A Lullaby For Gods Chapter 148

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: TELL ME YOU LOVE ME

JANUARY 31, 2014

NIGHT VALE

Dualscar awoke, slowly, to an unfamiliar ceiling, in an unfamiliar bed. While in any other situation, he would have immediately gotten up and checked his surroundings for danger, he would that his vision was blurry and littered with pinpricks of static, and every breath felt like heaving in fire. He recognized the beginnings of a fever, which meant that his injuries must have been extensive enough for infection to set in.

His limbs would not respond to his bid to sit up, and head could barely move, but he could feel the rag currently wiping away the crusted smears of blood on his skin. Turning to the side, he saw the now-familiar face of the Knight of Space, Nightwalker, sleeves rolled up as he cleaned as much blood off of his wounds.

How humiliating. It wouldn’t be the first time he was beaten within an inch of his life, but at the very least, the last time had been around someone he actually respected, instead of this little rat.

“The children say you were out of it for several days,” the knight said, not bothering to look up at him. “Some of your injuries are infected. The humans are unfamiliar with troll biology, so they haven’t been able to help much. The troll children are…a little apprehensive in touching you.”

“You shouldn’t be touching me either, I’ll bite your hands off,” Dualscar said, or tried to, as everything came out in a slurred mess.

This time Nightwalker looked up at him. “If you want to die of infection, be my guest. There are no emergency services for your kind here.”

He snorted, angling his head to look at the mess of his arms as best as he could. Nightwalker lifted a hand – the telekinesis of his magic wrapped around an extra pillow and Dualscar’s torso, helping him it up before the pillow set itself on the one he was just using, effectively having him something to lean on. With the better vantage point, Dualscar could see his half-burnt coat folded away and seton the floor, while the tattered remains of his shirt were lying next to a pair of scissors. Multiple bruises and lacerations littered his arms and chest from being torn around, but the worst of it was his hands – one of them had the skin flaking and burnt off, but the one with the manica was a mangled, half-melted mess, completely caked in blood.

Nightwalker hadn’t gotten to that yet, still cleaning up a wound on his bicep. Which was good, because Cronus would have woken up screaming in pain.

“It’s fixable,” the knight said. “But I’ll need to borrow your arm guard.”

Right, Knight of Space; healing wasn’t his forte especially as he seemed to be more combat-focused.

Dualscar tried to lift his arm, but found it still numb to his command. Luckily, the manica was still responsive to his intent, and with a bit of focus, a thin line of light bisected is side, and it clacked open and fell onto the mattress.

The entire inside as caked with violet blood. Dualscar’s forearm was a mottled, puckered, swollen mess of grey, black, and violet, the flesh burnt and cooked to the point of the meat warping. He swore he could see a bit of bone peeking out of the mass.

Nightwalker tossed the rag into the nearby basin of water at his side, picking up the blood-caked manica and putting it on without fuss. It sealed itself up with another flash of light, and the knight lifted a hand into the air, now wrapped in white-gold light.

Slowly, he ran the hand over Cronus’ mangled arm. With a wash of warmth, the skin and flesh began to knit itself back up, blood liquifying once more and receding, the burns melting away into healthy cells as they reformed back into a recognizable hand. Feeling returned to Cronus’ fingertips, then his arm, all the way back up to his elbow and his shoulder while wounds and bruises healed up along the way.

Seemingly satisfied with his first foray, Nightwalker conjured a magic circle that encompassed the bed in its circumference, and with a sigh of relief, Dualscar’s injuries began to heal.

Godtiers. These things came so conveniently for them. It was a shame he wasn’t ever destined to be one.

Nightwalker took off the manica when he was done, handing it back to Cronus, who was now able to receive it with his fixed hands. Violet blood was still smeared on the man’s forearm.

“You clean it, I’ve wasted enough time around you as it is,” he said. Cronus sneered at him as he snatched his weapon back. “Come downstairs once you’re ready. There is a change of clothes in the closet.”

“Where the hell are we, anyway?” Dualscar slid of f the bed while Nightwalker stood, taking the mess of Dualscar’s old clothes, the washcloth, and the basin with him.

“Cronus of Beforus brought you here. It’s the Heir of Doom’s childhood home.”

That nearly had him faceplanting on the floor. It was the Heir’s childhood home? He was in the Heir’s childhood home? He passed out in what should be one of their guestrooms?

“The children are planning to confront your descendant again,” Nightwalker said, oblivious to his crisis. “I imagine you’ll want to get a word in on that.”

“Uh. Yeah,” he said, still reeling from the revelation that’d been dumped on him. Of course he knew, logically, that at some point, the Heir had to have been a child but if that little gremlin just somehow spawned into existence, he wouldn’t have been surprised. They seemed like the type.

While Knightwalker went downstairs, he cleaned off the rest of the blood that was still stuck on him and dressed, wondering if the humans had run out to supply him with clothes or if the house was just stocked with extra clothing for their guests. He was more inclined to lean towards the latter, as when he stepped out into the hallway, he was greeted with an ornate rug, expensive-looking lights, and a long hallway lined with nothing but doors. Unless Alternia and Earth had wildly different standards, this estate was surely massive if he had to squint to see the end of this corridor.

Hopefully he wouldn’t get lost in this hallway alone, seeing as he had no idea which doors led where. Nightwalker mentioned the meeting being held downstairs, so his first objective should be to find the staircase.

His attention was fixed, however, on the various photographs that hung on the walls, a testament to how lived the place was even beyond the multiple rooms. He could see familiar faces on the pictures – younger versions of the Bard and the Seer, and one boy who looked just like him who must have been his brother. There was an older man who shared the Heir’s curls, and an older woman who shared their odd eyes and hair color.

One particular photo was off all of them at a beach, a young Heir right in the center of the photograph, hiding under the brim of their large sunhat. They looked…happy.

Didn’t they have a brother? They were supposed to have one, right? Where was he in the photos?

Dualscar walked down the hall, searching for any sign of the Heir should-be twin, but found none. The photos only showed them, their friends and what should be their ancestors, but no boy who shared their face and smile. Huh.

Near the end of the hallway, he stumbled upon a door left ajar, and was about to ignore it and turn away in favor of looking for other photographs, when the manica on his arm warmed. He blinked, turning back towards the door – his arm was raised, reaching for the doorknob, and he couldn’t remember when he’d wanted to do that or if he’d even done it of his own accord. The manica seemed to be pulled towards it, whatever it was, and when Dualscar experimentally stepped closer, the tug grew harsher, more urgent.

“What the hell,” he muttered, watching as wisps of white-gold light began to drift from the manica and into the small gap to the room. Whatever was in there, the magic of the arm guard was being called towards it.

Cautiously, Dualscar stepped closer, and closer, until finally, he silently pushed the door open and peeked in.

Inside the room was a young man, fast asleep under the covers, dreadfully still as he slumbered.

But that wasn’t what caught Cronus’ attention. No, what got him to stop in his tracks and hold his breath was the spectre sitting beside the bed, watching curiously as the wisps of magic floating from his manica were finding their way towards them – wrapping around their wrists gently only to dissipate, curling around their head like a halo, settling over their shoulders as if in comfort. Magic, being called home, to someone who Cronus had just seen in the photographs.

They were young. Very young. They didn’t look like the Heir of Doom he’d known, but he could recognize that face anywhere.

“Curious,” the spectre said. “His magic has mistaken me for his version of myself.”

Oh.

That was why there were no photos of the Heir of Blood in the house. This was this iteration of the Heir of Doom. This was their house.

“How kind of you to draw me out here.” The spectre lifted its head, smiling up at Dualscar. Something in his chest squeezed. “Hello, Cronus.”

“We’ve never met,” Dualscar said.

“No, we haven’t, but I know of you from my other self’s memories,” the little Heir said. “We shared them in death.”

…right. That too. The Heir of Doom had condemned their younger, alternate self into being the Anathema Point. They must have given out under the weight of all that pain and suffering.

“You’re a ghost?” Dualscar asked.

“I’m a curse,” the little Heir said. “I’m…protecting this guy right here. Technically, I’m not even supposed to exist outside of his mind and heart, but Nereus’ magic is, uh. Quite insistent.”

They turned back to the young man, who still didn’t look to be breathing. It was alarming, the way he didn’t show any signs of drawing breath or even dream beneath his eyelids.

“He’s alright,” the little Heir said. “Just asleep. I should be waking him up soon, but he’s a little stubborn.” They turned back to Dualscar, motioning for him to shoo with a flap of their hand. “You hurry along now, I’ll get him to join everyone else soon.”

For someone very clearly dead, the child’s expression was serene, understanding. It was a welcome sight to the worry that had clung to his mind ever since the Heir of Doom’s departure, even if they were already dead.

At least, they were a ghost, right? Or a curse? At least they were still around, hanging about their friends, somehow.

“Take care, Cronus,” the little Heir said.

With nothing else to do, Dualscar turned around and walked back into the hallway.

#

HAL

His headaches were getting worse.

Where they would occasionally visit him when he was particularly troubled over something, which wasn’t often, they were now happening almost every day. It was annoying, detrimental, and it made doing anything at all almost impossible. An important conversation could be interrupted by them, or a particularly interesting project could be halted just because his head felt like it was going to split.

For god’s sake, it wasn’t this bad when he was a machine –

There was that too. The confusion. One moment, he would think he was a robot (he never was, he never was, he’s a real person) and the next he’d remember he was a whole human being. It was funny, at first, and he’d thought that he was just sleep-deprived, as he usually does whenever he got himself into a project he liked, but now it was just irritating when he couldn’t tell what was real apart from what wasn’t.

And that wasn’t even the worst of it. He could take the migraines. He could take the confusion, but the way his brain lied to him, the way his dreams would warp and tell him something so cruel…

Sapphrel Angeles gently ran their fingers through his hair while he lay there on their lap, eyes closed as he attempted to relax from his headache. Their touch always abated the pain, likely from their ability to enhance his healing from their cosmic bond. It helped, but he couldn’t inconvenience them every day with this.

It was a helpful, comforting reminder, though. A blessed clarification that his brain was lying to him every time it told him they were dead.

That was impossible. He’d know. The universe had knit their souls together against their wills and now they were trying to live as best as they could with that bond. He’d feel it if they died, and they were definitely here, trying to ease as much of his pain as possible while sitting on the floor of his workshop.

“Does that feel better?” they asked.

Hal hummed, the last of the pain between his eyes ebbing away, finally.

“How bad was it this time?”

“I felt like my head was going to split,” Hal said. “My eyes felt like they were going to burst too. I felt nauseous.” He paused. “The doctor said it was mostly through stress, so I don’t understand why it’s this bad.”

Sapphrel continued to softly comb through his hair, their other hand coming up to rest on his shoulder. “Sorry,” they said. “It shouldn’t have gotten that bad.”

He snorted. “It’s fine,” he said. “I’ll just get a second opinion. Thanks for helping.”

He opened his eyes, squinting at first at the bright lights, before his sight adjusted and he was able to take in the rest of the space without spots blinking in and out of his vision. His limbs felt heavy, as if the migraine had winded him more than it should have, and though the pain had disappeared, he made no move to get up from where he was lying down. Instead he closed his eyes again, resting while his best friend doted over him.

“Hal?” Sapphrel asked, eventually.

“Hm?”

“We need to talk about something.”

Though their voice was as soft as it usually was, there was an uncharacteristic somberness to it. Anxiety flowed in through their cosmic bond, and Hal rolled onto his back so he could look up at them. Sapphrel’s expression was gentle, if a little cautious, and they smiled.

“…do you like someone else?” Hal joked.

“Dumbass.” They flicked his forehead. “Be serious. It’s…it’s important.”

He snickered, at first, before sobering at their last words. He watched their gaze go glassy for a few moments, before they focused once more. Hal obliged.

“Okay,” he said. “What is it?”

“You need to wake up,” they said.

Hal blinked. “What?”

“This world isn’t real, Hal,” Sapphrel said. “I made this for you. The reason why you keep getting headaches is because it’s crumbling, but you keep hanging on to it. You weren’t supposed to.”

“…very funny,” Hal said, slowly. “But I don’t really get the joke, Angeles.”

He stopped.

That…was right. He never addressed them by their first name. He never called them Sapphrel, it was always Angeles. When did he start calling them Sapphrel?

“I’m not joking,” Angeles said. “And I’m worried that staying here would do more harm than good for you.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, sitting up now. “That we’re in some kind of matrix or something?”

Angeles didn’t say anything. Instead, they looked over his shoulder and motioned forward. Confused, Hal turned around.

What should have been a wall filled with pinned-up schematics and post-it notes was now gone. Half of the room had crumbled – and was still crumbling away – drifting off into the waves that this space was suddenly connected to. As if in a dream, one half of the room was still his workshop, but the other was a beach that stretched off into the distance. In the horizon, the sun was setting, the sky bathed in pinks and oranges.

“What…” Hal started. “The fuck.”

Pieces of the floor were slowly breaking off, carried away by the lapping water and into the sea. The remaining edges of the walls were slowly decaying into ash, their dust similarly falling into the waves to be washed away.

Hal stood, relieved to find that the headache didn’t return when he and Angeles broke contact. He turned to the windows at the side of the room, but the city outside had disappeared, replaced by the ocean. He went to the door to his left, but when he yanked it open, the hallway and the rest of the Safehouse building was gone as well. There was nothing but the water, which was thankfully shallow, enough that he could see the sand through the clear, clear water.

“It gets very tiring maintaining a whole world for three entire years,” Angeles said. Hal whirled around, turning back to them. “That’s why it was starting to hurt you. I was stretching my powers and your mind as far as it could go.”

“What?” Hal asked, the only thing he could say, because what?

But Angeles was as patient as ever. As the walls behind them crumbled away, leaving only the floor, they repeated: “Hal…this world isn’t real. I made it for you.”

They turned, waving their hand in the air, and the remains of the walls crumbled to dust faster, blowing away in an invisible breeze. The floor began to move in a wave, and as it did, grass began to sprout from it, until the entire block of ground they were standing on was green earth. Angeles turned once more, reached forward, towards something behind Hal; there was the sound of creaking wood, and when Hal turned, his heart stopped.

It was a house. A very familiar one.

It was the Angeles estate.

Hal’s hand flew over to his chest. Of course his heart stopped, he didn’t have one. He had an arc reactor.

“I died, Hal,” Angeles said.

“You did,” Hal said. “You…died.”

“Twice,” Angeles said. “The first when I’d lost so much blood from being attacked by your chassis, and you brought me back to life.”

He heard them coming closer from behind, footsteps slow as if waiting for him to suddenly run, but he stayed put where he was.

“I did die, then. I know I did, because when Heirs of Doom die, they are at their most powerful and yet most useless state. They can access all of their other selves’ knowledge and memories if they so wish it, and I saw plenty of mine,” they said. “My second chance included.”

He felt their hand touch his arm, but he didn’t turn, instead continuing to stare at the empty porch of the estate.

“This is something only I will tell you, because I trust you, and because you deserve it,” they said. “I was supposed to die then. It would have been a death the universe accepted, but you led my soul astray from that path by forcibly bringing it back, and when you did, a new set of knowledge was given to me. One of the life I would live after that revival.”

“…and you learned when you were going to die,” Hal said, the pieces clicking into place in his head. “That’s why you were saying goodbye to everyone else.”

“Yes,” they said. “That’s why I wanted to give everyone as much closure as I could.”

“Then why didn’t you give that to me?” He turned to them then. “Why did you send me away? Why did you die without – ”

He grit his teeth, jaw tense.

“I’m sorry,” Angeles said. “But…you’d already destroyed a fate set for my soul once, I was afraid you’d do it again. Hal, I needed to die. It was our only chance at slowing down the end of the world. Everything’s gotten so bad that that was our only option for survival.”

“There could have been another way.”

“Yes, you all could have perished trying to fight the Heir when none of you are strong enough,” Angeles said. “One life compared to billions is nothing, I have told you this. It doesn’t matter – ”

“It matters to me!” Hal grabbed them by their shoulders, grip strong enough to bruise, and shook them. “You matter to me! Do you not fucking understand?! I – ”

Angeles’ expression turned mournful, heartbreak flashing on their face. Hal quieted at the sight.

He cleared his throat. “Where are you right now?” he asked. “You said you made this place, so where are you? What happened?”

“What do you remember?”

“I – I remember we moved to your town. You died, and your friend burned your body because you asked him to,” he said, speaking fast as he tried to rifle through his memories as accurately as he could. “I was…I…”

What was it? What was it?! What did he do to make him suddenly end up here?

“…I went for a walk,” Hal said. “I was by the border, I think, and I – I saw you? No. Wait. I stepped out of the border and – ”

“You saw a mirage of me,” Angeles said. “I brought you to Night Vale for protection. When you stepped out of it, you were attacked.” They lifted a finger, resting it lightly on his forehead. “And then, to protect your soul, I brought you here.”

Cautiousness crept up Hal’s spine. “Where’s here?”

“This is all happening in your head, Hal,” Angeles said. “I cursed you.”

Before he could ask again, or perhaps protest, they continued:

“After I learned when I would die, I cut off a piece of my soul and hid it in that bracelet I gave you. Do you remember?”

Oh.

“If you were danger, it would help you. In any way it could,” they said. “No matter the cost. And that’s what I’m doing now. I’m just a chunk of my soul, left behind to take care of you. I don’t know where the rest of me is right now, outside of what I’ve seen in the memories revealed to me.”

“So where are you?”

“The afterlife, I imagine. It’s what I planned.” They chuckled, pulling away. They turned towards the sea, and when Hal followed their line of sight, he saw there was a sand bar in the far, far distance, a small house in the middle of it, barely a shadow in the distance. “I’m acting as the Anathema Point at strongest, in the realm that allows for that. It’s buying you time. It’s only reason why you can afford to be comatose right now.”

Hal let the information sink in. He was comatose. He was trapped in some world in his mind, and none of this was real. Three years, they’d said; he’d spent three years here. The past three years were real.

“Have three years passed…outside?” he asked. “Have you suffered that long?”

“It should only be a few weeks at most. At least, that’s what I’m observing,” Angeles said, smiling weakly. “I’ll be fine.”

They lifted a hand to cradle his cheek, gentle. “But you need to wake up, Hal. You’re hurting yourself.”

“Does it hurt you?” he asked. “Being separate from yourself?”

“No, not really. The rest of me doesn’t feel it,” they said. “And anything that happens to me won’t affect them. When I burn away, they will still remain, and will do so unless the end of the world completely devours their existence.”

Hal’s stomach dropped. Right. As Anathema Point, Angeles was still in danger of being killed even as a ghost, but…

“Burn away?” he asked, horrified.

Angeles’ eyes widened, as if they’d just realized what they’d told him.

“Hal,” they said. “I knew what I was doing when I did this.”

“You’re going to burn away,” he repeated. “This piece of you will die.”

“It was always supposed to, I knew it couldn’t sustain itself separate from the rest of me. But, Hal.” They grabbed his face by both hands now, bringing him down so they could see each other eye to eye. “There is nothing you can do for this curse. It will die. It’s supposed to. But you’re supposed to survive and continue fighting out there in the real world.

“Do not let your sentiment cloud your judgement,” they said. “This curse does not matter. You have to wake up – don’t even try.” Their tone raised when he opened his mouth to argue back. “One way or another, it will fade. Saving this piece of me means nothing to saving the rest of me. It’s a lost cause.”

They patted his cheek.

“Just wake up, okay?” they said, their voice hitching. Tears pooled at the edges of their eyes, and they tried to smile, but it only made them look even more miserable. “I can’t keep you safe here forever, big guy. You have to go.”

They were out there, somewhere, once again bearing the brunt of the end of the world. They knew they would have to. They had to do it for everyone else. Their reasoning was sound – in the face of one life against the rest of existence, it was the lesser of two evils to sacrifice one person if it meant everyone else had a chance to survive. He’d seen how the apocalypse was going. It was an absolute shitshow, and it was apparently bad enough that a sacrificial lamb was a worst case scenario option.

But – still.

“Hey.” Angeles drew his attention back. “You’ll be fine.”

“Will I?”

“Yeah,” they said. “You’re a tough guy. I’m sorry I can’t be there to see you grow into yourself, but I have every faith you can be the best version of yourself.” Their smile looked a little more genuine now. “You’re a good person, Hal. You’re as alive and as real as the rest of us.”

They stood on their toes, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“And I am very, very proud of you,” Angeles said. “You can do it.”

This wasn’t them. This was just a piece of them, and they would burn away like they said, so trying to save them was a losing game. He should know that. This should be easy.

He spent three years here having everything he ever wanted, because they’d cut off a part of themself just to protect him even after they’d died.

Even dead, they thought about him. They said what happened to this curse didn’t hurt them now but what about when they were cutting off a literal piece of their soul? Just to tie to someone as insignificant and inconsequential as him? Just because they cared? What the hell were you supposed to say to that?

“How do I wake up?” he asked.

“It’s like a dream,” Angeles said. “How do you wake yourself up when you’re dreaming?”

Pain. Of course. Humans always pinched themselves to test if they were dreaming. Since he was still here, he should still retain the human body he imagined himself to have.

Right. Time to leave.

He should leave.

He should…

…

Hal pulled Angeles in for a hug.

“You are the most insufferable person I have ever met.” He buried his face into their shoulder, drawing in a breath as tears sprung to his eyes. Angeles hugged him back. “But I am better for having met you.”

“You gave me such an adventure,” Angeles said, laughing. “And I am so happy our paths crossed.”

They both drew away, meeting each other’s eyes for fear of forgetting. The rest of Hal’s life was quite a long time to go on without them, after all, and if they were so set on him surviving, he was not about to disrespect all their sacrifices and throw his life away anytime soon.

He would live. He would wake up and live.

Hal moved a hand to their jaw, drew close, and kissed them. Angeles made a noise of surprise, before leaning in, fingers threading through his hair as they pulled him close.

As they broke away, Hal leaned his forehead to theirs, his hand still cupping their cheek tenderly. He closed his eyes.

“I love you,” he said, and he didn’t miss the way their breath hitched and their whole body froze. “And I will find you.”

“You’re insane,” Angeles whispered, as Hal stepped away from him. “I don’t think there’s even going to be anything left of me to find.”

“Then I just have to quick about it, don’t I?” He smiled, and with a wordless snap of his fingers, summoned Electric Love, his Stand’s presence flaring to life behind him. With a new window of vision slotting into his consciousness, he saw his Stand unsheathe his sword and raise it high in the air, angled so that a swing would take his head clean off his shoulders.

“Take care of yourself, big guy,” Angeles said. “I…I’ll see you when I see you.”

“Yeah,” Hal said. “I’ll see you soon.”

Electric Love swung his sword.