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For a moment, everything was still, except for a faintly glowing light in the distance. For all the beauty in space, in that instant, that light alone seemed the most prevalent.

And then, it flickered—and suddenly, before them stood a woman garbed in the purest of whites.

She seemed incredibly collected for someone who had just been hurled through space. She stood tall, proud, and gripped in her hand a magnificent staff. From the moment she arrived, she seemed to know exactly what was going on.

A quick glance to Hvergelmir's hand, to Babylon's face.

She gripped her staff tighter.

"What have you done to yourself," she murmured, though there was no question in her words, no any indication of who she was referring to. Perhaps she spoke to both of the knights, but it was to Babylon that she directed her immediate concern.

Her brows knit as she looked to his chest, seeing what she knew others might not. She approached him with interest, though worry did not seem to cross her features. She did not have the time or luxury for much conversation, and business seemed to be the only thing on her mind. "You have been carrying a second starseed for some time, haven't you? The toll it has taken on your body is too great. While your motivations, I assume, were admirable…this needs to be removed. And I am sorry to say that I expect it will not be a pleasant experience. You must bare with me." She paused for a second, and then added, "The both of you."

Cosmos could not afford to ask for permission; she could not leave Babylon to die or Menachem to exist in a body he should never have been in. She closed her eyes for a second and inhaled; the tip of her staff glowed and suddenly a warm, soothing light washed over Babylon. It was not unpleasant, at first.

Initially, it felt like the warm embrace of a friend, gentle and loving. It wrapped around each starseed with such tenderness that there was almost no precedence for the pain that followed. Like violently peeling the stitches from a fresh wound, there was a sudden, sharp yanking sensation as Menachem's starseed was wrenched quickly from his host. It was like glass shards and salt in a deep wound, like the burn of cauterization—and then numbness.

A small glow formed just over Babylon's chest, and slowly, Menachem's' starseed began to appear.

Cosmos' face was riddled with concentration. Her eyes were on the starseed that slid from the Knight's body. After a few grueling seconds, it was fully out of Babylon's chest, though it lingered a few inches from where it had been extracted for another few seconds.

Cosmos opened her free hand, beckoning it to her. For a time, it did not move, and then it floated gently towards her outstretched hand. It was only then that she breathed a sigh of relief.

She glanced at Hvergelmir and nodded appreciatively, though she did not speak. Though she did not show it, she did not have the breath to.

Compassion was on her face when she looked to Babylon again; she was sympathetic to his pain, but she understood more than anyone that it was necessary.

The Space Cauldron required balance, and balance would be restored.

For Hvergelmir's part, there was little she could do. With a dry section of her dress wadded against her bleeding hand, she watched as Sailor Cosmos used her magic on Babylon -- first gently, then with an apparent violence so profound that she watched, horrified, as her friend screamed out in agony for several long seconds.

He was her friend, and he was in distress. The natural instinct was to tell the thing causing the distress to stop. It was incredibly difficult not to obey that instinct, not to try and offer comfort, or at least protest. To, instead, stand by and watch his agony, doing nothing. In this case, though, she obviously had to -- so she did.

There was something very personal about it all, really -- a matter between Cosmos and Babylon (both of them), to which she had, on a technicality, gained an audience. She felt it would somehow be inappropriate to intrude -- so she hung back, instead. She was in no need of what was effectively divine intervention, after all. Just gauze and some medical tape.

Hvergelmir inclined her head at the ghostly figure she supposed was Babylon's ancestor, looking like Obi-Wan Kenobi all formed out of pale blue light. She didn't feel she was owed his gratitude or his praise -- to do anything less than what she'd done, when a life was at stake, would've been fairly obviously miserly on any person's part -- but Babylon had already attempted to decline his ancestor's praise, and been rejected. If she did the same thing, it would be a disrespect to his lesson and to his freely offered compliment. "I'm glad I could see you safely on your way," she said as a farewell. "Enjoy your rest."

Her eyes found Sailor Cosmos next -- the princess of the Space Cauldron, quiet and mysterious. "Thank you for helping my friend," she said simply, conscious still of her place as an outsider to their private scene.

For Babylon, she had only awe: awe at everything he'd done; awe that he'd lived; then, finally, awe at his transformation, at what he'd become.

He fell to his knees, exhausted, then -- and at least, in that, Hvergelmir knew what to do. She crouched nearby him, a bracing hand on his shoulder to prevent Babylon from the possibility of toppling over entirely.

'Thank you,' she mouthed the words to Sailor Cosmos again.

Babylon lifted his head long enough to watch Cosmos vanish, lifting a hand weakly to wave to the senshi. When she was gone, he let out a long, shaky exhale and slumped against Hvergelmir's supporting hand. "So," he said weakly. "That was fun."

Fun being used ironically, of course.

"I'm, um," he said, struggling for words. Language was hard, which was probably an indication of an extreme need to sleep. "Can we - can we go home?" Like, he'd definitely, for sure want to talk about what had just happened later, but right now he didn't feel up to the challenge. At least he was out of pain: small miracles, right?

After a moment where it seemed like he might have dozed off, he asked, "Is your hand okay?"

They had no sooner safely touched down in Destiny City than Babylon's glamour flaked away from him in fine scales of blue light and long ribbons. Finn pressed his eyes tightly shut, wincing against the shock of returning to his civilian form. He'd never felt so unnatural in his own skin before, and when he opened his eyes, they retained their ethereal blue glow.

"I think I'm okay," he said, slowly sitting up so that he was no longer leaning against her. He leaned over, resting his head in his hands. It didn't hurt at all - he felt absolutely clearheaded, the most he'd felt in as long as he could remember.

He felt empty.

Finn sighed. Menachem was gone, and after sharing his head with someone else for such a long time, that was a lot to adjust to. He didn't want to be alone tonight, but he'd already spent so much of Hvergelmir's time - he didn't want to waste any more of it. That, and he wanted to talk to Elke. She was the one person he expected to be able to properly mourn his ancestor with him.

"Yeah," he said, pushing himself to his feet with what seemed like renewed energy. "I can make it on my own. I'll see you again soon, okay? Thanks, again, for your help tonight. I owe you my life."

Finn laughed lightly. "Right, I know what to do," he assured her, glad that they could already joke about this. That meant he was officially out of peril and probably no worse for the wear - right?

"I'll send you a note sometime tomorrow," he said, shoving his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants. He'd find a way to repay her, probably when she least expected it. Maybe by finding out her favorite candy and sending her ten boxes via knight mail.

"Okay," he said, flashing her one final smile as he turned away. "Good night, Laney. Thanks for having that adventure with me."