The path led to a garden of sorts, but it was a far cry from the sprawling and manicured landscape that greeted guests as they arrived at the Athelstan Estate. The pots and boxes of imitation plants here lay and hung in haphazard arrangements, as if cobbled together from discarded material. The Athelstans clearly never intended this place for public use, but someone had nevertheless bestowed upon it personality and intentionality—had made it home.

Just this morning, I caught two of the kitchen staff out smoking in the backyard. Bannan Athelstan’s snide remark notwithstanding, Asena now understood that the Essentials that lived and worked on this estate had turned this backyard into something of a sanctuary, a retreat. Out of sight and out of mind, until such time that they were called upon.

The Shiranui guest hung back and watched as a dozen or so servants gathered around a live fire. They sang and hummed to the beat of improvised drums, they danced, they laughed. Bathed in the orange glow of crackling flames, their faces—beading with sweat—looked livelier than anything else Asena had experienced all night.

She was overcome by a sudden and powerful urge to paint, and cursed her distance to her canvas and supplies. Her only recourse was to burn this image into her mind, so she could revive it at the earliest opportunity.

Thus, it was initially with an artist’s keen eyes for detail that she observed a curious scene unfold. One servant, dressed in the white uniform of a kitchen staff, produced a metal jar. He dipped his finger into this jar, licked its contents, then passed it onto the next member of the circle.

The jar changed hands like this several more times before Asena clued in that its contents were synthetic honey. Even out here in this secluded corner, Martyr’s Day traditions were alive and well. Yet the casual ease with which these servants took delight in a taste of honey and each other’s company filled Asena with shame for her own petulance at the dinner table.

No amount of self-reflection, however, could’ve prepared her for what came next.

The jar eventually made its way into the hands of a young woman, no older than Asena herself. She dipped her finger into the jar like everyone else before her, but instead of licking it herself, she turned to the man beside her.

The young man in question was clearly the most talented musician among the group. Even now, he sang and tapped a basket-turned-hand-drum with fervent vigour. The woman held her honey-lathered finger up to his sweat-drenched face, and waited.

Hers were the endless patience and eager anticipation of someone hopelessly in love. Asena didn’t know how she knew this, but the truth of it was as self-evident as the widening chasm within her chest.

The man surprised his lover—and indeed the whole group—by cutting himself off mid-line to swallow her finger whole. This was met by a break in the music as the circle rang with laughter and exaggerated cheering. The woman, also shaking with laughter, slapped the man in mock anger before planting a kiss on his now honey-filled cheek, which only made him look more pleased with himself.

“Oh.”

The exclamation—the lamentation—escaped Asena before she’d known of its genesis.

Those within earshot turned to her, then their laughter quickly shifted to surprise, then to horror. The first servants to have seen her then shot to their feet and shushed the rest of the group.

At the drop of a hat, the circle of revellers transformed into a roster: all silent, to a one standing rigid and ready to receive their order, punishment, or whatever else might please this Tetrarch intruder. Even the young lovers now stood at an arm’s length from each other, honey and music waylaid, faces now showing nothing but apprehension.

“No, please,” Asena all but wailed in her desperation to fix this. For she was responsible for this. She’d broken something beautiful, and she needed to put it back together. “Don’t stop on my account. I was just… I was just enjoying the music.”

Not a word in response. Nary a shift in posture. Asena’s words fell on ears too afraid to hear them. The servants still waited for the other shoe to drop.

“Please believe me when I say…” Her voice shook slightly as she spoke, and she realized that she was on the verge of tears. Though she herself couldn’t be sure which sequence of events had brought them on. “That I think what you were doing here is wonderful. And I’m so sorry if I—if my—”

Speech failed her, as she herself felt its hollowness. She hung her head, ready to simply turn and walk away without another word, when—

“Ms Shiranui?”

The voice issued from somewhere behind her, further back in the path she’d taken earlier. She turned to it, and saw in the distant blue-dark smog a man’s shadowy figure.

“Yes?”

“Your father sent me to look for you. Says he’d like to have some words before he retires for the night.”

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Yes. Yes, of course. I was just heading back myself.”

She was almost grateful for the interruption—the invitation to extricate herself with some semblance of grace—and this latest thought only deepened her shame.

She began to make her way back up the footpath, acutely aware of the silent eyes that followed her. The man who’d called to her made no attempt to come any closer, and his figure remained obscured by light and shadows.

“Have you enjoyed your evening, Ms Shiranui?”

“Ye—yes, very much so. Thanks for asking.”

Even as she gave her reflexive answer, Asena frowned, then squinted, better to make out who this messenger actually was. Who would Yuito have sent to fetch her at this hour? Someone that was intimately familiar with the Athelstan estate? Was he a Sehermensch she should’ve known well?

“That’s good to hear, Ms Shiranui. But if I could be selfish for one moment, I’d rather hoped for this evening to be as educational as it was no doubt entertaining. Would you agree that was the case?”

With a sudden and terrifying flash of recognition, Asena realized that she knew this voice. Where had she heard it before? And just who in Akropolis would even speak to her like this?

She didn’t answer the man’s second question, partially because she didn’t know how, but mostly because she was now more preoccupied with identifying the shadow figure. But as she quickened her pace, the shadow spoke once more.

“No need to answer just yet, Ms Shiranui. But when you’re ready, we’ll come find you again. Both of you. Good night, and sweet dreams.”

“Wait!”

The figure vanished into light and shadows, and Asena sped to his erstwhile location to no avail. The man was gone, and nowhere to be seen amidst a haze of the Nexus and the night.

She scanned the area where the man had been standing moments ago. Sure enough—for she’d somehow learned to expect it—her eyes fell upon a strange object.

Brightly lit in blue by an adjacent lamp fixture, a folded piece of paper hung from one of the pillars that lined the footpath. Asena carefully peeled it off and examined it.

A diagram printed in black ink. Circular fruit, stem, leaf. An apple. She unfolded the paper and read:

DEAR DREAMER,

NEXT, SEEK THE ROOTS

~February 15th, 140 AH~

~Joint Base Akra, Kurator Corps HQ, Colonel Shiranui’s Office~

“It’s my understanding that you’ve received additional briefing from the General.”

“That’s correct, sir.”

“Do you have any… questions? Points that require clarification?”

“No, sir.”

“… I see. Does this mean you’re ready to resume the sessions? With a clear goal in mind?”

“Yes, sir.”

Yuito paused for a moment, looking his daughter up and down with his permanent discerning frown. Then he asked, with a tenderness that nearly caught Asena off guard, “Is there anything you wish to say to me? Anything… anything at all.”

A thousand anythings leapt out from her chest all at once.

How could you not talk to me about this? Don’t do it. Is this really your wish, or is it Fenix Duodecim manipulating you? Don’t do it. I’ve been getting strange messages from who I think is a stranger, but I don’t know if telling you about it is the right thing. Don’t do it. I want to help Zelen, but I don’t know if making him fight again is the right thing. Don’t do it. I think I love Zelen, but I know he doesn’t love me, and I don’t know why it bothers me so much. DON’T DO IT.

“No, sir.”

Yuito leaned back into his seat, and let the silence stretch just a while longer. Just long enough for the chasm within Asena’s chest to widen yet again.

“Understood, Corporal. Then let us begin.”

~February 15th, 140 AH~

~Joint Base Akra, Kurator Corps HQ, Terminal One~

“I wanted to try something different, Zelen.”

“Different… like how last time was different? Just talk?”

“I’m afraid not, Zelen. I’m sorry if I’ve previously misled you, but it’s become clear to me that our sessions are progressing at a rate that’s… inadequate.”

“… I understand, Silon. And I’m sorry. I know I’m holding us back, but I just—”

“No, Zelen, you have nothing to apologize for. It’s my own fault for being too directionless with my approach. But I shan’t let what we’ve worked on thus far go to waste. What we need is a complete picture. A complete picture of you, with all of your triumphs, yes, but also all of your defeats and shortcomings.”

“… You don’t mince words, Silon, but that’s what I’ve always liked about you. But… you’ve seen my defeats, haven’t you? That time with Captain Vasseur, I—”

“That was your very first mission. The fact you made it out alive at all is a triumph in itself. No, like I said, we need to complete the picture. We’ve been at this a while now, Zelen, and I believe some of your latent memories are starting to wake, even without my assistance. Wouldn’t you say that’s true?”

“I… I don’t know, Silon. You’ve really put me on the spot, here…”

“Search your memories and tell me. There should be something there. Something from when you were at the height of your powers, when the whole of Akropolis believed you to be the saviour mankind had been waiting for. And once again, and against impossible odds, you lived up to that mantle. But that victory came at a great cost…”

A stirring within her sternum. A call answered by the Nexus. Threads appearing and fading and appearing again. Echoes flowing and ebbing and flowing again.

“Silon… something’s different about you today. Did something happen? Should… should I be worried?”

“This isn’t about me, Zelen!”

Asena tried and failed to keep her voice flat. She cut the channel momentarily to allow herself to take a deep breath.

“This isn’t about me, Zelen. This is about you. Focus on the task, and work with me.”

“Okay… I’m sorry… And believe me, I tried, but… I don’t know how to explain it. I think I see the memory you might be referring to, but when I try to get closer, it’s like… the memory itself is pulling away from me. Like it doesn’t want me to see it…”

None of what he said made any sense, nor did it fit any patterns Kurators had been taught to anticipate. But Zelen was speaking from the heart, from the purest and most naked part of his consciousness—from the Nexus. Asena knew this, because she could see the threads materialize once more, and this time for good.

“Relax now, Zelen. You’ve done well. This is why I’m here. I’m here to assist you.”

Asena steeled herself as she pulled at this shyest—darkest—of memories. If she had nothing of herself to put on the line, the least she could do was to share in Zelen’s sacrifice.

Again and again and again.

Asena steeled herself against the horrors that awaited, and [EVOKED].