Disclaimer: I own nothing.

Author's Note:

This chapter surprised me a great deal. I didn't know how Maxwell was going to be, or how involved he would be, but he has such a unique role compared to the other Spirits, much like Ratatosk and Origin do, that exploring his characterization was a lot of fun honestly.

I hope everyone is still remaining safe out here with the quarantine. I've been lucky enough to be able to work from home. It's been two and a half months of quarantine out here in Florida. Stay safe, guys!

You can wipe out an entire generation, you can burn their homes to the ground, and somehow, they'll still find their way back. But if you destroy their history, you destroy their achievements, then it's as if they never existed.
-Lt. Frank Stokes (Monuments Men)

Kratos woke the other three early, smiling at their groggy grumbles. Mithos shuffled off to the bathroom easily enough, accustomed to the early hour from work. Martel mumbled her wakefulness, but lay on the mattress for a few minutes longer, nudging at Yuan beside her.

Yuan squinted up at Kratos from underneath his frizzy mess of hair. Before he could even ask why on Gnome's green earth he was being awoken this early, he got a proper look at Kratos. He hadn't seen him look so excited in years, boyish energy erasing years of war from his face.

Yuan sighed, and got up without complaint. "So. Where're we going?"

Kratos grinned. "You'll see when we get there. C'mon."

The three of them followed Kratos like ducklings onto a trolley and towards the inner city. Mithos dozed on Martel's shoulder, while Yuan drank the coffee that Kratos had so graciously had ready for them when they'd finished getting ready. The coffee tasted worse than the stuff they'd had back on the battlefields—Yuan swore he'd tasted engine grease better than this—but it was definitely keeping him awake. Kratos led them through a maze of old buildings with sprawling trees in between them, and vines climbing their walls.

When Kratos finally stopped in front of a building, Yuan stared at him, then back up. Ciridian Tower looked even taller up close, like it could take you all the way to the moon if you climbed enough stairs.

"You haven't been in there yet?"

Kratos shook his head. "Wanted to see it for the first time with you guys."

"You—is this even allowed?" Yuan asked. The library. Kratos had brought them to the Ciridian Tower to see its library.

"Sort of," Kratos said. "I did some digging. Since I am, officially, a student of the University, I can bring up to four people to see it. I'm even allowed a guest pass, for someone to use the library."

The three of them stared at him, and Kratos was promptly engulfed in a massive group hug. He buried his nose in Martel's hair, Mithos' head digging into his chest, Yuan's arm tight around his shoulders. Martel pulled away, beaming at him and dropping a kiss on his cheek. Mithos tugged on Kratos' hand, starting the walk forward towards the large double doors. "Well? What are we waiting for?"

The library was massive, shelves of books and cubbies of scrolls forming a labyrinth that spiraled up the tower. None of them had ever seen this many books at once. Light slanted in from tall windows set at four points around the circular interior, and magitechnology lamps illuminated the rest of the room. Wooden floors gleamed; long tables with stacks of books and papers and the occasional person working were in between the shelves. Martel's hand came to her mouth, overcome with emotion. Yuan's hand in hers went slack as he spun in a slow circle.

"I could die in here," Yuan said, full of awe.

"And we'd die happy," Kratos agreed, voice thick. Martel was startled at the shininess of his eyes, and how he was pressing his lips together in an effort not to cry.

"There have to be answers in here, Martel." Yuan turned to her, his face lit up with hope an joy; it made him look years younger, like the boy she'd first met. "And something about Maxwell too!"

"It could take forever to go through all this." Mithos had wandered away, his fingers grazing reverently down the spines.

"You sound sooo disappointed about that," Yuan said.

Mithos' head poked back around a shelf, a grin threatening to split his face. "Yeah, this is definitely my disappointed face."

Martel peered at a map of the library—it was so big, it needed a map. "Look, there's an entire section for medical texts on the fifth floor!"

Kratos went to join her, pointing out a section for texts on law on the third floor, and a separate section for history on the second. Yuan looked over their shoulders. "Kratos—there's an entire floor for language and literature."

Kratos waved Mithos back towards them. "There's an archive of newspapers and academic journals on the same floor as philosophy. For help with your papers."

Mithos' eyes gleamed, a grin threatening to break his face. "This place won't know what hit them."

They explored the different floors, drifting through the stacks and racing excitedly to grab at each other's arms to show them new discoveries. There were few people in there so early, so they largely had the run of the place. For Kratos-and-Yuan, it felt like being children again, on those rare days when they weren't needed anywhere, and could run and play in the woods.

Yuan thought about Kratos' notebooks, at the bottom of his pack, full of notes and stories from their travels. All the stories from the Temples, every transcription of traditions and rituals, every carefully copied sketch from Temple walls. He thought about walls covered in yellowed newspaper clippings that no one could read, full of faces he didn't remember, but his mother loved. He thought about all the people whose stories they didn't know, whose stories couldn't be shared, and he thought about all the stories and histories contained within this Tower. That amount would be doubled, minimum, if half-elven works were included.

Mithos caught his arm through one of his passes along the shelves, brow creased in concern. "Are you okay?"

Yuan looked down at him. He imagined Mithos' treatises, his articles, all of his writings that Yuan had proofread and argued with him on, immortalized. Would historians write about them? Or would their family be lost to time too? Would all the suffering and joy they had experienced exist only in their memories?

Mithos jostled Yuan's arm a bit, frowning in concern. "Yuan?"

"Yeah…yeah, I'm fine. Just—got stuck in my thoughts."

It wasn't convincing even in Yuan's own mind, but Mithos, after a moment, let the excuse pass, letting go of his arm. "Okay. We can't stay here forever, though. We need to go to work in a few hours."

Right. Work. The warehouses where Yuan worked were full of engines and motors and wires, all that needed to be repaired. Yuan had started with a lot of the heavy lifting work, and the cleaning, but he'd learned quickly enough to become a mechanic. He enjoyed the work, enjoyed teaching himself new things, committing the designs to memory so that when they make their—very rare—packages of letters, they could be drawn and sent to Alstan and Myra, something that could perhaps help them on the other side. Yuan enjoyed the challenge of working with wires and gears, and can genuinely say he enjoys his co-workers for the most part. They were a rough and friendly bunch, and sometimes he had trouble understanding some of their accents, but they made him laugh and made him welcome.

But none of that could compare to being here, in this library, with the three people he loved most in the world.

To drag himself away from this library was like walking through molasses. Mithos was much the same, lingering in the doorway as Martel and Kratos waved.

"We'll come back after work," Mithos said to Yuan as they walked to the trolley station.

"If you think I'm risking your sister's wrath for missing dinner, you're insane."

"Coward," Mithos teased, lips curling.

"Nah, when it's family, that's just called wisdom."

These days, when Kratos or Yuan went by the printer's to pick up Mithos on the way home, more often than not, one of the other workers would tell them that Mithos was gone for the day already.

"You know what we would appreciate," Kratos said as he found Mithos in the Ciridian Library. "Is a warning of some kind so we don't worry about where you've gone."

Mithos looked up at him, mouth open to make some kind of sarcastic remark, but caught sight of the look on Kratos' face, and said, "I'm sorry. I will, from now on."

It wasn't uncommon for half-elves to be beaten in the streets, to be dragged inside the homes of their slavemasters to be punished away from public eyes. Kratos had heard of lynchings happening, but he had seen no hanging trees while he'd been here. He wasn't sure if he could stop himself from doing anything then. They had to keep their cover, he reminded himself. The greater good.

But it was so easy to imagine his family being the ones dragged away, never to be heard from again unless he happened upon their corpses dangling by a rope.

(Kratos has had to turn away from beatings, fingernails digging crescents into his palms until they bled. He cries when he comes home on those days, curled into the shoulders of his family, shame burning in his belly.

Mithos though. On days like that for Mithos, he comes home enraged, spitting venom and vitriol onto paper. He will edit the pages later, making them cuttingly polite and eloquent, but the bite is never taken out of them. Kratos is so proud, on those days, of the man Mithos is becoming. He would be so afraid if Mithos didn't react at all)

Mithos haunted the Ciridian Library as much as he dared—which was quite a lot. He scoured for any mention of Maxwell, of his Temples, of old maps of the city. Some were promising, but when he went to visit the areas he found, there were no Temples to Maxwell of any kind, only rubble or shantytowns.

"And there's nothing to narrow it down," Mithos muttered to himself. "He's the Spirit of Matter. He could literally be anywhere in this stinking city."

It was two weeks of fruitless searching when an old man that Mithos approached him. Mithos had noticed him absently before, though the man tended to stay towards the upper floors of the Library. He reminded Mithos of dwarves with his rather impressive white beard and broad build, but he was taller than any dwarf, his shoulders hunched.

"Did you need help finding something, young man?"

Mithos looked up, and stared. He hadn't paid attention to the old man before. He had just been another person walking through. Mithos tended to not notice anything around him when he went into research mode. He and Martel had that in common.

But this old man—the mana around him felt clean in a way Mithos only felt around Ratatosk or Origin these days, when he spoke to them. Nothing in this city felt clean like that. Even outside the city, back in their home territory, Mithos would have been pressed to find such powerful mana, swirling with such colors and life in just a common person.

So he took a gamble. Tilting his head up to meet the old man's eyes head-on, he said, "Yes, actually. Someone named Maxwell."

Those gray eyes glinted, and a smile carved new valleys of wrinkles into that face. "Can't say I'm very familiar with that name. Why would you be looking for them?"

"Just for a chat." Mithos reached for his bond with Origin, thrumming it like a string, letting it reverberate out into the space between them. Humans wouldn't be able to sense a thing. Even most half-elves would only get the ghost of a sensation. But this old man knew. He felt the vibrations clear as day, knew what they meant.

"That old man finally took a pact, eh?"

"Interesting words coming from you. Maxwell."

Maxwell took a seat opposite Mithos, moving with more energy than his aging frame belied. "Congratulations, boyo. You found me. And me and that old man go very far back, so I've earned the right to call him what I like."

Mithos was about to speak, but then thought better of it. He took a scrap of paper and wrote, My name is Mithos Yggdrasill before sliding it over to him.

Maxwell read the paper, and placed his hand over it and with a low rush of mana like the world breathing in, the paper was absorbed into the wooden table. "It's nice to meet you. What do you want?"

"Is there a secure place we can speak?"

Maxwell dipped his head in a nod. "The observatory. I'm the only one in there these days. Come."

Mithos followed him up, up, up the winding stairways to the very top of the Tower, to a dome with massive telescopes, a large map unrolled along tables; sheaves of paper and stacks of scrolls full of notes and diagrams were sprawled on every available surface.

Maxwell locked the door behind him and took a seat at one of the tables. "So. Mithos Yggdrasill. What is it you want with me?"

"I want to make a pact with you."

"I don't make pacts, boyo, any more than Ratatosk does."

Mithos plucked at the thread of the pact with Ratatosk, one that strung to Martel as well, making sure Maxwell felt Ratatosk's unique mana signature. "Things are too dire for any of us to ignore, Maxwell. Trust me, this was not Plan A. This war needs to end."

"And you'll end it in blood, will you? With all the powers of the universe at your disposal, who could say no."

"No. That's my point! There's been too much blood spilled already! We need to end this peacefully."

"And your solution is more power?"

"Leverage," Mithos corrected. "Enough to make us a serious force, so that we can negotiate and back up those negotiations. But we want peace."

Maxwell combed fingers thick-jointed with arthritis through his beard. "And you've managed to convince the others, which makes me think you're quite sincere. But you have the power of Time and Space, of Mana itself on your side. Why would you need me?"

"You have the knowledge. It's not just Matter that you're in charge of, is it? It's knowledge, and the opportunities it gives birth to. You can help us with these treaties, help us build the right arguments, to build a future where this peace is sustainable."

"Mn. You're right about that. I accepted the other of being a Summon Spirit for the immortality. There is always more to learn, and I want to learn everything." Maxwell's voice was odd, almost like it had a constant echo of itself. "So you want me on your side to help you create this world peace of yours?"

"Not only do I want you to, but it's beneficial for you as well."

"Ahh, the business argument." Maxwell waved his hand. "Please, continue."

"The humans are using an abhorrent amount of mana. I know you know it. You can feel it better than I can. They don't know when to stop. They'll destroy us all at this rate, including the Spirits."

"If you think the humans will go back to being without magitechnology, you have not learned a thing about them."

"To the contrary, actually. I think magitechnology is a tool, just like any other, and if used correctly, it could benefit everyone. Humans don't have the ability to sense mana, aren't taught anything about it. Magitechnology brought about great advancements that help their society, not only on the warfront. The technology only needs to be adjusted to be made more mana-efficient so that the world can heal. Primarily—it's their weapons. The Mana Cannon, the bombs—they suck up an enormous amount of mana all at once, and it doesn't give the Tree any chance to heal those voids. Ratatosk is being drawn thin by this. He's confirmed that if it were only the lower-level magitechnologies—that use less mana at a more constant rate—he could deal with it. Therefore, without the weapons, restoration of the Tree and balance to the mana of the world is a viable option, but peace needs to happen. A peace everyone can agree upon."

Maxwell's smile was an odd thing, not quite a smirk, but close, with reluctant pride tucked in its corners. "You present a good argument."

"So I've been told." Mithos wore the pouch full of the Summon Spirits' gems beneath his shirt in a harness he and Martel had designed. Not a place any pickpockets would look, and it wasn't obvious when Mithos did his work either. Their mana signatures were as familiar to him now as his family's, and he could feel some of them nudging at him in interest at Maxwell's proximity. "So are you going to help me?"

"What would you want, for your vow?"

Mithos thought his answer over carefully. Some of the vow was already similar to the other vows he'd given, but his time here in the human capital had shown that even with a treaty, half-elves wouldn't be safe for another generation, at least. "I would like your assistance with ending this war, and I would also like your assistance with creating a safe place for half-elves. For as long as they feel the need. A sanctuary."

"You don't think small, I'll give you that." Maxwell drummed his fingers on the table, looking Mithos over. After a long silence, he said, "I'll accept the pact. Your plan certainly can't make things worse."

He held out his hand and, after a moment, Mithos shook it. Only Ratatosk had been so casual about pacts, but even he wasn't this familiar. Mithos retracted his hand, a new smooth, blue stone in his palm. "Thank you. I'll work hard to honor that vow."

"I'm sure you will."

Yuan was the only one awake when Mithos came home, reading by lamplight, Martel curled asleep with her head by his hip. Kratos was already knocked out in his blankets, snoring gently.

Yuan looked up when Mithos came in, calling a soft greeting automatically, but stopping halfway through at the sight of him. "Hey—are you okay?" Yuan carefully untangled himself from Martel and the blankets. "You look like you got hit by a trolley."

Yuan didn't have to crouch to be more level with Mithos anymore. He just had to bend a bit. He ran his hands over Mithos quickly, checking for injuries, before pressing the back of his palm to Mithos' forehead and the underside of his jaw. No signs of fever, not that there would be, but this didn't look like Mithos' usual sickness from magitechnology either.

"I'm fine," Mithos said, still dazed. Maxwell's gemstone was nestled in the pouch with the others, but it was a new note beside the other ones, and a new pact always left him feeling a little bit woozy, his body adjusting to the influx of mana. "Just. I found Maxwell."

"You what?" Yuan lowered his voice quickly, the other two on the mattresses grumbling and turning over. "And you fought him by yourself?" A moment, those green eyes calculating. "No. You wouldn't have gotten away unharmed if you fought him."

"Gee thanks."

"I didn't say you wouldn't win, did I? Now, sit down. We saved you a plate." Yuan brought him a small bowl of soup and a plate of fried rice with vegetables. He went to make a fresh pot of tea. Once the tea was brewing, he sat beside Mithos, who was inhaling the food with the appetite of a ravenous teenager. Good. "Now. What happened?"

Mithos explained the events of that night in between bites of food. Yuan poured a generous cup of tea for him and pushed it his way. Mithos gulped it down gratefully. "When's the last time you ate?"

A guilty silence.

"You ate lunch, didn't you?"

Mithos' head shrank into his hunched shoulders like a turtle.

"This morning at breakfast?" Yuan swore under his breath. "You skipped lunch so you could leave early, didn't you?"

"There was research to do!" Mithos whispered harshly. "We don't have time to be dawdling."

"I don't know how to explain it to you that taking care of your health is not under the definition of 'dawdling'. Sylph, but you and Martel are exactly the same, d'you know that?"

Mithos flashed a grin at him. "Which means you love us."

"Hush. Finish your tea and get ready for bed. You have an early start tomorrow."

"Yes, dad," Yuan shot him a look that Mithos cheerfully ignored. "Don't you have to be at the garage early tomorrow too?"

"Don't talk back to your elders."

Mithos slipped to the book Yuan had left by the mattresses, bringing it back to the table with him. Holding Yuan's page with one finger, he flipped through the rest of it, pausing at some of the diagrams. "Medical engineering?"

"The humans have some interesting ways of dealing with injuries without magic. They've created machines that can help a person breathe when they can't on their own, and there's a machine that can read a heartbeat using the electricity naturally generated by the body."

While Mithos wasn't as enamored with technology as Yuan, he could put three and three together. "You think they can help Martel?"

"I think we need to work with whatever we have. The humans are coming at it from a different perspective, but they're still managing to sustain life past when the body shouldn't. It's a similar idea to an Exsphere if it develops far enough." Yuan scrubbed a hand through his hair. "I don't know what else to do. I can't help with the biological stuff—that's not my area. But something in here might have a connection we need."

As much as Mithos hadn't been fond of the idea of someone being with his sister—no one would be good enough for her, honestly—Martel could do worse than someone like Yuan. Someone who had, and would, go so far for her.

"You need sleep too," Mithos reminded him gently. "She won't be happy with either of us if she finds out."

Yuan chuckled a little. "Fair's fair. I'll be counting on you to cool her down if she gets on our case."

"How far the mighty have fallen, to be protected by a teenager."

"Oi, don't think you're too old that I can't punish you."

Mithos collapsed into giggles, smothering them in the folds of his arms. "I take it back," he gasped in between giggles. "You're more of a mom than a dad."

Yuan waved a hand at him to hush, swallowing his own laughter. Finally, when they managed to collect themselves, Yuan waved Mithos away to get ready for bed while he cleared the dishes.

Deciding that he'd made good progress today, Mithos began packing away his books, ready to be left on a cart for the library scholars. He'd learned that they preferred to reshelf their materials. The one time Mithos had attempted to put his borrowed books back on their shelves, they'd been very close to eviscerating him on the spot.

He had several notebooks, dog-eared and messy, that he tried to organize by subject. One was for his research into the humans' laws and politics. A difficult and dry enough topic on their own, but so much of it was interpersonal, and on such a level that he had never seen. Their society was so different, and he struggled to understand the different levels and workings of it. The Queen's power was tied up in so many things, historically, though Mithos didn't think he'd ever seen or heard her. Not addressing the people over the radio, not in photos or in any public appearances.

Another notebook was just for the laws and histories pertaining to half-elves, the slow loss of their rights underneath human rule. Rights they used to have. To own property, to be educated, to live free lives of dignity. And while Mithos had yet to find an origin point for the War, he could see the slow turn of public opinion. Opinions had changed before, and part of it was due to words, due to newspaper articles and speeches spoken in public forums. Mithos didn't have a platform to speak on, but he could write. Opinions could change again.

His newest essay was the last thing left unorganized on the table. The ink should be dry by now, and when Mithos tentatively touched his fingertips to the words, they came back unmarked. Folding it into thirds, Mithos slipped his essay into an unmarked envelope. He would drop it off at the post office on the way home.

"Do you think writing these things is changing anything?"

Mithos didn't jump, but it was a close thing. He wasn't used to Maxwell like he was the others. "I like to think they are."

"Why?" Maxwell was wrapped in a coat now, the chill coming early to the city. It was barely autumn.

"Why do I think they're working, or why am I writing them?"

"The latter."

Ciridian Tower still had a decent amount of people in it at this time of day, but noise was swallowed here. Even the rare shouting that happened would only get so far, never making it to other floors. Mithos liked that about this place. He'd never known such quiet. There were other types of it, and he was fond of none of those. Not the quiet before a battle, tension and fear high, not the horrible pressing quiet of a clinic, interrupted by sparse sounds.

(His family are not quiet. He loves that about them. He loves that Martel hums as she works, and that on good days, she'll practice the pan flute that the blacksmith had given her. He loves that Yuan tends to mutter under his breath when he does anything, always thinking aloud, even if it's only to himself. He loves that Kratos—the quietest of them all, these days—is still always there, pencil scratching, fingers absently flicking the corner pages of his books as he reads. They are always present in such a solid way)

Maxwell was still watching him, that immortal patience waiting for his answer. Kratos had a similar look.

"I've known a lot of people in my life," Mithos began, not quite sure how to explain the itch in his fingers, and this fierce, poisonous rage in his belly. "And I've buried and burned my fair share of those people. We're an army of orphans and loners. Our cultures have been destroyed, our communities scattered to the winds. We don't speak the same languages, often, and if we do, most of us don't remember the languages we started with. We only remember the ones the humans have imposed on us. Our traditions, our stories—they're hanging on by a thread. It's been generations of war, and I don't know how much longer it will be until all that we are disappears entirely.

"And that—that just—it makes me so angry. All the time. And I am tired of our people suffering for nothing. I am not a keeper of traditions, a Storyteller like in Heimdall. Kratos is better suited for that. But I will speak for them. For all the dead, for all the ones who can't speak for themselves, who don't know how to. I will fight for every single one of them until my dying breath. Our people deserve justice and no one is just going to hand that to them. So I'll fight the entire system from the inside out if I have to in order to give it to them. They deserve peace."

"You think you're a savior to them? Some kind of hero from the stories they can't remember?"

"I'm not that arrogant." Mithos lifted his chin; he was not without his pride, and while he might be in another plateau of growth spurts, he hadn't let someone look down on him in a long time. "I'm doing a job that needs to get done. Whatever labels people want to slap onto that is their own business."

Maxwell nodded slowly. He held every story inside him, every tale whispered to children at their bedsides, every song that was passed down to the beat of drums and pounding feet. Those were his duties to keep as much as the knowledge of the stars and the planets, for they were one and the same. But knowledge that wasn't shared grew stagnant and stale, and rigid things crumbled over time.

That, more than any other reason, was why Maxwell could say that he was right to help this fierce, passionate, clever boy.