Chapter Text
A dry laugh, seeming more like a sardonic rasp echoes through the hall of the Luminary Throne. An imposing figure, cloaked in black steps up the ruined dais, marble and stone crumbling beneath his feet. He pays no mind to the broken corpses littered around, be it the ravaged bodies of scholars who once breathed life into this Grove, or the mangled carcasses of the creatures corrupted by the black tide. Numb to the visage of those claimed by Thanatos, Phainon continued on his sole goal - the lone body slumped on the throne itself.
“Hah…Even after taking a shortcut, I didn’t make it back in time again.” Phainon’s lips curved bitterly as he knelt on the crumbling dirty floor, reaching for the professor’s cold hand. He holds it with both hands reverently, almost like a sacred object. It could be, if he removed it cleanly, the blood red stone embedded on the back glowing enthrallingly, slender fingers that could only have been carved out of marble by Okhema’s finest craftsmen; Slowly, resolutely, he brings Anaxa’s icy hand to his equally cold lips, mask thrown to the ground in uncaring apathy.
“Professor, why must you always be so difficult?” he presses the accusation into Anaxa’s bony knuckles, as if wishing his words could transcend both skin and bone, travelling through his already still bloodstream to Anaxa’s soul itself.
He’s not sure what he’s expecting, as the trees rustle around him in a passing breeze, and he hears nothing but the rasp of his own breath. Anaxa’s hand does not move, and neither does he reply. Despite the lack of response, it’s almost comforting as Phainon closes his eyes in a moment of brief respite, allowing his senses to be taken over by the mere brush of knuckles on his tainted lips.
He allows himself a few more seconds of selfish desire before he straightens, placing Anaxa’s hand back gently at his side. “I guess you can’t hear me by now,” he turns to pick up the earlier discarded mask, sliding it back in its usual spot obscuring his features.
The cycle of reincarnation should have been cut off this time, with the sacrifice of all the Chrysos Heirs at his hand. Tribios’ and Hyacine’s confusion, Mydei’s and Aglaea’s cool acceptance, even Cipher’s terror - he took it all in stride as was the duty of this world’s Deliverer. The Chrysos Heirs, divinity running through their veins, were the only ones capable of inheriting the coreflames; and they had to be stopped.
Tribios was infallibly the first, every time he returned to the beginning. She was the originator of the Flame Chase Journey after all, being the very first demigod to take upon the burden of the coreflame. It was just too bad she never saw it coming each time, young and gullible she was without the sagacity owed to someone who had lived over a thousand years.
Next was Cerydra, the undisputed leader of Okhema who took Aglaea as her apprentice. The city always erupted into chaos each time he killed her, as the masses pleaded for an authoritative figure to guide them back to the Titans’ favour. It was usually Aglaea who took up the mantle at this point, if not for her untimely death yet again by Phainon’s hand. Cipher, Hysilens, Terravox, Mydei, Hyacine - they all met their fates one by one, some in fear, others in quiet acceptance. He usually left Castorice and Anaxa as the last two, even though at this point he himself didn’t know the reason why. Numb to murder as he was - yes, murder was the only word to describe what he was doing, was there even a difference leaving them for last, when the end result was the same nonetheless? Maybe it was just a twisted facsimile of sentimentality for those two, even if he didn’t bother to question why.
Well, it was all the same in the end, even though he never killed Anaxa personally before. Most of the time, he fell as a martyr protecting the Grove from the black tide. Phainon didn’t want to think about the few times he killed himself after catching a glimpse of Phainon in a moment of hesitation. It’s not like he ever understood why, why Anaxa would turn the gun on himself after realising the identity of the fabled Flame Reaver. He hated those times the most, when he held Anaxa’s rapidly cooling body in his arms, expression almost peaceful while in the embrace of Thanatos’ breath.
A sickening squelch resounds through the cool night air, disrupting the tranquil silence Phainon was used to. So it was time. His lips curl bitterly, as he looks down to the very hand he kissed earlier impaling his abdomen, ringed fingers twitching as if too in disbelief that a mere mortal hand could puncture muscle, bone, and heart. That damned Cerces. Phainon dies, a mad laugh stuck in his throat.
cycle end.