Chapter Text
From my sky you arrive to say goodbye
fine orvallo that you slowly bathe
the oaks that dress the mountains
of my land, and the corn of its vegas.
Pitying my dryness, you water
mountains and valleys, those of my entrails,
and with your mist you tarnish the horizon
of my fate, and thus in faith you drown me.
–De vuelta a casa, original (in Spanish) by Miguel de Unamuno.
In nearly a year, Amphoreus has grown from a ruined world that only recently started basking in the light of the countless stars of the real sky to a thriving promise of the future.
Aglaea spends the first hours of the morning gazing out at the spreading landscape of Okhema, taking note of all little details that still need fixing, that are still missing. The most glaring of all is, of course, the missing silhouette of Kephale in the distance, protecting them all under the light of the dawn upon their shoulders. The dawn has already arrived, though, and the dawn ended up being just another lie, the lock of the chains that bind them when Amphoreus was just a string of numbers.
She watches as Okhema greets another day, its people getting to work once again, together. Buildings are fixed, or maybe constructed from zero. Gardens are tended. Soldiers patrol and take care of any monsters foolish enough to approach their city. Messengers rush from place to place. Children play on the streets, their laughter high and loud.
And she can see all of this – maybe not perfectly, because some scars remain even in a perfect and real world, but well enough to realize that this is happening, that this is her (their) reality now.
Amphoreus is on the mend, striding forward every single day, unrelenting, determined to embrace the future they have fought so hard for. And thus, this means countless meetings, days and nights of hard work, nightmarish set-backs and stumbling relations between the people that have– pretty much returned to life.
Though, not all of them have, and that only raises countless riots and numerous families knocking on their door, wailing and crying for their lost loved ones. It makes Aglaea’s heart twist, now – she still struggles with her emotions, every time.
Sometimes these (new?) feelings feel muted, sometimes they feel like a Dromas running her over, sometimes she has to stop her newest project to breathe through the tears that flow down her cheeks without a clear reason. Sometimes she has the strange urge to laugh loudly, at Tribbie’s antics, at a cute chimera, at pranks from the children. She feels the emotions she didn’t feel in the past centuries bubbling past her lips, her eyes, her hands.
The first time she bursts out laughing when a hurried Garmentmaker tops over her tower of paperwork and then immediately after tears up, Tribbie looks at her with wide and worried eyes. She hesitates for a moment, unsure whether approaching Aglaea would help at all or if it would make matters worse, even as Aglaea herself rubs her eyes and chuckles still shake her shoulders. She doesn't miss the dichotomy of it and it almost makes her laugh again – oh, how she called Anaxagoras mad, back in the day, when she isn't any better herself.
In the end, Tribbie takes her hands with a teary smile that doesn't really help Aglaea reign in her own tears.
“Don't hesitate to feel again, Agy,” mutters her teacher, terribly gentle and patient with her, as always.
It's only when Aglaea finishes her laughing-crying that she realizes that Tribbie's hands are also shaking.
Maybe they’re all trying to get used to this – this hope. She can’t blame Phainon, then. Somehow, this ‘after’ feels more difficult than the Flame-Chase itself, but maybe that’s because she’s done it so many times, it’s become easy for her to discard herself in favor of forging ahead.
But through the ‘after’, they all learn to live again. They all learn how to look to the future and accept that they will be a part of it.
Aglaea takes small sips of tea, standing alone at the Garden of Life, Okhema coming to life slowly beneath her perch. Their new sun peeks over the horizon, so bright it cannot be looked at directly. A new day of meetings and visits to the edge of the city awaits her, and yet, she can’t help but feel a spark of what could be expectancy itching under her skin. She tugs at her golden threads – still just as loyal as ever and just as useful now that Amphoreus is headed to a new future and enemies crawl from the shadows to once again mess their plans up – but she finds no changes.
And yet, she just knows. Maybe today will be the day.
So, she goes about her duties, always ready to reach for her teleslate. And when her day ends and it comes the time to continue her newest project – a navy dress with gold that has been nagging at her mind for days, hands itching to find thread and needle and get to work – in her workshop, and when her teleslate finally pings– She smiles, unlocking her teleslate and reading the newest message in the Crysos Heirs groupchat.
Phainon is coming home, after more than half a year of traveling around the cosmos and – as far as she knows – bringing literal hell to the minions (and not only minions) of the Destruction.
Immediately, there is an explosion of excited messages and ideas and soon, Aglaea has been pelted by at least a dozen private messages from various Crysos Heirs in less than a minute, all of them asking her for permission to go ahead with the not-surprise party and a welcome committee when Phainon finally gets to Amphoreus and everyone asks her where he should land first and–
And Aglaea has to cover her mouth – maybe to keep her jaw from trembling, maybe to hide the wide smile on her face, maybe to try to contain the wave of emotions that washes over her.
Falling back to work is easy, so easy. Soon, she’s pushing her agenda around so she can be present at the Garden of Life a few days later, she sends a deeply-apologetic note to the new budding Council they have been working with lately, telling them that the Crysos Heirs will be unable to attend the appointed meeting. The nervous and overworked members write back to her with a million questions and worries, trying to figure out why their usually reliable co-leader of present Amphoreus could even think of leaving her duties aside – for a single morning, really? Aglaea scoffs at the parchment in her hands – and abandoning them with the mess, until Cerydra steps in and firmly shuts everyone up.
She feels young when the appointed time comes, days later. The Crysos Heirs gather at the Garden of Life, so early in the morning the sun is only just peeking over the distant horizon and gently pushing the stars off the sky.
Dawn embraces them as Hyacine and the Tribios fidget on their feet, as Castorice adjusts and readjusts her dress, as Cipher counts her coins and doesn't ignore her surroundings, as Anaxagoras’ eyes dance away in a futile attempt at seeming uninterested. Mydei, of course, stands firm in the middle, arms crossed on his chest, but his usual serious expression melts into something warm the more he looks out at the clear sky over their heads.
Even Cerydra and Hysilens hover by the edges of the garden, leaving them all space and yet too curious and interested to stand aside and lose the opportunity to properly meet the last of their golden-blooded companions.
Aglaea herself stands at the front of their little group, hands clasped in front of her, staring out at the sky over their heads.
It is when Cyrene finally appears at the specified time that something in the still dim sky moves – a flash, bright and short, and then a trail of golden flames streaking through the canvas of the sky.
“Ah, I came just in time,” comments Cyrene with a terribly knowing and almost sly smile on her face.
Aglaea follows the trail of fire with her eyes, unable to speak through the sudden knot of a myriad of emotions in her throat.
The Crysos Heirs stir, then, and soon, Tribbie is skipping forward and pointing and her sisters follow, grins wide. Even Anaxagoras has straightened up from where he’s been leaning against the wall, his single eye following the shooting star.
Said shooting star descends in a waterfall of fire and gold and soon Aglaea can finally make out the silhouette of long mismatched wings and a thorned halo and gold, so much gold, a distant part of her mind wonders if he’s been wrapped with her threads long before he could even touch the surface of their world.
Phainon lands on Amphorean soil more than half a year later, radiant in gold and power – and yet, Aglaea takes a step forward, steady and unafraid, and smiles warmly at this boy she’s seen grow up countless times, has seen shatter himself over and over again, has seen follow the path she had tried to bury in the past.
And Phainon– meets her eyes head-on, just as unafraid, without a hint of hesitation – so different to the last time she saw him, when he couldn’t even stand being in the same room as her, as them – and smiles.
It pales in comparison to the ones he donned in the past, much more tired and old now, but still just as radiant and heartwarming as ever.
Something sparks in her chest, another emotion she can’t quite name after centuries of grinding her soul into nothing, after countless tragedies. But it still makes her feel warm, like the sunlight caressing her skin now that they have a real sun.
Aglaea opens her arms, a clear invitation.
Phainon doesn’t hesitate this time, either – he surges forward, leaving behind the gold of this divine form born from suffering, letting Destruction float away from his body like the wind, like a wave. When they meet, he’s that young boy again, white-haired, blue-eyed, with a great burden on his shoulders but strong enough to carry it, with a kind and warm heart beating away in his chest.
His arms clutch at her shoulders, her back, and Aglaea hugs him tight – and she surprises herself when she has to remind herself to be careful not to dig her long nails into his skin from how tightly she’s holding him.
He’s warm, alive, and when she leans her head against his shoulder, she can smell ozone and something that can only be stardust clinging to him. Aglaea calls forth her threads and they wind lightly around his arms, his torso. She finds no injuries, no bruises, only a steady and strong furnace inside him, beating along with his heart. That’s good, she decides. When her hands brush over his cape and coat, she finds worn down cloth and frayed edges, and so she grimaces and frowns and makes a mental note to add another personal project to the list.
But for now– she sighs and closes her eyes.
“Welcome home,” she whispers, and she hopes that the warmth and fondness she feels in her chest pours into her voice.
It must have, because Phainon sighs and his shoulders relax and his grip tightens for a moment.
“I’m home,” he answers, another whisper.
They linger for a moment longer, before they both part slowly. Reality creeps back in and only then does Aglaea finally hear the loud and cheerful laughter that envelops them, the good-natured argument over a not-surprise party, the direct attempt of Tribbie to get Hysilens and Cerydra to approach the group.
Aglaea meets Phainon’s gaze and finds the usual warmth there, but also a glint of something terribly ancient. Her heart twists, as it’s wont to do lately, but she falls back with a small smile as she hears the familiar light steps of who can only be Cyrene.
“Glad to see you back, I was starting to get bored,” came her usual airy voice, tinted with fondness and clear relief.
Aglaea turns away from them as they embrace tightly, whispering to each other like only life-long friends can, and crosses her arms at the clear disarray in the Garden. Trianne is, of course, dragging Hysilens closer to their group by the hand, which in turn makes Cerydra also gravitate towards them – and the group's loud argument over the best place to gather and spend time together until it’s time for lunch.
“We can stay here for now,” she says, cutting through the voices easily after years and years of public speaking. Immediately, there are various eyes on her. “I’ve already posted a few Garmentmakers at the entrances to the Garden. We will not be disturbed.”
“Classic Agy! Thinking of everything!” nods Tribbie, with a proud glint in her eye – and just like in the past, Aglaea’s heart soars at the clear praise and trust.
She sees Mydei approaching Phainon, then, direct like an arrow, and Cyrene skipping away from them with her hands behind her back, her long white gown floating in tune with her bell-like chuckles.
“Are there any chairs we can use?” asks Anaxagoras, predictable as always, because there’s no way he would sit on the grass like a child.
Aglaea, just as predictable – not that she would admit it – scoffs and moves her threads to jog a cluster of chairs left to the side, usually meant for informal meetings or for chimeras to sleep on. Soon, a few of the Crysos Heirs begin preparing the site, organizing the chairs around the Garden and moving a table to the middle, once again arguing over the fruits available.
Aglaea leaves them to it, taking a moment to just – breathe and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere, the laughter, the wide smiles and grins and the way Hyacine, Castorice, Cipher and Tribbie and her sisters all ignore the chairs in favor of sitting on the grass like– children.
Phainon and Mydei return a few moments later, still stuck close to each other, and so Hyacine jumps up to hug him too, closely followed by a much shier Castorice, who even now is hesitant when touching people. Cerydra and Hysilens admit to not remembering much about him – seeing as he only associated himself with them in the earliest cycles – and nod in respect and Phainon follows their slightly awkward introductions and greetings with ease and a welcoming air around him. And yet, the group soon derails into a more relaxed conversation about the photos Phainon has sent them over the weeks, of planets Aglaea never imagined could exist, of astronomical phenomena her old and pragmatic mind couldn’t make sense of anymore, of wonders and a beauty that has finally inspired her to create with her own two hands again.
As Phainon gets swept away by the excited questions of the Crysos Heirs, Aglaea leans back and tries to brand this moment into her mind. Who would have thought that they would one day enjoy something as simple as this gathering of friends, of family? Era Nova came, after all.
(And yet, the scars they bear seem more poignant than ever under this new sun – Aglaea doesn’t need her threads to see the signs.
But– they heal. They recover. They continue on.
They live.)
When the sun is already climbing up the sky and Okhema has already awakened and rivers of people flow from one place to the other beneath their peaceful little Garden, Phainon sits in the middle of the messy circle they have created and leaves a bag in front of himself. And his lips twitch up, a hint of nervousness in his eyes.
“I think I’ve made you wait long enough,” he says, amused.
“Oh, you sure have,” grumbles Cipher, arms crossed on her chest where she’s sitting on the table instead of a chair or the grass now.
“Who wants to go first?” asks Hyacine, terribly amused, a glint in her eyes.
“Us, of course!” jumps Trianne, standing up and nearly tripping on her dress in her hurry. She’s saved by her sisters, who also rush to Phainon’s side and look at him with big eyes. Trianne raises a hand. “Gimme, gimme.”
“Okay, okay,” laughs Phainon, and it’s not like his old ones, it’s softer, maybe more tired, but the warmth is still as clear as the sun. “Here you go.”
And he gives them a wrapped up box, which disappears from his hands in less than a second. So does the wrapping, and the three redheads let out soft ‘ohh’s and ‘ahh’s and then they all tilt their head to the side, curiosity and confusion clear in their eyes.
“We’re very thankful for this, Snowy, but… what exactly is it?” asks Tribbie with a small nervous smile, hands fidgeting with the wrapping left abandoned on the ground. It’s clear that she doesn’t want to offend Phainon, after the trouble he went through to get them all presents from outside their world.
Phainon, of course, takes no offense to her question and just gets his teleslate out, typing something and, after a short pause, he shows them all a video of– people singing.
“It’s called a karaoke,” he explains, nodding to the video.
Immediately, the three Tribios’ eyes glint with excitement and they all lunge for the box, tearing it open and scattering the few accessories it contained on the grass, grabbing the thick booklet of instructions and – probably – the songs available for them to sing.
Aglaea leans forward in her seat, pulling at her threads, trying to get a peek at the unfamiliar names, but she only manages to read a few before she gives up. The excitement of the Tribios is infectious, though, and soon she’s smiling softly as the three demigods fight good-naturedly for the booklet. In the middle of all this chaos, Trinnon sneaks away for a moment to hug Phainon tightly, which only makes him huff a laugh, before he’s back to rummaging through his bag.
“Next– Lady Cipher,” he calls and Cipher perks up, ears twitching for a moment and tail swishing, before she huffs and snatches her gift away from his hand.
And yet, she opens the package carefully, with slow hands that sometimes hesitate. Phainon rolls his eyes, but he smiles and goes back to rummage through his bag, asking who would like to be next, effectively moving attention away from Cipher and her reaction – Aglaea knows she’ll be begrudgingly thankful for that. She still keeps an eye on her, anyway, and the way Cipher startles when she opens the small jewelry box and sees whatever is inside.
Cipher takes the delicate cat-paw-shaped pendant and ties it carefully around her own throat, opening the pendant once and humming to herself. It covers the void left behind by her destroyed old coin, now lost to the cycles and the no-longer-existing Titans of old. Aglaea hides a smile behind a hand, but she’s sure that Cipher has already caught her in the act; that’s fine.
Hyacine gets her own gift and she retreats to her seat, Castorice peeking at the two objects inside the wrapping: a polaroid photostone and an album, decorated with clouds and rainbows. Hyacine’s smile is wide and her eyes light as she caresses the pages and colorful rainbows with Ica perched on her shoulder.
“For all the photos we’ve made around the cosmos?” asks Hyacine, sending a knowing glance at Phainon.
“Or any new adventures and excursions?” asks Phainon, just as knowing, smile small but genuine.
Hyacine’s smile widens.
“We’ll see,” she says, simply. And then she takes out her teleslate, taking a photo of her new polaroid camera – probably to send it to their Express friends. “I’ll have to ask March for any advice on how to take the best photos, then.”
Phainon offers a gift to Anaxagoras next, and the professor huffs, maybe rolling his eyes as he stands up with crossed arms, but he does take it from his student’s hands and he does open it with a glint of curiosity in his gaze that turns considering and interested as he lays eyes on the notebook and pen carefully arranged inside the package.
“It’s a self-writing notebook. You only need to dictate what you want to write,” explains Phainon, and Aglaea stifles a laugh at how Anaxagoras’ eyes lit up like a kid with new toys – and then she pauses when a particularly worrisome chuckle leaves the Professor’s mouth. A chuckle that only means trouble.
Oh, well. This is the Grove’s mess, not hers. Maybe even Phainon’s too, seeing as he’s the one who gifted this miraculous notebook to Anaxagoras. He’s old enough to live up to his mistakes, after all.
The next gift is given with much care and it’s obvious why when Castorice slowly unwraps the gift and the few small flowerpots inside almost tumble to the ground. The three Tribios – still on the grass, arguing with each other about the songs they should look up to sing first – scramble up to grab the few that escape Castorice’s nervous hands and return them to her lap, where she stares at them for a moment, their beautiful and colorful flowers, so small, so delicate – and then she touches each of them carefully, still hesitant.
The flowers don’t wither, and Castorice’s answering smile is brilliant like the morning sun over their heads.
“I’ll take good care of them,” she promises Phainon, a heaviness in her words that is felt by everyone.
Phainon nods with a small smile, perceptive and meaningful.
Then, Phainon takes out something delicate from an elegant box, and Aglaea’s breath hitches for a moment, because how…?
She accepts the delicate and utterly breathtaking headdress Phainon hands her, like an offering to the Titans of old, like a crown, and she gapes for a moment – only him could render her speechless with a simple gift. She gulps down the countless words that rise up in her throat and instead, touches the fine thread that keeps this little art piece together, the thin cascade of crystals that falls from one side. She stares at the midnight blue of the cloth that composes it and–
“How did you…?” she asks, a bit breathless.
“I remembered you working on a dress– gold and dark blue… ah, you know I’m not good with color names– I don’t even know if you have it now, I don’t remember in which cycles you made it or– or if you liked it, in the end, or if you simply discarded it, set fire to it? I hope it can still be used, anyway–” rambles Phainon, fidgeting with a worn sleeve, but Aglaea reaches out and stops him, grabbing his wrist and finally looking up from the headdress resting on her hands like a crown.
“It’s perfect, Phainon,” she says, trying to will all of the emotions that drown her in the best of days to pour into her words like ambrosia. “Thank you.” The answering smile is still small, but there’s a glint of relief in his old, old eyes. She curls up her lips, then, looking down at the headdress with a considering hum. “In fact… It has come at the perfect moment. With this, I expect my current project will be… completed.”
With that, she sits down again and leaves the headdress on her lap. Her fingers run through each individual crystal as Phainon moves away and gives a thick package to Mydei, obviously book-shaped, and for a moment, they all frown at the gift, but when Mydei tears the wrapping away, they all finally understand the vision: a recipe book, thick, full of the – allegedly – best recipes the cosmos has to offer.
“It’s also pretty heavy, so it’s a win-win,” comments Phainon, smiling wider now, eyes glinting with a hint of amusement and impishness.
Mydei half-ignores him, offering only a hum as he skims over the countless recipes the book offers. He does send a grateful smile at Phainon, though, and Phainon huffs a small laugh, before he returns to his bag and– pauses.
And then he very obviously tries to keep a laugh in, as he offers Cyrene a lumpy package.
Cyrene, for her part, makes a show of accepting it with a wide smile and a knowing and suspicious glint in her eyes and even a low bow at the waist, lifting a corner of her dress in an exaggerated curtsey. Phainon has to bite his lip to keep his laugh in, now, so all Crysos Heirs watch curiously as she unwraps the gift, painstakingly slow, until it reveals–
“What the hell is that?” asks Cipher, point-blank, confused and maybe even offended on Cyrene’s behalf.
Aglaea… has to agree, to some degree, because that’s the ugliest stuffed toy she’s ever seen, and she’s helped countless children over the ages make their own toys and plushies with the spare cloth from her workshop and seen their amateur creations time and time again – and some of them are better than whatever is in Cyrene’s hand.
And yet, she handles the scarecrow toy with great care. She smiles down at its mismatched eyes and crooked face, adjusts its half-open shirt, moves its uneven arms. And then she huffs out a laugh, looking up at Phainon, and it hits Aglaea then, how Cyrene's eyes glisten with unshed tears and a nostalgic shine difficult to overlook.
“You big buffoon,” she says, and her voice is a bit wobbly, even if amused and warm and fond. “I love it.”
And with that, she throws her arms over him, crushing him into a hug with a million unsaid words. Aglaea can’t even begin to understand or imagine the great weight over them, their past, their choices.
It’s too big to say out loud, she thinks.
And yet, they are both strong – the strongest people Aglaea has ever known… They’ll be fine.
“Knew it,” huffs Phainon, and it’s clear in his voice that he’s smiling. “It’s still better than whatever monstrosities you created back in Aedes Elysiae.”
“Hey! I’ll have you know that my scarecrows were the best!” huffs Cyrene, pinching Phainon’s arm and getting a light swat that she evades easily in return. “They scared the birds– they did their job!”
“Traumatized the birds, more like,” came Phainon’s answer, full of mirth.
“Oh, shut up. You can ask Stelle – I made one in her image. She loved it. She has taste, not like you,” shoots back Cyrene.
Aglaea lets them to it, looking down at the headdress on her lap once again and smiling softly.
She missed this, she thinks. Or maybe– maybe they never even had it in the first place. For as long as she can remember, the sword of the Flame-Chase had been hovering over their heads, waiting for the perfect moment to fall and crush them, to make everything crumble away, to destroy their wishes and futures. First a simple Crysos Heir, following the tides, then a demigod with more responsibilities and a looming threat, then a leader clinging to her sword with a vague hope of a prophecy that rang true, that didn’t stomp all over their wishes and lives, that didn’t end in tragedy.
She looks around now, sees laughter and smiles and a peace they’ve fought so hard for, sacrificed so much for– and decides that it was worth it. It was all worth it.
And then– a pinch on her arm, like a bug-bite, and she jumps slightly and turns, threads ready, only to meet Anaxagoras’ calm single eye by her side. Anaxagoras arches an eyebrow at her, hands behind his back, but very clearly the culprit.
“Why?” she pretty much grumbles.
“Just thought you’d like a reminder that this is real,” he says, terribly calm and unbothered, with an accompanying shrug. She glares lightly, but he meets her eye anyway.
“I know that already,” she says, a bit petulant maybe, but this man has always managed to rip that annoyance from her stone heart and make her lips spit it out against him – the fact that they were so similar in the end only exacerbated it further, she feels like.
“Maybe. But it’s good to keep it in mind, anyway,” he says, still unbothered, but it’s also pointed. Knowing.
And so, Aglaea sighs and relaxes. She follows his gaze, finds the Tribios trying to set up their new karaoke with the help of Mydei, who squints at the instructions in his hand, finds Hyacine explaining to Castorice and Cipher the best way to get the flowers to grow big and healthy, finds Cerydra and Hysilens finally talking calmly with Phainon and Cyrene, their shoulders relaxed.
“It is difficult to believe,” she admits, soft, maybe too soft to be heard. But Anaxagoras, always in-tune with everything in their reality, still does.
“Do you need another pinch?” he asks, dry and yet amused. “I’d be happy to oblige.”
“Keep your hands to yourself, blasphemer,” she shoots back with a roll of her eyes. “My eyes don’t lie.”
Her heart doesn’t lie, either.
And so, she leans back on her chair, a hand on the headdress, and watches with a slight smile as the Crysos Heirs continue on with their lives, now all together, reunited. Alive.
Her teleslate rings and vibrates with countless unseen messages and calls, but she ignores it. This is more important.
Family is more important.
—
(That night, before she goes to bed and prepares for another harrowing day of wrangling the new Council to agree on an exact date for their impending meeting with the infamous IPC, she sneaks into her workshop with the headdress.
She finds her current project with ease, standing as it is in the middle of a chaos of chiffon and silk and patterns. The night blue dress almost melts into the darkness that hugs the corners of the room, the gold shines under the moonglow, and when Aglaea carefully places the headdress on the head of the mannequin and steps back to admire her work– she smiles, wide and relieved, hands on her hips and eyes glinting with the satisfaction that only a successful piece can shower her with.
“Perfect,” she mutters to herself, watching the light dance from crystal to crystal – a beautiful sea of stars on her wall, like the ones Amphoreus can now see and touch.)