Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They say, hidden away in a far, foreign land, a god has been laid to rest.

A peaceful, quiet sleep. One that has lasted over a millennium.

They were not slain, but succumbed to slumber after millions upon millions of epochs spent bearing the world.

Kephale’s legacy, some say.

Kephale’s corpse, some whisper.

Kephale’s descendant, some claim.

A holy cradle, bearing a treasure of immeasurable worth, all agree.

Pity, that none can find the Worldbearer’s tomb.

When the Era Nova had finally been ushered onto Amphoreus’ stage, Oronyx had declared then and there, that no mortal soul would ever be allowed to step foot into Aedes Elysiae. An unknown village tucked away in a corner ‒ a place none had ever heard of before.

The Council of Elders, ignorant of the weight that obscure place held, had agreed without protest. Even Oronyx’ fellow Titans had conceded without hesitation.

(It was only in the absence of the Sky Father’s presence and guidance that the Council of Elders had realized their mistake.)

Oronyx’ personal Arcadia; hearsay speaks of a golden ocean, fae roaming among Oronyx’ favored mortals and a labyrinth with Kephale’s tomb resting at its heart. A silent, precious treasure, cradled within the embrace of the Time Titan themselves. Frozen forever in a gentle dream.

And thus, Aedes Elysiae had become a slice of paradise that only those with golden blood in their veins could find.

Yet even then, scant Chrysos Heirs have ever found their way to that sea of golden wheat.

Those who did, spoke of gold stretching as far and wide as the eyes could see, a village forever embraced by Time, and the shimmering visage of Oronyx themselves guarding the Elysian fields and playing with the mortal children in their domain.

None of the outsiders were ever allowed entrance to the labyrinth leading to the Worldbearer’s tomb.

The fae were unwilling to let any Chrysos Heir inside, claiming their hearts bore too much greed.

Only the purest of hearts were allowed inside, like the Elysian children who only wished to play and cook with the fae.

And so, Chrysos Heirs filled with avarice and vice, were banished from Aedes Elysiae as well.

Once, before Oronyx had banned every and all entry to their realm, there had been a moment Oronyx had gifted mortals access to Aedes Elysiae.

It was to celebrate a birth.

The Time Titan had been so overjoyed with the herald of that fragile, fleeting life, they wished for everyone to share their joy.

It had been the first and last time Oronyx would ever let outsiders without golden blood step foot in Aedes Elysiae.

A tragedy and grief so severe, Era Nova had risked an early end.

(And yet Era Nova persevered.)

(For the Titans knew that Destruction was not the answer.)

Tiny, frail fingers find their way to Cyrene’s, wrapping around them so delicately, she could cry.

Even like this, reduced to a fragile and mortal body, it appears her Phainon still holds on to that stubborn desire to fulfill people’s dearest wishes. He’s so, so small now. With her memories restored from the previous cycles, she can almost not believe her eyes, seeing him younger than she is.

In all her previous lives, aside from their childhood during the first, it had always been him who grew older and towered over her in height. It had always been her who was left behind, frozen forever in the erased flow of Time.

Her Phainon, sweet, kind and bright Phainon, sleepily babbling away in her arms as if the eons of suffering he willingly bore had been nothing more but a bad dream. And perhaps it had been, at least for this new life she now held. She knows that Phainon’s suffering will one day continue, haunted by Khaslana’s slumbering form cradled in the heart of the fairies’ maze. She knows, the weight of Amphoreus is nothing compared to the Destruction’s gaze. Phainon’s fate as a Lord Ravager will one day drag him to a precipice of no return, balancing his own wants against the fate of the universe itself.

She’s known him long enough to know what choice he won’t hesitate to make in the wake of such a dilemma. Directly experienced his resolve and grief when forced to walk a path with no end.

And yet, and yet...

“Not yet,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss against the babe’s temple, her nose brushing against sheer, snow white hairs and soft, warm skin. Unmarred by war and lacking the scorching heat of millions upon millions of Coreflames. “Let’s not grow up for a little longer, shall we?” she whispers, hopes, wishes, but doesn’t pray ‒ for the Aeons do not care.

Still, even with the uncertainties of the future looming over him like Damocles’ sword, happiness fills her heart as the babe blinks up at her with reflected joy. The sun mark on his neck is as damning as it gets, yet even that cannot deter the relief she feels when holding Phainon. Alive and well.

It’s been so long since she—since any of the Heirs, really—had gotten the pleasure of seeing Phainon.

The final battle against Irontomb...

She shakes her head, blinking away the dreary and horrific memory of the crumbling corpse wearing her dearest companion’s face.

Cyrene adjusts her grip on the bundle in her arms, making sure to not jostle Phainon’s sleepy form. Her teleslate has unread messages. Most are updates about the steady rebuild of Amphoreus, with Okhema spotlighted on the stage, sending aid and rescue in name of the Goldweaver and the Imperator. The Trailblazers’ names pop up often, flitting around with the rest of the visitors beyond the sky, lending their aid.

Fondness fills her as she reads about their Heroes’ shenanigans. Yes, perhaps, if it’s them...perhaps she can let them know about the miracle that’s in her arms.

She listens absentmindedly to Hieronymus’ humming as he prepares a meal in the kitchen, Audata peacefully resting in bed, no doubt exhausted.

They aren’t her Hieronymus and Audata, yet that doesn’t deter her from enjoying this peaceful bubble she’s managed to carefully herd into existence.

Just as she has missed this peace in Aedes Elysiae, she’s certain the others have missed her and Phainon as well.

At the start of Era Nova she banned entry in caution of the Council of Elders, but this joy, this miracle, is something her fellow Heirs and Heroes deserve to know of. Phainon’s existence should be celebrated, she thinks, especially now that he no longer needs to bear the weight of a false prophecy. Perhaps, she muses, he’ll finally get to become a wanderer or scholar as he desired in a former life.

Free of expectations, free of duty and free of an endless nightmare haunting his steps.

Yes, Cyrene thinks, in this life, Phainon will get to grow up as himself.

She noses the hair on the babe’s head, cooing at Phainon’s happy babbling as he tugs softly on her hair, fascinated by the color.

She closes her eyes, her body filling with Time’s authority as she forms a prophecy for Oronyx’ priests.

“The Sun has risen in Oronyx’ Arcadia. This warmth should be laureled with blessings and gifts.”

Then, she sends the Chrysos Heirs’ group chat a single message before turning off her teleslate to blow raspberries on Phainon’s cheeks, ignoring the flurry of notifications blowing up the chat as she soaks up the babe’s delighted laughter.

Yes, this happiness should be shared. Just as Phainon had always spread joy wherever he went.

(Oh, how wrong she was.)

“Hm, I wonder what gifts the others will bring,” she hums, “I’m certain Agy is going to be the winner of this battle.”

(How naive.)

“Everyone’s going to love you.”

(To think this happiness would have lead to—)

“May you finally be yourself in this life, Phainon.”

(“May this world never again lay eyes upon the Sun.”)

They say, once, within Oronyx’ Arcadia, Kephale’s legacy had been laureled by the Nameless Deliverer themselves.

The Titans had joined them, accompanying Oronyx as they heralded the rebirth of the Sky Father, granting blessings and gifts.

Three wished for a kinder fate,

Two wished for a calmer stage,

Three wished for prosperity, longevity and an ever-victorious blade,

Three wished for a body never unmade,

And the Nameless Deliverer revealed a wish never spake.

Kephale, oh Kephale, how grand their rebirth!

Humble and quiet, unlike the Sky Father of old.

Born from mortal flesh, golden blood flowing in their veins, without divine soil and clay from their predecessor.

Yet, divinity they lack not. Yes, the omniscient and omnipresent Sky Father that babe should have been.

Witness!

For the Sun has risen once more, within the cradle of Time’s embrace.

Witness!

For that grand feast only left Ruin and smoldering Destruction.

Witness!

For Oronyx’ Arcadia is both Kephale’s cradle and tomb.

If one lacks the strength to kill a god, point the dagger at mortal origin and kin, and flee from paradise with the unsprouted seed of divinity in tow. Outrun the gods, forever leave the sky and sunlight behind, vices and debts piling heavy on Talanton’s scales. The golden blood spilled in their wake will forever taint the shadows of those foolish, foolish mortals.

Cry not for the discarded and the blood on one’s hands. Life begets death, and not even Kephale can escape Thanatos’ embrace.

The sin of deicide, the desecration of a god, and the stripped innocence of a lost lamb.

Kephale, oh Kephale, how could your mortal children do this to you?

Pity, that the Hand of Shadow could not guide those lost, mortal lovers to peace.

Pity, that the Veil of Evernight closed off their Arcadia.

Pity, that the Throne of Worlds never witnessed the dawn.

Kephale, oh Kephale, may you be a blazing sun, forevermore, in a dawn that burns even the stars to ash!

Ten years. Ten lone, mortal years filled with pain and grief.

(“No...not yet...” Audata had murmured, her slashed throat gurgling with each syllable, “I...cannot pass on...without my child.)

(“No...not yet...” Hieronymus had gasped, his chest missing ribs and heart, “I must...see him...one last time.”)

(Castorice could only watch on in silence, as she held their hands, unable to guide them to the afterlife, their lingering regret weighing too heavily on their souls.)

Ten years spent waiting, searching, and vanquishing the remnants of the Black Tide.

Ten years.

Ten...years.

“This...”

“...is madness,” Caelus says, finishing Stelle’s thought.

Ten years of running themselves ragged alongside the other Chrysos Heirs turned Titans, finally discovering and following a threadbare lead, only to find...this.

Dull, dead eyes stare unblinkingly at them. Rather than the clear blue sky, they meet with the ocean’s darkest depths. His hair has grown so long, it cascades down the throne he’s tied to, a waterfall of snow. Dwarfed by his own hair, he looks even smaller. The white haired child lifts his head, the rattling of the chains echoing off the cold, stone walls.

A long strand of white falls over one of his eyes, as he opens his mouth with difficulty. “I...” the child’s voice is hoarse from disuse, and every breath he takes rattles against his lungs, “I don’t...do prophecies...today,” he whispers.

“Phainon...is that...you?” Stelle already knows the answer, but she can’t help the want of this being nothing more but an elaborate illusion. The people they fought to get here were blind fanatics at best and remorseless cultists at worst.

The child does not respond.

The twins meet each other’s gaze. It’s Caelus who takes the leap—

“...Kephale?”

The child blinks. “Yes...?”

—and they both fall into the depths.

“Aeons, what the fuck.”

Stelle slaps her own face and some clarity returns through the pain. “R, right! We should let the others know!” She cups her hands near her face and yells, “Mydei! Mydei!”

This deep underground, the skies’ thunderclaps are nothing more but whispers lost in the quietude.

“Let’s get him out of those chains first.” Caelus moves closer to the throne, tugging carefully on the rusted chains to find the weakest links.

The child, no, Phainon trembles silently as the chains come loose. His breathing is ragged and he dares not to look at either of them.

“Did...did I...do something wrong?” His voice cracks at the same time as their hearts do.

The chains drop to the stone floor with a loud thud, and Phainon flinches harshly. Caelus winces and shakes his hands. “No!” he grimaces, before continuing, quieter, “Nono, you didn’t do anything wrong! We’re...we’re saving you?”

“Saving...me?”

He turns to Stelle, hoping for backup.

“Uh, uhm, there’s...there’s people waiting for you! Yeah! Everyone’s been really worried and would love to see you!”

Though she doubts anyone would be happy to see Phainon in that state. At the very least, they’ll be relieved he’s alive.

“Come on, let’s get you out of this dump.” Caelus reaches out a hand, waits for the child to take it.

“I...” Phainon hesitates. “I...can’t.”

“Huh?”

“I can’t...walk.”

Only then do their eyes trail lower, landing on the scarred mess that’s the skin of Phainon’s ankles.

“That’s...they, they—what the fuck.” Caelus doesn’t finish his thoughts.

On a closer look, it’s clear that Phainon’s covered head to toe in scars, most of them clearly afflicted through torture. He’s all skin and bones, and his skin has a deathly pale glow. If it weren’t for the slow almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest, they would’ve thought they were speaking with a corpse.

“...You know what? That’s, that’s fine!” Stelle says, “It doesn’t matter if you can’t walk, we’ll, we’ll carry you, yeah?”

It’s Caelus who ends up carrying Phainon. It’s a terrible experience. The Trailblazer has to keep looking over his shoulder to check if the child’s still there, even though he can feel Phainon’s faint breath on his neck and the cold of his skin seeping through what little clothing he wears. It’s just that Phainon is so, so light and it feels like Caelus is carrying a memory rather than a living person.

Stelle walks at the front, flaming lance at the ready in case of an attack. The dark halls of the underground ruin stretch into maze-like tendrils, and it’s difficult to avoid being spotted by enemies. Even more so with how Caelus feels the need to fill the silence, to talk, to speak with and to Phainon on his back. The responses he gets are mostly hums and quiet, single word sentences.

At some point, they forgo stealth and Stelle simply decimates every cultist that crosses their path. The alarm has been sound and blares off in the background, an annoying, grating sound that echoes off the walls. It drives Caelus up the wall with worry and stress as he feels Phainon’s breaths grow weaker and weaker. He keeps on talking about everything and nothing at all.

“—and so he just kept barking like a dog, it was disturbing and funny, but mostly disturbing for the workers, but hey, at least he kept his word! Can you believe that, Phainon?”

“...that?”

“What?”

“Why...” Phainon starts, voice weak, “do you...keep...calling me...that?”

“...Call you what?” Caelus says, heart trembling.

“...’Phainon’, who...is that? Aren’t I...am I not...’Kephale’?”

“You can be both,” Caelus says, eventually, “Kephale, Phainon, any name is fine. As long as you want to be called as such.” He turns his head slightly, glancing back at the child on his back. “Do you want me to call you Kephale instead?”

The child stays silent, but his grip tightens around Caelus’ neck.

“You should do what you want, you know,” Caelus says, “If you don’t like me calling you Phainon, I can call you whatever you’re more comfortable with.”

“But I...I’m supposed...to fulfill wishes...that’s...that’s my duty.”

The Trailblazers’ footsteps falter for a moment.

“Duty?” Stelle starts, gaze forward, “Who forces ‘duty’ upon a child? Whether the blood that flows through your veins is red or gold, as a child you should get to play around. Screw duty! You don’t need to bear those burdens.”

“Yeah! Rules are made to be broken! You should do the things you want to do, not what other people tell you to do.”

For a moment, Caelus doesn’t feel a single breath against his nape and his heart sinks—

“...Really?”

—he lets out a shuddering breath of relief.

“I’m...allowed to...want?”

“Yes,” both Trailblazers say, resolute.

“Is there something you want?” Caelus asks, gently, quietly.

“I...” Kephale, no, Phainon hesitates, before he whispers, “I want...to see the...sky. Dawn.”

“You want to see the dawn?”

Caelus can feel the child on his back nod. “The dawn...is warm...right? I want...to be warm...as well.”

Stelle sucks in a breath, swinging the lance with more force than needed against a cultist’s side, sending them flying into a wall and letting them crumple into a heap on the floor. “Sure. That’s fine. We can show you the dawn.”

It’s currently nighttime, but she’s certain they can have Hyacine manipulate the sky to let Phainon see the dawn. Screw whoever’s sleeping schedule they’ll ruin or whatever mass panic they’ll cause—this one time they break the Laws of Sky and Time should be fine.

“Dawn...” Phainon murmurs, “Will it...be bright?”

“Yeah, it’ll be warm, bright, whatever you want. A cloudless sky or fluffy, sheep-like clouds swimming through the blue—anything you want.”

“Is there...is there anything else you want?” Caelus asks.

Phainon’s breath stutters in his chest, and Caelus can feel the strength in the child’s arms fade away. He quickens his steps. There’s something wet seeping into the collar of his shirt and he doesn’t need to turn his head to know his clothes are steadily growing stained with ichor.

Stelle’s movements are growing sharper, more desperate as they cut through more cultists and ascend the underground ruins.

“I...” Phainon coughs, it’s a wet, wracking sound. “Do I...have a...home?”

His voice is barely a whisper now. Stelle decides plowing through doors is more efficient than worrying about the structural integrity of the underground temple. Distantly, the sounds of thunderclaps echoes through the halls. She calls out to Strife, hoping they’ll meet quicker if she leads Mydei to them through his name.

“Yeah, you have one!” Caelus says, his voice wavering, “It’s called Aedes Elysiae, a small village with beautiful golden wheat fields at the waters. We’ve stayed there for quite a time, it’s really cozy! There’s also a maze filled with fairies, and oh! Cyrene also lives there. She’s gonna be so relieved once you’re back home. She’s uh, a big sister figure? Your godmother? I don’t really know how to describe your relationship in this life.”

“Aedes...Elysiae...” Phainon weighs the name on his tongue, “That’s...home?”

“Yeah,” Caelus says, his vision going blurry, “It’s the place where everything started.”

“...Aedes...Elysiae...” Phainon repeats, “...Home...”

(“...Hero...of my...heart...” Phainon murmurs, and Caelus goes still.)

Stelle spots red and gold moving through the halls. “Mydei! We need Hyacine!”

(“Dei...mos?”)

(Caelus feels like the ground beneath his feet is gone. He’s falling, falling, yet he can’t topple over yet.)

Mydei takes a fraction of a second to note their presence, before his eyes hone in on the figure on Caelus’ back. The halls crack and creak from the overwhelming force of Strife, before the newly-turned Titan reels back his emotion with the razor sharp precision of a honed warrior. “Hyacine is at the entrance,” he says, instead of the many, many other things he wishes to speak.

“The entrance...” Stelle clicks her tongue, “That’s too far.”

A flash of lightning bolts through the halls, and Cipher lands perfectly in place before them. “Give him to me,” she says, wasting no time, “Princess Homebody said she’s trying to block his way to the River. We don’t have much time.”

Caelus jolts, before he springs into action and hands over Phainon to Cipher as gently as he can. The Trailblazer’s back is painted gold. Their eyes meet. “He wants to see the dawn.”

There are no more words exchanged as Cipher runs off, Phainon’s fading life in her arms.

She’s as gentle as she can be at her speed. She cradles Phainon’s small body in her arms, jumps over corpses and debris, careful to not jostle the child. Her hands are soaked in gold. The wrong gold. It's liquid and warm and nothing like the solid coins and jewelry and knickknacks she likes to hold.

“Warm...” Phainon’s voice is a barely there thing. The last whispers of a dying candle flame. “Miss...so warm. I...home...want to...go...home.”

The blood loss has made him delirious, Cipher thinks. She can see the night sky, the stars twinkling in the true sky—a slap in the face compared to the dying starlight in her embrace.

She sees Hyacine at the entrance, just a little—

“...Cifera...thank...you...”

—her shoulder meets the ground in a harsh fall, and she cushions Phainon’s head with her hands as she skids across the soil. Never before in her life had she tripped while running.

Her heart thunders inside her chest. There’s tears welling up in her eyes. The pain in her shoulder is a dull, quiet sting compared to the stutters of her heart. Hyacine is at their side, already working on healing whatever little she can, though from the way Cipher’s face and Phainon’s hair get wet from the fresh, falling rain, Cipher knows it’s too late.

Phainon’s eyes are unseeing as she brushes his wet bangs back.

His breathing is slowing down.

“D...ark...”

Hyacine starts sobbing louder as she pours more strength into her healing.

It’s futile, and they both know it.

Cipher repositions them, she places Phainon’s head gingerly onto her lap ‒ just as Aglaea had once done with her, a long, long time ago ‒ white entwined with gold spills onto the soil, Phainon’s long hair a tangled mess. She cards a trembling hand through the strands, smooths them out, just as she remembers being done for her.

Like this, she might just be able to pretend they’re soaking up the sun, taming his unruly hair as he talks about the latest antique he appraised.

She can’t bring the lie to life.

As much as she desires to, she cannot Trick the World as it dims in her hold.

“Hyacine,” she says, instead, “Bring forth a dawn. The brightest, warmest one you can muster up.”

The Sky Titan halts, before she wipes away her tears and opens hundreds of eyes in the sky. Sunlight burns through the veil of the night, lighting up that small patch of soil.

Phainon’s vision has long failed him, but the warmth of the bright sky has his unseeing pupils trembling. “Ah, d...awn?”

Cipher bites her lip. Ichor drips down from her lip as she pets his head. “Yeah, aren’t you glad, Deliverer boy? The dawn has risen just for you. We’ll take a little break here, soak up some sunlight, and then we’ll go to your home. Sounds like a plan?”

The borders of the dawn tremble.

Hyacine’s voice breaks as she speaks, “Lord Phainon, once...once we’re home, Lady Aglaea will make you a beautiful outfit again, and professor Anaxa will most likely scoff in that fond tone he only uses for you. Grayie and little Ica will most likely sneak you some snacks during recovery, with Dannie reluctantly helping the twins...and...and,” she takes a shuddering breath, “Me, Cassie, Cyrie and Marchie would love to travel around and share gossip with you again. Lady Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon will tell you stories of old while you...recover. You’ll heal, and grow...a little older...and then, then Lady Cerydra and Lady Hysilens will teach you swordplay...and you’ll get to spar with Lord Mydei again.”

“...ya...cine...”

“Doesn’t...doesn’t that...” Hyacine sobs, grabbing onto Phainon’s frail hand, feeling his warmth slip away from skin. “Doesn’t that...sound nice, Lord Phainon?”

“Y...es...”

“Del—no, Phainon...are you...glad we found you?”

(Will you forgive us for being too late?)

“I...s...wa...rm,” Phainon says, his voice quiet, “so...w...arm...thank...y...ou...”

“Are you tired?” Cipher asks, her voice barely above a whisper. She doesn’t trust herself to be louder. “You can...take a nap, if you want. Someone, someone will guide you, so...you don’t need to be afraid.”

“See...see you tomorrow, Phainon,” Hyacine whispers.

“S...to...row...” Phainon breathes out. His heart stutters, once, twice, and then—

“...”

—Stops.

Darkness engulfs them once more as dawn falls, without ever having met Phainon’s gaze.

“Miss, where...where am I?”

Castorice’s heart aches as she stares at the pitiful state the child is in before her. She raises a hand to her chest, hoping to hide the tremble in her fingers. “You are in the nether realm.”

Kephale, no, Phainon blinks at her. “The...nether realm?”

There’s a clear, starry sky above them, and there’s flowers that stretch as far and wide as he can see. It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. It’s so, so, so warm compared to that empty, empty room.

“Hah,” Phainon huffs out a breath of relief. “Are you...Thanatos, miss?”

Castorice clenches her hands. “...Yes, I am the Hand of Shadow, Thanatos. Will you...let me guide you, to the afterlife?”

“I...” Phainon blinks. “I’m allowed...into the afterlife?”

Castorice’s heart breaks. She sucks in a deep breath, overwhelmed by hollow helplessness. “Yes,” she says, “yes, yes, a thousand times yes, you are...you are deserving of an afterlife and much, much more.”

You deserved a kinder life, she wants to say, but doesn’t.

She gently sinks to her knees, and holds out a hand. “Will you...come with me? There’s someone waiting for you.”

She waits, patient and quiet.

She’ll wait for an eternity and beyond that if that’s what Phainon needs.

Phainon stares at her outstretched hand, and then, slowly, tentatively places his own hand in hers.

This is the second time Castorice has ever gotten to touch Phainon. The first time had been ten years ago, when she was allowed to cradle him in his arms as a babe. His hand is so, so small compared to hers. A jarring thought, compared to the millions of memories she has of him always being much taller and bigger than her.

The silence stretches on and neither moves. Castorice will not shatter this peace, and Phainon needs time to process this kindness.

There’s a glimmer that flashes through Phainon’s eyes, his hand twitches in her hold, and Castorice fears for a moment that they’ll lose him for good to the gods beyond—

“Cas...torice?”

The nether realm stills. Her butterflies and the flowers have stopped swaying as she wordlessly stares at the flicker of recognition in Phainon’s dull eyes. He’s confused. He doesn’t understand why he knows what he shouldn’t be able to, but it’s enough for her. It’s enough. It’s enough for Castorice to know that her first friend in millions of lifetimes still remembers her, however little and fractured that memory may be.

“Yes,” she says, her smile as brittle as glass and as small as the child in front of her, “I am also known as Castorice, a...friend.”

Your friend, she wants to say, but won’t.

“Are...” Phainon stares at her. At the endless field of flowers behind her and the shattered moon in the sky. “Are you...lonely?”

(Like me?)

Castorice blinks away the warmth behind her eyes. “I...only sometimes,” she says, “I am...not yet used to...getting to touch people freely.”

“Do you...want a hug?” Phainon asks. “I think...someone once...told me that...hugs make everything...feel better, but I...can’t recall...who told me. Is that...strange?”

“No, it’s not strange at all,” Castorice says, “I...I would like to hug you, Lo—Phainon.”

Phainon stretches out his arms. It’s a shaky movement, like he’s uncertain of whether he’s doing it right. It lacks his past confidence and effortless charm. Yet it’s still Phainon. Despite everything, it’s still her Phainon. Their Phainon.

Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

He holds her so gently in his arms, and Castorice mourns the lifetimes she, no, they missed out on.

Castorice holds him like he’s not real and simultaneously the most precious thing she’s ever held in her arms.

It’s awkward and stiff.

But it warms his chest and has him sag in relief. It’s warm. It’s perfect.

It’s just as he’s always imagined. Castorice is a gentle, gentle warmth ‒  nothing like the harsh cold she claims to be.

He blinks, and the thought slips through his hands like sand.

She keeps holding him in her arms, carrying him as they cross the endless field of flowers.

They pause to stare at butterflies. They greet passing souls crossing the River. Castorice adjusts her hold on him to keep him comfortable. It’s a peaceful journey. If they weren’t in the nether realm, this walk could’ve been draped with boring, gentle normalcy.

“Who...” Phainon starts, “Who is...waiting for me?”

Castorice’s heart trembles. “Two people, who have loved you for a very, very long time ‒ and still do.”

“Love...me?”

Phainon says it with so much confusion and doubt, and Castorice wishes it was possible to spend millions upon millions of lifetimes catching up on the love that Phainon never allowed himself to have.

Castorice stops walking, and Phainon follows her gaze to the two souls waiting at a distance.

“This is as far as I can guide you,” she says, a gentle smile on her face. “They will guide you afterwards.”

Phainon stares at the two figures. It’s a man with sky-blue eyes and a woman with snow-white hair. They’re familiar. So, so, so familiar, and Phainon feels like crying when he looks at them.

They look terrible.

Their see-through bodies are brutalized beyond repair, yet Phainon can still recognize them.

He looks terrible as well.

Emaciated and body marred with wrongly healed scars, yet he can see the tears and relief in their eyes upon seeing him.

Phainon glances at Castorice as she places him back onto the ground. His feet touch the nether realm’s soil, his ankles steady despite the cut tendons he should have.

“When you go to them, please do not look back,” she tells him. “I...I wish you three luck on your journey.”

Phainon shifts on his feet. “...Castorice...thank you.”

A tear trails down her cheek as she watches Phainon run to his parents.

He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to.

His long, tangled and unkempt hair grows shorter, and the scars on his body fade away as he laughs and laughs and laughs. His parents tightly embrace him when he jumps into their arms, their own wounds gone as well. It’s so, so warm and he’s the happiest he’s ever been. He cries in their arms as they walk off to the River of Souls, carrying him away from a long, bad dream.

“I’m home,” he says.

“Welcome back,” his parents say.

“Lord Phainon...didn’t make it.”

“He has peacefully crossed the River. Hieronymus and Audata finally have as well.”

Never again, the Time Titan had declared, and thus, Aedes Elysiae faded away from written history and became only known in name and song. Not even Oronyx’ fellow Titans were spared banishment. Only the Nameless Deliverer, the brave souls who had ushered in Era Nova and left for the stars, would be allowed entry when they returned to Amphoreus.

(Though Oronyx’ Arcadia is inaccessible to outside souls, such fact does not bar mortal greed from attempting to find their way into that paradise.)

“Eh? That’s how the story ends?”

Cyrene hums, softly brushing back white strands to stare at clear blue eyes. There’s a pout on his lips, and she pinches his cheek, giggling softly when he swats indignantly at her offending hand.

“Yes,” she says, “This story didn’t have a happy ending.”

“That’s unfair. Why couldn’t everyone have been happy? Why did the Titans have to say goodbye to their friend?” The child’s head rests atop her lap, and his expression grows somber. “I don’t like this story. It sucks. I like the Deliverer’s Flame-Chase Journey more. That one has a happy ending! We get Era Nova and the Titans beat the bad guys and get to stay together!”

Cyrene’s breath hitches for a moment.

Rather than respond, she pets his head gently. Softly, kindly, as she wished he had been treated a long time (millions of lifetimes) ago.

He lets her. He’s known her long enough to know she needs these moments when she makes such an expression. One day, he thinks—hopes—she’ll tell him about that unspoken grief she carries, and why it’s him that’s hurting her.

“But is it true?”

“Hm?”

“That there’s a god sleeping inside the fairies’ Maze?”

Cyrene stills. She turns her head toward the sky, and wonders, if that golden gaze is still watching, waiting. Who is it THEY’RE looking at, she wonders, the child in her lap, or the slumbering shell tucked away?

She hopes it’s neither.

(She knows it’s both.)

“...Yes,” she says, defeated, “There is.”

“Really?” The child in her lap jumps up. There’s sparkles in his eyes and he’s wearing the biggest smile. “How come I never found them? I’m sure I’ve already explored every nook and cranny inside the Membrance Maze!”

Cyrene takes a steadying breath, before she pinches his cheeks and pulls, ignoring his protests. “That’s because you’re not supposed to disturb someone when they’re sleeping!”

“Uwah!”

Gentler, she cradles his face in her hands. He leans into her touch and she feels her heart break again. “One day,” she says, “One day you’ll meet that god.”

“You’ll take me there?”

Cyrene nods.

“Promise?”

“Promise,” she says. “I, Cyrene, promise Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, that he’ll one day meet the god slumbering in Oronyx’ Arcadia.”

“No takebacks!”

“Of course,” she smiles, “but not today. Let’s wait until you’re a little more grown up, shall we?”

Phainon pouts, crossing his arms, but eventually agrees.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Not yet.

Please, please...

Grow up within this cradle, Cyrene thinks, just for a little while longer. Just a little longer.

Chapter Text

“Happy birthday, Phainon!”

Gold.

Stretching as far and wide as he can see. It’s a blurry color, as his vision’s not yet fully developed, but it’s warm and it feels like home. The scent of something sweet fills the air.

There are so, so many colors surrounding him, all varied and vague but happy and safe.

His father’s voice is carried by the wind, calm and boisterous. He’s greeting people, thanking guests and accepting gifts in his name.

His mother holds him close to her chest, and the sound of her heart going ‘thump, ba-dump, thump’, is a soothing background melody that’s accompanied him for as long as he can remember.

It’s a sound he wants to hear forever.

Gold.

It meets his eyes everywhere. The people surrounding him all have that color on their person, with only a few exceptions. But, instinctively, he knows it’s a color all of them carry within, if not on their body.

It’s a warm, happy color.

(His mother and father both lack it, but that’s alright. He’ll carry enough gold for the three of them, so they can all keep that happy color within their home.)

Blue.

When he looks up, his eyes meet with a bright, clear blue.

The sky is lacking in clouds, and there’s a soft breeze flowing through the golden sea that’s swaying around them.

He likes blue.

It’s the color of his father’s eyes, Rene’s eyes and his own.

(When he looks at the blue, blue sky...in the far, far, far distance, a golden gaze meets him.)

Pink.

It’s the color of Rene’s hair.

He sees it almost as much as he hears his mother’s heartbeat. He likes Rene’s hair. It’s a color he can always spot from afar in a sea of gold and blue.

Rene is happiness. Familiarity and safety.

He reaches out to her.

She let’s him grab onto her finger and places a kiss on his cheek. It’s warm.

She talks to his mother, in that familiar, fond, and happy tone he’s fallen asleep to many, many a time. His mother responds, and her soothing voice fills his ears. It’s calming. His mother’s voice never failed to placate him whenever he wakes up crying.

He can’t see clearly yet, but Rene’s expression must contain a smile. Rene likes smiling. He knows that because he can feel her smile whenever she places her lips against his hair or face. Rene laughs at something his mother said. It’s a happy sound, akin to a bell’s ringing. There’s lots of bells around them, he knows that, too.

(Sometimes, there’s small, colorful blobs floating around his crib before they scuttle away again. Their voices are high-pitched and they talk quickly, but he likes their presences. Whenever they move away, a bell chimes.)

Rene moves away from him and his mother, and another figure steps forth.

Gold.

This person is a golden blur, soothing and calm. Steady and safe. Her voice is melodious and carries an even cadence. Her presence is nice. It’s like his mother’s reflection stepped out of a mirror.

She feels like home away from home.

He reaches out a hand. Expectant.

Her eyes are a hazy color he can’t quite place, but he can see her slowly blink in surprise through his blurry vision.

He can see her hair sway with the movement of her head as she gazes at the other colorful figures around them. The golden figure is hesitating, and he can’t understand why. Rene always takes his hand when he reaches out. Why won’t this golden figure do so as well?

“Agy! Snowy wants you to take his hand!”

Red.

There’s three smaller blots of red around the golden figure, all three dressed in gold and white. Seeing them makes him happy.

“Teacher, is that so...” The golden figure looks to his mother. “...May I?”

She laughs, and it’s a lovely sound. “Of course!”

He flexes his fingers a little, grasping at nothing. Then, there’s gold in his hand.

The golden figure’s touch is light. It’s very, very faint and barely there, as if she’s afraid of something. He holds on tight, unwilling to let her go.

She does not pull back. “Ah, hello Phainon.”

There’s a giggle from the other colors, but he doesn’t look at them yet.

He feels...strange.

His eyes are warm, like they always are after a bad dream, but, rather than sad or afraid, he feels...happy. So, so happy that the golden figure doesn’t slip away from his grasp and falls.

He wants to tell her how happy he is. “Ah...aga...”

The golden figure goes still as chaos erupts around them.

“Agy! Agy! He called your name!”

“Tch. Even now Mnestia has him in her clutches.”

“Aha, professor...”

“W, wait! Me too! Me too! Say my name too, Phainon!”

“No! Me first, er, second! OUCH! You didn’t need to punch me, Stelle!”

“...You two already are the ‘Hero of his Heart’.”

“Was that his first word?!”

“Lord Mydei, are you...jealous?”

“Hmph.”

“Phainon! Phainon! Do that again, I didn’t have my camera out!”

“Tree. Anne. Tri-anne. Trianne! Please say it, Snowy!”

His mother’s laughter rings in the backdrop of the colors’ frantic movements.

The golden figure hasn’t moved away, and he still has her finger in his hold.

Through his blurry vision, he can see the faint curl of her lips.

Ah.

See? You’re nearly not as cold-hearted as you claim to be, Aglaea.

He’s happy.

He meets many more of the colorful figures afterward. They all talk to him.

Gold.

Red.

Green.

Pink.

Blue.

Black.

Purple.

Gray.

What wonderful colors. He wants to keep seeing them.

Red.

So, so, so much red.

It’s wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

There’s blurry figures clad in black in his home. Gold adorns their face. It feels wrong. This is wrong.

He wants his parents.

Where are they?

His father, covered in red. He’s on the floor of their home, unmoving. His mother too. He can see her reach out to him. It’s all so blurry.

A black figure steps on her outstretched arm and there’s a sickening crack.

His mother cries out.

He’s never heard his mother make that sound before.

It’s a bad sound. It’s a sound he doesn’t like. He wants her laughter. He wants her heartbeat. The person holding him has the wrong one. It’s nothing like his mother’s.

He wants his mother’s hold. He wants his father’s humming.

‘Mother! Mother! Mother!’, he wants to say, but can’t. The person holding him won’t let go, no matter how much he squirms. He wants to cry out, but a hand covers his mouth and won’t leave. Their touch is warm but wrong and wet and wrong, wrong, wrong—

He wants his mother.

He wants his father.

He wants—

“Took you long enough,” the person holding him says.

“None of you get to complain,” a new voice, “do you have any idea how difficult it was to get the alchemical composition right? There’s only so much I can do in so little time.”

“Yeah, yeah, equivalent exchange and all that.”

—Rene?

Pink.

Even in the dark, he can see the color clearly. Pink, the color of Rene’s hair.

(Something’s wrong.)

He stops squirming. He reaches out. He doesn’t want to be held by this stranger. He wants Rene. Rene is safe. Rene is warm, the good warm.

(Something’s wrong.)

He gets placed in Rene’s arms. Her heartbeat isn’t as he remembers. Her voice is off; an octave lower. Strained, as if she’s pitching the tone higher than comfortable.

(Something’s wrong.)

He looks up. Her pink hair sways in the dark. She’s dressed in black and there’s dull gold on her face. He reaches out.

Rene looks down at him. Her blue eyes are the wrong shade.

He’s still reaching out.

She pushes his hand down and walks away from his parents, leaving them behind. She doesn’t kiss him.

(Why?)

(Did he...do something wrong?)

Rene’s pink hair gets covered by a dark hood. They leave his home. The black figures break into a sprint.

The starry night sky burns away. There’s gold flashing all around them as the figures keep running through the fields. Some fall down or disappear with a scream and a splash of red. Pointy reds rain down before them and on them, but the figures keep running. The red points don’t hit him and Rene. They never do.

Rene keeps running with him in her arms. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out something gold. It’s small and round.

(It smells wrong.)

“Open your mouth for me, please?”

(He shouldn’t.)

He blinks up at Rene. She smiles back at him, pushing the gold against his closed lips. Her smile isn’t quite as he remembers.

(But Rene is safe. Rene is home.)

He opens his mouth.

Rene’s smile grows wider.

It tastes bad, bad, badbadbad—

But...

Rene’s happy. Then, he’s happy too.

She places a kiss on his temple. It’s cold.

“Blessed be your rebirth, Kephale.”

Amphoreus has ushered in true dawn; light the world lacks not.

Yet, Sky Father, your mortal children desire your grand visage looming in the skies, not amongst them on the soil.

Mortal blood tainted that golden sea, and left Oronyx’ Arcadia mutilated with the innards of two lambs.

Hark!

How the Shepard cried out at her lambs’ needless slaughtering.

Hark!

The pitter-patter of scurrying mice ‒ those foolish, foolish mortals, fleeing from the plague they brought upon paradise with stolen divinity in their paunch.

Hark!

The wrath of the mighty Titans, crushing mortal flesh like ants beneath their feet.

Kephale, oh Kephale, your cradle has been sown with death!

Mercy! The vultures screech, pierced through by Nikador’s fury.

Mercy! The rats squeak, chased down by Zagreus’ claws.

Mercy! The leeches shriek, ripped apart by Mnestia’s threads.

And yet even then, your fellow Titans could not halt the arrival of your dusk.

Kephale, oh Kephale, consume not the forbidden fruit offered by that falsity of your beloved!

The Throne of Worlds, ruptured. Oh! Such pity ‒ how it was your fragile, fragile body that led to doom.

Not even the Nameless Deliverer could purify that rot lodged within your bowels.

Wail out, that babe did. Oh! Such agony ‒ that young mind in turmoil.

Maledicted ichor, silver dagger, the sleight of hands not even thieving Zagreus or wise Cerces could prevent.

Kephale, oh Kephale, lost lamb led astray, that golden heart of yours bleeds too blindly.

“Blessed be your rebirth, Kephale.”

It’s dark.

The only source of light he has is that of the torches, but even then, the fires cannot light up every corner of this strange, dark room that’s nothing like home.

He can’t see the sky.

He can’t hear the bells outside.

He can’t smell the sweet scent of wheat.

He’s not home. He can’t understand why Rene brought him to this place.

People with golden masks look up at him while Rene cradles him close.

He wants to go home.

He snuggles closer to Rene’s heartbeat (wrong, wrongwrongwrong—) and closes his eyes.

Hopefully, they’ll be back home when he’s awake again, in his mother’s arms.

It’s him.

He’s staring at his own reflection in the mirror. It feels odd. Rene is staring at him with that odd smile (wrongwrong—where is my Rene?) again.

The stone floor is cold. The robes he’s swaddled in are too big. It’s like he’s drowning in a cloth bath. He craves the warmth of his mother’s embrace and the sound of his father’s voice.

Rene doesn’t give him either.

Instead, a heavy door opens and more people step inside.

“—else did you expect us to retrieve a god?” one of the people dressed in black speaks hastily, “The Goldweaver and Imperator had everyone wrapped around their fingers during the Flame-Chase, who is to say they won’t manipulate the reborn Sky Father into doing their bidding now that they’re Titans in Era Nova as well?”

“And just how do you expect our Sky Father to guide us when he’s been reduced to this?”

“We already have a solution for that. Don’t give me that look; we’ve tested the effects and have concluded that the ‘fruit’ will offset any unwanted side effects from the ‘growth’ that we’ve performed on the test subjects.”

They all turn to him. There’s expectation in their eyes, and he doesn’t know how to meet that wish.

The drink Rene feeds him tastes like ash and feels like liquid suffering, flowing down his throat, but he still swallows. Rene is safe and the only one here who reminds him of home. He doesn’t want to be left alone.

She’s pleased with him drinking it, though, and that makes him happy.

There’s a smaller figure dressed in black that approaches him and Rene. He stares at them through the mirror. They’re taller than him, but smaller than Rene and the other black figures.

A child.

Rene touches his arm at the same the child does. He doesn’t understand what she’s talking about, but he follows the movement of her hand over his body as the child mirrors her movements.

Arms, torso, legs. Arms, torso, legs.

Rene lightly pulls on his arm. He blinks. She points at the child through the mirror. “Lord Kephale, this body of yours is too fragile. Will you not take on a better form?”

Oh.

He stares at their reflection.

There’s a small spark inside his chest. He knows he could do what Rene asked of him. But, he also instinctively knows it’ll burn when he does.

Rene’s smile falters.

A pulse of light echoes throughout the room as his body is engulfed in a fiery blaze. His bones shatter, stretch and mend, his organs melt, expand and harden, it burns, burns, burns, but he did as Rene asked.

His hands meet the cold floor and his limbs tremble. He’s unused to this weight and this body.

The black figures shout and rejoice at his transformation. (Hurts, hurts, hurts—)

Rene kneels beside him. She strokes a hand over his back, gently, lower, lower and back up, repeat. His robes are loose around his body, and part of the cloth slips off his shoulder. Rene’s hand settles on the small of his exposed back. He shivers. Her touch feels bad. (Why?)

One of the figures clad in black approaches them. Their touch raves over his body. Their hands caress his neck, slide over his arms, smooth out his robes, splays over his chest and waist, and pats down his legs. He flinches away at every touch, but Rene’s hand holds him in place.

(He feels dirty.)

“My, you sure are eager to touch our Sky Father,” Rene says.

“I’m simply checking up on the condition of his divine body,” the figure responds, and then, quieter, “And you don’t have the right to call me out on these actions when you’re the same.”

He blinks. In this bigger body, his vision is much clearer. He stares at the image the mirror reflects.

He goes still.

(Wrong, wrongwrongwrongwrong—)

“Well, you can’t blame me, can you? Besides, he cares for this appearance most.” She (who are you, whoareyouwhoareyou—) smiles. “Is that not right, Lord Kephale?”

He doesn’t answer.

It hurts. He wants to go home.

“Blessed be your rebirth, Kephale.”

He’s alone. A rare happenstance. Most of the time, Rene—no—his caretaker is at his side, no matter what. Yet today, she’s left his side for a moment.

Maybe that’s why, there’s a child in front of him now.

Kephale never forgets. He remembers this child. A young one, taken in not too long ago. An unruly one too, with how their body is covered in lacerations from their misbehavior.

Physically, they’re around the same age.

He wonders what he looks like in the eyes of that child. Kephale stares them. They’re fidgeting with their hair. It’s long, and neatly braided despite the rest of their messy appearance. They must take great care of it, he muses.

Ah, he’s been silent too long.

“Do you require something?” Kephale asks. His caretakers don’t like his silences. If this child desires a prophecy, a blessing or a miracle, he shall grant it, no matter how painful, as he always does.

As he always must.

“N, no!” the child says, “I...I simply wanted to congratulate you on your birthday, Lord Kephale.”

Birthday? Ah, the date of his rebirth. Then, there’ll be a feast tonight in his name.

It almost slipped his mind. He’s been getting more and more lethargic despite all the ‘fruit’ he’s given to feed on. Is he burning out already? It’s only been two years. Is that not much too soon?

(He’d welcome Death like he would an old friend if she came for him.)

“You make a terrible liar,” he says, “Speak. You cannot lie in front of the Throne of Worlds.”

The child flinches at being caught. “Ah...am I that obvious?”

“You wear your emotions too readily on your sleeve.”

“Aha, that must be how the adults always catch me sneaking out.”

“That, and the dirt you track around with how it clings to your feet. An impressive feat, considering just how deep underground the heart of the temple is.”

The child gasps as they look down at their dirty shoes. “Huh? I never noticed!”

“We’re digressing,” Kephale says, “Speak your wish.”

That trail of mud will lead the caretakers to them and he doubts they’ll show leniency to a child intruding on his rest. He doesn’t w—

...

Kephale must grant the wishes of his mortal children, that’s why the child has to hurry along.

The child fidgets with their hands. They’re covered with cuts and burn marks. “Can I...Lord Kephale, may I braid your hair?”

He blinks. His...hair? Braid his hair?

“It’s just that...that your hair is so beautiful, and it’s so long! But, ah, it...it doesn’t seem like the adults take much time to care for it for you, Lord Kephale.”

That much is true. Although his caretakers do make sure he appears in good condition, it’s only the bare minimum. He’d rather not have anyone touch him at all, though his displeasure is futile and unneeded. He’d much rather bathe and clothe on his own.

Still, “You may braid my hair as you wish,” Kephale doesn’t mind this child touching his hair.

He lets the child approach the throne, let them comb their fingers through his hair as they carefully work through the strands. Their hands tremble and shake, but they’re warm. It’s...pleasant. Unlike any other touch. Despite the fact he’d never experienced something like this before, it reminds him of...home.

Ah, it’s been a while since he last was reminded of home.

(He misses home.)

Time slips through their fingers, and then the braid is done. It’s beautifully done. He traces the pattern of the plaits. “Well done,” he says. It’s more an observation rather than a compliment.

“Thank you for letting me braid your hair, Lord Kephale!”

The child smiles and it’s a gentle, gentle light unlike the blaze that’s killing him from inside. His fingers twitch. He wants to reach out to that warmth. Yet, he fears he’ll destroy it with the blaze that’s inside of him.

“Run along now,” Kephale says, instead, “Don’t get into more trouble.”

His caretaker tuts as she undoes the plaits. Her hands are gentle and steady, but cold. “Lord Kephale, you are above the touch of humans like us. You musn’t let children dirty your countenance.”

“It was that child’s wish.”

“...I see.”

He never sees that child again afterwards.

They say, after that grand feast had ended in tragedy, the Titans had gone mad with Destruction.

Phagousa’s Hands tore ships asunder. They dragged remnants of the Heretical Tide into their depthless Maw. Dredged up monstrosities from the deepest deep as they scoured their Body for the Throne of Worlds ‒ all for naught.

Aquila’s Eyes scorched the lands, their Light stretching on, on, on. Their Tears drowned both the Heretical Tide and cities alike, and their Cries split open mountains in search of the Throne of Worlds ‒ all for naught.

Georios’ Skin split apart, and those deep, deep caverns consumed the Heretical Tide. Mountains rose and fell, crumbling, crumbling, crushed, as the earth pulsed, seeking the Throne of Worlds ‒ all for naught.

Oh, mighty Titans of Foundation, how they hailed in sorrow!

Mighty Titans of Fate, did they answer to the cries of the Sky Father’s mortal children?

No, they could not ‒ alas!

Too lost in grief; weave the brittle pathway to the Throne of Worlds, they aspired to. Yet all in vain.

What of the Titans of Creation ‒ could they bring forth salvation?

No, they could not.

Madness and heartbreak, how could one bear the loss of a stolen seed? Anguished, the mighty Titans only left Calamity.

Calamity...oh, Calamity!

Not even the Heretical Black Tide from beyond the skies could have ravaged the lands as the Titans who guided Calamity.

Nikador, how their conquest tore through the lands! Strife only left a trail of crimson and bloodied lilies stained in ichor ‒ victory after victory; empty wins against an equal who cannot even the score.

Zagreus, how their thievery disturbed the dead! Trickery overturned graves, tombs and the ancient ‒ piles upon piles of relics and gold; offerings for a companion who cannot answer.

Thanatos, how their shadow haunted the butchers! Death, too merciful for the sinners who slaughtered and reeked of ichor not theirs; had their dearest friend begged for mercy as much as those sinners had?

How pitiable, the mighty Titans’ grief and yet—salvation does not arrive, for the Sun is set to die.

Salvation does not arrive, for the Sun is set to die.

“Blessed be your rebirth, Kephale.”

There’s children before him, praying fervently. His caretakers are watching, waiting. It burns, burns and burns. He cannot save everyone. His deception means the demise of all of them. There’s only one who resonates with him, gold flowing through their veins as it does within his own body.

Kephale never forgets, and he still remembers the carnage that followed when he didn’t pick out the Chrysos Heir children from the new arrivals. Still remembers the vile taste of blood and iron and rotten, rotten flesh. Still remembers the hands that had held him down and kept his jaw open. There’s no lingering proof on his body. Yet, his skin remembers their revolting touches like the delicate grooves left behind on fired pottery returned from the kiln.

He points.

Kephale never forgets, and he doesn’t close his eyes. Let him carry this death, this blood on his hands. Add another to the pile of corpses he bears on his back.

He will remember each life he’s taken, forevermore.

The stench of ichor wafts through the dining hall. It doesn’t bother anyone aside from himself, and thus, it’s not a problem. Those without ichor cannot recognize this wrongness. The feast held in his name is as grand as always.

His cup is filled with gold.

His cup is filled with gold, as is everyone else’s cup.

Ichor, the liquid gold that flows throughout his veins. The blood of the gods. Those who drink it will have a taste of the divine, or, as the people around him have, develop a craving for gold.

One day, they won’t be able to smuggle in Chrysos Heir orphans into this abandoned temple.

That day, they’ll turn to Kephale, their guiding Sky Father, to feast upon his grace.

He knows that day will approach sooner than later. He knows he won’t refuse them either. He knows he cannot refuse their wishes.

He keeps his eyes open and drinks. It tastes like nothing.

The feast commences.

It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

(Make it stop. Make it stop. Make it stop. Please, pleasepleaseplease—)

“Blessed be your rebirth, Kephale.”

He’s grown more lethargic again. His body is steadily growing weaker and weaker and weaker, yet he, no, Kephale, cannot rest just yet. There are still too many wishes that need to be granted, too many people who require his guidance, too much weight he still must bear, too much grief within the prayers that beg him to return home.

(Home? Kephale does not have a home.)

The pain in his ankles has long abated. The outside world is but a fleeting desire; one Kephale does not need. The pain will stop when the damage stops recovering. There won’t be a need for silver to slice through his tendons once more. He does not need to move, stand, or leave. Kephale must stay still and bear the weight of the people who desire him, his prophecies, his blessings and his flesh.

There’s discord sowing among his caretakers. Tensions rise and rise, there’s no telling when that fragile thread decides to snap, shattering this false peace they’ve weaved between each other.

No matter, Kephale shall do as he must, and keep bearing their wishes.

The heart on his platter is his own, as is the one on everyone else’s plates. His chest is hollowed out. The budding flesh of another regrowth makes for a facsimile heartbeat.

Next year, they will desire more.

Ichor seeps out from the cut he’s made on the silent heart. He takes a bite. It tastes like nothing.

The feast commences.

There’s a stranger inside his dream. It’s a bad dream. He’s outside when he’s not meant to be, and wherever Kephale goes where he’s not meant to, despair follows.

A golden sea surrounds them, swaying in a quiet breeze. The sky is blue, so, so impossibly blue it hurts his eyes.

(The blaze inside of him has calmed.)

The stranger is asleep. He’s clad in black and there’s cracks all over his body. Alabaster skin broken open like a vase that’s shattered. A sword rests beside him. The blade has long lost its luster and glory — broken as it is, yet it still retains the appearance of a powerful weapon.

Strong, certain and capable of protection.

(The dream is peaceful.)

The stranger does not wake when Kephale approaches. He doesn’t even stir when Kephale sits next to him, silently, tentatively, curious. He has never seen this stranger before in his life, and yet, this cloaked swordmaster feels so, so, so familiar.

(Like the home Kephale lacks.)

Kephale feels many things upon staying close to the stranger.

Fear, anger, hurt, guilt, grief.

Determination, wholeness, relief, peace.

Just this once, he thinks, just this one indulgence.

Kephale settles next to the stranger clad in black, presses closer against the smoldering warmth. The proximity eases the Destruction inside of him.

He closes his eyes. The breeze feels nice.

How much more is still desired?

(How much more is still left to give?)

“Blessed be your rebirth, Kephale.”

Gold.

Dull, golden specks are spread around the dark ruins of the temple’s heart, each glint of gold twinkles like a fallen star in the faint light of the torches’ flickers.

It’s the closest image to a starry sky he’ll ever have.

His limbs have long grown numb. He raises his head. Whatever he places upon his tongue tastes like nothing.

The feast commences.

The stranger is awake. He’s changed in appearance, but Kephale can still recognize the familiarity and the calming inside his chest upon laying his eyes on the stranger. The Destruction inside of him eases, and the stranger lifts his head.

He’s sitting within the sea of gold, his own appearance gold, golden and gold as well. There’s cracks on his body, the sun within shattered bedrock and veins of molten gold.

“You...” the stranger speaks, and his voice is as broken and raw as his appearance, “...how...why do...” he trails off, incapable of wording his thoughts. His still demeanor is cracked open with a frown. The stranger’s eyes are filled with pain, but not his own. Not for himself, but for...

Kephale stays quiet. He sits next to the stranger and leans against his side. The stranger lets him. It’s warm.

(Could this be what is known as a ‘home’?)

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, the stranger hesitantly wraps an arm around Kephale’s side and presses him closer.

Kephale closes his eyes. The stranger’s heartbeat sounds nice.

“Blessed be your rebirth, Kephale.”

Pink.

And red.

It seeps out from under the collapsed form of his caretaker. Her pink hair is tainted with crimson at the tips. Her eyes, the wrong shade of blue, have gone glassy and dull.

There’s a silver dagger in her back. The same one that’s always used on him.

His other caretaker smiles down at him. “A gift,” he says, “Let us have another dish during this grand feast.

Kephale’s chest is torn open once more, and he fills the plates of his children.

Gold and red. Gold and red. Gold and red. It tastes like nothing.

The feast commences.

“Blessed be your rebirth, Kephale.”

He is but an empty cavern. Hands claw their way inside of him, reaching, grasping, pulling out all that’s left of his humanity. If he wasn’t a Titan, then, surely, he’d feel sick from this kind of worship.

(Worship, desecration, it does not matter. Kephale will bear the weight.)

There’s nothing left, but he must feed the people.

The feast commences.

It doesn’t hurt anymore.

“Blessed be your rebirth, Kephale.”

The feast commences.

“Happy birthday.”

Kephale stares at the sky. His eyes hurt, but it feels warm. A pleasant warmth. Distantly, he thinks he remembers a day as pleasant at this one. There were many colors. Colors of varied shades that surrounded him in this sea of gold.

The stranger, no, Khaslana, lays at his side, his arm serving as a pillow under Kephale’s head. The breeze is calm, and the gold sways silently.

There’s a pleasant scent in the air. It reminds him of a place he doesn’t have.

The end is near. The blaze within him is only smoldering now. There’s nothing left but ash.

“...Is it...your birthday too?” he wonders, out loud.

Khaslana hums. It’s a painful sound. “Maybe.”

“Then, happy birthday to you too,” Kephale says.

“Blessed be your rebirth, Kephale.”

There’s a commotion outside, and the preparations for the feast halt. His caretaker leaves. The walls shake with an unknown force, and two gray figures step into the heart of the temple.

The halls are a blur of black and gray and orange flickers. The warmth of his Hero’s back is pleasant. Their voices are a calming balm against the cold settling within.

Gray, black, white and gold. The Heroes of his Heart.

Red and gold. Mydeimos.

His vision fails him, but the sound of Cifera’s heartbeat is as pleasant as ever.

Hyacinthia’s hands are just as soft as he remembers.

The dawn...he can’t see, but the sun feels nice on his face.

It’s warm.

Ah, how he hopes his next birthday will be just as warm.

“Happy birthday, Phainon.”

“Honeycakes! My favorite! Thank you Cyrene, you’re the best!”

He takes a bite. It’s warm, sweet and soft.

Cyrene pets his hair as he devours his honeycakes, and the bells outside chime as the fairies squabble over who gets to give him their gift first.

Next year, he hopes, will be just as happy.

Chapter Text

What is it like, awakening to a dawn without the sun?

Khaslana, the one who wasn’t meant to reach the dawn, how will you answer for this unforgivable sin?

Divinity laid bare, golden blood pooled, and those blue, blue, blue eyes as dull as the innocence you’ve long killed within yourself.

Was it not he who was meant to bask in the light of the true stars?

Why is it you who has woken once more?

Your dreams, your memories, that quiet and cold touch against your holy body lit aflame with divine wrath.

That soothing balm to your soul had been your first warning, and yet, you had basked within, embraced, and indulged in that dream.

Khaslana, the one who was never meant to reach the dawn, the son of Amphoreus has died outside your grasp.

Khaslana, you false, false, false and treacherous god, how will you ever answer for this unforgivable sin?

The sun has died, and your heart is gone.

The sun has died, and your heart is gone.

Your sun has died, and yet you live on, lingering, slumbering, rotting, in the darkness left behind.

Not even the twin stars from beyond the sky were able to reignite that singular spark.

The ashen cot in which you slumber, now both a grave and a cradle.

Destruction, that ichor which you oh so despise, flows within your veins, and yet, it was that which the sun needed to burn.

Repent, repent, repent.

Gift the world your blood, your memories and your strength, and keep on

Praying, hoping,

Praying, wishing,

Praying, begging,

Dreaming, slumbering, crying,

Until the day your sun rises once more from the distant horizon, reborn from the ichor you discard into Amphorean soil.

Kephale’s Audience Hall is quiet as Cyrene stares at the artwork.

It’s a modest size, nothing like the grand visage that had been Kephale’s divine body that bore the Dawn Device on their back. It’s no less impressive; yet it’s still distinctively and sizably different. That’s not to say the artwork wasn’t a sizeable thing. It is still a work of grandeur, yet there’s a more humane touch to it, with its smaller size. The Council of Elders had vehemently protested against the artwork’s humble size, but, the Heirs, or rather, the newly-made Titans, had shut down the Elders’ displeasure. The first, of many changes, that Amphoreus will undergo.

The Trailblazers are next to her, both at her sides as she takes in the details of the craftsmanship. Their Heroes’ fellow Astral Express members stand a little further back, at a respectful distance, along with her fellow Chrysos Heirs and Titans behind her.

Even farther back, the mortals, no, the people of Amphoreus have gathered, all to bear witness.

It must be discomforting, her silence.

Still, she doesn’t speak as her gaze trails over the statue’s grooves and smooth curves. Everything is of the highest quality, a luxury unbecoming and not quite affordable for a tumultuous time such as Era Nova, but it had been at Aglaea’s insistence, then Cerydra had acquiesced, and then a verbal fight had broken out with the remnants of the Council of Elders within the meeting room—she’s digressing. Cyrene sighs, closing her eyes for a moment.

It’s a beautiful and masterfully done artwork.

They had spent hours restoring photoslate pictures and memoria shards, agonizing over each and every detail they could remember about Phainon’s and Khaslana’s features in order to create proper, full references the artisans could use.

And yet, there’s still something lacking.

But, perhaps such a thing is for the best. Cyrene isn’t certain she—or any of the Heirs, really—would’ve been able to keep up appearances if that smile was immortalized in a place like this. The Worldbearing Altar will stay as silent as it had been during the climax before Era Nova, and the mere thought of seeing Phainon’s and Khaslana’s smile without either of them ever answering would shatter her.

The stories of this new, budding age will eventually twist and turn and rewrite the past that they have experienced. Pages upon pages of epics will be written and rewritten, and in the ever-flowing river of ink, some details will be lost, some will be forgotten, and some will be erased. Era Nova will be known as a romantic, flowery epic—one that will slowly twist, turn and morph as the pages flutter and flutter—while Time will erode the memories of the people. With the addition of this statue, perhaps, Kephale’s story will bloom into something different as well, Cyrene muses. Something gentler, perhaps.

She reopens her eyes.

It’s a marble rendition of both Phainon’s and Khaslana’s forms.

Phainon, standing tall as his left hand is raised in a gentle invitation. His fingers are curled inwards, reaching toward Khaslana’s. His stone image gazes up, eyes open. Khaslana’s form is raised high and his halo casts a shadow on the floor, giving Phainon’s shadow a halo too, as he’s settled behind, bowed over Phainon’s form. His marble gaze meets Phainon’s. Their expressions, as unmoving as they are, are soft. Though they don’t smile, there’s an inherent gentleness within both their gazes. Khaslana’s left arm is stretched out, his hand reaching for Phainon’s. Their fingers are close to touching, but they never truly meet. Khaslana’s wings are curled around their forms—a protective embrace. Both Phainon’s and Khaslana’s right hand rest atop of Dawnmaker’s handle; Phainon’s hand is wrapped around the sword’s hilt, while Khaslana’s hand is placed on the sword’s pommel. Even here, their hands don’t ever meet.

‘Evermore, meets Dawn their Dusk.’

Cyrene has to give thanks and praise to the artisans. They have truly managed to encapsulate the essence of the Worldbearers from that romantic epic that had been their Flame-Chase Journey.

She takes in a breath, steady, slowly, silently, and then steps forward, resolute. Unlike the others, she doesn’t have any flowers to offer. No, for the two of them, their Worldbearers—their Deliverers—home has always been a golden sea swaying in the wind. She laurels both marble forms with wreaths woven from Elysian wheat. Frozen in time, never withering; a keepsake from home to accompany them, forever and always.

Stelle and Caelus are next in line to offer their respects. The trailblazing twins are silent, uncharacteristically so, and their gazes hold emotions and words spoken in mind only. They place down their bouquets, and then the other Nameless and Chrysos Heirs step forth to offer theirs.

Sunflowers, forget-me-nots, white chrysanthemums—a rainbow assortment of bouquets forms at the statue’s base. Each of the Heirs pause at the statue, each having silent vows and wishes unspoken echoing in their silence.

Cyrene watches Mydei as he places down the last bouquet. She watches as he gazes at the statue. How he gazes at Khaslana, before lowering his gaze to Phainon. His back is turned to the people—both Okheman and Kremnoan and everything else—and they cannot see his pained expression. Cyrene averts her gaze as Mydei’s teeth clench down so hard his jaw starts to shake.

Eventually, he lets out a long, silent sigh. Mydei steps away and joins the others who have already finished offering their wishes. Cipher bumps her shoulder against his. A short, light tap. It’s the best comfort she can offer her fellow Calamity Titan in such a place. Thousands upon thousands of eyes are on them, and neither of them are willing to show weakness in front of the masses; old habits die hard, even in times of newborn peace.

As the pages continue to turn, turn and turn, Cyrene wonders how much will be forgotten. What parts of their lives—their hardships—will become short footnotes? The Flame-Chase Journey, the millions upon millions of cycles of suffering, the battle against Iron Tomb—will any of it matter in the grand scheme of the universe?

Hah! She already knows the answer.

Though there were many outside factions aiding Amphoreus in the final battle, Cyrene knows better than to believe none have ulterior motives. The Astral Express and the Nameless are the exceptions, but Cerydra, Aglaea—all of them, really—know not to rely on their foreign guests too much.

Amphoreus must learn to stand on her own, or else they will suffocate in the many, many webs the universe is ready to spin them in.

The Nameless have already given them a sufficient time frame to prepare Amphoreus’ introduction to the universe, and, have stalled the hungrier vultures that come with a new, undiscovered planet connecting to the Silver Trails of the Trailblaze.

The moment of silence comes to and end, and Cerydra steps forward.

She delivers a speech to the masses of Amphoreus, and for once, the crowd is not filled with a cacophony of perturbed voices playing contrarian.

“—Amphoreus has achieved her victory,” she ends, “But the cosmos is vast, and we have long passed the moment of integration. Amphoreus will now prepare, not for war, but for negotiations with factions beyond the sky. We will never pledge allegiance, and so, without a doubt, snakes will coil and slither in wait for every moment of exposed weakness. Rebuilding our home will become the foundation that will allow this world to prosper, even in the face of things we have never laid our eyes upon in even our wildest of dreams! Though Amphoreus may be a breeding ground of opportunity for those beyond the sky, she will never bow her head in submission to people that are not her own.”

Cerydra slams her staff against the ground. “As such, if your greed beckons you to betray your homeland, to betray Amphoreus, you will do so with your head on the line.”

Silence echoes through Kephale’s Audience Hall. The people are quiet.

Perhaps, it’s the knowledge that each and every one of Amphoreus’ Titans have gathered together in one place that prevents even the most outspoken of people to speak their minds.

Cyrene breaks away from the others, stepping in front of the statue once more.

The Remembrance, the Destruction, the Hunt, the Preservation, the Trailblaze. All have gathered outside of Amphoreus, each faction waiting, waiting. From this moment on, it will be a race against time.

Time, inescapably, will devour all, as they’ve already experienced, and will continue to experience.

She takes in the statue’s features one last time, then, she turns and begins the long trek down to the Demigod Council.

Cyrene still has an execution to witness.

It’s not a satisfying ending at all. It is neither romantic, nor gentle.

And yet, it’s the least they can do. For Phainon. For themselves.

Cyrene feels nothing as she watches the blood seep into stone.

The Membrance Maze is just as she’s left it; nothing has changed from a day or two earlier, nor from millions upon millions of cycles ago. Cyrene steps into the soft, gentle atmosphere of childhood dreams and innocent adventuring, lacking the presence of those who shared it with her at her side. The fairies welcome her as she walks deeper within. They greet her in passing, gift her small knickknacks, and ask about her time in Okhema. She answers each question patiently and returns each greeting with a smile. By the time Cyrene makes it to the heart of the maze, the fairies have already dispersed again, on their way to play in the fields or dance along the melody of the wind chimes.

This deep within the maze, time has slowed to a near imperceptible speed. She weaves through a path of dewdrops suspended in the eternal process of falling, gently pushes aside some branches that continue to sway in the same positions she leaves them in, and finally, reaches the giant tree that houses Khaslana within its hollow.

Here, Destruction seeps into Amphoreus. Cyrene has done what she could with the powers of Remembrance, yet nothing can stop the Destruction from marching on toward Finality. Poisonous and cancerous, yet none can bring themselves to rid of the source. Golden ichor flows through bark and soil, warping reality and twisting the surroundings into corruptions—a broken web with Khaslana at the core of it all.

The air is tense with static and heat, yet Cyrene remains unaffected. The wisps of Remembrance melt off her body in lazy curls of steam. She steps closer, closer, and observes the slow, but perceptible rise and fall of Khaslana’s chest. The only sign that he’s alive.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Phainon and Khaslana were meant to become one again once Phainon had grown up. They weren’t meant to be separated in such a way.

Cyrene reaches out, caresses Khaslana’s cheek. Steam forms at the contact, and the Remembrance continuously shatters and reforms at the touch of Destruction. Still, he does not stir. That’s nothing new, unfortunately, and so, Cyrene makes herself comfortable on the grass and starts her storytelling again.

“—in the end, the remaining cultists have been executed, and...” she pauses, “...the Nameless have returned to the Astral Express for the time being. They wanted to discuss matters regarding the Scepter with the Geniuses and the Xianzhou Alliance directly. Something about preventing misunderstandings and unneeded hostility regarding the things from the Alliance’s past with Lord Ravagers.”

Cyrene turns to Khaslana’s sleeping form. “Ah, but don’t fret too much—you know that Caelus and Stelle want you to rest properly. Everyone wants you to heal first. As for Phainon...” She stares at the raindrops, each reflecting the light from Khaslana’s golden blood. “...We don’t know how long it’ll take for him to come back. There’s no...I can recreate them, but it’ll never...I’m unsure if the memories could...”

She sighs. Cyrene pulls up her knees and wraps her arms around them. “I...don’t know what to do, Khaslana.” Her hold tightens. “I...This wasn’t the romantic ending I had in mind. Phainon wasn’t...you were supposed to...it’s just—I...I miss both of you.”

She leans her head back against Khaslana’s thigh, and her shoulder presses firmly against bark. “Our suffering...it was worth everything, but...I just wish that you were here to enjoy our freedom. Together. Just as we had imagined back when we didn’t know anything.”

The blazing heat of Destruction is nothing but a cozy warmth to her as she leans into the contact. “Won’t you...wake up, Khaslana?” She closes her eyes. Here, in this momentary blip where the Remembrance and Destruction meet each other halfway in Amphoreus, she’ll rest her eyes, just for a moment.

Just a moment.

That’s all she needs. A single, eternal instant in which she can pretend.

Only a scant few seconds have truly passed by the time Cyrene decides to wake from her dream. How long has it been? Time and time again, she waited and waited and dreamed right in this spot, always fantasizing about the moment Khaslana would wake up. Now, she also had to wait for Phainon to return.

It’s why she doesn’t register the slow movement of fingers carding through her hair at first.

It’s nothing grand.

Cyrene doesn’t shoot up and scream, nor does she burst out in tears or laugh until her voice has gone hoarse.

No, instead, she leans into the touch, and feels relief flood through her being. A small, bubbly smile forms at her lips.

“...Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“...M, morning...to...you too...”

Khaslana’s voice is ground gravel and charred bone, a terrible sound to listen to, and yet, Cyrene can’t help but think it’s one of the best things she’s heard. His movements are hesitant and choppy, but they’re gentle, gentle, as his fingers untangle knots and comb through the strands.

“...Missed...a lot...have I...not? Heard...your...stories.”

“Yes,” Cyrene says, and Khaslana’s fingers leave her hair as she gets off the grass, a loss of warmth she can’t help but mourn. She entwines their fingers as she holds his hand instead. “We have time to prepare because of the Scepter and the Rembrance, but...”

“They...won’t wait...forever.”

“Can you...feel the Scepter?” Cyrene strokes Khaslana’s knuckles, and his eyes follow the movement. “It’s something the Geniuses wanted to know about, after the fall of Irontomb.”

“Faintly...in...back of...mind.” Khaslana tears his gaze away from their hands, and stares into Cyrene’s eyes. “Irontomb...not dead...sleeping inside...Phainon...too.”

His hands slip out of her grip.

“Khaslana, you...”

Khaslana’s form slumps forward; a wilted sunflower unable to find the sun. Cyrene catches him, hands pressed against his shoulders in support. The rest of his body remains cradled within the tree hollow, his hair curtaining his face. A burning, weeping willow that frames the pitter-patter of the bloody, golden tears that drop and shatter against unforgiving soil.

A puddle forms at the roots, splits, and coalesences into two seperate forms taking shape. Two Titankin emerge from the golden blood, their silhouettes familiar. Cyrene stares at them wordlessly. The flames of Destruction surge for a moment, and she turns back, “Khaslana, what—”

She doesn’t finish her sentence.

In Khaslana’s hands lay a golden seed. Cyrene hesitates, before she holds out her hands to receive it. A vessel made from memories—Hollow, save for the presence of something that feels different from Khaslana’s Destruction. A blank slate brimming with potential. Could it be...?

“My...memories for...you...for Phainon...” Khaslana says, his voice brittle. “This...for him...”

“But what about you?”

Khaslana sighs. It’s a heavy, weary sound. “...Tired. Memories...lacking. Need your...help.”

She stares at the Titankin Khaslana made. Their shapes, their movements, all too familiar. They lack memories and a past, but, she could give the Titankin what they were missing.

“...I understand.” Cyrene wipes away the gold streaking down his face. “Thank you, Khaslana. Rest now. Phainon and I...will return, once you both have stabilized. I promise you that.”

“See you...tomorrow.”

“...See you tomorrow, Khaslana.”

Bearer of chaos, son of Amphoreus, are you a true dawn or a mere imitation of what has long been lost?

That sinner has given you his blood, sweat and tears, will you walk down the same path?

Bearing chaos, harboring wrath, how will you respond to that golden, golden gaze from the stars?

No kin, no past—will the future be stolen from you again?

The hands of time do not stop; run, run, run until you reach the converging paths of your fates.

The stars are ever watchful and treacherous, will your wardens succeed?

Blessed, beloved, bewitching child, may you remain hidden from the cosmos for as long as you live.

Aedes Elysiae is a simple village.

It’s a small, unknown place that doesn’t receive many visitors. Golden wheat fields stretch on over the hills, as far and wide as one can see, and, in the far, far horizon, the glittering blue of the ocean meets sun and sky. It is a place where people live quiet, ordinary lives. The villagers are peaceful, self-sufficient farmers. The villagers care for the fields, herd livestock, sometimes hunt, go fishing and bake bread. The children are taught by a single teacher, and sometimes, Cyrene comes by to take over and tell stories about the outside world or long-lost fables.

Aedes Elysiae is also known as Oronyx’ Arcadia.

Cyrene told Phainon that much. And, from the way traveler’s eyes bulge out in surprise whenever they hear the name of their village, that, is something less simple.

‘Arcardia’ on its own, is known as a paradise that Mnestia, the Titan of Romance, created. A place where one can indulge oneself in a blissful, never-ending paradise. So, ‘Oronyx’ Arcadia’ must be a place that Oronyx holds dear and very, very close to their heart. Yet, as far as Phainon can tell, there are no special treasures in Aedes Elysiae, nor is the village free from all bad things in the world, since people can still get hurt from accidents during farming or a fall during a game of tag.

So, in Phainon’s eyes, Aedes Elysiae truly is just a simple village.

The occasional lost travelers who stumble into their humble village think otherwise, but it’s not Phainon’s job to change their minds. “Let them be disappointed,” as Cyrene likes to say, whenever they receive visitors from beyond their village’s borders. She doesn’t care much for the travelers. It’s strange, because Cyrene cares for everyone! Maybe it’s because the visits are always abrupt and not all travelers are friendly. Maybe it’s because most tumble down the hills out of nowhere with a scream and leave a trail of crushed wheat in their wake.

(Sometimes, Phainon thinks Cyrene holds a burning frost within her, like how his own insides burn with cold fire.

Isn’t that strange?

Phainon can’t think of anything he’d feel such anger toward.)

Still, despite the simplicity of their lives and the peace that envelops Aedes Elysiae, it cannot be said that there’s truly nothing special about the place. It’s the people that are ordinary; the village itself is anything but.

For Aedes Elysiae is blessed by Oronyx, and it is Oronyx’ Arcadia.

Time envelops the village in a loose, sleepy embrace; silent and loving and always gentle. Fairies roam the forests and fields. Titankin patrol and protect the village borders and prevent wild beasts from ravaging their wheat and livestock. The ocean always lets Phainon fish up the biggest catches, their soil is fertile and gifts them the best yields and harvests, and the sun is always pleasant—never too hot or freezing. The trees always have a shaded spot saved for him when he wants to read. The lone Garmentmaker near the docks always fixes up his clothes and allows him to talk to the nymphs; lets him tell them about his day, and in exchange, the nymphs tell him their stories, each one having a more mystical and beautiful story than the last. Everyone in the village always finds their way back to their homes, no matter how lost they get in the forests, always guided by the fairies’ whispers and the soft chiming of multiple bells.

(Phainon can hear soft whispers—prayers—caress his ears, sometimes. No one else in the village seems to hear them, so he remains silent about the wishes that are told to a certain Kephale.)

(Sometimes, he imagines answering.)

It’s an extraordinary ordinarity, for the ordinary people within the village.

After all, everyone had grown up with those blessings accompanying them. But, such blessings don’t always accompany those from outside the village. They’re sparse. Even rarer if they grace an entire village. And thus, in the eyes of people not from Aedes Elysiae, it is known as a hidden paradise.

That’s what Cyrene tells him, anyway.

Cyrene is the village’s priestess. She serves Oronyx directly, and also takes on the role of village representative whenever outsiders reach their village. She herds them into the Sacrament Courtyard, and then speaks with the travelers, all alone. Some are immediately sent away, never to be seen again, and others get to stay for a short while before they’re herded to the village borders with fresh loaves of bread in tow. Those travelers don’t ever return either. Luckier travelers get to speak with some of the villagers before leaving, and sometimes, they get to tell the children about the world outside of Aedes Elysiae, but not to Phainon.

Never to Phainon.

Outsiders do not get to meet Phainon.

Or rather, outsiders don’t ever get the chance to directly speak with him. If it’s not Cyrene barring them from introducing themselves to him, there will be an elder who needs help with the fields, a child who wants him to play with them and their friends, or Snowy who bites at the travelers’ ankles when they get too close. The travelers do not get to talk with him, or ask him about his life, or have their gaze linger on his snow white hair and sky blue eyes. They don’t get to ask him about the mark on his neck, nor about the small clay figures he briefly brings to life to play with the other children.

(Sometimes, it’s as if outsiders are shrouded in an unseen mist, with how they lose track of Phainon when he’s right in front of them.)

That’s not to say that Phainon’s excluded from the storytelling the children get to listen to when travelers get to stay longer—he’s heard plenty of things about the world outside of Aedes Elysiae from outsiders. He knows about the strong warriors from Castrum Kremnos, has heard of the beauty and political might that is the Eternal City, Okhema, and has imagined the eccentric scholars from the Grove of Epiphany many a time in his head. It’s just Law that outsiders aren’t allowed to direct their attention to Phainon in Aedes Elysiae.

“To protect you,” Cyrene had once said. “It’s a blessing directly bestowed upon the village by the Scale of Justice, themselves.”

“Protect me? Why?”

She had hummed in response, along with that sad, knowing smile back on her face, “Because you’re different from the other children in the village, Phainon.”

“In a good or bad way?”

“Neither. You are...we are more alike, than the other people in Aedes Elysiae.”

“Hmmm...then, that’s fine with me!”

“Oh? How so?”

“Hehe, ‘cause I love you, Cyrene!” he smiled, “I don’t mind being different if it makes me closer to you.”

Yet, just because that Law exists, it doesn’t bar it from being broken. Some travelers do take notice of the Law in some capacity, even if they aren’t told of it directly. When that happens, their stay is cut short. The temptation to break that Law is something that overtakes every outsider who learns of its existence, and, normally, such a thing wouldn’t pose a problem if a loophole to that Law didn’t exist.

Unfortunately, as long as it is Phainon who directs his attention to the outsiders first, they get to bypass the Law and speak with him.

That’s why Cyrene and the other villagers always do their best to prevent such a thing from happening. It’s...a little suffocating. Part of him wants to be upset at everyone’s overprotectiveness over him, but, at the same time, he understands it’s because they care for him why they act as such.

(Phainon doesn’t think he’s that special, or worthy, of such care, but he doesn’t want to worry the others, so he stays silent.)

(His heart harbors his tightly bottled doubt, and he hopes the bottle never breaks.)

Phainon wholeheartedly loves Aedes Elysiae and everyone in it. His home will always be the golden fields and the scent of wheat lingering in the air. Nothing will ever change that.

Yet, the stories of the world outside of Aedes Elysiae have him curious. What’s it like, beyond the place he knows as home? How would it feel, to experience all those stories for himself? Curiosity and the taste for adventure fuel his desire to one day step outside the borders of their small village and see the world for himself. And maybe, just maybe, once he’s traveled enough and experienced more than just a simple village life, he’ll be capable of protecting the home he holds dear alongside Cyrene.

Surely, if he trains to become stronger, he’ll be capable of protecting something?

(Maybe then, he’ll feel worthy of everyone’s care.)

Alas, he’s still too young to venture outside of Aedes Elysiae’s borders—Castrum Kremnos’ warriors and their tutelage nothing but a dream too far for a young child—so he’ll have to settle with helping around the village in order to compensate everyone for their love.

Once, before he’d grown interested in the world outside of their tiny village, Phainon had left the borders of Aedes Elysiae. It had been an ordinary day, just like any other, and yet, Cyrene and Phainon had gone out. He had been young. Much, much younger than he is now.

(Phainon likes to think differently—after all, he’s already twelve! But Cyrene always uses her height to rebuff him, and with how she towers over him, he can’t say anything against her teasing when she calls him a child.)

(Hmpf! One day he’ll be taller than she is, and then tease her back about their height difference!)

His recollection of that day is vague. And each attempt to remember is like holding water with his hands; every fragment slips from his fingers before he can fully grasp on. He can’t clearly remember when, or why they had left Aedes Elysiae that day, but all he knows is that, ever since that day, whatever had happened, he’s never been allowed to leave the borders of their village.

“Go outside of Aedes Elysiae?” Phainon tears his gaze away from the pond. Cyrene smiles at him from her swing. “Why?”

“Are you not curious?” Cyrene says, “You’ve only seen the Elysian fields for as long as you can remember, no? Why not try and expand your horizons?”

“Like the Deliverer from your stories did?”

“...Yes, like them.” Cyrene beckons him closer and cards her fingers through his hair. “Do you not wonder what the rest of the world has to offer you? There are so many stories outside of Aedes Elysiae, waiting for you to discover them.”

“A little bit,” Phainon says, “but I wanna stay in Aedes Elysiae! I don’t think I’ll ever consider another place home.”

“That’s alright. It’s only a visit,” she says, “Aedes Elysiae will always be home, but that doesn’t mean you can’t go out and explore. Don’t you want to see Castrum Kremnos’ warriors? Or experience the hustle and bustle of Okhema? Maybe one day we’ll even explore the stars beyond the sky.”

“Will you be going with me?” Phainon can’t imagine doing something without Cyrene’s familiar presence nearby.

“Of course,” Cyrene taps his nose, “You are far too young to leave the village on your own. I’ll be your chaperone, how does that sound?”

Phainon pouts. “I’m not that young! I’m already eight!”

She pinches his cheek. “And yet you’re still shorter than I, the adult. Thus, in my eyes, you’re an itty bitty kid.”

“Gah! Cyreneee, that’s unfair!”

“Still,” she pulls him into her lap, “Where do you want to go first? Castrum Kremnos? Okhema? The Grove of Epiphany?”

“Hmmm,” Phainon scrunches his brow as he thinks. Then, “Anywhere is fine with me! Cyrene should pick a place!”

“Oh? How so? Don’t you want to pick your first adventure on your own?”

Phainon shakes his head. “As long as we’re together, anything is possible, right?”

Cyrene pauses. For a moment, her gaze grows distant. But then she smiles at him, that sad, gentle smile, “That’s right, anything is possible as long as we’re together.”

Teleporting with a Space Anchor is a strange experience. Cyrene’s hand is a grounding force as Phainon blinks the dizziness away. Vertigo still lingers, no matter what he does. She ruffles his hair, somehow unaffected by the teleportation. Or maybe Cyrene is just more used to using Space Anchors.

The streets of Okhema are overwhelming. Phainon has never seen so many people in one place before.

“Scared?” Cyrene asks him.

He shakes his head. “It’s loud.”

“Shall we go somewhere quieter?” Cyrene’s gaze passes through the crowd, searching for a calmer spot.

They pass through the masses, street vendors and performers call out and the mingling scents of things Phainon doesn’t know the name of fill the air. It’s warm. The sun is particularly harsh today. It does nothing to soothe his headache.

“Are you overwhelmed?” Cyrene kneels in front of him, after they’ve found a spot to rest. “We can do this another day, if you want. Our adventures and stories can wait.”

That doesn’t sit right with him, not after all the effort Cyrene had gone through to make him an adventure. Still, it’s so, so hot and Phainon grows uncomfortable from the heat. His head is pounding and his ears ring. “I...” he tries to look at Cyrene, but his gaze gets pulled toward the sky.

There’s a golden gaze in the far distance.

Something in the sky sparks.

“Phainon?”

It’s a golden flame.

Phainon can’t tear his gaze away from the force. Something calls to him from beyond the sky.

“Phainon!”

He gets swallowed by the fire.

Phainon reopens his eyes. It’s a dark, starlit path. It’s beautiful and terrifying and oh so terribly lonely to look at. A giant, glittering chalice beckons him. Phainon moves towards it. His steps echo. A dull, distant chime lost to the chaos and vacuum that is the cosmos.

Distantly, the sound of a hearth flickers. Crumbling rock and molten lava, falling towers and rising flames consuming all, firewood and bedtime stories lost forever, the tinkering of blades shaping within a forge—the sound of Destruction approaches.

Phainon walks and walks and walks, the backdrop melody of a burning warforge his only companion among the lonely, lonely stars.

It’s like he’s been walking among the stars for an eternity and yet, simultaneously, it’s as if he hasn’t even moved a single moment beyond the starting point.

The ending bell tolls, a harrowing, piercing sound that is swallowed by flames and crumbling towers. The sun has set, an eclipse bleeding gold the only remnant of that fragile, tragic light. What appears before him is no human nor Titan. No, it’s something far greater, far more powerful than the gods they worship in Amphoreus.

Gold, golden and gold.

(Anger, contempt, wrath—if suffering has an end, he will be the Deliverer. If the heat death of the universe is the only acceptable outcome, he will prove THEM wrong. If the eons of suffering they’ve gone through are insignificant in the eyes of the gods, then—)

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

(Anger, anger, anger—Phainon has never before been so angry—but for what reason?)

(The sun mark on his neck burns. It’s burning, burning, burning—soon, all that will be left are the charred ashes of his insignificant existence. Destruction is the outcome, and none can escape the termination of fate and the universe itself. If civilization is a cancer emerging quietly from the boundless stars, then war is the only common language known to all intelligent life. The universe is—)

Phainon gasps.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Anger, anger, anger.

Every breath tastes of wrath, ashes and a bone-deep hatred he doesn’t know the source of.

Each gasp for air wracks his body, overcome with emotion. Is it fear? Anger? Phainon doesn’t know. All that he’s left with are trembling limbs and a heartbeat so loud its as if his ears have ruptured from the sound.

The titan before him is quiet as THEY watch him collapse. THEIR visage is grander than anything Phainon has ever seen before, both terrifying and familiar in the worst ways possible.

“N—” a gasp, “Na...nook...!”

“NANOOK!”

Phainon screams. At the tender age of eight, Phainon experiences hatred for the first time. He screams and screams and screams, as loud and powerful as his small, small body can muster to. It’s a raw, near animalistic sound that has his throat go hoarse and his lungs ring and ache.

He imagines burning up into an inferno, one that destroys all in its path in order to reach that titan, and imagines fueling all of his rage and pain into a single strike that desires to kill a god.

A phantom rushes forward, gold and molten rock, a blazing sword in hand. It’s a magnificent sight. The phantom’s head is adorned by a sun, and two powerful wings spread out. Holy and sacred for all the wrong reasons. The phantom’s hatred reverberates throughout the space, and the titan appears almost fond as it rushes towards THEM.

Phainon stares at the scene wordlessly, rooted in place.

He is but a meagre spectre that serves witness. Trembling and shaking like a newborn fawn unable to stand on its own. A whirlwind of emotions and disjointed memories storms inside of him (cycle, after cycle, after cycle—), each individual fragment more intense in its hatred than the last. It manifests as a blazing fire, and the heat rises, rises, rises—all of him will be reduced to cinders, small, insignificant and soon to be forgotten once gone—and then,

Phainon throws up.

It’s not bile, it’s gold, gold, gold, and ah—that’s the color of his blood.

He’s coughing up blood.

The rest of Phainon’s face grows wet, not with tears, but the same golden ichor that flows freely from his mouth and nose.

His hands, stained with gold; such a familiar sight—even if it’s the first time he’s ever laid eyes upon it.

Phainon lifts his gaze, but instead of meeting with the blazing rage that renders all stars to ash, he’s met with the sight of two golden gazes on him.

Something shifts within the phantom as more blood drips down—panic, panic, guilt, panic, fear, self-loathing, panic—and then nothing.

The phantom disappears like a candle blown out, but there’s no smoke lingering in the wake of where that fury had been.

The bleeding stops, the heat dies down, and the hatred has gone.

All that’s left is Phainon, blank, blank, blank, on his lonesome.

Silent, silent, silent—the titan that stares him down simply watches.

For a moment, nothing happens.

Then, the titan shifts. THEY lift their hand, golden ichor meets pale skin, and holds Phainon’s small form in THEIR palm. It means he’s sitting in a pond of ichor; a muddled speck of color—insignificant and weak—within a surging source of power.

And yet.

Phainon doesn’t want that power. He wants to reject it with the same fierceness as that phantom had done.

And yet.

THEY do not speak. Phainon simply sits atop THEIR palm, pressing his hands against the bleeding gash futilely, sinking and sinking into a pool of blazing divinity. Destruction, quiet and loud, surges underneath Phainon’s skin—it sings to him, but it’s a tune he doesn’t want to dance to. He digs his nails into the ichor, kicks his feet against THEIR palm—tries to stay afloat; a rejection to whatever this being desires of him. Still, he’s much too small to do anything worthwhile. There’s nothing Phainon can do to defy something as grand as this.

For a moment, Phainon thinks THEY have grown tired of his defiance, ready to discard his insignificant existence to the fire. He’s overwhelmed with fear, but his glare keeps steady with disdain. It must look ridiculous; Phainon, small, eight years old and face still round with baby fat, trying to stare down a cosmic entity a thousand times his size.

Yet, his life does not return to dust. Instead, THEIR gaze shifts, softens—almost tender—if it’s possible for specks of mortal feeling to still reside within.

The war horn sounds, civilizations are rendered null, and the fires within the forge rise—the arrival of others is heralded with the sound of Destruction, but that golden gaze is still fixated on Phainon and Phainon alone.

“We salute thee, Blemished One.”

“So, that young’un is going to be our newest addition? Doesn’t really look like what I had in mind.”

“Silence.”

“It seems that he possesses only half of the blessing.”

“Stick him in the Warforge with Archforger and he’ll be good as new?”

WHACK!

“Zephyro! My hat!”

“Ignore those two, Celenova. Is the blessing incomplete or not fully realized?”

“I’ll have to take a closer look to be sure.”

Phainon doesn’t get to look at them. A fiery blaze erupts from his side, interrupting. It wraps its arms and wings around Phainon in a protective embrace.

“That must be the other half then.”

“Stay away from Phainon, you bastards!” The phantom has its sword poised, ready to attack.

“My, my, this little one is quite fierce.”

“Now we can stick both in the Warforge, right?”

WHACK!

“MY HAT!”

“We will never bow to the Destruction, so keep your hands off Phainon!” the phantom growls out. A feral, bristling cat hissing at strangers.

The titan holding them doesn’t react much. In fact, THEY appear to enjoy the phantom’s provocations and rejections more than anything, with how THEIR eyes almost crinkle with amusement.

How odd.

How scary.

How fantastical.

Maybe everything is just one, big, strange dream.

Phainon meets the titan’s golden gaze. Why is it him? Why is it them?

Icy crystals form around him and the phantom, encapsulating them in a fragmented barrier of memoria. No sudden attacks or movements follow at the interruption, not even from the titan. It’s neither a farewell nor a retreat—THEY expect a return.

“We’ll meet again, little one.”

“Like hell you will!”

The memoria closes in, crystallizing into a capsule that transports them away.

And then Phainon wakes up.

He’s weak, delirious and feverish. His face is crusted with dried ichor and Cyrene is at his side, her hands icy, icy, icy despite the warmth she usually carries. He thinks he hears familiar, worried voices, accompanied by various colorful blurs he can’t place. His body is moved around, carefully and delicately.

There’s movement, flashing, movement, movement, then—a familiar warmth cradles him again.

It’s gold, golden, gold around them, and the air is filled with the scent and remnants of Destruction, yet the arms that hold him have never felt more home despite the blazing heat. It feels complete. Whole. Phainon has finally found his other half again.

“No, no...not yet, not yet...”

The heat seeps away. It returns to the arms that hold him, leaving Phainon. He whines at the loss of warmth. (Why? Why? Why? Aren’t I meant for this?)

“Shh, fret...not,” a voice speaks, rough and hoarse, yet so achingly gentle, “take...time growing...up...healthy...”

Phainon presses closer—buries himself deeper into that embrace and gentle, gentle warmth.

(Don’t leave me, don’t leave.)

(I’ll stay. For you.)

The sickness he’s left with has him drifting in and out of sleep on the riverbank of the Sea of Souls.

Cyrene cries and cries into his hair when the fever finally breaks, and the world settles into peace once more. The days following his recovery are a blur he can’t make anything out of, and he doesn’t hear or see that golden voice.

After that, Cyrene doesn’t ever bring him on trips outside of Aedes Elysiae again.

Despite not having set foot outside the borders of Aedes Elysiae, Phainon does know what some places outside of their village look like. His teleslate is filled with pictures and stories of people outside. Obviously, Cyrene’s contact is his most important one. But, there also are several other names outside of the Elysians’ that have him scratch his head in confusion. Phainon is certain he’s never met those names before, and yet, he can’t bring himself to delete those contacts, nor can he muster up the courage to message them either.

For some reason, he misses them, despite not having ever met them.

Once, Phainon asked why his teleslate had those contacts, but Cyrene had merely smiled that sad smile again, and told him to ‘wait until he’s older’ before she’d tell him who those people are or were.

(There are a lot of things Phainon has to wait for.)

(And yet, waiting for something—anything—feels like second nature, somehow.)

Still, Cyrene always keeps her promises to him. No matter how small or grand, she’ll always remember them.

That’s why she’s taken him to the Membrance Maze today; to meet the sleeping god there, just as she had promised to him a few years ago.

Bells chime as they pass by the fairies, each one greeting them happily. Phainon helps some fairies refine their recipes while Cyrene speaks with the village chief. He’s certain he’s perfected the every salad they’ve got available on the menu when Cyrene comes over.

“What are you making?”

“Salad!” Phainon says, “It’s m, mo—ah, Audata’s recipe, uh, at least, that’s how she remembers it.” He fiddles with the paper. It’s still...difficult to get used to certain things.

Cyrene blinks before she cups his cheek. He thinks she’s sad again, but the moment passes before he can clearly tell. “I see! Then, let’s try her recipes when were back, alright?”

“Mm!”

Cyrene guides him through twists and turns within the Maze, reaching places and passages Phainon would’ve never found on his own. It’s as if the Maze itself is responding to Cyrene’s presence.

Veins of gold have etched themselves into their surroundings. There’s a persistent heat lingering in the air, making it hard to breathe. Golden rivulets trickle down tree branches, and raindrops float around them as they pass through.

“His name is Khaslana,” Cyrene says, once they’ve stopped their walk.

“Hm?” Phainon tears his eyes away from the floating raindrops, “Like me?”

Cyrene strokes his hair. “Yes, you two share a name, isn’t that interesting?”

“Is his birthday on the same day as mine?” Phainon asks, then,“...Are Audata and Hieronymus his parents too?”

“Yes and yes,” Cyrene says, “Khaslana is...your predecessor of some sorts.”

Predecessor? “Then...” Phainon stares at the person sleeping within the tree’s cradle. Golden hair and blazing divinity. Familiar in the way one stares into their reflection, but the image reflected is something unattainable. “...Am I supposed to be like him?”

Her hand pauses. “...No,” she says, “You should become your own person. That’s what he wants as well.”

She’s smiling that sad smile again. Phainon can’t bring himself to believe her words when she looks at him like that. Still, he doesn’t argue. Maybe, just maybe, if he did his best to be a little more like that god, he could chase away her sadness. Maybe then, he could finally feel as if he’s earned the right to be loved. To be loved by her. To be loved by everyone else.

Morning dew dots the leaves as Phainon walks through the forest. The scent of petrichor fills the air as he takes careful steps over still-wet soil and avoids tripping over tree roots. Last night’s late Pillar seasons rain means the paths have grown muddy and that puddles are abundant. But, it also means the village sleepy atmosphere will remain for longer, and it’s the perfect opportunity for him to slip out and continue his little project. He hums softly, filling the silence with a quiet, gentle melody. Phainon steps carefully past dewed foliage and continues on, the route has become habit by now.

Mifamem floats along with him, humming along his melody as they walk. Snowy and Audata are at their heels—or rather, just Phainon’s—a rhythmic crunch, squelch, crunch against dirt and steadily drying mud. Sunlight filters through the foliage—the early morning sun a pleasant, occasional warmth this deep in the forest.

They’re about halfway there, when jumps forward and starts to snarl into the distance. Mifamem squeaks and hides behind Audata’s form for safety. Phainon pets Snowy in comfort, “Hey buddy, what’s wrong?”

As far as Phainon can tell, there’s nothing in front of them that’s blocking their way or a cause of concern. They have already passed all the hunter traps, and wild beasts wouldn’t come this far. He narrows his eyes. Phainon’s gaze scans the trees, foliage, leaves, bushes and soil—there!

There’s a blot of red hidden within the brown and greenery of the forest. Phainon crouches down and pushes away the bushes for a better look. Snowy whines, brushing his snout against Phainon’s arm. The red blot turns out to be multiple spots of crimson—a speckled trail that came from the main path. It’s drying quickly against the soil, liquidy and copper-like in smell.

Ah.

Phainon knows what that is.

“Did someone get injured?” Mifamem asks.

There’s knots in his stomach and a lump in the back of his throat when he straightens. Briefly, nausea overtakes him. Phainon takes a deep breath and reigns in the discomfort. Caution overtakes his features as his gaze follows the trail; it’s leading toward his hideout. “...Let’s check on the source,” he says, “it could be a wounded animal.”

His heartbeat thrums in his ears as they follow the red. There’s multiple footprints of varying sizes and dragmarks accompanying the drops of blood once they go further down the trail.

Mifamem tugs on Phainon’s sleeve, stopping them from moving into the clearing. They’ve reached the entrance to the small cave he’s turned into his hideout. The trail leads inside, but there are strangers he’s never seen before having a shouting match outside the cavern. Phainon stays within the shadows of the trees, and observes the arguing people at a safe distance.

He’s never seen that kind of clothing before, the black and red colors contrasting greatly with the surroundings. Not to mention the style. He wonders which place in Amphoreus would have such odd looking hats and glasses. But even though there’s many foreign things he’s never seen before, Phainon can still recognize danger in the way one of the people holds an odd, heavy weight which must be a weapon. He’s seen it before on the World Wide Web, a weapon from beyond the sky. (What was it called again? A gun?)

The group’s arguing continues, and Phainon’s gaze drifts over the people dressed in the Amphorean fashion he’s more familiar with. Everyone is injured one way or another.

“...shouldn’t have...that damned artifact!”

“...company...profits from...miserable planet...!”

“...collapsed on us!...no nearby settlements...”

“...sabotage! Sabotage, I tell you...!”

“Creepy...inside! Staying...knows that!”

Tension continues to rise and when the argument starts to escalate, Phainon decides it’s time to go. He’ll restart his project somewhere else, he’ll find new resources to work with. Except...

CRACK!

...Audata steps on a rock. The audible crack of stone breaking under her Titankin weight echoes through the clearing.

“Who’s there!”

Mifamem screams in surprise at the projectile that whirs past their hiding spot. Phainon has a hand slapped over his own mouth while the other holds onto Snowy in order to stop him from barking and charging into the clearing to bite the stranger with the gun. Blazing heat starts to well up inside his chest, but he tampers it down to the best of his abilities. Not now, not now—he can’t start a mess now.

“Show yourself!” The other people in the group have taken more active positions as well. The mercenary brandishes his spear even though his leg is wrapped up in bloody bandages while the ones without weapons take a step back. Still, Phainon can tell their wounds are severe and require medical attention. It doesn’t sit right with him to leave them be in the forest when the group could get lost and run into wild beasts.

He glances at Mifamem and Audata. They meet his gaze, questioningly. The heat inside his chest protests against his thoughts.

“Cyrene is going to be so angry,” he says, before he shuts his eyes tightly and jumps up from his hiding spot in the bushes.

Outsiders aren’t the only ones who discovered loopholes in the Law.

“Promise you won’t attack and I’ll show myself!”

“...A child’s voice?” one of the travelers mutters in confusion.

“Promise to not attack!” Phainon repeats.

“Where the hell is that voice coming from?”

Phainon hears the group shift on their feet. They murmur among themselves for a bit before someone speaks up, “Fine, we won’t attack. Show yourself.”

Phainon slowly peeks open an eye, and when nothing happens, he opens them fully. “...Hi?”

“...Is that a fairy?”

“Fairy?” Phainon glances at Mifamem, still hidden within the shadows. The travelers’ gazes don’t seem to be on the fairy, but on him. He points at himself. “Me?! I’m not a fairy!”

At least, Phainon thinks he isn’t. Scratch that, he knows he isn’t because he can’t fly. But, if he was a fairy, wouldn't look more like Mifamem and the others?

“We would’ve loved it if you were one, though!” Mifamem says, unhelpfully. The travelers can’t see the fairy, as they don’t react to Mifamem’s voice, Phainon notices.

He steps into the clearing carefully, followed by the others.

“Titankin...!”

“Agh! It’s those wretched monsters again! They followed us out after all!”

“Wait no!” Phainon jumps in front of Audata, preventing the travelers from harming her. “Don’t hurt her! I’m not gonna help if you do!”

Begrudgingly, the travelers stand down again. They eye Audata with wariness, but don’t try to attack. The mercenary seems unwilling to try with Phainon in the way, and the other Amphorean travelers stop the strange-looking outsiders from firing their gun again.

Phainon’s shoulders sags in relief and pats his chest. See? Please calm down. “I can guide you to our village,” he says, “all of you seem pretty injured. We have a doctor there!”

“I thought you said there were no settlements nearby?” one of the travelers asks their companion.

“None that are located on the map,” the other responds, “Either this map is faulty or that cartographer scammed me!”

“If it’s a village none of you know of,” one of the strangely dressed travelers drawls, “Then it must be some backwater place with no real value.”

Mifamem gasps in offense. Phainon scratches the back of his head awkwardly. That’s...kinda mean to say. His fingers curl into his shirt when he sees red sparks flitter around the gun. Ah, nonono! That wasn’t permission! The sparks die down, begrudingly, he feels.

“Boy, don’t mind that man,” the mercenary speaks up, “He’s just a low-ranking worker from some company beyond the sky. He wouldn’t know of value even if it dropped straight into their laps.”

“Beyond the sky?” Phainon repeats.

“Tch, I’ll have you know that it’s not just ‘some company’, but the IPC, the company you and everyone else on this planet will be collaborating with sooner or later if your leaders know what’s good for this place. Not to mention that whole Emanator mess with the missing Lord Ravager. Though, it’s more likely your planet will rack up piles upon piles of debts with how everyone seems to be lacking proper manners and societal standards.”

The heat inside his chest flares up again at the worker’s words.

It’s as if the guy is saying the worst possible things to say on purpose to reach the worst possible outcomes, so Phainon does the next best thing he can think of; “I...pee what? That name sucks!”, and acts like a little shit.

“You...! I. P. C. IPC! You damn brat! It stands for Interastral Peace Corporation! The name does not ‘suck’! It’s a widespread name known all across the universe!” the odd worker says, “You better remember that name because it is our company that took pity on this miserable planet without credits or power in the vast cosmos!”

“Well, despite working at a company with ‘peace’ in its name, you talk like a warmongering and power-hungry fiend despite our ‘lack of manners’! Is everyone in that place just as mean as you are, or are you an exception that just drags the company’s name through the mud with your behavior?” Phainon must’ve struck a nerve with that comment, because the IPC worker’s face steadily grows redder and redder in anger, and possibly embarrassment.

He almost bursts out laughing because the heat wants to, but Phainon manages to swallow the laughter. Then, the IPC worker speaks again, and then keeps on speaking and speaking, and—

Phainon...starts feeling pity for the IPC worker. He continues rambling about his struggles to climb the corporate ladder and the dismissiveness from his superiors, and then promptly bursts into real tears as he keeps on venting his frustrations and failures.

(The heat doesn’t care and revels in the schadenfreude.)

“Uhm, sorry...?” Phainon blinks and then glances at the others. They shake their heads with various degrees of constipated expressions, aside from the other company worker whose face is hidden under a strange-looking mask. He turns his gaze to Audata, who in turn, tilts her head in confusion. Right, she wouldn’t know much better either. “...Do, uh, do you still want to come to our village? I’ll apologize for making you cry, if that’ll help?”

“Where are your parents, boy?” the mercenary asks, ignoring the IPC worker’s wails as the IPC soldier awkwardly pats his back in support until he stops sobbing.

Phainon glances at Mifamem who shrugs. Snowy rubs his nose against Phainon’s leg as he contemplates the question. Cyrene always tells him to not tell any information to strangers, but this one question is pretty harmless. “I think Audata is supposed to be my mom,” he says, after a moment of hesitation.

Then, without letting the group digest or linger on his words; “Do you need help packing up? I can guide you to our village for treatment after you’ve gathered all your belongings.”

He glances at the mercenary’s hurt leg and the injuries on the others in the group. “Or, if walking isn’t possible, I could carry you back!”

“Forgive me,” the mercenary says, eyeing the way Phainon’s head just barely reaches his chest, “but I can’t help but doubt your strength to do as you say.”

(“So we’re just going to ignore how that kid just said his mother is a Titankin? Are we sure he’s not lying about not being a fairy?”)

Phainon blinks. He’s never had someone doubt his strength before.

“Rude! How can this mister stranger just say that about our Snowy!”

But, this mercenary is also much more muscular than the other travelers they’ve had in Aedes Elysiae—and therefore, heavier. Hm. Maybe Phainon won’t be able to carry him back. He’s certain he’s capable of carrying the others though!

Still, it wouldn’t be good for the mercenary to walk on an injured leg.

He taps a finger against his chin in contemplation. Phainon glances at his companions, gaze lingering on Audata. Ah, right! “I can get someone else to carry you!”

Phainon walks over to a more open space in the clearing and crouches down. It’s better to leave his best materials in the cave and use some temporary measures. He pats the ground carefully, searching.

“...What’s the kid doing?”

“Shh! Just wait!” Phainon says, closing eyes. He presses his fingers into the dirt, digging into it, and gathers small specks of energy into a condensed form. Sweat gathers at his brow as Phainon concentrates, dredging up life from the soil.

“What—” The travelers don’t get to linger on their confusion when the ground splits open before Phainon’s hands, and reforms, growing, growing, rising and splitting, until it takes the shape of two full Furiae Praetor. The IPC worker shrieks at the new Titankin, while the Amphorean travelers are frozen in slack-jawed awe.

“...He summoned Titankin.”

“Are we sure he’s not a fairy?”

Phainon gets back up, feeling light-headed. He wipes away the sweat on his face, and waves his hand. One of the Furiae Praetor lowers their form as much as possible, not quite managing to meet him at eye-level; Phainon is just that much smaller than the Titankin. “Please help me bring these people back to the village!”

The Furiae Praetor murmurs in divine speech, and the travelers watch on as Phainon continues to converse with the Titankin without any trouble.

“But they’re injured! And really need help!” Phainon says. He clasps his hands together and tilts his head. “Can’t we make an exception just this once? Please? Pleaseeee? Pretty pleaseeeeeeeeeee?”

Eventually, the Titankin relents. Audata steps forward, and the other Titankin tilt their head in greeting.

“Thank you!” Phainon smiles. “I’ll make sure to pray to the Lance of Fury in thanks during the next Month of Strife!”

The Furiae Praetors summon a few Furiae Warriors to help pack up the temporary camp they'd made in his hideout, and Phainon runs around, assisting in every way he can so the injured travelers can rest. The IPC workers are wary against the Titankin, but they don’t protest when they’re assisted with walking by a Furiae Warrior once it’s time to leave the clearing.

Phainon makes some small talk with the group, and learns that the mercenary hails from Castrum Kremnos, while the other Amphoreans are scholars and adventurers from Okhema. There’s also an official from Ladon who accompanied the IPC workers and was meant to assist in familiarizing the people from beyond the sky with Amphoreus.

“How did you all get so injured anyway?” Phainon asks, “The wild beasts in the forest should be no match against weapons from beyond the sky and a Kremnoan warrior, right?”

“That’s well...” one of the Okheman scholars, Tobias, Phainon learned, sheepishly looks at the others. “...We were looking for the Worldbearer’s Tomb.”

Phainon blinks. “The...Worldbearer’s Tomb?” Like the one in their Membrance Maze? “Why?”

“Well...it’s rich in history and it’s rumored you can make a wish if you find the Skyfather—”

“Originally, our goal was to guide the IPC through some older ruins and temples to introduce Amphorean history into the cosmos,” the Kremnoan mercenary, Nico, interjects, “It was meant to be a quick job where a few pictures would be taken for analysis, but then some people had to get interested in Kephale’s murals, and then also wanted to find the Tomb after hearing the myth. And then that HKS also came and ruined everything. In other words, we got lost, triggered traps in the wrong temple while we were attacked and had a horde of Titankin chase us until we ran and fell into this forest after passing through a barrier of unknown origin.”

Oh, so that’s how they ended up at his hideout. “...You didn’t touch anything in the cave, right?”

“Those creepy human-like dolls and statues were yours?” the IPC worker, Pascal, yells out.

“Don’t call them creepy!” Phainon says, “They’re aren’t meant for you anway and they’re also not finished!”

“Why in the Amber Lord’s name would you make those things in the first place?!”

“Practice!” Phainon says—isn’t it obvious why else he’d leave some unfinished?

“Are you an artisan, boy?” Nico asks.

Phainon shakes his head. “I’ve never made a proper body for a person before. If I want to do it right, I’ll need to practice forming the bodies first! It’s definitely much harder than making Titankin.”

Tobias jabs Ozias in the side before he can make another comment about the boy being a fae. He groans out in pain and betrayal at his fellow scholar’s actions.

“’For a person’?” The Kremnoan’s gaze lands on Audata. “Are you making your...mother a human body?”

“Audata is fine with being a Titankin,” Phainon says, as she pets his hair, “I’m making the body for—ugh!”

His cheek gets cut by an arrow flying through. It lodges into the tree next to him as the group startles.

Phainon gets pushed back and the second arrow lodges into Audata’s shoulder as she wraps her arms around his form and shields him from being hit. Gold splashes onto his cheek. “...Mom!” (Nononono, not again.)

A third arrow is caught by a Furiae Praetor when a loud yelp echoes through the forest. The large Titankin stalks toward the source of the sound while the others stay in position, shielding the travelers and Phainon. Mifamem crashes into his arms, and their tiny, trembling paws hold tightly onto his chiton. Red starts filling his vision and he shakes his head. It’s fine, it’s fine. Don’t worry.

Phainon places a hand over the wound in Audata’s shoulder and pours in power. The Titankin flesh closes up. Phainon gets to breathe again.

“N, no one got hurt, right?” he asks.

“...No one got hit,” the Ladon official says.

“Are you alright, boy?”

“Yes! No worries! I’m completely fine!” Phainon says, springing back up. His knees are a little shaky, but that’s because he jumped up too quickly. Not because of anything else. Really—he’s fine.

The Furiae Praetor returns, dragging back a struggling person clad in dark clothing. The remnants of a crossbow are clutched in the same hand the Titankin uses to lift the perpetrator; vines and tree branches are coiled tightly around their form as they continue to futilely wriggle in the Furiae Praetor’s grip like a disappointing catch.

“That’s...!”

“So he did end up following us after all...”

Despite being uprooted from the soil, the vines and branches continue to wrap and coil around like snakes with their hunt, tighter, tighter and tighter until the perpetrator steadily turns from red to blue to purple.

“Wait! Wait! Wait!” Phainon jumps out of his mother’s arms and tries to pry the vines looser. “Don’t do that! Please don’t kill him!”

The branches halt their movement. They grow just loose enough for the attacker to properly breathe again, and one branch sticks out to point at Phainon, as if to question his mercy.

“I know...” Phainon lowers his head. “...but at least nothing happened?”

A vine softly swats against his forehead.

“Oww! Professor, that’s so mean!” Phainon rubs a hand over the spot. The vine moves again and he jumps back. “Okay, okay! I won’t do dangerous things without telling Cyrene first! I mean—I won’t do dangerous things at all anymore! Promise!”

The branch is still left suspended in the air.

Phainon stares at it, wordlessly.

The branch doesn’t move back.

Phainon turns his gaze away. There’s a pout on his lips. “...I promise I’ll be more careful next time.”

The branch rejoins the other branches and vines wrapped around the attacker and Phainon turns back to the group. The Okheman scholars stare at him, slack-jawed; completely, and utterly flabbergasted.

“Are we—” “Yes, we are going to ignore that and everything else.”

The attacker continues stuggling, but unfortunately for him, nothing happens.

“To think that damned HKS truly did follow us here,” Nico scowls. “Boy, do you have a village chief who can contact outside factions? We need to bring this coward to trial.”

“Cyrene is our priestess, but she receives travelers from afar occasionally,” Phainon says, “I guess she would fit that description, then?”

“Then please allow us to speak with her in regard to what to do with that assassin.”

The rest of the walk back to the village is quiet, with the occasional grunts and groans from the assassin struggling against the Furiae Praetor.

Phainon runs ahead when the sight of their wheat fields come in view. The group is stunned into silence at the sight of the village.

“Boy, what is your name?” the Kremnoan mercenary asks. “I wish to know the name of the person who saved me; saved us.”

“Oh!” Phainon turns back to the group with the golden sea of wheat as his backdrop, and smiles. “My name is Phainon! Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, at your service!”

When Phainon returns from his usual trip to his hideout in the forest, Cyrene was not expecting him to come back with a group of strangers. He begs for her to help them, and she does, because she won’t refuse to help those who need it and because it's Phainon who's asking.

However, she does not want them near Phainon. And so, Cyrene sends him away from the Sacrament Courtyard so she can have a talk with the travelers.

The woman they expected to meet with is nothing like what they’d imagined. She bears the appearance of a goddess more than a priestess.

Cyrene’s eyes are cold as she smiles amicably at the travelers. “Welcome to Aedes Elysiae, how may I be of service to our guests?”

“...This place truly is Aedes Elysiae? Like the one from—”

“Yes,” Cyrene says, “Like the one from the myths. What brings you all to Oronyx’ Arcadia, if not the promise of a wish fulfilled by the Skyfather himself?”

One of the Okheman scholars perks up, “It’s real? The Worldbearer’s Tomb? The rumors?”

Cyrene nods, “All those stories may be true, but...” her face goes blank, “...what makes you think any of you deserve entry to that place?”

The scholars flinch and turn their gaze away.

She sighs, “The only reason any of you managed to reach Aedes Elysiae is because Phainon decided to bring you here, otherwise, none of you would’ve made it here without having alerted one of the patrolling Titankin. But,” Her eyes are icy when she stares at the IPC workers and the assassin, “you will eventually forget ever having been to this place at all, so it matters not.”

“Lady Cyrene,” the Kremnoan speaks, “has Phainon told you of the reason for our entry?”

“I know the rough lines of the story,” she says, “Still, is there any reason for you to stay longer than needed? You’ve received the medical attention you required.”

“Which city state is the closest to Aedes Elysiae? We need to bring this assassin to trial,” the mercenary’s gaze remains on her, as he continues, “We suspect foul play from people who are conspiring in the shadows, now that Amphoreus is opening up her borders to those from beyond the sky.”

Cyrene stares at the IPC workers. Then, she lets her gaze pass over the other Amphoreans. “We have a Space Anchor for use; there’s no need to travel to the closest city state,” she says, “but, let me accompany you all to Okhema instead—there’s something I have to discuss with someone there. And, I’ve also heard that Castrum Kremnos is currently closest to the Holy City. That should be good enough, no?”

“You aren’t suggesting we...ask for an audience with the Imperator, are you?” the Ladon official asks.

“Why not?” Cyrene smiles, “I heard that the Imperator is an excellent judge when it comes to court trials.”

“Most of them end in execution...!” the official murmurs under his breath.

“Shall we prepare to leave then?” she offers.

“Wait!” the IPC worker interjects, “Is there really no way for us to enter the Tomb? We’ve already come this far and have sustained so many injuries! This inhospitality can’t be tolerated when we’re foreign embassadors. The IPC won’t stand for this when this planet already is concealing two Emanators, including a Lord Ravager!”

“So? Are you trying to threaten me into letting you into the Tomb?” Cyrene presses a finger against her cheek and tilts her head. “Your words are awfully harsh, what if I were the Lord Ravager you were warned about before entering Amphoreus? Did the IPC not tell its workers about the possibility of being burnt to ash by the Destruction?”

“W, what...?! You...you aren’t...! You aren’t a Lord Ravager...right?”

Cyrene giggles. “Silly! Of course I’m not a Lord Ravager! I’m an Emanator of Remembrance!”

“Oh, haha—what...?”

“So that’s why...” There’s a gentle smile on her face as she places a hand on his shoulder, and frost forms on his coat at the contact. “...if you don't want to be forgotten by the universe, you should watch your words. Very. Very. Carefully.”

“Eek...!”

Cyrene pats his shoulder, and then turns away with a twirl. She folds her hands behind her back and smiles. “Since there are no further questions, let’s head out!”

“You’re going to leave?” Phainon asks.

The travelers are all ready to go to Okhema, a few looking more than a bit spooked, for some reason. It’s a common occurence whenever travelers leave the Sacrament Courtyard after speaking with Cyrene though. So Phainon pays it no mind.

Cyrene strokes his hair as she kneels before him. “Yes, but for only a little while. I have some business I need to attend to, so be good while I’m not home, alright?”

“Alright...”

The Sacrament Courtyard is quiet without Cyrene. There’s still knickknacks and books strewn about, lived through and loved, marking the place as her home. Phainon paces through the courtyard, sits on her swing, stares into the pond and then lays down on a pile of pillows Cyrene reserves for reading.

He’s sighs.

He’s so, so bored, and it hasn’t even been a few hours since Cyrene left.

The table in the courtyard is covered with a map of Amphoreus, most likely used in the meeting she had with the travelers.

Phainon stares at the map longingly. Then, a plan begins to form in his mind.

As long as he returns before Cyrene does, no one will know he had snuck out of the village in the first place, right?