I had never known I could see so much with my eyes closed...

I was not using the full extent of Mimir's perception, because there was no need. The beheaded god's mind had been far greater than his divine body, able to interact with and alter planes of existence where his physical form would have been less than a dot on paper.

For example...our universe's tridimensional spatial structure and the tetradimensional flow of time passing under and over it, filled with the higher-dimensional shapes whose shadows we re recognised as physical objects. There were realms above and beyond time, an infinity of them, flowing down from the Outer Void, bounded by the aether.

But I didn't need to access them now. I only needed to see reality as the sheet of paper it was, folding it in half to bring two points together, in space as well as time.

That was what making portals looked like, in a god's eye. Did mages see it the same way? Some insisted they did. I couldn't help but smile at the vistas open to us, even as my eyes tracked the things hidden in the shadow of higher reality.

I floated through the portal that closed without any effort or command from me, almost like it was eager to please...or scared to disappoint. Sentience, or something close to it? No time to worry about that. Not yet.

The Unseelie standing on water were almost all worthless in terms of power, somewhere around Bianca's level, though their auras were more vicious than my friend's had ever been. They'd been chosen specifically for that, I saw, looking down their timelines: powerful enough to be useful, weak enough to be lowkey and easily incapacitated if needed.

Only their leader, the one Chernobog's shadows were wearing, stood out, like a tar stain on snow. More powerful than...damn.

Aaron had reported being attacked by an Unseelie clad in similar shadows, a failed assassination attempt that nonetheless resulted in the Bronze Boyar losing one of his head. The bastard had punched him to Pluto, despite his war-harness being eight times as heavy as Earth, though the zmeu had quickly turned the tables on him.

The Unseelie probably hadn't thought much about how lucky he had been to die at Aaron's hands, instead of being found by Hades. The chthonian god was detached, usually, but he had a soft spot for his dwarf planet, as isolated from the rest of the solar system as he was from his family. Had the old astronomers thought about the irony as they had named it? Or had it informed their choice? I had all of time open before me, if I wanted.

Likewise, a pair of encrypted databursts from the Reptilian Collective had been received by Camelot and Internal Affairs, detailing an encounter with a "darkness-shrouded ferrophobic aberrant'", which the reptilians had left the Shaper deal with through the Unscarred. The Unseelie- Everdark, my godsight whispered-had punched the albino's arm and part of its torso to paste, before having an unpleasant surprise.

The Unseelie had known whatever experiment had created the Unscarred, whether from scratch or through the modification of a baseline reptilian(I saw the truth, and it made me smile. Truly, it seemed scientists surpassing their own expectations was a literally universal trend), had left it without the regenerative capabilities of the aliens, and had expected to tear it apart, leaving the reptilians without their bruiser.

Sadly for him and no one else, his intelligence had been an oxymoron. The Everdark hadn't known about the Shaper's yoctomachines, or maybe the fact it had bonded them to the Unscarred, and thus had been caught offguard when the lost body parts had been replaced with equally-durable yoctomachines, just like the ones that had shaped Earth's core into iron weapons to kill the Unseelie with.

Neither the old zmeu nor the reptilians' speaker to the Global Gathering was particularly known to share such information about attacks on them, especially when they resulted in wounds, but they had. Maybe they'd been worried about so much power in the hands of Unseelie assassins. The Everdark seemed to bar in power: after all, punching through the Unscarred like that required far more power than a supernova, while ripping Aaron apart merely required planet-vapourising force. The Everdark sent to Constanța had also broken his hands on the Brazen Mantle, which the one sent after the Unscarred probably wouldn't have. My postcognition showed that one had been as strong as the Mother of the Forest, or the zmeu brothers' father usually was. More than enough to tear through the Mantle unless it was reinforced, from what we knew.

I wished I could know more, but darkness still covered parts of my godsight's horizon. Whether the shadows were cast by the Black God, or the Crawling Chaos...didn't matter, at the moment.

I had to help Mia, and Paladin. Szabo, too, before his scare contest with the Everdark's-Cloudshade's-attack freak escalated into something existence couldn't handle.

The French agent nodded curtly at me as I arrived, helmet briefly twisting backwards. Not like there was a neck to snap inside, nor anything else. The knightly spirits that had been so beautifully alloyed together in the forges of Heaven had no need for anything so crude as matter to exercise their power.

The Everdark was slower to react, but only just. Her face split in that broad, sharklike grin beings like her always wore when they failed to imitate human emotions. Shadows flickered into existence around her as she stepped away from the Knights of Charlemagne and tried to close the distance behind us, to jump my bones and murder me, not necessarily in that order, I guess, but Paladin was having none of that. One of their many hands closed around the absence of light and crushed it to less than nothing, before closing around Cloudshade's midsection.

My eyebrows rose a little as I watched the Everdark struggle in their grip. I knew the Everdark varied wildly depending how well they could synchronise with the shards of Chernobog that appeared to cover them, but I hadn't expected one not that much faster than light, and weaker than Paladin's merely worldsplitting might.

But then, maybe I shouldn't have been surprised. The Everdark sent to the Collective had been hundreds of millions times slower than Aaron's would-be assassin, but orders of magnitude stronger. Different skillsets, I guessed. Or, maybe, overspecialisation.

Letting Paladin handle my manic pixie nightmare girl for a while, I saw Mia had caught up to the events. Her relieved smile was infinitely more beautiful than the Fae's, but, unless I wanted this to be the last time I saw it, I had...to help...Szabo.

The things we do for love! My inner jackass cackled, sounding way too pleased at a situation that was likely to screw it over, too. But that was just an act. While it did its best Snidely Whiplash impression, it also focused our godsight to open a portal under Cloudshade's hanger-ons, then push them down through it with a pulse of mana. They might have been too slow to react to my arrival, but falling in Earth gravity at less tan ten metres a second? They'd have warped the portal into nothing, or just stood on its fabric, or the air, to stop their fall. Far too slow to surprise them, and it wasn't like they couldn't move in midair.

Like this, though? The Unfair Folk were probably still catching up with the antimatter universe I'd dumped them into. As nice as that bunch constantly, violently getting turned into energy each time they regenerated would have been to watch, I hoped they couldn't use their powers while disembodied, or they'd come back with a whole lot of dangerous ammo.

All was left, then, was the monster. And Cloudshade's nightmarish Pokemon, of course.

I wasn't fast enough to keep up with it or Szabo, dashing about at lightspeed as they were, never mind Cloudshade if she somehow slipped away from Paladin, but a few divine alterations later, I was seeing by godsight alone, light too slow to effectively guide me. All supernaturals faster than light moved by instinct or with the help of other senses, including their arcane one mimicking mundane sight.

I crossed tens of metres to float between the strigoi and the embodiment of an universe's fears, and felt Szabo break into that hideous grimace he was prone to when excited. The monster in front of me tilted dozens of its many heads, then cooed into the aether at the sight of my eyes.

It tried to drag my nightmares into existence, but Chernobog already had, on that fucking night in the Roundhouse. There was nothing it could make that I hadn't already seen, and they had only saddened my last time. Now...now, I could dispel them at will, everything from the image of my mother's corpse to that hideous mockery of Jesus. They were already more faded than the ones on that night, even before I reduced them to nothing with a weary glare. Maybe I was getting over my fears, or, at least, some of them.

The monster clicked a myriad tongues in disappointment at my refusal of its toys. My heart bled, but I had to upset it even more.

I felt raw mana, untouched by humanity, flow into Szabo as he came to stand beside me, until we were moving equally fast. His power grew just as fast, until it felt as great as Paladin's, but he seemed to be as controlled as always.

That's because we are one, brother, he spoke through the aether, clapping a hand on my shoulder, ripping it out of its socket. The flesh healed long before the sound of it being torn apart filled the air. Before I could punch his fangs out for the assumption, I realised he wasn't talking about the two of us, but rather, he and his strigoi side. A glance past his body revealed a bloated old man, smiling from under the skins of a thousand thousand beings, in sync with the strigoi.

Screaming along for decades, indeed. I probably should have been concerned at wanting to reach that level of cooperation with my own instincts, but I had bigger worries at the moment.

Can you fight? Szabo asked, eyeing the monster.

I can use Mimir's power, I answered, not knowing if I could actually exert myself without Broceliande's chains throttling my movements. I hadn't tried to alter them yet.

So I'll do the heavy lifting? Make a portal. Deep space.

Paladin is in command of this mission, I said, just a touch pettily, sending a flash of the briefing through the aether after grabbing the image from the past, even as I opened a portal into an empty universe behind the creature, which Szabo tackled it through.

***

Reptilian Collective

The Shaper had never held any strong opinion on Grey One. Their paths had crossed at a few points, as "humanity's friendly neighbourhood aliens", but that was hardly cause for friendship, or, indeed, anything more than acknowledgement.

The Multitude of Minds Grey One had been a part of was a young polity, barely seventy-six million Terran years having passed since its founding, and the psychic alien itself was less than three hundred thousand old. As such, there was no history to inform their interactions: the Multitude had formed long after the reptilians had settled on Earth, and decided to avoid contact with cosmic civilisations, unless contacted first. Guilt, perhaps, for so many quintillion sapients dead in the stupid wars of the species' youth.

Now, if Grey One had been a Vyzhaldi or Xhalkhian, as the Unity Stellar's members called themsvelves when pranking younger species into thinking they had a homeworld...well. To keep matters short, the Collective would've never allowed its damaged ship to crash. There was no prejudice there, nor any need. Both powers were domineering even at their friendliest, without actually trying. Too disruptive for Earth. The reptilians might have become hermits, but they'd never stopped spying on the losers of their last galactic war.

Even so, the Shaper could not help but feel dismayed, inasmuch as its machine-mind could feel anything, at the sight of the beast that had been Grey One.

There had been alterations, on a macrocosmic scale. Something had changed the timeline so that Grey One had always been a four-legged, long-muzzled psychic beast, bulbous head swaying in the dry air of the Collective as it paced about on webbed feet.

The Shaper knew. It had built itself to see past paradoxes and the marks left by time travel, and the reptlians had been informed by similar machines. Most of the aberrant overworlders remembered the original timeline, those immune to active aberrancy not even noticing anything until asked a few pointed questions by Russian and American agents.

Whatever had changed the past had done a sloppy job of it. It had used time as a cudgel, making it so Grey One had somehow made it to Earth despite being effectively reduced to an animal. When it couldn't fit a peg into a hole, it simply ripped up the board. Certainly, the new timeline was vague where Grey One was concerned, as if reality itself was confused.

The Shaper would have a few words with the chronokine that had apparently assaulted Grey One during a visit to Moscow, according to the Russian aberrant law enforcement agents that had tersely asked for its help. It couldn't stand records being lost, let alone history itself being changed. Time travellers were like book burners or hackers, but even worse, because they made everyone but themselves look like idiots, with few even realising what was wrong.

Because they were both aliens, it supposed?

The Collective was still at work to find out what they were not saying and why. It smelled of, as humans said, rear-covering.

Sloppy, indeed. Not as sloppy, though, as what Grey One was currently trying to do.

The Collective's realm was a beautiful, multi-layered construct, a sphere of minerals and artificial materials eighty-eight quadrillion light-years in diametre, containing nonillions of stars harvested from across realities and held together by gravitic technology ages ahead of mankind's current understanding of science(the best the Shaper could say of them was that they could have been doing worse. But then, that could be said of everyone). It floated in a created timespace both far, far larger than the average universe and smaller than the Earth's core, folded and contained within it by hyperspatial engineering. Empty, but for those experiments too large or destructive to be conducted in what most people imagined when they heard about the Collective.

In other words, the Shaper wasn't happy about overexcited idiots ripping up its new home, however small-scale the damage was, relatively speaking.

The Shaper watched dispassionately as Grey One turned its telekinesis on the reptilian before it. Sealed off from the greater Collective by a forcefield its mind couldn't break, it instead focused on the reptilian that had willingly trapped itself with the psychic, so its altered nature could be properly observed.

Most reptlians lacked titles, and none had names. After all, when there were trillions for every grain of sand on Earth, there was little room for grandstanding or individuality, and even less desire.

Though their physiology matched the name overworlders had given them, and which they had adopted themselves, the reptilians had always been more similar to eusocial insects in terms of behaviour, even in their natural state, billions of years before Earth's formation. That had only grown more pronounced with the insertion of yoctomachines into every citizen of the Collective, biological, mechanical or otherwise.

Which meant that, while the Shaper watched through the eyes and sensors of everything under its command as the First Scientist, it did not necessarily have to feel their pain. That could be switched off, by it or its peers, just as their minds and processors could be switched off, if needed. The Collective had no fear of takeover from its elected leader, unlike the overworlders of many nations. After all, if the beings whose minds had been built into the manifold intelligence that was the Shaper had been unfit for command(and most of them had been commanders before integration), they would have never become part of it. Every reptilian knew the Shaper would only take over it for good reasons, and complaining about necessity had never been popular in the Collective.

More and more was added to the Shaper every moment, both physical nodes and avatars across the Collective and other realities, and worthy thinkers. None of its current facets were particularly pleased with the fate of the bait.

Whatever changes Grey One had gone through had diminished neither its psychic power nor its precision, merely its appearance and personality. The Shaper knew the other alien had been a gentle being, for it had always been able to feel the thoughts and emotions of beings across the solar system, and...it had been a parent, once. The Shaper would have liked to pick its brain and see if it had thought of its offspring before the chronokine's alteration, but its brainwaves only blared a feral desire to crush bodies and minds alike across every yoctomachine observing it.

The Shaper stowed the virtual equivalent of a sigh. It was starting to see how human law enforcement must have felt at messy crime scenes. It would have hated being unable to think of its offspring and creations far more than merely being crudely modified. Was that where Grey One's rage came from?

Of course not, it admonished itself. How could it be angry at something it couldn't even think about? This was mere sentimentalism, a result of watching the volunteer being crushed into a hyperdense, atom-sized sphere by a telekinetic grasp.

In the grip of a mind that could crush worlds, what was a body equivalent to a compressed city?

'Prepare the rationaliser,' the Shaper thought to itself, the words instantly, simultaneously being transmitted to every consciousness it was quantum entangled with. Yoctomachines alone could only communicate at lightspeed, and even messages conveyed through wormholes were still limited by that. They could be intercepted, or at least perceived, by any FTL consciousness, provided it had the right senses.

Wanting something quicker, and perhaps a touch jealous at the speed aberrants could communicate with, as annoying as it was enviable, the Shaper had sought a means of communicating within the smallest possible timeframes...among other things. Quantum entanglement could link more than minds, when pushed far enough.

Rationalisers were simple, but elegant devices, built for a single purpose: removing active aberrancy. Magic, psychic powers, nothing of the sort could be used with the spherical, five kilometre field the device projected. When linked to something with better sensors, the range could be increased indefinitely, as anything within line of sight, whether perceived with eyes or optics, was covered by the field. This led to some rather amusing possibilities, given the quantum network.

Of course, it didn't work on passive aberrancy. Results in that regard were...mixed. Therianthropes could still heal, for examples, though they couldn't shift. Hemovores could also heal, but nothing more. And so on. Innate physical abilities or processes were unaffected.

Bizarrely, aberrant structures were affected, like the non-euclidean locale that had been collapsed in the rationaliser's first field test. Even if said structures weren't being consciously maintained or sustained by aberrancy, they still fell apart.

Tch. Aberrancy; always playing by vague rules...almost always arbitrary.

Thankfully, Grey One's psychic abilities were relatively simple, if decently powerful, and fully understood by the Collective. It could control an infinity of human or equivalent minds, its mental capacity to manage them either increasing accordingly or being substituted for by a sort of reflex. It could telekinetically crush planets until they could fit in one's palm, or it could-

Fingers on strings. No harp playing, this: a mental grasp on matter's base state, allowing Grey One to telekinetically shift any amount of matter from solid to liquid to gas to plasma, only having to keep the same mass, as it could neither create or destroy energy. For example, turning nearly a ton of reptilian flesh into a plasma sphere and a cloud of tungsten-dense gas .

Nothing as crude as aberrant transmutation, which could do nonsense like turning the pseudo-energy of the aether into anything, includings things like time and gravity...but it achieved mostly the same results.

'Activate,' the Shaper spoke after Grey One began ripping septillion-ton chunks of soil out of the ground and tossing them across atmospheric units. Yoctomachines intercepted the projectiles when they were closed to reaching lightspeed, consuming and converting them into energy.

Grey One's psychic powers were not magical, to use human parlance. They were, however, aberrant, unnatural. Withing the rationality field, Grey One became a mere aggressive quadruped, if one whose body was far more durable than its adoptive planet.

The beast raised its head, spacetime bending around it from the relativistic motion, but still failed to dodge the Unscarred, which, after leaving its observation post, crossed a distance greater than the one between Earth and its moon in just over a second, taking advantage of the rampaging psychic's slower reflexes to manhandle it. A clawed hand languidly tore through a bloated skull that could have been used to break Earth in half with barely a bruise, before grasping its brain. This was not deadly, not even serious damage. Grey One's consciousness had little to do with its body, and could create a new one even if this one was utterly obliterated, but the Shaper did not intend to harm it, nor test its regeneration.

'We can heal you,' the Shaper stated. 'But first, we think we should open up to the neighbours once again. We never did speak after the last war...' Its pink eyes turned a soft red, much warmer than the one seen when it was fighting. 'And we think you would like return to your people, correct?'

Besides, there were so many things to test outside lab conditions, the quantum chains just one among them.

***

Old Centre, Bucharest

Lucian stomped his way through the streets, having decided pacing was neither going to calm him down, nor help him focus his instincts.

He wasn't actually stomping, of course, or he'd have reduced Romania to a handful of dust floating over a sea of lava with one step. This was, more or less, equivalent to tapping his foot. The only difference was that he walking, as opposed to standing in place.

Had Andrei gone missing, or Alex, Lucian would have just gone to the neighbourhoods where people like them hung out. Stereotypical and vaguely speciesist? Well, yeah, but he was clearly not going to be a greyhound tonight. Besides, iele were too isolated from society to 'claim' an area of the capital, so Bia frequented the Old Centre and the mage quarter, but she wasn't in the Dealings. He'd checked. Way too many scammers and lazy mages offering to read his cards or tea or palm. He'd been fairly close to helping some pushy old bitch with the last, before telling himself it wasn't worth it. He'd built a small rep of not being a rapey jackass, by zmeu standards, after decades of quiet (by his standards), efficient bouncer and bodyguard work.

Aaand now he was thinking about when he'd have to renew his licence again. Dammit, there was still some of the month left!

Lucian was about to go to the Raised Scale and start some shit with his brother if Luc didn't know where his fairy was, but, while he was imagining knocking those scowling heads off with his mace, he felt something.

The ogre didn't look special. Big, bald, green, piggish yellow eyes and tusks. Brown, sleeveless shirt and pants, no shoes. The weirdest thing about him was the fact he was sitting with the back to a side alley's wall. The way he was rubbing his head, like he was searching for his brain, was the only thing marking him as maybe drunk or hurt, as opposed to a beggar.

Not many of those, these days. Mostly arseholes blacklisted from working, social care and shelters alike.

Lucian was perfectly willing to put him in the latter category. With how he smelled of Bianca and the blood she created to make her body feel authentic, he was willing to put him in the ground, too.

'Hey, man,' he said amicably, smiling down at the ogre, who stopped rubbing his head to raise it, face screwing up in confusion. Wings drawn around him like a coat, Lucian's mouth opened a little wider. 'Want a bite?'

Confusion gave way to rage as the ogre shot up to his feet. 'Motherfucker! You're gonna get fucked up now!'

Lucian didn't manage to reply or dodge before a heavy fist slammed into his throat, sending him past low orbit in less than a heartbeat. The change in environment mattered little; he was rather more miffed at his broken neck. Thankfully, it healed just in time for him to headbutt the fucker leaping at him faster than lightning, before as the sound of the punch thundered thousands of kilometres below, shattering windows.

Only that, though? Lucian's brow furrowed as he flew after the ogre, passing the exosphere in a handful of seconds. The bastard was that concerned with collateral?

Fuck that. The zmeu growled as Burnished Death appeared in his hands. Arsehole had sent him flying? Him?

You might think you're in my element now, you goddamn shaved ape, Lucian thought, smirking savagely as he batted the ogre past the moon, but just you wait...

Laughing silently in the vacuum, Lucian tackled the ogre through the portal to zmeu country. Nice, private, easy waste disposal. They'd sit down and have a nice chat in one of his palace's oubliettes. Then, if the bastard got tired of blowing himself after literally doing it, maybe he'd tell Lucian what he'd done with Bianca, and why he'd acted like they'd already met.

***

Faith Ranch, Arkansas

Fixer sighed as he watched the Fivefold enter the house, finally managing to wrangle her parents into helping set up the table while she cooked for them and their unexpected guests. The ghosts ate out of nostalgia, mostly, though Fixer was pretty sure Elijah did because he was a surly jackass and liked to put people off like that.

Maybe he should stop with the "she used to call both of us daddy" comments?

...Nah.

Chris was bottling a lot of stuff up. He'd slipped a few details about the truth, and she'd slipped into her old twang, which he usually liked, but she'd only done it so the 'sonnuvabitch' would have have more bite.

But that was fine! He couldn't get mad at Fifi if he tried. Fixer would have been rather concerned if she'd been fine with it, actually. That would have been unlike the woman he was backing when it came to Hell's throne.

His sigh at the newcomer's arrival was far less happy. Their first words didn't help.

'Damn, that's a cute one,' Gray Mann muttered, leaning on Fixer's shoulder so their elbow was jabbing him in the throat-a rather fitting description of their relationship, in terms of both interactions and roles. 'Hated to see her go, loved to watch her leave.'

'I'll shove you into Shub's womb through the back end,' Fixer promised, stowing Zann's viol away. 'And I'll love to see you go.'

'Touchy!' Gray squeaked in fake shock, stepping back. 'I'm just saying what you're thinking, Ned.'

'If I, of all people, am tactful enough not to say it, you should be capable of it, too,' Fixer remarked, moving the universe around him so that he was leaning against the broad side of the barn. Just like when he'd moved the Keeper and Lady in Flames out of their future-if all went well-house.

'Woah, you,' Gray was suddenly in front of him, hands on their hips as they stared up. 'You're "people"? You?" A smile they'd barely struggled to hold back slid across their face. 'Little monkey bo-oops, wrong century.' Gray raised both hands, shrugging. 'Say, were you aiming to make her confuse you for me? Ripping off my look...void, Ned, you can't help but steal, can you? I'm shocked, shocked, I tell you.' The smile widened. 'Were you trying to scaaare her? Like that thing humans do at the movies?' They snickered. 'What, did the arm around shoulders trick fail?'

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

'I can't fake boredom around Chris,' Fixer replied, ignoring the gagging sounds from Gray. 'And she doesn't even know you, you gaping cunt.'

'Iiiiiiii don't think so~!' Gray said brightly, holding up an index finger, the other hand behind their back as they rocked on their heels. 'A human, and a hellbound at that? She doesn't know me?'

'You know what I mean.'

Gray blew a raspberry. 'I guess no one knows Negativity until they see that inky dildo it parades around as, either, huh? Come on, Benedict,' they affected a posh accent. 'Be serious now.'

'You sound even more like a twat than usual.' Fixer said. 'It's not the accent. It's you.'

'If I walk the walk, why not talk the talk too, eh?' Gray crossed their arms behind their back. 'If your pets did that and not the reverse, everything would be much simpler, you know.'

Fixer bristled. 'They're not my pets.'

'Sure they're not! After all, there are so many of them who can oppose you! Breakout, Equilibrium, and, uh...' Gray stroked their chin. 'Huh. It's almost like they're powerless before you, or something. Like the ones in all those multiverses you made, you little Downstreamer you~!' Gray cooed. 'You said something about me being a cunt? Do your not-at-all-pets know you've killed infinitely more people than any of them will ever meet?'

'Not people-'

'Like you? Like us?'

'They were not sentient, let alone sapient, and you know it. False minds, just enough to know pain, or joy, or fear, as my whims took me.' Fixer shifted, uncomfortable, as Gray laughed.

'Oh, that changes eeeeverything! After all, there's no problem with snuffing out infinities of lives as long as they're "fake".' Gray nodded rapidly. 'By the way, did you know your crush feels bad even when animals are put down?'

'Be careful not to break those fingers of yours, with the way you're making air quotes,' Fixer said as Gray coughed "better not give her cause to grieve, pal".

"Why, wanna do it yourself? Try.' Gray wiggled their fingers. 'Say, would you have children just to beat them to death? Because, uh, that's exactly what you did back then.'

'It wasn't like having kids at all,'Fixer said. "'In no way worse than a programmer wiping a faulty computer clean.'

'Woah, and they say I'm sick...' Gray laughed. 'Talk about embarrassing secrets, huh?'

'I'm not sick, I'm twisted. "Sick" implies there's a cure."

'Pretty edgy for you. Lovecraft? Conan?'

'Sinestro.' Fixer shook his head. 'Never mind that. Will you just restart the multiverse so I can go have dinner?'

'Lazy bum,' Gray grumbled, then, with a flourish, raised one hand and snapped their fingers. Time began flowing across the first four layers of infinite universes, while force and its higher counterparts stopped holding the timeless still. 'There. Now, you can go...have...' Their shoulders trembled with laughter. 'I can't! I just can't with you! You see these tridimensionals as so precious, you base your personality on one of your incarnations from here. And then you call me crazy...' Gray stepped back, and over fourteen billion years fell away, so that they and Fixer were floating next to a shimmering, colourless singularity, yet to expand and never stop. 'I could snuff this out, you know. Strangle this timeline in its crib.'

'You just saw most supernaturals don't give a damn about timeline changes,' Fixer muttered tiredly.

'It would be pointless, yes. Almost like what you're pursuing, in fact.' Gray bowed forward, cupping the future Big Bang, then beginning to spin it on one finger, an universe's worth of matter borne effortlessly. 'By the way, nice of you to point out the wetwork you did nothing about. Kind of like the kidnapping...I really should stop being so nice to Sofia, you know. I think I'm spoiling her...taste.'

'I do what I must. Sometimes, that means doing nothing.'

'Learned that at Nuremberg, did you?' Gray asked, then stepped sideways and upwards, leaving their avatar beneath. Their true self looked at Fixer across the endless, eternal Void, the multiverse shining with inner light between them.

On each layer, an infinity of universes, ever-expanding. Each of them less than drawings on paper, less than dreams and shadows to even the meanest microbe equivalent from a higher level. A pentadimensional bacterium could erase the tetradimensional realities with a stray thought, just like all it knew could be unmade by a hexadimensional one.

And so on, to the dizzying heights of infinity, themselves similarly fictional in the eyes of the Outer Void's inhabitants.

Fixer rolled his eyes as a Voidmaw swam through the blackness, drawn by the lure of warm reality. Powerful, unfathomably so, to most beings, but dumb.

Unfathomably so, to most beings, as well.

Nevertheless, stupidity was never an excuse for omnicide, as Gray seemed intent on needling him about. As a result, he created an exact copy of dimensioned reality, then threw it away, the Voidmaw taking chase.

Fixer moved it around a few times, before drawing it to himself, faintly hoping his presence would deter the predator from anything reckless.

Luckily, when one had no expectations, one could not be disappointed. That, he knew far more about than he'd like to admit.

***

A man stands before a collection of glowing spheres, with a Silver Key in his hand and mind.

This is a lie. Or, rather, a metaphor. An analogy. That harmless species of lie, so beloved of writers...writers who inscribe what the things in their heads scream, hoping against hope they are hallucinations, nightmares.

The man is not a man, any more than his threefold self's shadow is himself. He is his own Archetype, eternal and unchanging, and inert-until 'now'.

The spheres are not spheres either, of course. They are the All-In-One, that thing whose names sages have always tried to write, but never managed more than the names of their almighty gods, pieces of a puzzle that cannot, must not be solved.

For the solution, like a handful of other things, would cause an unbearable disturbance within the Dream. That cannot be, so it must not, so it shall not.

The man is not here to disturb or disrupt, though. That is not his remit. He repair and reshapes and recreates, though he knows not why.

His threefold self set out on this journey at the urging of the organisation he serves, in search of the ultimate power. Just to see if it can be obtained, naturally.

CARTER WANTED TO KNOW EVERYTHING. YOU WANT TO DO EVERYTHING.

'Not everything,' the man who is not a man replies, uneasy at the VOICE like creation collapsing upon itself. 'Just enough that any evil can be undone, if need be.'

The spheres move closer, something like disappointment colouring their mood. YOU ALREADY CAN. WHAT YOU CANNOT DO IS BEAR IT.

The VOICE never ceases echoing in the man's core, even after he accepts the will it pours into him-the love it takes away-, even after his selves are merged yet remain separate, by the hands of Negativity and its-

***

Fixer stared blankly as the Voidmaw approached him, its presence erasing the multiverse's copy before it smashed into his chest. Ignoring Gray's comment about cats and laser pointers, he directed an annoyed thought at the creature, unmaking it more thoroughly than it had its target, for all its makeup was the absence of anything a human would recognise as existence.

'What were you hoping to do, give it the runaround until it got bored or tired?' Gray asked, amused, even as over a dozen identical Voidmaws leapt on them, focusing all their powers on a being they could never scratch. An idle thought reduced them to less than the nothingness they were made of. 'You know that's impossible.'

'Hoped I could scare it off.'

'You? You big omnicidal teddy bear? Get real, Ned.' Gray shook their head, pityingly, then straightened up. 'You must be wondering "why the visit?". Well, Handyman, I just wanted to thank you for making sure the wheels keep turning once again. Things would become awfully boring otherwise, not that any of us would be around to gripe and sigh, mind. Endless nothing doesn't leave much room for complaining. Now, why don't you return the favour?'

Like you wouldn't have tried to prevent a creation where Patch Works doesn't exist, and the Spider isn't mature enough to handle untouchable minds, from coming to be. 'I'd rather not make myself feel like the slimiest bastard ever just to acknowledge necessary deeds.'

Gray sighed. 'Unthanked, unappreciated, unwanted! Put your shoulder back to the wheel...' They trailed off into a giggle. 'Aaah...enough sniping, hmm? Let's talk about your girl. If you want my advice-'

'Which I'll receive whether I want to or not.'

'-you'll wake up and stop trying to woo her with pop covers.' Gray's voice dripped with exasperation. 'Switch to country! Ditch the viol, get a banjo-stop glaring at me like that-and write something original. Or,' Gray slouched forward. 'If you have to do a cover, do a country song. I have a few suggestions, wanna hear...? Didn't think so. Anyhow!' Gray crossed one leg over the other, sitting on nothing. 'You can try some church tunes too, I guess. She's religious. Likes when you put your heart into it.'

But I don't believe. What god would allow so many centuries of slavery and genocide, whether in their Clusters or the neutral universe? 'I'll keep it in mind.' But if you believe, Chris, there's nothing wrong with that. I'd rather you worshipped me if it was my choice, but... 'What are you smirking about?'

'Me?' Gray sounded incredulous. 'Just thinking. You'd like some god/worshipper play, huh? Why not just brainwash her?'

'I could.' After ripping Ylvhem out of her stomach lining. 'But it'd be too easy. I think I'll stick to winning Chris over with my mouth, and words, too, if needed.'

'Heh.' Gray seemed thoughtful as they looked away. 'I wonder which of us the Keeper will hate more when this is...what do you think you're doing, Fixer?'

Fixer stopped, then swallowed a smirk at the stiff question. 'Just following your advice.'

'My advice. And what was that supposed to mean?'

'Aw, just that random bullshit humming in country songs. Ya know?'

'It's not random,' Gray said in a warning tone. 'So don't drop it into my lap.'

***

Hell, Yahweh Cluster

Mordred was not walking, for a king did not walk. He strode, with purpose, and grace too if possible, but he never ambulated like a peasant.

His father had been a perfect example of what not to do as a king. Arthur had often walked-in his own words-among his subjects, gotten friendly with them, asking questions about things that did nothing whatsoever to help with running the kingdom.

In that regard, at least, he had been competent. That blasted sword of his wouldn't have chosen him otherwise. Perhaps they should have stuck Excalibur in another stone, so he could pull it out and prove his worth. Galahad had done something similar during his quest, though not with the Sword of Promised Victory.

That damned sword...Mordred's sharp, transparent features twisted into a grimace as he remembered it tearing through his plate-for Merlin had seen centuries ahead, and brought the armour of the future into the present, before enhancing it alongside Lancelot's whore stepmother-and flesh.

It had not been Excalibur who had dealt him his death blow, though. It had been Ron, the Cutting Spear. As much as he might deride Arthur, fighting with two different weapons at the same time took a certain degree of skill. How insulting was that, though? No one had ever written about Arthur's spear.

The ghost shook his head as today's enemies-time did not flow in Hell, except where the demons wished, and there would have been nothing to mark its passage even if it had-approached.

Walking, of course, clouds of thick white mist rising from the hellish ice cracking under their iron-shod feet. Beneath, Mordred could see and feel those betrayers too weak to free themselves from their cold prison.

He had been trapped like that too, once. Before nearly ripping himself apart to escape, entertaining the Morningstar enough to go from trapped fish to fighting dog, slaughtering all great betrayers of history, forever and ever. Those who believed in Yahweh, anyway. Or, rather, those who had. It did not take long for such faith to crumble, here, away from God's light. Mordred wondered if these traitors ever escaped to the realm of the godless dead. He had never heard of one, though.

Today's entertainment consisted of a dozen steely-eyed, scarred ghosts in suits of scaled armour, wielding two-headed axes and warhammers. The Praetorians of some by-blow Emperor, who had turned on him for petty wealth.

Mordred scoffed at the thought. They had been strong enough to free themselves from the ice? With such petty reasons for betrayal? Was the Devil implying they were somehow peers to him? And why were they clad like northerners, anyway?

Ever since the ice had appeared six or seven centuries ago, according to the demon who often broke his ectoplasmic body, sometimes even on the battlefield, all traitors had been retroactively placed in it, so they had been trapped centuries before its appearance. The strongest had managed to escape, but these...?

Mordred shook his head. No matter. Their minds might have been weak, but they weren't, else they wouldn't have been preparing to face him in battle. Slamming down the faceplate of his black, dragon-winged helm, Mordred strode up to the Praetorians, not deigning to make weapons and meet them blade to blade. The steel they wore was physical, lifted by their spirits, as were their weapons. Unskilled. They did not even know how to fight in Hell...must have been recent escapees.

Pale green flames flickered into existence around him as seven Praetorians lunged at him, weapons raised: three from the front, two from the sides, two from behind. The other five only hung back because there were too many of them to strike at him simultaneously.

Still thinking like mortals...not even wondering why he had let them encircle him.

His deadfire turned the steel to less than vapour too fast for the enemy ghosts to notice, before the blades had even approached the flames, for all that they were moving thousands of times faster than the sound of their movement. The ghosts themselves were then burned out of existence, leaving nothing behind.

The five remaining Praetorians turned and ran, leaving the field of ice behind, but did not drop their weapons. Too scared? Hoping against hope they'd get a second chance at him? Not that they'd had any to start with, he though with a smirk.

A couple waded through lava, steel unmarked by heat that should have melted it like candle wax. Enchanted, then. Still nothing compared to the heat radiated by his deadfire, let alone the actual flames. Clicking his tongue at their cowardice, Mordred tapped into the second facet of his elemental mastery, turning the ghosts from immaterial ectoplasm to solid ice. The deadfrost turned their wargear brittle, making it fall apart moments later.

A gust of deadwind blasted the last three Praetorians, already thousands of leagues away, out of existence. He could have used the ground, but it was neither the time nor the place.

Mordred turned slowly at the sarcastic clapping from behind, the green flames in his sockets shining even through his featureless helmet: he had no need for holes to breathe or see, after all.

He hoped the old bastard couldn't see them flashing in surprise, though.

The last time he had heard of Merlin, he had been tricked into captivity by his student and alleged friend, though not before tricking himself into thinking she loved him.

Mordred did not believe in the world rewarding people according they deserved. Otherwise, he would have never needed to rebel. He did, however, know it did not suffer fools long, let alone gladly, however powerful they were.

To his utter lack of surprise, the cambion was in his humanlike guise: tall, skin as white as his beard and shining eyes, wearing robes woven from the fabric of space itself and containing countless celestial bodies. Stars in their millions of millions, spread across clouds and wheel-like shapes. A single star was unfathomably heavier than the world, so the only reason the weight of Merlin's robes didn't destroy the land for innumerable leagues was the mage's will. Merlin had made it so that he and he alone was affected by the weight of his garments.

Under the robes, he wore a strange kind of shirt, bearing an image of a black-armoured, limbless knight, blood oozing from crimson stumps to fall on the ground his sword was embedded into. The knight proclaimed "None shall pass!" in a cloudlike outline emerging from where his mouth must have been.

For some reason, Mordred felt vaguely offended. Was the lustful idiot claiming he was too stubborn to know when to give up? Clearly, his captivity had helped neither his senility nor his sanity.

'Hail, sorcerer,' Mordred crossed his arms, waiting for the other-living, inasmuch as demons and their offshots were alive-man to make his move. 'Did Viviane let you out of the kennel?'

Merlin grinned broadly. 'Look who grew a sense of humour...fifteen centuries too late, I'm afraid, or perhaps you'd have been able to tell why everyone thought your claim was laughable.' He tilted his head to one side, arms by his sides. 'Alas...we may never know.'

So, that was how long he had been in Hell. The world must have turned into a nightmare, without him to guide its people. How fortunate for him that Merlin revealed such things while blathering...'We are not going to have that debate again. Why are you here? Came home to roost?'

'Actually, we're both leaving!' the mage said brightly, surprising him. Then, his beaming expression became sly. 'That is, if you can.'

'If I can? What's that even supposed to mean?'

Merlin sat on air, stroking his beard. 'You still want to be king, don't you?'

'I need to be as much as the country needs me.' Mordred said. 'It is only natural.' So natural, in fact, that his father, chosen over his snubbed mother through supernatural favour, had decided to forget the tradition of crowning his firstborn, claiming skill was more important than blood.

Utter rubbish. Mordred was more than competent, and he had more Pendragon blood in him than his father, for all that his mother had never borne the name. Of course, some of his detractors had used the circumstances of his birth as arguments against why he should rule, but children born of rape were usually damaged, those born of incest even more so. Clearly, he was the exception. Baseless criticism couldn't stand in the face of facts and logic.

Merlin sucked his teeth. 'You know "the country" has grown, right? And changed? You would recognise little-'

'Do people still love and hate and live and die?'

Merlin smiled coldly. 'Some.'

'Then little has changed. I will learn all I must to take my throne.' He shifted, power coiling up inside him in anticipation. 'Are you here to teach me? You said we can both leave.'

'I know I can. You, though? You never did settle matters with your fellow Knights. And you hate leaving things unfinished, don't you, La Fey?'

'Watch your filthy mouth, halfbreed,' Mordred bristled. 'I'll turn you inside out and feed you to your slut.'

'Temper, temper, Mordred. People will do far worse than tell you facts on Earth. If we wanted you for your sense of entitlement, we'd have our heads checked.'

***

Merlin had almost forgotten how it was to stand without chains dragging you down, on every plane of existence. The view from his tower's western window was unchanged, but somehow, it felt more beautiful than ever. Perhaps because his heart was lighter?

In some regards, at least.

Nimue walked up behind him, wrapping her arms around his chest as she leaned forward to rest her chin on his shoulder. They were both dressed, which the cambion was grateful for. His fairy was still on edge around him, ever since his miraculous-for there had certainly been a miracle involved, and that didn't always mean something wonderful. It usually, as it did in this case, meant something incredible-escape from Broceliande, and he still didn't trust himself around her.

Nimue had asked if he hated her, when the Fairie debacle was over, and he had pondered the answer for a handful of zeptoseconds; a period that anyone who knew Merlin also knew was awfully long.

'I hated the imprisonment,' he had answered. 'And the disasters I could have averted if I were free. But nothing, in this world or any other, could make me hate you.'

There was a bridge to mend after a long, long road, but he'd be damned if he and this woman didn't learn to love each other again.

'Does Bedi know?' the Lady broke the silence. Merlin knew what she actually meant. Would he accept? The fact he was doing it in secret meant he thought the Grandmaster wouldn't approve, hence her subtly-admonishing tone.

'He's in Avalon,' Merlin murmured. 'Seeking guidance from the greatest of us all. I would rather not disturb him for something that might fail.'

Nimue scoffed softly. 'I'd joke about you growing more altruistic, but you already asked me if I wanted to...' She trailed off, before smiling sarcastically. 'More considerate than I was of your body before Camlann.'

Merlin winced. Was he so far gone that not raping was seen as virtuous? Different sins, different scales. 'Don't start with that again. I know you still blame yourself, but we-you, me, the Round Table-all failed, in our own ways.- Except Galahad, but that went without saying. The Perfect Knight had left the world in pursuit of greater goals. 'Or things wouldn't have escalated to that point.'

Perhaps he was simply too spineless a fool to find fault in her, but, if that was true, he would say there were far worse vices and infinitely worse fates than being hopelessly in love.

A bold claim, from the sorcerer of Camelot, where duty had been murdered by love, but he would have never gotten anywhere without boldness. Except, maybe, in his father's breeding chamber.

'God willing, we'll both return.' Merlin nodded downwards. 'But, if not, I will make sure Mordred does.'

***

Mordred cursed as Galatine's crossguard smashed into his face again, breaking his jaw and knocking him to the ground. They had not left Hell, not really, but it had been somehow pushed into the background of the pocket reality Merlin had created in order to test him.

When he had first heard the mage, Mordred had expected a study room of a sort, where he would familiarise himself with the changes of his realm.

But, no. Merlin had instead created a copy of the British Isles, with choppy waters surrounding it and countless stars-millions of millions, at least, after which point Mordred had stopped counting-with all the distance that implied. Only an infinitesimal fraction of a true universe's size, but large enough for their purposes.

Mordred didn't know if his opponent was also a construct of Merlin's or his real half-brother, brough back through meddling with time or resurrection. He certainly hit like Gawain, though, and had as little difficulty hitting ghosts as the Knight of the Sun.

Looked like him, too. Tall, tanned by the sun he loved almost as much as it loved him. Blond, square-jawed, green-eyed. He looked far, far more more similar to Mordred's father than the Knight of Rebellion did, down to the beard...except for the eyes. The eyes were different. None of Arthur's followers, kin or subject, had ever sported features identical to his, though Galahad had been nigh-identical in spirit.

'It should have been you,' Gawain whispered, swinging Galatine with one hand. The sword went past bending light and reality with its movement, to the point it would have been turned to energy if not for its supernatural nature. Mordred ducked, knowing full well a true strike would end him, ghostly immortality or not, using a gust of deadwind to push Gawain's wrist a fraction of a milimetre higher, making Galatine part just his hair, not his head.

A fraction of the swing's force, already lessened by the deflection, flew past Mordred to strike the replica of Britain, shattering it into man-sized chunks that were sent flying amidst a shower of molten rock.

Mordred snorted at the show of strength. Even the least of them had been this strong, let alone Gawain at his strongest-and noon wasn't far away.

'When I was fighting Lancelot, I thought I should have been beating you down instead. Little snake, fomenting unrest, stoking the fires. That peacock might have started it all, but you ended the dream.' Gawain was now swinging with both hands, the gold-rimmed pauldrons of his silver armour catching the sunlight. It had been midnight when they'd started fighting, but Gawain looked hardly winded by over eleven hours of duelling. The replica of Britain had reappeared moments after its destruction, the remains of its last incarnation erased from existence by Merlin.

This one quickly had to be replaced, too. Mordred blocked or parried every slash and stab with his black blade-not Clarent, not his sword. It was likely gathering dust alongside what remained of his earthly armour-, but the force pulverised the country beneath every time a blow landed. Gawain was swinging with rage, not regard for the land around them. And, fake and empty though it was, Mordred couldn't suppress a jolt of surprise. Gawain had always loved nature, places untouched by man especially so. Did he hate Mordred more than he loved-

The next blow forced Mordred to his knees as the sun rose and Gawain's strength grew threefold. Cursing raggedly as he watched white light fill his half-brother's eyes and mouth and veins, Mordred directed his elemental powers at that arrogant, bare face. Gawain had dodged, ignored or destroyed every attempt so far, hammering Mordred with blows to prevent him from focusing, but, maybe...

Gawain strode through winds that reduced the weave of reality around him to nothing, through fires hotter than any star's heart or human weapon, through ice colder than the void between worlds, body unmarked, soul untouched, mind filled with nothing but rage. Even when Mordred compressed an entire copy of Britain into a head-sized, life-sapping projectile he launched at Gawain, the other Knight merely grinned as it shattered against his skin.

Still invulnerable at noon. No choice but to survive and tire him out, then.

Or, at least, that was what Mordred told himself. But, despite dozens and dozens of hours, the sun never moved. It was an unnatural noon, as endless as Gawain's insults.

'As I laid dying, I thought it should have been you, once more,' he spat heatedly. 'Death does that to a man. Brings him clarity. Or that's what I would say, if I hadn't seen what a fool you still are. Long dead and trapped in Hell, and what have you learned?' Gawain's voice dropped. 'I heard you even killed Arthur.'

'You heard wrong! He was borne away from Camlann, sleeping on the brink of death.' To Mordred's disappointment. He somehow doubted saying that would improve Gawain's mood, though. 'He killed me. Dammit, what did the sorcerer tell you, brot-'

An armoured elbow. Jaw broken again, despite the faceplate.

'Watch your mouth,' Gawain snapped. 'Merlin told me much, yes. For example: how he stopped the sun in place, so I will always be in the fullness of my power.' He raised Galatine overhead, blade flashing like a golden thunderbolt. 'Before you truly die, know we all hated you, in the end.'

***

Urziceni

Constantin rarely locked his door. Sometimes, he even left it open, to convey that he always had time to lend a hand to a neighbour, or just someone passing through.

As soon as he felt the presence in the living room, heavy as a corpse's hand and half as welcoming, he slammed the door closed, before locking it and faithcrafting a series of seals across the wood, handle and frame.

It was sitting like a human, and even, if he closed one eye and squinted with the other, looked like one. Taut, grey, hairless skin, toothless mouth open in an eternal scream.

It had one of his Discworld books in its lap. Not for modesty, for, though it was naked, it lacked any genitals, let alone modesty. It actually seemed to be reading it.

'Why are you here?' he asked quietly, thanking God no one else was around. 'Why did you leave the pen?'

It raised its head, staring at him with eyes that mirrored nothing. 'No books there.'

Mockery was not in its nature, at least not verbal mockery. The fact it had attached itself to him was a taunt in of itself, but different. What had changed?

'I thank you for proving me wrong, Constantin,' it said. 'You did not fall into vice, besides the hypocrisy inherent to your role and species, despite everything.'

He did not like the finality in its voice. 'Are you leaving?' Besides of the Remaker, who could even reign it in? Who could predict its-

'I never will,' it replied, sounding sad, then thoughtful. 'You are, though.'

Constantin nodded. 'Everyone must die. I know God will see me through to the other side.'

It did not say anything right away, so its words surprised him, if only because he had expected another episode of inhuman, focused silence. 'In a fair world,' it whispered in a reedy voice. 'Your son would go to Heaven.'

Constantin blinked, then laughed despite himself. 'And in a fair world, I never would.' How could he? Resorting to killing, too stupid and mealy-mouthed to make people give up violence and resolve matters peacefully. Not all of them, or even most, but enough. He was far more inclined to dwell on his failures than his-such as they were-accomplishments.

But that paled in comparison to his greatest sin. The son he had neglected enough that he had ended himself, through a mix of being too busy and too confident that David would handle himself, that he neither wanted nor needed help.

He had removed his caul, he had tied red silk around his leg, but David had still come back. Had his son feared undeath? He did not soeak of such things anymore. But Constantin had, and had tried and failed to prevent it.

'You needn't fear that, Constantin,' a strange lilt entered its voice.

'But will David?' he asked, wondering about its manner. God had not said anything comprehensible, but perhaps it could be convinced to answer.

Silence, again. Then, a non-sequitur. 'Do you know why I let you name me Hogge?'

"Because you took the shape of a pig" was too obvious. 'A nod to that? It amused you.'

It raised his dog-eared copy of the Hogfather, shaking its head. 'I like reading about myself,' it whispered. 'But you are wrong. Pigs are natural cleaners; they remove waste, and evidence of less literal filth. Did you know they were originally kept for that, not meat?'

'Yes, but what does that-'

'It suited me, and my purpose,' it cut him off, putting the book aside as it rose from the couch. 'As your son will.'

***

Gawain had not killed him, in the end, but only because Merlin had called him back. The sorcerer, watching from above, must have been laughing in his beard, seeing him get put through the wringer by every phantasm of his past. Kay. Gareth. Tristan. Percival. Lancelot, larger than life and thrice as mad. The Green Knight, invulnerable and infinitely strong and quick save for when he desired otherwise. Melion, immune to any damage not inflicted with silver and able to break anything not made from it. And so many more, dozens more, each as fast and powerful as Mordred, even setting aside their boons.

Not Bedivere, though. Nor Arthur. Why?

Mordred did not understand. What did Merlin want him to do? He could not defeat all of his opponents, or even most. He had never been the strongest or most skilled Knight. His worth lay elsewhere, in rhetoric, in leadership, neither of which mattered in duels.

Not that anything else would have mattered in a duel with Galahad.

The Perfect Knight looked young, with straight blond hair framing a pair of sky-blue eyes, set in a serene face, pale from the armour he rarely removed.

Armour he was not wearing now. Much like his sword, both lay in an orderly pile of ivory false metal. Galahad wore plain white robes, one hand empty, the other grasping the dream of every knight before and since his quest.

The Grail, the vessel of God's Vessel. Ruby blood up to the copper rim, but never sloshing out, however sudden and fast Galahad's movements.

And so fast they were...monstrously, disgustingly so. As a ghost, time and space were no limit to how fast Mordred could move, if his will was strong enough. Drawing on his rage, he had left lightspeed behind an eternity ago, moving fast enough to cross Merlin' pocket reality in the smallest possible timeframe, before breaking the bounds of causality to attack from everywhere and everywhen at once.

It was no use. Galahad deflected all of his blows with utter disinterest, using only his left hand-and Mordred knew for a fact the pious fool was right-handed, which only added insult to injury. He seemed unwilling to let go of the Grail, though Mordred couldn't tell why. He wasn't drawing power from it, or using it as a small makeshift shield.

At one point, Mordred leapt backwards in time, sword raised to split Lancelot's skull on the night of Galahad's conceiving. The Perfect Knight followed him and slapped him back to the future, saying nothing. Even when Mordred began drawing on the aether, increasing his strength to the point the force of every blow bled over to destroy Merlin's pocket reality-galaxies obliterated and space and time erased, only to be recreated an instant later by the cambion-, Galahad did not react. And why should he? Mordred's strength couldn't even pierce his unblinking, judging, pitying eyes.

During one such eternity of nothingness, Mordred used his speed to multiply, attacking Galahad from over a dozen directions at once, aiming at every joint. The Perfect Knight had moved too fast for Mordred and his doppelgangers to react, for all that time did not exist and they were fast enough to transcend it.

He's insurmountable..., Mordred thought, pushing himself to his knees, ectoplasmic gore, born of the memory of his flesh, covering the emerald glass around them. 'Say something, damn you! This is no way for a knight to battle!'

'Battle?' Galahad repeated in a smooth, even voice. 'Not even the most generous of saints could describe this as a battle.' He smiled sadly. 'You still look for acknowledgement when there is none to be obtained. Even if I lied, you would still be an inbred bastard.'

Mordred laughed harshly. 'Not so flawless, are you?'

'I did not curse. Merely spoke the truth. Were you not born out of wedlock, to siblings? And even if I had,' Galahad's eyebrows rose. 'Are you so desperate that you would view making me swear as a victory?'

Mordred roared at his opponent's disappointed voice. 'I should have been fighting you in the flesh. Then-'

'Merlin might bind and raise you, but not yet. Not that it would have made a difference. And you should not expect anything akin to life after your undeath, Mordred. God would not grant you that. Just as He will not grant you a throne, or an heir to it.' Galahad chuckled. 'I have seen your corpse. Your manhood belongs to the maggots, and oh, what lustful maidens they are!'

When did he get so annoying?! 'You act like you are better than me. You always have. But there is no true difference between us, traitor's spawn.'

'Yes, there is. I have the blood of Christ in my hand. You only have yours.'

Growling, Mordred clenched his fist, gauntlet long gone, only to feel it wet and sticky.

He...he...it was his human memories at fault. He-

'There are conflicts you cannot win, Mordred.' Galahad said. 'How many of us have shown you that? And yet, you do not accept.'

Mordred threw his sword to the ground, leaping at Galahad and trying to strangle him, to no avail. 'Are you saying I should just give up?! Stop caring and crawl back to Hell, because I wasn't blessed with the favour of a hypocritical, powermongering worm of a god?!'

'Taking His name in vain will solve nothing, Mordred.' Galahad broke his grip and pushed him away with one hand. 'And you misunderstood my words. You are needed because you do not give up.'

Mordred did not see Galahad move away to put on his wargear, nor the slash that took his head. But he felt it, as painful as Rongomyniad piercing his heart long ago.

***

Wake, Blackest of Knights. Prince of Rebellion. Neverking. Your hour cometh.

You could not best the Knight of the Grail. But who could hope to? He is better than you in every way. He is better than anyone who fights him. That is his nature.

Wake, and take hold of your corpse. Let the flames of your soul burn away the blood and dust clogging your veins, and give you life in death.

Your realm is assailed. By the monsters from your childhood stories, by fear itself, torn from the unbeating heart of another cosmos. It is being defended by foreigners. Will you let that stand?

Wake, Mordred Pendragon. Hell will not take you back.

***

Wake, sister. You are safe, and untouched, saved in the nick of time.

What did that world do for you? It took your mother, and father, and would have taken your life, too-or seen it sold to cruel, uncaring things.

Where were your friends during this? Where was your lover?

Wake. Your eyes have been closed too long.

***

Put the mirror down yet?

Why? I am not so disgusted by myself as to stop meditating on my nature.

And isn't that a damning statement?

A damning statement would be what you called me. What will you do, once everyone becomes-

Void, more of you? I would do my best to stop that...

...If your existence didn't hinge on theirs. You have seen the other paths, branching out into nothing. And there might be fates you hate...but nothingness is certain.