The knocking echoed through the library.

It was him. Cerise. The Blind Keeper knew it was. This, he had foreseen.

The writing in the night sky could have told him. He wouldn't even need to remove his blindfolds to read it. The writing could tell him more than just that the regal roach was at his door now; had he looked before, it could have told him of Cerise's plan to travel to the library before even Cerise was aware of it. It could have told him what Cerise would say, and how he would feel about what he was saying, and how those feelings would decide what he wouldn't say, and what he could never say. All written out in explicit detail, the exact limitations of the conversation never in question, no possibility of–

The Blind Keeper felt himself double over the railing, fighting back the urge to be sick. The railing felt cold to the spider's fingers, and insubstantial. It felt painful to hold on; to keep himself from pitching over the edge into the void beyond.

The knocking came again.

The spider slumped backwards, away from the railing and the call of the void. A terrible exhaustion rolled through the Blind Keeper's mind, a chill fog that swallowed up the path before him. The urge to collapse was constant, but it was moments like these where it peaked. He wanted so badly to give in, to let the urge consume him. Nothing mattered. And even his feeling about it didn't matter. He wasn't allowed to give in.

The knocking came again.

The Blind Keeper sighed. He didn't need the words in the sky to know who it was. He could hear it in the peevish rhythm of the knocks. No one else could convey irritation like Cerise. There was no perceivable change between the sets of the knocks, yet each was infused with more impatience than the last. He could see the curled lip on the face of the roach standing at his door, the furrowed brow, the unrepressed sneer at being made to wait.

Knocking. Again.

The Blind Keeper shut his eyes tight beneath the blindfolds.

Fine.

Dragging himself to his feet, he descended from his balcony perch, past the pile of pillows that served as his bed, down the spiral stairs, through the massive atrium at the heart of his castle, towards the massive double doors that separated him from the one seeking him.

As he gripped the handle, he said, "Hello, Cerise."

Before he could even begin to pull, Cerise swept through, brushing the door open as he flounced inside. The Blind Keeper wasn't caught by surprise. Nothing could surprise him anymore. Not even Cerise. Instead, he neatly stepped aside as the door swung through the space he was in just a moment before, allowing the aggravated roach to stomp his way through The Blind Keeper's library.

The stomping was an affectation. He didn't need to stomp. He didn't even need to let his feet touch the ground, when he didn't feel like it. Cerise simply ignored things he wasn't interested in, and gravity was apparently one of those things. If other people wanted to obey the law of universal attraction, that was their choice. Cerise didn't bother with gravity, as he was too used to being the center of attraction.

It wasn't flying, not in a traditional sense; "flying" implied effort, and Cerise made everything look effortless. He simply moved through the air as he pleased. When he danced, it was like watching a puppet waltzing while suspended from its strings; a comparison that made The Blind Keeper feel sick in recent nights.

His stomping was a way of filling the space. The smallest (and, as of late, the weakest) of the Keepers, Cerise was still larger than life. The stomping was a way of compensating. Not due to any sense of inadequacy, but simply to help others understand the size of his personality.

"Luna sent me," Cerise declared, making it clear that he would not be turned away.

It wasn't quite accurate to call Luna a "god". Luna was a friend. The kind of friend who was also their boss, and also the being responsible for shaping the world and breathing life into each of them. The Keepers all agreed that Luna was a friend first, and second, the supreme being who ensured there was something instead of nothing.

Still, her name carried weight. Calling her a "god" wasn't quite accurate, but it wasn't inaccurate either. Luna – with the power to snuff the moon from the sky and plunge the world into the darkness that exists beyond the darkness; the darkness that isn't the absence of light, but the absence of everything – held the unwavering respect of the Keepers for multiple reasons.

For most, being able to say "God sent me" would be a huge boost to their confidence. This wasn't true for Cerise; his confidence had no higher peaks to strive for. For him, invoking Luna's name was merely a formality. He went where he pleased; the blessing of the one who had nurtured the world from seed to reality just limited The Blind Keeper's ability to protest his being here.

"I know she did," the Keeper replied. This, he had foreseen. Luna had visited him briefly a few nights ago, but hadn't been able to stay for more than a few minutes before getting pulled away by some new crisis. It must have taken her this long just to make the arrangements for Cerise to visit in her stead.

It ate at him, the thought of being a burden to Luna, stretched thin as she was. He didn't want that for her. But he couldn't pretend things were normal, either.

"Do you have any idea how many guilds there are outside your castle right at this instance?" Cerise sniffed, not even bothering to turn to look at the spider trailing behind him.

"Seven in the queue," the Blind Keeper replied automatically. "And twel–"

"Seven," Cerise interrupted, a bit too late, surprised by The Blind Keeper being so forthright with the number. "And who knows how many more got tired of waiting?"

"...twelve more who dropped out after they got tired of waiting," The Blind Keeper finished.

Cerise glanced over his shoulder, lips pursed. He was not one to let himself be shown up. "Good. Yes. Correct. I assume." He took a moment to recover from being rhetorically off-balance. "You get why that's a problem, right?"

"Yes. They–"

"They need your materials. They are stuck, because of you. No one's been able to build their shrines. They are frustrated. We are disappointed."

The Blind Keeper sighed. "You are disappointed–"

"I am diss–" Cerise stopped in his tracks, The Blind Keeper stopping perfectly in sync with him. He whirled around, aggravation written in the crease of his forehead. "I am disappointed," Cerise declared, more peevish than he intended. He wanted to make this a dramatic speech, but it had been spoiled by the constant agreement and acknowledgement.

He took a deep breath, making a show of composing himself. Exhaling, he bowed his head. When he lifted it again, there was a smile on his face, and a sympathetic tone to his voice. "Now. My dear Blind Keeper. I am aware of the pressures of your position. I was once where you were in the order of the Keepers, if you recall?" He put his hand to his chest, pleased with his own display of sympathy. "We are all adjusting to the changes. And no one can appreciate as much as I that performing for higher-level adventures can be quite taxing–"

Now it was The Blind Keeper's turn to interrupt. "I made myself clear to Luna. I can't keep doing this. I can't keep doing..." He gestured at his library, his atrium, at the world, at everything.

His words failed him. That didn't used to happen. His words used to obey him, falling neatly in order, everything clean and concise and orderly in his mind and his world. But he had been robbed of all that. Now there were two words for everything, two understandings, two realities. And the demands of catering to everyone else's reality wore him down, and stole the words from his throat.

"...I can't keep doing... all of... this," he concluded, lamely.

Cerise just stared at him for a moment, contemplating.

Carefully, the roach cleared his throat. "If... if you're getting tired of the routine... perhaps you could ask Luna to teach you some new moves? I know the poor dear is busy as a bee these nights, and... well, I suppose coming up with such things is new to her, and she hasn't taken to it well. She quite struggled with my new routine, poor thing. But–"

"That's not it," the Blind Keeper replied.He opened his mouth, hoping to say what "it" was. After a moment, he shut it again. "That's not it," he mumbled.

Cerise let out one of his more dramatic sighs, which was saying something. "Darling, I don't know what to tell you. We are trying to help, all of us, but you–" He pursed his lips, clearly fighting back a fresh wave of irritation. "I know you miss the way things were, but–"

The Blind Keeper gave Cerise a tired look, knowing that the roach would be able to read his expression even through the blindfolds. "What is it you think I miss?"

Cerise bit back an exasperated groan. "Well, I don't know, and you won't say! So we're at an impasse, aren't we?"

There were a few terse seconds of tetchy silence.

The Blind Keeper lowered his head, rubbing at his eyes through the thick material of his blindfold. "Cerise... are you... happy?"

He could feel Cerise tense up at the question, the roach suddenly standing ramrod straight.

When the roach spoke, his voice was unusually quiet, devoid of the usual pomp. "I... well. Happy enough, I suppose." He inhaled. "It... hasn't been easy. Since... everything. I miss... the others. And the ones who are still around, everyone's so busy..."

The Blind Keeper stayed silent. He let Cerise talk. Even before the blindfolds, he always enjoyed just letting Cerise talk.

Cerise's voice faltered. He looked away. "...being the first Keeper, there are always adventurers outside my door, fresh and eager, relentless. It is nonstop... which has taken time away from, well..."

There was an ache in the air. The Blind Keeper felt a tremor run through his legs, and he wasn't sure if it was his legs or the ground that threatened to fail him.

The roach cleared his throat. "But! Well! There is so much to relish as well! Ah, my darling, the looks on those eager faces as I give my speech... the excitement in the air! Oh, what a welcome change from the rot we endured! I can smell the blood of fresh adventurers even now!" he declared, taking a deep, invigorating breath.

The Blind Keeper sniffed. All he could smell was the musty, stale air of the library.

Cerise was undeterred by The Blind Keeper's lack of enthusiasm. "Shivers, my darling! I can hear their hearts tremble at my approach! Their muscles tense, their blood races! To be the one who sets the stage for all to come! It is a delight!"

The Blind Keeper almost smiled. Almost. Theatrics ran through Cerise's veins as truly as blood did.

In quieter nights, he had taken to stopping by Cerise's manor at every opportunity, content to hide away in a corner, watching as Count Cerise, Keeper of Rejuvenation put on his performance for the latest batch of adventurers. Count Cerise would make a show of taking a long, full sip of Bloodleaf wine, holding up one finger to insist that some of the mightest adventurers wait for him to finish. The audacity! That arrogant finger, that haughty sip! To command them to stay put with a single raised finger, until The Count had drank to his own satisfaction.

How he loved those nights. No matter how many times he watched Cerise's performance, he never got tired of it.

Cerise was staring off into the distance now, lost in his own story. "Ah, and when they fell me for the first time! Tears, my darling! As I cry out to the heavens, as my body unravels into bloodleaf... tears of relief and joy, I have seen!"

Again, a smile threatened to creep onto the Blind Keeper's face. After each battle, won or lost, Cerise would return to his bedroom (either by floating there after a win, or reconstituting from nothing in his bed after he lost), where the Blind Keeper would go to meet him. No matter how many times Cerise lost, it never did a thing to dampen his spirits: he wouldn't even be half-reformed before he was laughing and talking, already boasting about how well he had performed yet again.

The Blind Keeper (not that he was known by that title back then) would sit, and listen, simply enjoying their time together. If needed, he would pluck any lingering arrows from Cerise's back, dab at his already-healing wounds with soothing ointment, or use his thread to sew shut the tears in Cerise's fine, extravagant robe.

None of it was necessary. The arrows would disappear on their own, and it's not like Cerise even noticed they were there. His wounds needed no tending. His robe could restitch itself as cleanly and quickly as Cerise's own rejuvenating flesh. But the ritual of it... there was still something real to the care he performed...

Happier times.

Nothing like now.

Perhaps Cerise's mind had gone to the same lost past that The Blind Keeper's did, for now his voice took on a sadder quality. "It... has not been easy, this weakness. Since The Long Votom, I... cannot find my old strength."

There was a quiet moment.

Luna's ability to extinguish the moon wasn't hypothetical. There had been a period – sudden, jarring, without warning – where the gears of the universe all ground to a halt at once. It hadn't been like anything; there was no time for it to have been anything at all. But if the Blind Keeper had been asked to describe it, he would say it had been like having his brain plunged into frozen, stagnant water and left there to wither.

Not everyone survived. Those who were vulnerable – the unfinished, the volatile – had faced annihilation. Annihilation came in many forms, during that dark period.

When the moon was finally returned to the sky, those who had survived had all needed to recover. Cerise, as the Keeper of Rejuvenation, had been affected quite badly by the period of stasis. It was antithetical to him, and it had taken its toll.

It was then the sky writing had first become apparent to The Blind Keeper. He had looked to it for a solution. Not a moment had gone by since then that he hadn't regretted that decision.

Cerise spoke a little less certainly now. "That... stench of decay... I won't forget it. And I won't forget the ones we lost. We loved them, of course we did." He tried to draw himself up, to find his eternal wellspring of confidence. "But I have found new things to love–"

The Blind Keeper felt his eye twitch, felt his neck stiffen at this. He couldn't restrain himself. "You won't forget them?" The spider's throat clenched as he fought to keep his voice under control. "Who? Who do you mean?"

Cerise faltered. The Blind Keeper could feel the roach's panic as he struggled to recover. "Well, you know..." He said, trying to keep up his self-assured, theatrical demeanor. "I know the kobolds are still looking for the Frost Wyvern and the Diamondback, I'm sure they'll find them... and... and, well, we all know what being on her own has done to Luna." The roach leaned his head to one side, cradling his face in one hand. "Her partner meant so much to this world. Taught me everything I know. I shall, of course, be eternally grateful to him."

The roach sighed. "The loss was devastating, for all of us. I can't imagine what Luna must be going through. We're all trying to find ways to support her, but... well, their relationship was one-of-a-kind... the sort one doesn't move on from easily..."

The Blind Keeper was silent, a sick feeling bubbling in his stomach.

Cerise cleared his throat, a sweat on his brow despite the chill pervading the library. "And... and... oh! You haven't even been to see the kobolds' new invention, have you? Oh, I think you'll like him." Cerise swept his arms wide, mimicking the patter and flair of a kobold. "The Keeper of the Future! Magnum Spark!" He shook his head, amused with his own impression. "That's what they're calling him. I've never seen their cave so lively, so brimming with the traffic of adventurers and kobolds alike! To think, bereft of their dragons, that they might invent–"

"Why did they invent a new Keeper?" The Blind Keeper asked quietly. His fists curled and uncurled, as his body increasingly felt like an overwound spring.

"I..." Cerise shook his head, trying to dismiss the implication. "With the Frost Wyvern missing, surely it is prudent to–"

The Blind Keeper couldn't stand it anymore. "She's dead."

The air got colder. Cerise hesitated. He wanted to protest, but he also knew better. The Blind Keeper wasn't the kind to phrase a guess as a statement.

"Are you sure," the roach asked, not actually a question.

The Blind Keeper said nothing. Silence was enough of an answer.

"I... I see." Cerise clasped his hands in front of him. "I... imagine that might explain why we haven't seen the Diamondback... oh, I can't imagine his grief..."

The Blind Keeper spoke quietly. "He's one of the new Keepers. He's replacing her." He felt disgusted with the knowledge. The universe didn't mourn. The universe didn't care how they felt about the loss or the changes it would make to compensate. The universe simply selected a new Keeper to fill the hole left behind, and moved on.

"Ah." Cerise sniffed, doing what he could to hold himself together. "That... makes sense, I suppose." He breathed out, his breath shaky. "Well. I... suppose we shall have to be there for the Diamondback, whenever he returns to–"

"Stop," the Blind Keeper demanded. He hadn't meant to say it. The word just came out of him.

Cerise paused. When he spoke again, his voice was a blend of concern and annoyance. "Stop what, my darling?"

"Stop... stop dancing around it." His voice was like steel. He could feel the revulsion rising. Revulsion towards Cerise became revulsion towards himself, before exploding outward to envelop the world. An all-encompassing revulsion. A disgust that permeated everything, spoiling it all.

"Stop dancing around what," Cerise demanded, the concern in his voice rapidly being replaced with aggravation.

"Who is Magnum Spark replacing? Who was the old Keeper of Might?" The Blind Keeper demanded. "Say their name." Some dark impulse inside of him insisted on twisting the knife. "You said you would never forget, right?"

Cerise inhaled sharply, torn between guilt and affront. "I... well, of course, it's..."

"Well?" The Blind Keeper demanded. Twist it. "Or did The Long Votom weaken your mind as well as your body?"

He could feel Cerise tremble, a wave of anger shaking the roach's body. Good. Make him drop the facade. "How... how dare you? Do you think this has been easy for me? Because if so–"

The Blind Keeper interrupted, his head screaming with the horrible feeling of being both infuriated and bored at the same time. "Let's do another one. Luna's partner." Twist the knife. "Say their name."

"You– y-you–" Cerise stammered, uncharacteristic of the roach. "W-what kind of game are you playing? Because I don't appreciate–"

"Game," The Blind Keeper spat back. "Ha. Surely you remember the one who taught you everything, right? Don't tell me you've forgotten? Is this the eternal gratitude you spoke of?"

Cerise snarled now, taking sharp, angry breaths through their nostrils. "H-how dare you. Y-you..." Cerise growled, his flamboyant, elegant demeanor draining away. "You... y-you're giving me a headache, with all this–"

A part of The Blind Keeper wanted to stop.

Another part of him said, twist. Twist the knife.

"Is that who you are, Cerise?" The Blind Keeper said gravely. "You say you'll never forget, but the moment someone's out of your life, you move on? Smile, and laugh, like they were never there at all? Is that who you've always been?"

Cerise's rage forced him to the ground, unable to keep himself afloat in this state. He stomped on the ground, petulant, furious. "I have had enough of this treatment. I will not stand for you to speak to me this way! If you think that what we've been through gives you license to–"

The Blind Keeper bit his tongue. Twist, the voice insisted.

"--because believe me, I am trying to show you patience, but if you insist on being vile–"

The Blind Keeper bit his tongue so hard that it bled. Twist, the voice insisted.

"--if you had any idea of what this has been like for me, if you think I enjoy having to put up with this kind of treatment–"

The Blind Keeper's whole body trembled. Twist twist twist twist twist twist twist twist

"--because right now, I feel like I would rather never hear one more word about you, then put up with this, this, this–"

Beneath his bandages, The Blind Keeper closed his eyes.

He scrunched up his face.

Quietly, barely audibly, he asked a question.

Cerise stopped, his voice caught dead in his throat.

The Blind Keeper hadn't even whispered the question. He had been too quiet for it to be considered a whisper. And yet it thundered over Cerise's shouting, silencing the roach instantly.

The roach quavered, his hands balled into fists, held up near his face.

It had been a simple question.

The Blind Keeper had asked, "Cerise, what's my name?"

Cerise's whole body was a single knot of muscle, held tight, as if terrified.

"It's..." the roach tried, tentatively. He swallowed. He said the words, knowing in a deep, terrifying way that the words were wrong. "It's... The Blind Keeper."

The Blind Keeper lowered his head. He knew that Cerise would get the answer wrong. It hadn't been until he heard the answer that he realized he had been carrying a spark of hope inside himself; now extinguished.

His head felt too heavy to lift.

He could feel Cerise pause, begin to reach out, hesitate, stop. He could feel Cerise open his mouth to speak, freeze up, close it again silently. He could feel the seconds ticking away. Tick. Tick. Tick.

When Cerise spoke, it was quiet. Apologetic. Remorseful. "That's... that's a silly answer. Why did I say that? Of course that's not your name. That's your title. You didn't start wearing the blindfolds until... well, that incident... after The Long Votom ended... Before that, you went by... by..."

The Blind Keeper said nothing. Did nothing. That was all he wanted to do these nights.

He could feel the guilt radiating off of Cerise. He knew that being insulted was something Cerise could engage with, something he could fight back against. But this guilt? This endless, hopeless guilt? It was unsurmountable. It was untouchable.

It was exactly what The Blind Keeper needed to drive him away.

"Leave," he told Cerise.

Cerise did not protest.

This was it, then.

He didn't need the writing in the sky to know what would happen next. Cerise would leave. and that would be that. He could just... do his best to exist. Or not exist. Whatever one would call this reality.

He could feel Cerise stand up straight, trying to pull himself together.

Cerise's footsteps approached. He wondered if Cerise would say goodbye as he walked past, and out of his life.

A part of The Blind Keeper wanted to say goodbye.

A part of him wanted to apologize.

A part of him wanted to fall to knees.

A part of him wanted to scream.

A part of him really wanted to scream.

But he didn't know how to want anymore. To want felt impossible. To want felt dangerous.

So instead, he said nothing. Did nothing. This was for the best, he told himself.

Cerise would move on. This, he had foreseen.