Chan

5 years BA.

ACC Serenia research facility at the Door.

Working with Sasha was a surreal paradox—physically, she appeared eighteen, yet she spoke of eons of torment with the casual ease of recounting daily routines. A fact that left Chan reeling each time the girl—she refused to think of Sasha as anything but a girl—casually mentioned 'thousands of years of intervals' or 'the time loops when Chaos sharpened me into shards.'. Chan forced herself not to flinch—though she had failed miserably on the first day, nearly dropping her notepad when Sasha casually described what 'skinning a soul' meant. Chan masked it with a forced cough and a muttered 'I see,' but her sleep hadn't been the same ever since.

The most perplexing question remained: how had Sasha managed to retain her awareness? By all logic, she should have been irreparably shattered. Edgar and Alaric were, and the same was expected for Sasha too.

Sasha’s own explanation was that she was shattered—was constantly in the process of being shattered—only for Chaos to cycle her cognition back for renewed torment. Paradoxically, that repeated destruction forged a bizarre resilience, along with selective learning—'engraved in my essence,' as she put it. She can reassemble a functional mind because it was forced on her thousands upon thousands of times, and each cycle faster and faster.

If the same happened to all Saviors, then probably Edgar and Alaric had emerged at “low points,” while Sasha must have stumbled out of that Door at a “high” one, which granted her an almost preternatural clarity. Chaos kept them aware for as long as he could, so torturing was "more enjoyable" for him, as Sasha herself put it.

The thought made Chan’s stomach twist, but she kept her composure. Maybe, she will someday write a paper, "Spending Eons Facing Fractal Dissolution Can Do Wonders for Reactivating Consciousness". Better to joke about it than to break down entirely.

Yet, Chan couldn’t see Sasha in the same light as her predecessors. She’s too young, she thought, her heart twisting. What happened to her was an atrocity. Still, how could she be anything else but this strange mix of brilliant, broken, childlike, and ancient?

Watching Sasha’s daily progress was heartwarming and heartbreaking in equal measure. Sasha's cognitive progress was off-charts, but her emotional one... it was as fast as one could expect for the mind that still couldn't process that experiences could be positive.

So far, Sasha had decided all pleasant feelings could be neatly lumped under “anti-pain,” though she was beginning to branch out: “taste-anti-pain,” “sleep-anti-pain,” “Chan-anti-pain.” That last one had nearly undone Chan altogether.

Later, though, Sasha decided that the word "good" fits her "anti-pain" category neatly.

“Good… day?” Sasha said, haltingly. Her soft voice made an uncertain upward tilt on the last syllable. It wasn’t quite a question but wasn’t confident enough to be a statement.

"Good day, indeed,” Chan replied with a small nod, hoping it came across as encouraging. “It’s a greeting—something like, well, acknowledging I exist, you exist, and we’re both not in agonizing distress.”

Sasha blinked her grey eyes, then dipped her chin in imitation. “We both… exist. No agony. ‘Good day.’” She repeated the phrase, tasting it. Then: “But… if we are in… minor agony, does that mean it’s a… neutral day?”

Chan almost choked on her tea, biting back a sudden burst of laughter. "Maybe "Okay day"?"

***

Sasha remained in bed, her muscles frail from prolonged stasis, her control tentative at best. She sat awkwardly, propped on pillows like an underfed princess unsure of their purpose. Her silver-grey hair draped neatly over her shoulders; finally, she had learned to push it aside to avoid it falling into her soup. That had been a big victory for them both.

“Would you like some water?” Chan asked brightly, “We can practice ‘drinking’ again?”

“Yes,” Sasha said, with unnerving eagerness—she still found water fascinating. Chan poured a small cup, her heart tightening as Sasha sipped it with the reverence of a sacred discovery.

After a few moments, Sasha lowered the cup, eyes flicking to Chan’s half-smile. “Drinking is… usual?” she inquired.

“Very,” Chan affirmed, placing the cup on the side table. “Though not everyone gulps it with your level of… devotion.” She laughed, and Sasha actually gave a tiny, uncertain laugh in return. She seemed to be perplexed by the sound she made. It was so pure it made Chan’s throat tighten again.

She’s so open, Chan thought. Ever since they lifted the sedation spells, Sasha’s face had become an ever-shifting mosaic of emotions—ranging from alarm to near-wonder. It seemed that her facial muscle memory kicked it, but her mind had no concept of concealing her feelings - and Chan suspected that girls wasn't aware of how much she actually feels.

This dissotiation between preserved body and the mind - soul - that endured the eternity in Chaos was expected; the same happened to Edgar and Alaric; it stemmed whole schools of arc-neurological research, of pinpointing which parts of knowlege, memory and congition are connected to the brain or the soul.

Sasha was particularly fascinating—self-aware and capable of reflection. The scientist in Chan yearned to collect every bit of data on her linguistic recovery, while human in her wanted to burn these notes down, because no one should've ever needed such a recovery.

The neural pathways for language were still there, waiting to be reactivated. Sasha's soul’s awareness seemed to integrate seamlessly with her brain’s in a surprisingly coherent manner. In their mind-link, Sasha spoke fluently and complex, indistinguishable from Chan's brightest grad students. She lacked vocabulary, of course, for concepts she had forgoten existed—like 'care,' 'help,' and 'freedom'—but compensated with a wealth of self-made descriptions for torture and pain.

At one point, Sasha offered a term she believed encapsulated the experience of having one's mind shredded, reversed through time, and painfully reassembled from smolders of living agony. Chan, who prided herself on rigorous stoicism, had to take a moment to breathe. The word itself was a monstrous knot of consonants and half-snarled vowels, clearly not meant to be spoken aloud at all by the human body.

Chan scribbled it down, feeling a scientific thrill despite her horror.

“How often… do you… need that word here?” Sasha had asked, eyes genuinely curious.

Chan swallowed. “We don’t. Ever.”

Sasha frowned, unconvinced. 'Then why does it disturb you?' she asked after a pause.

Chan’s mouth went dry. “Because…” She pressed her lips together. “Most of us can’t imagine that kind of thing.”

Sasha nodded solemnly. “So it’s a very rare experience. Understood. Then perhaps it is not as important as ‘good day.’’”

That was Sasha in a nutshell: clinically matter-of-fact about her horrors, inadvertently comedic in her reasoning. Chan would have laughed, if it hadn’t hurt so much.

Sasha's relationships with the grammar were also complex. She retained the native-speaker understanding, yes, but also struggled with tenses. The young woman slipped in and out of references to time as though it were fluid, occasionally adopting an eerie tone that assigned separate grammar forms for “spiraling time,” “erased time,” and “looping anti-time.” Chan realized they would need a new branch of philology or a specialized team of arc-physicists to decode it all.

Under Chaos, time was less “past tense” and more “devoured.”

Sasha repeated day-to-day phrases, stumbling over their linear sense of time. “I woke up earlier,” she said with difficulty, obviously wanting to say something like "I will-had woken up" in her personal grammar. Chan reminded her gently, “Past is behind us. It doesn’t get undone.” That left Sasha thoughtful, as though trying to picture a world where the past didn’t rearrange itself like a twisted kaleidoscope.

“Strange,” Sasha murmured. “But... anti-pain.”

Chan really wanted to hug the girl. Sasha was so heartbreakingly sincere. She was also so heartbreakingly convinced that Chaos might show up any minute, presumably cackling “Surprise!” and dragging her away again. And from that warped vantage point, Sasha’s fallback plan was simple: self-annihilate first, hopefully spare bystanders from the same fate. The logic was brutally direct—borderline horrifying. And if Chaos absolutely could not come, then there was no reason to die right away—there was soup, words to learn, and these “other complex sentient beings” who she barely believed existed but who fascinated her endlessly.

“She’s basically running a cost-benefit analysis,” Chan reported to Edgar and others in Sasha's recovery team. “As soon as the cost (Chaos’s unstoppable return) outweighs the benefit (these new experiences), she might do it. She also thinks he would take all of us when he is here. So ironically, she might try to ‘save us’ by inflicting mass-murder.”

The team collectively paled, exept for Edgar, who appeared thoughtful. This clearly wasn't enough to shake his famous composure.

Chan took a breath. “But,” she added, “she’s also enthralled by each new bit of ‘anti-pain’—from learning about animals to discovering different foods. This curiosity might be our best ally.”

She omitted that it hurt her, personally, to see such unvarnished hope appear in Sasha’s eyes over something as trivial as a spoonful of sweet yogurt. She’d begun to like the girl far more than a scientist should. Not that Chan intended to stifle her compassion—Sasha needed it. But maintaining objectivity became increasingly challenging.

She tried to maintain distance. It didn't work well. When Sasha wryly asked if “to destroy you so Chaos not” was grammatically correct, Chan could only offer: “Let’s… not perfect that phrase”. And while she managed a laugh, the sincerity in Sasha’s question haunted her. The girl truly believed that if Chaos returned, sparing them from torture was a... kindness, even if she couldn't even frame it this way.

This nascent care and empathy also perplexed Chan. Many trauma survivors show cruelty, and she would expect the same from Sasha, a victim of ultimate malice. But there was none. Sasha wasn’t a monster. And it also made some tragic kind of sense. She’d never had the chance to learn cruelty—Chaos had monopolized that art.

And it seemed that Sasha developed all her proto-morals, if it could be called this way, in a simple opposition to everything Chaos represented. The more time Chan spent with the girl, the more she saw her budding compassion. Tiny gestures—a concerned frown if Chan rubbed her temple, or a halting question about why Chan doesn’t take a break if she feels pain. Sasha’s empathy, though raw and logical—'pain is bad, pain must be reduced'—was undeniably real. Yet she was completely oblivious that she could be the subject of empathy and care herself - or subject of anything but infinite torture and hatred.

Still, Chan was trying.

“Care is… good?” Sasha tilted her head, almost as if waiting for Chan to confirm it.

“Yes,” Chan said, her throat tight. “It is.”

She observed Sasha’s face flood with quiet resolve, as though she’d just decided: all right, care is good. What a disarming mixture of innocence and raw knowledge. Chan thought about how horrifying it was that Sasha, with all her unimaginable experiences, didn’t yet question the morality of caring; for now, she could only question whether it existed at all.

“We care for you, Sasha." - she paused - "And we don’t want you to suffer further, and we certainly don’t want you—well, gone.”

Sasha’s brow knitted. “You’d be… upset? If I disappeared?”

Chan swallowed. “Yes. Terribly.”

It was as though she’d told Sasha energy and matter didn’t exist: the girl’s expression held pure, startled wonder and disbelief.

“Oh.”

* * *

On the morning of the third day, Chan found Sasha mesmerized by the concept of “applesauce,” a mushy mixture served to help her gain energy and weight back. Sasha poked at it with a spoon as though expecting it might leap up and attack.

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

“Try it,” Chan encouraged, her tone half-laughing. “It’s sweet. Might be your new favorite anti-pain.”

Sasha’s thin brows arched—amused?—and she took a tiny bite. Her eyes widened; she swallowed carefully, and then, in an almost reverent whisper, she said, “This is… good.”

Chan felt a ridiculous surge of pride. “Yes, it is,” she agreed. Tapping her open notebook, Chan asked, 'Can you try saying that in a full sentence?

Sasha took a breath, clearly gathering her courage. “I… like… applesauce. It is good,” she announced, each word deliberate. She almost smiled—a tentative and unguarded attempt that took Chan aback. For a moment, Sasha looked purely eighteen, not an ancient soul battered by endless torment.

Chan returned the smile. “Excellent.”

Then, as if to counter the sweetness of the moment, Sasha murmured, 'If Chaos sees me... enjoy applesauce, he will destroy it.' She switched to telepathy, 'He always did that—took anything that eased the agony. Maybe I shouldn’t like it too much.'

Chan’s heart twisted. Aloud, she murmured, “There’s no Chaos here, Sasha. He can’t hurt you." - then, with a bittersweet pang, she added, “Or your applesauce.”

Sasha nodded slowly, still uncertain, but she took another spoonful. Baby steps, Chan thought. The irony wasn’t lost on her—Sasha, the Savior of humanity, needed reassurance just to enjoy applesauce.

Later that day, Chan returned to find Sasha thumbing through the children’s book she had left earlier. The girl couldn't read yet, but she looked at pictures with unguarded curiousity. At first, Chan wondered whether introducing such a book to someone who had only known cosmic torment was a good idea, - children fairy-tales to a person who, while still struggling with spoken language, in mental link off-handedly shared how she invented multi-dimentional calculus "as a distraction".

But no, the pictures of flowers, fruits and animals seemed to fascinate Sasha just as much, or even more than the concept of linear time.

When Chan approached, Sasha's face showed momentary disbelief. Chan came back, again, just as she promised. Predictability and reliability were still very new concepts to the girl.

- Learning something new? - Chan smiled, trying not to dwell on these thoughts.

“Yes,” Sasha said. “Practice… new words. But… pictures I do not understand. Why is… that… orange cat… wearing something on its head? Do animals do it?”

Chan’s gaze flicked to the page. King Meow. A beloved children’s story she hadn’t thought about in decades. Chan stifled a laugh. 'That’s called a crown. It’s part of a story—fiction, something we make up for fun'

Sasha frowned. “You do illusions… for... fun?”

“A better word is ‘imagination.’ - Chan explained - We create stories that aren’t true to entertain ourselves.” She could see Sasha bristling at the idea of illusions—Chaos’s domain. So she hurriedly added, “But these illusions don’t hurt. They’re just play.”

Sasha stared at the cat king illustration a long moment. “I do not… get it. But… if it doesn’t hurt… it is good?”

Chan nodded, swallowing a lump in her throat at such a heartbreakingly simple standard. If it doesn’t hurt, it’s good. And well, for Sasha, it was.

She cleared her throat. “Precisely.”

Sasha touched the page carefully. Then she said, “I want… to speak… about it.” She swallowed, searching for words. “Is cat usual? Orange? Crown? People… enjoy these illusions?”

“Exactly,” Chan affirmed. “We can read the whole story together if you like. Her tone was dry, but the warmth in her chest was genuine. She found herself oddly delighted to share something so mundane with Sasha.

Sasha nodded, eyes flickering with that craving for knowledge. “Yes. Read.” then added, softer "Please?"

Chan read aloud while Sasha’s lips moved soundlessly, mimicking the words as if tasting their shape. Whenever she reached a perplexing phrase—the cat meowed in royal decree—Sasha’s brow furrowed in a mix of confusion and fascination.

When they reached the end, Sasha let out a slow breath. “That is… weird.” She paused, then cracked an almost-smile. “I didn't understand... a lot. But it was... good. So… I like it.”

Chan softly laughed. “I’ll find more children’s books if you’d like.”

“Yes,” Sasha said without hesitation. Chan smiled. Maybe tomorrow they’d try a story about the dog that wore all the fancy hats.

Sasha stared at her for a long moment before struggling to form a slow, spoken phrase: 'I… want… to… keep… learning.' After a brief hesitation, she added, 'Is that… allowed?

Her tone was so genuine, so helplessly hopeful, that Chan bit the inside of her cheek to stave off tears. “It is,” she said softly.

Disbelief flickered across Sasha’s face, but she didn’t challenge Chan’s words. Instead, she sank deeper against the pillows, exhaustion catching up with her. “Thank you,” she whispered. Then, through their mental link, "I don’t understand why you care so much, but… I’m trying to."

That fragile, guileless honesty unraveled Chan’s neutral mask for a moment. “You’re welcome,” she managed, patting Sasha’s arm. “Rest. We’ll continue tomorrow.”

"Tomorrow" - Sasha repeated. Chan knew the girl still didn't believe in the concept, but for the first time, she didn't press the issue. Instead, before her breathing slowed, she murmured one last time, “Good…night,” testing the phrase. Then she was gone into that quiet darkness—a dreamless sleep free of Chaos, at least for now.

Chan lingered a moment longer, letting the hush of the room and the hum of containment spells settle around her. Three days wasn’t much, but it was enough to prove that somewhere beneath the eons of torment, Sasha was alive—eager to learn and capable of caring. That fragile spark was all Chan needed to double her efforts.

When she finally left, the corridor felt colder. She clutched her half-finished notes to her chest, heart heavy with the knowledge that Sasha’s illusions of impending doom could flare up any second. But hope was there too—hope that each small kindness, each “anti-pain” experience, might tip the balance.

She tapped her notes. One day, she told herself, we’ll map out her entire grammar of time and pain, co-author with a physicist, and rewrite magical linguistics forever. But for now, the real victory is simply teaching her to say “Good morning” without fearing Chaos will rip it away.

With that resolve, Chan Yan stepped away to file her daily report—her mind brimming with language data, her heart full of something far more human and profound.

--------------------

Edgar

Edgar paced the corridor - again, - footsteps echoing on polished tiles of the hospital ward. This place was meant to be calm—a site of recovery, of healing. For Edgar, it felt charged, as though each breath vibrated with tension. He remembered roaming these halls in his own lost days, and again with Alaric. He had failed him, and the weight of that failure clung to him now, weaving into his fear for Sasha.

He hated these halls.

He’d snarled twice today at well-meaning medics offering sedatives. Each time, he regretted it. His voice could move armies, and now it merely unsettled exhausted staff. He would apologize. Eventually.

Turning a corner, he nearly collided with Ekaterina Irving, Sasha's mother. She startled, pressing a hand to her chest. Her blond hair streaked with gray reminded him how the years had worn on her. By her side stood Mark, Sasha's younger brother, tall and self-assured at eighteen, with the kind of open smile that once belonged to his sister too.

“Edgar!” Katya exclaimed, eyes flicking to his rigid posture.

He steadied himself. “Katya.” He mustered a faint smile for Mark. “And you, Mark—still awake?”

Mark shrugged, quietly respectful. “Couldn’t sleep.”

Edgar gestured them toward an alcove by a softly lit window. The ambient hum of magical wards hovered in the background. He might as well talked them now, although they recieved the same daily updates as the core recovery team.

“Sasha’s doing… better than anyone hoped,” he began, voice low. “She’s learning speech—fast. It’s unprecedented. But that same clarity means she’s very dangerous if startled.”

Katya’s lips trembled. “She doesn’t remember us at all, does she?”

“Not really,” Edgar said gently. “She has fragments of the memories we preserved, but the concept of ‘family’—or care, or love - it’s too alien right now. We have to give her space.”

Mark folded his arms, his fingers tapping an anxious rhythm against his elbow. 'So we just stand aside? We’ve been here weeks.' There was no anger, just a quiet frustration tinged with something deeper—uncertainty, maybe guilt.

Edgar exhaled. Here it goes. “From now on, if Sasha decides she isn’t ready to see you, we won’t push it. She spent eternity without a choice. We can’t risk taking away her agency too.”

A brittle silence fell. Katya’s eyes shone with tears; Mark’s gaze dropped to the floor. Edgar stood, acutely aware of his role as both family friend and the man who’d sent their daughter to unspeakable torment.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I know it feels unfair.”

"Katya swallowed. 'I don’t blame you,' she said, voice tight, her fingers tightening around the fabric of her sleeve as if to ground herself. 'It’s just… I can’t lose her again.' Edgar rested a hand on her shoulder, a gesture they’d grown into after years of shared grief. “I’m doing all I can.”

Behind her, Mark set his jaw. “Uncle Edgar,” he said softly. “We’ll do whatever helps Sasha. But we’d like to see her… even if she doesn’t remember us.”

“That’s my hope, too.” Edgar’s smile was faint, yet sincere. “We’ll follow Chan’s lead. I promise, we won’t exclude you.”

They exchanged small words—mundane pleasantries tinged with tension—before mother and son headed off, leaving Edgar staring after them. Mark had Sasha’s bright eyes, same collarbones and facial structure, and that warm confidence she used to flash. But unlike his sister, he’d grown up with adundance, safe, thriving in the life Sasha’s sacrifice had given him. He loved the boy, but the injustice of it all lay heavy on Edgar’s mind.

Night deepened. Edgar retreated to his office, a place of tall shelfs filled with books and glowing arcs. He sank into a high-backed chair, rubbing his temples.

A rap on the door made him jolt. He half-expected another well-meaning medic, but when he said “Come in,” Chan stepped through, salt-and-pepper hair tousled, shadows clinging beneath her eyes. She carried two steaming cups.

"I thought it was me who promised you tea" - Edgar noted, slightly amused.

“You look like you need this,” she said, offering him one. "I'll it, but only this once" - she half-smiled.

He inhaled the warm steam. “It's good,” he remarked with a subdued smile. “You spoil me.”

Chan arched a brow, settling across from him. “I am afraid it's too late for this” Her tone was playful, though exhaustion laced her features. "I've heard you've been scaring poor nurses again?"

Edgar made a self-conscious sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. “I’ve been… on edge,” he admitted. “I spent decades preparing for her return. Studied fail-safes, my own recovery, everything with Alaric. And now that Sasha’s here, I’m basically useless—pacing around while you accomplish in days what I couldn’t manage in months with him.”

Chan sipped her tea. “You’re jealous?” Chan’s eyes twinkled, but her tone was measured—genuine.

He traced the rim of his cup. “I… yes, a little,” he said quietly, as if tasting the words. “I should be better than this. I've had a century of therapy after... you know. You’d think I’d be immune to these emotions.”

She gave a half-smile. “Emotions have their own rules, Edgar. The longer you live, the more they change shape, not vanish.”

He returned the smile, albeit wryly, sipping his tea. “Thank you for everything. You’ve helped her so much.”

Chan’s gaze softened. “She’s alive and learning only because of you" - she stated the obvious, but Edgar needed to hear it - "But you might have to let go more. This is… different from your own experiences and from Alaric.”

He nodded, acknowledging the truth. “Sasha’s progress is wonderful and terrifying,” he said, voice hushed. “I just—I worry how it ends.”

“We can hope,” Chan replied, finishing her tea. A warm, respectful air settled between them. Then she rose. “Get some rest, Edgar. Tomorrow’s a big day. Sasha’s looking forward to meeting you. She asked about ‘the strongest entity—Edgar,’ you know.” Her lips twitched into a smile that eased some tension in his chest.

After she left, Edgar stared at the door, letting the quiet seep in. Tomorrow. Too soon, too far.

* * *

Morning cast a mellow glow through high windows when Edgar arrived at Sasha’s room. He’d barely slept, and he ended up using this sedative, although he wouldn't ever admit it aloud.

Sasha sat gingerly on the bed, silver hair cascading over her shoulders in a liquid shimmer. She looked so fragile, almost weightless, as if the slightest breeze could scatter her away. Yet Edgar knew it was merely an illusion. She was the most powerful being in the whole world.

She turned at his entrance, looking at him. He realised he forgot her exact eye color.

He had to steady himself, remembering the bright, carefree girl from his faded recollections.

Hello, Sasha," he managed, throat tight. She blinked at him, eyes narrowing as if trying to place a distant echo in her memory. Her head tilted slightly, lips parting, then closing again. He could feel her switching to magic and then to soul vision. It was as easy for her as blinking. Edgar held his breath. Seconds stretched unbearably. Then, softly—almost hesitantly—she whispered, "Edgar."

She recognised him. She knew him. She could see his soul, and feel their shared eternity - even if she didn't have words for it yet. The connection came into place, heavy and undeniable.

He crossed the distance without thinking, wrapping her in an embrace that felt too gentle for the weight of eons pressing between them. She stiffened at first, her breath shallow and uncertain. He could feel the tremor in her shoulders, a reflexive flinch, as though expecting the embrace to morph into pain. But, after a heartbeat, she slowly yielded, breath hitching against him. Edgar held still, allowing her to define the moment, afraid any sudden movement might shatter it.

When he drew back, moisture clung to his lashes. Sasha gazed up, curious and a little uncertain. She didn’t flinch from his emotion, only regarded it with the same inquisitiveness she applied to everything else here.

“Welcome back, Sasha” he murmured, voice unsteady. “Welcome home.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her features like shadows in candlelight. 'Home?' she repeated, voice soft, tentative. “What… is ‘home’?”