Word Count: 1527

Again, Cymophane decided to bide his time. He didn’t return to the park right away, and hoped it wouldn’t be a mistake. He waited, let the days pass and the hours stretch on, then went late at night the day after Christmas.

Empyrean was there waiting for him, on Jet’s bench.

Cymophane suppressed a smile, adopted the visage of timid Plisetskaya and concluded his approach several feet away.

“I’m glad to see you again,” Empyrean said.

He didn’t sound glad. He didn’t sound anything, really. Empyrean was good at that, it seemed — remaining neutral, only giving away what he wanted, when he wanted. A good match for Cymophane, then, except that Cymophane knew how to wield emotion.

“I almost didn’t come,” Cymophane said.

Empyrean’s smile was small, barely there, his posture relaxed. His eyes scanned over Cymophane’s face, noting the set of his features, most likely, searching it for lies.

“The earring is new,” he said.

So the Page was observant, too.

Cymophane offered a sad smile in return. He brought a hand to his ear, the picture of self-consciousness. At the other end of the connection, Jet would see what Cymophane saw — a Page of Jupiter, fit but aged, with graying hair and vibrant blue eyes.

“I always thought piercings were kind of cool,” Cymophane said, “but I was too afraid of needles to get one. Then I thought, if I could handle a hand in my chest, how much worse could a needle in my ear be?”

Empyrean’s smile never wavered. He seemed welcoming enough, but guarded.

“I thought, if I was brave enough to do this, I might be brave enough to do other things,” Cymophane continued.

“Such as?”

Cymophane shrugged and cast his eyes off to the side. He fiddled with his ear again, tucking some of his growing bangs behind it. They fell forward immediately after, too short to stay in place for long.

“I probably should’ve gotten both done,” Cymophane said instead of answering. “One looks kind of silly.”

“I think it looks charming,” Empyrean assured him.

He was kind, but not overly so. He didn’t trip over himself to sway Cymophane one way or the other. Empyrean seemed content to take things as they came to him, offering only what he could feasibly give.

Which gave his promises more weight.

Empyrean was patient. He didn’t push. He asked Cymophane about himself, and when Cymophane seemed too afraid to answer, Empyrean didn’t force him to do so. He waited in silence and didn’t seem awkward, or offered miniscule shreds of information about himself to fill the gaps in conversation — never anything important, anything that might help Cymophane trace him back to a particular civilian. Nothing about his family, or his job, or his history in Destiny City. He spoke of the hilltop battle, and his experiences there. He spoke of the battle by the fountain, asking questions about Jet and Ashanite that Cymophane didn’t always provide answers for.

“I’m sorry about your wife,” Cymophane told him. He didn’t take a seat on the bench that night, kept his short distance, heels sunken in the snow. “I’m sorry I had to attack her.”

Empyrean didn’t respond to that, not in words or in any change to his expression.

“Was she okay after?” Cymophane asked.

“Yes,” was all Empyrean offered.

Cymophane made himself look relieved. His smile brightened by a fraction. “I’m glad.”

He left that night with a promise to return, and with a promise given in kind. Cymophane waited a day or two more — striking a balance between eager and cautious. Empyrean was waiting for him at the same time, on the same bench, with the same neutral expression and scrutinizing gaze.

That night, they spoke of Empyrean — not the person, but the place. Cymophane did not have to pretend too hard to be intrigued. Just because he had little interest in the origins of Plisetskaya didn’t mean the concept of space wasn’t fascinating in its own right.

“Does God live there?” he asked.

Empyrean laughed, but it was a quiet thing. “You’ve done some research.”

Cymophane shrugged and picked at a seam on his pants. He sat on the bench this time, with as much space between himself and Empyrean as the bench would allow.

Eventually, Empyrean said, “Not God. Just a ghost.”

“A ghost?” Cymophane said, lifting his gaze. The surprise and confusion he displayed wasn’t entirely fake.

“A very irritable old man,” Empyrean explained. “My ancestor, apparently. The one who bore the name Empyrean before me. I don’t think he’s very impressed with me.”

“Is it, like, a tradition or something for each Empyrean to be old?”

If Empyrean was offended by the comment, he didn’t show it. “No, I’m a special case, I think.”

“Are there ghosts on Plisetskaya, do you think?”

“Possibly,” Empyrean said. “Some of us see ghosts. Some of us see memories. Some of us see more of them than others.”

“But what good is any of it?”

“Learning what we can about the past will help us avoid making the same mistakes in the future.”

Cymophane kicked his feet along the ground, displacing some of the newly fallen snow.

They came and went, then came and went again — the next day, then three days after that, taking their acquaintanceship into the new year. Cymophane never learned what Empyrean and his allies were working on, what it was that made Empyrean so confident, but Empyrean never retracted his offer either, nor did he pressure Cymophane to accept it.

He was a calm, steady presence. Cymophane couldn’t help but like him.

It was a shame Empyrean fought for the wrong side, but at his age he might not make the most useful agent, unless they put him on desk duty.

Cymophane kept his pace leisurely, let Empyrean think his resolve was weakening, but slowly. The longer Cymophane could put it off, the more time there was for Jet to prepare, for Aquamarine to recover. Still, there was only so much time any of them were comfortable allowing. With each encounter, Cymophane was more and more aware that the White Moon could deploy their secret at any moment, catch another agent unawares with their smoke bombs, or use whatever else they had at their disposal to accomplish worse.

He had a mission — doubly important with what they knew now, or suspected — and he would see it to the end.

It seemed as if the snow would never dissipate, as if the bitter cold would never ease. Neither bothered Cymophane. Perhaps it was magic, or his Russian blood. He liked the crunch of snow beneath his feet and the chill breeze against his face. It felt like home, in a way. It made him think of all the good, and all the bad, and everything in between.

Cymophane arrived at the park early one night and found the bench empty. He sat by himself for a while, hands beneath his thighs like he meant to keep them warm that way, though he needn’t have bothered. When he heard footsteps in the snow, he made himself look sad and small.

Empyrean came to a stop several feet away.

“I didn’t think I’d find you here so early,” he said.

Cymophane laughed — a sad, wet thing, like he’d recently spent some time crying. “I think you were right about Jet.”

Slowly, Empyrean finished his approach, joining Cymophane on the bench. “What was I right about?”

“He’s suspicious of me,” Cymophane said. His eyes darted around, like he was afraid of what he might find in the shadows.

“Are you in danger?” Empyrean asked.

The next laugh out of Cymophane’s throat was bitter, with an edge of hysteria. “We’re all in danger, aren’t we?”

Empyrean watched him. A touch of concern slipped into his expression, enough that Cymophane could get a glimpse of it.

“I’ve kept up my quota,” Cymophane continued. “I’ve done everything he’s asked, but… I think he can tell my heart isn’t in it. Or someone can, and he knows. They always say Metallia sees everything. Or hears everything, or knows everything. I don’t know what the truth is anymore.”

“I expect the truth changes, depending on what they want,” Empyrean said.

Cymophane wilted, curled in on himself, like he didn’t have the strength to hold himself up anymore.

“Would you like to meet Ganymede?” Empyrean offered again. “I’ve told her about you. She’s willing to help.”

“Would you stay with me?” Cymophane asked, so quiet it was almost a whisper.

“During the purification?”

Cymophane nodded, then glanced up with watery eyes. “And after?”

Empyrean smiled, wider than he had during any of their previous encounters. It put an unwilling thought into Cymophane’s head — that he would have done anything to have a father like him.

“Yes, of course,” Empyrean said.

Cymophane drew a long, stuttering breath. He looked at the snow, watched golden light glint off of it from the flickering street lamp.

From the earring, he heard Jet’s voice encourage him, Now.

Cymophane dropped his head, then nodded again.

In a tired, weak voice, he said, “Please...”

TBC...