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Khaslana. That was his name… right?
Born in a village akin to paradise where the wheat gleams gold and children play in careless laughter. A wonder, then, why he was the chosen hero—the chosen vessel. While he does have an affinity for competitive games and meaningless fights, that doesn't mean he seeks for that to be his way of life. There is nothing he wants more than to come home to familiar faces, an embrace of his loving family with a homemade cooking waiting for him on the dinner table. He will save his cherished ones, but not the world. Never.
There are three of him now. The first one: the creature he will become in the future, and he is not to be spoken to. Merely aspirational, a being who will take his place once he is ready to become what he needs to become. The second: intertwined with him through thirty-so million repeats, dressed in a tattered cloak and the mask of fury while he steals the Coreflames to claim as his own, taking away the lives of the Chrysos Heirs in his wake. His comrades. His friends. The third: him, the nameless hero. He has long avoided the need of a true identity. Whatever anyone needs of him, that he will become, that he shall provide. Yet his own nature shines through, as if no one told him that the loss of his homeland should've turned him cold and unforgiving. That was, ultimately, the reason the plan went on for as long as it did.
The rebirth of Lord Ravager is a delicate process. The most powerful destruction, one most capable to destroy the universe to oblivion, cannot be created by mere happenstance. No, for destruction requires power beyond mortal comprehension, stronger than any force known to any living being. Why, then, is he the one to bear it? He's nothing more than a simple farm boy. Shouldn't such power be sought from a dictator who rules with an iron fist? Anyone more well-off with enough recklessness and self-interest to crash their conscience and cover up their misdeeds? Surely they can do more than someone so insignificant. He played with fairies when he was little, fought other children with wooden swords until sundown. He was never raised with the knowledge on how to wield power as his own.
Through the plethora of questions he has yet to know the answers to, only one keeps echoing throughout his many forms across multiple loops: Why him?
…He'll find the answer is strange, and yet, so simple.
His transformation starts the moment he questions how he is supposed to move on. People will always leave, yet his heart will always linger. He's not sure if it began with the crown prince leaving him to fight on behalf of his people, but it is a climax to a long-suppressed denial of his situation. Mydeimos always leaves him. His immortality doesn't comfort him when he is well aware the people of his homeland always dictates the motives of his actions. Though he would live despite how much they miss each other, he can't keep Mydeimos safe with him.
His rival. The only title he could grant Mydeimos that doesn't exacerbate their ever-shifting dynamic, doesn't disrupt the equilibrium that threatens to become anything more. He—the hero—is always careful to not act outside of their perceptions of seeking ways to best each other, yet he breaks this oath when they are alone. He doesn't even claim Mydeimos as his friend, yet he lies in his bed, holding the prince in his arms with the gentle embrace never before given to him. His fingers card through the sunglow locks to soothe his own desire to be soft on him—their sparring sessions would never allow for this kind of affection. Mydeimos snuggles closer against him, a sleepy lion seeking comfort, and he allows himself a little laugh. Once the prince is awake, the hero won't be allowed to think of him as adorable anymore. So he swallows, stifling the desire for both of them to stay. Mydeimos is not his to keep.
These very same hands that embraced, that loved, have it in them the capacity to kill.
Let it be known, however, that he is not unwilling. Yes, he is tasked with the duty to deliver Amphoreus to a new age, but it is not solely to rescue them from the black tide. If there is only one lifetime to live with his loved ones, he would not resign to do nothing while the end of the world is imminent. If he cannot save them, then he will force existence to start from the very beginning. They will not lose the people they hold dear. They will not sacrifice themselves for nothing. A moment of quiet and peace that lasts forever. Isn't that what he wants for everyone?
Such power to restart their lives doesn't come without a price to pay. In this case, he needs to endure failed attempts as he grows stronger—he and his shadowed other self. All for the sake of a world of their own where their safety is assured. He will need the power that rivals that of a supernova, able to annihilate the branching paths that will not lead them to safe haven. He alone must bear this burden. No one else can. Not if he wants to save them.
This is one of the few attempts that will fail, but for a little while he can recall more than he should. He will deliver them the coming of the prophecy. He will keep them safe, once all of this is done. Destruction that will bring forth change has love for a face, the source of its strength. It's the only way he'll be powerful enough to give them the lives they deserve. Even if he'll have to burn everything to cinders.
Now, his name is Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. May the Twelve Titans bless him, for he wishes not to forget.
His memories are an incomprehensible mess.
He doesn't know these faces in his visions, but he keeps remembering them. His body is a haunted house he is forced to live in, driven by the single instinct to take the Coreflames for reasons he knew nothing of. He alone must harbor them. This is his one and only mission. There is no need for him to think of anything else.
Demigods. That he can recall, at least. The bearers of the cores, the obstacles that must be removed. They are to be slain to prevent the world from reaching its demise. They all fought so valiantly every time, but eventually they did succumb at the end of his sword. He still doesn't know their names. Does that matter?
One of them put up more of a fight than the others. Alone in the depths of Castrum Kremnos, the demigod of strife awaits for his arrival on a throne of blood crystals. He is keeping him here, locked in a prolonged fight that he never seems to grow tired of. Immortal. That doesn't surprise him as much as how well this demigod knows how to counter his attacks. They have never met before, and yet he duels as if they've known each other their whole lives. Mydeimos, was it? His memory of him is rather extensive, though he knows nothing about the demigod other than what the images can tell him.
He has… quite the smile. Not that he'll be able to see it in person when the very same demigod in his memory would rather drive him away with his fists. But amongst the plethora of low whispers and bare vulnerabilities, that face isn't quite so menacing. Hair spilling into spirals on the pillows, amber eyes looking up in anticipation, cheeks red and flushed while he whines so prettily. Beautiful . If he—the one in a dark cloak with a mask over his face—doesn’t have his better judgement, he would've interpreted that it was meant for him. It won't do for him to dwell on how he wishes that was true.
The owner of these memories did not keep only the demigod sacred, however. There were plenty more stored away. A golden-haired woman who teaches him the ways of leadership while her garmentmakers are busy with his fitting. Three children with the same face waking him up at the same time every morning for hero training. An alchemy professor holding a lecture while his teaching assistant helps him with concocting potions. A girl with butterflies in her trail to whom he shares his plight to on the matters of those who passed before him. Another girl, vibrant in her presence but faceless as if memories of her are painful to look at. All of them hold significance that he isn't privy to. It sinks into him when he recalls these flashes, and they come to him involuntarily, even when there is a chasm in his chest where his heart should be. Perhaps it's to better hold these fragments. It's not his place to question their meaning.
It is through these memories that he knows the weak spot of this demigod. There are times he wishes he could cradle him after, though in most of the repeats he simply walked away. The demigod doesn't have to be anything more to him than a passing glance. It's better for his sake not to admit that attachment. Is this what differs between him and the original owner of these memories? That while he chooses distance to avoid pain, the other chooses to embrace their love? If so, why is he the one burdened to remember everything instead?
Not like it matters. He doesn't know how this world will doom itself, but he won't be around for it. There will come another loop to restart this. It'll be nothing but the long-awaited collapse of a tired dream.
What compels him, then, to approach his… victim as he does now? Why hold the warrior in his arms after he stabbed him in the back where he had placed his trust? There is nothing left for him to take. He will not claim what isn't his. Curious as he is on becoming the recipient of love, Mydeimos isn't awake to give it to him. Why would he want to love him now after everything he's done?
He hopes the metal of his gauntlet isn't too cold when he caresses a finger on the man’s cheek. He's undeniably strong, and as much as he wants to disagree on how beautiful Mydeimos is to establish a distinction… he couldn't. He's as hopelessly in love as the one who created the memories he keeps seeing. Only he won’t ever have the chance to make love to him and kiss him goodbye the next morning.
Force strikes him from below, slapping his mask away. Mydeimos is in his arms still, fighting against the final clutches of death as he looks at him in the eye. He knows this face. He wears the face of the man who loves him so earnestly, while all he wants now is to destroy the cruel world that gives him a desire he can't hope to fulfill.
Mydeimos reaches a hand up to him, seeking comfort as his body grows cold. He turns him away.
Then he covers his face and flees. He doesn't want to look back, to see Mydeimos reaching out to him. He doesn't want Mydeimos to call him by a name that isn't his.
…His name. Had he even learned what it was?
Thirty million repeats. Thirty million versions of him destroying the world over and over to create a new one. Again and again, hoping that this time—this time—there is hope for a happy future if he can finally prove he is stronger than the calamity that rips his loved ones away from him.
This is how Lord Ravager is born, and he alone will witness the new dawn.