Archive of Our Own

Phainon doesn’t really remember turning ten.

He doesn’t have the photographic memory needed to fully recall each birthday he’s gone through, but there are flashes, bits and pieces of memories, that he still carries to this day. Mom’s laughter, Cyrene complaining when he bites into the cake without cutting it first.

But his tenth birthday happened when he was all alone, after Cyrene had already died. He guesses the exact hour of his birth must’ve passed among those in-between moments of rest and battle and survival, before Aglaea found him but after he’d bled enough to discover his insides were gold and not red.

He remembers when he was brought into the holy city, though. He remembers finally — finally, finally — reaching it after so much time spent travelling; Aglaea had welcomed him as warmly as she could muster, her golden threads having already informed her of his arrival. She’d guided him into the privacy of their now shared baths, reserved only for the Heirs, and smiled when he loudly yawned, her shampoo covered hands already touching his head. The sensation of her fingers threading through his hair (the first kind physical touch he’d felt in ages) followed him days after, much like a phantom with pink hair.

Phainon had been completely lost, when it came to time. He had a narrow idea of what day it was at the moment, but that derived from the hushed whispers of the civilians of every village he’d visited, and he wasn’t really sure if he should trust those.

When he came to the holy city, he had no idea what day it was. The first thing he asked Aglaea when alone was, how long has it been?

Somehow, she understood. And she said: Today marks two years and seven months.

He remembers, most of all, the crumbling disappointment he felt when he realized he missed two birthdays, one by a whole month. He was eleven, almost twelve, and he didn’t even know. It quickly turned into sorrow, into anguish, at the reminder that he wouldn’t have gotten to celebrate anyway.

Cyrene is dead. There was, there isn’t, there never will be anything he can do about it.

Still, he remembers—

Cyrene’s voice: Hey, that’s a big tree.

(Remember her name. Remember what she told you to call her.)

“So you persist, Deliverer,” Mydei’s voice says from somewhere behind him, shaking him away from his thoughts.

Phainon turns around, and is greeted with the comfortingly familiar sight of his rival staring at him with his arms crossed and a smile in his face.

“So I persist,” Phainon echoes, the corners of his mouth immediately tilting upwards to mimick Mydei’s expression. “Recovery was tough, as always, but nothing I couldn’t handle; thanks for asking.”

“You’re welcome,” Mydei answers simply, but the look in his eyes betray his nonchalant demeanor. Phainon’s hollow chest is filled with warmth.

Phainon was hurt, some time ago. Injuried. Harmed. Nearly felled in battle, if one were to be overly dramatic about his broken leg and twisted arm. It was nothing he hadn’t recovered from before, and he truthfully thinks he could’ve kept fighting were it not for Mydei pulling him away from the battlefield, but Hyacine would probably curse him to hell and back (in her mind, at the very least) if he ever voiced those thoughts, so he just stayed quiet and did what she told him to with the goal of being discharged as quickly as possible.

Of course, what she need not know is that he didn’t follow her orders to the letter. What she’s not aware of cannot hurt her, he thinks.

The details of the battle don’t matter. He was caught off guard in an attempt to block an attack dealt to Mydei’s back, and the enemy managed to deal quite a bit of damage — he didn’t scream, but he clenched his teeth together so tightly his jaw hurt, and when he slashed back, it was sloppy, and weak.

What does matter is that Mydei was there with him.

The man, the Undying Prince, didn’t take long to notice something was off with Phainon’s stance. When he noticed the flowing golden staining his clothes, he snapped at him and told him to get the hell out. Then, when Phainon didn’t oblige, he made him leave by force.

It’s kind of embarrassing, really, to be injuried anywhere Mydei is near. Phainon has seen him shake off shattered bones with a grunt. In one memorable day, Phainon saw him get his own arm cut off, only to pick it up from the ground and start hitting Black Tide monsters with it. Then again, Mydei is immortal — his body is cursed to heal every wound in spite of the severity, and Phainon knows he hates it, even though others may call it a blessing.

In this scenario, Mydei has the clear advantage. He’s gotten used to recovering from hits that should’ve killed him immediately like it’s nothing, and therefore is more likely to withstand greater amounts of pain. If Mydei’s leg was the one to be broken, he would’ve simply start jumping around with the other one as he waits for it to heal — and, after little time, he’d be back on his feet (no pun intended) like nothing happened, because his healing factor is crazy like that.

Phainon, however, has endured less than him, on a physical level. He’s broken bones before, but none ever healed in seconds. The concept of bedrest is probably a stranger to Mydei. And Phainon is stubborn to a fault, so he kept going even then — but Mydei, beloved Mydei (he says with spite), pulled him away. Phainon aches at the reminder that, for the first time in ages, he fought without him there to watch his back.

He aches when he remembers how long Mydei has spent alone. When he thinks about what he must’ve gone through for his pain tolerance to be so high.

“Are you high?” Mydei asks, somehow mimicking his thoughts. It’s more of a demand than a question, really.

“Hi,” Phainon answers, only as a joke.

Mydei stares at him with incredulity. Phainon is proud to admit he lasted long enough without laughter for this to be believable.

It didn’t really take that long for him to start giggling, though.

Mydei startles at the loud noise, then sighs in disappointment, covering his mouth with a hand to hide a smile.

“HKS,” he says, a word Phainon has already learned to associate with his name.

Some day, he’ll retaliate by calling Mydei bitch so often he starts to perk up when a vendor down the street cusses out a customer. (It happens more often than one’d think.)

“You fall too easily,” Phainon says in between hiccups and snorts. Then, to actually answer the question: “I’m not high — though Hyacine sure as hell would’ve loved to sedate me —, I’m just thinking. Nothing to worry about.”

Mydei’s eyebrows raise, all the way up to his forehead. “You, thinking. There definitely is something to worry about if your pea sized brain is straining itself enough to think.”

“Mydei, always so eloquent with your words!” Phainon mocks, laughing.

This is nice. The familiarity of the bickering brings him comfort, always, every day — because Mydei is always there, because where Mydei goes Phainon will follow. Phainon can tell that the Kremnoan still isn’t fully used to having someone by his side (again, because apparently he had actual friends before him. Weird to think about. Especially since they’re all dead), but the trust they share is deep, and Phainon has already started to look forward to fighting him, or alongside him.

Mydei is a constant in his life. Phainon knows Mydei will never betray him, for he speaks truth as easily as he strikes. Phainon knows Mydei is always there, somewhere. Whenever he feels off, he can rely on Mydei to relieve his frustrations. They spar all the time, trading jests and insults like they’ve known each other they whole lives. Maybe they have: Phainon cannot picture a world without Mydei in it, by now.

It’s odd, because by the time they met, his village had already been destroyed. The only thing that still carries it is his voice, each time he says Phainon, of Aedes Elysiae — home had been his constant, once upon a time.

It’s odd, because they’ve met quite recently (it’s only been a year), and still he thinks he’s known him his entire life.

Sometimes, he daydreams about introducing Mydei to his family.

“Are you healed yet?” Mydei asks.

Phainon pauses. “Careful, Mydei! I almost heard some worry in your voice.”

Mydei scoffs and rolls his eyes. Phainon struggles to look at his face when the man crosses his arms. The tattoos he has are beautiful, but it’d be weird to stare at his… biceps.

“HKS. Are you truly weak enough to have to rely on arguments to show your prowess?” Mydei says, like a hypocrite, because the bitch is also down to argue every single time. “Maybe the time spent on the medical facilities has rotted your brain. A shame: I was looking forward for a spar, but if you’re not up to it…”

By Kephale, the man speaks like he’ll run out of words if he doesn’t. People say Phainon is the talkative one, but that’s only because they’ve never met the powerful Mydeimos.

“Hey,” Phainon calls. “I bet I could still have beaten you even with my broken leg!”

“I had to carry you out of the battlefield because you were limping,” Mydei says, not unkindly. The reminder tastes like— ash, and citrus.

“So I was caught off guard,” Phainon says, waving his hand in dismissal. “What matters is that right here, and right now, I am challenging you to a duel. Unless you’re not up to it.”

“There you are,” Mydei says. “I feared the injury had given you brain damage. Let’s spar, then; I promise to not go too hard on the injuried man.”

“No need to hold back, Mydei. It’d feel wrong if we weren’t both giving our all.”

He, of course, gets his ass kicked. Such are the woes of a weakened warrior. Mydei’s new win matches them at two hundred and two hundred competitions won by each — without counting the hundreds of ones they don’t acknowledge because they hadn’t been keeping count back then. Phainon will get him next time.

They meet on a far field, as to not falsely alert anyone of danger. Phainon has come to find that they are loud when they fight, the blows they trade with fists and sword resonating against his eardrums. The insults and mockery, too; echoes of is that all you can do? and you’re getting sloppy! run through his adrenaline filled brain.

A kick to the right, blocked by a fist. A slash to the left, just narrowly dodged. It’s as much of a fight as it is a dance, their movements predictable only to each other, always capable of striking back when one lands a hit. Phainon’s kick lifts dirt that gets into Mydei’s eyes, and Mydei attempts to punch his balls. It isn’t clean by any means, but it’s fair, and fun.

Still, he loses. He’s not particularly distraught about it; he fails as much as he succeeds when it comes to Mydei, and this just means he’ll have even more of a reason to kick Mydei’s ass to the sky and back next time.

If he closes his eyes (which he won’t do, because that’d be stupid, and he’d never hear the end of it from Mydei), he can imagine he’s in the midyear festivities back at his hometown, dancing and jumping on a stage, his hand always entangled with someone else’s. He’s never been that good at it, but for some reason, the thought of clumsily holding onto Mydei’s shoulders, laughing all the while as they spin each other around with more competitiveness than it is required for a dance like this, brings a smile to his face.

The fight ends with Mydei on top of him, his hands at his throat, never squeezing but still unrelenting. Their legs are somewhat tangled, with Mydei’s tights keeping him in place. He feels Mydei’s hot breathing on his face as his cheeks flush. Phainon tries to move, but Mydei won’t budge.

“Yield,” Mydei growls, not unlike an untamed beast.

Mydei’s hands, wrapped around his throat. They press a little, as a threat, but Phainon knows his friend well enough to tell it’s completely empty. Still, his heart skips a beat.

“Yield,” Mydei repeats. His hair falls onto his face, messy and tangled, a drop of sweat making its way down to his chin. The sun behind him makes him look… picture perfect.

“I yield,” Phainon says. The pressure against his neck lessens immediately, and Mydei rises in the blink of an eye, but Phainon doesn’t get up. He almost misses the contact.

Then, there is an extended hand in front of his face. He instinctively takes it, muttering a thanks as he gets back on his feet.

Phainon exhales, and very pointedly stares at the floor in an attempt to avoid Mydei’s gaze. The skin of his throat itches, and he swallows while he struggles to keep himself from scratching it. Mydei’s presence stays, steady, by his side, noticeable because of his loud breathing — Phainon might’ve lost, but he still put up a fight — and the shadow he produces, next to Phainon’s own. There, in the grass, the two figures stand, almost touching, like that’s where they’ve always and will always belong. Like they’ve never known anything different.

I yield, Phainon says, and the words hold a deeper significance than they would’ve if they were said by and to any one else. He yields, puts his weapons and shields down, and in spite of how hard he may try to hide his soul, Mydei is always capable of seeing right through it.

By Kephale, what embarrassing thoughts.

“Feeling better?” Mydei asks, trying to appear nonchalant.

Phainon blinks and tilts his head in confusion. “Huh?”

“You were being weird,” Mydei says with such gravity that it makes him think he might be sharing the primal secrets of the world. “A good fight always works to lift your spirits.”

“Only if it’s you I’m up against,” Phainon immediately says. He winks, smiling, and snorts when Mydei rolls his eyes.

“I will take that as a yes.” But Mydei looks as calm and Phainon feels, and so it must not be too much of a miss, to be read so easily.

The laughter building up in his chest eventually dies down. Before he realizes, the adrenaline wears off, leaving a crippling wave of exhaustion in its place — without him noticing, they settle down on the soft grass, fingers grazing each other. Laying down, staring at the sun and counting clouds in his mind, he gets a well needed rest.

Mydei’s breathing next to him is quiet and soft, and he can count the exhales and inhales too, thinking that he could make up a whole new time system based simply off of that. Minutes pass, spent with Mydei living in his head. Mydei, Mydei, Mydei — he has made a home inside Phainon’s chest, crawled beneath his skin and wrapped himself on his ribs like a blanket. He wonders if, maybe, Phainon’s heartbeat is as comforting to Mydei as Mydei’s is to him. Maybe he could rest his head against his lungs and count until nothing else counts, much like Phainon is doing right now, dozing off; burrowed in his golden entrails.

There are moments Phainon wishes could be frozen in time. Moments in which he stops for a bit and thinks, I hope this never ends. I want this to last forever. The only reason why he won’t say he craves to live by Mydei’s ribs is that he’d have to cut him open to crawl in, and by the Titans and all that They love, Mydei has already bled enough to fill entire rivers.

The last time he thought something of the sort—

Embarrassing, sickeningly sweet thoughts. Mydei would never let him live it down, if he heard them.

For whatever reason, he really, really wishes he could.

This isn’t the first time he’s had a moment to lay down on the floor with Mydei, but it is the first time it’s an actually peaceful one. Because everyone knows Mydei is immortal, and had died thousands of times. Everyone knows he heals from every injury ever dealt to him. But no one knows how long it takes for him to come back, and how Phainon spends the in-between minutes, seconds, hours, that it takes for Mydei to revive by waiting.

This isn’t the first nor will it be the last. Phainon has long since gotten used to resting his head near Mydei’s, after a particularly arduous battle — having made sure that the coast is clear, that he won’t get attacked out of nowhere, he accompanies Mydei until the man manages to come to his senses. Perhaps rather stubbornly, really. He always, without fail, refuses to leave if possible.

Phainon sighs. Such memories are dull, and bitter; he doesn’t want Mydei to suffer, immortality be damned.

What matters most is the here and now. The Undying Prince of Kremnos, alive and kicking. The feeling of light green grass beneath his fingers. Having to close his eyes after staring at the sky for too long, lest he be blinded by the sun.

Such comfort. Such peace. He could almost fall asleep.

For a moment, he thinks he dozes off. But then—

“Stop lazying around, Savior,” Mydei, a master at ruining the moment each time he opens his mouth, says.

He’s up, staring down at Phainon, casting a shadow and covering the light enough for Phainon to open his eyes with little strain. Phainon groans.

“Don’t whine. Come on, let’s head back.”

Mydei doesn’t wait up for Phainon to catch up with him, nor does he offer a helping hand for him to get up. Phainon has to trot a little bit to reach him. Mydei, relentless as ever, does not slow down.

It’s nice, and familiar. Those moments of gentle kinship are best reserved for the times of rest after battle. No need to lay out a hand when your comrade is rested and well, after all. It may seem cold, but Phainon wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Wait up,” Phainon says uselessly, because he knows Mydei won’t listen. “Hey, what are you making today?”

Mydei raises an eyebrow. “Whatever makes you think you’ll be eating with me?”

“Don’t I always?” Phainon asks, a tiny bit more earnest than he’d planned.

Regardless of the countless awful meals Mydei has made specifically for him, Phainon can never tire of the shared moments. It’s so corny. He’s so corny. Mydei makes him corny.

In his defense! Mydeimos’ cooking is splendid, when he’s not mad at him. And Phainon would argue that Mydei seems fairly content with his company, so he has no reason to feed him a mix of dromas poo and stepped-on grass (again).

Mydei punches him in the arm, and though the touch is rough, his skin takes it in as the softest thing its ever tasted. This isn’t all Phainon wants, but it’s enough.

“You’ll only get to eat my meals once we reach the days of Mnestia’s festivities,” Mydei tells him.

“Ooh, will you be preparing everything?” Phainon asks. “Really, Mydei? All of it? For everyone in Okhema?”

After some time (spent with Phainon staring intensely at Mydei, not quite annoying him into cooking for him but not quite, well, not), Mydei sighs, and Phainon perks up.

“I’ll see about dinner,” Mydei says, rather predictably. Phainon beams. Mydei mumbles: “It is true that I’ll help with the food at the festivities.”

Ah, details!

It doesn’t take long for him to get bored, though. This silence as they make their way back home, unlike the one at the field, is unbearable.

“Hey, Mydei,” Phainon calls, if only to fill it. “Mydei. Mydei. Mydei. Mydei.”

Mydei ignores him.

“Mydei. Mydei.” A pause. “Your Royal Highness. Rotten piece of bread. Light of my world. My guiding firefly in the deepest nights. Piece of shit, c’mon, answer. Bitch. Mydei, I’m not shutting up. You know I’m not shutting up. Mydei, Mydei—”

“Kephale’s bearing balls, what do you want,” he snaps, and Phainon snorts at the swear.

What does he want. What does he want? He’s being awfully dramatic as of late, nostalgia filling his heart, making him think in poetry. What, truly, fully, is it that he wants?

Phainon says, “That’s the form of Okheman dialect you choose to learn? Really?” but it sounds weak, even to him.

Mydei says it because he’s annoyed. Mydei has no idea the effect his words — everything he says, really — have on him.

(There’s a piece of tapestry knitting itself inside his chest, filling him to the brim, spilling out across his shoulder; he wears it as a cape, wipes it off himself like blood, but it never leaves. His heart beats, the ocean’s tides drown him, and there are bugs crawling beneath his skin at all times, waiting to get out. It feels like a star exploding in his stomach.

He thinks, suddenly, that if he had his way, Mydei wouldn’t even have gotten to know him. A girl with pink hair, a high-pitched laugh, and many stories to tell, would be here in his stead. Elysia — Cyrene, he scolds himself —, beloved sister, never liked fighting, though. But then again, Phainon never wanted to be a hero.

There it is: he never wanted to be a hero. He never wanted to be this.

The threads that make up his tissue tighten in on themselves, marking his skin, burning his eyes. Cyrene would be proud, he thinks. Cyrene would be proud. Oh, gods, Cyrene.)

Maybe if he says it. Maybe if he says…

He reaches out to Mydei, stopping himself just before he takes his (strong, with calloused fingers; with gauntlets wrapped around them, he can barely see what the skin looks like. It must be soft, at least in some places. It must be rough, since he never puts his weapons down) hand.

Say it. Say it.

Say what?

Something. Something, something—

Pink is just a lighter tone of red, he wasn’t the only one with golden blood at the village, there is a Chrysos Heir that calls him by the name of his old dog, he mainly eats salads because they remind him of the meals Mom used to make, their faces are slowly fading away and being replaced with the family he’s made now, and fuck, I love you.

“The sky is quite pretty today, is it not?” he asks instead.

Mydei stares at him with a puzzled look, then sighs. “It is the same as always.”

Back at the village, the days were the same, too — chasing fairies, reading cards, playing with the dog.

The sky is the same as always. It looks just like it did back home. For a split second, Phainon thinks, with melancholy, I haven’t seen a sunrise in ages.

Those don’t exist anymore to him, much like the cycle between night and day, and Phainon never got to see one in Okhema. It doesn’t matter, though, so he doesn’t know what he’s blabbering about. Kephale’s light, blinding and guiding, is in its place instead. But they were pink, he thinks. He’s pretty sure of it.

“Yeah,” he finally answers, “that’s what I meant.”

Phainon is almost twenty, and he knows Aglaea has a kindred spirit, despite what most might say about her. Her eyes may be cold and her voice void of emotion, but she took him in after years of wandering alone, helped wash his hair, gave him brand new clothes. She took him to the Grove to study, albeit not personally because the dislike she holds for Anaxa runs deeper than her trust in the Flame-Chase.

They call her a witch with no feelings, but that can’t be right. It can’t be true, not when Phainon has watched her agonize over the future of the city multiple times a day.

Aglaea is not as closed off as people think. She may not share her deepest worries, nor is she open with her heart, but she has never once lied to him about the loss of her humanity, about the status of the Flame-Chase, the destruction of his home, the Black Tide’s approach — and so on. She isn’t the kind of person to simply speak about her woes, but she’s as honest as she is solid. Aglaea and her truth filled words are a pillar for Okhema, for the world, for him. The thin threads holding them all together in spite of how much those she protects lash out.

And he notices in the little things, too. Her status as a demigod and the loss of her humanity is a recurring topic amongst the citizens of Okhema, but Phainon sometimes wonder what they think humanity is. An unfeeling monster wouldn’t act the way she does, stressing out over what to do at Mnestia’s festivals, presenting an iron will when faced with those who oppose her.

He sees it in the way she frowns when he offers to dress himself, driving him back to the day she ordered him to throw his clothes away so he may stop embarrassing himself — not in those words, but with that intent. He sees it in the way she quietly remembers when she could still fully mourn Tribios’ selves; in the sleepless nights she spends in her study; in the meticulous care she puts into every ornament she creates. Most of all, he sees it when she lets her compassion and true selflessness show. And he saw it in its full splendor when she took him to the baths and showed him around, offering to wash his hair for him when he told her, shamefully, that his arms were too tired to move.

She looks too sad when she speaks of Cifera to be unfeeling.

Phainon is glad to have learned from her. Most of his education came from his swordmaster and his time at the Grove, yes, but Aglaea’s teachings will stay with him until Era Nova. From her, he learned to hope. From her, he learned of faith.

So forgive him, O great Kephale, if he gets a little pissy when people badmouth her.

“Next time,” he says, tone just a bit colder than usual, “please refrain from speaking of Lady Aglaea as such.”

The civilian whose name he can’t remember sputters— “Uh, apologies, Lord Phainon!”

There’d been a puppy in a tree. It’s as simple as that. Weird as hell, yes, because how did it even get so far up there, but simple. The owner, a woman with brown hair that’s greying around the edges, was loudly calling it — apparently, its name is Murr — in a failed attempt to get it to come down when he passed by. In a show of good faith (never let it be said he’s not helpful from time to time!), he ignored his itchy eyes and dark eyebags and climbed the tree, picked the animal up, placed it under his arm, and climbed back down.

The hard part wasn’t climbing the tree, though its branches were thin enough for him to fear they may break under his weight, but rather touching the little guy without it attacking him first. If he looks at his hands, he’ll find them covered in golden-colored scratches. Ouch. It doesn’t actually hurt, but the sentiment is there.

Truth to be told, he wasn’t paying full attention to the owner’s grateful ramblings until she mentioned Aglaea’s name with disdain in her voice. He’s pretty close to falling asleep standing, because he slept like shit yesterday and he’s tired as hell, but when he’s caught off guard for simply a second, he wakes up like he was hit with a bucket of cold water. As in, actually hit, because sometimes his beloved Chrysos Heirs struggle to understand the simple meanings of everyday phrases and actually try to throw a bucket at him instead of just the ice cold liquid inside of it. No, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

If only the Goldweaver cared enough about us common folk, she spit out, wholly unaware of the hardships Aglaea goes through to keep her and everyone else safe.

A single comment was all it took for Phainon to turn serious. Honestly, he’s not sure why he took such grand offense to her words — he’s heard worse, and Aglaea has taught him to not pick up fights with random people on the street anymore, so he’s gotten used to only getting actually angry, instead of just interfering as he usually does, once things get too bad. But this was just a single sentence. Nowehere near bad enough for him to need to care.

His heart aches, because Aglaea’s golden threads allow her to listen to this conversation, which means she’s heard her own people disregard her efforts so many times, that she has already learned how to tune it off as just background noise.

His heart has been doing a lot of aching, lately. A bird in the corner of his eye struggles to find leaves for its nest, and he aches. A little girl and her brother run around at the market with their parents screaming at them to slow down, and he aches. He stops petting a dog because he has to get moving, and he aches. Now, someone speaks ill of the beloved demigod of Romance, and he aches, when he should be sorrowful over the amount of people that share this civilian’s opinion instead of a singular occasion where he just so happens to run across someone who dislikes the Lady Goldweaver.

Phainon takes a page out of Mydei’s book, and sighs. He recollects himself, forcing his itchy guts to settle down, and turns around on his heels.

“It’s alright. Don’t do it again, please,” he says before speeding off.

Oily and wet organs inside him dance around when they should be still, an unexplainable sense of dread pooling around his stomach, coiling, wretched. His steps turn walking into running, his feet lead the way instead of his head. There’s a drum in his ear, resonating against his skull, and it takes him a moment to realize it’s a heartbeat. Because yes, he has a heart.

He stops in his tracks, and before he realizes, he’s in front of Marmoreal Palace. People are dancing and jumping around in the water, carefree in ways he can never be again. His fists clench without him wanting them to, and Titans help him, why can be not control his thoughts and actions today?

People stop what they’re doing to gape at him when he passes, hurried whispers traveling through the air: that’s the Deliverer, he’s so strong, that’s the Deliverer, he protects us forever, that’s Phainon’ of Aedes Elysiae. That’s Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. That’s—

I’m human, he wants to scream. My blood is gold but I swear I’m human.

(If he cuts himself open, what will he see? What will he find?)

(Khaslana knows it to be only code.)

His arm reaches for the console near the elevator. He doesn’t have to think about it, because it’s already muscle memory. He’s done this so many times. He’s walked these halls for so long.

In the Hero’s Bath, Aglaea welcomes him with open arms and what can be considered a smile if you stare hard enough.

“Phainon,” she greets. “I heard you arrive.”

Not with her ears, he’s already learned.

“Lady Aglaea. It’s good to see you.” Her golden threads must not vibrate. He is being truthful.

“Come, sit,” she says, gesturing at an empty spot by her side. He of course obligues.

Her feet are resting below the water, with her sandals neatly placed behind her back. He doesn’t mimick her, but he still answers to her previous invitation by sitting cross-legged, without actually touching the bath.

“Something troubles you,” she informs him as if he doesn’t already know.

Phainon laughs sheepishly, a hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I can never escape your truth, Lady Aglaea.”

“It wasn’t my blessings that told me so, warrior,” she says, a wry smile adorning her lips. He wishes she got to do that more often, “but rather... well, I may not be able to see, but the way you carry yourself is familiar enough for me to tell.”

That’s corny. He’s really touched, and he thinks his eyes water a little bit.

“That’s kind of sweet,” he says, “but you needn’t worry! I’m fine. I just… haven’t been sleeping well.”

And it’s true. Her fingertips don’t catch any lies despite the obvious attempt at denial because he’s simply not lying.

He’s been finding it difficult to rest. The tiredness leaves him weary and open for attacks, but he can’t fall asleep no matter how hard he tries to. He barely even knows what day it is.

Lately, he’s been wondering what his ribs look like from the inside. If he carved out his eyes and ate them…

That’s a creepy concept. He’ll remember it so he can tell Castorice about it later. Maybe it’ll help her write one of her stories.

Aglaea looks at him (well, points her face in his general direction, guided by her threads) with a neutral expression that shows she does not believe him one bit, in the sense that she knows his exhaustion is not all there is to it. Still, she doesn’t call him out on it — which is a bit odd, because she never hesitates to point out any lies detected by the threads on her fingers.

Then, she says, “There’s something…”

Phainon blinks. “Huh?”

“Your endeavors with the trees did not leave you unscathed, it seems,” she says. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say she’s amused.

But he does know. Amusement is one of the many things she doesn’t…

“Oh. Oh!” he exclaims. “I didn’t notice.”

“There’s green amongst the white locks,” she says to herself.

Then she fixes up his hair with one hand, throwing away the leaves tangled among it, and it reminds him so much of how his mother would ruffle his hair— that he could. He could cry, he could scream, he could die. He misses Audata. He can barely remember her voice, but he misses Audata.

It feels like a betrayal. It feels so much like a betrayal, because when he tries to picture her, he imagines her with Aglaea’s face.

There is no one to replace his father’s. Even now, he remains a blank state — a faceless memory. They say forgetting is dying, that you only truly fade once your memories disappear.

He’s killing all that’s left of his parents. He can’t remember, and that means they’re gone for good.

Something clicks in his chest, and his throat ties a knot in itself, and his stomach jumps around inside his body, and his heart skips a beat, then two. What day is it? What day was it when Aedes Elysiae… perished?

It’s the same day. Today marks the anniversary.

Oh, he thinks. No wonder I was feeling so weird.

“You’ve noticed,” Aglaea says. Phainon stills. “Don’t fret, child. You may rest, for today.”

Her hand leaves his head, and he misses the touch — but she holds her arm open, as an invitation. Not hesitant, not quite, but… unsure, like she can’t fully remember how human connection works. She’s simply doing this because she remembers having done so in the past, even if with other people. It’s a practiced movement that only comes because of the times she’s done it before. It doesn’t fully come from her heart, but she still means to help, and that’s enough.

Her humanity is wearing thin, the people say. She echoes their thoughts: I am barely a human being, now, having lost most of it long ago.

But she was born as one. And even if her blood is gold, she still is one.

Sometimes he wonders. Does she remember her family?

He slowly, cautiously, leans forward. Rests his head on her shoulder, buries his face on the crook of her neck. Her arms wrap around him, her form all-knowing and all-seeing, and Phainon bites his lip to not do something embarrassing like sob. His eyes itch and ache and burn, and this time it isn’t just because of the lack of sleep.

His hands stay limp by his sides. He’s much bigger than she is now, but she always has the power to make him feel so, so small. Like a child clinging to his mother, he tentatively leans into the touch, melting away into her — rather stiff, rather cold — body.

He was always a pretty touchy kid. He constantly tugged on the three Tribios’ clothes, clung to Aglaea’s arm, and genuinely suffered when he realized he couldn’t ever touch Castorice. Back then, the best way to calm him after, for example, a nightmare, was to hug him. It’s some he’d like to say he’s grown out of. Aglaea hadn’t got an idea of what to do with it, he knows, but— she, eventually, did get used to it. To him. To the tells and annoyances, along with the smiles and the great amount of salads.

It seems she still remembers that detail about him. The fact that she cares — how can they call her unfeeling? — touches his heart.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into her shoulder, his words muffled and difficult to hear. “I don’t—”

His voice breaks, and he cuts himself off. He takes a shuddering inhale.

Exceptions come and go. Oftentimes, he finds himself acting oddly on specific days — and on some of these, when Aglaea is reminded of the long lost years of humanity on her youth, she might offer a helping hand.

But only sometimes

Today is a rare, rare day, because most of the time, they’re both too busy to even meet properly; and Aglaea simply does not offer things like this, not anymore. Yet she does know how, as much as it may cost her, and he’s already learned to live with the lack of warmth in her smiles.

“There is no need for apologies.” Her hand makes its way up into his hair again, and he trembles at the gentle touch. “Even if I don’t understand what you’re feeling, anymore, I still remember what it was like. I know what to do in these situations.”

She’s talking to keep him grounded, he notices. A tactic to keep him from panicking. No one needs a scared Deliverer.

“It is no hardship for me. So please, Phainon—” O, boy she’s raised, “—don’t apologize.”

“Don’t beg then, either,” he mumbles, letting out the breath he was holding.

Aglaea lets out a huff. A rare, magnificent sound. “Foolish of you to think I’d swoop low enough to beg.”

“Sorry,” he says, feeling lighter already. “I merely forgot my words.”

“Stop it with the apologies,” she scolds.

Phainon laughs wetly.

He stays there for longer. Selfishly, he wishes he was a kid again, in his tiny home on a tiny village, curled up on the edge of the bed, not quite awake but not quite asleep either. Selfishly, he wishes to have it all — Aedes Elysiae, standing, alive; the Chrysos Heirs, united, together. He thinks of all the things he’d show them. The small festivities, the statue in the plaza, the bushes leading to the fairies.

Eventually, though, he has to pull away, lest he stay frozen forever.

“Aglaea, I—” He pauses, unsure of what to say. Of how to say it. “Thank you.”

The corners of her lips curve upwards in a not-quite smile, but a nice expression nonetheless, her eyes knowing. She doesn’t say anything — then again, she doesn’t have to. She always finds the way to make him feel like a boy looking for his mom.

“Hey,” a voice calls out. “Hey!”

He groans, and covers his head with a pillow, trying to muffle it.

“—c’mon, you big baby. Wake up. Wake up!”

The voice kicks him, and he yelps, startled. Trying to get away, he tangles himself between the covers — he struggles to break free; then he feels lightheaded, like he’s floating, and it takes him a moment to realize he fell out of bed.

“Oh, no. Oh! Are you okay? I didn’t mean to push you,” a pink blob tells him.

He tells it to shut up, and it gasps, offended. And, hey. Since when can pink blobs talk?

…That’s not a pink blob.

“At least I know you’re not hurt,” Elysia— Cyrene mutters to herself.

“C’rene?” Khaslana slurrs.

“Duh,” she says mockingly, her hands at her hips. “You’re on the floor.”

Khaslana blinks. “Uh. Ow.”

Giggling, Cyrene extends a hand for him to take. She’s smaller than him — she’s probably never going to grow, it’s funny —, so she stumbles a bit when pulling him up, but he manages to stand on his own before she falls on her ass. Oh, bad word! Bad word! Thank Oronyx he didn’t say out loud. Cyrene would make him pay. Literally.

Khaslana sniffles, rubbing at his eyes. “I think I was better on the floor,” he says, yawning.

Cyrene rolls her eyes at him.

“Your dad made breakfast,” she informs him. She laughs at the way he immediately lightens up.

“Pancakes?”

“Pancakes.”

“Yes!” he cheers, closing his fist and jumping up, up, up, then stumbling, and embarrassingly enough having Cyrene straighten him up.

“Oop!”

He laughs, and she takes his hand, ready to leave. Instead of waiting for him to walk to the door on his own accord, she starts running towards it, pushing him forward. He trips trying to follow her, and whimpers in worry when they have to run down the stairs. Cyrene calls him a baby again, and he calls her dumb, to which she frowns at and answers, don’t be mean! I’m too pretty for you to be mean to me.

Khaslana tells her she looks like a human sized rat, and she puffs her suddenly red cheeks in mock offense. She tries to tug at his arm, but he’s already broken free of her grip and started running to the kitchen, where Mom and Dad most likely are. She cries out in surprise and rushes to follow him, and their morning quickly turns into a race with the pancakes as a pretend (because they’ll both get to eat regardless of who wins) reward.

When Mom spots them, she scolds them.

“Sorry, Ma,” they say at the same time, then turn to each other so quickly Cyrene’s neck makes a scary cracking sound that makes him wince.

Taking advantage of his distraction, she jinxes him.

“Ha!” she says, victorious, punching the air in a ridiculous show of strength. “I have won once more! Take that, Khas.”

Khaslana glares at her.

He turns to Mom, who is setting the table, and stares at her. And stares. And stares, stares, stares.

“Stop doing that,” she tells him. He still stares, this time more wide-eyed, more sad-looking. His lip wobbles, and she sighs. “Alright. Khas, Khas, Khas.”

“Yes!” he cheers.

“No fair!” Cyrene complains. “She didn’t say your full name, that means you still can’t talk. So you lost again!”

“Not true.”

“Yes, true!”

“No! Not true!”

“Yes true!”

“Dear Titans, is this divine punishment?” Dad says as he steps inside the room.

“Pa,” Khaslana turns to him, “Cyrene’s cheating.”

“What!” she squeaks. Like a chicken.

“Children,” Dad says, “behave. I leave to go to the bathroom for just one minute, and the second I come back…”

Mom chuckles, and plants a kiss on his cheek. Khaslana gags.

“Don’t be silly, Khas,” Cyrene says. “Love is a beautiful thing. You’ll see, some day.”

“See what?” he asks.

She smiles, her expression changing into something he can’t quite place. “That for a story to be completed, love is essential.”

Khaslana groans. Cyrene reads too many romance books.

“You don’t know what love is either,” he retorts. He ignores the way she goes quiet.

Phainon is no stranger to hunger. Be it from skipping a meal after spending too long playing with the fairies of his hometown, the devastating starvation that ransacked his body of energy when he was lost and wandering in silence, returning from a particularly difficult campaign and needing to eat but being unable to stomach anything — hunger, starvation, is a friend, at this point.

In spite of all this, it is in no way welcome. The bone aching feel of need, need, the lack of vitamins; wanting to eat yourself, pieces of the skin on your lips slowly disappearing as you begin to chew on it. Phainon knows it intimately, as he has spent long without any form of nourishment when he was only a child, physically younger than most but still feeling so, so old.

Because of this, Phainon has learned to greatly appreciate food. Hence why he was so thankful for the first full meal he had when he got to Okhema.

He’d been too young to properly handle money, then. Each town, city, and village he stopped by back the wasn’t particularly willing to give their spares to starving young boys on the street, lest they run out of food to feed themselves. He understands the need to keep it hidden, away from sight, because he too struggled with such things once he settled down on the holy city (Aglaea worked very hard to erase the habit of sneaking food to his dorm in fear that it’ll disappear if he doesn’t), but he can’t stop himself from being slightly resentful.

His age stopped him from being able to get any jobs, too. He was strong for a malnourished boy with such a small body, and after fending off enough monsters, he started being regarded as a hero, but no one really seemed to care. Golden blood be damned, no one cared.

He supposes that isn’t fair. Not everyone turned a blind eye. There’d been an old woman with two slices of bread, a kid younger than him sharing her lollipop, the owner of a renowned restaurant purposefully keeping the spares intact instead of throwing it in the trash so he’d get to take it — and more.

But he was so, so small. And he missed his home so much, and he wasn’t used to not being woken up to the smell of toast filling the house, or getting to ask what’s for dinner? over and over again until he’s yelled at.

So, Phainon has learned to appreciate food.

At first, he didn’t quite understand its true value. He was from a small village, yes, but he was still well cared for. Maybe sometimes they struggled with their crops, but such things didn’t last, and he never felt like he was missing out on anything. Were he asked, he would say the remnants of home behind with a rusty sword in his hand was the hardest part of it all, but perhaps in a rather selfish manner, he’d guess that what he struggled the most with was hunting for food.

He wasn’t completely inept, thankfully. He had some basic knowledge on which mushrooms and plants around the town were edible and which weren’t, but it was a limited amount, and it didn’t take too long before he ventured farther than even the outskirts of the lands that surrounded him throughout his whole life until that point.

He stopped taking chances — by which he means eating random berries from random bushes — the first time he got sick enough to vomit until there was nothing left but bile in his stomach. Not that he had a lot going on inside there in the first place.

From that point onwards, he settled almost exclusively for small bunny traps. His Dad taught him to light a campfire, once, and though it took him a few tries to get it right, he quickly got good enough at it to be able to cook any small animal he manages to catch. Which was a little amount, because rabbits are fast, wolves are too big and dangerous, and fish always scurried away in between his fingers.

Aglaea tells him he’d been so thin, they had to prepare a completely different meal plan to get him used to solid food again. Otherwise, he’d just throw it all up as quickly as he eats it, and he’d be left scrapping off the floor in an attempt to get whatever’s left of food in the vomit.

That has happened before. The restaurant waitress didn’t wait for him to finish eating before she left, and so she always gave him the same amount of the same types of food. Each time, he gagged until he couldn’t breathe anymore, his throat burning and his eyes aching.

But he missed the taste.

Needless it is to say that it — very obviously — wasn’t a good experience.

He remembers (he remembers many things, but there unfortunately are some that matter more than others) the amazement when a plate was put in front of him at the table in the Garden of Life, then the shame when he found himself wanting more than what he already had.

He was grateful. He swears he was grateful. Still is, even after all these years.

His eleventh, his twelfth, and every single one that came afterwards is welcomed with festivities and clapping. Most importantly, there never fails to be a banquet: and, each year, when asked what he wants (he’s long since given up on telling Trianne to not celebrate), he’ll ask for a cake with pink frosting.

The celebrations are different each time, planned with the creative mind of a child. Back at home — the first one he had — they were mostly the same, singing the same song in the same house with the same people. Nothing particularly elaborate or difficult; things were simple, back then, and so the special days of the year were simple as well, to match. But life in Okhema is unpredictable and wild, partly due to his title as a Hero. The best and worst part is that the whole city seems to love him, and he gets to love them back.

There are two celebrations: one for family, and one for everyone else. Family, because what else can he call the other Chrysos Heirs? They’re all he knows, now. They’re all he has.

(The third one doesn’t count as a festivity. After the day ends, the sky as bright as ever, he returns to his chambers, and simply breathes.

These moments get shorter each time, memories fading as the years pass, but he never forgets to hum — the very same melody Mom used as a lullaby. The melody he sung to himself as comfort after she died.

He looks down at his hands. They are clean, free of human remains.)

There is one that matters most, to them: coming of age arrives with a ceremony, in Okhema.

Phainon turned eighteen inside the marble walls of the Hero’s Baths, with Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon laughing and clapping, and Aglaea watching from the sides. Via request, they didn’t sing to him.

Sometimes, it still hits him like it happened merely a few days ago. Much alike a pin drop, he’ll be thinking of flowers, then remember his family, and realize that hey, he will never see them again.

It never gets any easier. It never will. How many years have passed already? It’s been so long, and yet when he thinks that he’ll never see them again — will never hear them laugh, won’t taste their food, won’t feel their smell, won’t get to hug them — he feels his eyes water, his face ache, his fists clench.

Must Death be so cruel? None of them deserved it. Even those close already to their end, the elderly who had been ready to part long before the cloaked figure arrived, should’ve gotten a peaceful end. Surrounded by loved ones, with someone holding their hands.

They come to him in dreams, in stories. He may recall a funny anecdote he wishes to share with those he loves, and just as he’s about to open his mouth, he realizes that the words he’s about to speak will be partly the last thing left of them. Aedes Elysiae was wiped off the map, and no one has ever heard of it. Careful, he must be, when reminiscing. The memories are all he has of it, of Mom and Dad, of childhood friends, of Cyrene.

There are many things he keeps close to his chest, and not all of them are that bad. But he fears the words will run away the moment he lets them go, dissolving in the winds and being promptly forgotten by those who heard them. Whenever he gets the urge to speak of the people in his hometown, he shuts up, and instead shares what he remembers of the landscape.

Phainon turned eighteen at 9PM, because that’s the exact hour he was born in. Technically speaking, all the parties his friends want to throw for him are premature.

He spends his birthday, from nine PM to one in the morning, alone in his room. A sad sight, but one of the things he knows are his and his alone.

The eighteenth isn’t really all that memorable, except for the midday ceremony — basically a party, but by another name — where the elusive Cipher, who hasn’t shown up in Okhema for decades by now, gets so drunk she throws up all over Aglaea’s dress. The funny thing is, she wasn’t even there officially, she just showed up out of nowhere for no apparent reason, gave him her best wishes, and downed an entire bottle of wine in two gulps. The image of Aglaea’s already pale face turning paper white, her lips pursed, brings a smile to his face; one he pushes down, because he is a Chrysos Heir, and therefore very professional, and doesn’t just break into laughter when one of his own is publicly embarrassed by a close friend.

Aside from that particular moment, the event isn’t too interesting. Not much different from other parties he’s been to, at least. He puts on a smile and chats with the locals (all invited to the feast), but none of the conversations are worth remembering. Just the casual, nice weather, cool jacket, my son loves you, can I have an autograph?

The aftermath was nice, though. Anaxa showed up momentarily, claiming he was on official business yet never clarifying what said business was (Phainon isn’t dumb, he knows the man came to see him), and Aglaea managed to keep her cool enough to be able to get into a screaming match (sorry, heated debate) away from the event instead of in front of everyone present. Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon were picking flowers for Castorice to braid into her hair; Cipher was with them, plucking off the petals instead of helping.

He thinks part of why he enjoyed it so much is that they all reunited, all under the same roof, willing to put aside past grievances (mostly just Anaxa and Aglaea) aside for just a moment, just to celebrate with him, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

The Phainon of now and today sighs, pulling himself away from the odd nostalgia that suddenly overcame him. His eighteenth birthday happened a while ago. No need to dwell on the past.

Nevermind the fact that he’s never been quite good at that.

(A day passed since Aedes Elysiae’s death’s last anniversary happened.)

“Let’s go see the fairies,” Cyrene says the second they finish eating.

Khaslana blinks at her slowly. “You should’ve told me before that we wanted to see the fairies, I would’ve saved some pancakes for them.”

She waves her hand around. “No matter! I’ll bake some later, and gift them to them!”

Khaslana does his best to not cringe.

“Hey, they’ll love them!”

Well, yes, they would, but that’s ‘cause they love everything Cyrene gives them, not because it’s any good. Last time Cyrene tried to make pancakes, they came out charred, and smoke filled the entire house to the brim. It was bad enough that they had to stay outside for hours. To her credit, she was very regretful and ashamed of it. He doesn’t want to make fun of her for this, because he remembers the way her eyes glinted with unshed tears, and he knows he’d hate to see her so sad again.

…He refuses to admit her cooking is any good, though, lest she attempt to make him (he shivers at this) eat some of it. He doesn’t want to clog the toilet, no thank you. And much less does he want to throw up!

Cyrene sighs, crossing her arms and closing her eyes. She repeats: “No matter, no matter. The pancakes have already been boiled alive by your stomach acid.”

His nose scrunches up involuntarily with disgust. She’s three years ahead of him in class, because she’s three years older, so she’s learning different, grosser biology stuff.

“Ew,” he says. “I don’t need to know about that.”

She opens her eyes, and smiles with mischief.

“Oh, and the food goes down a loooooong tube into the stomach,” she coos, “and when it gets dissolved, the remains are turned into…” She pauses for dramatic effect— “diarrhea!”

“You keep that to yourself,” he screeches, shutting his eyes tight and placing his hands in front of his face go shield himself.

Cyrene laughs.

“But come on, Khas! The fairies!” she insists.

“Sure, let’s go. I’ve been missing them…”

Cyrene claps, and cheerfully exclaims, yay! Before running off.

(Phainon doesn’t now what happened to the fairies after he left.

Were they even real to begin with?

They were. He swears they were.)

The memory pauses, and he realizes he’s not quite sure what came after. But he knows…

Cyrene goes still, standing before a tree with a hand on her chin and another one her hip. It takes him a second to notice, but when he does, he walks backwards until he’s right beside her.

“Huh,” she mutters.

“Huh?”

“That’s a big tree.”

Cyrene liked to point out the most obvious things. Khaslana — Phainon — remembers being perpetually annoyed by it.

Phainon is pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of groaning.

“Need a massage, Your Highness?” Phainon jests. “You seem awfully tense.”

“I will allow you to massage my feet,” Mydei spits out, scowling.

“Alright, alright, I get the point,” Phainon says, laughing.

They’ve just gotten back from battle. Not a particularly grandiose one, but a battle nonetheless; Phainon is a little breathless, not from the act of fighting monsters in on itself, but more due to the usual competitions. Killing can get pretty boring on its own, after a while, when you’ve already memorized your enemy’s movements and know each of your own with perfect muscle memory. But it’s never a dull day with Mydeimos around.

Mydei looks awfully uncomfortable, his shoulders and fingers twitching every once in a while as he drags his hands through his bloodstained body. Phainon does his best to not stare when they roam closer to the man’s upper, naked half, but he still takes into account how stiff he is.

“Mydei,” Phainon calls. Mydei hums as an answer, to let him know he’s listening. “Want to head to the baths? I’m cold, and dying for some peace. Also, you’re filthy; unfit for a prince, don’t you think?”

Mydei scowls. He’s not in a very good mood today. “There is no such thing as unfit because of filthiness, Savior. You sound stupid simply by saying it. The Kremnoans regard battle and death as the highest of honors — I sincerely doubt you expected those to be clean.”

“Details, details,” Phainon says with a wave of his hand.

“We’ll head to the baths once we deal with this,” Mydei says.

Phainon tilts his head. “Deal with that?”

“That.” Mydei sighs, and gestures to his right. When Phainon turns to look, he spots what his beloathed best friend, beloved rival, is talking about.

Caenis of the Council of Elders approaches them with a smile too tight to be genuine, and Phainon physically struggles to not groan.

“Prince Mydeimos, Deliverer,” she says when she reaches them, bowing down her head as a formality.

Her gaze lingers when she looks at Mydei, probably because of the blood (it comes with being stabbed. Phainon is lucky most of it slid off his armor when he caught Mydei as he fell). Phainon frowns, then relaxes his face when he catches it.

His title sounds like nails scratching a board when she says it, and Phainon winces. Just a little bit. There’s a difference in the tone, the expression, the meaning when she says it compared to when Mydei does. Mydei says it mockingly, he knows, but even then, it sounds less ugly coming from his mouth.

The Council of Elders is not at all easy to deal with. Their power grows every day, gaining support from the nameless crowds of regular human beings with red beneath their skin. And Phainon may be a good debater (ten times champion!), but he’s not a professional politician like Aglaea, even if he’s been properly trained to deal with political threats by her personally. He’s good, but it’s not his expertise, and he’s— he doesn’t think he can do this right now.

He’ll admit to finding the traded words full of animosity to be fun, on good days, when he knows he’s not wrong and righteous anger flows inside his veins. It reminds him of his student years — back when bothering Anaxa was his main daily concern, besides the impending sense of doom that has followed him since he was a child —, and if he tries hard enough, he can imagine the relief of going home and falling asleep to not talk to anyone for the rest of the day as a physical reward, like the prizes he’s gained in competitions back at the Grove.

If he tries hard enough, he can, just for a moment, make memory replace reality.

But that’s not something he can do with Caenis.

To most, she seems like just a minor annoyance, but she could pose a true danger to the Chrysos Heirs and their purpose if left unchecked. And lately, the support she gets has been drastically growing… not only that, but she’s unwilling to back down. It’d be an admirable trait of leadership, if it weren’t for the fact that, well. She’s Caenis.

Mydei seems to be thinking the same things, because though he nods once to acknowledge her, his expression shows nothing more than irritability and impatience.

“Please, call me Phainon, Elder Caenis,” Phainon says, putting up a smile. “It’s nice to see you.” Not. “Do you need anything?”

The corners of her lips twitch, revealing frustration, and for a second, Phainon fears his question was interpreted as rude. One can never know what the proper etiquette is with these type of people, since they always seem to change it depending on their mood.

“Nothing much,” she says, “Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”

The way she says his hometown’s name rubs him off the wrong way.

(Maybe, the wind whispers in his ear, it’s because two days ago, when you were a kid, Aedes Elysiae ceased to exist.

Phainon tells it to shut the fuck up.)

Before she can say anything else, Mydei interrupts. “We have pressing matters to attend to. If you want to say something, do it now.”

The and quickly is left unspoken, but she probably heard it anyway. It’s not like he’s being very nice at the moment, though his dislike is disguised by a thin layer of begrudging respect (that is only there because he acknowledges her political importance). Phainon’s smile turns fond. He can’t tell her to lay off in public, but Mydei…

“It has come to my attention that you two fought against a Black Tide monster wave fairly close to the outskirts of the city, correct?” she asks, sharp. Phainon prays to never be on Aglaea’s, who has to deal with Caenis constantly, shoes.

“Ah, yes. That’s right,” Phainon answers.

“Congratulations on the won battle, Lord Phainon,” Caenis says with fake enthusiasm.

Phainon isn’t stupid: he knows not to trust her. Her history as a Cleaner, the history of her name back in the Chrysos War, is something the Chrysos Heirs will not easily forget.

Before he can open his mouth, Mydei says, “Excuse us, Elder, but we need to leave.”

Whatever Phainon could’ve added to that comment is quickly squandered the second Mydei grabs his wrist with one hand, each finger wrapping around his skin carefully, slowly, yet still tightly. His face burns, and he barely notices the way Caenis raises an eyebrow, the way her eyes glitter like she’s found something she’d been trying to looking for since ages ago.

“Of course, of course!” she says, laughing. He barely registers what she says. “I was wishing to speak with you two for a while, though. Can you truly not spare even one minute…?”

Mydei huffs, and Phainon knows irritation when he sees it, especially in Mydei’s face. Then he processes Caenis’ words, and glancing down at Mydei’s hand, still around his arm, he interrupts: “We can spare one minute, Elder Caenis, but no more than that.”

She smiles.

“I simply wished to ask… why the demigods protecting our holy city are allowing this ‘Black Tide’ to roam so close to our beloved citizens.”

Mydei, clearly in enough of a bad mood to allow himself to be less than respectful, huffs again. “We do not allow anything. We can’t exactly predict where the Black Tide will attack next; and the closeness of the monsters was merely a coincidence.”

“It’s nothing to worry about, I promise you, Elder. The Chrysos Heirs have everything under control,” Phainon placates.

“But are you sure?” she presses. “After all, your own hometown, Lord Phainon, was destroyed by the Tide — or so you claim, anyway.”

Phainon’s fists clench, his smile frozen in place. “Ah.”

Mydei takes one step, placing himself right in front of Caenis — between her, and Phainon. He let go of me, Phainon thinks, slightly dazed.

“Such foul words should not be allowed to leave your mouth,” he snaps. Phainon stares. “We have gotten rid of the monsters nearby, no? That should be enough for now. There is no need to tarnish the dead’s name like this.”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean anything by it.” Her face holds no remorse at all; her words contrast her satisfied expression.

“And?” Mydei glares.

Caenis appears to be startled, though she quickly hides it. It’s impressive; almost like it was never there at all. She opens her mouth, but Mydei interrupts her.

“Don’t speak of his hometown again.”

“You—” Caenis sputters. It takes her half a second to recompose herself, and when she does, her face turns somber. “Is Lord Phainon not capable of speaking for himself? What care have you for Aedes Elysiae?”

Don’t say its name, Phainon wants to say, but the words get stuck in his throat.

“I have enough common sense to know that bringing up the destruction of an innocent village to manipulate the only survivor is—”

“Mydei,” Phainon interrupts. His hand unconsciously brushes with Mydei’s. Phainon turns to Caenis, with an ice cold expression, and says: “We’ll be taking our leave, Elder Caenis. Please refrain from using such tactics in the future.”

And without further ado, he gets the fuck out, only barely managing to not look like he’s running off. His steps are firm, far louder than they usually are — he may bear a heavy destiny and an even heavier armor (Cipher fell on her ass when she tried to pick it up, once, which was honestly hilarious), but he’s always managed to walk rather gracefully, and silently.

Mydei follows him in stride, not even sparing a single glance to Caenis. It doesn’t take long for them to leave her far behind, with their tall heights and long legs.

“I apologize,” Mydei says after a while. “These are your concerns, not mine, and I should’ve at least consulted you before trying to deal with them.”

Phainon’s chest warms, and a genuine smile slips his way into his face. Embarrassingly enough, he feels his eyes burn a little bit. “Don’t worry about it.”

It’s nice to know Mydei will always jump at Phainon’s defense when he needs him, even outside of the battlefield. It’s nice to know he’s there.

“You’re yellow-faced,” Mydei notes. “Piss-faced—”

Phainon groans. “Gods, stop saying that.”

Chrysos Heirs flush gold. Many of his companions enjoy comparing it to those bodily fluids.

“…Are you.” Mydei coughs, like getting out the words is excruciating for him. Phainon waits, patiently, and holds back a chuckle. “Alright. How… are you faring?”

Phainon sighs. Suddenly truthful, he says, “I’ve heard these things before, but every time Aedes Elysiae’s name comes from someone else’s mouth, I…”

“It’s fine,” Mydei says. “I understand.”

Phainon grins at him, grateful.

“I know that day passed. I didn’t want her to talk to you as such, knowing that,” Mydei confesses.

Phainon stares up ahead, a smile fixed on his face.

They stay like that, for a little while: walking down the streets of the Marmoreal Market, making their way to the palace. With Mydei by his side, he feels like he could conquer worlds, if he wanted to. Mydei’s mere presence gives him the strength of a thousand men. It’s difficult to imagine a time in which things weren’t like this.

He wonders, sometimes, just how he managed to survive without Mydei (who has saved him from imminent death countless times), when he was younger.

At last, they reach the baths. The journey there isn’t something worth describing — it took little time for them to start chatting again, and then for the chatting to turn into bickering —, but he thinks it’s nice enough to take into account. They ran into some really tiny chimeras on the way. The little guys surrounded Mydei and kept on rubbing their furry faces on his leg. Phainon gave it his all to not explode right then and there.

Aglaea isn’t occupying her usual spot within the white walls, so they have the place all to themselves.

Phainon’s smile turns genuine, and with a mocking bow, he gestures to the elevator. “After you, Prince.”

Mydeimos scoffs. He’s very fond of doing that.

“You know what manners are, at the very least,” he says as he steps onto the platform.

“I had thought manners was one of the many words the Kremnoan language doesn’t have,” Phainon retorts, following him.

“Shut it,” Mydei snaps. With one finger, he presses a button on the console to their right, and the platform starts moving upwards.

Phainon makes a zipping gesture on his lips, as if sealing them shut. He notices a nymph on the wall behind Mydei, but it quickly disappears when the elevator rises.

The hero’s baths are empty and quiet, nicely enough. Phainon, pleasantly surprised, steps out of the platform with a satisfied hum, all previous concerns forgotten. There’s no ill the warm, golden water of the palace can’t fix.

The water is hot, emanating white vapor. It doesn’t take long for Phainon to strip himself off his armor, and then, with the comfort that the fluffy humid clouds will cover him up completely, he takes off his clothes, too. From the sound of fabric falling to the floor, he notes Mydei copies him — not that the guy wears a lot anyway.

Mydei gets in the water before he does, because Phainon is wearing a lot more than he is. Still, he doesn’t let it deter him: he jumps in right after him the second everything’s off, and melts into the tub, contently sighing, feeling the golden tinted liquid cover his whole body. It washes away sweat and dirt like it’s nothing, making Phainon feel new, younger than he is. The effect is probably lost to Mydei, since he has to manually scrape off the blood himself.

The stab wound has already healed, Phainon knows. Still, even though harm to his body disappears in an instant, leaving no scars, the filthiness clinging to his skin sticks like glue. Dust, and mud, and leaves and tiny sticks or shards of glass aren’t something that can disappear in the blink of an eye. Mydei has told him that he oftentimes finds the act of getting the remnants off him more difficult than dying in itself.

Phainon stays quiet while Mydei struggles to reach a specific spot of his back. He hears him grunt, annoyed. Relentlessly, he stretches his arm again and again, but it doesn’t help at all, because it’s aready proven to be too small (though Mydei’s body is anything but small, which means that the main reason his arm may seem like it is would be that his torso, including both his back and his chest, are huge… but Phainon’s not thinking about that, not at all) to scrub there.

After about five seconds, he offers: “Want me to do it?”

Mydei pauses his struggle.

“I can get it myself,” he says.

“Sure, but...” Phainon shrugs. “C’mon. You’ve got me here, no?”

Mydei huffs out a laugh. “As reliable as ever, O great Deliverer. Go ahead, then: wash my back.”

He rolls his eyes, mutters something about Mydei’s ego that makes Mydei try to elbow him but fail so miserably that Phainon has to hold back a string of laughter, and then blindly reaches out to touch Mydei’s— body. Mydei’s back. Mydei’s skin. And his muscles.

“What, can’t see?” Mydei mocks, though he sounds a little breathless.

“Hush,” Phainon shushes him. “Let me do my magic.”

“What magic—”

“Hush!”

With a grunt, Mydei — rarely, weirdly, impossibly — obligues. Phainon hums, satisfied, and grabs a bar of soap from the corner of the pool’s border. Then he slides it across his rival’s skin, in the lower part of his torso where Phainon remembers most of the blood to be in, almost dropping it in the process. His hands work synchronized, reminding him of the muscle memory he relies on to carry his weapon. This is easy, since he’s already stated at Mydei’s body enough to have memorized where the worst stains are placed.

That sounds a bit too sexual for his comfort.

Phainon must do something wrong — or right — because Mydei shivers, exactly once, under his touch.

When Phainon pauses, Mydei complains. “Are you really that bad at such simple tasks that you just quit halfway through?”

Phainon rolls his eyes. Then, he realizes something.

“Oh my gods,” he says. “I’ve had an epiphany.”

“A what?”

“Lord Mydeimos,” he says, a grin spreading throughout his face. Mydei tenses, though this time Phainon knows exactly why, “are you ticklish?”

“What. No? No!” Mydei exclaims. Phainon can’t actually see him, but he knows he must’ve gone bright gold. “Get away from me!”

Mydei turns around and pushes him into the water. Laughing, Phainon kicks around to splash him — and Mydei, much like a child, gasps in offense, and immediately mimicks the action.

Mydei proceeds to push him again, and this time, Phainon returns the favor, staring an all out war, cackling all the while. After some time, the— well, chortling and snorting, turns into giggling, and then into chuckling, and then into silence.

Phainon, because he’s feeling like a good person right now, very much does not press Mydei about the ticklishness — lest he be victim of another murder attempt via drowning.

It takes him a second, but eventually, he asks, “Did I get it all?”

“Yeah,” Mydei says after a pause that he probably spent focusing on the lack of bloody texture on his back. “It’s gone.”

“Nice.” Cool. “Great.”

A moment of silence for Phainon’s eloquence.

“The… the stab wound is fully gone, right?” Phainon asks hesitantly. A foolish question: he is already well aware of Mydei’s healing factor.

“A foolish question,” Mydei echoes. “But to satisfy your curiosity — and stupidity —, yes, it is gone.”

“Ah.”

“…Whatever brought this on?”

“It’s just—” Phainon cuts himself off with a frustrated huff.

Mydei raises an eyebrow at him. He can’t see it, but he can tell. “Just…?”

“I know you can walk it off like it’s nothing, but when you got stabbed…” Phainon pauses. “I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“Huh.”

“Don’t make fun of me for feeling genuine concern.”

“I’m not making fun of you,” Mydei snaps.

“Oh, really?” Phainon says.

“I’ve died countless times.” Mydei takes a breath, and Phainon can only guess what he’ll say next: in Kremnos, dying is— “…an honor, though only if one is to be felled in battle. But that’s not the answer you’re looking for.”

Ah, truly, this man knows him far more than he knows himself. How embarrassing of him.

“I’m already used to death. Trust me, it never sticks.” Phainon imagines Mydei’s smirk, an odd contrast to the bitterness in his voice. “If a permanent death ever reaches me — which it won’t, by the way —, I’ll go down fighting, too. Just like any other time.”

Phainon stills. Breathes.

He remembers Piso, embraced by his father during his last moments. Cyrene’s cards, Audata’s determination. Even the elderly (his parents would count as such, were they here today) died too early.

He recalls—

Surrounded by loved ones; peacefully holding their hands.

(It never happens, not in this world, not before Era Nova. Many die cold, alone, in fear. How unfair. How predictable.)

“I want you to die kindly. I want Thanatos’ touch to be soft where life wasn’t.”

Mydei stares. Then he sighs, and with a soft tone along with what he guesses must be a flushed face, he says, “Must you say things like that?”

Phainon lets them sit in the quiet for a bit longer.

Then, he chuckles, as if slipping out of a daze. “Sorry, sorry. I always seem to be the one bringing the mood down.”

“It’s not my mood I’m worried about,” Mydei mutters.

“Still!” Phainon laughs.

Cyrene must have rubbed off on him, at some point, back home. He remembers how deep conversations with her could get once she begun making insightful questions. She’d always been a curious girl.

Mydei scoffs, calls him the insult he’s so fond of using towards him, and elbows him.

(Mydei and Castorice may walk on the same road as Death, each in a different way, but Phainon is no stranger to it either.

His childhood friends, moaning and panting in pain, begging, aren’t we the best of friends, Khaslana?

There is a shadow that follows him, one that leaves a dark trail behind each footstep. When he looks back, he finds the floors clean, spotless, but he hears it as soon as he turns around once more, eyes looking elsewhere. If death follows him, then it is a willing decision. It sticks with him because he chooses it, because it wills it to be. Unlike Castorice and Mydeimos, he is free to leave.

Unlike, but so similar to Castorice and Mydeimos, he holds no freedom. He never wanted to be a hero.

…One of his birthdays is spent by Mydei’s side, waiting for him to come back from Thanatos’ domain after a particularly rough hit makes him fall and not get back up. His twentieth, he believes.

He had laid down on the floor, staring up at the clouds. They were far away from Okhema; that much is obvious, considering the sky was dark. His hand barely brushed Mydei’s, not even touching it and much less holding it, but still close enough to feel the remaining heat on his soon-to-be cold body.

When Mydeimos dies, his corpse stays warm, then freezes over like he just went through a thousand snow storms, and then heats up again as he comes to his senses once more. Phainon hasn’t seen it too many times, because the man might be immortal but he’s still not fond of being fatally wounded, and also he’s not stupid, but he has long since learned the patterns, how long he has to wait.

Waiting is something he’s quite used to. Time is odd like that: most of the time it feels like it’s running away from him, but in moments like these, all he wants is for it to move quicker.

Mydei woke up gasping, his eyes wide. Whatever it is he sees when he goes, he doesn’t share, and Phainon never asks.

Mydei gets up and speaks of trivialities the way Phainon does when he’s looking for a distraction, trying to seem casual, but Phainon sees in his eyes the gratefulness, the fear, the concern.

It’s always awful to watch Mydeimos dies. Still, it was nice to lay down for a while, knowing that if he just waits a little longer, Mydei will come back.

Later on, with Mydei in Kremnos and Phainon struggling to keep Okhema together, he’ll look back on it, and realize that it was the last time.)

Khaslana fake-gasps.

“No, really! A big tree! The big tree is… big! Cyrene’s eyes must be blessed, for her to notice such a big detail like that!” he says sarcastically.

“Hush, you,” Cyrene scolds. She pauses. “...Should we climb it?”

“Wait, what?” he asks, wit and eloquence abandoning him all at once.

Cyrene doesn’t answer. Instead, she hums, tilting her head. He mimicks the motion, but instead of looking ahead, he’s looking at her in confusion. When he stares at her eyes, he finds them— glassy, unfocused, fixated on wood and leaves.

“We should climb it,” Cyrene says after a moment, nodding decisively, and hitting her right palm with her left fist. Still, her gaze never once leaves the tree.

Khaslana stares at her, only slightly bewildered. “Why, though?”

“Why not?” Cyrene shrugs. Whatever spell she was under breaks all at once, and her eyes return to normal. He swears he could see glass breaking, glinting in the air as they fall to the ground.

She grins at him, and softly punches his arm. Khaslana doesn’t say a thing.

“Are you scared, Deliverer?” she coos, using the title on one of her Divination Cards, the one she pulled for him.

Her pink hair seems to glow under the daylight. Khaslana is filled with determination, and he makes a split second decision: he knows a challenge when he sees one, and he’s aways been nothing if not competitive.

“Never,” he says.

She giggles, and starts running, spinning around as she yells, “Race you to the top!”

He scrambles to follow her, fast paced, with a rushed beating heart. One foot after the other in quick succession, and then a hand, and then another, grabbing onto bark until he reaches the very first big branch to sit on top of.

He pushes himself up, almost slipping when he steps on a pink-ish leaf. Cyrene is already ahead of him. She takes his hand and pulls him to her until they’re both standing side by side, staring at the horizon. It’s then that he notices the sun going down, the sky dyed orange. He basks in the last moments of light, and thinks, hey, I don’t think I want this moment to end.

Cyrene sighs. Khaslana shivers like he’s been cold all his life and only finding what warmth means now.

“What a beautiful sight,” she says, “right?”

“Yeah,” Khaslana answers, breathless.

“We could build a treehouse here,” Cyrene says, and it only takes a glimpse to see her dream-like, lost in thought expression forming.

The very same face she makes when reading fate, or telling stories.

Now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure if he’s ever seen her pull a card for herself.

“Think about it,” Cyrene urges him. “We’d come here before and after visiting the fairies. We could sneak out through the window and watch the sunrise!”

“That sounds nice,” Khaslana says. The words feel hollow. Does she not have a card at all? What would it mean to not have a set destiny?

“And,” she adds, “when you leave home, I’ll stand here and shoot paper planes with messages, so we can still talk.”

Cyrene always speaks as if he wants to abandon Aedes Elysiae. She says, when you leave home, and she seems to fully believe it, no matter how much Khaslana wants to retort that he’d much rather spend the rest of his life here. The village is small, and poor, and frail, but he loves life here.

And. And, he wouldn’t leave her here, even if he did leave.

The Deliverer card. The fate of a hero.

“I’m not leaving, ‘Rene,” he complains. “I told you, I don’t want to be a savior, or whatever.”

“The cards say you will be, though!” Cyrene retorts. “And the cards are always right.”

Khaslana groans. “Not true.”

His heart gives him a painful tug. He closes his eyes, reminiscing. Cyrene had said— hey, don’t you want to…

“…climb any higher?” Her voice is high-pitched with emotion, her hands waving around in excitement when she points to the treetop.

Khaslana pauses.

“Is that safe?” he asks. Never let anyone say he wasn’t ever careful.

“Probably.” Cyrene shrugs. “But you only live once. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!”

“Hey, wait up!”

Wait up.

“Hey, wait…”

He reaches out a hand, and grabs nothing but a fistful of dust and air. The anniversary of her death—

Phainon stumbles, and it is then that he realizes he’s in the market, at Action Hour, in civilian clothes and with people staring at him; and he is completely, utterly alone.

The Deliverer roaming around the city is no strange sight, but everywhere he goes, voices still follow. People taking pictures, pointing at him, whispering to their friends and family that hey, the savior is here! And Phainon will turn around, smile, wave, and keep walking, ignoring the excited screeches and gasps. He has no idea what he’s doing here, but he wants to go home.

Survivor’s guilt, Hyacine calls it.

Hyacine picks him apart easily. Her name reminds him he’s meant to be walking to the infirmary — so he makes his way there. The path has long since been engraved in his mind, much like the sun has been carefully etched over the skin of his neck, and the walk is more muscle memory than anything else. He’s got every street memorized, too, and it takes little time to find Hyacine in front of him, at the door of her office, greeting him cheerfully. Castorice is there also, and he nods at her and waves instead of kissing her cheek like he does with Hyacine.

It’s of the very few times he attends, yet despite rarely seeing each other asides from work after finishing their education and leaving the Grove, conversation is easy.

“Survivor’s guilt,” she repeats after a while, prompted by his mere appearance. Clearly, she has seen something in him that he hasn’t spotted yet. “It’s a really interesting subject! Defined as a condition of persistent mental and emotional stress experienced by someone who has survived an incident in which others died. It’s quite common here, with the survivors from the Black Tide migrating to Okhema.”

“I have seen many people suffering from this,” Castorice adds quietly, sorrowful. “I only wish Death wasn’t as cruel as to take so many people away from their loved ones.”

“It’s tragic, indeed,” Hyacine says, shooting Castorice a fond, worried, and comforting glance (how does she even do that?), which Cas seems to receive, because a small smile forms on her face. “Ah, but I’m sorry! The way it affects the brain is so awful and interesting! I’ve been trying to study their behavior, see if there’s a general therapy that might be helpful… oh, and—”

He supposes that, since she’s the one who has studied the subject and is objectively a professional when it comes to it, she must be right. Part of her job is to put words to things undescribable — it makes sense that she’d see right through him and be able to peel all the layers underneath his skin with such little effort. It makes sense that she knows of a diagnosis for what he feels, for what he is.

But she doesn’t get it. Hyacine, sweet Hyacine, is as wonderful and kind as she is brave. He loves her with all his heart, with her determination to do what’s right and her deep desire to uncover history. But she doesn’t get it. She isn’t fully innocent by any means — she knows what death tastes like, since her profession is literally the one of a medic —, but she hasn’t seen her closest friends turn into inhuman violent creatures, unable to do anything but scream and beg as her sister is stabbed to death.

Phainon did. Phainon does. The only reason his tiny kid self was able to kill the Black Tide monsters was because they were greatly weakened by the recent transformation. Their minds and bodies in pain, Phainon being forced to put them out of his misery.

He really thought he was going to die, when the black tide reached them. But he’s alive now, in his twenties, and older than he’d ever expected to be. Older than his parents were when they had him.

Weren’t we the best of friends?

Kids his age. Some closer to Cyrene’s. Either way, too young.

It hurts to this day, the knowledge that his first bloodshed was the one of his friends and family.

It’s unfair, he knows. Phainon is strong, the Deliverer, Amphoreus’ hero, yet he had to be shielded — instead of protecting, he was protected. And it cost his parents their lives.

It can’t be survivor’s guilt if it was actually your fault, Phainon thinks, petting Little Ica’s head.

Cyrene said, more than once: “You can always tell when things have been loved.”

Phainon often answered: “I don’t know what that means.”

Cyrene would laugh, sweet and loud. High pitched, audible everywhere in the village. Oftentimes, she was told to quiet down, because her voice woke up the younger children during nap time; people liked to joke that she was the most powerful of them all, since her voice alone could shatter glass and bust eardrums.

Maybe the fat in Hyacine’s favorite little guy is an example of that.

“Sorry, Lord Phaiphai!” Hyacine exclaims, mixing up the honorifics and her nickname for him, as she tends to do when she’s nervous. “I didn’t mean to bother, really! Sometimes I get caught up and I rant a lot.”

“Hey, now,” Phainon interrupts. “No need to say sorry, friend. You mean well.”

Hyacine flushed. “I… still apologize.”

Phainon sighs. No point in arguing with the girl. It’s not like she’ll listen anyway. Little Ica stares at him disapprovingly, and he wants to gasp in offense, because he has no idea what he did to deserve that.

Castorice, who is standing at a safe distance but still besides Hyacine, chuckles softly. They must make an odd sight; a fat flying unicorn, two people chatting ignoring the fat flying unicorn, and a girl who’s obviously in the conversation, but still standing five feet away from them.

Hyacine pouts at her.

“Apologies,” Castorice says, a hand covering her mouth and hiding her amused smile. “It wasn’t my intention to make fun of you, dearest Hyacine.”

Hyacine turns bright red, and Phainon wonders just how close they actually are.

He won’t meddle. He swears he won’t meddle.

…Something he and Castorice can agree on, is that Hyacine is one of the best people he’s ever met. She’s strangely pure, strangely bright, in a world where everyone is weary and always ready to fight. She’s not innocent, no; she has seen too much death for that word to fit her. She’s a medic, a healer, and he knows the burdens of those are far heavier than what anyone else could carry.

When someone’s life escapes her grasp, she takes a deep inhale and then exhales (mimicking the person’s final breaths), her face pale and her hands trembling, and gets up with unshakeable resolve. She said, once, that even if she couldn’t save everyone, she would at least try.

(She also said, once, during one of her softest moments, that the worst part is telling the families their loved one is dead. That she can’t stand watching them cry. That she sometimes rages inside, not only because she could’ve done better but also because this has happened so many times, and she’s tired of it.

Phainon hadn’t known what to say, but then Hyacine put the wine glass down, and drunk and flushed exclaimed: “I’ll at least make it so that I have good news to tell them: their loved one died happy, dancing with the rainbow and the clouds.”

Then she passed out.)

Hyacine has faced so much illness, death, pain. But she remains the way she always has been; a steady rock to hold onto while inside a turbulent river, a shoulder to cry on. Hyacinthia remains Hyacinthia. He admires her for that. He knows Castorice does, too. Death follows her touch, merged with her skin — all she wants is to be able to move on from it the way Hyacine keeps walking forward despite the tragedy surrounding her.

Still (and this is not something Castorice will share, because Castorice loves the girl more than the promise of heaven itself, because to Castorice, Hyacine is everything a human being should be. Isn’t that so romantic? Hey, now that he thinks about it…) sometimes, her kindness feels like cruelty. In those moments where there’s nothing left in him but doubt, he thinks — she smiles at him, regardless of how tired she may be from work, and he can’t help but wonder.

Why is she like this? How does she do it? He can be— nice, yes. He enjoys helping people, always has, but it is simply nature to her. His actions, compared to her soul, make him feel like a fraud. He’s applauded by civilians wherever he goes, yet his thoughts remain so bitter. In contrast to her… well. A difference he can spot between them is how genuine their smiles are.

To say he looks up to her in that regard would be an understatement. She amazes him every day.

But, no — these are much too dramatic thoughts to be having with friends by his side. Cyrene — oh, no, Cyrene — has plastered the way she’d turn mournful mid conversation to his very soul. He misses her. At least he gets to remember her, like this.

He only notices they’ve fallen into (comfortable, warm. One of the things he enjoys most is knowing that he can simply be quiet, at ease, even when he doesn’t want to. He can simply not speak, and he’ll known his family enough for it to never be awkward in any way) silence when Hyacine breaks it.

“…Can you hold Little Ica for me? He’s a bit heavy.”

Little Ica makes some greatly offended noises as he jumps off Hyacine’s grip, batting his wings away from her, and Castorice startles so bad that he can’t help but laugh.

“Lord,” Castorice says.

Well, full on cackle would be more accurate.

(It has been a week since the anniversary.

Why is he still counting?)

It comes to mind that he has never gotten the chance to bury his parents.

He’s laying in bed, and it’s five in the morning, and he can’t sleep because he has no graves to visit. No place to properly mourn.

This is something he knows, and therefore, something he has already beaten himself up over. It is a cycle: he remembers, he mourns, he forgets, and he remembers again. Throughout it all, he lives, alone, following a sad tale of fate and heroes and sunshine.

He is logically already aware of this fact. The fire didn’t leave anything of his hometown left, and the people turned into monsters. He killed them, not with a sword but rather with a rake, without knowing who they were, at first. Then he realized, and so the next attacks were filled with tears and sorrow rather than anger.

None of them got a proper burial. None of them at all. It’s unfair, but it’s true, and he should’ve come to terms with it long ago, but he still reeks of grief. He tries, he swears he tries — and yet the path forward is still clouded by shadows from the past. He clings to the memories, holds them close to his chest, unrelenting. He presses them against his skin until it pierces his ribs and digs into his heart, and he doesn’t open his eyes to see, but he knows his entrails burn.

His mind flourishes with idea, and as many things do, it starts with fallen leaves. Anything to get away from the image of their bodies, boiling hot, melting skin, crumbling bones.

He imagines, and loses himself in…

Ah. To be more specific, it starts with a story. Near Marmoreal Palace, at the plaza, people sing and dance without stopping until the strain in their muscles keep them from moving, sweaty and tired. They celebrate the tale of Mnestia’s long suffering love, tragic and beautiful — two star-crossed lovers, never to touch each other until the end of time. It’s sad, but historians say humanity has used the day the two lovers parted to dedicate themselves to music and food and feasts. Phainon can’t for the life of him discern why, but he wasn’t there when the myth first started spreading, so he settles for keeping his mouth shut. The cuisine is always nice anyway.

Such festivities are more Okheman than anything else. They tend to also be celebrated throughout the rest of the world, since Okhema is important enough for its beliefs and customs to spread further than the outskirts of the city, but they’re still centered around here. Aedes Elysiae had never once heard of this one, for example. Phainon only learned about it once he reached the beautiful Holy City, about a year into his stay at the palace.

The fable goes like this:

Mnestia and Cerces, intertwined forever, would cheer and laugh as they danced in their physical bodies. But Cerces’ branches begun to fall from the highest peaks of Their trees, and Mnestia’s wings begun to flutter weaker and weaker each day. Eventually, they could only meet in the mountain, at dawn, back when Kephale was still awake.

Cerces proposed to Mnestia, Titan of Romance, with a ring made of leaves. Mnestia then bound Their fingers with it using Their threads of love — they say that Their corpse still holds the shining jewelry, crudely sewn into Their skin. It was so romantic and sweet, the way it contrasted their past, back when Cerces left Mnestia.

They did not get a wedding. They did not even get to see each other again.

But the day Cerces slipped the ring into Their finger is commemorated even today, millennia after.

Since the festivity surrounds both Cerces and Mnestia, it is only common sense that the students of the Grove are allowed to visit Okhema — or go back to Okhema, in the cases of scholarships — for the following days.

Phainon is looking forwards to the feasts. He is, however, not particularly thrilled about seeing Anaxa and Aglaea interact.

Watching them argue used to be amusing. The way Aglaea’s usually composed behavior cracked at the mere sight of the man was refreshing, in a way. It was weird, different, to see such expressions on her face. Forgive him if he laughs at some of the insults they trade.

But by now, it’s gotten a bit old. One of their (their as in Phainon himself, Castorice, and Hyacine) duties is to keep them apart and only let them meet when strictly necessary, because Titans, it is impossible to get anything done when they’re around the same vicinity.

That might be a bit of an overreaction, because both Aglaea and Anaxa are still very smart, capable people even when they’re too busy glaring at each other to take notes of their surroundings. In his defense, though, it tends to take twice as long to get shit going if they’re both in on whatever plan they’ve made.

He is very much fond of the man, he’ll admit. Professor Anaxa has been a solid stepping stone during his learning years, in spite of his unusual methods, his blasphemy, his eccentric nature, his…

The point is. That, as imperfect as he is (and Phainon knows Anaxa would dread ever being called otherwise), he has made himself home in one of Phainon’s — admittedly very big in numbers — ‘soft spots’, as Castorice would call them.

Back in the Grove, when he was a student, Hyacine, Castorice, and himself made part of a trio that seemed dedicated to being the bane of Anaxa’s existence, be it by not paying attention to class, following him around with stupid questions, or talking just a bit too much about Aglaea. Anaxa’s patience was running think pretty much every day he saw them.

Still, he appreciates him. Anaxa has taught him things nobody else ever has, like complex math and the most articulate ways to piss Aglaea off.

Fallen leaves. At the Grove, it was most common to find yourself with leaves on your hair, your clothes, you shoes. It was a normal sight, Hyacine picking them away from his white locks, or them both doing some odd charades to inform Castorice of the ones in her dress, because they couldn’t get close enough to just brush them off. Not even Professor Anaxa was immune to it, which was funny enough to make Phainon interrupt class and promptly get scolded.

Ah, he’s getting a bit too caught up on nostalgia. Nostalgia usually means he’s thinking of Cyrene. No, no, no! The point is, today there is a feast — and how many days it’s been since the anniversary does not matter, not anymore — and each one of the Chrysos Heirs is invited.

Aglaea always shows up. By extension, so does he, at least one of the fragments of Tribios, Castorice (when she’s feeling up to it, only if she’s sure she can remain far enough to not accidentally touch anyone), and Hyacine (when she’s not too busy in the infirmary). He thinks he’s seen Cipher around for some, but she avoids Aglaea like the plague unless she’s vomiting in her shoes, shit-faced drunk, so he can’t tell for sure if she’ll be there for this one. Anaxa is an even rarer sight; that’s why today is worth mentioning.

The Grove, both students and teachers alike, have been formally invited by the Council of Elders. Anaxa will be there, because he’s been ignoring every single invite for years now, and the Council’s patience is running thin — he’ll attend, not to save face but to spare himself from Aglaea’s scolding (which, when it comes to the Professor, is more like straight up hateful shaming). He avoids the woman like the plague; and she avoids him. What a pair.

Phainon thinks that maybe, very, very, very deep down, Anaxa doesn’t want to add too much to what’s on her plate, unless she messes with something of his. It may be more of a wish than a thought, though. They’re not very fond of each other.

The funny thing is, he’s hard Anaxa grumble about only staying at the Grove because of Aglaea, so the idea of him leaving because of her is jarring, to say the least. What a silly contradiction.

It takes him another five minutes to manage to get out of bed, and then an extra three to get moving.

Phainon walks into the kitchen. Grabs some water. Forgets to drink it and walks out to brush his teeth, then spends about ten minutes looking for the cup. Because he’s thirsty. He then realizes he left it on the counter, and drinks it in one go, almost choking and spilling it all over his body.

When he goes into the bathroom and undresses himself, ready for a shower, he takes in the sight of his own face in the mirror.

He is, objectively, quite attractive. With blinding white hair and teeth — the perfection of it only ruined by a very, very small tooth gap — and blue eyes. Kind eyes. A sun chiseled on his neck; the skin burns with phantom pain when he touches it, like it’s been set on fire over and over again. The scorching sun, set to rise. The scorching sun, set to suffer.

The people of Okhema love his appearance. They love it almost as much as they love his personality, and do they cherish his personality. Friendly, easy going Chrysos Heir, Phainon of—

It’s not a mask. He doesn’t find it difficult to smile at the masses, nor does he struggle to speak candidly to people. His insides. They burn, yes, they hurt, but the shameful anger and hatred he may feel inside is… they don’t represent him. He doesn’t want them to be all he is.

So, the words and actions and choices he makes are not an act, but a portion of truth. He feeds whatever crowd he’s facing what he wants to show and what they want to see, and he knows he’s seen as beautiful for that.

He can’t see the beauty right now. There are deep, dark bags under his eyes, and a pimple is forming on his chin. He’s too lazy to squeeze it, but cares too much to leave it be. The beginning of a beard is starting to show up on his chin, along with some mustache-like hair. He shaves it whenever it appears, because for some reason, it only grows on those two exact spots, and it looks weird if he doesn’t get it off.

…He’s tired, is all.

It takes him fifteen minutes to shower, five to dry himself up, three to get himself dressed.

It took thirty seconds for his dog to die, though time turned agonizingly slow back then. His grandfather once explained to him the concept of euthanizing, and contrary to Cyrene’s teachings, he said, sometimes it’s best to let go of life to keep it from suffering. So, Khaslana killed Snowy mid Black Tide transformation.

It takes three minutes to have breakfast. Less than than usual, because he’s not feeling particularly hungry, and managed to settle with just some crackers. Forty-five seconds to walk to the door, and five minutes and a half to put on his shoes, because he realized halfway through that he had two mismatched socks and was putting on the wrong pair of footwear. Then, a minute and twenty seconds to realize he lost his keys, five seconds to remember where he put them, nine to grab them, and another minute to walk to the door, again, and open it; then, twelve seconds to lock it when he walks out.

The air is slightly humid, and Kephale’ balls appear to be hotter than ever, making an unbearable summer-like weather. He silently curses Aglaea for her choice in ornaments, because they’re clearly not environments, and quickly feels bad about badmouthing her. Badthinking her?

People wave at him when he passes by, and he happily waves back. A young teen, about thirteen years old (wasn’t that Cyrene’s—), jokingly salutes him, and Phainon laughs before he says, at ease, soldier. Familiar words; Phainon has heard them many times before.

A street vendor is selling decorations for the festival. Phainon only spares glance, but on the corner of his eye, he manages to spot a light pink hairbrush with a grm on its back kept in their bag.

And—

“Cyrene,” Khaslana calls with a shaking tone, “I don’t think I can make it down from this one.”

Cyrene huffs. “Khas, believe in yourself. You can do it!”

Khaslana closes his eyes shut, tightening his full body grip against the trunk, and shakes his head, face pressed against the bark. He says, no I can’t, and Cyrene counters, if I can do it then you can too, but her voice breaks just as she says the last word, and whatever bravery her comment might’ve given him vanishes in an instant.

He refuses to cry. He scrunches up his nose and feels his eyes water, but he refuses to cry.

“I…” Cyrene pauses, unsure of what to say.

He’s half expecting her to give up and flee, leaving him all alone until she finds his parents and gets them to help him down. When she goes silent, he gets scared that he’ll have to wait for help all alone.

But then she proudly says, “I know. You’ll jump, and I’ll catch you!”

And the worry deepens.

“Are you sure?” he asks. “What if you drop me?”

“I swear to you I won’t,” Cyrene promises, extending out her pinky in a pinky promise she knows he can’t complete.

“But are you sure?” he presses.

Khaslana, stubborn to a fault, doesn’t listen to Cyrene. He instead tries to steady himself, go grab onto the bark tighter and stop himself from falling — he jumps, a bit, trying to find a firm grip.

And then he slips, and slides down just an inch. Not much, but enough for him to cry out in fear.

“Don’t be loud, you’ll get us in trouble,” Cyrene reprimands instinctively.

“I can’t hold on,” Khaslana says, frantic.

“I—” He may not be looking at her, but he feels her eyes burning holes into his back. When she speaks, her voice trembles (and Phainon realizes she wasn’t that much older than him when she died): “You can, Khas. Just—”

She groans in frustration, and he imagines her pulling her hair and walking in circles the way she does when she’s mad. The mental image of her puffy, slightly red, very quirrel-like cheeks comforts him, if only a little.

“—you’re so stubborn,” she’s saying. “Khas, jump! I’ll catch you.”

“No you won’t,” he whimpers. Why did he ever agree to climb? Why did he leave the house with her in the first place? “You’ll miss and I’ll fall and I’ll, I’ll— split my head open and die!”

“Don’t say that,” Cyrene begs. Khaslana tilts his head, not fully turning it in fear of losing his balance. It’s the smallest of movements, but it allows him to see Cyrene’s lower lip wobbling, her brows furrowed.

Cyrene is always talking about how she’s too pretty to frown, to be sad, angry, scared. She claims that wearing an unhappy expression leads to wrinkles in the adult life, and she’s determined to keep her skin as soft as possible, regardless of the fact that they live in a literal farm and spend most of their time under the sun.

Cyrene is a hypocrite, because she’s always complaining and yelling at him when she’s upet. She will vow to never frown but puff her cheeks to the point where he thinks they’ll bow up.

…Cyrene says she’ll catch him if he falls.

(When she died, she’d been carrying a fruit basket. The apples inside fell out and rolled around like decapitated heads, spinning eyes, and her body laid right next to them.

Phainon hadn’t caught her when she fell. He froze in place, unable to even breathe, and then fell to his knees and cradled Cyrene’s corpse, crying, begging, until his voice was all but gone and his throat was raw from screaming.

It’s a small thing, but Phainon hadn’t caught her when he fell, and the apples she was holding ended up too filthy with dirt and golden blood to eat.)

Phainon trips, and catches himself before he falls — he, quite hysterically, thinks, Cyrene would’ve caught me. He laughs.

His head spins, and his eyesight turns blurry around the corners. He exhales, inhales, and then exhales again, his chest rising in an endless cycle of simply breathing, living — a beating heart, safe below his ribs. It hits him hard, the knowledge that he’s alive.

He has endured so much, and yet he lives. It is awful, and he feels like a horrible, horrible man; out of all people, why did it have to be him? He lives despite the pain, and can’t stop thinking that someone else should be here, in his place.

Phainon is alive. The little boy from Aedes Elysiae is alive. He was tiny and frail and weak and yet, he is the only survivor.

He’s an horrible, horrible man, because Amphoreus needs him, but all he wants is to not be here. To leave and never come back.

I miss my Mom, he thinks.

And he realizes he’s in public. And he realizes he, the famed Chrysos Heir destined to Deliverance, has just tripped on his own two feet. How embarrassing.

Cyrene would’ve caught him, he knows that. But he can’t remember what she’d do before, or afterwards, and he wonders— would she laugh? Would she worry, would she cry? Take a picture, guard it close to her heart, make fun of him for it for days to come? He clenches his teeth, making noise, and shuts his eyes tight to keep the liquid in, and he feels like dying, because he can’t ask her. He doesn’t know what she’d do and he can’t ask her.

There’s a pink hairbrush at a vendor’s stand. He doesn’t know what Cyrene would do if he fell and he can’t as her. He doesn’t kow if Cyrene would like him to buy that for her and he can’t ask her.

You just tripped, he tells himself. Why did he suddenly get so upset over this? Don’t be so dramatic, Phainon.

(When had he stopped referring to himself as Khaslana?

…Would Cyrene still call him Khas if he told her his name is Phainon?)

He takes a deep, shaking breath. He begins to move forward, one foot in front of the other, wiping his eyes. He sniffles, and wishes more than anything that he had a paper towel on him.

On the corner of his vision, he spots…

“Why, hello,” he says, forcing his face to smile. “It’s nice to see you all here.”

“Snowy!” Tribbie exclaims, face bright and youthful. He laughs.

“Tribbie, Anaxa,” he acknowledges as a greeting. He turns to Mydei, and nods his head, “Mydeimos. It’s nice to see you.”

“You just said that,” Mydei points out. Phainon is suddenly feeling irritated.

Perhaps more aggressive than usual, Phainon mutters, “Did I, now.”

Mydei appears startled. He opens his mouth, but Tribbie beats him to it.

“Are you okay, though, Snowy?” Tribbie interrupts.

Phainon blinks. Then he smiles. “Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?”

“We all saw you fall,” Mydei cuts in before Tribbie gets to answer. She pouts at him. “It was kind of funny.”

Motherfucker.

“Really now, Mydei,” Phainon says with a smile plastered on his face. “But failure is an important part of a warrior’s journey! Do you not want to share any of yours? What about… a certain night during last year’s winter, when you fell on the river, and—”

“Shut it, you,” Mydei snaps. “Your fall was far more pathetic.”

When he met Mydei, he hated him.

He doesn’t anymore. He has grown enough to recognize that he quite appreciates his presence, actually.

However, in times like these, he remembers the initial dislike with a burning intensity. Because, Titans help him, the man is annoying.

“Of course, of course. Mydeimos the Undying is too dignified — strong, beautiful — to fall for such mockeries,” he says, bullshitting his way through the words, and snorting at the fall pun.

Mydeimos laughs. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

Phainon grants him a respectful bow of the head, and then coughs into his hand. “Coward.”

“Excuse you.” Mydei’s gaze snaps back at him with such strength Phainon fears his neck may break. “What did you just say?”

“Titans, give me patience so I may stop myself from killing them,” he hears Anaxa — who is as blasphemous as ever but still somehow unable to stop using religious common phrases — mutter as he sighs profusely.

“Prof!” Phainon exclaims. “I didn’t see you there!”

“You did, though?” Mydeimos says, confused. Phainon ignores him.

“And, pray, tell, who are you?” Anaxa asks with a raised eyebrow.

Phainon winks. “The man who oblitared your other students in every debate he’s ever participated on, of course!”

“Ah, right. That guy.”

Tribbie groans. “They do this every time…”

“The joke isn’t funny if you’ve already acknowledged each other,” Mydei says, arms crossed.

“Ah, who cares!” Phainon places his arm stop Mydei’s shoulders, easily leaning on him. Mydei allows him with nothing more than a grunt. “Let us have fun, dearest prince.”

“It is still stupid,” Mydei says.

“Apologies. I forgot you are seemingly allergic to happiness.”

“Dearest Mnestia, give me patience,” Tribbie prays to Aglaea. “Boys, please stop bickering; we have places to be!”

Phainon winces. “Ah. Apologies, Lady Tribbie — it wasn’t our intention to be so bothersome.”

He thinks he hears Mydei say, it certainly was yours, but it’s so soft he can barely tell it apart from the wind in his ears.

Tribbie says, “Agy’s waiting for us, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!”

She doesn’t walk as much as she skips, form brimming with pure, raw energy. A grin decorates her, excitement obvious in her figure. With her childish nature and appearance, it’s difficult to remember she’s so, so much older than he is. When he watches her, he can only think of a child that has had to grow up too quickly, even though he knows she’s had more than enough time to do so. It’s a little painful, is all, to watch such a young face be mercilessly thrown into battle.

Still, he thanks her for everything she has done for him. She, and the rest of the remaining fragments of Tribios, have been there for him since he was a child, much like Aglaea was. He thinks Cyrene would’ve liked them. He thinks they would’ve liked her stories.

He closes his eyes, shaking the thoughts away — such sorrows cannot be drowned, but he doesn’t have the right to let them fester.

Phainon is angry, has always been angry, will always be angry, but he should not be allowed to be. The young face Tribbie wears angers him, the memory of Cyrene angers him — ire is a constant in his soul, to the point where he can’t remember a time where it wasn’t so. His fists clench involuntarily, and Titans, can he get anymore pathetic?

Such emotion is unbecoming of him. He should be ashamed.

When he turns his head, looking for distraction, his gaze catches Mydei’s. The man raises an eyebrow at him, questioning, and crosses his arms. Phainon immediately looks away.

He, feeling much like a petulant child, thinks once more: Cyrene would’ve caught me.

Khaslana screams. Screams louder than he ever has in his life, screams like he’ll die if he doesn’t, screams like the world has ended and he’s the only one left.

Khaslana screams more than Cyrene does. Because when he jumps, much like she’d ordered, she walks to place herself directly below him — and trips, and falls, and Khaslana falls on top of her, and suddenly the grass is covered in some strange, golden liquid, and Khaslana screams.

Khaslana screams because Cyrene can’t. Khaslana screams because Cyrene passed out before she got the chance to, and there is so much gold coming out of her shattered arm. He can see the inside of her limb. It’s bent weirdly, her flesh torn apart. Pieces of it have been ripped off, with the impact having dragged her against the bark of the tree, scratching her skin, digging into her body, destroying it. She hit her head when she fell to the ground, and she passed out, and there’s blood on her head.

A white solid object sticks out, and he tries not to vomit, because it is then that he realizes that oh, oh god, he can see bone.

She didn’t catch him. Nothing else matters because she didn’t catch him, and she’s bleeding on the ground with a broken arm, and wait, what if she’s dead? The possibility hadn’t fully dawned on Khaslana before and now it settles in his guts like a cold, cold object stabbing him in the stomach over and over and over until he can’t breathe, and he can’t breathe, and he can’t breathe, and maybe Cyrene can’t breathe either. Cyrene didn’t catch him and now she’s dying on the ground and he’s too much of a— of a pussy, a coward, a child, to do anything about it.

What if she dies? What if she dies and he can’t ever see her again?

He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe. Cyrene is bleeding on the floor and he’s dying with her, and he thinks he’s hving a heart attack— is it a heart attack? It must be. His chest hurts, it contracts painfully with every ragged gasp he attempts to take, and his heart isn’t beating. She’s dying and he’s dying with her. She’s dying and he’s—

Someone comes to drag him away. He, far more panicked than how he’s ever felt in his life, fights to break free, kicking, hitting, and still screaming. His ears hurt, his throat aches. His nails are digging into his palms and it is then that he realizes he has teeth, and so he bites, bites, bites—

The thing grabbing him cries out in pain, but before he can feel even a semblance of remorse, he’s running towards Cyrene’s limp body. She’s not cold, when he touches her. He doesn’t kow how he manages to register it but he does. She’s not cold.

But she’s dying, and he doesn’t kow how to fix it, and he misses Mom and Dad—

“Ma,” he whispers. Then, louder: “Help, please, help, she’s dying, she’s dying—”

“Khaos!” a voice screams in his face, making him flinch. A hand grabs his arm tightly to keep him from escaping, and he complains and squirms, but it won’t let go. “What happened? What happened?”

That’s not my name, he wants to say, but he can’t even—

“She’s,” he says instead. “She.”

She said she’d catch him. She said it’d be fine. She said—

“Phai, oh, Phai,” the voice says. His vision is too blurry to see, but now, he thinks he recognizes— “It’s fine, she’ll be fine.”

He didn’t mean to.

This time, when he’s pulled into a strong, warm embrace, he doesn’t fight back.

“Pa,” he cries. “Pa, she’s dead “

“She isn’t,” Pa says firmly.

“She is,” he sobs. She’s dead and he killed her. She’s dead and it’s his fault.

“No, no. They’re taking her away to the medic, Khas, she’ll be fine,” Pa says.

They’re taking her away?

Khaslana, horrified and with his sister’s blood on his hands, desperately attempts to move, to turn around, to get at the very least one last glimpse of her face before he has to leave her.

Dad doesn’t let him. Instead, he holds him while he cries, whispering soft reassurances into his ears — his grip tight and shaky and clumsy all at once, leaving bruises on his skin.

Phainon unconsciously rubs at his forearm, softly massaging the flesh to rid himself of phantom pain. When Aedes Elysiae was destroyed, the black robed swordmaster kicked at his arm, shattering bone. He’d felt guilty, because now he finally understood what Cyrene felt when he broke her arm — and then he felt guilty over feeling guilty, because why does he care so much about a thing from the past when she’s dead and can’t even complain about it anymore?

He wonders if it’s disrespectful.

…Everything seems to lead back to that. Everything he does is tied in some way to his friend’s demise.

He forces his hand down and ignores the hammering in his radius. Gritting his teeth, lips pursed, he marches forward, following Tribbie until they reach a gigantic (as in, gigantic) table.

The entire place is decorated with green and yellow garlands and banners, Cerces and Mnestia’s symbols plastered across every wall, every street, every house. Kids run around, chasing each other with deer masks and hitting each other with foam. One of them screeches once some of it gets in his eye. Phainon winces, but before he can step in to help, the boys parents show up and take him away, hands on his back to comfort him.

Phainon sighs.

Somewhere over the left of the plaza, only a tiny bit further from the rest of the people, there’s a table decorated with golden engraved butterflies and flowers. Sitting on the chairs by it, are Hyacine and Aglaea, drinking… wine? He’s pretty sure it’s wine. It certainly doesn’t have the color of beer.

Phainon hears Anaxa stifling a groan, and sees Aglaea’s body language turn icy cold the second she sees them.

“Hello, Lady Goldweaver,” he says, pronouncing her title like a mockery.

“Greetings, Blasphemer,” she answers, looking like she’s going to shoot daggers from her eyes.

If looks could kill…

“Hi, everyone!” Hyacine breaks the silence first, ridding everything of the tension their seniors caused.

Phainon smiles warmly. “Hyacine! It’s nice to see you.”

Mydei mutters, “That’s the third time you’ve said today, you broken record.”

“Shut up,” Phainon hisses. Mydei, in all his beauty, glares.

“Professor!” Hyacine exclaims, her hands tugging at her drill-like pigtails. “What an oddity to see you here.”

Her blinding smile makes him close his eyes. Aglaea pointedly looks the other way.

“It is aberrant to have showded up at all,” Anaxa mutters. “I detest this holiday. Romance and Reason… what a joke!”

Aglaea’s grip on her cup tightens, barely noticeable. She definitely thinks the same as the Professor, though. Maybe that’s why she looks so unhappy.

Hyacine pouts. “Professor, please…”

“Yeah, Prof Anaxa!” Phainon joins in, for the laughs. “Cheer up. Today is a good day.”

Anaxa sighs profusely.

“Anaxagoras. And I will admit this does take me back to when you three were still students,” he says, reclutant.

Phainon claps, and Hyacine lets out a yay!

“Can we eat now?” Lady Tribbie asks, and oh. Oh, there’s food over there. It looks really, really good.

Phainon spares a glance at Mydei. Mydei catches it immediately, looks back, and shrugs, as if to say, I told you I’d do it.

Phainon is.

Bewildered.

“Is this a…” It takes him a moment to find a good word, “picnic? On a table?”

“It’s obviously not a picnic, HKS,” Mydei huffs. “Do you see any sandwiches?”

…Well, no, but—

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t even say anything,” Phainon complains. “Why are we this hidden from the crowd? Wasn’t Lady Aglaea going to give a speech? And—”

“Lord Phainon,” Hyacine cuts in, not showing annoyance in her tone — she’s too polite to do that — but still having her voice strongly carried by the wind, “please. If you would…”

“If you could shut your mouth, you’d maybe get an explanation,” Mydei interrupts. Then he realizes who he interrupted, and sends an apologetic nod her way. She smiles at him, so he must be forgiven.

“Please refrain from using violence,” Lady Aglaea says. “This is a festival, and we are in public. You may not be the center of attention, as of now, but you could quickly become so if you started fighting so loudly again.”

At the same time, they say: “Sorry, Lady Aglaea.”

They turn to each other. Mydeimos frowns.

Phainon’s eye falters momentarily, and he identifies the known armor of Okhema’s army. A handful of soldiers was distributed around the plaza, guarding its borders and managing the civilians. It’s only a few, so only noticeable if you’re purposefully searching for them — never be fooled: Phainon is quite attentive after all! — but it’s enough for his brows to furrow in discontent.

From a logical standpoint, it makes sense for them to have been dispatched around here. Mnestia’s festival is one of the very few in Okhema where certain types of alcohol — wine and brew, specifically — are not only allowed but celebrated, and he knows how people can get when they’re drunk. But Phainon has long become familiar with the guards at the Hero’s Bath, and even some around the market, and these ones are not them. These are not trusted individuals, people Phainon can confirm are worthy of keeping unleashed.

They’re obviously here on the orders of the Council of Elders, of course. Which means they’re not actually here to make sure nothing goes wrong in the festival, but rather to keep a close eye on them. On Aglaea decidedly the most, but on all the Chrysos Heirs at once.

They knew many of the Chrysos Heirs would show up, so the Elders (Caenis is behind this, he’s sure of it. If only he could prove it) sent their lackeys to… to what? Stir up trouble? Make them feel uneasy, watched? Or is it just to make sure they don’t try anything the Elders wouldn’t approve of?

Phainon has no idea.

A quick glance at Aglaea tells him she’s isn’t happy about it, either. He takes note of her thin lips, etched downwards in a way that surely isn’t only because of the Blasphemer’s presence. Or maybe it is. One can never tell, with them.

He realizes that must be why they’re here, in a corner, instead of meddling with the crowd or on top of a stage. He gives the nearby soldiers the once-over, and then turns back to Aglaea — yeah, definitely not happy.

It’s not all bad, though. Phainon has never enjoyed being the center of attention (their irises pinned in his hair, his clothes, his body—), much as he may have once enjoyed the applauses that would come after carrying something particularly heavy in Aedes Elysiae. It is… nice, he’ll admit, to get to settle down and chat with friends with not too many interruptions.

He has missed this.

The realization is more of a gradual thing. He sits down, between Hyacine and (of course) Mydei, gifts the Prince a cheerful smile as he serves food for everyone, laughs when he scoffs. He cuts in when the silence after Aglaea and Anaxa speak to, or of, each other gets too awkward and unbearable. He reminisces of the old days, sharing stories of the Grove to Mydei, who hadn’t been there to witness them in the first place.

His duty as a Chrysos Heir, as the Deliverer, is rarely ever lenient enough to allow him rest — much less to simply hang out with everyone and not just Mydei.

He sighs, content, even as he bickers with Mydeimos over the singular piece of chorizo he added to his serving of stew (that guy knows the chorizo is his favorite part, he’s doing it on purpose), or goes quiet once Aglaea sets her gaze on him, or tenses each time a soldier walks past them.

“I really want to see the dancers!” Tribbie is saying, excitedly waving her hands around. “It’s the best part of the whole thing!”

Hyacine nods along in agreement. Phainon finds himself doing so as well.

They’re not all alone, of course. They are, after all, still highly revered amongst Okhema’s citizens. Passerby civilians still easily identify them, half-hidden as they may be. Most are a bit too intimidated by the presence of Aglaea, Anaxa, and Mydei on the same place at the same time, but they still stare. And a few others draw closer — some even daring enough to approach.

A little kid gasped when she saw him, and immediately ran over to ask him for an autograph. The mother chased after her, hissing out that no, you can’t just run off like that, can’t you see they’re all together, we can ask for an autograph later—

The kid let our an aweh, and it was cute enough that Phainon nearly bowed to her.

Mydei saw the look he had, and kicked him under the table to hold him back from doing such stupidity. Eventually, he resigned to sign a drawing she’d made of him (oh, Titans, that’s so cute.)

“Y’know, when I reached Okhema, I didn’t think being a Chrysos Heir would be so much like being a celebrity,” he muses.

For some reason, the whole table — minus Aglaea — laughs. He sputters, confused, that he’s being serious. Because he is!

“You’ve really outdone yourself, De!” Tribbie says with her mouth full, clapping, after a few minutes.

Mydei huffs, clearly incapable of taking a compliment like a normal person. “No need. Please, save some for Lady Trianne and Lady Trinnon so they get to enjoy it, too.”

Tribbie grins. Aglaea grabs a napkin to wipe the crumbs off her face, and Tribbie’s smile turns sheepish.

“Truly marvelous as usual, Mydeimos,” Aglaea says.

“Yeah! It’s really good,” Hyacine adds.

“Thank you,” Mydei says. This time, he’s— oh, is that a blush?

“Prince Mydeimos,” Phainon drawls out, “are you embarrassed?”

Predictably, Mydei glares. Hyacine instinctively covers Tribbie’s ears when he says, “Shut the fuck up.”

“Hey, what’d he say?” Tribbie asks, genuinely confused. “No, really, what’d Dei say?”

Aglaea is glaring daggers at them. Phainon coughs into his palm and mutters an unapologetic apology.

“My compliments to the chef,” Anaxa says, pushing the empty plate in front of him so it’s closer to the center of the table. “Truly, I was not expecting to eat anything when I got the invitation—” by which he means threat, “—to come, but, as Lady Tribbie said: you’ve outdone yourself today, Mydeimos.”

Mydei nods awkwardly. Phainon finds him unbearably adorable. “I was reminded of what you’d said about your unique preferences, and made a dish catered to your tastes, so you’d get to at least enjoy something with the rest.”

“And I am touched by your actions.” Anaxa grants him a rare, non-crazied smile. Mydei’s ears are bright red.

“Uh. Yes. Of course.”

Phainon snorts.

“I am gleefully surprised by the fact that you haven’t made me specifically that… unique black porridge — not burned at all, of course —, with you talking about things like catering to our tastes,” he says in a sing song voice, with exaggerated words and tone.

“I only give you what you deserve, Savior,” Mydeimos informs him.

“Or so you claim.”

Mydei rolls his eyes, but his lips have curled upwards, and Phainon counts it as a win.

He yawns. It’s getting pretty late.

The conversation continues, until his brain drowns it out, turning it into background noise. His heart does a little something, moving around inside his chest — reclutantly, he thinks: I don’t want this to ever end.

(The last time he thought something of the sort, Cyrene failed to catch him when he jumped, and she broke her arm, and he was so, so sure she’d died.

He vowed to never hope for something like that again, lest she ever be harmed.

Cyrene was murdered years later.)

“Is she—”

He pauses. Breathes.

“Is she okay?” he asks in a timid voice.

Mom smiles at him and ruffles his hair, and relief fills his whole body. She wouldn’t do that if Cyrene was dead. “She is now, Khaslana. I’ll take you to her, if you want.”

“Really?” Khaslana immediately brightens. “You will?”

“Of course. Just don’t be too loud, okay? She has a headache.”

Khaslana makes a zipping motion on his lips, and stares up at her with determination. Mom chuckles. His chest feels full.

Cyrene’s forehead is covered with bandages, and her arm is secured with a cast. She looks bored out of her mind, but she grins when she sees him.

“Khas!” she yells. And then winces, and tries to grab at her head, but stops herself before she reaches it. “Ow, ow.”

“Cyrene,” he whispers, because Mom had told him to be quiet, “are you okay?”

She blinks at him. “Of course I am, silly. Thanatos wouldn’t take a girl as pretty as me!”

He wonders if maybe she shouldn’t say such blasphemies. If maybe she just shouldn’t say them inside the house, even if Mom left the room.

Khaslana doesn’t care. He’s just happy to see her again.

“Cyrene. Cyrene, I’m sorry,” he says, and he’s horrified when he notices his watery eyes. He swore he wouldn’t cry— not in front of her, not when he’s the reason she’s in such state.

“Aw, no,” she says. “Man, I’d hug you, but…”

Khaslana sniffles. She can’t even hug people because of what he—

“I don’t mean it like that, silly! I’m okay, promise! Here, see.” She holds out her unharmed hand, every finger curled except for her pinky.

He mimicks her, if only to make her happy— because he still doesn’t believe her.

“—non.”

“Huh?”

“I said no, it’s nor your fault,” Cyrene repeats. “I mean, I told you to jump. If anything, I did this to myself.”

Khaslana doesn’t anything. He bites his lower lip.

“Hey—”

“—do you wanna sign my cast?” Cyrene asks, grinning from ear to ear.

“You’re so stupid,” Khaslana says on reflex, making Cyrene gasp exaggeratedly in mock offense.

“I’ll have you know, I get the highest grades in my class,” she says, sniffling.

“A class with five people,” he points out. His class has only six, but whatever.

“Hush, you.”

“Ugh!”

“Come on, you idiotic—”

“Who’re you calling an idiot?” Khaslana immediately jumps to defend his honor.

“You!” She smiles. “You’re the only idiot in the room.”

“What!” he squeaks.

Cyrene giggles.

“Why would I even be an idiot?”

“Because,” she says, pointing at his chest with her index finger, “you’re still blaming yourself even after I told you not to. Which is idiotic! So, you’re a idiot.”

Khaslana groans. “That makes no sense!”

“Maybe not,” she acknowledges. It catches him off guard.

He breathes. “..Ely—”

“Cyrene,” she corrects, firmly but gently.

“It’s just a pen name,” he says, “isn’t it?”

“Maybe. But not to me; not anymore.”

“Nikador’s Fury, wake the fuck up!”

Irritation.

“I’m on it,” he mumbles angrily. “Cyrene, Cyrene—”

She takes his hand, and shakes her head, softly, as to not worsen her headache. “No.”

“No?” he asks, puzzled.

“Wake up, you — Hero of Aedes Elysiae,” Elysia, Cyrene, tells him; weirdly enough, with Mydei’s voice, “silliest warrior of all!”

Phainon begrudgingly opens his eyes, and immediately groans at the light.

What a short dream.

What an awful dream. What an awful memory. Her name was once Elysia. She asked, in the privacy of the night, to be called Cyrene. The name she wrote under; the one she created when she fell in love with poetry. Something in her eyes was full of sorrow.

He remembers her happier than she was. In real life, there’d always been a neverending melancholy that echoed in her every word.

Still, she smiled.

He rubs at his eyes, stopping tears from falling, deciding to pass the humidity as tiredness.

Mydei, staring down at him, snorts. “Took you long enough.”

Staring down at him?

Phainon blinks. And stares. And stares. And stares.

Oh, what the fuck, he thinks.

He raises his head up from Mydei’s lap, accommodating his body back into his chair. He stretches, and very pointedly ignores the way Hyacine and Anaxa are staring at him, with the girl failing to stifle her giggling with her hand on her mouth.

“Titans, did I fall asleep?” he asks, yawning.

“You did,” Hyacine says.

“How embarrassing of you,” Anaxa adds.

He’s never living this down.

“You’re never living this down,” Mydei echoes. Bitch.

He furrows his eyes. “Where’s Aglaea? And Tribbie?”

Mydei points at a nearby stage. When did that get there?

“That woman — I say this in an absolutely derogatory manner, as always — is about to give her speech,” Anaxa tells him.

One. Two. Three.

Phainon groans again. Motherfucker. “I missed the dance!”

“That’s what you get for falling asleep on me.” Mydei is smiling at him in amusement. Phainon flushes brightly at the reminder. “What was it you’d said earlier… oh, dearest Deliverer, are you embarrassed?”

Dearest Deliverer?

That does nothing to quell the hotness in his face. Mydeimos laughs at his offended expression.

It’s a bit disappointing. In these carnivals, dancing customed entertainers will walk down the streets, with great music following close behind. They bring a made-up stage with them, and whatever important figure is around will get to deliver a speech. It has been Aglaea and Tribbie’s duty for the last three years, much to the former’s dismay.

Elysia would’ve loved the dance.

Cyrene. Cyrene would’ve loved it.

Before he gets the chance to fully wake himself up, he hears Hyacine shush them (loudly, funnily enough) and tell them to quiet down — the speech is starting, and Cyrene always said the best way to show someone you love them is to listen when they speak.

He blinks. What? Hyacine hadn’t said that. Hyacine doesn’t even know who Cyrene is.

(How unfair is it, that he’s the only one who remembers her name? Cyrene would’ve never wanted to be forgotten, but Phainon kept her name deep in his wholly selfish mind, guarded to never be found again.

She wrote for a reason. She wanted to share her stories.

Every paper, every book she had was destroyed with their hometown. Her sweet smile and sad soul, her pink hair and light blue jewelry, were burned when he chose to cast aside the boy he used to be.

To deny the existence of Khaslana is to deny Cyrene herself. They grew up together. There would not be a Phainon, Worldbearer of Deliverance, without her.

He casts aside himself. Both Khaslana and Cyrene are dead.)

“—let us rejoice, let us feast, let us cheer like today is our last,” Tribbie is saying, “because Tomorrow will arrive. Let’s cheer, for freedom!”

“Let us cheer for love,” Aglaea says. Practiced words that cut deep into people’s hearts, “for the Flame-Chase Journey is not one without valor.”

“It is not one without friendship!” Is it him, or did Tribbie wink at them?

“So let us drink, O revered Titans. Let us drink, today; and let us be at peace Tomorrow,” Aglaea finishes.

The many, many people at her feet cheer as ordered; they clap and laugh and yell. Not at ease, not fully, but still in joy.

It brings a smile to his face. This, he thinks, is something to write about.

Aglaea sighs the second she sits back down, once she comes back to them. Tribbie follows close behind, more jumping on the chair rather than sitting on it.

Anaxa gives the both of them a mocking applauses, and to cover the offense, both Phainon and Hyacine clap with him. The man’s — words Aglaea finds pleasure in when filled with dislike, especially if they come from any mouth that isn’t hers — sarcastic body language isn’t lost on their Lady Goldweaver, but thankfully, Aglaea doesn’t do much more than narrow her eyes.

“That was really good!” Hyacine praises.

“It is the same speech as always,” Aglaea answers kindly, “but we appreciate your kind words, Hyacinthia.”

Hyacine beams at her.

“It is still a nice speech,” Mydei murmurs. “I haven’t heard it as many times as you all have. It’s mostly new to me — and, Lady Aglaea, if it pleases you to know: Hyacine is right, it is very good.”

Phainon sighs dreamily. How the man talks.

Aglaea shoots him a glance, but she quickly turns to Mydei (who looks like he very much wishes for someone, most likely Phainon, to stab him in the gut so he can rid himself of any form of social interaction. He even has the red ears!) and nods pleasantly.

“Thank you, Mydeimos.”

Mydei bows his head, stiff.

“Shall we give another toast?” Phainon jests. Aglaea’s nose wrinkles.

“No need,” she says passively.

Tribbie sighs. “We think one’s enough.”

Phainon laughs. “Still, let us cheer! In absence of a proper toast,” He spares a glance at Mydei, “I shall sing praises to—”

“Do not,” Mydei hisses. “You do it on purpose.”

Does he mean the awful singing he so gleefully shares with his friends during dinner, or the obvious attempts at annoying him?

Phainon blinks innocently, a hand on his chest. “Me? How could I ever!”

“I wish Castorice were here,” Hyacine laments.

“…In a, ‘I miss my friend who I’m in love with’ way, or in a ‘I want her to touch one of us so we’ll shut up’ way?” Phainon asks, wary.

Hyacine, instead of answering, turns bright golden. “Oh my gods.”

“We all know you like her,” Anaxa points out. “You can speak of it freely.”

“Oh my gods.”

“Aw, young love!” Tribbie says. He ignores how disconcerting it is to hear the face of a child saying that.

“It isn’t a very well-kept secret,” Mydei says with an apologetic tone.

“Then let’s cheer for Hyacine’ undying love for Lady Castorice!” Phainon raises a glass midst laughter, fearing it may spill from the way his body trembles as he tries to contain a cackle.

“Lord Phaiphai!” Hyacine screeches.

“Phainon,” Aglaea cuts in with a chiding tone. Phainon sheepishly lowers his wine. Mydei snorts, and Phainon kicks him under the table.

“It’d be nice to, like.” Tribbie struggles to find the words. “To make glasses hit each other.”

“Make the glasses hit each other?” Phainon asks, delighted at the new pun material.

“You know what we mean, Snowy,” Tribbie says with a pout.

“I find myself agreeing,” Aglaea says, musing. She stands, gracefully pouring herself and the rest of them — minus Tribbie, who gets some grape juice — more wine.

Anaxa sighs profusely in obvious discontent. “If everyone else wants to, I will agree. Keep in mind that I greatly wish to not do it just so that I can be against you, dearest Aglaea.”

“Dearest Anaxagoras,” Aglaea begins, pronouncing the pet name the way one might do shit, “I kindly invite you to shut your mouth.”

“Ha! The Lady Goldweaver has fallen low, it seems.” Anaxa claims victory.

“Let’s just cheer,” Hyacine hurriedly jumps in before Aglaea gets to answer. Thankfully, Aglaea doesn’t say anything at the disrespect. Then, “Please.”

Aglaea doesn’t soften, not really, not with the Professor nearby, but it’s a close thing. It’s all in the eyes! You can tell if you pay enough attention.

Mydei is the first to raise his glass. Because he despises alcohol, Phainon raises an eyebrow, feeling weirded out. He’d have thought Mydei would either be the last, or would already be slipping off to find some pomegranate juice.

Ah, who is he to complain?

Phainon follows nigh.

“For Tomorrow!” Tribbie’s cheery voice reaches his ears. His organs, if empty, feel warm.

Their glasses rejoice as they touch one another — clink, clink. Laughter. They pray in thoughts for those they love, that which they want, the future they crave. He knows as much as he knows himself that everyone else’s drink is dedicated to a goal, to a loved one, to the stars.

Phainon, in the secrecy of his mind, says: for my sister.

And there’s the end of that.

In the end, this cycle is just like any other. The other Heirs are dead. The memories of this Phainon are Khaslana’s, and viceversa. Once more, he has drawn his sword on those he loves most, having long since become numb to the feeling of blood staining his skin.

He tells himself it is all for dawn yet to come. Khaslana may be crumbling away, but he still has purpose. There is a meaning to the slaughter, he promises. He swears there will be a happy ending to this story, once the journey finally ends.

But he is so tired.

He feels the echo of Cyrene’s icy cold hands resting atop his, with her warm voice — contrasting the body temperature — saying, I’ll be there with you until you no longer remember me. You are not alone.

Khaslana tries to breathe. This is for a dawn yet to come. This is for a new world he won’t get to see.

For them, he tells himself. Do it for—

Khaslana, Cyrene says, voice filled with sorrow, get up.

Khaslana rises from the floor, where he previously laid on his knees, and slowly drags himself away from Mydeimos’ corpse.

For a dawn yet to come.