Et Stellae Cadent - Season 1, "Solar Flare"

3-17-4733
16:55 Universal Standard Time (UST)
Unknown City, Trickery’s Sight [Et Stellae Cadent]

They have loathed this part of existing ever since it became a requirement.

Once, sleeping was but a way to pass time for the bored, not a requirement of possessing a vaguely mortal shell. Actually needing it for maintenance feels unnatural still, despite the years that stretch on between when they lost everything and now. The exact count of years has long since been lost to the ages, and they have little desire to count up such a depressing number. Eons is simple enough, even if it doesn’t quite capture the depth of grief and pain. But they were mentally complaining about sleeping, not veering dangerously close to thought paths that end in nothing but futility. 

It probably doesn’t help matters that they go a little bit overboard. According to the science and what all seem to know – at least the last time they were awake – mortal shells require anywhere between two and twelve hours of sleep in a day cycle, depending on the individual beyond that. The Archmage supposes it is their very right to scoff at this knowledge. They personally have exactly two modes of sleep – short, couple hour naps and what they’re awakening from now, a nap that spanned a currently unknown number of centuries.

Both end the same – groggy, bones aching and creaking with each motion as they sit up and get up off the couch. What had past them been thinking, sleeping on the couch rather than the actual bed that The Archmage owns? They don’t remember. There’s a thick covering of cobwebs scattered about their home, which means the spells they cast either didn’t hold out as long as they planned, or they slept far longer than ever anticipated. Pity, either way. The Archmage will have to adjust the spells before they go back to sleep, but since they’re awake…

Food. Food is also a requirement of mortal shells, though a less strange one given that food was also a requirement during the days of antiquity. Just… less of it, it feels like. So, food first – before the sound of their stomach grows so loud that they can hardly think. Magenta eyes scan the living area of their home, picking out the pulsing light that’s one of their alarms. No – two of the alarms that they set so very long ago. That neatly explains what’s awoken The Archmage at the very least, but food or they will be of little use to any of the situations they set up alarms for. Perils of inhabiting mortal shells – they have needs, and mortal shells can get quite insistent over getting those needs met. 

Yawning and stretching, The Archmage sets off a series of pops down their spine as they circle around the back of the couch. Their fridge is visible from here, though it curiously lacks any cobwebs. It’s the only thing that lacks any co- no, The Archmage has to correct the thought as soon as they have it. The plush carpet under their bare feet also lacks any cobwebs, and that’s… interesting. Suspicious, but in that particular way that means they’ve been a target of some kind of quiet affection. Yawning once more, they step into the kitchen with a quiet hiss – the tile is cold, and a gesture with one hand and a murmur of a spell is all it takes to warm the tiled floor up before they step further into the kitchen. 

Now that they’re beyond the countertop that divides the kitchen from everything else, The Archmage can pick out more places where there are no cobwebs. A small calendar on one countertop, hooked into the local internet currents and displaying the current time and date – a good six centuries (give or take a few decades) after the last date they were awake – is among those items. Their coffeemaker as well, and the microwave. Half of the stove is covered in cobwebs, like someone attempted to clear it and didn’t quite manage. 

The inside of the fridge – which opens soundlessly, like the hinges have all been oiled sometime recently – is painfully bright against eyes still acclimated to the dark. The Archmage couldn’t have oiled it – there are no oils that last six centuries – and there’s fresh food in their fridge rather than the expired messes they were expecting. Usually, they simply make those things at least edible with magic, but there’s no need to do that this time. It’s… curious isn’t quite strong enough of a word, not when it’s almost the same kind of drive that drove them to acquiring their title, in those days of antiquity. The Archmage inhales – pulls in magic – and exhales, forcing intent into the very atoms of the spell. 

A ghostly outline – an echo left over by the passage of another – appears in front of their fridge. The Archmage knows this outline, based on the glimmer of metal embedded near his ear and the stubborn bangs that flop into his face despite repeated attempts to get them to stay out of the way. Even the way he glances back at the couch with furrowed brows and a small frown is familiar. It’s The Scholar – unloading spoiled food and reloading fresh stuff. He shakes his head and eyes the rest of the apartment like he’s tempted by something. The sensing spell isn’t keyed to replicate words – The Archmage was less interested in sound than identity when they cast it, but they can read The Scholar’s lips with an ease born of eons of familiarity. 

“I’d love to give this whole place a good cleaning, but I bet doing that would trigger any safeguards they set up. I can probably do this and the floors though, something to ease The Archmage’s grumpiness when they awaken. If my suspicions hold any water… they’ll be awake soon anyway.” The Scholar shudders – there and gone – and then grasps at the glint of metal near his ear with a quiet groan. Then he turns and sets up the little calendar before he starts cleaning. 

…Suspicions…? The Archmage glances to the pulsing alarms on the wall, then back at the wispy reflection of events past. Waving the spell away now that they’ve gotten more than just the answer they sought, they reach into the fridge and pull out a carton of cold brew coffee. Glancing at the expiration date confirms what the solidness of that reflection implied – The Scholar was here within the last four days. What a meddling friend he is, and The Archmage notes quietly the name of the particular flavor before they take a drink. Straight from the carton – they’re the only one who lives here anyway, so no one else has any business consuming things from their fridge. 

It’s… an impossible taste. As impossible as The Scholar managing to break into their apartment for the sole purpose of food and cleaning. The cold brew has a taste that hasn’t even existed for eons, not since those days now lost forever. But it’s here, and now, and on The Archmage’s tongue. A memory made real. They have to put the carton down quickly before abruptly shaking hands drop it, and the breath they take is as shaky as their hands. How…? How did…..?

They don’t actually get the time they need to analyze it. Another alarm starts going off, and The Archmage shoves the carton (carefully closed – it won’t do to squander what The Scholar must have poured so much precious resources into learning to recreate…) into the fridge and snagging the nearest pastry as they stumble into motion. Because while the other two alarms aren’t urgent ones, this newest one has a special sort of urgency. And…

Three. Three alarms, coupled with at least two impossible events. It’s an omen they mislike – nothing good has ever come in threes. Consuming the pastry too fast to take in any details about its texture or even taste, The Archmage tries to focus on one alarm at a time. The thickest and specially urgent one is the one they should focus on first, but trying to do so feels like ripping and tearing in their chest, like the chill of death being a tangible threat, like flames licking up— the memories wind them, leaves The Archmage grasping at a countertop and counting in their head. The counting doesn’t help, though, and they lift one shaky hand to draw in the air. 

Better to have guidelines for this spell. It wouldn’t do to have those memories influence it.

Glimmering runes hang in the air where they’ve written, spelling out the shape of the rules they’ve assigned. Once they’ve written them all out, the runes scatter and reform into a portal.

Mortal shells and their needs can be addressed the rest of the way in a moment. They need verification for that third alarm first. It’s a simple enough matter to snap their fingers and swap out the crinkled and creased clothing they slept in for something clean. Freshly created, since they’ve not yet had the chance to clean the rest of their home. A push of willpower as they step through the portal – awakening one of their familiars to get started on that task for the moment. The Archmage tries to pretend that their gait is smooth and not jerking with phantom pain on every other step as nearly run along the pathway created within the portal. 

There’s no reason to rush, in truth That final alarm means that they’re too late anyway, even if they wanted to save– Logic doesn’t win that battle against emotions, so The Archmage rushes and tries to breathe around the claws in their lungs.

The portal drops The Archmage among some rubble where a building was the last time they were awake. Recent rubble, going by the fact that much of it is still actively smoking. There’s the clear signs of a massive meteor storm having pummeled this area – and there’s screaming from what sounds like trapped mortals. Reaching out with their magic isn’t even needed to feel what’s happening to the planet itself – the leylines are choked, and the beat of the planet’s core is getting fainter with each passing second. The planet is dying, and it will take these mortals with it. 

Some small voice cries out internally. They’re The Archmage. While it would be hard – especially given the fact that they’ve barely been awake for half an hour – it wouldn’t be impossible to try to save this planet and whatever denizens survived the destruction that happened here. There was a time when they would have done it without thinking about it – poured magic and will and force into restoring the planet’s core and saving lives. 

But that was eons ago, not now. And The Archmage isn’t here for them. They’re here because of that third alarm, because of what all three of the alarms mean collectively. And they’ve long since learned their lesson about meddling and saving strangers. Those days are over. 

(As over as the echoes of memory that they cling to so dearly. As over as the almost forgotten taste to a cold brew that should have been impossible. As over as the friendship between themself and The Scholar. So… not over at all.)

Movement.

Magenta eyes snap to the movement, and The Archmage frowns when their gaze falls on a clump of feathers waving in the wind. Familiarity tugs at their chest – but that… that should be impossible, shouldn’t it? That soul hasn’t been freed, not yet, not as far as they know. Surely, The Archmage is still dreaming. There’s far too many impossibilities lining up. If it’s a dream, then no one will complain if The Archmage picks up those feathers – so they do, run their thumb along them as they muse about the details of this dream. 

With that in mind, it actually doesn’t surprise them when a voice  rings out loud enough to split the clouds around it. 

“Hey! Can anybody see me?”

It’s not the same breed of call for help as those poor souls trapped beneath the rubble (at least one of which has recognized The Archmage and has been trying to plead with offers of various foods and finery if only they’ll help them.) And on top of that, the call is coming from above. The Archmage looks up, and is reminding again of the curse of threes. Three alarms. An impossible taste, an impossible break in, and…

Life. 

The creature in the clouds is caught between planes – and it shines with the brilliance of a freshly created soul alongside the radiance of its scales. A new soul, created by magic. It’s speaking, but The Archmage can’t hear the words over the rattling buzz and the cracking glass in their ears. 

Three alarms. 

Three shades of gift from The Scholar – food, drink, clean floors. 

And…

“This isn’t possible.” They murmur. “All souls unlike my own lost the ability to make life like you with that first apocalypse.” The Archmage should know,  they tried and tried and tried, desperately hoping for a solution to their grief in the aftermath. 

Yet… here it is. A third impossibility. Life, real life. A brand new soul. Adding it all up, that makes a different number though – it makes nine. Three threes in sequence. 

“Fuck.“