemingly fictional story presented to him, and found himself too exhausted to react. He would have reacted, in disbelief and denial initially, and then found himself moving to do something.

He would have only been exhausted when what he faced was over, but once he recovered still have the heart to insist on his peaceful, regular life.

Ten years and the Tsuna of then, the boy who couldn't believe in himself but learned how to stand for those he cared about, the one filled with so much potential looking back, was his gambit.

"That's insane," said Irie Shoichi, who understandably paled when hearing the plan he was risking his limbs and life on as a double agent.

"It really is," agreed Tsuna. Because this plan was made to be wild, made to be incredibly high-risk, made to be completely unpredictable. "But do we have any other options?"

The expert on madmen by virtue of just who he worked for, Irie Shoichi understood that it would take tactics as insane as, if not more than, Byakuran to stand even the possibility of a chance.

And when against a mad dictator set on taking over the world with knowledge of parallel timelines . . .

"It has to be the me from then," said Tsuna. Maybe it was nostalgia, maybe it was a yearning for a time when everything was simple – when, maybe, he was simple – but it was that time when he had the most potential, truly.

Because, though he hadn't known it at the time, there was more hope within him ten years ago than resignation. The rings, too, but he had faith that it was more than just the physical rings.

As for this incredibly high-risk gamble, someone needed to be bait. Bait that Byakuran would not be able to resist.

"It's going to have to be you," said Irie Shoichi, apologetic, but he had no reason to be because Tsuna would have insisted it be him if he hadn't said it.

It was a mad plan, one that even brought in the 'civilians' like Kyoko and Haru for his younger self's full potential, and so it was only right that he be the one to pay the price, that the risk fall on his head instead of anyone else's.

"Don't give up just yet!" snapped the redheaded man when he heard what Tsuna had to say – at his accepting of his own death in this mad plan.

Words that were faster than a fist, but only by a few seconds. Hibari, who had been silent until then, saw fit to make his displeasure known in the language he communicated best with – violence.

"Sawada Tsunayoshi," he said, and the displeasure was as clear as the fresh pain blooming on his face.

"Sorry, Hibari-san," Tsuna murmured to his Cloud Guardian. He still had to be there for what came after he pushed his younger self into, if their gambit paid off.

Irie Shoichi gave himself a second to gawk and then pulled himself back to the matter at hand.

"You're not going to die," he said fiercely, and if resolve were everything, that alone would have ensured Tsuna to be invulnerable. "At least, not for real."

"You're right," Tsuna agreed, to reassure Irie. "I've spent too much time being shot at by Reborn when I was younger to die from bullets now."

The genius that Byakuran collected put his brain to good use to craft a plan. It was still a long shot, Tsuna knew, and Irie Shoichi bit his tattered lips in worry, but –

But Tsuna decided to risk it all, and hope.

When the bullet struck, Tsuna knew that the black spreading over his vision could very well be the last thing he would ever see. Not just because Irie Shoichi could have failed in his switch, but because this could still all end in failure.

He fell, and until he lost consciousness completely, he never stopped holding onto hope.

---

Tsuna asked them to trust him. That he was going to make a gamble, aim for the long run, and stake himself on it.

Gokudera was the most vocal in trying to convince Tsuna to not follow through with this plan, but Takeshi hadn't been quiet either. As someone who was most obsessed with Lambo's frequent travels back in time, he knew that it wasn't something stable enough to stake his hopes on. To stake Tsuna's life on.

But none of them could ever beat Tsuna, even if he wasn't their boss, and in the end Tsuna won.

And they got him back in a coffin.

The flowers inside with him, Takeshi recognized as stargazer lilies, and he wanted to cry. Somehow, half-out of his mind, he found himself back at the base, waiting with baited breath. In a hunt it was patience that was most important, and right now the one they were after was far stronger than they were. He needed to wait, for that right moment, and then strike.

It was one of the hardest things he'd done in his life, and not just because they were stuck in an underground base. Yes, it was big enough to hold plenty of people, with several floors and more than enough rooms. It still made him antsy, to be waiting inside. No claustrophobia yet, but he could still go insane pretty easily.

"I'm going to the Tenth."

Takeshi looked up from his files. They were probably outdated, because the people who sent them had been wiped out in the Millefiore's initial strike against the Vongola. He hadn't had contact with Mochida since this report, so it was very likely that the leader of that team was out of commission at best.

At worst –

His throat closed. At worst, Mochida had met the same end as Yamamoto Tsuyoshi.

But this outdated report was all he really had to distract himself with right now, so Takeshi just kept flipping through the papers with mechanical movements without really reading the words printed on them until Gokudera snapped him out of it.

"Is it time?"

"Close to the estimate." He had the bag and everything. The boxes that he used, better than most could ever dream of weren't ready for use at his waist, so they were likely also packed away inside with the other necessary items for their past visitors, as well.

"Want me to go with you?" he offered, even as he could guess the answer.

Gokudera snorted. "Stay and guard the base."

"Good luck," said Takeshi as the Storm Guardian began to leave. Not just to him, but to all of them. They would need it.

---

"You taught him how to use the Ice?"

Sephira nodded, her pride in her student clear in her eyes. "He mastered it in less than a year."

Despite his resolve to dislike the man, Acheron was impressed. Sure, he had Sephira to walk him through everything, which was in itself an incredible advantage, but even so that was no simple feat Giotto had accomplished. Even some of the others couldn't use the Ice, despite Sephira's explanations and demonstrations and more time to learn the technique. It was hard, to suppress the very nature of the Flames – which was a strong, instinctual burn to live. Even harder to do so in a fight, where one's life was on the line and survival instincts screamed to not be suppressed.

The Ice, the negative, cold form of that energy that naturally manifested as 'Flame', was to suppress the instinct consciously, but not too consciously because overthinking it helped absolutely no one.

Hell, he only had a fifty percent success rate with the Ice. The only person among them who had been able to use the Ice enough times to claim mastery, other than Sephira, had been Scylla, who was just a ridiculous genius in her own right.

Sephira hummed. "He thought it would be more prudent to have a way to address any issues that might arise with the knowledge of Flames being shared."

"He wanted a way to get an advantage over others who could manifest Flames," Acheron summarized, tone falling flat. "Wonderful news, that. Is this his attempt to protect himself against you, or me?"

"Neither. He was willing," Sephira stressed, ever the optimist, "to take responsibility should his decision to teach others end up leading to an abuse of power."

Acheron huffed lightly at the unsaid chiding, but really, what did she expect? That he would just suddenly decide to be a good man and get along with Giotto, or that redheaded idiot who was still hopelessly in love with his sister?

As if. He was about to be murdered, was being murdered every day that Sephira was closer to death, and he was not in the business of forgiving his murderers.

His eyes fell on her latest projects – one was already done and set aside, and the other was more than halfway done. Two mantles, made in the way Sephira's mantles used to be – imbued with protection, made out of materials that would allow for them to be strengthened, not torn or burned by the Flames their wearers used.

Granted, Sephira was never as good as their siblings at sewing, and so they weren't as good as her own Aegis used to be, but still.

"If they die after everything you've done for them," he said, "they're the biggest idiots to have ever been born."

"No one can put off death forever," Sephira pointed out, stitching protection and strength and all the good blessings into the hem of the mantle, every stitch holding her will and magic, her intent that they who wore these should be kept safe. A prayer of love, pure and affectionate.

No, Acheron agreed silently, watching her make something to protect her students, just to delay the inevitable for their fragile lives because they were about to throw said fragile lives into danger so recklessly. No, they couldn't, but he really wished that she would put off her own death.

---

When her princess trained, pushing herself to the point of exhaustion, Makaria wanted to cry.

She didn't for two reasons. One, that would be disrespectful to the resolve her princess had. The resolve to grow stronger, so that there would be less chance of regret later in life when she was prepared to react to something. An attack, an enemy, a stroke of misfortune, anything.

And two, because her princess was alive, was living, and it was beautiful.

Back in the days of the Silver Millennium, the princess of Saturn was not kept in enchanted slumber until the end because of her powerful potential, or the fear of the other planets. Such things were trivial, in the face of the kind of power that the sailor soldier of silence was capable, and inconsequential in the long run.

The reason for the slumber, Makaria thought, was so that there would be no hesitation in the carrying out of her duty.

Magic was always tied to emotion, and the strongest, most powerful emotion of all was love. Love, that mysterious force capable of so much. Of joy, of sorrow, of peace, of conflict. It was a paradox, it was a part of life, it was a mystery, it was a gift, and it mattered.

But destruction was inevitable, and the destruction of Saturn was supposed to be a mercy.

To ensure that the scythe of the goddess of death could be brought down without a stray of hand, a faltering of the heart, the princess of Saturn was kept asleep to the world, so that the first and utmost thing she could love, and follow, and therefore give her all to –

Was her duty.

It was a different time now, Makaria thought, carrying the bath salt her princess had brought from Earth to the tub being filled. Her princess lived, among people, and she loved. There was more to life than just breathing and having one's heart beat, and the princess of Saturn was doing such now. She met people, she had those she loved, and she was among many.

She was happy, or at least capable of seeking her happiness if she was hurt. She was capable of weeping, if she was in pain. She could grow, and change, and live.

Makaria tipped the carton and watched the scented salts spill into the water. The perfume of flowers soon joined the steam of the air, the scent meant to bring relaxation.

"Good job today, princess," she said cheerfully. The smile she received in return for those words was tired, but genuine.

The small fairy guardian just hoped that the efforts of her princess would not be in vain. That all the hard work she was doing right now, all to ensure that she would not have to rely on her last resort, would pay off, that they would be prepared so she would not have to make the decision to bring the end.

---

It wasn't Gabriel that called him, not as a final favor before his execution. Despite the protests of everyone else in CEDEF, it was Basil who wanted to look at the man that had been after his life.

Gabriel had never been a big man, not physically, but in Basil's memories he had been so big. Like a monster under the bed, a presence that represented fear. And fear had a way of making someone look very, very big.

Looking at the older man in the cell, Basil saw now that he was smaller than he'd thought. He was sitting, yes, reading an old book, but he looked small now that Basil knew he could not hurt him anymore.

Gabriel looked up from his book, and held Basil's eyes as he placed a worn handkerchief between its pages and carefully folded it. He set the book aside – a book of prayers, Basil noted out of the corner of his eyes – but did not speak.

He hadn't called for Basil, but neither had he refused to see Basil.

Basil had thought about all the things he could say, had imagined his words even as he walked in.

'I didn't kill your son.' Not directly, but he still thought that was on him.

'I'm not cursed.' Basil didn't really believe that himself, so no.

'If I am cursed like you said, then I guess you've been cursed.' That was spite, and he was ashamed for even imagining it.

'If my mother didn't die, if Matteo didn't die, if they married like they were planning to, then you would have been my grandfather. What would it have been like?' He couldn't imagine Gabriel as his grandfather, not after everything, so he didn't know if Gabriel could imagine Basil as his grandson, either.

The question was none of these, and slipped out from his lips.

"Was it worth it?"

Gabriel touched the book's cover, touch gentle like the worn leather was a kitten's head. "What? Drugging Timoteo? Revealing the existence of Sawada Tsunayoshi to the Vongola? Or manipulating Xanxus?"

No one believed that Gabriel had been the one to trick and manipulate Xanxus, but Gabriel had been adamant on taking all of the blame when he gave his confession. Xanxus had raged, but there had been a private conversation, and he'd fallen sullenly silent afterwards.

"The only way it would have been worth it," he said slowly, "was if my son came back to life."

Then why-

Gabriel turned his head, an indicator that he was done speaking, and Basil realized that there would be nothing more he would get from the old man, who burnt every little he had left on revenge knowing it was pointless but needed a distraction from his pain. Even if it meant to cause pain to others with the fire he fueled.

But for his own sake, Basil decided that he should be selfish.

"I'm going to forgive myself," he said, more to himself, "and walk out of the shadow that I've been holding onto for so long, and let myself feel that I deserve happiness, the lightness that comes from the lack of guilt I held myself to for so long."

Gabriel didn't react, but Basil continued.

"Maybe I'll die early," he said, because he was in a business that dealt death very easily. "Maybe I'll fall in love, and get married, and have children of my own."

Either of his blood, or adopted. He liked the idea of having children, wanted to be a good parent, but who knew how things would go?

"But I'm going to fight to be happy."

It wasn't a middle finger stuck up defiantly with words to make a sailor blush like Sorrel suggested, or Tarragon's quiet reassurances that they could make the murder look like an accident or self-defence if they needed to. Basil wasn't going to do that – both the swearing and the murder.

But it was revenge, in a way.

Gabriel finally looked at him, and Basil met his eyes, dark and still like a lake with depths he couldn't quite make out.

Then the old man laughed. It was a dusty, brittle sound, but it startled Basil, that he could laugh. "Do that, if you can."

From him, that was practically a blessing. Business between them done and over with, Basil stood up and left without any verbal farewells. He didn't receive one, either, but neither of them really needed it.

A part of him wanted to cry, but every step away felt like some of the lightest ones he had ever taken in his life.

---

When they received the rings, both Giotto and Simon realized once again that their teacher was a woman of depths that even the oceans might have difficulty matching.

Giotto had always been of the belief that humans were powerful. That yes, though nature was a force which they could never fully control, there was something tenacious in the will to live of humans that could defy what seemed impossible. It was, after all, what Sephira had taught them.

But these rings were –

"Are you sure?" asked Sephira. The power they held was also responsibility, because power was potential, and potential inherently did not always mean good. Power, inherently, had no definition of good or evil, it was just wielded by those who could be called either.

The responsibility that came with them, what Sephira had implied to them in warning, was heavy. Far heavier than the rings themselves, physically.

Giotto knew he didn't have to accept, that Sephira would understand if he were to refuse. He was, after all, just one man in this vast world, and surely there were far better than he. Stronger than he.

But this was him, and he was in front of her.

Power did not mean good, necessarily, but it was potential, to make a change.

"I'm sure," he said. Simon echoed his words, and they accepted the rings, pricking their thumbs on a needle passed through flame to cleanse and letting a spot of blood drip on the ring to bind them by blood.

Sephira sighed, as if a burden had simultaneously been removed from her shoulders and replaced with another weight. "You're both capable of lighting Flames on your own, but the rings will help."

Simon lit his ring, and marvelled at the purity of the Flames. Giotto lit his, and found that it was easy, like taking a breath of air.

"What is your greatest wish?" Sephira asked them.

---

"What is your greatest wish?" Sephira asked again, over a decade later. His teacher was older, and dying, but though her body was frail and failing, the fire in her eyes was still present and burning. Maybe not like a pyre, or a blaze, but steadily nonetheless, ready to rise into a mighty flame at need.

Compared to her steadfast nature, Giotto felt like a pile of burnt-out ashes with no hope of ever burning again. How could he, when there was nothing to burn?

He gave her the same answer he had back then, when she first asked that question.

"I wish to live happily with those precious to me."

It was the same wish, but said differently now, after everything. And maybe everything was different, too. The ring, for one, he and the others had left for Ricardo and his Guardians, Talbot promising him that he could keep watch over the rings, make adjustments as needed.

Except Daemon. Who still had the ring, and the position, and yet everything was different.

Giotto nearly lost control, then. He wanted to spill out his tears, his sorrow, try to confess to the priestess before him his sins. His arrogance had been his undoing, had been the cause for Elena's death. He had led those that he loved and cared for into a life of blood and death and pain and it was only now that he realized the terribleness of what he'd done, far too late.

Ricardo and Daemon did not kill him, spared his life, and somehow that was almost worse. Ugetsu insisted that he come with him to Japan, and he would, but –

But by the gods, the fire that had been his resolve now burned him, and he was on a pyre, tortured by hell flames that he deserved.

Instead of burdening Sephira with his problems, Giotto swallowed his words, ignoring how his throat burned as if it was lined with bile and acid.

Sephira, however, had always seen and known more than most.

She reached out, held his hand with her own.

"Dear Giotto," she murmured softly, "don't let your guilt crush you."

His knees buckled, as if finally registering the weight he was being pressed with. Crumpling into a kneel, desperately clutching at the bedsheets like doing so would prevent him from screaming, Giotto shook his head, throat tightly closed with unshed tears and silenced sobs.

Sephira rested a hand on his head, a motherly touch that despite his protests, lessened the ache in his temple he hadn't been aware of until now.

"You did the best you could," she whispered, and his sight blurred with tears. "I have witnessed your resolve, and your battle, and I am witness to your life. I know, and I tell you now that you may seek your forgiveness from yourself."

As he wept with stifled sobs, Giotto almost missed Sephira's whispers. "Your wish is not something I can grant in your lifetime, or mine. But in this cruel world, there are miracles, and we sometimes are able to find second chances."

"What of your guilt?" he asked, words nearly buried by a hiccough. Because his teacher was a hypocrite, for being so laden down with her own guilt. Giotto knew that was partially why she was promising something beyond even her capabilities.

At least, beyond her abilities if she did not pay a very large price.

Giotto wanted, but he couldn't ask her to pay that price, whatever it might be.

His hypocritic mentor merely smiled and continued to brush his hair with her fingers.

"Live, Giotto," she said, almost singing the words like a gentle lullaby. "Love, Giotto, and hope. Find your joys in the simple aspects of life. Do not complicate yourself. Sometimes I swear you are like a kitten swimming in my yarn basket, getting all tangled up unnecessarily."

He shook his head, but was unsure as to what he was denying.

Sephira leaned down to press a soft kiss on his brows, because she knew, always did. "Live, love and hope, Giotto. Even when the world seems determined to make you do the opposite."

They were words of blessings, but they felt like manacles, binding him tightly in his current misery.

"It seems so hard," he confessed, because what business did a pile of ash have in any of those?

"All the worthy things in life tend to be," murmured Sephira. And that was the last conversation Giotto ever had with the woman who taught him.

---

The Mare Rings – check. There was the Lightning Ring left without a Guardian because Ghost was in the custody of the Vindice due to his experiments, but he had a few cards he could play that hadn't been used yet in this world.

The pacifiers of the Arcobaleno – check. Uni was the only one left alive, and she was under his control – a bird in the hand, so to speak.

The Vongola Rings were the biggest issue, but that was soon about to be corrected.

Items necessary were secured or would be secured, so Byakuran turned to the key players of the upcoming boss battle.

Chiba Mamoru was still in a coma. Tsukino Usagi was glued to her husband's side.

And Tomoe Hotaru was on the search for something – but not for him. Likely the reason for Chiba Mamoru's sudden coma, which Byakuran would claim as his if he didn't want a repeat of the world where the sailor soldiers discovered his meddling in their lives.

Hands-off was the approach to use, at least until he was a god himself. Until then, this was fine, this was the win condition he needed to fulfill. A lesson carved into him with all the repeated failures he'd suffered, and one he wouldn't forget easily.

"Let's start the hunt," said Byakuran, with a light clap of his hands.

His obedient hounds, ready with the fangs he equipped them with, turned to tear the Vongola to shreds.

---

AN: this interlude was originally 17k+ and I said that's ridiculous and went snip snip. The curse is broken, the next interlude will not be 19k+ words.

Some tie-backs with past chapters / key points in case you missed it:

-Interlude II mentions Nabu (Futa's previous life from Chu), who researched Terra and found the story of the seer who refused a gift from the queen and was called arrogant for it. - Pandora

-Sephira's previous lives (because reincarnation is a thing in Petrichor and this also applies to Sephira) are Pandora and Creusa.

-Creusa is a princess of Troy. Acheron has mentioned Troy being the point where God's Law was passed, outlawing interactions between those of the Silver Millennium and Earth, specifically the Trojan War. Her son Aeneas, a survivor of Troy's destruction and refugee, eventually created the Golden Kingdom.

-Sephira's battle attire, back when she was a frontline fighter, was a shield and a mantle. She fought kind of like Steve Rogers or Diana in that scene from Wonder Woman. With less shield throwing, though. Offensively she used Flames, but she wasn't against using her shield as a blunt weapon, especially in close combat.

-Acheron is very inspired by the story of Pandora. He even wrote an opera about it, though the choice of his third wife (Teresa Pasta, see Interlude II) traumatized him quite badly.

-Sephira was born into the kingdom created by her previous life's son. Giotto was reborn as his own descendant and sealed in the way he first made. What goes around comes around, every action has a reaction, karma, etc.

-Iemitsu is afraid of becoming like his father, and when he was younger he used to wish that his father would just not be in his life if he couldn't be a good father. That is his reasoning for his reluctance to be in Tsuna's life because he knows he's not a safe person to have as a father. Doesn't justify things but it does explain it.

-Iemitsu's brother Ietsugu gets his name from the same line that all the Sawada men are named after. Specifically the youngest one that died early.

-Gabriel (OC that drugged Timoteo and was the fake Nono) will come up again in a later arc. Basil's backstory will also be discussed in the TYL Arc.

Coming up is part one of the Future Arc (there's three parts to TYL oh god) and unfortunately Hotaru doesn't really appear so ... heads up in advance.

+ﾟ*｡:ﾟ+

Sweet Dreams~