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A light breeze ruffles the strands of his hair, carrying with it the salty tang of the sea. It stings his eyes, but he stubbornly refuses to look away from the view - an ocean that stretches out as far as the eye can see, with nary a boat sailing its waters.
It isn’t hard to recall the sights of days past; giant ships drifting to and fro - some stacked up high with wares and goods, ready to set sail, and some bobbing in place as merchants hurried to unload their stock. It hasn’t been all that long since, the wooden remains only just starting to show signs of rot.
All that’s left now is an abandoned haven, with remnants of the black tide dripping down into the murky waters below. A visual stain on a place once thrumming with life. Phainon plucks at the strands of grass scratching at his exposed skin as he continues to listlessly stare from his spot up on the cliffside.
A soiled sea, homes no longer holding warmth and streets void of bustling crowds; it’s not hard to lose oneself to despair when you ponder on it for too long. His limbs, often sore with growing pains, now grow numb; his thoughts distant and slow as though he’s sunken into a pool of molasses. It’s a feeling he’s not quite grown used to, but has become familiar with ever since the black tide set its sights on Aedes Elysiae. It’s easier this way, he finds - preferable over confronting the rage and fear he holds inside.
He drifts, allows himself to fade alongside his thoughts. Sound becomes a distant thing, to the point that even the soft sound of approaching footsteps remain unnoticed until they’re nearly right next to him.
“Mhmm?” comes a sing-song-like voice. “Ah, it’s you!”
Suddenly, bright pink blocks the wreckage from his view, and blue eyes, eerily similar to his own, peer at him with curiosity. Phainon feels himself sit up a bit, awareness creeping back in.
“Cyrene,” he breathes out, still not fully with it, “what brings you all the way out here?”
Her head tilts with a cheeky smile, “Little ironic, asking me that. How many times has Uncle Hieronymus told you to not venture out too far on your own?” she straightens back up, one of her hands moving to ruffle his hair. “But never mind that - if you must know, I was goofing around with the faeries, and, well - this white mop of yours is hard to miss.”
Phainon struggles to muster up a laugh at her quip. The corroded titankin roaming around at the bottom of the cliffs are all he’s able to focus on, their jittery movements and long since eroded humanity.
He can feel Cyrene’s eyes searching his face, her own mood growing increasingly less cheerful at Phainon’s continued silence - yet he can’t meet her eyes, can’t offer an explanation. It’s as if shame has physically manifested a blockage in his throat, keeping all words trapped inside.
“Ah,” Cyrene’s shoulders droop once her line of sight matches up with his, “I see now.”
The all too familiar feeling of guilt stabs at his heart, allowing the tendrils of panic to take root. He’s been acting like a fool - Cyrene would’ve never chased a few faeries down this close to the cliff’s edges. They must’ve led her to him, perhaps at her own request.
All that effort, just to find me moping around like a little kid.
His silence doesn’t deter Cyrene in the slightest - nothing ever has - and she plops down right next to him without any of her usual grace. The sharp tufts of grass against her bare legs seemingly don’t bother her as she hums one of her usual tunes. Phainon allows himself the distraction, allows his breathing to calm and the tension lining his every muscle to lessen.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles after a while, “were you worried?”
“Hmm, I’m not sure worry is the right word,” Cyrene responds as she fiddles with the ornament in her hair, “I know the loss of our neighbouring towns hit you hard, so I thought it best to give you some space. It was actually Auntie Audata who asked if I’d seen you around.”
Shame bubbles up at the thought of his mother asking around for his whereabouts, overshadowing the sting of teeth sinking into his bottom lip. He stays quiet, his plucking at the grass below becoming more insistent as he fights to stay composed.
The silence between them stretches on - not exactly awkward yet not quite comfortable, either. Distantly, Phainon worries about the state of Cyrene’s dress; his own tunics rarely stay clean for long after a wash, but Cyrene’s always been more mindful of her own appearance than him.
“Care to share what’s on your mind?” Cyrene breaks the quiet enveloping them. “Being a closed book doesn’t really suit you, you used to tell me everything when we were younger.”
It’s not an accusation, but it stings as one would all the same. He can’t even rebuke it - it’s true that things have changed beyond a simple difference in age. The looming threat of the black tide steadily inching closer and closer to their small village has been chipping away at the innocence and carefree spirit Phainon used to have, leaving behind a husk losing its vigour.
“I watched them die,” Phainon whispers with hints of uncertainty, “someone tried to usher us and the other kids to safety but I managed to sneak past. It… it was as if I were seeing mere men try to fight back the raging ocean’s waves - they never stood a chance.”
Cyrene listens on in silence, shifts a little closer, as if to offer comfort or encouragement. That small movement is like the final crack to a bursting dam, words spilling like water from Phainon’s lips.
“It was awful, felt awful to witness - like a massacre perpetrated by an unfeeling, unstoppable force. Of course we’ve heard about the black tide in stories and legends, but to see the men from our village get swallowed up by that mass of void… I don’t think I’ve ever felt helplessness like that before.”
His voice cracks on his last word, and he looks to the side in shame. Tears bead at the corner of his eyes, threatening to spill over with every rapid blink. Though he knows it’s futile, he bites at his already bleeding lip in an attempt to stop any noises from escaping.
A pleasant warmth settles around his hand, easing the death grip he has on the flora they’re seated on. “Phainon,” Cyrene says, voice gentle and soft, “you’re crushing the flowers.”
Phainon’s breath hitches as he looks at the mess between his fingers, “Ah…”
An apology sits on his tongue, but Cyrene speaks before it’s allowed to be uttered. “Come here.”
She pats the space right next to her and Phainon scooches over without complaint - he’s never been able to deny her anything, even while at his lowest. Nimble hands pluck at the ground, a bundle of flowers in varying shades of oranges and yellows steadily growing in her palm.
“Here,” she hands him a few long stemmed flowers with an expectant look, “now follow my lead.”
Phainon would’ve been content simply watching her work, yet now he finds himself struggling to keep up with her swift weaving. One over the other, wrap around, then add the next - a meticulous process guided by Cyrene’s soft murmurs. Within minutes they’ve both created delicate flower crowns, Cyrene’s far more pleasing to the eye than Phainon’s.
Cyrene giggles as she puts hers on top of Phainon’s head, adjusts it a little with gentle fingers. It’s soothing and familiar, and Phainon can feel his shoulders drop slightly.
They repeat the process with Phainon’s somewhat sad looking flower crown. Thoughts of death and a fate he never asked for seem a bit further away as he fumbles around with Cyrene. Both of them giggle at Phainon’s clumsiness as he struggles to keep the flower crown intact, flowers fluttering down and getting caught in Cyrene’s pink locks.
Their moment is interrupted by a familiar drawl, startling Phainon back to reality.
“Phainon, all men capable have been called to the training grounds, what are you dawdling around at the cliffs for?”
Their village’s training instructor stands a few paces away, making for an imposing sight with his muscled arms crossed in front of him. The sight of him instantly brings him back to the camp, echoes of fleeing children and dying men reverberating through his mind.
Phainon looks at Cyrene with guilt, tinted with fear, yet all she does is usher him away.
“Go, duty calls,” she says with a rueful smile.
And so Phainon leaves, following his instructor back to where he can still recall corpses being swallowed up by the earth - away from his small moment of reprieve.
He has a prophecy that calls to him, after all.