Against a backdrop of rusted metal and war-torn debris, the gods bickered like swaggering children - as they always had, and probably always would. Diz's presence hung heavy over them all as they were called one by one; a constant, unspoken reminder of the power he wielded. Chisoni had turned her thoughts to what Diz might have said to the others in private, but quickly decided that she preferred to focus on the bickering. At least that didn’t hold her future in the balance. Chisoni watched quietly, submerging herself in the undercurrent of grief that clung to the landscape of shattered inventions and abandoned dreams. She had learned over the years how to slip into the background, to observe without being seen. As she sat with her back against a cold steel plate, her chin resting on her knees, her gaze was drawn to Damian.
The God of the Apocalypse looked like a boy and in some ways he was - his emotions swirling like a storm, impossible to pin down. But now, after the battle with Markus, there was something raw and painful in him. Chisoni knew that look, that tension in his clenched fists, the way his body seemed to pull in on itself as if he could shrink away from the weight of his own failure. Even Temperance’s soothing words seemed to have done little to quell the storm within him.
Her instinct was to step back, to give him the space he clearly wanted, but the grief that radiated off him was intense. Chisoni could sense it from where she sat - anger and self-loathing bubbling just beneath the surface, festering like an untreated wound. She watched him kick the cog, watched it spiral away into the dark, and something within her stirred. Maybe it was pity. Or maybe it was something deeper, something more empathetic.
She didn’t want to get involved. She didn’t want to draw his attention, especially not now, when he was clearly struggling with the weight of his anger. But she couldn’t ignore him either - not when the grief in his chest was so palpable.
So what to do, Chisoni?
She could not and would not use her power to hollow him as she had done with so many mortals since the Fall. But there was something she could do - the half-remembered methods from when she remained behind the veil, omniscient but intangible. Such methods were slow and unsating, but they had worked in the past. Usually.
She approached Damian slowly, her footsteps sending up sighs of dust from the cracked earth. The air around her felt heavier as she drew near, her own grief flickering at the edges of her consciousness; her constant companion, a reminder of what she had become. But she focused on Damian now, on the way his hands shook, the way his thoughts seemed to close in on him. She remembered that feeling from a thousand million mortals: the weight of failure, the suffocating pressure of expectations, the crippling belief that they would never be enough.
“Damian,” she said, her voice calm and steady despite the uncertainty that flickered in her chest. “I’ve seen that look before.”
He didn’t turn to face her at first. His eyes were fixed on the ground, and his fists remained clenched, as though they were the only thing holding him together.
“The God of the Apocalypse.” Chisoni continued, her words soft but piercing as she stood next to the child god, her hands clasped in front of her, gazing forward at nothing in particular. “Quite a name to have to live up to.” She paused, studying him from the corner of her eye. “I know how it feels to fail. To think that everything you've worked for and everything you've sacrificed was for nothing.”
She dropped to one knee on the ground next to Damian so that they were of a height, her gown pooling around her as she extended a pale hand to scoop up a handful of loose earth and let it sift through her fingers.
“I’ve watched gods and mortals alike falling, every one of them thinking their pain and their failure was unique. And in a way, it was. Grief is a constant, but it’s also a change - unless you let it consume you. It doesn’t matter if you're the God of the Apocalypse or a mortal who lost everything. If you let it, it will swallow you whole, make you doubt your worth and question your very reason for existing.”
Her gaze trailed off to the side, towards her twin Inoschi. That’s the path to my brother’s arms.
“Grief isn’t meant to be carried forever.” she said, softly. “It’s not meant to break you down. You can’t let it own you. You can’t let it make you forget who you are beneath it.”
Silence loomed between them. She could feel the other god’s pain, the hadal depth of it, but she knew that trying to simply erase it or numb him with her power wouldn’t work. Not this time. No - this time, if she wanted to help, then she had to be patient. She had to guide him, just as she had once guided humanity from beyond the veil. She felt her frustration welling. She was supposed to be stronger now, and things were supposed to be simpler, now that she could grasp and hold the Earthplane. Another lie from Diz. Or rather, another lie she had told herself.
“You’re not a failure, Damian,” she said, her voice almost gentle now. “Not because you failed to kill Markus. You’re not defined by that moment. And you’re certainly not defined by what others expect of you.” She paused, looking at the young god through the shadows that blurred her features. “You’re defined by how you rise from this, and by what you choose to do with this grief. Grief isn’t your enemy.”
Chisoni rose, her ragged gown falling back into place. And with those final words she turned and walked away, leaving Damian to his thoughts - but now, perhaps, with a small seed planted in his heart. A seed of hope. A seed of something other than just destruction. Perhaps it would grow, or perhaps it would wither. Only time would tell. Unfortunately, time was not Chisoni’s domain. Still, as she walked away, something flickered deep within her chest - an unfamiliar sense of purpose, the faintest whisper of an idea. She didn’t know yet what it meant, but she could feel it.
Diz’s voice rang out from the center of the Logic Wastes, cutting through the air like a blade. “Alrighty, everyone, gather around!”
Fighting down the familiar twinge of anxiety as the Ruiner reappeared, Chisoni moved to join the others, where she ended up standing between her brother and the Emberstoker. A scent of funeral incense drifted from the fire goddess’ flickering skin. From her brother she smelled only dust and decay.
As soon as Diz mentioned the word fire, Chisoni knew which of them had been chosen. She saw the bitter hatred from Damian as he was forced to lead the applause, and felt a slight pang at this fresh humiliation being heaped on him before he could even process the first. Time is not my domain.
She glanced aside at Igniteen. There was something in the way the fire goddess held herself - so much anger, so much conviction - and yet, there was a hollowness beneath it all that Chisoni recognised; it mirrored her own, though it was wrapped in flames instead of shadows. Chisoni had seen gods and mortals alike, driven by pain and rage, convinced that destruction was the only way forward. Messis…Zeyra…Alatus. And while Igniteen's rage burned hotter than most, it still carried the same familiar bitterness, the same desire to make the world feel the emptiness that they had felt. Diz gathered such souls to him, moving them into place like pieces on a chessboard before setting them loose.
How much of this was Igni’s idea, and how much was Diz? Has she already lost herself in his orbit?
She knew she had to watch her step now. This was no time to be branded a malcontent. But for reasons she could not entirely explain, Chisoni felt compelled to reach out, to warn Igniteen of the trap she was walking into, even if it meant pushing the boundaries of her own carefully maintained distance.
“You made your case for the job, then?” she probed gently, almost under her breath as they all clapped mindlessly along with Diz’ applause.
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