Every night, General Faustite bedded down on a strip of sheetmetal. At a quarter inch thick, it was enough to protect his body from the unevenness of the stony floor, and enough to protect the stony floor from his vital fire. Its years of use were evident in how heavily heat-warped it was, both in color and in shape. Enough time had passed that Faustite had forgotten what a bed felt like, and he wasn't sure he would like one anymore.

He reminded himself, comfort was a luxury. Comfort was for people.

It was on this warped, beleaguered piece of sheetmetal that Faustite wasted minutes, curled on his side, shaking against his will, enduring a chill that was so terribly unfamiliar to him that he couldn't understand it for what it was. He'd forgotten cold. He was alienated from his own body as his body had become a stranger to him. Kamacite was around, so he couldn't explain his loneliness to himself. He couldn't comprehend the desolation that made more home in his body than he did.

But it was there, steadfast, unapologetic, all grins wicked and shameless. Reminding him that he had no home. That he would always be othered.

He wanted a blanket, but the pitiful, guttering candlewick he called his core might burn it. So he suffered, mouth shut, and waited. Told himself he would feel better, in time.

Better wasn't much to ask.

Better was too much to ask. Gutterfire boy couldn't match her intensity, could only command, and not lead. Flame wrick could only cast shadows a hundred times his size, haunted by their dark; could only memorize the names and deeds of his better betters. A candle couldn't change its nature. He commanded in the operation, but he did not lead, his loneliness told him.

It was there, reminding him that he had no business waking up anymore. He did it anyway. He fetched his quota with Kamacite's help. He followed the worn paths of duty. Had Roselite prepare his paperwork. Conducted the necessary meetings. Laid the necessary plans. Swallowed down food that didn't taste burnt. Threw it up again when it wouldn't digest. Walked and walked and walked and walked and walked. Listened. Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he looked at where he was and couldn't remember how he got there. Sometimes he couldn't remember when he got there. Sometimes he couldn't focus on anything. He felt like a ghost haunting his own body.

Each day, he returned to the piece of sheetmetal. Each day, he curled up on his side with a bent arm for a pillow. He asked himself if he remembered what beds were like. If he deserved one. He couldn't explain why he was having such thoughts, but they were his constant companions. They pushed him further and further to sea. Further and further from his friend. Were they friends?

Desolation was telling him that he would be more useful as a starseed in Metallia's disembodied collection. He stopped arguing against it. Couldn't dredge the energy, anymore.

One day, he woke to the same cold piece of sheetmetal. He woke to the same spartan room. He thought, it would always be this way. He thought, he must have forgotten how to forgive himself. He thought, he must have failed to earn that forgiveness.

He thought, this must be the new normal.