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Pyrrhus had lost track of time.

Oh, time still moved. It wasn’t like his homeworld, the sun rose and set through the stained glass windows of the church where Fyceline kept him, but counting was annoying, and frankly, everything felt sort of blurry regardless.

Maybe it was true. Maybe Tyndareus had betrayed him, and he was doing something to keep Imnolu and Heibing from finding this place. If that was the case, he was probably objectively doomed—but he wasn’t ready to accept that yet. Fyceline kept insinuating, but Fyceline said a lot of s**t, in between the violence. He liked to reminisce, Pyrrhus had found. Would not shut up about his husband, which was certainly something Pyrrhus could understand, but as a tactic to break him down and make him feel guilty, it really wasn’t working.

He was alone, for the moment, and he let himself take an inventory—ankle badly damaged, couldn’t escape on his own. Wrists raw from trying anyway, because the ankle had come late. Fingers on his left hand badly shattered, ribs definitely at least bruised—breathing difficult in a way that did sort of make him concerned those might be broken too, but he wasn’t coughing up blood, so probably not. Miscellaneous other injuries, not worth counting because cuts and bruises would heal easily enough.

Not the worst he’d endured. Still not particularly pleasant. Fyceline was no trained interrogator, and seemed to have little goal other than making Pyrrhus suffer, be it physically or emotionally.

So Pyrrhus had become a rock. Denied his captor what he wanted. If he couldn’t get out, at least he’d die doing what he loved—being spiteful to people who had more than earned it.

He could hear footsteps outside. More than two, more than just Fyceline’s thick heels.

Ah. Good. An audience.

The fact that they were trusting New Tyndareus rankled something awful and frankly, Thalassa had no interest in pretending otherwise. He’d largely kept his mouth shut on the way over to the pathetic little church (stained glass windows notwithstanding, it didn’t strike him as a result of even half the effort that would’ve gone into the least of his own people’s churches). Even with Troilus immediately here to get annoyed with him for being a b*****d to New Tyndareus, Pyrrhus provided the only real motivation to do so. On their own, they hadn’t gotten anywhere on finding him yet, and leaving him wasn’t an option, despite the unsavoriness of relying on someone who’d fallen to Chaos and (ostensibly, if you asked Thalassa) put up no resistance to it.

Feeling his pulse pound behind his eyes wasn’t helping. Nor were the bullets of sweat he kept smearing onto his sleeve so they couldn’t be distracting on his forehead. Nor the awareness of how that sweat had to stink like alcohol. Then there was the dread itching at the back of his throat like he’d vomit if he let himself open his mouth for too long, or look for too long at either New Tyndareus or the mess that one of his idiot Nega-Comrades had made out of Pyrrhus.

Then, there was the silent plea from Troilus. That likewise made Thalassa’s stomach lurch. Maybe it wouldn’t have done so if he’d been drinking, but……well, Heibing had a point to prove to Liánlí and (by extension) probably also his rudely large and protective paramour. ******** up that proving said point had to coincide with Pyrrhus getting taken and needing a rescue but it was what it was. Expedience had to be the name of the game. All the better to keep Troilus from making that ******** face and (Thalassa hoped) keep himself from retching over everything.

Fortunately, the church made finding a tool easy.

One of the free-standing metal candle-holders proved easy to lift, but heavy enough to bash out one of the stained glass windows. Most of the pieces fell to the ground outside—and even feeling as hot garbage as he did, Thalassa didn’t favor his chances at wriggling through the hole he’d made—but some landed on the sill. Picking one out and returning to Pyrrhus’s side, Thalassa barely used enough caution to not cut himself. Whatever, he didn’t need to be careful, he knew what he was doing.

Honestly, it was a miracle he hadn’t just thrown the candle-holder aside when he’d finished with it and let it ******** clatter. Pyrrhus and Troilus had known him long enough to know that his lack of “bedside manner” didn’t mean Thalassa didn’t care. He had to focus on grinding the sharpest part of the broken glass against the ropes and, secondarily, on not being sick over things that shouldn’t have fazed him. If the look he gave Pyrrhus maybe asked for understanding or forgiveness, then Thalassa could just deny it later, when they had Pyrrhus out of here and back to somewhere safe.

Tyndareus jerked, whirling to face the inside and slamming the door shut behind him. ******** it all, he'd forgotten about teleportation.

"You've kidnapped and harmed my paramour, Fyceline," he said coolly, thinking fast as he walked slowly and deliberately towards the enemy. "I don't know if you understand the gravity of what you've done. I've had many plans in action, once I attained Super. The Negaverse needs more people working for it rather than against it, and it would be a nice boost to my resumé to have charmed no less than three of the aliens into joining the side of Earth. But you, foul thing that you are, picked the wrong alien to ******** with. My alien."

He rather wished that the floor wasn't carpeted in this cruddy little church, because his boots clacking against hardwood would've made excellent emphasis to his point. Alas, he had to make do with a silent approach.

"I'd like a very swift explanation, or I'm going to be forced to resort to further violence," he finished as he drew near.

Troilus winced at Pyrrhus's extensive injury list. Crap. There wasn't much he could do about that—he didn't have healing magic, and he really, really wished he did. The best he could do was help his cousin drink some water, and while the appearance of Fyceline startled him, he had to trust that Thalassa and Tyndareus, who both had much more combat-oriented magic, could handle this for a few moments while he tended to his cousin as best as he could with no ability to magically restore broken bones. A small part of Troilus listened to Tyndareus's little speech with mild apprehension, but the tone reminded him so dearly of Bernard when he was in the middle of a lying scheme to save all their asses, that he ultimately wasn't concerned.

There was something so…gloriously and messily familiar about all of this. Honestly, Pyrrhus wasn’t all that intimidated by Fyceline’s arrival—he wasn’t alone anymore, no longer a weak victim to be kicked around.

Well, alright, personally he was still sort of not able to contribute, but Tyndareus and Thalassa were here, and Troilus was looking after him, which meant it was going to be fine. Fyceline couldn’t kill all of them.

(He could try, though, and as Tyndareus moved closer to the vengeful, violent b*****d with a knife, Pyrrhus felt his heart twist. Even if he was feeling other things related to the way Tyndareus was talking.)

“Troilus,” he said, keeping his voice low, because this was a nice distraction from being in pain, “I am going to do so many filthy things to that man when we get him out of the ******** Negaverse.”

Shame was for people without broken bones.

(But, realistically, although Pyrrhus expected to be inconvenienced for a while—especially with his hand the way it was—well. This was…not the worst he had endured.)

Still, he kept a wary eye on Tyndareus and Fyceline, just in case—he didn’t know what he’d do with a damaged ankle and a damaged hand, but….just in case something happened.

Fyceline raised his eyebrows. He didn’t look at all intimidated by Tyndareus coming closer, nor did he look particularly moved by Tyndareus’s threats. He did stand up, though, no longer content to idle.

“Your paramour?” He clicked his tongue. “That’s really unfortunate, because like I told you, your pretty little alien paramour murdered my husband, so you’re just going to have to find some other gullible idiot from outer space to win over and climb on to advance.”

He shifted his grip on his knife. Started to lunge forward.

And then the other ******** alien did—sometihng. Some kind of magic that made Fyceline stagger on his feet.

He had not been sleeping much, the past while. Not since Thasseritum died. And it was as if it all caught him at once, making him stagger, making his grip on his blade loosen. He brought his free hand up to his head, shaking it in puzzlement.

“What….what did you do?[/]i”

Tyndareus really didn't care that Fyceline had lost a husband who had happily destroyed an entire soul, forever wiping it from the world. Thasseritum had gotten what he deserved, and Tyndareus was disgusted that he'd ever been on the side of these assholes.

So his little plan didn't work. Thankfully, Thalassa was on top of it, although—

"Sorry, twink?" he repeated to Thalassa in a moment of bemusement.

Then, oh, he's distracted, go— and he launched himself forward, gripping Fyceline's wrist to make him drop the blade and twisting his arms behind his back.

Troilus snorted when Thalassa insulted the Chaos brat. Good. Whatever that word meant, he hoped it hurt.

"Really, Pyr?" he whispered back to Pyrrhus with raised eyebrows. Was now really the time?

In the face of being able to do nothing for his cousin's injuries and his magic being useless in this particular fight, he'd felt helpless. But now, seeing Fyceline as the helpless one, his anger came swiftly, and he stood, letting it fuel him.

He took a few steps forward and squatted to pick up the dagger that the Captain had dropped, examining it. Sharp. Beautiful.

You never had to do any of the killing. We kept it from you because of your ridiculous ideals. Do you think hugs and stern lectures were all we did? Killing is necessary. I'm not risking more and more lives just to satisfy your optimism.

The paraphrased words from the argument about a year ago between himself and his cousin resonated in his brain and he gripped the dagger more tightly, his heart pounding in his ears.

"I hope that when you're reincarnated, Chaos is gone from this world, and you find your husband again," he said. "But for now, all you're doing is killing people. May your next life be better."

He lifted the dagger.

Breaking every one of his own morals he'd once held until this moment, he brought it down through Fyceline's heart.

Pyrrhus’s eyes widened.

He’d trusted his team, of course. Even if one of them wasn’t the same person he’d known a thousand years ago—Tyndareus was enough like Bernard to lure him into security. And Fyceline was one man, against three dangerous, powerful opponents. Or, well, he would have said two and a half, right up until Troilus grabbed that stupid stained glass knife and plunged it into Fyceline’s chest.

Fyceline let out a tiny little gasp, and then he collapsed, all in an instant, in the quiet way men died when their hearts stopped suddenly and violently.

Pyrrhus had—

Pyrrhus had never wanted this.

He’d thought. Expected, really. That Thalassa or Tyndareus would finish it. But no, it was Troilus—he had spent a thousand years trying to keep Troilus’s hands clean, at the expense of his own (because he was a monster born to monsters; the rest hardly mattered) and yet. Here. Right in front of him. Troilus had killed.

To avenge his suffering.

He felt a little dizzy, as he sagged over onto Thalassa, eyes slightly wide.

“…I’m pretty sure he’s dead, Thalassa,” he said, voice a little tight. He wanted to ask a thousand questions—wanted to know if Troilus was okay—but—

“Tyn,” he said, “can you—his starseed? Just so we’re sure he doesn’t get back up.” He wouldn’t ask Tyndareus to destroy it. But taking it, bringing it to someone who could send it on its way? That seemed…reasonable.

“I assume you all have a plan for where to go after this.”

No, Thalassa wanted to say.

Not to Pyrrhus, for whom he mostly didn’t have an answer because a plan would’ve implied that Thalassa had thought about any of this beyond getting Pyrhus out of here.

But Troilus’s question, though? That grated more than a few nerves.

……Yet, he had to concede, it was fair enough. Thalassa hadn’t exactly explained that he wasn’t feeling well. Doing so would’ve required him to admit that out loud like an adult, and doing that would’ve been like letting Liánlí win (in Thalassa’s mind and he didn’t care if anybody else agreed).

So, in the interests of avoiding A Whole Thing, Thalassa glanced over to Troilu and nodded. He would just……be really careful about the task being given to him. That was fine. This was fine. Everything would be perfectly fine because Liánlí was wrong with all the bullshit that he’d been on and off about since Dagon. If Thalassa silently told himself that over and over and over again until he genuinely believed it, he would definitely manage to ignore the throbbing feeling in his head, and keep himself from retching anywhere.

“……The sacrilege is a nice touch, Nnnne—Tyndareus.” Thalassa arched a brow at the altar arrangement as he adjusted himself so he could more easily pick Pyrrhus up. It didn’t look like any traditions he knew personally, but the significance was pretty easy to see regardless. “Pyrrhus, on a count of three. One……… Two………”

It was as much for Thalassa to steady himself as it was for Pyrrhus to get ready.

“Three.”

Tyndareus did not usually succumb to impulsive thoughts. Yet, in this moment, tired and emotionally wrung out, he said, "Oh, kinky of you," out loud in response to Pyrrhus's biting threat.

Troilus blinked at him, then let out a sharp bark of laughter that held a lot less humor than he'd actually like. "How are you exactly the same after reincarnating a thousand years apart from your past self?" he asked Tyndareus, not really expecting an answer. "Good to see you come to your senses. Come on, then. Let's, uh, blow this popsicle stand?"

Tyndareus did not dignify that with any kind of response.