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Through the many cycles Khaslana had lived, his goal never changed. Seize the coreflames, loop again, become the blazing sun in the sky to rip a new tomorrow from the hands of cruel fate, waiting for the true Deliverer, and maybe, just maybe, with the help of divine intervention, break Amphoreus out of Irontomb’s hold. For how long must he walk this road through the endless night, he didn’t know. But to say he had thought about giving up, that would be a lie.
The first few times, he had tried to be peaceful. Gently ask for the coreflames from their holders, carefully explaining each and every time the whys and hows he must do so. They usually complied, usually. He must have screwed up his wording once or twice, because he was forced to defend himself and kill them, believing his lie was just a front for nefarious intentions. Those scarce instances made his golden blood freeze in his veins just thinking about it. It was also the start of his descent into insanity. By the forty-second cycle, he had figured it was more straightforward to simply kill them all, even if it pained him to do so.That was good, pain would keep him human, until he became numb to it, but that was alright. It had helped, for a time.
But even as his mind and body deteriorated, even as he killed and slaughtered the copies of his friends over and over, repeating to himself they would all see a real tomorrow once the journey reached its final destination, he could never bring himself to lay his hands on Castorice. If Mydei made him hesitate, then he just couldn’t touch Castorice. At least not while she took the form of the lonely girl that he shared classes with at the Grove, silently pleading each and every time she would take the form of Pollux to try and stop him, memories of a time long past flashing through his brain in a desperate attempt to keep him somewhat human.
He hadn’t had many friends at the time. Cyrene had long since graduated from Janusopolis by the time Aglaea had deemed it appropriate to give him a proper education, he certainly couldn’t ask Aglaea or Tribbie to just chat, the first was too busy leading Okhema and the best he could do for Tribbie was texting on their teleslate, Mydei would call him soft and they couldn’t spar at a distance, and it was best to keep Anaxa content if he wanted a passing grade, meaning he had to leave him alone, or else. So he turned to the other person sent to study with him in the Grove, Castorice.
At first she kept him at arms’ length, literally. Always one step further than he could reach, careful not to come anywhere close to his personal space. He had thought it shyness once upon a time, but seeing her sad eyes nearly overflow with tears as a flower withered in her hands, the reason for her distance became clear. The touch of Death, a curse she suffered for greatly. He could see it in the longing glances she gave to the patches of grass and flowers that peeked through the stones of the pathways, or the little critters that scurried through the branches of the Tree.
The naive boy he had been back then tried his very best to be her friend, if nothing else to help both of them with their loneliness, not that he would ever admit it, but with time he came to appreciate their friendship as the only normal thing in his life. If he let himself get distracted, then he could imagine himself being simple classmates with her, with nothing riding on their shoulders but their grades, studying until the wee hours of the morning just to pass the upcoming exam, sharing answers and tea in the quiet.
After some time, she stopped trying to turn him away, only smiling gently and offering him a spot near her to work on their assignments together, even if always at a safe distance. He forgot the amount of time they spent together back then, but in his memories of the Grove, Castorice was always there, studying with him, laughing with him, leaving behind thoughtful little gifts, her own way of showing affection since she could not touch him at all. He knew she did it for everyone, but his heart still lit aflame as he carefully held her handmade gifts in his hands, as if handling them with too much strength would break them, quietly admiring the craftsmanship that must have gone into them.
He kept his silence on the matter.
He would hurt her, he knew, she would feel guilty of not being able to do much with him, even the most basic things like holding hands, she was unable to do it without killing him. So he kept it at admiring her in silence, keeping his thoughts about her deep down in his mind. He was allowed to find her pretty, to be touched by her kindness and grace, to smile at her mannerisms, he was just not allowed to get closer than that.
She took a little part of him with her once she took up the authority of Death, descending into the Netherrealm to guard over the deceased. In that moment he wished he told her, to be able to see her just one time smiling at him, because of him, because of them. But he didn’t, he was not selfish enough to tell her just as she was about to leave them for good. Maybe one day, at the end of the road, he would see her waiting for him in that field of flowers she always talked about.
But even that wasn’t meant to be.
As he looped back through time, he was denied the chance to see her and rest again and again, the peaceful field of flowers that he knew was a lie in the end always out of his reach. Just like she had been in what felt like eons ago. And even if it was all a lie, he was tired. Not very coherent anymore as the light of over a million Coreflames scorched his very soul from the inside out, the only thing he wanted, that survived this far, was vengeance, deliverance that he knew he couldn't bring by himself, but after that?
That's what he found himself thinking about as he fell deeper into the dark, right arm missing and with such bone-deep tiredness he struggled to keep his eyes open by a sliver. So tired he couldn't even think of what he wanted. Deliverance would come, now that he found the true hero, vengeance might have not been complete, but he felt… better at least. Like he had completely exhausted his anger trying to even reach Nanook.
What would happen now? He would… probably fade away. The next Phainon, if there ever was going to be one, would be free from the burden of his memories. Free from the burden of the immense amount of Coreflames he carried and free from the weight of millennia of hatred. It didn't make him happy, but it didn't upset him either. Maybe it was for the best that Khaslana died once and for all.
So he prepared to see Aedes Elysiae one last time, see the golden fields moving like the sea with the breeze and smell the wheat on the wind. He had died before, this wouldn't be much different, except for the fact he wouldn't be joining the next cycle. Or so he thought.
The almost sickly sweet smell of flowers invaded his nose, and that snapped him back to full attention, watching his surroundings in disbelief as his battered body fell in the blue grass. A field of flowers, a shattered moon, the night sky above him, and the gentle embrace of petals on his skin, like cradling him to rest. The Netherrealm.
He didn't move. He was so tired he couldn't even if he wanted to. But he was a little too busy forcing the gears in his head to turn and think about what was happening. Wasn't the whole of Amphoreus just a program? Was the Netherrealm real then? What would count as real in a simulation anyway?
A train of thought abruptly cut short as his ears picked up the sound of heels tapping against dirt, steps approaching him at an unhurried pace. She was here, and he was ashamed that such a simple thought brought him such joy. The steps got louder, she was getting closer. And then he saw her.
She was leaning over him to get a good look, and he thought she didn't change at all. She was still Castorice, purple butterflies in her hair and flowers still sewn on her dress, that he knew she made to make death seem like a gentler thing. She was right, he never thought dying for him would be so sweet.
It took her a moment or so, he was pretty mangled, but he knew she recognized him when she smiled, somehow both sad and relieved. Her hand hesitated to touch him, and he wanted to say it was fine, he couldn't be any more dead than this, but then her fingers tangled in his hair, combing through the strands in a gentle motion, and the air rushed out of his lungs in one long exhale.
He couldn't remember the last time someone gave him such soft attention. His eyelids fluttered half closed as he simply enjoyed being there, muscles relaxing and he felt like melting into the ground. Her voice was quiet and gentle on his ears as she spoke, kneeling next to his head: “...I don’t know the full story, Deliverer. I am not the Castorice you knew, or one of the others you met.” -he felt a slight pang to his heart at that, but at least he knew it was not a dream this way- “I am just the latest, and the one that met our mutual gray friend. I have been told quite a few things about you.”
Her hand moved lower to caress his cheek, and his head leaned slightly into her palm, seeking the strangely warm feeling of the Hand of Shadow. She paused, as if still amazed she could even touch someone without them turning to dust, before she continued: “...it’s not quite your time yet. More important duties are still calling you, even I can tell that, but until then…”
He made a quiet noise in the back of his throat as she moved his heavy head to rest on her thighs, much more comfortable than the flowered ground, slowly, as if scared he would disintegrate if she touched him with more than her hand. But he was fine, wild hair flattening against the pillowy fabric of her dress, severed arm still spurting golden ichor in a slow trickle that stained the dirt under them, as if he had not much left to bleed. It didn’t seem to bother her, and he had to wet his lips to say anything, voice hoarse and cracked and it reminded him just how much he screamed his throat raw earlier: “I… my arm…”
And he made a vague gesture with what remained of his right bicep, bringing it slightly away from them, he was exhausted and he didn’t want to splatter any more of his ichor around, but it brought Castorice’s attention to it. She blinked at it, confused by what he meant, until she seemed to understand and a disbelieving smile spread across her lips, shaking her head in amusement. With gentle guidance, she brought his arm back to its place, staining the edge of her dress in gold: “Even in temporary death, you are as kind as the Phainon I remember.”
He was too out of it to really question what she meant with ‘temporary death’. He just vaguely noticed the ground under him shaking as the Netherwing -Pollux, his memories supplied- approached to curl around them, its eyes closing and creating a small canopy with a wing, protected from the rest of the Netherrealm, leaving them in partial darkness.
Her hand returned to pet his hair, coaxing him into sleep, and his eyes fluttered again, a deep tiredness begging him to close his eyes and stop being conscious just for a bit: “Rest now, Khaslana. When the time comes, I will accompany you back to the world of the living.”
For the first time in thirty-three million cycles, stripped of titles and expectations, Khaslana closed his eyes, cradled in the embrace of the person that wore the face of a girl he once loved, breathing a quiet ‘Thank you’ that tasted like relief. Maybe when he woke again, it would be in a world where he could enjoy this from the very start.