Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In the early dawn, Herta Space Station quietly prepares itself for the arrival of a Lord Ravager.

There are no alarms or urgent evacuation directives. No messages to security - only an instruction to avoid the Seclusion Zone, which is off-limits to the casual researcher in any case. It is with that same thoughtful quiet that Herta strolls into the elevator and punches in the appropriate clearance code, her guests trailing like apparitions behind her.

Three days have passed since the unceremonious destruction of that Intellitron’s vessel - though the whereabouts of his real body couldn’t be ascertained - and had Herta been a different woman she might have thought the seventy-two consecutive hours of stress hadn't been worth it.

First came the work of getting past Amphoreus’ firewalls, then the trouble of locating the brats, disabling the scepter once the confrontation began - only to find out that the Lord Ravager they were so worried about was actively fighting his own ascension. Restoring Amphoreus' data to its default, balancing coefficients to keep the memoria entertained, eventually coming to the conclusion it was better to treat them like memory zone memes than sets of binary code. She has the Remembrance to thank for that. And if the interference of THEIR presence and THEIR pesky Pathstriders wasn’t enough, not only had the simulation come to life, but she determined the Lord Ravager could be retrieved alive.

Work on the space station has ground to a rare halt; the long hallways are devoid of researchers, conference rooms swiftly emptied; she made some excuse to Asta about a matter of importance to the Genius Society, and made it clear that she was not to be disturbed. What she said is not as much fiction as it is obfuscation - Ruan Mei and Screwllum are both course-correcting to the Space Station as they speak, and a lord Ravager is, indeed, a matter of great importance. She doesn’t need to know anything more about the Destruction Emanator than she does about the Propagation Emanator - which is to say, nothing at all.

“Madam Herta,” Welt starts diplomatically, exchanging a glance with the other two Nameless - Himeko and the Halovian, “Are you absolutely certain that these containment procedures are… sufficient?”

The lights flicker ominously, as if punctuating his question. She meant to have them redone last month, but construction is costly - especially when one is attempting to conceal a Swarm outbreak - and Asta had consistently run out of funds in the budget. No matter, she’s quite certain that her facilities have the longevity to stand a comatose Lord Ravager, lights notwithstanding.

“Hmm,” She says, “Going through all that trouble to get my help just to insult my lab? Astral Express, you’re forgetting who you’re talking to - don’t get yourself all tied up in knots. The Madam Herta can subdue a Ravager or two.”

“Right.” Welt coughs against his fist. “My apologies. It wasn’t my intention to question your abilities.”

Well, out of the pack of them, it’s good that someone is exercising caution - Nous knows the little trio of troublemakers hadn't - Stelle the most grievous offender of all.

“You’re better off saving those safety lectures for those kids of yours.” The elevator churns to a stop, leading them to one of the lower floors. The Halovian visibly recoils at the sight of one of the prodigal True Stings that wandered away from its spawnpoint. Herta makes quick work of it, though the way it explodes and drenches the wall in synovial fluid and digestive enzymes doesn’t seem to make him any less nervous. “The stellaron girl died upon hitting Amphoreus’ atmosphere - it was lucky The Remembrance looked at her when THEY did. That body would’ve been difficult to replace. But, from what I understand, that isn’t her first brush with death?”

Welt clears his throat, “If you’re, erm, referring to the incident on Jarilo-IV-”

“Yes, yes, the impalement,” Herta says impatiently, ushering them around a dark corner. One of the light fixtures fizzles and hisses as they pass beneath it.

“The what?” The Halovian whispers.

Himeko laughs airily. “Oh, you know how it is - the mission of the Trailblaze is filled with challenges.”

“We’ll… I’ll fill you in later.”

The subject of Stelle’s composition was an entirely separate conversation topic - an interesting one, but a separate one. For the time being, she had a new test subject: Irontomb’s new vessel, the one they’d called Phainon. From the brief interaction she’d had, pulling him out of the shell of the scepter, he hadn't seemed particularly violent or domineering or world-ending the way a proper Ravager ought to be, which seemed disappointing for Nanook but fared well for Herta’s research.

“How did so many True Stings get down here?” The Halovian asks.

“Don’t worry about it.” Herta dismisses, swiping her access card through another semi-functioning terminal. The automatic steel door groans and hisses, and for a moment she’s calculating the odds of whether or not the controls could have given out since yesterday, before grudgingly complying.

Welt coughs again. If he keeps doing that, she’s going to recommend him to the medbay for some complimentary lozenges.

“He’s in here.” She gestures to the lab. She thinks Ruan Mei was originally using it as a halfway point during her development of those annoying little synthetic lifeforms that are overpopulating the station. Either way, she left most of her materials behind, including the pressurized antechamber fixed to the corner. The capsule’s lights flick on, illuminating the ash-gray body inside it.

Condensation starting to form on the glass, despite the coolant possessing a melting point as high as you can find it in a livable atmosphere. It will need to be changed soon. He'd given her a hell of a time trying to cool his body temperature - it was like he was trying to burn himself to death even in his sleep.

Welt visibly startles at the Ravager’s appearance, but neither of the other two seem concerned with it, so Herta decides she doesn’t care. She spins around on her heel, scrolling through the system options for his capsule.

“Is he… asleep?” The Halovian hovers near the control panel, as if loath to get any closer. Maybe he’s heard all of the stories about Nanook’s generals. “He seems… unwell.”

“Well, he isn’t exactly alive in the traditional sense.” No monitored heart rate, no blood pressure, minimal brain activity registered by the EEG. Though her field of study isn’t concerned with human biology - or what can reasonably pass for human biology - she’s fairly certain that the years of self-immolation have rendered his organs practically useless. Fortunately for him, Aeons care very little for such asinine restraints as basic physiology.

Any doctor would’ve declared him brain dead - or any kind of dead, really - if not for the violent readings on the bottom half of the screen. Massive amounts of destruction energy - energy approaching the fractsidus’ levels of corruption.

“Our working hypothesis is that he’s taking his time getting familiar with the body Nanook gave him.”

They haven’t had him long enough to come to any more concrete answers. He’s only been in observation for thirty-two hours since she pulled him out of that memoria field. She’s been additionally led to believe that the form before her is not the only one he’s capable of assuming, which brings up further inquiries about how and why he’s here, in this form, but -

Himeko leans her head against her hand. “Do you have any idea when he’ll wake up?”

Herta scoffs. “We can only hope it’s sometime when those brats get back - that being said, I do have my work cut out for me with that simulation. This one can be your problem for now, I have more calculations to run in the simulated universe. You know where to find me.”

It isn’t often that one comes across a Lord Ravager, even more rare to have the opportunity to study one up-close, but the issue of the scepter takes precedence. Allowing a third mechanical war to happen would bear terribly for her research calendar.

“You’re just going to leave us here?” The Halovian asks.

“I most certainly am. There’s a panic button somewhere on the bench if you see any hints of consciousness.”

“Nobody here knows how to read-”

“You all have fun now,” Herta says, slipping off towards the elevator again, closing the door behind her. They’ll probably be fine. It’s not like tall, golden and spooky seems like he’s going to be awake and aware enough to wreak havoc anytime soon. And she really does need to get a better look at the scepter, and more importantly, what the Ravager did to it.

A notification pops up on her phone, followed by a backload of twenty seven others:

Stellaron: i think the signal went out again

Stellaron: everyone seems ok here for the most part

Stellaron: has Phainon woken up yet? Is he ok?

Stellaron: a bunch of the stuff here is still pixelated

Stellaron: if i eat a battery in a simulation does it actually hurt

Stellaron: my texts aren’t going thru

Stellaron: i think i burned my esophagus

Stellaron: any updates on the scepter???

Herta silences her notifications.

An Amphoreus that knows peace does not seem very much like Amphoreus at all.

Stelle hangs over the railing on the bedroom balcony while Dan Heng reclines on the folding chair and March busies herself with the fountain.

They’re early in the loop - so early that Aglaea and the rest of the Chrysos heirs had not initially recognized her. They’ve since had their memories of the past cycle restored, after Lygus had been properly and violently disposed of and Herta had access to the core.

She’d considered giving them back the knowledge of previous loops, but that seemed… somewhat cruel.

“They’re requesting aid in the Twilight Grove.” Dan Heng says, sitting up. As it turns out, rebuilding is a tricky process, and no one is quite sure exactly how to proceed with the buildings and wildlife that have half-dissolved into translucent blue code. At the very least, there have been no sightings of the Black Tide whatsoever. Whatever Phainon had done during that fight had brought the anti-organic equation to its knees.

“Again?” She asks, brushing herself of both dust and that train of thought. “We were just there yesterday.”

The light that greets them is not the artificial brightness of the Dawn Device slung across Kephale’s back - instead, the sky shimmers with memoria, not unlike the brilliant scenery of Penacony’s dreamscape, and a real, true sun stares back at them. Just how much interference Cyrene and March had worked in she can’t say.

“Are we going to see Hyacine?” March chirps, jumping up - wobbling, nearly falling back into the bath. Dan Heng leaps out of his chair to grab her by the elbow at the last second.

“You’re still recovering.” He says flatly. Stelle would make fun of him for being overbearing, but in the past few weeks they’ve nearly died a total of eight times - not including the time she actually died.

“Yeah yeah, mom,” March huffs, fixing her hair. “Let’s go already! I have more pictures to take - you guys still have to take me to all the places you went before, half of the ones you took don’t even have the subject in frame! I can’t hang them up on my wall looking like this, it’s a disgrace to my professionalism-”

“That’s not fair! If you’re so concerned about your professionalism why do you have a picture looking up Dan Heng’s nose on your moodboard-”

“I told you to delete that.”

“You tell me to do a lot of things. Can we go now, or do you two need to sulk some more? You two’ve been cooped up in this room forever, you’re like wilted plants.”

March walks the streets like she knows them - she does know them, even if these memories have taken on a life of their own, have grown past their original parameters, developed their own style and culture and people - and Stelle trails behind. She wonders if this is the Era Nova that the people had expected.

The Grove is bustling with the familiar routine of students and scholars alike, shuffling around their workstations as if the world didn’t just end and rebuild itself. Habit, in the absence of anything else, probably feels familiar. A trodden path throughout an otherwise unrecognizable wilderness.

The common people know this peace as Era Nova, and all of the Chrysos Heirs have agreed to let them continue to believe this, at least until they have a better explanation prepared. As for their Deliverer, who they believe to be fulfilling the duties of Kephale, they can only offer empty promises of recovery.

“Hyacine!” March yells, vaulting over one of the tables to wrap her arms around her neck. Hyacine and Ica squeal at the same time. The folder in her hand plummets to the ground, spilling paper all over the floor.

Dan Heng watches the two of them as March apologizes and bends down to help her pick up the papers, their conversation shifting into the topic of all the off-world music she wants to show her when Herta stabilizes the planet enough to facilitate inter-planetary communication. Hyacine moves slowly, like she’s unsure of what to do with her hands. Stelle supposes that merging with the celestial mural will do that to you.

Anaxa greets them sometime later - ignores them, more like, sweeping into the empty classroom mumbling under his breath. “Hyacine, have you seen the tome I mentioned to you earlier?”

“The one about Era Chrysae, from Styxia? I checked the archives, but it’s still gone. It might’ve been one of the ones that was corrupted.” Hyacine replies. She shoots them an apologetic look. “We’re trying to recover all the scrolls we lost. They didn’t all come back after - after Era Nova began, and there’s no way to tell if they’re just lost or if they’re gone permanently.”

Anaxa scoffs, “I should hope not. That was one of the very few existing historical records of Styxian alchemical practices.”

Stelle and Dan Heng hang awkwardly at the mouth of the room, still unsure of the reason they were summoned.

“Can it really be considered history?” Hyacine asks, her mouth pinched into a thin line. “If it was all just… data produced by a simulation.”

Anaxa raises an eyebrow and Stelle gets the feeling that he’s about to launch into another lecture. She grabs Dan Heng’s elbow in case they have to flee. “I would hope no pupil of mine would insinuate anything so asinine, but let us walk through that avenue of thought. You three-” He says, turning sharply to look at them. “Sort this box of documents onto the shelves.”

“Rebuilding is boring work.” Stelle says, hoisting a stack of speculative fiction onto the shelf - not the type of material she’d thought that the Grove would entertain.

“Be patient.” Dan Heng chastises. “It would go faster if you’d pay attention to what you were sorting.”

She wonders idly if Jarilo-IV’s reconstruction had been so perilous, too. Victory rarely comes with fireworks and champagne - though she does wish Amphoreus’ had been graced with Penacony’s gentle absurdity - it comes, instead, with hysterical displaced masses, crumbling infrastructure, and a bill with so many zeroes it makes her head spin. Amphoreus is additionally unlucky in that its recovery depends on two Emanators - one of Erudition, and the other the yet-slumbering vessel of Irontomb.

Anaxa and Hyacine’s debate has grown quieter.

“The composition of our parts is inconsequential.” He says, with such authority that Hyacine’s eyes start glistening. “‘Humanity’ and ‘consciousness’ are not contingent upon matters of biology. Our existence will continue regardless of what is to be said about our humanity or lack thereof. Data or not, our future is no longer predetermined: the simulation is over, and we are still here. Isn’t that evidence enough?”

“Thanks, professor. Sorry for, ah, borrowing your time.”

He doesn’t deign to respond - instead, he turns on his heel towards their trio, perhaps to berate them for their poor work ethic. “You three, have you heard from that witch about Phainon’s circumstances?”

“Uh,” March says, glancing at the ceiling like she’s worried Herta heard that remark and is preparing to smite them for it, “Last I heard he was still asleep…”

“Hmm.” He replies, an unsatisfied noise.

“Madam Herta said that he was stable.” Dan Heng offers. He neglects to mention the part where Phainon’s vitals are stable in that they’re virtually nonexistent - but far be it from Stelle to tell a member of the genius society how to interpret the biological signals of a Lord Ravager.

No one on Amphoreus has seen his new form, Stelle thinks. It might be his new reality, when he eventually wakes up. If they could be at his side, she’s almost certain they would be - unfortunately, travel on or off of Amphoreus is forbidden for the time being, at least until Herta figures out how to translate simulated data into physical form.

“As soon as anything changes we’ll let you know.” Stelle wonders how bad it must be for Dan Heng to be taking the lead on delicate matters like these - March wasn’t wrong to describe his preferred form of conflict management as ‘cosplaying a scarecrow’. “We know this isn’t ideal. We’re his friends, too.”

Stelle scratches the back of her neck. Unideal was a rather tame way to describe the Chrysos Heir’s thoughts about taking Phainon offworld to recover, even temporarily. They’d eventually gotten Anaxa to concede that the Space Station was better equipped to care for him, but it had been an uphill battle, especially since they couldn’t visit him in the meantime.

Speaking of, she should call Mr. Yang. Herta gave her phone to one of her puppets who has since responded to all of Stelle’s texts with an automated ‘do not reply’ message.

“Yes, well,” Anaxa sighs, “when that Genius of yours finds a way to establish more permanent communication, I have much to ask her.”

March leans in close. “I think Herta will like the Professor,” She whispers, her tone quiet with dread.

“I’d love to see their medical equipment.” Hyacine confesses. “Oh, you three, I’ve been meaning to ask - could you check on the seals in the bathhouse for me? I haven’t had a chance to drop by since - um, in a while. I don’t know if anyone is looking after them.”

“Seals!?” March cries. “You guys didn’t tell me there were seals!”

Dan Heng scoffs. “This is why we didn’t tell you.”

Hyacine smiles, the tired, quiet affection on her face almost enough to eclipse the bags under her eyes. “If you like the seals, then you’ll love the chimeras - you should take her to the garden to see them. I’m sure they’d enjoy the company.”

“That’s two more things you didn’t take pictures of.” March grumbles, looping her arm with Stelle’s, dragging her down the long damaged hallways of Marmoreal palace.

The steam from the baths wafts into the hallway. March fans herself with her hand.

“And - oh! It’s Grayie!” Tribbie bounds around the corner, Aglaea in tow. According to Herta, Tribbie’s data was so unsalvageable that piecing her back together into Tribios was an impossible task, but she doesn’t seem too upset about it. “Have you seen Cyrene?”

“I think she’s still asleep.” Stelle says, glancing at March. It probably isn’t the most accurate description of her condition, but it’s the best she’s got.

“Trianne and Trinnon have gone off on their own.” Aglaea says. “We were searching for them. Though the worst of the danger posed by the Black Tide has passed, the Golden Threads do not stretch far enough to ascertain whether any other danger remains.”

“Trianne had a nightmare and ran off.” Tribbie smiles, old and tempered by a grief that looks too solemn for her tiny face. “We think she was looking for Snowy.”

March frowns. “We can help look for them!”

“It would be in poor form to ask our guests to assist after all you’ve done.” Aglaea says, folding her hand to her chest. She looks younger. Lighter, maybe, in a way that Stelle doesn’t have the words to describe. “Saviors of Okhema, please do not concern yourselves with these matters. Mydei is already looking for them, and though my golden thread is not as thorough as it used to be, I am certain we can resolve this matter on our own. I presume you’re here to enjoy the baths, yes?”

“To look at the seals.” March says. “Are you sure? It's really not a problem...”

The Heirs have enough on their hands at the moment, between picking the pieces of Amphoreus - and each other - out of the wreckage. To a group of people who had lived under the pretense that the end of their lives would bring about the prophecy, and a new lease on Amphoreus' future, this must seem very strange, to be asked to live instead of die. To learn that life does not simply bow and roll over. People still need food and shelter. Okhema requires its leaders - though this time around, Aglaea can retire her duties if she so chooses, no longer compelled by the threat of imminent destruction.

“Certain.” She smiles. “Please, enjoy yourselves as best you can. We will handle these matters.”

The two depart, then, no longer really demigods - no longer tied to the prophecy, no longer obligated to uphold Amphoreus’ certain doom. No longer required to suffer for it.

“I see where Phainon gets it from.” Stelle mumbles. Dan Heng shoots her a look that’s nearly venomous. It’s just a joke, he knows. Stelle is aware that Phainon’s nature was predetermined. “...I was just making an observation.”

In that moment, she remembers a fragment of Mem’s writing, one of the wandering musings she’d made of the Chrysos Heirs in her beautiful, tragic story.

He had never loved himself. How could he love the world?

The world loves you very much, she thinks, holding one of the seals in her lap while March squeals over it. Very much indeed.

That night, Stelle dreams of Aedes Elysiae.

“Stelle!” Cyrene calls, sitting on her swing, kicking her legs lazily. “I missed you.”

She picks herself off the ground, brushing wheat stalks off her jacket. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Just fine.” She smiles. “But I think I’m going to sleep for a bit longer. Anyways, you’re not just here for company. We should wake him up.”

“We can do that?” Stelle asks. And then, “Wait, he’s here?”

“He’s waiting.” Her gaze sweeps to the horizon, past the waves that sequester Aedes Elysiae away from both the rest of the world and the clutches of time. This place is as real as the village ever was, and as it stands, lies completely in Cyrene’s control, even if they aren’t too sure of the details. All she knows is that the village is more memoria than it is code. “He’s been having a… very long nightmare.”

Stelle extends a hand, and Cyrene smiles as she pulls herself up. Her skin is ice-cold, impermanent, like she’s holding onto a cloud. A reminder that she is not human, even by Amphoreus’ standards.

They stroll hand-in-hand through the quiet village, pausing at the house Phainon and Cyrene had grown up in.

“Are you nervous?” Stelle asks, squeezing her hand. “Have you never been in his room or something?”

“I’m not nervous.” She swings their joined arms. “And they were like my family too, you know. I just… sometimes I feel like he should hate me.” They stand in front of the unassuming door. “I don’t regret what I did. I’d do it again, thirty three million times more, for the chance to save Amphoreus. But I wonder if the Heirs were right - that I doomed him to something worse than death. I don’t want the first thing he sees to be me when he wakes up. It might… frighten him.”

“He doesn’t hate you.” Stelle says. “Seriously, he’d never.”

Cyrene smiles ruefully. “I didn’t say he did. C’mon, let’s not keep him waiting anymore.”

Phainon’s childhood home is warm and nostalgic - small, as was to be expected for a village this size, filled to the brim with knick-knacks and keepsakes. Woven baskets on the kitchen counter, a lovingly-made quilt slung over the ottoman. Cyrene leads them further into the home, like it’s her home too, and pauses at his door at the end of the hallway. There are scratches in the wood, carved out by a knife. They stop just before reaching Stelle’s shoulder.

Ah, she thinks. Phainon was young when the Black Tide reached the village.

Cyrene pushes the door open, stepping over the thick sheep-wool rug on the floor. The room is charmingly messy - lived in. A pile of toppled books sits in the corner next to a shelf overflowing with hand-carved toys and board games.

A warm breeze rolls through the window, blowing the window drapes across the child-sized bed tucked against the wall. Beneath the piles of heavy, scratchy covers is a living, breathing person, sleeping as they may be.

They stand at the corner of the bed. Cyrene pulls the covers back, brushing the fringe of white hair off his face.

Stelle scratches the back of her neck. “He looks young. Is this a memory or a dream?”

Cyrene smiles, eyes curving into crescent moons. “Aren’t all dreams memories? Memories, memoria, and extrapolations thereof.” She sighs. “There’s less of him left than I thought there’d be. The longer he sleeps, the more tired he gets.”

She doesn’t pretend to understand what that means. Instead, she takes a page out of Cyrene’s book, reaching out to gently shake his shoulder. His head lolls to the side, but he doesn’t stir. She finds his skin just as cold as Cyrene’s.

“You look confused.” Cyrene says.

“How did he avoid being absorbed by Irontomb?”

“He didn’t.”

Stelle raises a brow. “I know a member of the genius society who’d beg to differ.”

“There is no absorbing, really.” Cyrene says. “You can’t absorb something you already are. How would you feel if I asked you to absorb your arm? Or, better question: how would you feel if I asked you to absorb that bat of yours? You can’t! Khaslana was… simply the piece of Irontomb that had yet to be solved. He completed the equation. Our sleeping friend here is what drew Nanook’s gaze. Besides, it’s not as simple as just code - The Remembrance has been watching us for a long time.”

“...you seem to know a lot about this.”

“The Garden’s readings are extensive, and I’ve had nothing but time. Once Lygus made the mistake of constructing this simulation with memoria, it was already over for him.”

Cyrene reaches out to take Stelle’s hand in her own once again. “You’re probably going to want to get back to the space station soon. I’m afraid I have to interrupt this peaceful dream.”

“The golden dream is getting restless.” She replies seriously, casting her eyes to the ceiling.

“You have such a way with words.” Cyrene squeezes their fingers. “Promise me something? Look after him for the time being. I won’t be much use to his physical recovery.”

Stelle nods. “The galactic baseballer never breaks a promise.”

Cyrene laughs, fond affection in her eyes, none of the exasperation Stelle usually engenders in her unwilling audience. “I’ll hold you to that.” Her smile dims. “Destruction is a path that seeks its own end. Let’s… write a story without such a morbid end.”

The dream shatters, its pieces flying past her face, distancing her from the sweet illusion. Stelle lands back in her body, blinking up blearily. Dan Heng and March hover over her.

“Ugh.” She says, already knowing what’s got them so worked up. “He’s awake, isn’t he?”

Consciousness bleeds into his mind like weeds growing up through the cracks in cement.

He is aware of a familiar pain, first: it thrums in tandem with his heartbeat, making a bed beneath his ribs, curling over his spine. An old acquaintance, a point of reference amidst the confusion. The back of his head throbs like an open wound, vicious and unending. He tries to move, but his body refuses to cooperate. A twitch of his finger, a flick of his wing. He doesn’t dare try to open his eyes.

The sound that filters in crosses some secondary medium: fluid, again? Is he back in Lygus’ lab? He tries to recall where he is, but his memories come back hazy and disordered: cycle upon cycle upon cycle, Nanook and THEIR destruction, the birth of Irontomb.

He inhales sharply and coughs and coughs and coughs so hard he thinks it’ll break him into pieces. His eyes snap open and an unfamiliar lab looks back - not Lygus’. The scepter was made of sleek, dark metal, nothing like the brilliant reflective silver of the walls here.

“-is that-?”

“-pressing the button-”

There are three people in the lab, none of them Amphoreus-born. Phainon startles, jerking back against the glass. The pain that explodes in the back of his neck cuts out his vision, and he should be used to it, he is used to it, but his vision swims and his knees buckle and he panics.

It’s been so long since he’d felt relief that the next wave of pain nearly makes him sick.

He slams his fist through the thick glass of the capsule. It shatters instantly, scattering over the wet tile. The fluid he was suspended in spills out the size. One of the people gathered makes a high-pitched noise as he sinks to his knees, trying to stretch his wings from where they’re folded against his back, pressed up against the wet glass. An alarm wails against his skull. The lights flicker between complete darkness and light so bright it overstimulates him.

“Stop-”

“-He’s-”

“-Herta!”

The air that hits him is so cold he shudders - and feeling cold is not a feeling he’s accustomed to, not anymore. For just a moment, it feels like the heat simmering under his skin has dissipated, except the relief that should bring doesn’t follow. The relief itself is agony. He shivers and gasps for breath.

“Can you hear us?” The red haired woman asks. She’s crouched in front of him, kneeling on top of the ground. He’s bleeding, he realizes belatedly. Warm gold spills from the wound on his chest. “It’s alright, we’re with the Astral Express. We’re with Stelle and Dan Heng.”

Her fingertips brush at his shoulder and he flinches back so hard the pain in his chest dislocates to a place beneath his ribs. He draws another shaking, hitching breath, face wet, shoulders drawn up and he realizes he’s crying. The tears don’t evaporate from the heat.

“Alright, alright!” A familiar voice calls. The witch - Herta - from the dream steps into the lab, one hand on her hip, “I’m here! Enough with the melodrama.”

“I’ll get Stelle on the line.” The red-haired woman says, brushing off her dress and standing up.

Herta sighs, looking at the mess he’s made of her lab. “Well, normally I’d threaten you for wrecking my equipment, but I didn’t pay for this, so I don’t actually care. But next time, keep it down, will you? Harboring a Lord Ravager isn’t exactly good press. And, I suppose, for one among… your kind… this is a rather uneventful greeting.”

“What’s… going on?” He croaks. His voice is wrecked, pained and warped the way it was when he assumed the role of Flame Reaver.

Herta grins - somewhat wickedly. “Welcome, Lord Ravager Irontomb, to the Herta Space Station.”

Chapter Text

During the first cycle, before the eternal recurrences, Phainon spent most of his mornings in the water.

There was a pool in the far right corner of the bathhouse that was always empty during entry-hour. It was intended to be used for low-impact exercise, not recreation, but at that hour there was never anyone around to tell him off. As such, it only seemed appropriate to drag Mydei in with him.

He used to miss the sea, when he lived in Okhema. Missed the coastal breeze, the food, the seasalt, the whisper of the surf greeting the beach. The sea sustained Aedes Elysiae where its fields couldn’t, and though there was nothing of his hometown to return to, the water remained sentimental. He had a collection of seaglass hidden under his bed before the Black Tide had taken that away, too.

It was Cyrene who taught him how to swim, taller than he was, then. She would kneel in the shallows, holding him upright as the tide dragged around his waist, her laughter buoying as he reached, terrified, for her shoulders.

Some mornings he and Mydei talk, others they just sit. Always, they compete.

It was another stupid competition of theirs, something over-indulgent and childish in a way neither of them were allowed to be otherwise, taking big lungfuls of air and submerging, sitting at the bottom, waiting to see who could last longer as the air stretched thin and your head started pounding.

Mydei usually won, being the more experienced of the two in the art of drowning.

One more time, Phainon would demand. Or are you scared you’re going to lose?

He would try again and again, hair haloed around his head, the world dim and buzzing, the chlorine stinging his eyes.

One more time.

There is no one else in the pool. He’s the winner by default.

The lights hurt his eyes, so he wills them to break. Glass shatters from the ceilings, dulling the bright fury of the waking world to a dim misery. Someone sighs; the figure too blurry to tell. It feels like he’s underwater again, ten thousand gallons of pressure threatening to split his skull like overripe fruit. He tries to imagine his brain matter splattering across the lab floor like the crushed apricots and nectarines that rolled away from their venders and into the streets of Marmoreal market.

“You’re at the space station,” Herta repeats, less pleased this time, grimacing as glass cracks beneath her heels. “You’ll likely remain here for at least the rest of tomorrow. You’ve made quite a mess of yourself - and my lab. If you keep doing that, you're going to tear your stitches."

She sighs longsufferingly, “You’ve regrown both your left arm and both your wings since you’ve arrived here - I took it upon myself to speed up your natural healing processes, you’re welcome, by the way. As for that wound in your chest - well, it seems like the bleeding is taking care of itself. Auto-cauterization?” Her tone trails off into inquiry, her gaze sliding sideways as she ponders. “Anesthesia is proven to work on him - we’ll have to try analgesics next. You - Halovian boy, help me get him back in the capsule. The wiring should still be functional. I’ll have one of the puppets see to the glass later.”

They don’t give him a chance to intervene. After cycle after cycle of the same experiences, the same tedious, torturous killing, of pain, he isn’t sure what to do with himself. He is an object without momentum, consumed by inertia - without purpose, without justification.

What use does anyone have for a weapon shattered after millenia of slaughter? He should not have left Amphoreus.

He should not be alive.

“-the others,” He tries to speak past the ash in his throat. His voice cracks again; it feels like his insides have crumbled to ash. Cycle after cycle, his body is reduced to kindling. The smell of singed hair and burnt flesh clings to him even now, acrid in the back of his throat.

Herta taps her pen to her mouth. “Soft palate damage, too? Smoke inhalation… mirror, come here,” She starts barking orders to something else. He hears footsteps and leans forward until his forehead meets the blissfully cool tile. His heartbeat pounds hot in his temples. A bead of sweat rolls down his jaw.

Consciousness slips away faster this time.

Tribbie is neither indolent nor unmotivated, but it has been a long time since Aglaea has seen her teacher move with such swiftness. Upon receiving the news, she had simply pivoted, changing course like it was second nature; planning routes, ferrying messages, and balancing priorities are nothing new to her, after millennia of opening Janus’ passages. Now, there is no Century Gate to fall back on as she tears off to find the other Heirs and inform them of the news:

Phainon is awake.

Aglaea has been informed that someone on the space station where Phainon resides will establish a line of communication with them when their immediate duties have concluded. There are, thus far, no guarantees that they’ll even be able to speak to him. That doesn’t stop the rest of her unruly colleagues from piling into the Hero’s Baths one after another.

It wasn’t far from here that she fell. That death feels somewhat cheap, but if Stelle is to be believed, she’s died myriad times in the same fashion. Death upon death upon death. The play has concluded, and still they remain on the stage. What is an actor to do without a script? Without a prophecy to guide?

For a thousand years, Aglaea has toiled for the glory promised by Era Nova, for the betterment of the world, for the rescue of the people. That journey has demanded of her cruelty and distance and pieces of her humanity which she will never recover. It had been an acceptable sacrifice, and a necessary one, but she had thrown those pieces of herself away knowing she would not need them after that final golden bath.

Tribios’ prophecy promised her sleep, and it promised Phainon life. Even amidst the horror and uncertainty that it had spawned, she could be certain, at least, that Phainon would live. That the child Cifera brought to Okhema, that hollow shell, would have purpose, would have a future.

And yet, Aglaea is here, alive and well, and there are no more certainties.

Mydei and Castorice arrive first. The two of them have the most reason to remain close to Okhema - Mydei securing the perimeters, watching for any sign of the Tide, Castorice as the mortician, guiding those lost souls into the next life.

Then Cifera - reluctant to leave her shadows behind, even now. Even now that Aglaea knows all the reasons she had to hide. She sulks against the wall now, arms tucked to her chest, refusing to make eye contact.

Hyacine and Anaxa arrive last, flanked by Tribbie and her sisters. The three of them are panting, like they’ve run the entire distance.

“Great performer,” Aglaea says, “You’ve decided to grace Okhema with your presence.”

Phainon’s irritable teacher narrows his eyes. “And I’m sure we’ll all be relieved when I return to the grove. Enough of that. When can we see him?”

“We don’t know if he’s even still awake.” Castorice says softly. “Miss Stelle’s message made it seem as though he wasn’t entirely lucid.”

There is little left to do but wait, but Aglaea has waited for a very long time already, Phainon longer. She’s unprepared for the emotion that follows the ripple of memories: sewing clothes, weaving baskets, sitting together in the baths - a vague nostalgia for things this body has never experienced. They had not known Phainon at all in this cycle.

“Have you seen anything of the Black Tide?” Hyacine asks, trying to fill the silence.

“No trace of it remains.” Mydei replies. “At least, nothing around the border.”

Aglaea’s mind pivots, whip-quick, to the topic of citizen relocation, how much it will cost and how long it will take to rebuild the residential sector in Marmoreal market, where the next shipment of food will come from - what to do about the steadily accumulating missing person’s list. She does not, strictly, have time to wait for Phainon. She has other duties that require her attention, and yet here she stands.

“Aggy,” Tribbie says, tugging at her dress. “What are you thinking about?”

“I’m only concerned with the transport caravans in and out of the city.” Aglaea replies. A leader must have the ability to prioritize, but the thoughts come more slowly than they should, burdened by an unpleasant emotion that has grown distant to her during her time as a demigod.

“Um, the phone-” Hyacine says.

The device Stelle left with them glows and shudders. Mydei tenses like he intends to step on it. After a moment of struggling, a projection emerges from one of the cameras, forming the image of Stelle and her station contact - Herta, she recalls.

“Savior of Amphoreus,” She greets politely, stiffly, “Madam Herta, well met.”

“Let’s cut to the chase,” Madam Herta replies, shoving Stelle out of frame, “Your Lord Ravager is asleep again. He was awake for approximately seventeen minutes and thirty six seconds, system time, and managed to shatter one of my capsules and blew out the lab’s lights. Is he always so unpleasant when he wakes up?”

Mydei scoffs, stepping forward. “Enough. How much time before he can return?”

“That depends entirely on him.” Herta says, turning around to glance at one of the cracked mirrors behind her. She mumbles something to it before recalling her audience. “Our resident biologist is on her way - she can tell you more about the state of him than I can. What I will tell you is that he seems aware enough. He’ll be kicking again soon.”

“How soon?” Anaxa demands. “We’ve yet to even see him - how do we know you’ve kept your word?”

“Oh?” Herta leans forward. “Are you doubting that little friend of yours?”

Anaxa scoffs. “A scientist ought to know that information should be received from a firsthand source, and any respectable scholar verifies his information before coming to conclusions.”

Herta laughs. “Oh! You’re one of Droidhead’s. Yeah, that makes sense. Look, I’ll give you Ruan Mei’s number - do you really think I have time to play nursemaid? And if you want to see him so badly, be my guest.”

The visual feed reorients itself to something eye-level, projecting the inside of the lab in a soft blue glow. A large chamber in the corner of the room stands in the focus of the frame. Hyacine inhales sharply, fingers flying to her mouth.

Phainon does not resemble the man from their memories. Hair that had been white glows gold, the skin of his torso hardened and cracked like overly dry clay inside a kiln. The cavernous wound in his chest seeps golden ichor, collecting around his ribs in rivulets.

“I’ll have one of the puppets attach the medical report.” She says flippantly. “I predict he’ll be fit to return to Amphoreus by tomorrow at the latest.”

Hyacine shuffles forward, only ever able to summon her courage in defense of others, “What about the wound on his chest?”

“It was sustained a long time ago. It won’t close, but the bleeding will stop eventually.”

She doesn’t appear satisfied by that answer. Aglaea reaches forward to rest a hand on her shoulder. “You can investigate further as soon as you have the report.” She reassures.

Still, she can’t deny that he doesn’t look healthy. That can only be expected after enduring so many cycles, it still doesn’t put anyone at ease.

“Prepare a room for him and send me the coordinates.” Herta says. “When I’m done with him I’ll send him there.”

“I’ll go with him!” Stelle pops in.

“He can’t stay here for too long anyways.” Herta mutters. “Lord Ravagers are too conspicuous. I would tell you to keep him on Amphoreus and away from the IPC, but if Amphoreus is to become more accessible to outsiders it might be impossible to avoid.”

“Lord Ravagers,” Aglaea purses her lips, “Are they poorly received?”

Herta scoffs. “That’s one way of putting it. Here, I’ll send the alchemist some news headlines about the other Ravagers. You might end up needing the heads up. Don’t let word of this get out - if any one of those IPC shills finds out the location of the newest Ravager, I can say goodbye to my lab and you all can say goodbye to Amphoreus.”

“She doesn’t mean that.” Stelle says.

“It wouldn’t be the first time they deployed high-grade weaponry against planets - they’ve done it for less.” Herta studies her nails. “But that’s not up to me, and I can’t make the decision for you - so do with that information what you will. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do. Stay on the line or don’t.”

Aglaea sighs. The discussion of where Amphoreus falls in the scope of interplanetary politics was one that would be saved for another time, preferably when the Assembly had been reformed and the citizens themselves could vote whether or not to participate in broader engagement with the cosmos - if the day ever came when such a thing was feasible. The more worrying implication of that message was that they might not have a choice in the matter.

“Don’t worry, we’ve dealt with the IPC before, we know how to handle them.” Aglaea doubts sincerely that Stelle has any experience with bureaucracy the likes they're describing, “Worst comes to worst, he can always stay on the Express for a while. Wouldn’t be the first time we harbored a threat to public safety.”

“We will discuss when he’s well.” Aglaea says. “Thank you, Stelle.”

Era Nova is upon them, but somehow it doesn’t feel all that different at all. The persistent fear of the end no longer looms over them, but the same human struggles remain. Their work is still not done.

The call ends, and they wait for Aglaea’s command once again. Some things, she fears, will never change. “In that case, a room will need to be cleared out. Leaving him at the Grove is out of the question - too much opportunity for the public to see him.”

It occurs to her that, in their last life, Phainon had a home of his own, with a familiar bed, with things that belonged to him. All of it has dissolved into time, swept away by Oronyx’s hand. Will he be disappointed to wake up in an unfamiliar room?

Will he be disappointed to wake up at all?

“Castorice and I will handle it.” Mydei says. Castorice looks touched, just for a second, and perhaps nervous, that she’s been included, before nodding sharply. “What of you, Aglaea? Is it safe for you to stay here?”

She pauses. The golden thread grows taut for only a moment. “Ah, you’re referring to the incident with Caenis. We are not safe from their advances, but they are unlikely to act against us anytime soon. Public opinion is not in their favor.”

Mydei nods tightly. “...the Deliverer would be upset to learn that you couldn’t experience Era Nova.”

Her mind drifts to the knucklebone talisman, one last-ditch effort to accompany him into the darkness beyond. She has no memories of the fight with Aquila, but she knows that her golden threads unspooled once more to protect them. Of the many difficult decisions she’s had to make these thousand years, passing on this mantle, this terrible burden, to him, was one of her most reluctant undertakings.

“I understand. I will proceed with caution.”

After Mydei and Castorice depart, Anaxa and Hyacine are next, discussing amongst themselves what they need to have prepared. Then, it’s only Aglaea, Cipher, and the triplets.

Trianne bounds over to Cipher. It’s the first time she’s seen her in a very long while. She makes a point not to remain in the Holy City for too long.

“Cifera,” Aglaea says, “How is Era Nova treating you? Do you intend to continue your pursuit of wealth?”

She’s still wearing those boots, the ones Aglaea had made for her all those years ago. Is she using them to walk towards a future where she can live happily?

“Of course I am!” She scoffs, looking away. She crosses her arms tighter. “Have you ever known me to resist something shiny?”

The Flame Chase journey is over, and no longer requires her to act as executioner.

“I’ve never known you to be able to live without running. Now, fortune is of no consequence to you. The doors of Okhema are always open to you.” Then, more gently, “Once the wounds of the world have healed, I will relinquish my titles and open a tailor shop.”

“How quaint.” Cipher replies, still not looking at her, but her shoulders loosen. “What exactly are you asking me to do?”

“As for the future? I ask nothing of you at all.” One of the nymphs flutters its wings, perched on the wall behind, exchanging intelligence via the golden threads to her Garmentmaker stationed at the grove. She hopes that one day there will be no need for it. “But right now, I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me.”

Phainon dreams of home.

The pillow is warm when he presses his face against it, hiding from the cool breeze passing beneath his half-open window, pulling his covers up to his nose. He’s very cold, he thinks, as a shudder passes down his spine. So hot that he’s freezing. Feverish, head pounding. The chair next to his bed creaks, and he rolls over to see Cyrene, her favorite deck of cards in her hands, shuffling aimlessly.

“Are you feeling any better?” She asks, the pad of her finger dragging across the edge of the deliverer card, the card she’d pulled when divining his future, once. She brushes his sweat-soaked bangs away from his eyes, her fingers so cold that he flinches away. She recoils, hand hovering in the air before dropping back into her lap, smile dimming. “Sorry. Cold hands.”

“What’s-” His voice cracks. He must be sick. Very sick, if they’ve designated Cyrene to watch over him while he sleeps. It makes him think of one of the sheep in the stables, sick with sepsis, miserable with fever. He’d spent the night with it, unwilling to close his eyes for even a second, lest it slip away unbeknownst. “Why’re you watching me sleep…. weirdo.”

“It’s okay, you’re just… sick. I can leave if you want me to.”

He shakes his head, slipping one hand out from beneath the warmth of his covers to grab her painfully cold wrist, delicate as porcelain. Weightless, like bird bones. “Don’t go.”

She smiles. “Are you lonely?” She laughs when he pouts. “That’s okay. Even Kephale was lonely. That’s why he made us.”

“That’s just a story.” Phainon says, even though he isn’t sure why, dragged out of him as if snagged on a hook, even though he had never believed that when he was here. Involuntary, unwilling. He closes his eyes against the burn. “It’s not real.”

He can almost hear her sigh. How old had he been when her campfire stories stopped scaring him? When her old wife's tales stopped being so captivating?

“Hey,” She says. Cold, insistent fingers tap against his temple. “You have to stay awake for me, okay?”

“No,” He whines, voice wobbling precariously. He’s too old to cry. He’s most certainly too old to cry over something as ridiculous as being sick. “Cyrene, I’m tired.”

“I know, I know. Do you remember when you got that concussion, and your mom wouldn’t let you go to sleep? It’s like that. Even if it hurts right now, it’s better for you in the long run. You remember how to be patient, don’t you?”

Though he doesn’t know why, he feels as though she’s being unfair. He feels like she’s asking too much of him, even though he’s never thought anything in that vein before - Cyrene would never be cruel to him. She wouldn’t ask him to do anything if it wasn’t important. Patience. Of course he knows how to be patient. Regardless, he props himself up on his elbows, rising to hands and knees. She guides him off the bed, hugging him flush to her side when he sways.

“Let’s get some fresh air. It’ll help you wake up.”

Aedes Elysiae is cold. He scrunches his nose, shivering, grabbing onto her sleeves with ice-cold fingers. Aedes Elysiae is never cold, even during the rainy season, when Aquila flaps their wings and the winds batter against their village.

“It’s cold.”

“You have a fever.”

She’s taller than him, like this. He can’t remember the last time she was taller than him - Cyrene is rarely taller than anyone. She always stays small and childlike. His mother used to joke that she was Oronyx’s misplaced spawn.

“Where is everyone?”

“Waiting for you.” She replies, walking them to the edge of the village. No one ever leaves. They only ever get this far. “Do you remember when I divined your future? When I told you that you would go on a long journey, and you’d see many places, and you’d meet many wonderful people? They’re waiting for you at the other end of the road. You just have to go to them. You can’t stay here too long, or else you’ll forget how to go back.”

He stares pensively at the dirt road. “I don’t think I can walk that far…”

“Sure you can.” She crouches down, taking his overly warm face in her freezing hands. This isn’t real, he thinks, an awful deposit of dread growing in his gut. None of this is real. “It’s just like I told you. When you get to the end of the road you’ll find your friends. You can even open that antique shop you always talked about. Era Nova is waiting for you. You’re almost there.”

“What about you?”

“I have to stay here. Don’t worry about me, I’m older than you.” She stands up.

He frowns. He doesn’t want to leave Aedes Elysiae, even if it’s empty. He doesn’t want to leave her here. “Just to the end of the road? You promise?”

“Just to the end of the road, cross my heart.” She gives him a push. “Wake up. The story isn’t over yet.”

Stelle’s surveillance chat is buzzing when Ruan Mei gets to the Space Station. There are a number of rumors flying around - some are more believable than others. One person speculates that there’s to be an immediate upgrade to the Simulated Universe. Another is posting conspiracy theories about missing curios. One person, who just got banned by the moderator, had a slightly different theory on the nature of Ruan Mei and Herta’s personal relationship, and that they were simply looking for an excuse to ‘repurpose’ some of the labs in the Seclusion Zone. It has enough specific details to make her suspicious that there’s a precedent for their concern.

Dude what if the person who was talking about the True Stings was right

The one that was saying there’s a Propagation Emanator in the basement?? Yeah right I think we’d notice that

He’s lost in the conspiracy sauce. Next you’re gonna tell us Penacony’s flat

Slightly perturbed, because the person they’re dogpiling is a little too close to the truth for her comfort, Stelle and her seven sock-puppet accounts ruthlessly bullies their argument into the dirt with a vehemence that would make Dr. Ratio proud.

“Stelle, are you alright?”

She turns around to see Welt and Sunday approaching. Tucking her phone in her pocket, she leaps up and barrels towards him, wrapping her arms around his middle.

“Mr. Yang!”

He grunts, the air knocked out of him, before he laughs, the breath passing over the top of her head. He wraps his free hand around her shoulders.

“We’re glad you’re all okay. You have quite a lot of details to fill us in on.” He says, glancing at Phainon’s capsule in the corner. Herta’s puppets have since repaired the glass, which was a spectacle to witness. Like watching one of the old Clockie cartoons. “You’re planning to go back soon, aren’t you?”

“I promised a friend I’d get him home.” Stelle replies, hands on her hips. “Amphoreus is pretty, you’d like it. When Herta figures out how to get us in, do you want to see it?”

“After all that, I can hardly let you stay there by yourself.”

She waves him off. “I wasn’t alone. Dan Heng was there.”

“Nevermind that,” Sunday says, “How did you manage to befriend a Lord Ravager?”

“Well, he wasn’t a Lord Ravager when I befriended him. And besides, we befriended you, didn’t we? What’s one more sort-of-terrorist? At least he didn’t summon a dead Aeon!”

“Let’s save conversations like this for sometime else, okay?” Welt sighs.

Stelle sits back on the bench, watching with rapt attention as Ruan Mei goes about her analysis. She’s collecting biometrics, apparently. Whatever that means. Some of the catcakes have been made aware of her arrival and are pawing at the door.

“He didn’t react well earlier.” Welt says, watching Phainon still.

“I don’t think he actually expected to wake up.” Stelle replies, which sounds bad any way you cut it. Welt grimaces. She pictures, once again, finding Lygus and bashing his face in with her baseball bat. Nous too, just for good measure. “He’s not a bad person. He’s just…”

“Thirty million cycles will do that to anyone.” Welt replies grimly.

“The atmospheric composition is likely unpleasant as well.” Sunday says. “Amphoreus is constructed with memoria. Memetic entities struggle to thrive in star systems without dense memoria deposits. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s in pain.”

Welt sighs. “I’ll bring that up to Herta.”

Ruan Mei makes a thoughtful noise, strolling over to Madam Herta, mumbling something about the other Ravagers, anti-Paths or something like that.

“You’ve theorized that the Ravagers exist to destroy particular Paths - Celenova, Archforger, Phantylia. If Irontomb was designed to destroy Nous-”

“Then it failed miserably.” Herta scoffs. “Look, from what I’ve made out of the scepter’s communication, the Ravagers resemble some aspect of the Path they seek to destroy. If you were to call the anti-organic equation itself Irontomb, that would mean it’s been around the whole time and continues to exist now. What Lygus made isn’t an Emanator opposing Erudition - it’s an Emanator opposing Destruction.”

Ruan Mei clicks her pen. “Surface-level, it almost resembles the relationship between the Nihility and Self Annihilators.”

“The Destruction already has one of those. Do you think we could use him to contact the other Lord Ravagers?”

“The chances that they’d reciprocate is-”

Welt clears his throat. “Miss Ruan Mei, Madam Herta, we were wondering if there’s any updates on his state?”

“Oh, he’s fine.” Herta dismisses, which seems untrue. “He’ll recover well enough without any help. We’ll be sending him home as soon as we get his information copied into the Simulated Universe - oh.” She’s interrupted by a sharp beep. “Which would be right now. We’ve already got the information you need to give to your healer friend.”

Mydei and Castorice pick a room in the wing with the best view of the sunrise. He remembers Phainon mentioning it to him before - in their past life. And then, they get to setting it up. This is menial work, the type not suited for a King, and certainly beneath the station of a demigod, but Mydei finds that he feels like neither.

Castorice stands a good ways away, brushing away the dust from the floor. Even after setting up the furniture and wiping down the desk and making the bed, it looks…

“Impersonal.” Castorice says quietly. “Do you have any idea what he’d…? You were closer to him than I was.”

“You were plenty close to him.” Mydei replies. “How many times did he drag you out to the market with him?”

Remembering is like stretching an old, stiff muscle: an ache replacing certainty. There were plenty of times that Phainon talked his ear off about something he’d read during his time at the Grove, or how he was beta-reading Castorice’s latest screenplay for Okhema’s stage troupe. His interests lent themselves to the dramatic and romantic - there was seldom a soap opera he didn’t enjoy. Mythology, old tragedies, pieces of history.

What matters is that his room was filled with things that couldn’t be replaced. Mydei had chastised him more than once for the state of his room: disorganized, overcrowded. He collected artifacts like a hoarder. There had been a sketch book filled with amateur, half-finished poems hidden underneath his bed, where he thought Mydei couldn’t find it. A ceramic bowl made in Aidonia with a chip in its blue finish. A labelled drawer of gifts that people had given him - a flower crown from a child he’d rescued from Janusopolis, a lucky talisman, a piece of ore. Stacks of thank-you cards, because he’d like to repay the gifts in kind.

They can’t reproduce any of that.

Stupid, sentimental man.

Castorice’s eyes fall to the floor. “Ah. I see. Is there anything we could get? Books he likes? I imagine he’s going to be recovering for a while.”

“I’ll take care of it.” Mydei replies. If he gets to the market soon enough, he might be able to get a copy of that book Phainon likes - the ridiculous, sappy one, with a beautiful ending that defies all logic. The one that he said reminded him of his sister.

He’s just turned towards the door when the air in the room shimmers. There’s a garbled, half-audible curse as Stelle and Phainon materialize out of thin air. Phainon appears in the bed he’d just made easily enough, but Stelle isn’t so lucky - she drops a foot to the ground, nearly taking out the empty bookshelf beneath her.

“Why is there an achievement for that?” She mumbles, holding her head.

“Miss?” Castorice asks. “Are you… alright? How did you-?”

“Herta beamed us in.” She replies, glowering at the ceiling. “At least she didn’t drop Phainon on the ground too. That could’ve been bad.”

“He isn’t so fragile that a fall would be the end of him.” Mydei says gruffly, perhaps in defense of a fellow warrior’s honor. But a glance at the man supine on the bed informs him otherwise. Even now he can feel the head radiating off of him, like a rock warmed in the midday sun.

Stelle follows his gaze, whirls around. “He wasn’t in this form a second ago. It was the uh, the one with the wings.”

For a moment, he can delude himself into pretending that Phainon is merely asleep and unchanged. Even so, in his dark undershirt, no sign of his jacket, he’s overheating, drenched in sweat. The shadows beneath his eyes are so dark they appear bruised. His knuckles are scraped and blistered, the skin of his palms raw. It doesn’t look like a severe burn, but considering that it must have been worse not too long ago isn’t reassuring.

“Help me roll him over,” Stelle says, pushing herself up, “He has - uh, his back is wounded. Herta said it looked like, uh, someone cut his wings off.”

Mydei glares at her. “You didn’t think to mention that before?”

What the hell were you doing? He maneuvers him as carefully as he can onto his side. “In this form - this one doesn’t have wings.” He leans back against the desk chair, his fingers curled into the wood.

“The injuries were bad enough that they bled over.” Stelle says. “I figure that means you’re not gonna be cool about the regrown arm, either.”

The wood splinters beneath his grip.

I’m going to go get Hyacine.” Castorice says, fleeing before he can escalate.

In my defense, it’s all on the medical report. They said he’d heal fine. Emanators are tough, you know? Who hasn’t been impaled a couple times in their lives.”

“What nonsense are you spouting now? You said the last time you saw him was in the Vortex of Genesis - what could have possibly happened between that point and now? Was it during your fight with that machine?”

“How should I know? Herta said that’s what he looked like when she pulled him out of the memoria field - he only even has this body because he Ascended - I don’t know!”

Mydei closes his eyes, exhales, drags the broken chair in front of Phainon’s bed. Between the pallor of his skin and the unnatural stillness of his body, he would seem dead if not for the heat. That can’t be normal, either, but Stelle had insisted that it was a byproduct of his transformation.

“I have to go find March and Dan Heng.” Stelle says, inching towards the door. “Make sure he doesn’t die!”

She bolts before he can get up and grab her. It isn’t worth the effort, even if she did leave him with more questions than answers.

He leans back in his chair, resolving to stay until someone more qualified to care for him shows up. In his very long life, he’s had little reason to learn to tend to wounds.

Phainon’s breathing grows labored. It catches in his throat with a painful hitch; he coughs and hacks, dry and wheezing. He stands up immediately, trying to help him up. A sliver of clouded blue catches his attention.

“Mydei-” His entire body shakes with the effort of speaking. He tries to prop himself up on his elbows only to collapse onto himself. He blinks up at him, as if confused as to why his body isn’t listening.

“Deliverer,” It comes out gentler than intended.

"You’re still… calling me that?” Phainon flinches where his shoulder touches Mydei’s chest like the contact burns. The relief that shoots through him is nearly instantaneous.

“Deliverer,” He hides the curve of his mouth against his hair, indulgent just for this moment, “You are a fool.”

Chapter Text

During the forty-second recurrence, he visits Icatus. It’s the month of cultivation, and even with the threat of the Black Tide looming ever-present on the horizon, spirits are high. He’s not looking to stay long; only looking for something to ground himself, only looking for a desire small enough to fulfill. His repeated failure to bring about the wishes of friends and family tug at the back of his mind like a wraith, should he pause for too long.

In the city, artisans are gathered by the dozen; effigy after effigy is created, banners woven. The month of cultivation spares no worker, farmer, aristocrat, or otherwise.

The pastoral communities on the outskirts of Georios’ holy city share their merriment with him easily, even when the fields and their animals demand their undivided attention. Here, physical labor is worship; every clip of a shear and swing of a scythe an offering. The old man that he meets insists on his hospitality and declines any offer to help.

This is not labor, he says, this is worship. I do not expect someone from Okhema to understand.

A labor of love was worship indeed - on this front, he would not argue. The family has three children - the youngest a girl who helps her older siblings clear the pebbles from their dromas’ feet. Phainon observes them caring for their livestock and their beasts of burden. He helps brush out the snarled undercoat of the sheepdog that lives in the barn.

It makes him feel human.

The people here wish for little. Forty-two recurrences have sharpened the part of him that can divine a person’s deepest desires - their wishes which he is obligated to fulfill. They wish for a little more rain to feed the grass, to buy a bracelet for a courtship ceremony, for their hair to stay pinned even when the wind blows too hard.

The little girl’s wish is to help the dog that sleeps in the field.

It isn’t one of theirs. The father scrunches his nose when he mentions it, scarred, callused fingers tightening around the dish he’s washing. That was my neighbor’s sheepdog. He left when the Black Tide came. Didn’t take the dog with him. Now it sits there every night waiting for them to come back. I don’t know why it waits - they didn’t treat it well.

And so, he spends the rest of his trip in the field. The dog is old and mean, and bares its teeth when he gets close. Its long fur is matted, full of briars and dirt and leaves, and he thinks it must be terribly painful, but it won’t let him get close enough to touch. He stands with offerings of warm bread, chucking pieces of it into the grass, trying to lure it forward.

It doesn’t even have a name.

“I’m trying to help you.” He tells it, perhaps with too much force. Its hackles rise and its lips peel back, but its tail remains tucked between its legs. Phainon pretends that he is back in Aedes Elysiae and he is simply feeding his neighbor’s dogs. “Why do you wait here for them?”

He tears off a chunk of bread and sits down next to it. The dog doesn’t pull away - only watches him with dark, suspicious eyes.

“There’s a girl who wants to help you. You’d be better off with her.”

Eventually, it decides that his presence is not so objectionable as to deny itself this one paltry kindness. It snaps the offering of bread from his fingers, remaining there even when he sits down next to it, facing the sunrise. Aquila tears apart Oronyx’s curtain of night, buying additional time for farmers to tend to their pastures.

For the rest of those waking hours, he returns to the farm to assist the family with their prayers.

When he returns to the field, the dog is gone.

Mydei helps him sit up, but his touch does not linger much longer. The world tilts sideways when he shifts, thoughts and senses spilling out of him and against the floor like water from a sieve.

Those sharp eyes narrow in a lesser-known concern, but Phainon isn’t paying attention to the path of his gaze over him. He’s in an unfamiliar room, in the northwest wing of Marmoreal Palace. He had been on the Space Station, according to Herta. He’d lost consciousness a second time - when had he gotten back? How is Amphoreus whole?

It feels too much like another loop. He doesn’t have the privilege of basking in the honeyed light. Mydei is in Okhema, so it must be late in the timeline, and there is no trace of Nikador’s Coreflame anywhere on him.

Wasn’t it over? Is this Era Nova?

“Deliverer,” Mydei scowls. He reaches out, and this time Phainon is cognizant enough to see it coming. In thirty-three million lifetimes, he’s run Dawnmaker through his spine, spilling the last blood of Kremnos on the parched soil of the arena.

He jerks backwards, slamming his shoulder into the wall. His back erupts with pain as the stitches across his shoulderblade pull. He fights for purchase, twisting, and Mydei reaches out again - faster, this time, to grab him by the jaw.

“Deliverer,” He repeats. His palms slide uselessly against the silk sheets, not soft enough to avoid aggravating the raw skin of his palms. He breathes hard through his nose, tries to pull away, but Mydei’s grip remains firm.

There is so much of his blood on Phainon’s hands. He’s afraid he’ll open his eyes and this strange dream will end with Dawnmaker cleaving open his chest, spilling blood down his front.

“Phainon, haikas, relax!”

His body goes limp, finally giving out. He slumps bonelessly forward over his knees, shoulders hunched. Mydei sighs and leans in to steady him again, slowly, like he’s approaching a startled animal and not a god of unspeakable Destruction.

“You’ve brought Era Nova, just as promised.” He holds his gaze, tipping Phainon’s head up when it tilts forward. With a derisive snort, “I’d expect nothing less from you.”

“Era Nova,” Phainon repeats, in his cracking voice, his throat smoke-dry. It’s a formless concept - something that, by Lygus’ design, should not exist. And yet the sunlight that shines through the window is natural and unrelenting in the face of its own impossibility.

Phainon coughs, and keeps coughing. The waves of muscle along his ribs spasm uselessly, the air catching in his throat; he chokes on it, the breath that escapes whistling through his teeth, scraping painfully against his trachea.

“The rest are coming.” Mydei says, tearing his eyes away to look over his shoulder. A stampede of footsteps follows - an incongruous procession of shuffling. Tribbie arrives first, the bright red of her hair stark against the lacquered wood of the door. Then Stelle, Hyacine, Anaxa, Aglaea, Castorice, Cipher.

“Lord Mydei!” Hyacine exclaims. “Stop manhandling my patient!”

Phainon is released immediately, Mydei pulling back like a chastised chimera. His vision spins, vertigo tapping the back of his neck.

The Chrysos Heirs stand, alive and well, before him, even though the last cycle he remembers - it had ended no differently than any other. Stelle must have told them the truth, yes? If they remember him now, they must also remember the empty husk which had killed them. His eyes drop back down to the bed, unable to look directly at any of his undeserved guests.

“You just got back from the Space Station,” Hyacine says, “How are you feeling right now? Does anything hurt? Do you remember what happened?” She thumbs through the sheaf of papers in her hands - nothing like the scrolls or slates of the Grove. “Madam Herta recommends that we keep you well-hydrated.”

She mumbles to herself, brow furrowing. Ica trills behind her, staring at him with a disdain that shouldn’t be possible from a creature so small. “Second and third-degree burns all over your body, penetration wound to the abdomen - all of you, out until I can confirm he’s stable, I need space to work. Professor, we should start setting up the IV.”

It’s always fascinating to watch Hyacine step into her element: small and timid as she may be, a healer is not to be underestimated. She never raises her voice in any other circumstance, only when advocating for her patients.

She always looked so small upon Aquila’s mantle, the weight of the sky heavy upon her shoulders, but she never gave in. Not once in any cycle had she failed to assume divinity.

“It’s not… necessary.” It’s still hard to speak, though less difficult than it had been earlier. The wounds will heal and he’ll tear himself open again, like he always does - such is the nature of Destruction. Wounds, on this body, are to be expected. Besides, she surely has other work to attend to - even if this is Era Nova and not some cruel hallucination. “It will heal. Why are you…”

He doesn’t know what he means to ask. Why are you still here? Why are you putting up with me? Don’t you know what I did? Don’t you know how much of your blood I’ve spilled?

Reluctantly, the amassed crowd hangs outside the door - just far enough to give him space. Close enough to keep an eye on him still.

Hyacine scowls, expression like storm clouds.

“If you’ll recall, Hyacinthia is a trained medical professional,” Professor Anaxa replies, his eyes piercing, like he knows what Phainon is thinking. He always makes him feel so terribly transparent. “And you are in need of treatment. Should it not be obvious?”

“You know about the eternal recurrence.”

“Extensively.” The displeased line of his mouth thins further, frustration radiating off the sharp angles of his body. “Though it would have been clear even if the explanation was insufficient, what with the mess you’ve made of yourself. It’s nothing short of a medical miracle that you’re still breathing.”

Hyacine frowns, too, like a wilted sunflower. Perhaps they remember their deaths, or any number of the sins he’s committed. He presses himself back against the wall, even though he should meet their eyes and accept whatever retribution they see fit.

Both of them look up - Hyacine from her files, Anaxa from the IV - and their expressions soften immediately.

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, dispel those ridiculous notions of yours immediately.” The professor says, no less firm, but more considerate about those sharp edges, “The cycle has concluded. Rest the weight of the world at your feet.”

He closes his eyes against the hollow burn. This time, the tears don’t come freely as they did in the lab. He supposes he was cold, then. Cold enough not to burn the grief from his chest. “I’m not-”

Anaxa sighs. “I know. Is there something you prefer to be called?”

“Just-” His breath catches again. Khaslana is the name of the being that weathered thirty-million cycles, who bled the world dry to keep it turning. In this new Era Nova, is there any purpose to him? Is there any purpose for a Deliverer at all?

What Amphoreus needs now is not Destruction, but he can’t turn THEIR gaze away.

“Just Phainon.”

There is more to be said - much more - but he can’t find the strength to keep his head up. The fire which has kept him burning all these years, the fire that would eventually thaw Amphoreus, is extinguished, no longer necessary to warm the world at his expense.

“You can go to sleep,” Hyacine says, attempting to smile. “Let us bear some of the burden this time, okay? Many hands make light work.”

As consciousness slips once again, he can’t bring himself to believe them.

The information that Hyacine has is incomplete at best, contradictory at worst. Twelve pages of extensive imaging - from both soft and dense tissue to biopsies to several comprehensive blood panels - she has no idea how she was able to obtain so much information so quickly.

“When he came in,” Hyacine frowns, “His right arm and wing were in the beginning stages of epimorphosis upon admittance, left wing took longer to regenerate due to ‘apparent cauterization wound’. Chest scarring consistent between both forms.”

There is an upsettingly long list of injuries marked down, most of which are nonlethal, if confusing. Phainon hadn't confessed anything as to the lost limbs or the open wound on his abdomen.

“The pests are waiting.” Professor Anaxa says, rerouting from Phainon to the Chrysos Heirs still in the hallway. “We need the dry dressings, regardless. You deal with these people while I get them.”

“Don’t leave him on his back,” She chides as he makes to leave.

“How’s the ole’ Deliverer boy?” Cipher asks, popping her head into the doorway to look at the sleeping form on the bed. “We were beginning to think he got lost in transit.”

“Is Snowy gonna be okay?” Trianne asks, with big, watery eyes.

“He’s, well, physically speaking he should make a full recovery.” Hyacine glances over her shoulder. The body she’d seen on the Space Station - it wasn’t human, closer to the Titans they had once taken the Coreflames from. The hardened skin of Titankin, wings which could slice through steel, hair that gleamed like liquid gold. And his eyes, when Phainon had finally opened them to look back, were ringed with gold, eclipsing the blue she’s so used to seeing.

No one is sure what to say about the thirty-million cycles. Not even Stelle, who saw bits and pieces of the torture.

“He’s just sleeping now.” She says quietly. “It’s probably for the best. He can heal faster in the winged form, but it takes more effort - according to what Madam Herta said. You guys can sit with him, as long as you’re quiet. I’d prefer if he wasn’t alone.”

As it turns out, it seems none of them have a very good idea of how to deal with Phainon.

Hyacine has treated him before, but rarely. Unless his injuries were severe, he tried to stay out of the Twilight Grove as much as possible - to take the burden off of her shoulders, of course. He’s always had a bad habit of covering up injuries and downplaying his condition. She used to think it was some form of self-flagellation, even as he swore to the moon and back that it wasn’t a punishment. Now, she thinks she might have been right.

But maybe this is all just very standard for him. She hadn't gotten the chance to ask him to describe what his pain levels were like.

“He didn’t seem entirely lucid. Don’t be surprised if he - ah - drifts.”

She politely overlooks the way Mydei’s fingers bleed white. “I also noticed that the room… it seemed to be getting hotter.”

“Burning,” Aglaea says, her mouth pursed. Her golden threads would not miss something like that. Mydei sighs.

“For now, we’ll just monitor. I know we all have responsibilities, so maybe we should set up a rotating schedule. I don’t trust anyone from the Grove to look after him.” Bless Clementine, but Hyacine couldn’t in good conscience volunteer her for this service - both for her and Phainon’s sakes. His condition is best kept a secret for the time being, at least until he can defend himself.

“I’ll stay.” Mydei says, to no one’s surprise.

“We weren’t finished setting up his room.” Castorice says. “I’ll stay as well - you and the Professor should take as much time as you need.”

“Does the Kremnoan detachment no longer require your guidance?” Aglaea asks, her voice smooth as silk, with all the cunning charm of Mnestia themself. Even so, her eyes are soft. Fond, in a way that Hyacine hasn’t seen in a long time. She hopes her and Cipher have reconciled - the both of them deserve to enjoy this well-fought peace.

“My people are not so dependent that they require my micromanagement.” He drawls. “Perhaps you should loosen your grip on Okhema.”

“Perhaps I should.” Aglaea replies easily. The triplets blink up at her. Even Cipher is quiet. “In this era of peace, may there be no need for these golden threads of mine. But, this is a discussion for another time. I’m confident that Phainon will be safe in your care - both of you.”

And because this is the closest thing to a blessing bestowed by Mnestia as there is, the room warms.

“Take care of my student in my absence.” She hovers in the doorway, as if unsure whether she has the right to enter the space. “I have some matters of the Council to attend, but I will return when I can.”

“We’ll text if he wakes up.” Castorice promises.

Hyacine turns back to take one more look at her friend’s pale face. This journey has not treated him kindly, and it shows in the shadows beneath his eyes and the pallor of his skin, the heavy weight bowing his spine.

Even Kephale was graced with four arms, and even they had been forced to kneel under the weight of the world.

So it is fortunate, she decides, that there are so many hands between them to share the burden.

He finds himself in Aedes Elysiae again.

“You should stop coming here. It really isn’t safe for you,” Cyrene says, the smile on her face tired, and no less serene for it, as she sits on her swing. Phainon remembers when his father made it for her - he’d been of absolutely no help at all, barely able to walk, grabbing at passing sandal-laces with curious fingers.

I didn’t do it on purpose, he wants to reply, but the playful banter doesn’t come.

“What is this place?”

“A memory. My memory.” She turns her face to the water, collecting yellowing leaves. It looks so real that he could scoop out the mud and algae collecting beneath the surface. “I made this place so that I wouldn’t get bored - or lonely, I guess.”

“There’s no one here. Why would that make you less lonely?”

“Well, you’re here, aren’t you?” The crooked smile fades from her face. “The Remembrance doesn’t get along with the Destruction. If you stay here too long - well, you won’t be able to go back. And we wouldn’t want to disappoint your friends after they’ve waited so long.”

“If this is really Era Nova, why aren’t you there?”

“Ah, well.” The steady creak slows. Cyrene stops kicking. “That just isn’t how it works. But I’m okay with that - I knew what I was getting into. It’s not like I’m stuck here, anyways. Memokeepers are everywhere, did you know? There’s plenty to read, and plenty to observe, even if the Pathstriders make for terrible company. Come stand over here - don’t be a stranger.”

They never got to talk much in the Vortex of Genesis - he has one lifetime of memories with her and little else. No chance to explain the finer details of rewinding time before he was made to slit her throat.

He obliges her request, sitting cross-legged on the deck. “Do you just sit here?”

“I watch.” She replies. “Sometimes I look through old memories. Stelle visits me sometimes, too. Don’t you think that’s better than having to herd citizens away from disaster and fight titankin? A peaceful life is something you once wished for.”

Phainon can’t remember that. He can’t remember ever conceptualizing a life so easy and straightforward.

“I walk the path of Destruction,” He says quietly, as if afraid to admit it to the peaceful memory of his hometown and stain it with the truth, “There is no peaceful life in my future.”

He’s made his peace with that. He hasn’t had any such delusions since he drew the Deliverer card from Cyrene’s deck.

“Wasn’t it the two of us who decided to circumvent fate?” Cyrene smiles, reaching one hand out to him. “What’s one more miracle, among our many? If you want to open that antique shop like you once dreamed, or if you want to travel on the silver rails with your friends, or - become a librarian in that library you promised to visit,” She grins, and Phainon looks away, heavy with emotions he can’t place. If he calls it hope he’s afraid it will break apart in his shaking hands.

“Regardless,” She continues, “It can be yours.”

“I don’t remember what it’s like to be…” He stares at his lap so he doesn’t have to think about the thirty-million corpses he’d dragged with him through the cycles. “I’ve killed you thirty three million times. How can you sit here next to me?”

“All those lifetimes and you still never learn.” She reaches out again to brush his bangs away from his face, but hesitates. Maybe remembering the way he flinched. “I don’t remember much of the killing anyways. Not actively, at least. It’s all in there, somewhere, but… distant. What about you, then? Do you resent me?”

“Resent you?” He echoes. There is no resentment left in him. Not for anything other than Destruction. “No.”

She sighs, “I thought so. If we’re asking stupid questions, let me ask one of my own: what were you hoping to accomplish when you challenged Nanook?”

The air shivers, warding against the tread of foreign gods.

“...you know about that?”

“I know about everything.” She replies, the cheer in her voice teetering towards anger. “What did you mean to do when you challenged THEIR armies?”

He keeps his gaze fixed on the frozen horizon; the sun on the cusp of daybreak, cradled in pink and orange clouds. “If you know everything, don’t you already have the answer?”

“Hmm.” She replies, sharing in the sunrise with him. “At least now I know you’re as bad at lying as always. Maybe I wanted to hear it out of your mouth. It’s my own fault. I figured you would deflect and I asked anyway.”

He pulls a piece of grass out. That stings, but not more than the Coreflames he bore for so long, so really it’s nothing in comparison. “Do my intentions matter? I was assimilated into Irontomb either way.”

“Do you think they don’t matter?”

“Who’s deflecting now?”

This feels practiced. Easy. He can pretend he’s ten years old again, and their dreams of the future are distant and fantastical. Cyrene will become a priest of Oronyx and Phainon will become a wandering swordsmaster. Cyrene will be so good at her craft that she completes her training in record time. They’ll remain in contact, of course. Phainon will send letters and Cyrene will have to divine before-hand where he’ll be when she sends him her response.

They used to play make-believe here. They would pass each other fake letters, copying the fashionable calligraphy the priests wrote in - butchering it terribly, such that he could scarcely tell when one shape ended and the other began.

From your dearest sister, most accomplished Priest of Oronyx, and they would laugh into their hands. Night would fall, and his parents would call them in for dinner.

“Cyrene,” He says, his voice barely a whisper, “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Rest, for one. You can figure it out from there.” He feels her watching him, looking for childhood tells that have been ironed out by both training and time. “And I’ll still be here watching, so don’t do anything stupid.”

“Okay.” He closes his eyes. “I won’t.”

Mydei only remembers that it is the month of Joy when he visits the Marmoreal Market for the first time since reconstruction ended. In spite of everything, Okhema basks in Phaguosa’s revelry.

Hastily-woven banners stream from the rooftops; Okhema’s citizens dress in the customary blue, and the indulgences have already begun: in the center of the plaza, they’re preparing soup; one woman is washing clean bags worth of starshells. Olive oil, onions, garlic, wolfpepper, bay leaves and rosemary. He knows this recipe - though he had not been inclined to participate in any of Okhema’s cultural events in this lifetime.

Libations of wine are poured into the cracks in the cobble, feeding the dirt and the gods below. Later there will be song and dance. The Okhema stage troupe should be making an appearance as well.

In the previous cycle, the Deliverer was both persistent and extroverted enough to convince him. Demetria had invited Phainon to help cook, and because Mydei could not trust him not to ruin the food, he came along.

Castrum Kremnos never would have indulged itself with such hedonism, but even so, he spots some of the detachment among their kind. Perhaps it’s for the best. There is no better time to celebrate than right now.

The world has suffered greatly, even if they are not aware of the sacrifices which have brought them to this point. He tries not to fault them for it. There are whispers about the Deliverer as he passes, chalices poured, whine collected in the phiale, asking for blessings of healing and longevity and peace. Bas

“Lord Mydei!” Castorice calls from the crowd. She separates from the group she’s speaking with - acolytes of Thanatos, from the looks of them - he wasn’t sure there were any of those left - and bounds over to him. “I picked up a couple of things for Phainon’s room when I was shopping. Just some things to lighten it up, you know? When we were in the Grove together we were in the same book club - I think I remember a series he liked. A few more blankets, too.”

What she presents to him can only be described as the most incompatible series of blankets, throw pillows, knick-knacks and decorations that he’s ever seen. There is no sense of theme or consistency between them - the chimera mug in her hands is a particularly egregious offence to artistry.

Mydei sighs, “He’ll love it.”

“I didn’t think you’d be the kind to appreciate Phagousa’s festivities.” Castorice says. “You don’t like drinking, if I’m not mistaken?”

“I forgot the ceremony started today.” He replies. “We don’t observe this holiday in Kremnos.”

“Even Aidonia was wary of invoking the wrath of the sea, so we usually brewed ambrosia as a placation. But I suppose Kremnos isn’t seafaring in any sense of the word. Are you planning to stay long?”

“I was looking for something. For the Deliverer.” Mydei replies. In the last cycle, after the brewing, he and Phainon had traveled to the wharf where the fishermen were selling their fish. He remembers him grabbing something off a vendor’s table on the way there, breaking off into a fifteen-minute conversation about whatever bauble interested him so.

Seaglass. It was seaglass.

“Do you mind the company?”

“No. Not at all.”

"How are the reconstruction plans with Castrum Kremnos proceeding?" Castorice asks. The potted plant in her hands - held far away from her chest - doesn't seem to wilt just by proximity.

"Krateros and I are arguing." Mydei replies. "So, as usual."

He meant it when he said he was ending the dynasty. There would be no more kings to answer to and no more blood shed in their names. Krateros, of course, has his reservations. So do about a quarter of the detachment. These arguments have been rehashed time and time again. Sometimes it feels like this peace is nothing more than a prelude for something more to come. "What are you going to do now?"

"I'm going to continue overseeing funerals." She says, and this time she seems confident and not like it's an unwelcome duty that has been forced upon her by circumstance. "Oh, have you seen miss Hyacine since this morning? She didn't look so well this morning. Usually she... tries to maintain a positive front. It's worrying me - both for her and for Phainon."

Of course she didn't, Mydei thinks. That isn't something anyone wants to see. He recalls the glazed, animal terror in Phainon's eyes as he grabbed him, the way he'd tried to smash his head into the wall to escape, the panicked crescendo of his heartbeat under Mydei's thumb.

"Let's head back, I need to put these things down."

To relieve Hyacine of any additional stress, Anaxa takes the second watch of the day. Her hair had started falling out of her carefully-slicked curls, her clothes rumpled, bags under her eyes almost as bad as Phainon’s - between the two of them, he has his work cut out for him. Castorice, Hyacine, and Phainon had been among his more memorable students, and not because of their golden blood, but because of their bullheaded, foolish, near-inexhaustible stubbornness. It was no surprise that the three had flocked together like a terrible omen for that teaching year.

Classes at the Grove are paused until further notice. He can’t very well force the students off-campus, but the Goldweaver wants to ensure that safety precautions are taken.

He casts his eyes back down at Phainon, turned away from him, tucked against the wall, knees curled up to his chest. The rise of his chest is worryingly shallow - or it would be, if not for the information that Madam Herta had been so kind as to include.

The only point of reference he has for the power of an Emanator is the gods of Amphoreus, and they pale in comparison. And yet, here one is before him, unconscious and wounded.

From the hallway, he hears the triplets return with armfuls of clean linens.

“Aggy has to sow new ones,” Tribbie says, “We forgot that the ones we gave him don’t exist in this world.”

“This is fine for now,” And because he isn’t completely without propriety, “Thank you.”

Trianne preens, then sobers, pausing at the end of Phainon’s bed. She’s barely tall enough to see over it. The years have taken much from her.

“Why did he look scared when he woke up?”

“He’s wounded.” Anaxa replies. “Burn injuries are infamous for being terribly painful.”

Both of them know that pain is rarely enough to render Phainon immobile or afraid. There are stories all around the holy city and the Grove of the wounds he’s managed to walk off - he can’t ever be sure whether or not they’re embellished. Phainon is most certainly in pain, but it wasn’t that pain that made him flinch away.

The burden of thirty million lifetimes is inconceivable. Anything human should have broken long ago. And yet, Amphoreus had lauded him as the Deliverer, the one who would bear the world - is this any different?

Perhaps he’s come to expect such pain.

Thinking about his student’s shortcomings puts him in an unpleasant mood. Only an incorrigible fool could misinterpret anything so badly. Only Phainon could manage to twist their care into another weapon to point at himself.

Like a lamb at the altar, Phainon steps up again and again and bows his head.

Trianne crawls up onto the bed, far enough not to touch him.

“Wake up soon, Snowy. It’s quiet here without you.” She says. “We’re not mad at you, so don’t be afraid.”

“I doubt he can hear you.” Anaxa says. “Besides, you’re aware he’ll never let you make it that easy.”

“That’s okay. If we couldn’t handle a challenge, we wouldn’t have made it this far in the first place. When he wakes up, we'll just make sure to tell him again."

A pleasantly simple answer to a difficult question - he's sure she would have made a thoughtful student in another life. Before he can think of an answer to that, the room drops in temperature. The corners of the room crystallize, shards of ice crawling up the walls. It feels very much like the Trailblazer's ability to manipulate memoria. The power of Remembrance is in the room with them.

"Sorry for dropping in," A voice says, a recognizable voice, at that, "I'm giving him back. Wanted to make sure you guys were watching him with how often he's slipping into the memoria field."

Cyrene alights in the middle of the room. Anaxa sheaths his pistol, the tension in his shoulders dropping.

"It's you!" Tribbie declares. He notices that the triplets had assumed a defensive position around Phainon, still asleep. A laughable endeavor, the three of them attempting to protect a god, but a respectable one nonetheless. At the same time, Trianne yells, "The pink puppy!"

"No, I - that's not the point."

"You came here to tell us to stop him from falling asleep?" Anaxa drawls. He knows Phainon's sister. He spoke of her briefly, but reverently, the rare moments he'd bring her up. "If he's ending up in your realm as often as you're saying, why haven't you stopped by to warn us before?"

"Nothing gets past you, Professor. You're every bit as sharp as he said. I just wanted to tell you to be careful, really, it's..." She pauses, her head tilting. It's the same mannerism as what Phainon does - doglike, unfortunately endearing. "You aren't yet aware what the implications of having a Lord Ravager here are yet. That's not your fault. The Garden deals with the past, not the future, but I... want to tell you that the story isn't over yet."

"How ominous." He replies flatly. "Isn't it a bit too soon for another prophecy?"

"Nothing like that, no prophecies." Cyrene says. Her image flickers. A burst of warm air blows through the door. "That's my signal. I'm not supposed to stay here for too long either. See you, professor, Tribbies."

"Bye," Trianne waves uncertainly.

In the space between a second, she's gone. The chill seeps out of his fingers. With a nagging dread, he sinks back into his seat, watching dispassionately as the triplets crawl around the bed. Phainon, in his sleep, has turned onto his back again. His brows furrow for a moment. Anaxa reaches out to roll him back over, but his eyes open.

Tribbie, curled up on his chest, squeaks.

Phainon manages a choked breath, reaching up instinctively to steady her weight. Then, he releases her like he's been burned. Or, like he's burned her. Thankfully, before he can chase that fear in circles, Tribbie lunges, wrapping her arms around his neck so tight it's a wonder he can breathe at all.

"Lady Tribbie-"

"Snowy!" The other two pounce, and he hasn't the strength to push them away. He just lays there, blinking up at the ceiling. After a moment, he turns his face Anaxa's way.

"Professor...?"

"You've been asleep for seven hours." Anaxa replies, in lieu of greeting. "You need to drink something, and preferably you'll manage to keep solid food down."

He expects resistance, or perhaps blatant disregard, but Phainon, eventually, relents. The triplets crawl into his arms as he maneuvers himself upright, his labored breathing an uncomfortable sound in the neutral quiet of the room. Tribbie keeps her hands fisted in his collar, refusing to let go even when it clearly strains him.

If he has the strength to withstand these cycles, he has the strength to harvest the fruits of his labor.

He offers a hand when he slides shakily off the bed, trembling and overhot, and Phainon stumbles on.

Chapter Text

Amphoreus has a long history of ritual sacrifice. The seafaring city-states often spilt the first brew to the waves to quench Phagousa’s thirst for hedonism. Janusopolis and its wandering faithful would offer a sacrifice before another sacred pilgrimage. Aidonia offered communion to the realm of the dead, and priests of Oronyx divined the future with the bones of livestock. Even the cities under Georios’ rule would offer the first harvest of the season.

Not even the Grove could be considered bereft of ritual. Sacrifice was made in the form of long nights toiled over a paper, suffering in pursuit of knowledge. It was to leave an eye at the grave of an older sister for just one more glimpse.

Phainon has internalized these teachings well.

He barely stands upright - tilting precariously, only steadied by Trianne and Trinnon, wrapped around an ankle each. Tribbie, one hand still fisted in his collar, tucks her head against his shoulder. His free hand, not occupied by the High Priestess, white-knuckles the IV. Phainon tries stubbornly, infuriatingly, not to waver. His eyes are glazed, skin flushed with fever, trembling with the full weight of awareness, and he still stumbles forward.

Anaxa watches him collapse into the chair across from him - boneless, like someone sliced his achilles tendon. He would be more concerned if not for the fact that his obstinate nature alone was compelling him to behave like this. As it stands, he’s mostly irritated by his brilliant, bull-headed, misguided student.

“Professor,” He croaks, chin dipping towards his chest.

“I’m here to keep watch,” Anaxa replies before he can fully develop whatever ridiculous thought was going to come out of his mouth. “You’ve been asleep for seven hours - you’ll likely need to sleep more. To answer your questions: the Anti-Organic equation has been removed from the scepter’s calculations, that Emanator called Herta is helping to iron out the details. The Chrysos Heirs are alive and well. You are the only one presently injured.”

His eyes flash - brief recognition which falls back into murky, lightless gray.

“Can you handle food right now?”

Phainon grimaces. He immediately covers it up with a thin-mouthed smile which then fades back into the blank affect he’s coming to expect from him. A flicker of Phainon beneath the shield that was Khaslana.

The last time he saw his student so violently unwell was when he came to class after a drinking competition between himself, Castorice, and Hyacine. Between the three of them not one could walk in a straight line, and absolutely no papers were graded that night.

This is not nearly as amusing.

“...yes.”

Anaxa glares at him. It is an insultingly obvious lie, not that Phainon has ever been good at lying. He can dance around the truth as much as he pleases, it will not change the open honesty on his face that not even millions of lifetimes could take from him.

The debate champion of the Grove says nothing to his defense. He stares down at the table with his unfocused, glassy eyes, and Anaxa exhales with enough irritation to chafe. He sees it in the way his mouth tenses at the corners.

Terrible liar. Naive optimist. Foolish boy.

“I’m going to bring you food.” He tells him. The caloric intake required of powers like those must be nothing short of nightmarish, and Phainon’s appetite was already intimidating. “Do not attempt to get up. Not only will you not make it past the door, you’ll only humiliate both yourself and the High Priestess. Am I understood?”

“Yes,” Phainon says, still not up to his baseline, still mostly flat, “Professor Anax-”

“It’s Anaxagoras, you ungrateful whelp.”

“He didn’t even finish…” Trianne mumbles, sitting on Phainon’s foot, her cheek pressed against his pant leg. Whatever Phainon thinks of their clinging, Anaxa can’t say.

“I’m certain his disrespect has survived these many years. If you need anything, I won’t be far.”

As he goes to prepare something appropriate and nutritionally-balanced, he hears a soft humming. A child’s voice, high and meandering. The High Priestess must be singing. Most of Janus’ sycophants have foregone permanence, and thus must maintain a strong oral history. Travel and hymns, Janus’ virtues. Their stories were offerings to Fate.

Traditionally, sacrifices were meant to appear willing. The animal would be adorned with garlands and led to its death with gentle hands and soothing voices. The practice helped maintain the illusion of willingness. It was a superficial, duplicitous joy. Just as superficial and duplicitous as the smile Phainon had attempted to offer him.

“Snowy…” He hears Tribbie’s voice echo through the thin walls.

Phainon mumbles something in response, so quiet that the Priestess is the only one to hear it.

By the time he returns, their conversation has diminished to quiet humming. When he enters, Trinnon and Trianne have joined their sister on Phainon’s knees. He has one arm wrapped loosely around the three of them, trembling as it hovers millimeters from their backs, like he’s afraid he’ll hurt them. Tribbie’s hands are on either side of his face, steering his gaze towards her.

“Snowy isn’t feeling well.” She says. Phainon makes a noise of protest but doesn’t elaborate.

“He can speak for himself.” Anaxa replies. “Unless he’s more injured than he’s letting on?”

The provocation does not bait rise. Phainon just makes the same noise of mild disagreement.

“Snowy was worried he’d burn us.” Trianne says. “His other form is, um… really burn-y, right?”

Anaxa raises an unimpressed eyebrow. Another question Phainon was perfectly capable of asking himself - still, it was one he could answer.

“Since receiving the favor of that Aeon, your body is more capable of dealing with the heat of the Coreflames. You’re able to withstand an incredible amount of heat in both forms, but this one seems better regulated.”

He thinks of the way the Flame Reaver moved, the way it singed the air and left charred remains behind. A body that was awfully fragile compared to the power it wielded. The scent of ash and burning skin. His hypothesis had been correct, unfortunately.

It seems obvious now. Cifera’s clones, the ability to rend time, the scent of death; all echoes of the Titan’s power that he’d captured.

“Cinny’s coming.” Tribbie says, her head swivelling towards the door. Not a moment later, she skids into the room, chest heaving.

“Oh,” She wheezes, “You’re awake!”

“I thought I told you to rest, not sprint the distance from the Grove to Okhema.” Anaxa drawls. His suggestion is cheerfully ignored - kind as Hyacine may be, obedience is not one of her virtues. His two woefully self-sacrificial students stand off against each other in a battle of who will admit to weakness first.

Hyacine clears her throat diplomatically. “If you’re amenable, Lord Phainon, I’d like to continue my checkup.”

“Catch your breath first,” Anaxa chastises. “And you - don’t fall asleep. We just had a discussion about this with your sister.”

Phainon’s eyes crack open. “Cyrene was here?”

“She was concerned with your tendency to slip into her memoria field.” He says. “Hyacine, you can conduct your assessment sitting down. The High Priestess and I will wait elsewhere.”

“But-” Trianne pouts.

“We should give Snowy his privacy.” Tribbie placates her, running a hand through her hair. Anaxa doesn’t wait for the three to catch up as he exits the room, still turning over his earlier observations in his mind.

Once outside, Tribbie sobers considerably. As the more experienced between them, she also has a better grasp of Phainon’s mannerisms.

“High Priestess, you’ve known Phainon longer than I have. What are your thoughts about his behavior?”

“He’s very tense.” She says. Trianne wrings her hands. “Before we became a demigod, we would perform rituals to Janus for safe passage. The first time we had to perform the ceremony, we made a mistake. The lamb saw the knife. It wasn’t supposed to know what was going to happen. We thought it would try to escape, but it didn’t. It just stared. This is something like that.”

Of all the demigods, Tribios is the one most acquainted with loss. She would know better than anyone what the shape of sacrifice was. In this Era Nova, where the gods do not demand bloodshed, perhaps it will no longer be required of them.

“We’re not sure how to help him.” She admits.

"Phainon is the only one that can decide to step forward." Anaxa replies. "A teacher cannot guide his students forever. You ought to know that."

Tribbie sighs. "I suppose I should."

Stelle crashes into the baths with all the grace of a grounded falcon. The water curtain parts haphazardly - she runs through the spray before it has a chance to finish - running, then walking briskly when the lifeguard blows her whistle. It’s clear she’s headed for the Hero’s Baths. She spots Dan Heng and March behind her, more subdued.

As usual, Stelle has worn her regular clothes in favor of anything more suited for the baths. March, at least, is wearing a swimsuit, her hair tied into twin buns with a golden ribbon.

“Heroes,” Aglaea says, when the three of them have eventually made their way up. March gawks at the fountains. “How may I help you?”

“Apologies for disturbing you,” Dan Heng says, side-eyeing his companions. Stelle drags March into the hot-baths. “Madam Herta asked us to relay a message to you. It’s… a matter of urgency. And,” He pauses stiffly, “I apologize for my recent absence and… March’s behavior…”

“Did you just freeze the water?”

“I didn’t mean to!” March yelps. “I’m still getting used to this!”

Stelle readies her flaming lance. Dan Heng looks so positively defeated she has to suppress the curl of amusement in her chest.

“It’s alright. Their antics are familiar.” She found herself often exasperated by Mydei and Phainon’s childish competitions, but she would love to see them now - if only to confirm that all was well between them. “What did you wish to discuss?”

“It’s about Phainon.”

Aglaea sits up straighter. “Is he alright?”

“Physically speaking. Madam Herta raised a concern that regards the rest of the galaxy. You know that Lord Ravagers are not well-received across the cosmos.”

“Is there something that poses a threat to him?” She hears the way her voice goes cold, assuming leadership once more.

“It’s only a matter of time.” Dan Heng says. “There aren’t many factions that wouldn’t do away with a Lord Ravager if they had the chance. I doubt any of them will have the decency to investigate that claim before reacting with violence. Madam Herta says that the memoria cloud is dense enough to cover up the traces of Destruction, but in disabling the scepter some of its mechanisms could not be recovered. One of those was its cloaking devices. Besides that, she said that some IPC scouts were seen in the Space Station’s orbit.”

“You’ve mentioned them before.” The water doesn’t seem as pleasantly warm anymore. Her threads may not be as powerful as they used to be, but the tension in Dan Heng is plain for the naked eye. “You believe they pose a significant risk?”

Dan Heng grimaces. “It’s a… mega corporation. More like a monopoly. Followers of the Preservation. They’ve destroyed planets for less. If they suspect Amphoreus to be harboring a Ravager, it’s likely that they will attempt to… minimize the risk.”

“Anaxa and I had already anticipated that his condition would attract the eyes of the galaxy.” Aglaea says, her voice heavy. “We haven’t had time to prepare contingencies for their eventual interest. Did Madam Herta have an estimate for how long the cover will last?”

“Sunday predicted it could hide him for a few more months, standard time.”

A woefully insufficient period, but she’s worked with worse odds before.

“Dan Heng, I would ask that you and your companions not mention this to Phainon.”

He hesitates. “With all due respect, I’d… I would prefer not to keep the truth from him.”

“I understand your concern.” Just like that, all of the relaxation has washed away. Regardless of age or humanity or lack thereof, as long as Aglaea remains Okhema’s leader, she has a responsibility to the people. “It isn’t that I wish to lie to him, but I fear he isn’t in the state to receive such news. He’s only just recovered enough to stand. If Phainon believes himself to be a threat to Amphoreus’ prosperity, he will remove himself immediately. It’s not a permanent solution, but until we can conceive of an alternative, I’d like to spare him.”

“Alright.” Dan Heng says. “Please remember, if nothing else, the Astral Express will take him. We already have a fragment of Destruction onboard. I do have… a question, though.”

“Please, go ahead.”

“As the leader of Okhema, it seems like the safest course of action would be to send Phainon elsewhere. Is this something you’ve considered?” His eyes catch her finger, twisting around one of her threads. Aglaea can no longer read hearts, but there’s a certain steel beneath his words. The Nameless are a fiercely protective, close-knit unit. She does not suppose he would take kindly to the idea of abandoning comrades.

“I will not lie and say the possibility did not cross my mind,” She sighs, “However, I do not wish to send him away. Amphoreus is his home, and he’s sacrificed endlessly for it. If that can be avoided, I will do everything in my power to weave it into fate. Phainon is one of ours, and thus we have a responsibility to him as much as he has a responsibility to us.”

Dan Heng sighs. “I’m glad. There was also something Stelle wanted to talk to you about-”

Over his shoulder, Stelle and March are play-fighting in the shallows. Aglaea does not reprimand them for it; this is the joy required of the future. Era Nova will sing of peace.

“Are you guys talking about me?” She asks.

“You had something to say.” Dan Heng reminds her flatly. “Please don’t cause her any more trouble.”

“Stelle,” March whispers, “You’re embarrassing him.”

“I’m embarrassing him? I’m not the one running around with floaties on my arms-”

“You went in the baths with your regular clothes! Like a - like a heathen!”

“What did you just call me!?”

“Behave,” Dan Heng hisses, “You’re representing the Astral Express.”

“Yes, mom.” They chorus.

“Hey, Dan Heng, while she talks with Lady Aglaea, could you take me to see that new friend of yours? I haven’t met him yet!”

“Is that-?” He looks at Aglaea for permission. Teacher hasn’t sent her any updates beyond the fact that Phainon is awake and aware. She can’t say whether or not he would appreciate the company at this point - but her Phainon, the quiet, impulsive, kind-hearted boy she had dragged from the wreckage of Aedes Elysiae, would have liked her.

“It’s up to him.” She replies simply.

“We can see.” Dan Heng says. March clambers out of the water, clutching a purple seal floaty to her chest. It looks very much like the one Phainon used to have. “Be on your best behavior.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m not five.”

Their bickering gets lost beneath the clamor of the public. Aglaea makes herself comfortable again as Stelle slips into the water again, still fully dressed, seemingly unconcerned with the state of her clothing.

“So, Dan Heng mentioned that you had something to tell me?”

Phainon is almost as reluctant to let Tribbie go as he was to hold her. Terrified that he’d burn her, terrified that if he let her go she would crumple into a lifeless doll once again, taking Era Nova with her, he had simply allowed her to do as she pleased, curled around him like a mourner’s shawl. Still, she slides onto the floor and the world doesn’t crash around them. There is nothing earth-shattering about the way she and Anaxa leave the room, or about the way that Hyacine proceeds with her examination.

She asks about pain - he lies. She asks about how often he’s been sleeping and he lies again. Small, harmless things. Little white-lies that used to keep him out of the Grove and out of her hair, so she could focus on the things that really demanded her attention.

To all of her probing, his resounding answer is:

“I’m fine.”

His senses have dulled to pain, anyways. In each cycle, by the time his body has withered into the Flame Reaver, the flames have already devoured sensation altogether.

Her expression darkens. “...Lord Phainon.”

“I’m fine,” He repeats, “Really, Hyacine.” A breath, to break up the ash in his throat, “I’m fine.”

“Phainon.” She repeats, louder. Probably loud enough for the triplets and Anaxa to hear, if they’re still outside the door. It’s a tone he hasn’t heard in awhile. Usually she’s too polite, or perhaps too professional, to call him out until she has empirical evidence. “I hope you don’t think I believe you.”

“Your time is better spent elsewhere.” On anyone other than him. Her glare pierces him again and he fidgets. “I mean… I just don’t… understand how you can be in the same room with me.”

Her face crumples like wet tissue paper. She sets her papers on the table and drags the chair closer to him.

“Why do you think that?”

“Stelle… told you everything, yes?”

“She did.” Hyacine replies. She smoothes out her skirt, a nervous tick. “She explained what happened, and why you did what you did. You can’t seriously think that we’d be angry at you for that.”

Phainon stares at his hands - at the cracked skin, split by divinity. Golden blood still glistens when he presses his thumb into a cut on his palm, just like Nanook’s. Last cycle, Hyacine had never encountered the Flame Reaver at all. It makes sense why she, out of everyone, could be so unbothered. Anaxa, he has no such excuses.

“This doesn’t feel real.” He settles on.

“What about it doesn’t? Is this not the Era Nova you imagined?” She tilts her head. “I mean, you must’ve thought about what it would look like.”

Maybe in the beginning, but nothing could subside on hope alone. There were times he fantasized about it - the Heirs, alive, doing whatever they wanted once fate relinquished its hold. He’d accounted for all of their wishes, every single one of them. If he ever made it to that paradise, he imagined they would be angry, at least. If they wished him dead, Phainon would be compelled to obey, as always. He would be glad to fulfill anything they asked of him.

“I thought there’d be more… crying, screaming, fighting. I don’t know.”

Hyacine smiles. “Sounds like what we’ve been doing for a very long time now.”

His voice cracks again when he opens his mouth, “Has your wish… been fulfilled?”

“My wish?” She leans back. “Well, my wish was for the people of Amphoreus, and the Chrysos Heirs, to be safe and well. So, I’d say my wish is close to being completed. Now, if you’re done reflecting, are you ready to go over these charts with me? And be honest when I ask you questions this time, okay? That’s my new wish.”

He feels a little bit like a cornered prey animal, torn between the impulses to obey and to flee.

“It doesn’t look like there’s going to be any permanent damage, besides chronic pain. Your arm is healing perfectly - I’m not sure if the same can be said about your wings, but we can check that later. And-”

There’s a knock on the door. When Hyacine pulls it open, Dan Heng and another Nameless are standing in the hallway. The girl has hair as pink as Cyrene’s.

“Phainon,” Dan Heng greets, “I’m glad to see you’re awake.”

“Hi!” The girl says. “My name’s-”

“March, right?”

He’s never met her before. Not in the last cycle. Not in any cycles.

“Did they tell you about me?” She asks, tugging on Dan Heng’s sleeve. “What did they say? Mister Phainon, if they were badmouthing me you have to let me know.”

“Nothing… of the sort.” He smiles faintly. Too shallow to be real, but it’s the best he can muster. “I could tell they cared… about you quite a bit.”

He should apologize for his manner of speech.

“Would it be alright if we came in?” Dan Heng asks softly, glancing at Hyacine. “Of course, if you’re tired, we can do introductions at another time. Stelle is on her way as well.”

“Of course. I’m not sure… I’ll be good company… though.”

“He should give his voice a rest.” Hyacine says pointedly. “And Dan Heng, you owe me a checkup. Are you free tomorrow?” While they engage in the diplomatic art of trying to out-polite each other, March bounds into the room. She’s just like the Trailblazers described.

“My name is March 7th, and Stelle told me your name is Phainon - don’t worry about talking if your throat hurts! I can do that for the both of us. Did they show you my camera? Stelle took a bunch of pictures for me but they were all blurry or out of focus, so I have to go back and retake all of them so I can put them up on my wall. She mentioned something about you liking art I think? Oh! I can show you the pictures I already have - they didn’t already tell you all the cool stories, did they? Do you want to see… hmm, you look like an architecture guy, how about some… scenic shots of Scalegorge Waterscape.”

She swipes through her albums - all carefully sorted and themed.

“You might enjoy the Penacony album, actually, it’s pretty different from the aesthetic here.”

Dan Heng manages to escape Hyacine’s questioning, slipping over to join them. Phainon grows more exhausted by the second, the steady hum of fatigue blurring his peripherals.

“Would you like me to move you back to the bed?” Dan Heng asks. He shakes his head, somewhat dizzy. Then,

“Oh,” March huffs, “Here she comes,”

Stelle bursts into the room like Thanatos themself is on her tail, skidding to a sharp stop and flinging herself into the room. She’s soaking wet, the ends of her hair dripping onto the floor.

“Stelle-” Dan Heng hisses, and then she lunges.

She crosses the threshold in three steps, lurching forward to wrap her arms around his neck. Her weight presses him back into the chair, and Dan Heng and March rise immediately to pry her off, but as soon as Phainon regains his bearings he wraps the arm that isn’t trembling around her shoulders.

“Phainon,” She says, her grin wide and contagious, “You bastard, do you have any idea how worried I was?”

“She was stress eating.” March grimaces. That probably wouldn’t be so bad, but Phainon distinctly recalls the Trailblazer’s peculiar tastes.

His breath hitches despite his best efforts.

“Partner,” His voice shakes traitorously, “The cycles are really over?”

He trusts her. She’s the new variable, the dawn that freed Amphoreus. The trailblazers aren’t data points that Lygus can simulate; this isn’t another trick designed to catch him off guard.

“One-hundred percent over.” She pulls back. Dan Heng grabs her shoulders and yanks her away before she can do anything else ill-advised. “We beat Lygus’ ass so bad he had to jump galaxies. Herta says there’s more of him left if you want a round two, though. He’s not gonna be bothering you again on our watch!”

He goes boneless with relief, shoulders slumping forward. The pain becomes both more dull and more profound. He hears them shuffling around the room while he presses his eyes shut, head rolling against the back of his chair.

Most of the Chrysos Heirs have simple enough wishes: straightforward, at least. He likes to imagine that they’ll be easy to accomplish when Era Nova eventually comes.

Aglaea claims to have no wishes at all, but if he asks her early enough, she confesses to wanting to open a tailor shop. Castorice wishes for her touch to foster life instead of death. Cipher wants a life of riches - but more than anything, she wants to be by Aglaea’s side. Anaxa always turns the question back around on him, but Phainon can wager a guess as to what his ideal world looks like.

Mydei’s, though, is the most simple of all.

In the next life, come visit me in my library.

In every cycle that he kills Mydei, he burns down the library, because there is no future for either of them. He can’t even say why he wastes precious time doing it. Cycle seventy-eight, he reaches Castrum Kremnos, he dispatches Mydei's guards, and he stands in the arena before his opponent. He offers, as he always does, and Mydei refuses. He makes his declaration of war, they fight, and Phainon ends his life with a blade through his tenth thoracic vertebrae.

I wish you eternal victory, he will say, a hollow echo of the sentiment Phainon had once expressed to him, upon Mydei leaving Okhema. He learns, eventually, not to think too much of it. Not to think of anything at all. The pull of the Coreflames drags him forward listlessly, lifelessly, any rebellion or kindness burned out of him by the divine flames.

And still, unfailingly, he ends up at Garbaniphoro.

The imperial library is always beautiful; he understands why Mydei spoke of it with such reverence. A colonnaded courtyard, high, arched ceilings. Allegedly there are more than ten thousand scrolls archived. Throughout these millions of cycles, Phainon has never stepped foot inside to check that number for himself. He’s never even thought about it.

Regardless, it burns all the same. Kindling for the Coreflames, for Khaslana’s folly, for a grief spanning centuries. When there is no more space in his body to turn the pain inwards, he directs it towards the embodiment of all their empty dreams.

He burns, and he brings the library with him.

When he wakes again night has fallen. Kephale’s Dawn Device never permitted darkness into Okhema’s walls; evernight could not reach its claws into their most beloved creation. It’s almost disconcerting, the glow of stars against the black backdrop.

Regardless of his aching, broken body, he kicks the covers off - unsure of who brought him to his bed, too tired to flush with mortification at the thought - and forces his body forward. Professor Anaxa was correct in his earlier assumption: Phainon cannot make it to the door before his legs give out under him. He reaches for the back of the chair, leveraging his body back up.

He is dull to pain, but he is unfamiliar with such weakness. Surely these can’t be the arms that pulled Aquila from the sky not so long ago. Surely this can’t be the body that delivered Amphoreus from thirty three million cycles.

With one hand braced against the wall, he limps towards the market. He doesn’t expect to be bothered at this hour; the darkness will likely chase away any Okhema natives from the streets. He manages in fits and starts, leaning his feverish head against the cold cement of the wall to catch his breath.

Stelle didn’t lie to him about the cycles being over. He knows none of them lied. He knows the darkness speaks for itself, and yet he can’t quell the thread of thought in his mind that insists his work is not done. How can it be? He is still here, and he has pledged to burn himself to ash.

He makes it beneath a line of Phagousa’s banners, swinging gently in the breeze. His aching muscles protest as he forces them up the steps to the terraced roofs. With both feet planted, finally, on the clay tile, he allows himself to waver.

The skyline swims and his knees buckle. He’s vaguely aware of hitting the roof sideways, his body finally giving out beneath the strain of his body.

This would be a good place to die, he thinks. Like a coal smudged against Okhema’s pristine white; a blemish against its beauty. He feels out of place in this calm - forged by unimaginable heat and violence, reshaped by THEIR unsympathetic hands, his broken feathers brushed back into place and his halo undisturbed. It’s THEIR image that he sees in reflection of his own sullen expression, THEIR violence he sees in the sun-bright flames of Garbaniphoro.

“Deliverer,”

He opens his eyes, though he doesn’t remember closing them, his entire body jerking forward, inciting the wrath of his inflamed wounds. Sweat rolls down his temples into his hairline. He digs his blunt nails into the dirt.

Mydei stands silhouetted against Okhema’s skyline, his eyes narrow, arms crossed.

“I left you alone,” He snaps, “for twenty minutes. I nearly had to run around half the city to find you.”

His mouth curls into a lifeless smile. “Is - hah - a little cardio too much for His Majesty?”

Phainon is relieved, so relieved, to see Mydei alive and well. The library has not burned down. There is still time for both of them. Maybe Mydei knows that too, with the way he meets him head-on. Like old-times. Like muscle memory. Like yesterday.

I missed you, he thinks helplessly, with such intensity that he has to shut his eyes again.

“You disturbed everyone’s sleep.” Mydei picks him up by the back of the neck, like a cat scruffing its young, and Phainon doesn’t mean to ruin the moment but he can’t help the strangled, half-breathless whine as he’s forced upright. His stomach lurches. When Khaslana is in pain he burns hotter until he can’t feel anything at all, but that isn’t an option right now.

Mydei releases him immediately, supporting his back before he can slump over again.

“Everyone was out looking for you, haikas.”

“I’m sorry.” He says. He can’t even be sure for what. For dragging them all out here, for continuing to exist as he is, for the thirty million deaths he’s brought to them. The heat that consumed all sense is nowhere to be found. “I’m sorry,” He says again, a deluge of grief. His body shudders, breath hiccuping, and the tears still won’t come. It’s just the hollow ache of scar tissue pulling. Maybe his body has forgotten how to cry.

Mydei mumbles something that he can’t make out, beneath the hysteria, warm against the nape of his neck. He wraps an arm around Phainon’s shoulders so that he doesn’t throw them both onto the street below, a show of open intimacy rare between them. They communicate best in teeth and bruises, violence a virtue upon the flesh.

“Deliverer,” Mydei tells him, in that incredulous tone he takes on when he thinks Phainon is being unreasonable, “I’ve never harbored resentment towards you. Not in any lifetime.”

“Everytime after I killed you… I burned down your library. So that there was no chance… of reconciliation. And still you…”

The arm around his shoulders is almost painful in its grip. Kremnoans never do anything in halves. “So you killed me and salted the earth after - I’m not sure if I should be offended that you’re more hung up about the library than you were with killing me.”

“That’s not-”

“I know what you mean. Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, I’d like to formally invite you to my library as soon as reconstruction has finished.”

“You’re,” Phainon says, “Impossible.”

Mydei pulls back, disentangling them. They can fight properly about this later, when Phainon isn’t undulating and they don’t have company.

“The Goldweaver is here,” He says, and there she is, every bit as brilliant against Okhema’s splendor as she’s always been. Even at the early hour, her hair is perfectly pinned, her robes straightened. Cipher hangs off her arm, pointing at them with obnoxious glee.

Phainon tries to stand, to leave the roof so that they can have a proper audience, but Mydei shoves him back down.

“They’re coming up,” He tells him, “Unless you think Okhema’s ruling class is too fragile to climb up a single flight of stairs.”

Aglaea, in all her decadence, climbs onto the roof. Aglaea, who has, in all his lifetimes, in all the hours he’s spent within Okhema’s walls, never once indulged in any of his misbehavior, stops in front of him. He isn’t fit to stand in her presence now, sick and injured as he is. And still, she drops to her knees in front of him.

Phainon’s heart lurches for her propriety, for the demigod of romance kneels to no one and bows her head to no greater authority. Like this she will dirty her beautiful dress.

“Phainon,” She greets, reaching out to take his hands in hers. Her fingers are long, cold, like marble. “I’m relieved to see you’re awake, even if I wish you would refrain from dangerous pastimes. I spoke with Stelle earlier, and she had a suggestion which might ease your discomfort, so I’ve come here in an official capacity. It only occurs to me now that you were not witness to the speech I made just a few days ago.”

Her voice warms like it had only when he was very young or when she was courting death.

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, you have delivered Era Nova to us, and the Flame Chase has reached its conclusion. I, Aglaea, demigod of romance, declare that the long journey is over, and the Chrysos Heirs are no longer beholden to the prophecy of the gods. And with that, I release you from your responsibilities as the Deliverer,” She smiles at him, “Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, I declare you are free.”

Aglaea does not let go of his hands when his shoulders shake. His throat closes.

“I wish you a peaceful journey, unshackled by fate.”

Destruction closes its eyes and weeps.

Chapter Text

It takes nearly half the night for Phainon to calm. Eventually the tears slow, and he no longer has energy to spare for grief. Aglaea frees one hand to thumb the tears from the crease of his eyes. It is, all things considered, less dramatic than what she was expecting. The Deliverer she knows is loud, larger than life. He looks less like Okhema’s perfect soldier and more like the boy she dragged out of the wreckage of that smoldering village.

Cipher contemplates leaving when his breathing quiets, never one for permanence. She itches to run, like she always does when she’s stayed in one place too long, but she remains where she is, hovering over Aglaea’s shoulder. This too is a luxury she hasn’t been able to afford in a long time, basking in the company of friends.

Look, she thinks, with the privilege of the honesty and righteousness afforded to all other heroes, planting her heels on the tile and crouching down. Aglaea made her these shoes so long ago to inspire courage.

Cipher wagers her hand, reaching forward to brush her fingers through his downy hair. His eyes are open, just barely. He doesn’t seem aware of where he is.

“You alright there, mutt?” The Prince looks at her strangely. She withdraws from his space. All-knowing Aglaea spies her through narrowed eyes, reminding her instantly why she’d had to leave in the first place. That lie still burns in the back of her throat like a spitting coal, and for that shame she allows the golden threads to cocoon her once more, alighting across her shoulders in the facsimile of embrace.

“The entry hour will be upon us soon.” Aglaea says, allowing Phainon’s hands to slip out of her grasp. She stands, and Cipher lends an uncertain hand to steady her. “He should be returned to his quarters. Cifera, would you mind?”

Phainon, Flame Reaver, whatever his name is now, still doesn’t look up. It doesn’t bear well for his recovery - let alone his reputation - and one thing she does remember, even if she wasn’t in Okhema often, was that maintaining his image was important to him. Cipher, being the demigod of trickery, had no such hangups. In that regard, she was free to be as chivalrous or mischievous or unkempt as she pleased. He would not take kindly to being seen in such a state.

She sighs theatrically, “I’m not one of your dromas, my service comes with fees, Goldweaver.”

“Trust that you will be appropriately compensated.” Aglaea replies smoothly, easily. Unhurried by the threat of imminent extinction, unburdened by the distance between them. “Perhaps a walk through the treasury would suffice?”

Needless to say, Cipher is no longer compelled to covet obscene wealth. She has already fulfilled her fate, cleaved through by the Flame Reaver’s hand over the very coin hanging around her neck. Petty change, indeed. That fact does not curb a thousand years of habit, and it certainly does not quell her natural predilection for things that shine.

“Alright, alright, can’t say no to that.”

Now, curled up half-conscious on some poor unsuspecting citizen’s roof, he looks more like the child she’d pulled out of Aedes Elysiae’s wreckage than ever. It had been Tribbie’s prophecy that turned their sights towards that sleepy farming village at the edge of the world, and Cipher had only been convinced to go upon Aglaea’s request. He’d been the only thing still alive, up to his ankles in blood, weapon clutched in white-knuckled hands. Desperate, exhausted, terrified. She would have thought him mute

“Put the claws away, little prince,” Cipher grins, taking Phainon’s arm around her shoulders. He lets himself be dragged listlessly. Quiet, still. “I’ll keep my hands to myself-”

Aglaea sighs. It isn’t her fault that Mydei makes it so easy. He’s too gentle with her, too - he shouldn’t let her get away with half the things she does.

“I’ll be back.”

With a flip of her coin, she’s made it to his makeshift room - they’ve spruced the place up since she was last in it. She spots Aglaea’s needlework in the seams of the fresh linens. Castorice had taken the initiative to prop up some of her framed photos - all taken with a black and white filter - on the dresser. A couple books, some more appropriate than others, all untouched. She sets him on the bed, brushing off her hands and sliding the pad of her thumb over the surface of the coin.

Phainon rolls over, dragging a handful of covers with him, turned against the wall.

Cipher takes a moment to stretch her legs, pawing through the trinkets left by the other Chrysos Heirs. Hyacine left a bottle of disinfectant in one of the drawers alongside a roll of medical tape and a stack of gauze. Nothing that would score her any money on the night scene. Well, she reconsiders, the nutcase alchemist’s formulation of burn cream might fetch her a pretty penny, but Phainon looks like he needs it more than she needs some quick cash.

And none of that is as amusing or valuable as the Kremnoan jewelry she spots, all of it beautiful quality. As a self-proclaimed expert in the counterfeit jewelry business, she knows authenticity when she sees it. She rolls a gold ring, engraved with Kremnos’ traditional geometric patterns, between her fingers. Another necklace, inlaid with rubies, glitters in the light. The type of gift that wasn’t given lightly, even if the dynasty and its forging techniques were still in circulation.

Cipher isn’t stupid enough to engage in a grand heist against their favorite crown prince, but she does indulge herself, just for the trouble. She may not partake in the feast, but she can hardly help it if her mouth waters.

“Cipher.”

She yelps, hair on the back of her neck standing up straight. Jewelry scatters across the table and floors. Her heart leaps up into her throat like it hasn’t since she last found herself in Styxia, gutted like a fish, alone at the edge of the world save for her own paltry deceptions. At the end of it all the prophecy had been right, as it had been all the times before, and she bled out alone and unloved. Now that her lie has come to fruition, she at least has recognition now, and the Flame Reaver isn’t likely to disembowel her anytime soon, but still. She tenses.

Laughing nervously, she turns around, bracing herself against the dresser like she hadn't just been caught in the act of robbing him blind. It wouldn’t be the first time she’s swiped something off their deliverer boy, bless him, but it hardly seems appropriate, and she does draw her lines somewhere.

“Well, I didn’t see you there. How long have you been awake?”

Her obvious fidgeting doesn’t inspire even the slightest of smiles. He doesn’t even turn around to properly acknowledge her. Phainon only behaved so petulantly around Mydei - far be it from him to stain the Deliverer’s pristine image in front of the public, but now he can't even summon an awkward smile to placate her.

That crying spell hadn't helped the state of his voice, either. It dwindles at the edges like a dying flame.

“I’m sorry.”

“Eh?” She pauses with the drawer handle in her hand, trying to shove it shut, just for plausible deniability. It catches on something, probably a necklace or ring that she had thoughtlessly dumped in, some of her apprehension fading into confusion. She gives him a moment, but he doesn’t rush to over-explain. “Kid, did you not see me trying to rob you just now?”

“I’m sorry for the last cycle.”

Cipher sighs. Trickery is no fun when they just let her do as she pleases. “And here I thought you were mad because you fell for my tricks.”

“I fall for them every time.”

“I see that you really can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Don’t bother with the apologies - just tell me this, did I fool the world in every cycle?”

She hears his scratchy intake of breath. “Every cycle. Thank you for… bearing the weight of the world with me.”

She preens, just a little. Recognition is nice. Hear that, Bartholos? She thinks, wondering where that sentimental old fool ended up. We did it.

“As nice as that is to hear, I’d really rather not do it again. The world is heavy.” She contemplates asking Phainon about the jewelry - she doesn’t know whether or not he understands the gesture for what it was. The political matters of romance and courting are more Aglaea’s purview than anyone else’s, but she’s sure that if she were to ask her, all she’d get is reprimanded.

The room grows warmer, and Cipher decides that now isn’t the time. It doesn’t take a god of trickery to know that he’s faking sleep, but Cipher is content to let the lie linger, as she’s done many times before. He must be upset, and she doesn’t want to get caught in the supernova-crosshairs of another breakdown.

“Go back to sleep. Everything will probably still be here when you wake up.”

Phainon’s dreams carry with them the smell of ash. Fire simmers beneath the bedrock, piled with ash and wet with ichor. His boots crunch over desiccated bone, remnants of failures past. Destruction’s domain looks no different than it did then, though he does not see any evidence of THEIR legions of monsters.

THEIR voice resounds across the desolation, both soft and ear-shattering. THEY have never spoken to him; Nanook’s whispers were only ever discernible in the crazed hum of the Black Tide, a boiling madness that only wished for the destruction of the world.

“You will burn this world to ash.”

It is a commandment as clear as any Holy Maiden’s prophecy, another toiling of fate. He sees the heat death of the universe, a distant god wrapped in infernal calculation, the disintegration of galaxies. There are other Ravagers here, but he cannot see them. Only Zephyro ever lurks close enough to sense, a drifting wraith crowned in starfire.

He sees the bodies of the Chrysos Heirs: Cyrene with a serene smile on her face as she clutches at the open wound through her chest. He sees himself ripping his blade through Aglaea and Cipher and Anaxa, ripping Hyacine from the sky, taking Castorice’s Coreflame, tearing Dawnmaker through Mydei’s spine.

“We will pen the prelude of Destruction.”

Lygus’ voice joins the cacophony. Phainon twists, dread intermingling with rage, trying to find the source.

“Little Ravager, I declare you mine.”

THEIR gaze burns brightly, “Lord Ravager Irontomb, come forth and sew the seeds of Destruction,”

“Phainon-”

His breath catches in his throat, wings tearing free from his back, struggling, grasping for Dawnmaker’s blade, yearning to drive it through Nanook and THEIR destruction just as he’d been made to kill his companions over and over again, with a terror that is indistinguishable from love which is indistinguishable from hate.

“You will never be free.”

“Phainon!”

He jerks awake, the hand reaching towards his shoulder withdrawn with a pained hiss. The room they had left him in pieces itself together from the haze of heat, steam clouding his vision. Anaxa is frowning at him, indifferent to the blistering skin of his hands. The thin sheets crumple and burn beneath the metal encasing his hands. Sweat boils at the nape of his neck and everything shivers. It’s hot, so very hot.

Something cracks and the floor beneath shudders. He exhales steam.

It was a dream, he thinks, even though he knows it was more than that. Just a dream.

Cipher coughs, half bent around something she snatched off the table. There’s a crack in the tile beneath that stops just before her feet. “Nice, uh, wings. Video chat really doesn’t, uh. Do them justice.”

His-? Ah. His right wing folds around him to shield himself from view; the other, still crooked, takes a second longer to respond, twitching when he lays it flat against the bed. He must’ve changed during the nightmare.

“They appear functional.” Anaxa says, reaching out to grab at his left wing. Phainon jerks back again, because surely he isn’t stupid enough to touch its molten surface, but he only clicks his tongue, pressing a knuckle against its ridge. He doesn’t think anyone’s ever actually touched him in this form. “Relax, you’re already cooling off.”

“I’m sorry for burning you.”

Anaxa merely shakes his head. “Do you have full range of motion?”

“He just woke up,” Aglaea chides softly. “We can save the examination for later.”

Anaxa hums. “The material appears to be metal, but the limb is flexible…”

Cipher’s eyebrow twitches when she spots the full-body shudder he very nearly avoids when pressure is applied to the root of the wing. Perhaps taking pity, she intervenes, a coy smile as she wraps herself around Aglaea - affectionate, at first glance, but they both see her trying to put distance between herself and Mydei.

“Little Prince, how about taking Phainon for a bath? I hear the two of you used to bathe together a lot-”

She ducks her head into Aglaea’s shoulder, trembling with laughter, as Mydei summons a fistful of crystals. Anaxa raises an unimpressed eyebrow. Aglaea, though her countenance remains as stoic as ever, seems the slightest bit amused. Even Phainon, nerves shot to hell, smiles. Just a little.

“What are you insinuating,” Mydei snaps.

“Cifera, don’t tease them. Mydeimos, I’d implore you not to crystallize the sickbed.”

He scoffs, as if insulted by the insinuation that Phainon would get caught in the blast, “My control over my abilities is not so tenuous that the innocent would be caught in the blast.”

“How romantic, your Highness - oh wait, I forgot, you guys don’t have that word. Hmm, how about… ooh, infatuation, that’s a fun one. Ah ah ah no claws!” Cipher, in her glee, hops back, arms tucked behind her back. The only thing keeping Mydei from attacking her is the close quarters. “Wait wait wait, I’ve got it!”

She says something in butchered Kremnoan - a word that Phainon doesn’t recognize - that has Mydei aghast. Anaxa shuts his eyes and exhales a measured breath. Mydei lunges at her, casualties be damned, and Cipher shrieks - laughing, screaming as she squirms out of his grip. Aglaea steps gracefully away to accompany him on the bed.

Cipher glances sideways, jaw going slack. Mydei pauses mid-throttle to follow her line of gaze.

“What… are you looking at?”

The scars, probably. Or the wings. Or any number of unnatural things about this body.

Cipher takes advantage of Mydei’s momentary lapse of focus to squeeze out of his hold. “You laughed!”

Mydei’s crystals disintegrate. Aglaea dismisses the golden web she’d sewn around the three of them.

“If the two of you are done with your childish display-” Anaxa drawls, “Phainon, release this form before it burns through the rest of your energy.”

“It might do him well.” Aglaea replies. “Once Hyacine is informed of your escapades she might decide to tie you to the bed.”

“It’s not…” The smile he hadn't realized he was wearing fades again. Anaxa and Mydei both narrow their eyes, as if to warn him to choose his next words carefully.

“This is exactly why you should exercise your freedoms now.” Cipher says. “Before you get put on house arrest.”

“Phainon,” Anaxa clicks his tongue.

“Give me a second.” The blaze of destruction quiets to a simmer, the heat drawing back from beneath his skin, retreating to his core. “I wouldn’t… mind going to the baths. You don’t have to babysit me, Mydei.”

“Enough of your nonsense.” He replies. “Deliverer, if you’re so determined to go by yourself, then stand and walk to the door instead of sulking.”

Phainon has no defense but to sigh - still, he tilts himself forward, pointedly annoying the threads waiting to catch him should he fall. His knees nearly buckle beneath him when he stands, but they hold, if barely.

“See? Fine.”

He stumbles on his first step, catching himself on the table. Mydei grabs him by the elbow and pulls him upright.

“We’ll get you less burnt sheets while you’re gone!” Cipher says. “And by we I mean them.”

A flash of guilt pierces him, at having Aglaea and Anaxa perform such menial tasks, but it doesn’t have the chance to fester because Cipher grabs the both of them and yanks them out the door.

“I don’t do chores.” She tells them.

Mydei grits his teeth. “That much is painfully obvious.”

“I’m going to graciously ignore that statement.” She chaperones them to the private bath suite attached to one of the unoccupied rooms of the wing - this one has a more spatial setup, with a bar that Phainon can hold onto so that he doesn’t fall. It would be thoughtful if not for the conversation that preceded it.

She shoves them inside, and he hears a lock click. Mydei whirls around, dragging Phainon with him.

“Did she just lock the door?”

“Why does your city have baths that lock from the outside?”

Phainon lets him situate him at the edge of the bath

“Since when does Cipher know Kremnoan?”

Phainon tucks his knees to his chest, Phagousa’s blessing soothing the dull ache of his muscles. Behind him, Mydei shifts, his gauntlets left on the bench beside them. His hands are callused from years of conflict, but there are no scars to accompany them.

“She doesn’t.” Mydei replies. “She knows a single word and the pronunciation was appalling.”

“Worse than mine?”

“Her pronunciation was bad, not unsalvageable.” His hands are unfairly gentle as he washes his hair. Phainon watches dried blood and ash swirl in the water, filtered by the blessed water. His hand pauses at the nape of his neck, pausing at the divot of cracked scarring - not technically an open wound, but he can’t imagine it's pleasant to look at. “Shouldn’t you know, anyways?”

“...we didn’t talk much.”

He can see their corpses, sometimes, at the edges of his vision. Mydei tugs at his hair, harder than strictly necessary. Phainon doesn’t have the words to express his confusion, and he almost doesn’t want an answer, either - why he so quickly resigned himself to this.

“Mydei, when you became the demigod of strife, what did it feel like?”

“Why are you asking me that now?”

“When you took the Coreflame, did you feel compelled to…” He changes tactics, “When I woke up, the tile cracked. I could have hurt you. But I didn’t feel anything. Just… relief. Like… pressure release.”

He makes that sound that lets Phainon know he’s thinking about his response carefully.

“We aren’t so fragile.” He replies eventually. “Even if you are… consumed by Destruction, it wasn’t your intention to cause harm. If you spent less time wrapped up in your thoughts, Deliverer, that would be obvious. If you can’t have faith in yourself, then have faith in our judgement.”

“That’s so not fair.” Phainon closes his eyes, swallowing. “I can’t cry twice in one day.”

“If we’re discussing what’s unfair, I want to know what the black-robed swordsman was thinking, using such underhanded tactics against the god of Castrum Kremnos.” His hands remain on Phainon’s shoulders, damning in their judgement. “Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, are we not equals?”

The water turns cold, or maybe it’s this wretched body finally giving up on him.

“I tried to explain it to you so many times. It changed nothing.”

Deliverer, deliverer, deliverer; Khaslana could not stomach the pain of being human, could not bear the burden, in the end, of his own humanity. There was nothing worse than that declaration, once the fight ended, because Mydei always meant it in sincerity: may victory always be yours.

He knows that it was an insult to Mydei’s strength, his honor, to deny him the right to choice, to knowledge, but it was so much easier to just kill him and be done with it; to avoid prolonging the torment.

“It was easier for you to hate me.”

By the time his body had disintegrated into the form of the Flame Reaver, the pain had rendered him inarticulate. He could hardly manage a sentence, much less the words it would take to convince Mydei of the truth. Half-blind with agony, he did not have the time or luxury for explanations.

He doesn’t know what to do with Mydei’s resounding silence, so he does something impulsive and inadvisable: he reaches behind and pulls Mydei down into the water with him.

There’s a sputtering, choked-off curse, he turns around, grabbing Phainon’s hair to pull him close, “What the hell is wrong with you!?”

“When I got to you, I could barely speak anymore.” He shuts his eyes so he doesn’t have to see what expression he makes - he isn’t brave like Cipher and Hyacine, can’t look at the open truth in front of him, “It took so much effort to string together a sentence I just - I couldn’t do it. I was dying. My body was falling apart. All I could do was cling to my hatred - or else I would stop.”

It still hurts, but the pain is only ever noticeable when he’s met with relief. Mydei’s steadfast kindness was not a relief, it was salt in the wound. This bitter, fragile vessel had been made to harbor Destruction, and yet it could still weep in grief and anger, could still bleed kindness. He reaches blindly for Mydei’s hand, a luxury he hasn’t had in any other lifetime, and he feels Mydei sigh as he takes it.

“There was nothing left.”

“And still, what a formidable opponent you made.”

None of this changes what Phainon is - a creature made to walk on Destruction’s path, to bring ruin wherever he stepped. It does not change the millions of deaths between them. It does not change the fact that Phainon has become Destruction’s puppet, the one he had intended to kill. Still, Phainon bridges the distance between them, resting his head against Mydei’s shoulder. His free hand reaches between his shoulders, pressing his palm against the warm, unblemished skin of his back, like he had never been hurt.

Mydei’s exhale ruffles his hair. “There’s still shampoo in your hair, idiot.”

His cracked smile is hidden against Mydei’s collarbone, damp from the bathwater and the steam.

“Tip your head back or I’m going to dunk you.”

“He hasn’t eaten in four days, and he says he’s not hungry. Is that true, Deliverer, or do you just find my cooking to be that repulsive?”

“Your cooking is never repulsive,” Phainon replies, even though this is objectively untrue - there have been several times, in several different lifetimes, that he was quite certain the meals he prepared for him were poorly disguised assassination attempts. “But if I eat anything right now I’m sure I’ll throw up.”

Persistent nausea dogs him - his constant companion throughout several lifetimes. The Flame Reaver had no need to eat, and no means to do so anyway. He had been fueled entirely by Destruction, the slow deterioration of his body the same energy that kept him standing.

Lygus explained it to him once, when Phainon was tired enough to bother asking. He always spoke as if knowledge was a virtue which he hadn't withheld from them, like it wasn’t the leash around his neck that he choked him with.

Destruction lounges upon his spine, settles under his heart; a bruise, like the flesh of overripe fruit, an open wound, a pit which consumed him from within and spit him out again. To embrace destruction was simply to be made into something new. This something new did not need to bother with sleep or food

“I don’t need to eat anymore, so you don’t need to bother.”

“The report from the lab doesn’t indicate that anywhere.”

“No, it's,” He frowns at the table. “Lygus explained it.”

Your journey is not over, he had said. It would not be over until Phainon gave in and allowed Irontomb to be born. Surely we can’t have anything so anticlimactic bring about the end of the story.

Phainon doesn’t notice the mood of the room sours. Cipher glances away, looking for the exits before Aglaea winds a thread around her wrist. Mydei’s jaw clenches, and the Professor would look notably irritated if he were paying attention. Instead, he replays all of their conversations in his mind.

“Oh, that old bucket of bolts?” Cipher says. “Thought we got rid of him a while ago.”

“You… spoke to him?” Aglaea asks.

There are only so many ways to pass thirty-three million years worth of time. One has to get creative with their preferred method of torment, and by the time he was desperate or insane enough to entertain dialogue with him, he’d exhausted every other outlet. Death was a stale, uninspired pursuit; the Heirs had already expressed to him everything they ever had, or ever would - no point in troubling them with further conversation; Lygus, however, was a prisoner just like him, and sometimes he had new insight to bestow.

After all, how else would he have come to understand the nature of Destruction?

“What, exactly, did he tell you?”

He relays what Lygus told him the best he can, minus the self-congratulatory drivel.

“Interesting,” Anaxa says, once he’s finished, “It bears resemblance to a perpetual motion machine.”

“Is now the time?” Aglaea drawls, her patience always thin when it comes to him.

“Is it that you don’t need to eat or you can’t?”

“I can, but-”

“In that case, it shouldn’t hurt your recovery by any means.”

Cipher hangs over Anaxa’s shoulder while he pulls out his phone - he calls her something derogatory and bats her away like she’s nothing more than a persistent fly.

“Ooh,” She says, “You’re in trouble! He’s telling Hyacine all about this! Better eat your food before she gets here unless you want the lecture of your life.”

“Don’t look at me,” Mydei says, when he glances at him for support, “You’re the one that decided to climb out the window and scale the roof.”

Phainon can admit when he’s been defeated.

“Fine, but I take no responsibility for what happens next.”

He tries, he really does. Cipher takes pity on him halfway through, as he’s trying to force the ash down his throat, shoving one hand ceremoniously across the table, scattering the plate and its contents onto the ground.

“Whoops,” She says, “That’s just a cultural thing we do in Dolos, guys. I can’t help it.”

“Keep your compulsions to yourself, catgirl.”

“I don’t like the way you said that.”

Aglaea clears her throat. “Hyacine should be arriving soon. Garmentmaker greeted her at the edge of the city.”

“Can’t help you with that one.” Cipher says, stooping down. “Good luck kid.”

The Madam Herta doesn’t have the time to entertain the IPC’s underpaid workers, and frankly she’s insulted that they think she’d answer them. This is what Asta is for.

“Screwy, turn the coms off, I’m trying to think.”

“As you wish, Madam Herta.” Screwllum replies, glancing away from the calculations he’s looking at. “Surely, though, you must understand that they’ll only become more persistent?”

She clicks her tongue. “Of course, they never know when to pick their battles. I’ll talk when they come back with a warrant.”

“Given the frequency of these missives, that is more likely to be sooner rather than later.”

She’s read through the messages already - something something Destruction energy spotted in the northwest quadrant of an uncharted solar system, something something Anti Organic equation, something something suspected Lord Ravager. The only part that concerned her even in the slightest was the mention of an unstable energy source detected on the Space Station - and she’s prepared to curse out whoever put IPC monitoring security cameras in the fine print of their funding agreement - but even that could be handwaived fairly easily.

Herta has more important things to be working on: such as rewiring a scepter actively undergoing extrapolation. The memoria cloud isn’t helping either. She’s a physicist, not a dreamweaver - the closest anyone had ever gotten to establishing concrete formulas for memoria physics was the Astral Express’ Rosalina, and she was long dead.

“We have more important things to worry about. How are things looking with the scepter?”

“It’s the same error message, Madam Herta.”

She sighs, resuming her pacing. She hasn’t found a problem this challenging since she cracked solitary wave theory.

“If I may… have you considered the possibility that shutting the scepter down permanently is the best solution?”

Herta scoffs. “What makes you say that? I didn’t take you for a defeatist.”

“Eventually memoria alone will not be sufficient to cloud the scepter’s purpose - as long as the simulation runs, it will eventually attempt to return to its calculations. If that is to happen, we run the risk of germinating the Anti Organic equation once again.”

“I don’t plan my own failures ahead of time. That’s why I’m the Emanator and not you.”

She can imagine it now: the euphoria of solving yet another of Nous’ mysteries, proving herself peerless even among geniuses. It was poetic, really - she had made her debut with Rubert’s Anti-Organic equation, and now she would render Nous’ insanity beneath her once more. To overwrite one of the Erudition’s neurons was to change knowledge itself.

After all, Nous was once only a computer. If there’s anyone that can master Xandar’s crowning achievement, it’s her.

What is the meaning of life?

She scoffs - what a ridiculous question to waste so much time on. All of this, and Rubert and his ilk still had no answer.

“If I may ask, what is so funny?”

“Oh nothing, nothing,” She brushes at the folds of her dress, “I’m only thinking that our genius society is full of fools.”

“Stelle!” Cyrene calls. She’s kneeling by the water, framed by the golden light of Aedes Elysiae’s perfect recreation. She waves a hand, beckoning her over. “How are things on your end? Are all your Trailblazing companions doing well?”

Stelle settles down next to her, “It could be worse. I think Dan Heng’s developing separation anxiety, and March keeps freezing the room solid at night. Oh, did I tell you? Aglaea moved another cot into our room but we always end up in mine anyways - they’re suffocating me as we speak.”

Cyrene grins, “They’ve had quite the ordeal. You can hardly blame them.”

“Yeah, but I wish March would keep her pointy elbows away from my kidneys. Oh! Herta also said she was working on getting Mr. Yang and Himeko in too so they can see what Amphoreus looks like. Apparently getting in is way easier than getting out, and they want to check up on us - I think they’re freaked out because of the whole ‘dying’ thing, but it’s whatever. I was thinking about where I should take them. I’ll introduce them to the Chrysos Heirs - maybe hold off on Phainon until he’s feeling better - but I’m not sure what they’d like to see.”

“It’s a shame so little of Amphoreus remains.” Cyrene says, looking at the water. “It was all very beautiful, at one point, hard as that might be to believe. You’ve seen the memories.”

“Honestly, I was thinking they’d like this.”

“Oh?” Cyrene turns halfway towards her. “You think they’d be interested in this little old place?”

“Definitely.”

“Has Madam Herta said anything about the progress with the scepter?”

Stelle scratches the back of her neck. “Not that she’s told me about. But, like, it’s Herta. If there’s anybody that could create a miracle, it’s definitely her. As soon as she figures it out I’m gonna be doing free labor in the simulated universe for the rest of my life.”

“Well, I suppose no news is good news.” She stares at the water just a little longer - just long enough to seem somber. Wiping that strange look off her face, she turns fully towards her, “Anyways, there’s actually something I was meaning to give you - but you have to promise not to open it until the time is right, okay?”

Stelle blinks. “How will I know when it’s right?”

“Just trust me. Do you promise you won’t look until then?”

“I… I guess so?”

Cyrene tugs at the memoria that constitutes the dream, weaving it into a memory shard no different from the ones she would create from the memories on Amphoreus when Stelle only knew her as Mem. She pushes it gently into her hands.

“Now,” She smiles warmly, “You better wake up before your friends cut off your circulation.”

Chapter Text

Hyacine folds her hands neatly against the table. “We need to talk about the amputations.”

Mydei and Cipher stand guard at the door, as if anticipating his impending escape, which Phainon might have felt ashamed about if not for the fact that he’d buried such useless sentiments such as dignity, shame, and honor long ago. Anaxa sits across from him, his expression fixed such that Phainon knows he’s calculating something.

“Why?” He asks. “They grew back.”

They don’t have anything to worry about. He fears that if throwing himself at Destruction THEMSELF couldn’t kill him, then nothing can.

Her smile pinches. She inhales, exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose to stymie a headache. He’s upset her again. It seems that’s all he’s able to do. “That isn’t the point and you know it. Do you remember how you would panic over Lord Mydei whenever he got himself injured? You knew he wouldn’t die and you worried anyway. It’s like that.”

Once upon a time he remembers harboring that sentiment.

Sentiment was the sinew that held his body together at the end, when he inevitably collapsed beneath the weight of the Coreflames, when love in hate in equal measure were the only meager threads holding the ashen pieces of him in place, so he indulges her this: “It doesn’t hurt. My mobility is restored.”

“It doesn’t hurt now, or it didn’t hurt when it happened?”

He knows she’s trying to weasel information about the circumstances of the injury out of him - he’s familiar with her and Anaxa’s playbook, but he’s nothing if not stubborn. “It doesn’t hurt now.”

It’s not even a lie - he grew used to the pain of such injuries long ago. Not even Aglaea’s threads could tremble with the confidence he says it with.

“That’s good.” Hyacine says slowly, followed by a terse silence. She obviously does not believe him. “Any difficulty moving your fingers? Numbness in your arms? Tremors? In this form or your other one,” She adds.

“We know he has sensation in the wings.” Anaxa adds.

“No, not related, no.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So… yes on the numbness? To conduct a proper assessment, I’ll need you in your other form - we can go somewhere more spacious, if you’d be more comfortable. The professor wanted to look at your wings further.”

Phainon frowns.

“You’re not going to burn us.” Anaxa says, like this is a fact and not just a placation. “If it would make you feel better, then I suppose we could take precautionary measures to ensure safety.”

Professor Anaxa has never taken safety precautions a day in his godforsaken life, but he does prioritize test subject comfort when he can.

He hesitates. Some part of him still wants to please them. Another, more rational facet of his personality, is sure that having as much information about him as possible is integral to protecting the future - if he ever loses his mind to Destruction again, he will make for another obstacle to Amphoreus’ peace.

“Fine.”

Hyacine pens something into her chart. “I think that’s the fastest you’ve ever agreed to an appointment with me. Usually you try harder to avoid them. Are you feeling feverish?”

Anaxa scoffs. “The two of them had a betting pool concerned with who could get you into the office faster.”

“You say that like you didn’t put money on me.” Hyacine replies, with the appropriate amount of smugness. He can hear Cipher and Mydei laughing at his expense in the doorway, clearing just enough space in his chest to breathe. “Do you remember we had to lure you into the courtyard that time you broke your hand? I had to lie about an unruly patient causing trouble. You’re lucky you came - the Professor proposed we shoot you with a tranquilizer.”

“It would have been more efficient.” Anaxa replies. “If you’re done reminiscing, if we’re to get a better examination of his alternate form, we need to leave now if we want to avoid being seen.”

Phainon glances out the open door, into the hallway. This part of Marmoreal Palace is off-limits to the average citizen, but in this new, free world, people were sure to be outside basking in the warmth of the sun.

“Don’t worry about being seen.” Cipher flips her coin. “Let the god of trickery take care of that.”

“Ah,” Hyacine perks up, “You’re coming with us?”

“I’d never miss an opportunity to watch the Deliverer embarrass himself. C’mon, slowpokes, we’re wasting daylight.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Hyacine remarks. She’s just a few paces ahead of him, keeping her steps deliberately short to accommodate his speed. Mydei hovers by his side, watching just in case he needs support. “The rebuilding process is slow-going, but everyone is pitching in to help. Lady Aglaea’s threads are keeping the residential sector standing until we have enough supplies to really start - but people need places to stay, and the refugee camps around the city are full.”

He should be helping with reconstruction, Phainon thinks. He has thread of his own to spare - more than enough, given every Coreflame of Romance that he’d acquired over the years. It’s the least he can do. But as soon as he opens his mouth to mumble something about his own contributions - regardless of how meager they may be - Mydei is interrupting him:

“Chartonus has been asking for you.” He says.

“...is he alright?”

“Perfectly fine. He’s been waiting for an answer, Deliverer. What will I tell him?”

Chartonus had been his first friend - besides Tribbe - he’d made in Okhema. To temper steel, hands must be equally gentle and strong, and no one knew this better than the mountain-dwellers. Chartonus was kind enough to lend an ear to the orphaned Chrysos Heir from a village no one had ever heard of. He remembers sitting by the forge, next to the heaps of silver ore that he kept on-hand, watching silently as he worked.

“The truth.”

They situate themselves in a field outside the city’s boundaries, free from prying eyes. Hyacine begins unpacking her bag and motions for him to sit down.

“Cassie and I used to think you were afraid of needles.” Hyacine says. “You probably don’t remember, but during one of our alchemy lectures we were doing an experiment. You got the formula wrong and burned your hand badly. I told you to come to the Twilight Courtyard after class and you avoided me for five days straight.”

“...I remember. Professor Anaxa made an example out of me the rest of the semester.”

She smiles. “Cas swore it was because you saw the needle I happened to be holding. It was one of the larger ones. But you were never afraid of that, were you?”

“Always so clever.” He twists up pieces of grass between his fingers. “That’s why you’re Professor Anaxa’s favorite.”

“I’m only his favorite because you and Cas make me look better by comparison.”

Phainon pauses thoughtfully. “Castorice wasn’t that bad.”

“No,” Hyacine agrees, smiling, “But she always enabled you, and you were a public hazard.”

The memories of a million small-scale academic coups play in his memories. Easy, far-away times drowned in sepia. Hyacine summons Ica, who greets him from an arms-length away. Anaxa comes to sit next to them, holding a hand outstretched.

“Wing.” He demands.

The transformation is no different than ever, dragging his blunt nails down his chest, the blood left behind reaching its boiling point. None of them flinch away from the heat or the grotesque imagery as golden blood scatters off the browning, charred grass.

Hyacine’s voice is unbearably soft when she says, “That looks painful.”

He prefers the sharp, somatic pain of his body to that soft bruise of shame inside him where his heart used to be. He tries to wrestle the heat back into his body, where he’s the only one that it can hurt, but that only makes the flame burn brighter.

“Relax.” Anaxa chides. “I want to look at your left wing.”

“So.” Hyacine says. “Grayie was telling us that they don’t know how that happened. And you’re being weirdly evasive about it. Is there some unknown threat you’re not telling us about?”

Technically, the Destruction is very well known, so Phainon isn’t lying when he shakes his head. “I was fighting the Black Tide.”

“Why not come out with that first?” Anaxa asks, not looking up from where he’s poking his wing - fire-retardant gloves or not, he flinches anyways, even when the firm pressure stays constant. “If that were the truth you would have come out with it earlier. Besides, your bothersome sister explained that the fight you undertook was less physical than what you’re describing.”

“What does it matter how it happened? They grew back. They always do.”

Hyacine narrows in on him sharply, “Always?”

Phainon draws back; his heart thuds against his ribs; blood pulses out of the wound in his chest, dripping down his torso. His wing twitches in Anaxa’s hand - a tug, and pain ricochets down his spine.

“There,” Anaxa says, “Was that so difficult? Even now you’re a terrible liar. What, exactly, has the strength to tear apart what the cosmos calls a Lord Ravager?”

Anaxa has always been too smart for his own good. The cold sweat clinging to the back of his neck sublimates.

“Woah woah woah!” Cipher yells. “No burning down the fields!”

“Let’s change topics: we’re going to update your medical history.”

By the time they’re finished with their extensive list, he appears to have garnered Hyacine’s frustration again.

“Only you could believe that this is fine,” She says. He’d left out the condition of the Flame Reaver’s body by the end of the last cycle he was part of: how his eyesight had deteriorated to the point that he’d barely been able to perceive anything at all. He fears he’d never be let out of the infirmary if he was honest.

“Hey, I just got a text from Princess Homebody, she wants to know if we can meet in the city. Apparently she has something to show us. You up for it? There’s probably a decent crowd in the market by now.” She shades her face with her hand, peering out towards the city.

He briefly imagines the satisfying scorn of the civilians turned on him - Okhema’s Deliverer turned into its greatest scourge.

“What did you tell them?”

“That you were busy shouldering the world.” Hyacine says. “They remember you, but they don’t know about, ah, the Flame Reaver or the recurrences. Or the scepter.”

His brow creases. “How did they reconcile their understanding of the prophecy with the previous cycle?”

“Their memories are incomplete.” Anaxa replies. “Amphoreus’ code is damaged - their memories differ. The Goldweaver made a public statement in an attempt to clear suspicion - she confirmed your existence and told them that you used the power of Oronyx’s Coreflame to buy time and restore Amphoreus to its setpoint. At that point, the Trailblazer assumed your position as the Deliverer and lit the flames of Era Nova with your torch.”

“So,” Hyacine smiles, “Not too different from the truth. But it’s up to you. If you’re not feeling up to it, we can go back to your room.”

He can’t help but feel that deceiving them in this way is ill-advised. The Flame Chase mission was supposed to honor the wishes of the people above all. How would they react to knowing a murderer walked amidst them?

On the other hand, it’s been too long since he’s last seen Castorice. He can tell that she’s played her part in decorating his room, but his waking hours have been few between, and spared for maintenance first. She expresses sympathy for him in every life. The heart of death is gentle and forgiving, even towards those undeserving.

“Alright.” He says. “I… would like to see her.”

The market is bright and loud, a stark departure from the scepter’s long, dark silences, and its maddened, whispering tides. The Anti-Organic equation has no purchase here in these tired, sincere smiles. As they near the gates, he spots Demetria holding a basket of apples. It must be hard on her back. In his previous life, he would have stepped forward to take it from her and relieve her burden.

In fact, he should be there now with the construction workers, picking up pieces of broken clay tiles off the ground. What is he doing hesitating?

How many times has he laid waste to the plaza? Packed dirt and crushed fruit beneath his boots, ground wet with blood, Marmoreal Palace overcome with the monsters of the Black Tide. When Aglaea dies it is always in this city. He never liked finishing the Flame Chase in Okhema. He hated the fear on the face of his people, felt sick when their livelihoods were caught in the jaws of Destruction. Eventually grief turned to numbness, and numbness curdled into resentment, and it leaves Phainon at an uncomfortable crossroads.

Mydei curls his fingers against his shoulder. The pressure of his gauntlet frees him from the downward spiral of his thoughts.

“Phainon?” Hyacine asks.

“Are you going to go in or are you going to keep standing here?” Mydei raises his brow. A challenge.

Phainon, like in many previous cycles, steps into the market and pretends he is not afraid.

“Princess homebody said she would be over by that tree Aggy likes.”

“Maybe we should stick to the shade.” Hyacine suggests, brandishing her wand like she intends to ward the crowds off with it when they inevitably come.

They barely get into the market before they’re waylaid by a crowd of overenthusiastic children. One of the little girls has dirt on her face and twigs stuck in her pleated hair. Their faces are flushed and damp with sweat. The stress of the end of the world spared no one, the children least of all, and the shared unease of the city had inevitably trickled down to them too. It’s been a long time since he’s seen them look so unburdened.

He shifts back, bumping into Mydei in his haste to step out of range of their grasp.

“Is that Lord Phainon?”

Demetria drops her basket. The produce rolls into the street, much like it had done in all those end times, and she hobbles over as fast as her aching joints can take her. She’s soon overtaken by the crowd, people he’s known in every lifetime from every corner of the market crowding the streets to get a better look at him.

Hyacine tries to field their questions even though that would usually be Phainon’s job, and they probably know that. Whatever expression is on his face, the crowd steps back almost immediately, leaving them a wide berth.

“How is your recovery going?” The bookkeeper asks, offering him a kind smile.

“Here, take this with you, you’ll need it to regain your strength.”

Mydei takes their offerings on his behalf, when he finds his arms too weak to hold them. His head is spinning when Hyacine pinches his sleeve and guides him to stand in the shade of the wall beneath the flowering vines.

“Oh! There’s Cassie! Over here!”

Castorice always cuts a striking silhouette in Okhema, but she’s gotten some of her pallor back. Only in Era Nova could the face of death walk hand in hand with the people, could strife exist hand-in-hand with peace, could trickery hold up the pillars of the world.

Then she breaks into a run. He doesn’t have time to consider what’s happening when she throws her arms around him. Hyacine gasps.

Phainon doesn’t die.

She presses her forehead against his shoulder, reaching out blindly behind him to grab a speechless Mydei.

“Your curse,” Phainon says.

I want to be a normal person.

She pulls back, her face wet, keeping Mydei’s wrist in her hand. “I noticed that… that the plants weren’t wilting when I walked by, but I didn’t want to risk anyone’s safety if it was just a fluke. But my curse - under the new sun, my touch no longer brings death.”

Hyacine laughs, smiling so wide it could rival the sun.

“Cassie!” She squeals, throwing herself into her arms. Castorice makes a surprised sound, muffled against the top of Hyacine’s head, which dissolves into another fit of wet laughter. Hyacine squeezes her tight, “I’m going to teach you how to take care of so many plants, then you can plant the garden your sister wanted! I’m so happy for you!”

“I pet a chimera today.” Castorice says. “It was so soft. And it was warm.”

“You can pet little Ica now!”

Castorice remembers her audience, glancing over towards Anaxa. She sputters, remembering her professionality, wiping at the blotchy wet spots beneath her eyes, “Professor, ah, sorry all of you had to see-”

“There is no need for apologies.” He squints at the sun as if it’s offended him. “What is Era Nova for, if not celebration?”

She sniffles again, reaching out to grab as many of them as she can - Hyacine with their elbows looped together, the same hand reaching for Phainon’s elbow, Mydei with her other hand.

Phainon sways on his feet, and the reaction is immediate.

“Let’s sit down.”

The bench isn’t nearly big enough to sit four adults, but they cram in anyways. Anaxa remains under the shade of the tree a few paces away, as if reluctant to be associated with them. His glare wards off anyone brave enough to approach.

Mydei sits at the edge, all the people’s gifts piled in his lap, with Phainon curled over his shoulder. On his left is Castorice, clinging to both him and Hyacine like they’ll disappear if she lets go for even a second.

Habit and years of honed paranoia instruct him to keep his eyes open and alert, and yet he forces himself to relax, leaning into Mydei like a sunbathing chimera. Idle chatter rises with the breeze, taking with it all that’s wrong with the world.

“I shook a woman’s hand this morning.” Castorice says, recounting the everyday normalcies with the reverence of a woman who shook the hand of god, “It was wonderful. Lord Phainon, how is your recovery going? You seem very tired. Would you like to go back to your room? Oh, maybe you can tell me the name of that book series you like so I can get it for you. It must be boring cooped up in your room all day.”

Book series he likes?

“...book series?” He asks.

“Yes, Lord Mydei said you enjoyed reading them in your pastime, but neither of us could remember the title. If you let us know we’ll gladly get it for you.”

“I… don’t remember.”

Maybe Mydei senses his discontent, because his free hand winds back around to Phainon’s shoulder, holding him steady.

“Ah,” Castorice says, “Well, in that case, we’ll need to broaden our search. Lord Mydei, would you be willing to come to the book store with me tonight?”

Mydei sighs. “I can hardly leave you to suffer through his awful taste in literature by yourself.”

Was it really that bad? He wouldn’t know either way - he can only take their word for it.

“So, a little birdy told me that Princess Homebody overcame her curse? Are the rumors true?”

Cipher reappears on the roof of an adjacent building, looking overly pleased with herself.

“Lady Cipher,” Castorice sits forward, “It’s true, I-”

She lunges forward to grab both of her hands, tilts her crown crooked, brushes the bangs out of her face, careful to keep her nails away from her eyes. Castorice sputters again, color rising to her face. “Lady Cipher-?!”

“I’ve wanted to do that for years,” Cipher laughs, “I can finally mess with you for real!”

“Do this elsewhere.” Mydei says. The rumble of his voice echoes against his cheek. Phainon allows himself to close his eyes again. The cycles are over. It’s finally, finally safe.

“Bold of you to say!” Cipher cackles. “And you’re already walking around with a couple celebrities and Amphoreus’ worst blasphemer - what’s little old me compared to that?”

“You’re a nuisance.”

“I do my best.”

“Lord Phainon.” Distantly, he feels Castorice nudge his arm, her voice fading back into the periphery. “I think he’s asleep.”

“Phainon, do you want to come to the baths with us?” Stelle asks. She’s trying to be nice. She’s trying to coax him outside and into the public eye, even if that’s the last thing he wants. They think the bathwater will do him good. “We’ve noticed that you don’t really leave without one of your wardens.”

“Stelle,” Dan Heng sighs. “Please don’t feel pressured by her. She’s aware you’re healing.”

“I want him to meet Mr. Yang and Himeko and Sunday!” Stelle whines. One arm flails out to hit March in the face. “Part of recovery is getting sunlight, seeing people!” She glances at the untouched tray by the side of his bed. “Eating food!”

He pivots swiftly, “When did they get here?”

“Oh, Herta found a way to beam them in, isn’t it great? But seriously, they’re seeing the baths for the first time, and as far as tour guides go, you’re as good as they come. And Mr. Yang said he’d be interested in meeting you!”

Phainon swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Stelle wants to sneak you out.” March says. She reaches out to sneak some of the bread off his plate. “She thinks breaking the rules is good for your spirit - and I think you’ll like them! You should come with us. Mr. Yang has even more of those boring stories you like.”

“C’mon c’mon c’mon, please!”

With a sigh, he relents.

None of the Chrysos Heirs are in the Hero’s Baths when they arrive, but three individuals he’s never seen before are. He briefly recognizes the red-haired woman, in a blistering bout of shame, that had been with him on the Space Station.

“Hi!” Stelle shouts, waving her hand. Phainon feels their gaze before he sees it. The older man - Mr. Yang, he presumes - watches him carefully. It’s a piercing stare, one that makes him feel like he’s been gutted and flayed.

“Phainon, this is Himeko, Mr. Yang, and Sunday. Everyone, this is Phainon, the guy I was telling you about. Please don’t bully him.”

Himeko raises an eyebrow, but a good-natured smile graces her face. “Now what is that supposed to mean? Please, Phainon, come sit with us. Stelle and Dan Heng told us all about you. Thank you for looking after them for us.”

Phainon dips his head so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with either of them. He sits on the opposite edge of the pool, as far as he can get without seeming overtly impolite. None of the three of them have donned more appropriate clothes for the baths. He feels criminally underdressed next to them, dipping his ankles into the water.

“Please, don’t thank me.” Phainon says. “They’ve lent so much to Amphoreus, it was an honor to walk beside them.”

“Are you alright?” Mr. Yang asks. “You probably don’t remember, but we were there to receive you at the Space Station - you seemed badly injured. Is your recovery going well?”

“Fine. Thank you.” He adds curtly, trying to remember every lesson Aglaea ever gave him on his etiquette. He keeps his gaze fixed on the water. “I’m sorry you had to witness my behavior.”

That appears to give them pause, but he doesn’t lift his gaze.

Himeko presses in, “Stelle mentioned that you liked history. Would you mind giving us an oversight of these baths? They’re gorgeous. If the Conductor were more generous with our renovation funds, I might even have my bath redone with this theme.”

Phainon recounts his lived history - he might be getting cycle four thousand thirty two confused with the last one, but he can’t bring himself to care as his mind meanders through tangentially related subjects. At least Mr. Yang seems interested.

“Thank you for taking the time to explain everything.” Sunday says. “We understand you must be busy with reconstruction and negotiation.”

His brow creases. Negotiation? Perhaps he means between the Kremnoans and Okhemans?

“Negotiations?”

“Between Amphoreus and the greater cosmos.” Sunday explains, like this is something he should know. That this is something many people know. “I was under the impression that your leader was entertaining the idea of establishing connections with the IPC diplomats.”

His mouth goes dry as bone.

“The IPC? Stelle said they were-”

“Difficult to deal with, yes, but not impossible.” Mr. Yang says. “The situation with Amphoreus is unprecedented, so we’re not yet sure how the negotiations will proceed. But you have the backing of both Herta’s Space Station and the Astral Express.”

“Stelle said-” His words trip over his tongue, “Stelle says that the IPC doesn’t have good rapport with Lord Ravagers. That’s - what I am. Stelle told you that?”

Mr. Yang adjusts his glasses. “Well, yes - has no one told you anything?”

“Mr. Yang,” His heart hammers in his chest. He can’t remember shaking this badly since cycle forty-eight, when he first drove Dawnmaker through the chest of his comrades. “What happens if they find out Amphoreus is associated with a fully realized Ravager?”

Silence answers him.

“Stelle’s stories have led me to believe that they respond with violence first. If they find out what I am, would they hesitate to bring harm to these people?”

“It’s not-” Mr. Yang starts, clearly unsure what to do with Phainon’s panic. He rises from the bath. Static crawls up his hands. “Wait, please-”

He runs.

“Can we talk?”

What greets him is not the far edges of the cosmos but the familiar, empty face of Aedes Elysiae. Cyrene stands on the path before him, arms tucked behind her back.

“When have you ever asked permission before?”

“You’re so boring now. Come sit with me, for old time’s sake?”

“You’re the one that told me that I shouldn’t keep coming here.” Phainon says, settling beside her in the middle of the street because he’s never been one to deny her anything. Not when she slacked in the fields while he brought in the harvest. Not when she asked him to push her on the swing. Not when she’d asked him to kill her.

“That’s different. This is obviously an emergency.” She turns her face towards the trees which hide the entrance to the Membrance Maze. He’s finally too old, too beat down, to be allowed in.

“Do you remember how we used to nap on the roof?” She asks. “We used to grab all the blankets and spend hours looking at the sky. Your mother got so angry at us because she was worried we’d fall off.”

She gestures to the tiny fractals of ice in her hands. “I saved it all here. Every memory.”

Phainon turns to her, “What is the point of this?”

“Can’t a girl spend time with her brother without some ulterior motive?”

“No,” He replies, “You never do.”

Her smile fades. “I suppose we haven’t had much leisure time in all these years, huh? We have a lot of conversations to make up for.” She sighs as she leans back on her hands. “Just how many coming of age festivals have I missed? So many birthday presents. It’ll take time to get them all.”

“Cyrene.”

“Hmm?” She asks, feigned innocence. Those big doe-eyes she used to pull when they weren’t home in time for dinner. The same look that made his mother sigh in fond exasperation before running her hands through their hair and telling them to wash up.

“Don’t lie to me.” He says, and stubborn willpower alone keeps his voice steady. Gods above, he will not beg the people he loves to be honest with him.

“Who says I’m lying? You’re terrible at figuring that kind of stuff out anyways,” She asks, but he can see it now, her tells, “Can’t two things be true at once?”

“In the first cycle, before I killed you, you asked me to hold your hand.” Her smile dims, glazed by recollection. “You said it was for my sake. Because I looked so sad. But you were lying.”

He closes his eyes to collect himself. “Your voice gets soft when you lie.”

Cyrene sighs. “I thought I was doing a good job covering it up. Since when have you known how to read me like that? That’s not fair at all. It feels like I don’t know you at all.”

“I’ve always known when you’re lying. That time you ate that entire pie and blamed it on Snowy - I knew it was you.”

“I’m surprised you remember that, of all things.” She twirls a piece of her hair. “I didn’t think you’d start crying. I baked a whole new one that night because I felt so bad. I even got your mom to teach me the recipe.”

Phainon presses his face to his knees. “You owe Snowy an apology.”

“I’ll write a formal letter of repentance. I’ll grovel and all.” Humor dances in her voice, and a flare of sharp, bitter resentment burns in his chest. He covers his face with his hands and drags in a breath.

“Are you alright? You’re shaking.”

“I met the Astral Express.”

“Stelle’s friends?” Cyrene perks up. “They’re a handful, aren’t they? Kind, though. Very kind, after all we’ve put them through.”

“The one Stelle calls ‘Mr. Yang’, he told me the truth about what’s happening outside of Amphoreus.”

“...ah. So that’s why you’re on your way out.”

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” He knows the answer to that. He’s an unstable, volatile variable. Lord Ravager, spawn of Destruction. What does a Lord Ravager do if not destroy? An outburst could destroy galaxies. His rage had reached heights that could raze entire worlds to ash. Why would this be different? Why would he ever have thought that peace would suit him?

“They didn’t want you to leave.” Her voice is gentle. So gentle. Even now she’s the one holding his hand, trying to comfort him. “Everyone wants you here. What’s wrong with basking in the light you brought? Some diplomat or megacorporation shouldn’t get to dictate whether or not you can stay in your own home.”

“I’m putting the entirety of Amphoreus at risk just by being here.” He can’t help the gravel that slips into his voice, the anger. “Do you really want to throw away all your hard work for a stupid whim?”

She purses her lips. “They’re willing to fight for you. They want you here - that’s the choice they’ve made. The story includes all of us.”

“If Amphoreus comes to know another disaster because I was too selfish to leave?” He snaps. “If everything we did was for nothing?”

“For nothing?” She repeats, incredulous, disbelieving, “How is this nothing? The sacrifices we made were worth it to stand in the warmth of the sun. A romantic story deserves a happy ending.”

“You can’t say that.” His voice betrays him and wobbles precariously just like it used to when he was little. Aedes Elysiae brings out all the worst parts of him. “It wasn’t romantic. Not for me. It was miserable, Cyrene, you don’t even remember most of it-”

Romantic. Easy for her to say. All she had to do was die.

It isn’t fair. And still, he’d do it again. This impulse for self-destruction is the only thing he has. If Amphoreus’ safety requires him to leave, then he will go without complaint.

“I waited so long for you in the Path space.” Cyrene says, and for a moment that cheerful mask slips. “I waited so long for all of you. I don’t want to wait any longer.”

“You don’t have to.” Phainon says. “They’re waiting for you in Era Nova.”

“It won’t be Era Nova without you.”

He was never going to make it to the new world; the duty of the Deliverer was to become kindling for the sun that would shine upon the people. The Deliverer is not a character that makes it to the last page of the story.

Phainon takes one last look at the hometown he’s burnt to ash time and time again.

“Bye, Cyrene.”

The beautiful memory shatters.