The war had a way of seeping into the bones.
Even for Absolutes.
For weeks on end, General Sunbeam Moonlight and Lady Moonbeam Sunlight had been little more than streaks of orange and blue across the skies of Titanumas—flashes of overwhelming power at the front lines, then brief, sleepless pauses at field command posts before they were summoned again. Cities blurred together: burning skylines, shattered strongholds, the endless clash between AES and the BRD.
Tonight, for the first time in what felt like centuries, the summons was different.
Not a distress call. Not a strategic recall.
A reservation.
"Lumina Springs Sanctuary," Sunbeam read from the holographic slate as they glided over the quiet outskirts of Titanumas, his voice half-bewildered, half-amused. "One full private suite. Absolute-grade immersion therapy. Duration: 'As long as needed.' Authorized by Starbeam and Professor Galaxbeam."
Lady Moonbeam, drifting at his side in a ribbon of gentle lunar light, smiled faintly. "They must be worried. When Starbeam starts scheduling spas instead of battle drills..."
"We must look worse than we thought," Sunbeam admitted.
She glanced sideways at him. The mighty Solar General's shoulders were slumped, his normally radiant hair dimmed to a dusky embers-orange. Radiant as ever, but heavy. Her own aura felt thin around the edges, like moonlight stretched over too much darkness.
"Then," she said softly, "let's accept the gift."
They descended through a curtain of starlight that masked the sanctuary from the outside world. Space folded around them in a quiet, seamless distortion—Star Regime technology at its most elegant. One moment, they were flying above the scarred continent; the next, they were standing on a balcony of pale stone, overlooking a tranquil valley that could not exist within ordinary geography.
Lumina Springs Sanctuary lay below them, terraced into the side of a crystalline cliff. Cascades of luminous water fell from hidden reservoirs above, catching in suspended basins that floated weightlessly in the air. Soft lanterns—tiny captured stars—drifted lazily between the terraces like fireflies.
A pair of attendants awaited them at the balcony archway, their robes blending Solar gold and Lunar silver. They bowed in unison, voices low and warm.
"Welcome, General Sunbeam. Welcome, Lady Moonbeam. Lumina Springs is at your disposal," one said. "Your private suite is prepared."
Sunbeam opened his mouth to protest—some ingrained instinct to decline luxury when there were still worlds to defend—but Moonbeam's hand found his. Her fingers squeezed gently.
"Lead the way," she said.
The corridors were hushed, the air perfumed with something delicate and difficult to name: not flowers, not incense, but the crisp, clean scent of pre-dawn air after rain. The walls curved softly, inscribed with faint constellations that shimmered as they passed—Star Regime constellations woven with Galaxy Regime fractal patterns.
"They went all out," Sunbeam murmured.
"Galaxbeam doesn't do half-measures," Moonbeam replied. "Especially not when it comes to our 'mental stability indices,' as he calls them."
The attendants brought them to a door inlaid with a sun-and-moon sigil. It opened without a sound.
Inside, the treatment room was a cocoon of warmth and softness.
The floor was warm white marble veined with gold, etched in looping Solar and Lunar glyphs that pulsed faintly as if breathing. Along the far wall stretched a panoramic crystal window, but instead of any real landscape, it showed two skies at once: to the left, an endless sunrise, all soft gold and coral, the sun just cresting a distant horizon; to the right, a moonrise over a tranquil sea, stars bright against violet-blue darkness.
In the center, angled toward both skies, stood two reclining lounge chairs crafted from some metal-glass composite, softly glowing, shaped perfectly to cradle a body in weightless comfort. At the base of each chair, a basin recessed into the floor glimmered with gently swirling liquid, emitting silvery mist.
Moonbeam exhaled slowly. "This is... beautiful."
Sunbeam rubbed the back of his neck. "I don't remember the last time someone designed a room for us to rest in instead of strategize in."
The attendants stepped forward and bowed again.
"Your armor, if you wish," one offered.
Sunbeam's cuirass, pauldrons, and greaves dissolved into golden particles and streamed into a waiting alcove, along with Moonbeam's crystalline battle dress. Beneath, they wore simple, soft resort garments conjured by the room: Sunbeam in a sleeveless tunic and loose trousers of pale orange, Moonbeam in a flowing, short robe of midnight blue that shimmered like reflected starlight.
Barefoot at last, their soles met the warm marble.
He hadn't realized how much his feet hurt until they were no longer encased in battle-grade solar alloy.
"Please," the attendant said gently, gesturing toward the chairs. "We will begin with the Cleansing Soak."
They sat.
The chairs adjusted to their bodies, tilting back until they were half-reclined, weight distributed evenly, pressure lifting from their spines. As if responding to a silent cue, the basins at their feet brightened.
"Prepare to lower," said the other attendant softly.
Warmth rose from below. Sunbeam watched as the liquid in his basin shifted from silver to luminous, molten gold. Moonbeam's, beside him, deepened into a soft blue-violet, like moonlight compressed into liquid form.
Together, they lowered their feet.
The first contact was a soft shock of relief.
The water was warm but not scalding, viscous but not sticky—like star-charged mineral springs. Tiny motes of light swirled around their heels and arches, slipping between toes, tracing along long-abused tendons.
Sunbeam let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Moonbeam's eyes fluttered closed. Her shoulders dropped a full inch.
The motes didn't sting like battlefield nanites or cauterizing light. They soothed, mended micro-tears, erased invisible fractures of strain. With every slow breath, the water shifted hues: warm amber when Sunbeam exhaled, brightening at his inhale; Moonbeam's soak moved in waves from soft lavender to deep twilight blue.
"Cleansing Soak will last fifteen minutes," one attendant explained quietly. "The star-infused mineral solution neutralizes residual BRD toxins, dissipates cursed energy, and identifies micro-damage from extended flight or combat."
Sunbeam stared at the basin. "You can... see all that?"
"In the glow pattern, yes," the attendant replied. "Do not worry. You are within safe thresholds. But you have pushed yourselves far."
Sunbeam cracked a small, wry smile. "Tell that to the Council."
Moonbeam's fingers found his again on the armrest between their chairs. "We're here now. Let it work."
They fell into silence. Outside the window, the eternal sunrise inched higher while the moon on the opposite side climbed slow and stately. For the first time in what felt like ages, the loudest sound around them was the soft, musical swirl of water and their own steady breathing.
The tension behind Sunbeam's knees began to slacken. The hard ache in his arches—ignored for countless campaigns—dissolved under the attention of the glimmering motes. Moonbeam flexed her toes unconsciously, watching ripples of blue-white light follow.
"This feels..." She searched for the word. "Human. In a good way."
He turned his head toward her. "We forget we still have bodies, sometimes."
"And that they suffer for us," she replied. "For Titanumas."
The attendants returned with small crystal trays.
"Exfoliation & Care," one announced gently.
They knelt at the foot of each chair, moving with a ritualistic calm that felt almost reverent. With a subtle gesture, the star-infused water drained away, leaving their feet warm, tingling, and strangely light. Fresh solution flowed in—clear now, with faint sparks like distant galaxies.
The attendants scooped a small measure of shimmering granules from their trays—starlight crystals, each grain luminous and barely tangible.
"May we?" one asked.
Sunbeam nodded, suddenly aware of how long it had been since anyone had touched his feet in a way that was not either combat or injury.
The crystals met his skin with the gentlest of friction. They weren't rough like pumice or harsh like battlefield sanitizer. They moved in tiny, precise circles along his heels, arches, and the balls of his feet, guided by practiced hands that knew exactly where the strain lived.
As the crystals dissolved, they left coolness, and with it, a sense of being unburdened at the most fundamental level.
Moonbeam watched her own attendant work, eyes half-lidded. The care was clinical yet deeply respectful, each motion deliberate, honoring the miles walked, the battles stood through, the nights spent holding the line when entire continents slept.
"I used to watch videos like this," Sunbeam murmured, surprising himself.
Moonbeam blinked. "Videos?"
"You know. On those old Earth feeds Galaxbeam archived. Foot spas, pedicure channels. People talking about 'self-care' and 'pampering.'" He chuckled, a little embarrassed. "I thought it was ridiculous how much attention they gave to heels and toes. But watching it... it was calming."
Moonbeam smiled, the corners of her eyes soft. "And now?"
He flexed his toes as the crystals spiraled along his instep. "Now I understand."
Her attendant attended to the subtle calluses along Moonbeam's weight-bearing points, the places where she landed after high-speed aerial maneuvers. Moonbeam let herself relax into the sensation, breathing out centuries of battlefield vigilance in slow, measured exhales.
For a few precious minutes, they were not the Sun and Moon of Titanumas; they were two people whose feet hurt, letting someone kind and skilled look after them.
When the last starlight crystal melted away, another wave of warm water rinsed them clean. The attendants dried their feet and lower legs with towels that felt like heated clouds.
"Warm Oil Massage," came the next gentle announcement.
They uncorked slender vials.
A sweet, bright scent filled the air around Sunbeam—citrus and amber, with a hint of spice that spoke of hearthfires and clear mornings. An equally soft but different fragrance rose from Moonbeam's vial—jasmine and moonflower, light yet lingering, like night air warmed by distant stars.
The oils were warmed to body temperature, slick but not cloying. As the attendants began to work them into tired muscles, Sunbeam sank further into his chair.
Long, slow strokes traveled from his heels along the length of his soles, up over his arches, circling carefully at that stubborn knot of tension just under the ball of his foot. Firm thumbs pressed into the center of his arch, releasing a tightness that made him exhale with a low, almost startled sound.
Moonbeam's experience mirrored his with different nuances: all the strain she carried in her calves from stabilizing during gravity-defying maneuvers, the subtle stiffness around her ankles from repetitive impact. Skilled fingers kneaded with just enough pressure to comfort without pain, moving in smooth, rhythmic patterns.
The war felt very far away.
"How does the pressure feel?" Moonbeam's attendant asked softly.
"Perfect," she whispered.
"Good," the attendant said. "You may drift if you like. You are safe here."
Safe.
It was a small word, but it landed heavily.
"Do you remember Paladimee?" Moonbeam asked after a while, her voice quiet, drifting between wake and sleep.
Sunbeam's eyes opened. Outside the window, the simulated sun had risen higher, but in the opposite pane, the moon still hovered, glowing.
"Yes," he said. "I remember the smoke. The way the Blackened artillery carved lines into the streets. The way we arrived two minutes too late."
Her lips pressed together. "I still see their faces when I close my eyes."
The attendant's hands never faltered. If they heard, they pretended not to.
Sunbeam stared at the ceiling, at the intricate pattern of interlocking starfields and lunar cycles inlaid there. The oil worked its way into every tiny line across his soles, loosening the last of the tightness.
"We saved who we could," he said eventually. "We'll save more tomorrow. And the next day. That's the only way I know how to keep from drowning in the ones we lost."
She turned her head toward him. In the half-light, her eyes were deep pools of tranquil blue.
"And what about you?" she asked. "When do you get to stop being the one who never breaks?"
The question floated there between them, as calm and unsettling as the feeling of warm hands tracing circles at the base of his toes.
He didn't answer right away.
The attendants moved on to their ankles and calves, working oil into tired tendons. The slow, steady pressure up their lower legs sent warmth and relief spiraling higher, into knees and thighs, into hips and spines.
"When I'm here," he said finally. "When you're here."
Her fingers, resting on the shared armrest, curled around his.
A quiet descended—comfortable, heavy, like a blanket laid over frayed nerves. The only sounds were the soft glide of hands over skin, the whisper of cloth, the faint hum of star-reactors somewhere deep within the sanctuary.
Gradually, the massage slowed. The attendants retrieved two small bowls filled with shimmering gel.
"Healing Mask & Wrap," they said in unison.
The gel was cool on overheated skin, spread gently over heels and balls of the feet, along the outer edges that bore so much of their weight. It tingled softly, a pleasant, almost playful sensation, as it began to knit microscopic fissures and infuse new resilience into weary tissue.
Once the mask was applied, the attendants wrapped each foot in soft, heated cloth. The warmth wrapped around the coolness, locking it in.
"Rest," one murmured. "Let the treatment sink in. We will leave you for a time. If you require anything, simply speak, and the sanctuary will respond."
They bowed and withdrew, the door whispering shut behind them.
For several heartbeats, neither Sunbeam nor Moonbeam spoke.
The wraps cradled their feet in a cocoon of gentle heat, the masks working in a soft, persistent fizz of healing. Their bodies were heavy in the best way, grounded, held.
"It feels like my feet are being forgiven," Moonbeam said eventually, voice barely above a whisper.
Sunbeam turned his head. "For what?"
"For always running toward pain," she replied. "For landing in places where people scream. For standing on too many ruined streets."
He considered that.
"I don't think they ever blamed you," he said. "But if they did... then yes. Let them forgive you."
She smiled faintly. "What about you?"
He thought of Sollarisca's shattered outskirts, of the countless kilometers of battered terrain he had crossed, the burn of cursed ground under his soles, the way he always pushed a little farther, a little faster, because somewhere ahead there was always someone who needed him right now.
"My feet," he said slowly, "would probably like to file a formal complaint."
She laughed softly. The sound eased something in his chest.
"General Complaint: 'Subject insists on tanking for the entire planet,'" she said.
"It's in the job description," he replied.
"No," she corrected gently. "Your job description is protecting Titanumas. Not destroying yourself in the process."
He let his head loll sideways until their temples touched. For a moment, they just breathed together, synced to the gentle pulse of the heated wraps.
"I don't know how to do one without the other," he admitted.
"Then we'll learn," she said. "Together. Starting here."
Time lost meaning. Between the eternal sunrise and eternal moonrise, they floated in a pocket where hours might have passed or only minutes. Memories surfaced and receded: Jollhovalhn's desperate evacuation, Nirrough's last stand, the first time they had flown together over an untouched meadow, long before the BRD cast its shadow over the world.
Eventually, the wraps' warmth eased, signaling the end of the treatment cycle. The cloth unraveled of its own accord, folding itself neatly into a recessed alcove. The gel mask had vanished, absorbed fully. Their feet felt...
New.
Not different in shape or appearance—still the same strong, calloused soles of long-time warriors—but lighter. As if someone had quietly removed invisible weights chained to each step.
Sunbeam flexed his toes experimentally.
A slow grin spread across his face. "I feel like I could run from Sollarisca to Lunna and back without touching the ground."
Moonbeam rolled her ankles, marveling at the lack of stiffness. "I haven't felt this grounded in... I'm not sure I ever have," she said softly.
The chairs adjusted, raising them to a sitting position. A gentle chime sounded from the far wall, and a portion of it slid aside to reveal a new space: a semi-open balcony of the same warm stone as the floor, above a sweeping illusory landscape of Titans' skies.
"Final phase," came Galaxbeam's voice over a hidden comm, amused and affectionate. "Integration Walk."
Moonbeam chuckled. "He would give the act of 'walking around after a spa treatment' a formal name."
Sunbeam slid off the chair, standing carefully. The marble was pleasantly warm under his bare soles, responding to the imprint of his feet with a faint shimmer of Solar glyphs.
He offered a hand to Moonbeam. She took it and stepped down beside him. The two of them walked together toward the balcony.
There was no armor. No weapons. Just bare feet, freshly cared for, touching solid stone.
Outside, the sky was a constructed marvel: a slow eclipse unfolding on the horizon, Sun and Moon crossing paths. Brilliant orange and soft blue radiance interwove, casting the world below in shades of copper and silver.
They stepped out onto the balcony.
The stone here was slightly rougher, just enough texture to feel like natural rock. Sunbeam curled his toes against it, savoring the sensation. Moonbeam closed her eyes and let a gentle breeze—generated by some unseen system—slip through her hair and over her skin.
For a long while, they simply stood there, shoulder to shoulder, watching their celestial emblems meet and blend.
"Do you think it's selfish," Sunbeam asked quietly, "for us to be here while the war still rages?"
Moonbeam considered the question. "No," she said at last. "Because tomorrow, and the day after that, they will need us at full strength. Not fraying. Not coming apart at the edges."
He nodded slowly. The eclipse deepened, their combined light forming a halo that painted the balcony in gold-blue.
"And if anyone deserves a few hours on warm stone with clean feet," she added, nudging him gently, "it's the man who charged through three BRD front lines without shoes because his boots melted."
He laughed, a bright, clear sound that rang against the balcony's stone and echoed off the illusory valley below. "You remember that?"
"I could smell your feet from Lunnet," she teased.
"Lies," he protested, chuckling.
They stood quietly again. At some point, her head found its way to his shoulder; his arm slid around her waist, drawing her closer. The contact was simple, unforced—two people leaning into each other's presence, sharing the calm.
Below them, the sanctuary's cascades murmured softly. Somewhere within, attendants reset basins and prepared for the next heroes who would need them.
"Thank you for bringing me here," Sunbeam said eventually.
She tilted her head up at him. "I didn't. Our allies did."
"You said yes," he replied. "You pulled me through that doorway when I was going to argue about duty and schedules."
Her lips curved. "Someone has to save you from yourself."
He squeezed her gently. "Consider me rescued. For tonight."
She reached down, letting her fingers brush his freshly restored sole playfully. "Tomorrow, these have to carry you back into battle."
He caught her hand. "Ours," he corrected. "We stand together."
"Always," she agreed.
The eclipse reached its apex, Sun and Moon perfectly aligned, their auras twining into a luminous corona that bathed the balcony in radiant warmth. For just a heartbeat, the world felt held, healed, suspended in a single perfect moment of balance.
General Sunbeam Moonlight and Lady Moonbeam Sunlight watched it in silence, bare feet rooted in warm stone, bodies loose and light, hearts steadier than they had been in years.
Soon enough, they would don their armor again. Soon enough, the BRD would test the limits of their power and their resolve. But when they launched back into the fray, they would do so with a stronger foundation—soles restored, steps renewed, and a quiet memory of this sanctuary carried in every movement.
In Lumina Springs Sanctuary, the Sun and Moon of Titanumas had been reminded of something profound:
Even godlike beings needed a place to rest their feet. And when they did so together, their light shone all the brighter.
No comments:
Post a Comment