He knew before he even got there that he was going to be too late, but he refused to stop. Couldn't stop, even if he wanted to. He didn't want to. He wanted to get there in the nick of time. Perform a daring rescue, or at least fight by his lover's side.

It has to be just me and Belial, Oannes had said. I know you. You stay out of it. Don't even come close or I'll never forgive you.

He hadn't meant never, but Janus had gritted his teeth and agreed to stay away, just as he'd done seventy years earlier when Oannes had gone to fight Vephar.

He'd left spies nearby, of course, because Oannes hadn't said anything about that, and the battle had been going well. Really well. He was cheering and hollaring and punching the air when he'd gotten more news:

Fire spreading - on the horizon. The entire island is on fire, my *God*-

Nothing more from his spies.

He burst into corporeal and held himself aloft, looking around frantically, half blinded for the dissapating Forces floating around the area.

There was a rumble, an explosion of lava, and he turned to face the island, eyes widening, just in time to see Oannes come apart. To see Belial, bleeding and tattered turning and vanishing as the island exploded, tidal waves rising and crashing, ash a choking thickness in the air.

And nothing else.

Janus screamed, tasted blood in his mouth from the force of it. He dove forward and reached for Oannes, something, anything, but there was nothing there. Nothing. Oannes had always been there, Janus thought around the screams, he couldn't be gone now, he'd always been there.

He wasn't there.

Janus's fingers clenched. No. He wouldn't let it happen. He reached out and GRABBED, caught a floating Force. Free like that, not having been there to see it torn free, he couldn't be sure whose it was - but Oannes was dead, Oannes was dead right here, so they had to be Oannes's, were probably Oannes's.

He kept grabbing, tried to hold the slippery Forces there until they bound - they didn't WANT to bind, didn't want to go together, but he'd make them, by GOD, he'd make them, he wouldn't lose Oannes while there was still half a chance left, a quarter of a chance, any chance at all, Oannes couldn't go, couldn't leave him, not Oannes, not his other self. He'd always been there, couldn't go away. He couldn't. Janus would never forgive him, ever. Not ever.

Not enough, the Forces kept slipping away, so he grabbed more from the air, and more, and more - it wasn't enough. He could feel his Vessel's skin bubbling as Oannes' protection from water (always on him) wasn't on him now. He ignored it, ignored the boiling water, and focussed on the Forces in his grasp. Even if he could get them to go together, a part of him whispered, how could he guarantee that it would be the right arrangement to be Oannes? Enough, he thought, enough Forces from Oannes and it would be at least SOMETHING of Oannes, he could learn, he could remember who he was, slowly -

The Forces were dwindling, escaping into the Symphony and he grabbed faster, resonating so he could take them before they vanished completely, grabbed more - was sure now that he was grabbing some of Belial's torn Forces - but Oannes had torn them off him, that had to be good for SOMETHING, and there was enough of Oannes Forces that it would be okay, really, just a new Force for him, and -

It wasn't enough, they weren't holding together, there was no Celestial forming between his hands, and there were no more Forces in the air. Failure loomed thick in his throat - No. He wouldn't let it happen. He wouldn't. He reached into himself and twisted, pulled away Forces. Ethereal, he thought, he'd need his Will to put the Celestial together once he had enough Forces, he'd need his Corporeal forces to prevent his Vessel from dying while he did this. All he'd need was that. He reached in, pulled more, tore into himself and pressed it to the forming Celestial in his hands.

"Please, Oannes," he sobbed, snot running down his nose and frying in the heat. "Please don't leave me, please, please, please-"

Ethereal Forces tore-

He woke in Heaven, shivering and whirling in the branches of the Groves and tried to remember what he'd been doing. Couldn't think right. Couldn't remember- no. Oannes. He remembered Oannes dying, remembered, vaguely, attacking himself... was that right? No. Attempting to remake him. He prodded at the hole in his memory, trying to find more, but couldn't.

Still. If he'd succeeded. No Oannes here - looking around told him that easily enough. Maybe down where he'd made him. Remade him. If he had remade him - couldn't remember. Everything felt distant.

He forced himself to descend to where he'd last been and stayed Celestial, looking at the sinking island, looking around. All Forces gone from the air, no Oannes. Nothing. He'd gained nothing at all.

Janus screamed again, throwing his voice into the air, and tornadoes joined the earthquake as he mourned and mourned and mourned

***

Elsewhere in Greece, a Calabite - thin, weak, nearly helpless - managed to pull himself from the water onto the land. Anger welled in him, at - something. He couldn't tell what. Burns all over him - anger at that, maybe, whatever burned him - he couldn't remember. He just couldn't remember.

Fingers clenched and unclenched and he raised a hand to push burned blue hair from his face - it seemed to be long. He hated it immediately. Memories - no, not memories, imaginings - of someone running his hands through it. His? Hers, maybe. Whatever. His fingers clenched and he ripped handfuls of hair out. Never again. Never again.

He tried to gain control of himself. He wished he could remember who he was. He wished he had an outlet for his anger. He wished - he didn't know.

Slowly, he managed to bend the flares of anger inside him to stillness, staring out at sea, at the tornadoes whipping in the distance.

They felt like home.

He managed, after a few failed tries, to smile at the hatred that feeling inspired.