Chapter Text
Lord Nikador wears a bright red stone on a chain around his neck.
It's not a very large stone, Lysander thinks. It's longer than it is wide, and would fit very neatly in the palm of his own hand and still leave room for at least five more of the same stone to fit. Even then, he thinks he would still be able to make a fist around this hypothetical stone bundle.
In Lord Nikador's larger, calloused hands, it looks positively delicate. It's very pretty. Sometimes, when Lysander visits the Southeast Courtyard by the castle to find a sparring partner, he's surprised to find the Titan there too. From below a lush, willowy tree, He casts His piercing gaze over His people, running an idle finger over the chain around his neck. Sunlight filters through the leaves above Him, glancing off the gleaming stone and scattering light around the Titan.
Lysander doesn't linger around Castrum Kremnos' castle much, as he's not a very high-ranked warrior—He's working on it, he swears!—but every time he sees Lord Nikador, He seems to be touching the stone in some way. The Titan handles it very gently, a stark antithesis to the way He is in battle—aggressive, strong, unyielding.
He treats it like something to worship.
Lysander would only ever see Him without the stone once.
Rather infamously, many of the active Titans grow irritable during the Month of Reaping. It's the month to which Lord Cerces is the patron Titan; the month when Lord Cerces blessed Amphoreus with Bountiful Harvest over 3,500 years ago during the worst harvest season in known history; the month during which, over 3,500 years ago, Lord Cerces disappeared.
It's now, at the start of the Month of Reaping, that Lysander is able to witness such irritability in person. He's leaving the Kremnos Arena at Descent Hour with a few other Kremnoan warriors his age when it happens—Kephale descends from above, landing in the center of the Arena.
There was no need to consciously remind himself to bow. Something about Kephale's presence made the air feel uncomfortably warm and heavy, turning the intangible into a physical pressure. Lysander's eyes watered, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut as soon as he bowed his head. His knees shook, and sweat began to coat his palms.
If this was how a Titan's presence felt, how, Lysander wondered faintly, would one of those distant Aeons from beyond the sky feel?
The disappearance of Lord Cerces had, in part, been caused by an organization from beyond the sky backed by an Aeon. The IPO? he thought uncertainly, though he was sure it was an acronym, at least. Something about a "peace" organization. It wasn't hard to understand why He had been so desperate to prevent them from digging their claws into Amphoreus, if only to avoid the organization's Aeon.
"Where is He?" the Worldbearer demands, drawing Lysander back to reality.
"Who?" Alekpoulos asks. The hesitance on his face, which was so often contorted in a bold smirk, was jarring in its unfamiliarity. More than that, Lysander could see the other boy gripping the edge of his tunic in a futile effort to cover up the trembling of his steady, swordsman's fingers. Then, hastily— "Lord Kephale?"
"Nikador," Kephale snaps. Lysander dares not look Him in the eye, but there was a golden glow coming from the Titan's direction, and he couldn't help remembering being a child listening to stories featuring the Worldbearer's burning, golden eyes. "Your Lord. Where is He? Bring Him to me, now."
"Right—right away, Lord Kephale," Deloskles stammers. He exchanges a quick glance with Alekpoulos, then the two of them scramble out of the Arena, presumably towards the center of the city to find their Titan. Lysander and the rest of his age-mates bow hastily to the snarling, agitated Titan before them and then back away when He waves them away.
The second they passed the Arena's entrance, Lysander ducked behind the wall making up the doorway, vaguely aware of his fellows doing the same. Then, he peeked back into the Arena, watching curiously afar as, seemingly in a rage, Kephale paced the perimeter of the Arena.
It was a few minutes before Lord Nikador arrived, but the second He did, the Worldbearer's gaze locked onto the glistening stone dangling from His neck.
Kephale's laughter echoed through the city. It was wild. Hollow. Haunting.
Curious, Lysander had cautiously shifted around the doorway, closer to the Arena's center, until he could make out Their expressions.
"Still dragging that around?" Kephale scoffed, fists repeatedly clenching and relaxing at His sides like he had to actively remind himself not to attack. His gaze never left the stone. "Do you talk to it, too?"
What He said should have sounded scornful, but the grief in His tone and the desperation in His eyes prevented Lysander from interpreting it as anything but sad. It felt less like Kephale disdained the stone, but rather wished to take it into His own care.
Lord Nikador scowled and opened His mouth, as though to speak, but a glance at the Kremnoans still in the Arena stayed his tongue.
"Out!" He commanded. "All of you! And stay away until further notice."
At that, Lysander had no choice but to leave for the night.
The next day, he made his way to the Southeast Courtyard to meet his friend Elara for a quick spar and maybe some gossip.
He froze on the threshold of the Courtyard.
Kephale was there, leaning against the Courtyard's tree with His arms crossed as He watched the sparring matches with Lord Nikador, whose gaze was stuck on something lower by the Worldbearer's side. Catching the sudden lack of movement by the entrance, Kephale raised an eyebrow at him.
Well, he thought. No backing out now.
He scurried towards Elara's position near the rack of practice weapons.
"What's going on?" he hissed as he bent down to pick out a wooden sword.
She frowned. "How would I know?" Then, she leaned in closer and lowered her voice to a near-silent whisper. "Don't look now, but Lord Nikador isn't wearing His necklace."
They walked over to a cleared space. As they went, Lysander snuck a peek over at the lounging Titans.
It was true—Lord Nikador's neck was bare.
Just as he was about to avert his gaze, Kephale leaned over and rested his arm on the Strife Titan's shoulder.
Lysander watched through quick glances as Kephale snickered something into Lord Nikador's ear, apparently in a much better mood than He'd been the night before. He couldn't help noting how, through it all, even as the Worldbearer elbowed and shook Him, Lord Nikador's eyes always returned to the bright, shining stone dangling from Kephale's wrist like the inevitability of gravitational force returning a wayward object back down to the earth.
When Lysander went back the next day at the same time with Elara, it was like it never happened. Kephale had left, and the stone had been returned to its place, resting against Lord Nikador's chest and shimmering brightly—happily, Lysander wanted to say, which was ridiculous because stones couldn't be happy—under the sunlight.
He was only one mortal out of thousands; a mere man in a world ruled by Titans in a universe ruled by Aeons; Lysander would never learn of the stone's significance, but he would wonder at it in the back of his mind for the rest of his life, never quite able to shake the certainty that it was much more than it seemed.
Lord Cerces is not an active Titan. No mortal knows where He has gone, or what He's doing. The only evidence of His continued life at all is the continued balance between plants and soil throughout Amphoreus and the maintenance of His last blessing in the form of the flourishing harvest on their planet.
He does not appear before His followers or the other Titans, nor does he answer the questions of the scholars who visit His divine body.
Southeast of Castrum Kremnos, there is a grove, mainly taken care of by the Strife Titan, Nikador Himself. At the center, there is a large, sprawling tree overlooking the area. Its branches strain further and further towards the sky as though trying to console its weeping Titan during the heavy downpour of the Month of Reaping. Conversely, its roots grow deeper and deeper, seeking to reach the nether realm, or perhaps the Titan who rules it.
Cheerful red clematis flowers climb boldly up the trunk as though determined to ascend to the very top and transcend the skies. The delicate-looking flowers have endured over three thousand years of Aquila's storms of grief, but, maybe through the miracle of their passion, still bloom each spring after their winter withering.
Large pumpkins sit among the great roots of the tree, forever ripe, though Lord Nikador would be the first to say that He has no idea where they came from. The grass is a healthy green, dotted with the baby blues of forget-me-nots. Butterflies and birds rest on the branches, and other wildlife come and go as they please. Towards the northeast end of the grove, there is a small, clear pond with seemingly endless depths.
The little garden where Cerces took His last breath for the next three thousand years has grown into a flourishing grove of life.
The day Lord Kephale made his abrupt visit to Castrum Kremnos, bundles of golden wheat were left hidden among the roots of the tree.
The Worldbearer knelt by one of his offerings. Lord Nikador watched in silence.
"Cerces, darling," Kephale breathed, reaching forward with the shining red stone the Titans had been left with all those decades ago. He pressed it tentatively against the wooden roots. He swallowed a sob. "Where has your mind gone? Come back to us, Anaxagoras."
"Khaslana," Nikador murmured, finally stepping forward. He rested a hand on the other man's shoulder.
"Mydeimos," Phainon choked out. He brought the stone back towards himself and pressed his lips lightly against its smooth surface.
Mydei lowered himself to sit beside his companion, tugging him down with him as he went.
"Phainon," he repeated. "Let's rest here tonight."
"Yes," Phainon breathed as he collapsed against the sturdy roots of their fallen lover. "Maybe a night of rest might do me some good."
"Within 33,550,336 hours from now," Janus had whispered the day the tree in the little garden had sprouted over three thousand years ago. Their many eyes -shimmered with Their tears. White flowers bloomed where They stood, blossoms tickling Their ankles. Thanatos' fingers had trembled as She gently gripped what was now Cerces' soul. She had searched almost the entirety of the River of Souls before fishing out the brilliant, fragile stone. The rain fell in heavy, almost solid sheets as Aquila wailed Her grief. "The fragments of Cerces must be reunited, else He may never bloom again. Body, mind, and soul wither without the mutual entanglement of one another."
It's said that Kephale wanders the world in search of Cerces' wandering mind; that Nikador built up Castrum Kremnos near the splendor of the growing Grove of Epiphany so that there would always be an army ready to defend the tree that had sprouted from the scattered remains of Cerces' body.
It's said that They hold His soul close and offer Their company from beneath the canopy of His body, all in the hope that His mind would come back to Them to continue His never-ending calculations as He pleased from the protective stronghold of Their arms.