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Chapter Text

Lord Nikador wears a bright red stone on a chain around his neck.

It's not a very large stone, Lysander thinks. It's longer than it is wide, and would fit very neatly in the palm of his own hand and still leave room for at least five more of the same stone to fit. Even then, he thinks he would still be able to make a fist around this hypothetical stone bundle.

In Lord Nikador's larger, calloused hands, it looks positively delicate. It's very pretty. Sometimes, when Lysander visits the Southeast Courtyard by the castle to find a sparring partner, he's surprised to find the Titan there too. From below a lush, willowy tree, He casts His piercing gaze over His people, running an idle finger over the chain around his neck. Sunlight filters through the leaves above Him, glancing off the gleaming stone and scattering light around the Titan.

Lysander doesn't linger around Castrum Kremnos' castle much, as he's not a very high-ranked warrior—He's working on it, he swears!—but every time he sees Lord Nikador, He seems to be touching the stone in some way. The Titan handles it very gently, a stark antithesis to the way He is in battle—aggressive, strong, unyielding.

He treats it like something to worship.

Lysander would only ever see Him without the stone once.

Rather infamously, many of the active Titans grow irritable during the Month of Reaping. It's the month to which Lord Cerces is the patron Titan; the month when Lord Cerces blessed Amphoreus with Bountiful Harvest over 3,500 years ago during the worst harvest season in known history; the month during which, over 3,500 years ago, Lord Cerces disappeared.

It's now, at the start of the Month of Reaping, that Lysander is able to witness such irritability in person. He's leaving the Kremnos Arena at Descent Hour with a few other Kremnoan warriors his age when it happens—Kephale descends from above, landing in the center of the Arena.

There was no need to consciously remind himself to bow. Something about Kephale's presence made the air feel uncomfortably warm and heavy, turning the intangible into a physical pressure. Lysander's eyes watered, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut as soon as he bowed his head. His knees shook, and sweat began to coat his palms.

If this was how a Titan's presence felt, how, Lysander wondered faintly, would one of those distant Aeons from beyond the sky feel?

The disappearance of Lord Cerces had, in part, been caused by an organization from beyond the sky backed by an Aeon. The IPO? he thought uncertainly, though he was sure it was an acronym, at least. Something about a "peace" organization. It wasn't hard to understand why He had been so desperate to prevent them from digging their claws into Amphoreus, if only to avoid the organization's Aeon.

"Where is He?" the Worldbearer demands, drawing Lysander back to reality.

"Who?" Alekpoulos asks. The hesitance on his face, which was so often contorted in a bold smirk, was jarring in its unfamiliarity. More than that, Lysander could see the other boy gripping the edge of his tunic in a futile effort to cover up the trembling of his steady, swordsman's fingers. Then, hastily— "Lord Kephale?"

"Nikador," Kephale snaps. Lysander dares not look Him in the eye, but there was a golden glow coming from the Titan's direction, and he couldn't help remembering being a child listening to stories featuring the Worldbearer's burning, golden eyes. "Your Lord. Where is He? Bring Him to me, now."

"Right—right away, Lord Kephale," Deloskles stammers. He exchanges a quick glance with Alekpoulos, then the two of them scramble out of the Arena, presumably towards the center of the city to find their Titan. Lysander and the rest of his age-mates bow hastily to the snarling, agitated Titan before them and then back away when He waves them away.

The second they passed the Arena's entrance, Lysander ducked behind the wall making up the doorway, vaguely aware of his fellows doing the same. Then, he peeked back into the Arena, watching curiously afar as, seemingly in a rage, Kephale paced the perimeter of the Arena.

It was a few minutes before Lord Nikador arrived, but the second He did, the Worldbearer's gaze locked onto the glistening stone dangling from His neck.

Kephale's laughter echoed through the city. It was wild. Hollow. Haunting.

Curious, Lysander had cautiously shifted around the doorway, closer to the Arena's center, until he could make out Their expressions.

"Still dragging that around?" Kephale scoffed, fists repeatedly clenching and relaxing at His sides like he had to actively remind himself not to attack. His gaze never left the stone. "Do you talk to it, too?"

What He said should have sounded scornful, but the grief in His tone and the desperation in His eyes prevented Lysander from interpreting it as anything but sad. It felt less like Kephale disdained the stone, but rather wished to take it into His own care.

Lord Nikador scowled and opened His mouth, as though to speak, but a glance at the Kremnoans still in the Arena stayed his tongue.

"Out!" He commanded. "All of you! And stay away until further notice."

At that, Lysander had no choice but to leave for the night.

The next day, he made his way to the Southeast Courtyard to meet his friend Elara for a quick spar and maybe some gossip.

He froze on the threshold of the Courtyard.

Kephale was there, leaning against the Courtyard's tree with His arms crossed as He watched the sparring matches with Lord Nikador, whose gaze was stuck on something lower by the Worldbearer's side. Catching the sudden lack of movement by the entrance, Kephale raised an eyebrow at him.

Well, he thought. No backing out now.

He scurried towards Elara's position near the rack of practice weapons.

"What's going on?" he hissed as he bent down to pick out a wooden sword.

She frowned. "How would I know?" Then, she leaned in closer and lowered her voice to a near-silent whisper. "Don't look now, but Lord Nikador isn't wearing His necklace."

They walked over to a cleared space. As they went, Lysander snuck a peek over at the lounging Titans.

It was true—Lord Nikador's neck was bare.

Just as he was about to avert his gaze, Kephale leaned over and rested his arm on the Strife Titan's shoulder.

Lysander watched through quick glances as Kephale snickered something into Lord Nikador's ear, apparently in a much better mood than He'd been the night before. He couldn't help noting how, through it all, even as the Worldbearer elbowed and shook Him, Lord Nikador's eyes always returned to the bright, shining stone dangling from Kephale's wrist like the inevitability of gravitational force returning a wayward object back down to the earth.

When Lysander went back the next day at the same time with Elara, it was like it never happened. Kephale had left, and the stone had been returned to its place, resting against Lord Nikador's chest and shimmering brightly—happily, Lysander wanted to say, which was ridiculous because stones couldn't be happy—under the sunlight.

He was only one mortal out of thousands; a mere man in a world ruled by Titans in a universe ruled by Aeons; Lysander would never learn of the stone's significance, but he would wonder at it in the back of his mind for the rest of his life, never quite able to shake the certainty that it was much more than it seemed.

Lord Cerces is not an active Titan. No mortal knows where He has gone, or what He's doing. The only evidence of His continued life at all is the continued balance between plants and soil throughout Amphoreus and the maintenance of His last blessing in the form of the flourishing harvest on their planet.

He does not appear before His followers or the other Titans, nor does he answer the questions of the scholars who visit His divine body.

Southeast of Castrum Kremnos, there is a grove, mainly taken care of by the Strife Titan, Nikador Himself. At the center, there is a large, sprawling tree overlooking the area. Its branches strain further and further towards the sky as though trying to console its weeping Titan during the heavy downpour of the Month of Reaping. Conversely, its roots grow deeper and deeper, seeking to reach the nether realm, or perhaps the Titan who rules it.

Cheerful red clematis flowers climb boldly up the trunk as though determined to ascend to the very top and transcend the skies. The delicate-looking flowers have endured over three thousand years of Aquila's storms of grief, but, maybe through the miracle of their passion, still bloom each spring after their winter withering.

Large pumpkins sit among the great roots of the tree, forever ripe, though Lord Nikador would be the first to say that He has no idea where they came from. The grass is a healthy green, dotted with the baby blues of forget-me-nots. Butterflies and birds rest on the branches, and other wildlife come and go as they please. Towards the northeast end of the grove, there is a small, clear pond with seemingly endless depths.

The little garden where Cerces took His last breath for the next three thousand years has grown into a flourishing grove of life.

The day Lord Kephale made his abrupt visit to Castrum Kremnos, bundles of golden wheat were left hidden among the roots of the tree.

The Worldbearer knelt by one of his offerings. Lord Nikador watched in silence.

"Cerces, darling," Kephale breathed, reaching forward with the shining red stone the Titans had been left with all those decades ago. He pressed it tentatively against the wooden roots. He swallowed a sob. "Where has your mind gone? Come back to us, Anaxagoras."

"Khaslana," Nikador murmured, finally stepping forward. He rested a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Mydeimos," Phainon choked out. He brought the stone back towards himself and pressed his lips lightly against its smooth surface.

Mydei lowered himself to sit beside his companion, tugging him down with him as he went.

"Phainon," he repeated. "Let's rest here tonight."

"Yes," Phainon breathed as he collapsed against the sturdy roots of their fallen lover. "Maybe a night of rest might do me some good."

"Within 33,550,336 hours from now," Janus had whispered the day the tree in the little garden had sprouted over three thousand years ago. Their many eyes -shimmered with Their tears. White flowers bloomed where They stood, blossoms tickling Their ankles. Thanatos' fingers had trembled as She gently gripped what was now Cerces' soul. She had searched almost the entirety of the River of Souls before fishing out the brilliant, fragile stone. The rain fell in heavy, almost solid sheets as Aquila wailed Her grief. "The fragments of Cerces must be reunited, else He may never bloom again. Body, mind, and soul wither without the mutual entanglement of one another."

It's said that Kephale wanders the world in search of Cerces' wandering mind; that Nikador built up Castrum Kremnos near the splendor of the growing Grove of Epiphany so that there would always be an army ready to defend the tree that had sprouted from the scattered remains of Cerces' body.

It's said that They hold His soul close and offer Their company from beneath the canopy of His body, all in the hope that His mind would come back to Them to continue His never-ending calculations as He pleased from the protective stronghold of Their arms.

Chapter Text

The bridging of the gap between Amphoreus and the rest of the cosmos was met with a heavy hand.

Within a month, the IPC had come to their doorstep.

"We only mean to help," their representative had said. "Don't you want your planet to prosper?" The man glanced disdainfully out of the nearby window. When the IPC delegation had arrived, it'd been in a fancy starship with a multitude of unfamiliar technology that had Cerces' eye glinting with the desire to take it all apart and put it back together and Zagreus' gaze flitting to every shiny component She could see.

Seeing the representative's expression, it was all but confirmed: Amphoreus' technology was far behind the rest of the cosmos'. Likely, their greatest protection was the unknown strength of their local gods. Technology didn't matter if Aquila and Nikador could strike down foreign armies from the skies.

A week later, They had an answer for the IPC's offer.

"We refuse," Talanton had said simply, tapping the tips of Her fingers absently against the back of Phagousa's sturdy wrist.

Over that course of that week, the violent trembling of Mnestia's golden threads had indicated lies and ulterior motives. When Zagreus snuck Cerces into the IPC starship, They found correspondence speaking of plans to entrench Amphoreus into debt so deep they would be forced to rely on the IPC for the next millennium.

The promise of a grant of money and better technology had been tempting, but, They all agreed, was not worth the potential loss of Amphoreus' independence.

The IPC departed with flimsy smiles and the thinly veiled implication that Amphoreus would have to cave to their demands eventually.

The pressure increased.

Other planets' offers to open trade were suddenly being "reconsidered". Tourism, which had been steadily increasing as it'd become clear that Amphoreus would welcome well-mannered guests, dwindled as IPC propaganda spread to more and more planets. Correspondence with the Intelligentsia Guild, previously very enthusiastic about exchanging information, grew colder.

"The IPC sponsors the Guild," Cerces hissed one day, gripping His open teleslate with a vengeance that spoke of a desire to start wringing corporate necks. Nikador leaned over to press His lips gently against Reason's temple. Kephale rushed to embrace Him from behind, rubbing His hands soothingly up and down the sides of His waist and hooking His chin over a thin shoulder. "And the IPC isn't going to fund any Guild trips here if their members keep the information exchange a two-way deal."

"So they want to take but not give?" Talanton scoffed from Her perch at the head of the banquet spread. "Dux Sophus, you know the principle of equivalent exchange as well as—if not better than—I do."

The tension melted from Cerces' body as He leaned into Kephale's embrace and Nikador took His hand, but the vengeful gleam in His eye remained.

"Yes," He harrumped. "I'll offer an ultimatum. Equivalent exchange or nothing."

"Amphoreus has supported itself since its creation," Kephale finally said firmly. "It would have been pleasant to have allies from beyond the sky, but We can, and will, move forward without them."

"We got a look at their medical technology and advancements already anyway," Aquila huffed into Ica's mane. A single golden thread reached out to wrap gently around Her wrist.

"We have Aquila with us. When it comes to medicine, there is nobody greater," Mnestia declared, much to the mortification of Aquila Herself. Thanatos, watching Aquila's flustered gesturing in the direction of Mnestia's serenity, giggled as She nodded along.

After a moment, Phagousa raised Her shining, golden chalice, causing a cascading hush to descend over the rest of the table.

"We will never bend first," She vowed to the murmuring agreements of the rest of the pantheon.

And They didn't.

Intergalactic trade offers went from being "reconsidered" to being entirely cut off. Tourism continued its downward spiral until it became nothing at all. The Intelligentsia Guild chose the safety of the IPC's funding, and the information exchange was closed indefinitely.

Life went on in Amphreus as it always had.

Three decades after that first meeting, the IPC broke first.

"The Interastral Peace Corporation proposes a renegotiation of our previous offer to fund the development of Amphoerus," Janus read aloud. Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon fidgeted from Their perch in Her lap.

The rest of the letter was a rehash of the rest of that offer—funding, lending manpower, setting up trade, and selling them technology that Amphoreus had no access to.

Displeasure permeated the room, thick enough to feel like the air had actually become heavy with it. The earth hummed and groaned under Their feet with Georios' discontent, and outside, the Sky darkened with an incoming storm.

A sigh.

"They've realized that if there's one thing We have over them, it's Time," Oronyx giggled, shoulders shaking in time with her wind chime laughter.

Kephale paused in His attempts to steal sips of pomegranate juice from Nikador's chalice.

"And so they've come crawling back," He agreed with the slightest quirk to the corner of His lips.

Talanton hummed, idly tossing the weight of Her staff between Her hands as She thought.

"We'll agree to the renegotiation, as it would be good to have allies outside of Amphoreus in the case of interstellar conflict," She said slowly. "But—We won't agree to anything if they try once again to put Us under them. Amphoreus will maintain its independence."

Phagousa rose to stand beside Her. "All in favor?"

Nikador snatched His chalice from under Kephale's thieving fingers and tossed back the rest of His juice in the same manner one would use with hard alcohol.

"Begrudgingly," He grumbled. Then, as Cerces reached to refill His chalice, "Thank you, my Reason, but You'll enable Him."

Kephale sputtered incoherently. Thanatos coughed, covering up the laughter threatening to burst from Her chest. Zagreus had no concern for the politeness the Death Titan maintained and openly cackled.

"That was rather the point, Your Majesty," Cerces smirked. Nikador sighed fondly and leaned back in His seat, shaking His head. "But yes," Cerces added, looking towards Phagousa and Talanton. "Begrudgingly, I am in favor."

"That sums it up pretty well," Aquila agreed airily. Tentatively, the sun peeked out from behind a dark cloud.

"There's no harm in hearing them out," Mnestia murmured from beside Her.

"Well then." Talanton cast Her gaze over the room, taking in the nods and the skepticism. "Here's to that."

Twelve golden chalices clinked together in unison. Then, one by one, They departed.

Their second meeting with the IPC did not differ much from the first. Oh, the finer details varied, yes, but, much like the first meeting, it began with the corporation making its offer, continued with failed attempts to negotiate fairer terms, and ended with refusing to cave.

The lasting effects of the week-long conference were not realized until much later.

The first sign that something was wrong began to show nearly three months after the foreign corporation left, during Kephale's Month of Freedom.

Farmers were noticing more weeds than usual.

There was an abundance of them, sprouting and growing quicker than people were able to thoroughly get rid of them.

The weeds were not familiar to any farmers who saw them, and had initially only looked like overgrown grass. However, now, after the longer days of Aquila's sunlit month before, the weeds were growing quicker and larger than before.

"I don't recall ever seeing this plant," Georios muttered, holding two jars containing samples of two of the new weeds up to the light streaming into Cerces' lab.

Seven different types had been discovered so far, and Cerces' shelves were packed with samples.

"Neither do I," Cerces spat viciously, clutching three more jars in His arms. He sighed. Cleared His throat. Then, suddenly, the epitome of innocent serenity— "It is almost as though these are not native to Amphoreus at all."

Too many weeds could sabotage the entire year's harvest. They competed with the crops for the soil's nutrients and water. If they grew too large, they could block the surrounding crops' access to sunlight.

Invasive plants from beyond Amphoreus destroying the food supply after that IPC visit…

The story wrote itself, didn't it?

If Amphoreus lacked food, it would be forced to look beyond its own skies for help. Other planets would refuse to supply them with food in fear of the IPC coming down on them. With no other options available, Amphoreus would be forced to turn to the IPC.

Georios hummed noncommittally and set the jars gently on Cerces' desk. The Reason Titan's shelf organization was a mystery to all, and Georios refused to risk incurring His wrath by putting the jars in the wrong spots.

Nobody comes here, Cerces once complained. This was true, of course—Cerces' home, and therefore His lab, was south of Okhema, and typically, nobody but Kephale, Nikador, Aquila, or Thanatos visited. Why do I have to organize it to other people's standards?

"Let's make note of it for now," The Earth Titan said neutrally. Cerces knew Him well enough to know what He thought.

As predicted, Cerces studied His expression, then nodded.

"Yes, I know. You're correct, of course."

Amphoreus had no interastral allies. They had little evidence of sabotage. The IPC's influence reached nearly every little corner of the cosmos. There were more planets indebted to the corporation than They could count on Their fingers put together.

Amphoreus could not afford to kick up a fuss, especially not with an organization as far-reaching as the Interastral Peace Corporation.

"There's another thing," Georios said, pulling a photostone from His satchel. "I was just visiting a nearby farm, and I saw this."

He held out the photostone for Cerces to take. The device was open to a photo of a field.

The soil in the photo was oddly pale and—Cerces squinted—seemed like it had a white crust over the surface.

"What…?"

The Earth Titan sighed. "Salt damage. Someone put a salt solution over this farm's fields."

Cerces worried His bottom lip between His teeth, gaze roving over the wilting plants in the photo.

"Is this happening in other places, too?"

"I have not checked yet, but when I recall visiting other farms a month ago for the weed situation… Looking back, the wilting I saw could be explained by this."

"Flushing affected plots of land with water should help with mitigating the salt damage, but the crops…"

… Could become overwatered while this was done.

The two Titans stood in the lab in silence, the click of the photostone meeting the desk as Cerces set it down echoing through the lab.

The Month of Reaping was nearly upon them—they didn't have much time left to rectify the situation.

"We need to increase funding for the labor force for weeding," Georios finally said. "I'll speak with Talanton about it."

"Yes." Cerces cleared His throat. "I'll write Phagousa about flushing the land and then focus on studying the samples I have to start on a weed killer. It might affect the harvest, but if we can exterminate all the weeds now…"

His words trailed off into a stream of mumbled conjecture.

Georios watched Him for a moment, fondness for His friend threatening to grace His stern face, then inclined His head.

"I'll tell Talanton and Phagousa to expect a letter from You." Then, the slightest tired smile broke His stony expression. "I leave You to it."

With that, He ducked out of the lab and departed for Okhema.

Cerces developed the weedkillers targeting the invasive plants within two weeks. He and Georios traveled nonstop between affected farms to apply the alchemical mixtures for another week. By the time Phagousa flushed the last land plot, there were only five days left in the Month of Freedom.

But the damage had been dealt. Over 65% of the planet's projected crop yield had already been lost.

It was not nearly enough to feed everyone.

Deep within a forest far Southeast of the Holy City of Okhema, there was a little garden cared for by the Titan of Reason, Cerces Himself.

Bitter laughter echoed through the forest from that garden as its lord lay on His back in a patch of forget-me-nots. Birds fluttered to rest on branches nearby to peer down at the figure in concern. Eventually, the laughter petered off into near-hysterical giggles, and then into nothingness.

"… I was not nearly fast enough." A little golden bird mustered up the courage to land next to His head. Cerces' slender fingers moved to pet the top of its head affectionately.

"Sorry," He breathed, cringing at the waver in His voice. "I don't have anything for you to eat."

The little bird hopped closer, reaching out to smooth the Titan's hair out with its beak and nuzzling against His soft cheek.

A larger bird of similar color to the first one landed on the other side of His head.

Cerces blinked.

Little bird… grows into a larger bird…

The questioning chirps of the birds by His side faded into the background. He sat up slowly. Tapped His index finger against the grass as His mind whirred…

The harvest hadn't started yet.

He still had fifteen entry hours.

The little golden bird hopped into His lap, and He lifted His hand, absently petting its tiny head.

He cast His gaze around His little garden before landing on His tiny vegetable patch.

His lips lifted into a smirk.

Perfect.

Amphoreus would not rely on the likes of the IPC.

Kephale woke on the morning of the day harvesting would begin with a heavy heart.

About the first ten days of the Month of Harvest were spent preparing for the harvest. Typically, when the fields would yield an abundance of food, farmers would prepare proper storage and recruit extra hands to help harvest and store the crops. Merchants traveled to farms they'd set up contracts with in preparation to buy and transport the crops to cities to sell.

This year, while everyone had done Their best to help save the year's crop yield, and while They had succeeded in saving a whole lot more than They would have if nothing had been done…

The hard truth was that the danger of food shortages was imminent.

During the first ten days of this year's Month of Harvest, farmers were forced to let farmhands go in preparation for economic loss, and merchants scrambled to secure extra connections in hopes of squeezing out extra suppliers for more product to sell.

The loss of the crop harvest had hit Cerces hard, Kephale knew. He and Nikador had hardly seen the smaller Titan since Phagousa had finished flushing the fields, and when They did, it was because They'd gone to see Him holed up in His lab, muttering to Himself and scribbling things only He understood. When the two of Them made their presence known, He always turned to greet them, of course, but Cerces had always been very aware of His surroundings. The lack of awareness now spoke to the depth of His upset.

They were giving Him space for now with timed interventions to make sure He was eating and sleeping at least a little bit, but Kephale and Nikador had planned to go live with Him if it continued for too long.

Which, Kephale thought morosely as He pulled His calendar up on His teleslate, would likely be soon. Today marked just over two weeks of His beloved's devastation.

Yes, He would need to speak to Nikador later that day. Luckily, the Strife Titan would likely come to the same conclusion on His own, so They would be able to commence with Their operation quickly.

A harsh knock on His bedroom door jolted Him from His thoughts.

"Kephale!"

Curious, He frowned. Talanton sounded…

Excited?

Kephale hurried to open the door.

"Imperator, what—?"

He didn't get the chance to finish. Phagousa, at Talanton's side, grabbed Him by the wrist and dragged Him through the halls of Marmoreal Palace.

Talanton maintained a quick pace beside them, triumphant grin creating a picture of pure glee on Her face.

"You have to see this," She was saying.

They were nearly sprinting down the halls, now. When they reached the entrance to the Palace, Mnestia, Janus, and all three of Her fragments were waiting.

Tribbie ran to meet them, beaming.

"Snowy," She yelped, reaching to take His fingers in Her hand. "Snowy, did You know?"

"Know what?"

Janus opened Century Gate. "I suppose that speaks for itself," She laughed, then stepped back. "Go on, step through."

Bewildered, Kephale stepped through the Gate. He blinked, and suddenly, he was no longer standing on the smooth marble floors of Marmoreal Palace, but on the soft soil of a farm.

A flourishing farm. Disbelief flooded His being, eyes darting every which way to drink in the vibrant colors of the gigantic crops filling the fields to the brim.

He heard the Gate close behind Him, and whirled to meet the gazes of His companions. Already, He could feel the beginnings of a grin shape His face.

"When—?"

"I awoke to the news of a miracle," Talanton interrupted, bouncing on the balls of Her feet. Later, she might fluster and deny this ever happening, but in this moment, She was the very picture of joy.

Mnestia approached at a slower pace. "The same thing happened in every other farm We checked," She murmured, smiling gently. "Aquila and Thanatos will be overjoyed."

Beaming, Kephale turned back to look at the giant crops sitting in the fields of the farm Janus had taken Them to, heart beating fast.

"This is truly…" He trailed off into wild laughter, then glanced back. "Has anyone asked Georios or Cerces about this?"

"We're still trying to get in contact with Georios," Janus sighed. "As for Cerces, We thought You would want to ask Him."

Kephale was already nodding.

"Yes!" He yelped. "Let's go now!" Then— "Please." And then— "Also, can we go get Nikador?"

He smiled awkwardly. Janus blinked.

Then, She was openly laughing at Him.

"Yes and yes."

Mnestia sent Him a smirk from over Janus' head. Kephale grinned back at Her.

The reverberation of Kephale's fist making contact with Cerces' wooden lab door echoed through the empty halls of the Reason Titan's home.

At His side, Nikador shifted His weight restlessly from foot to foot. Cerces hadn't been in His bedroom. The rest of Their companions were waiting outside the little cottage.

A moment passed. Nothing happened.

Nikador shouldered Him aside.

"HKS, your knocks are too weak!" He took His turn to knock.

Nothing.

"Yours must be weak too," Kephale retorted nervously.

Nikador scoffed and reached to try the handle. The door swung open easily, and He poked His head inside.

Kephale shifted uneasily. "Is He there?"

"No." Nikador stepped into the lab, so Kephale trailed in after Him and followed Him to the desk in the middle of the deserted room.

His eyes roved over the surface, searching for any clues—and there! By the chipped ceramic cup filled to the brim with pens that may or may not work, there was a piece of paper.

Kephale reached to snatch up the little note.

Come find me in my garden.

Yours always,

Anaxagoras

His heart beat quickened as He stared at the message, frozen.

Then, He whirled around in search of Nikador. The other Titan had come to stand beside Him at some point and was now reading the note from over His shoulder. After a moment, Nikador's burning, fearful gaze lifted from the paper to meet Kephale's.

There was a brief moment of utter stillness, where His heart dropped into His stomach, and He thought He might throw up.

Then, in a burst of movement, He set the paper back down and, Nikador by His side, ran from the room.

"Lady Janus!" Nikador roared. "I beg of you, prepare a Century Gate to Cerces' garden!"

Talanton's earlier words echoed in Kephale's mind.

'I awoke to a miracle!'

He thought back to Cerces' devastation and the devotion the Reason Titan held towards humanity.

'The same thing happened in every other farm We checked,' Mnestia had said.

Outside, the bright sunlight of Aquila's joy was quickly darkening into a storm.

Equivalent exchange…

The earth began to quake beneath Their feet.

What sacrifice was worth the rejuvenation of an entire planet's main food source?

On a planet run and ruled by Titans, what was worth more than one of those very gods?

When They stepped through Janus' Century Gate onto the grass of Cerces' garden, Georios and Aquila were already there, kneeling and hovering over a third figure.

Shakily, Kephale approached the figures, vaguely aware of His own hand reaching out to clutch and cling to Nikador's, faintly noting the mutated crops in the little vegetable patch in the corner of the garden. His vision blurred and swayed, His palms grew damp, and He was strangely aware of His own heartbeat thumping in His ears.

Noticing Their approach, Georios moved to the side.

"Anaxa…" Phainon croaked. He fell to his knees in the grass beside the body lying on the ground. Mydei lowered himself more slowly beside him.

Golden particles floated lazily through the air as they broke and flaked off the eroding hole in the center of his chest and in the left side of Anaxagoras' face, where he had once worn an ornate eyepatch.

Hyacine shook as she cried, collapsing further into herself and clutching at the loose fabric of Anaxa's chiton, but devastatingly silent.

When Mydei reached out to smooth mint hair away from Anaxa's face, that single remaining eye fluttered open.

"Mydeimos," he murmured, following the tattooed arm back to its owner with his eye. Then, his gaze flitted to the side. "Phainon."

Phainon reached to take a fragile, slender hand in his own. Already, the tips of Anaxa's fingers were gone, dissolved into the air around them.

"What did you do?" he gasped, chest heaving—it was becoming difficult to breathe. "How did you—"

"I couldn't grow something from nothing," Anaxa interrupted smoothly. Never before had Phainon ever heard his voice so faintly. "So I just… made the existing crops grow bigger."

"'Just'," Phainon laughed hollowly. His vision swayed and blurred—this did not feel real, could not be real.

"Did you know?" Mydei demanded, golden eyes wide with horror. His hands shook, but he did not stop petting Anaxa's hair. "The consequences. Did you know what they were?"

Anaxa laughed. His entire body shook with it, and it echoed hauntingly past the boundaries of the garden, letting the entire forest hear. The void of his chest continued its slow expansion outwards, gold breaking off and floating away, and slowly taking him away.

Wildly, Phainon thought back to the eternal recurrences and Anaxa's death in the Vortex of Genesis during that 33,550,336th cycle.

"Y-yes," Anaxa coughed, voice straining to be heard. "I knew what the consequences could be."

A sob tore its way out of Phainon's throat, and he saw Mydei bow low over Anaxa's disappearing head. He wanted to say something, beg him to tell him whywhywhy, but his heart had lodged itself in his throat, and his lungs had refused to take in the air he'd need to speak.

A blur of purple appeared in the corner of Phainon's vision. He forced himself to keep his eyes on Anaxa. He did not want to watch Castorice realize what was happening.

"What…?" Her soft voice was trembling. "Hyacine, Professor—"

As though the calling of her name jolted her from her shock, Hyacine suddenly broke the silence of her cries. All at once, she began to sob. The dark skies overhead lagged for only a moment, and then they were sitting in a raging thunderstorm. When Castorice stumbled closer to embrace her, thunder shook the world, and when she screamed and cursed, lightning struck the earth.

"Death to them," she swore over and over. When Phainon dared to look over, he was witness to Castorice's fingers tightening around Hyacine's shoulders and a golden thread floating through the air to cradle the two of them. "A hundred times over. If they ever set foot here again—"

"Hyacine.."

She froze, gaze snapping up to meet Anaxa's.

"Professor…?"

He lifted his shaking, dissolving hand to her face. Hyacine rushed to clutch it in her own, as though to disguise his trembling with hers. Clumsily, he slid his palm against her cheek.

"Don't cry…" he slurred. "I don't want you to be sad."

For a moment, Hyacine did nothing but stare. Then, her face screwed up as she resumed her sobbing once more.

"Professor Anaxa," she laughed wetly. "It's much too late for that."

Anaxa watched her hazily. Then, he shut his remaining eye.

"Sorry."

Hyacine shook her head. "No, don't be sorry. Come back."

Mydei was forced to stop stroking Anaxa's hair as the gold ate away closer and closer to his eye.

Phainon watched this all, strangely detached, barely registering new movement from Mydei leaning down to press a kiss to Anaxa's closed eyelid.

"You did a good thing," Mydei reassured him, voice tight. "I just… We wish you hadn't."

"… Sorry."

"Don't be." Mydei managed to choke out a chuckle. "It's my selfishness. I love you."

Anaxa managed one last faint smile, remaining eye curving up with his pleasure, ashen cheek flushed a pale, barely-there pink. Then, the gold swept it all away.

The dam broke. Tears streamed down Phainon's face as he surged forward to cling to Anaxa's deteriorating waist. He pressed his lips against the fragile collarbone, ran his fingers across the cage of the ribcage.

"Don't go," Phainon begged. "Anaxa, my heart, don't—"

A sob tore itself from his chest, his words fading with the emergence of his cries and the departure of his lover.

Anaxagoras was gone by the time the sun would have peaked in the sky.

In his place sprouted a tiny tree that would be nourished by his lovers for the centuries to come.

It was here, beside the sprout, under the screaming skies, on trembling earth, that Janus delivered Her prophecy.

Chapter Text

Kephale storms out of the frozen lands of Aidonia for what must be the thousandth time over the last 2,554 years, empty handed.

The worst parts of the searching, He thinks, is the leaving with no results; the knowledge that His heart is still out there somewhere; the knowledge that Cerces could return to the places He's already searched.

Cerces had been the most inquisitive, curious person in Amphoreus, with the greatest thing holding Him back from the greatest dangers of His curiosity being the knowledge that His loved ones would become upset if He was hurt.

Now, mind separated from heart and soul, Kephale doesn't know if this would have the same hold over Him.

When He's left the blinding white of the snow far behind enough that He no longer has to ignore any of the biting chill of the weather, He stopped to consider His path. Tiredly, He tossed His travel pack to the ground and flopped over next to it, staring blankly into the clouds above.

Visiting Castrum Kremnos in this era has become rejuvenating and exhausting all at once.

Kephale, recalling the past versions of Kremnos, cannot help but laugh every time he thinks of this new, and final, version.

Castrum Kremnos, which had so famously followed the Strife Titan in previous cycles, now splits its faith between Nikador and Cerces. It's Nikador's fault, Kephale knows.

Castrum Kremnos had not yet existed before Cerces' disappearance—it had been built up personally by Nikador, its location chosen because of its closeness to the tree that had sprouted in the place of His lover. Over time, His followers traveled to the stronghold, asking to assist their Lord. More and more people followed them there until it became a prosperous city.

The Strife Titan, realizing that the loyalty of His people could be used, famously began to send His warriors across Amphoreus in search of any sign of the missing Reason Titan.

Even now, to be sent on this journey by Nikador Himself is regarded as one of the highest honors the citizens of Castrum Kremnos can receive.

Nikador's worship of Cerces had become something for His own followers to mimic, and it bled into almost every corner of their city.

Handcrafted weapons exchanged between lovers were engraved with the clematis flowers that climbed up Cerces' tree. The warriors would never be scholars—not if they didn't want to be—but a good grasp of battle strategy and war-related history had become something to envy. The city was decorated with Cerces in mind—intricate patterns of plant life were painted on walls; statues in His image stood along the hallways of buildings.

The list went one.

The point was, all these reminders of Kephale's missing love was overwhelming in multiple ways. Visiting the city always left Him feeling like He'd been grabbed by the hair and ankles to be stretched vertically like one of Aquila's old hairbands, and then tossed into the ocean to be repeatedly crushed for a few hours by Phagousa's waves.

No, He'd leave Castrum Kremnos to Nikador.

Okhema didn't need to be checked—Mnestia's threads surveilled the entire city and could detect anything unusual entering the city, tangible or otherwise.

Janus was visiting Janusopolis at the moment. Aquila was always watching the skies, ready to strike down any foreign, unaccounted-for starships. Kephale had no way to enter the nether realm, but even if He did, Thanatos already stood guard, always watching the entering spirits and fishing out anything odd from the River of Souls.

He hummed.

Well! He thought, giddiness growing in His chest. It couldn't be helped—He had to visit the Grove!

He hopped to His feet, tossing His pack over His shoulder, and made for the coast.

Sometimes, it was hard to believe that the secluded little garden had grown to be so big and well-known.

Back then, Kephale had spent many an afternoon with Nikador and Cerces. Besides other things, cuddling in the grass, watching Cerces tend to His vegetable patch, wrestling with Nikador…

The golden wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae would always be his first home and paradise, but Cerces' garden had become just as dear to him over the years.

Nowadays, mortal priests and scholars traveled to visit the towering tree to leave offerings and pray under the shelter of Its branches. The Grove was well-kept still—people stepping carefully to avoid trampling flowers and tentatively reaching out to catch falling leaves and petals.

Any plant life that came from the Grove was imbued with a tiny blossom of Cerces' power, and while it wasn't much, mortals tended to treasure anything that might be considered a blessing from the god they adored. Kephale understood that—He remembered being Phainon and performing prayer rituals at the Altars of Fortune in Okhema for a slight power boost before leaving for Black Tide related missions.

Kephale hoped that, wherever His mind had gone, Cerces could hear the prayers of His followers. Not all the prayers were necessarily ones that would leave the Reason Titan pleased, but maybe it was possible to annoy Him into revealing Himself?

It was food for thought—Kephale Himself ought to try it!

Kephale giggled to Himself, startling a crab into scuttling away into the ocean. He frowned. Rude.

He could see Janusopolis on the horizon.

Kephale chewed the inside of His cheek, wondering at the usefulness of resting for a night.

…

… He turned away from the coast and bee-lined towards civilization.

The thing was, Kephale bemoaned guiltily, speaking to the priests in Janusopolis could get a little annoying. They wanted His "divine wisdom"—which wasn't even His domain!—prophecies—which, wasn't this Oronyx's job!?—His protection—from what, Kephale had no idea because, for one, the Black Tide didn't even exist, so the priests didn't know what that was, and two—

"Ke-pha-le~♪"

… and two, there was almost always at least one Titan in Janusopolis at all times.

Oronyx threw Herself from the top of a wall to meet Him, skirt fluttering around Her calves as She descended. Kephale rushed to meet Her.

"Oronyx—" He started, the beginning of a scolding on the tip of His tongue. They'd talked about throwing Themselves from walls!

His sister barreled over Him—physically and verbally.

"It's been so long!" She laughed, grabbing the back of His neck to shove His head down enough for Her to rub the top of His head. Her jewelry clinked against each other in perfect harmony.

Kephale laughed along awkwardly, struggling to extract Himself from Her grip.

Oronyx didn't relent.

"Wha—?"

He was interrupted again by a more forceful giggle and a harder rub to His hair.

"… Oh!" He quickly extended His arms to hug His sister, who finally let go of His hair.

"That wasn't so hard, hm~?"

The warmth of Her arms around Him was grounding in a way He hadn't known He'd needed after the chill and isolation that was synonymous with His visits to Aidonia.

Phainon smiled against her hair.

"No, you're right—it wasn't."

Here was the reason he would subject himself to tolerating the priests here—Cyrene, his sister in all but blood, would always be worth the effort.

Kephale didn't stay long.

Oronyx had dragged Him to see Janus and Her fragments, which was when He'd consequentially been subjected to speaking with Her priests for a few hours.

At Descent Hour, He'd been roped into having dinner with the five of Them in His sister's quarters, and then guilt tripped into staying long enough to have breakfast the next day.

By the time He leaves, it's already Lucid Hour, and His pack is heavy with snacks, new supplies, and His now-clean spare clothing. His stomach is full and heart lighter than it'd been in weeks.

Oronyx, Janus, and Janus' fragments see Him off with a flurry of hugs and a promise to have more snack ready for Him next time.

"Come see me soon~ ♪"

A light chuckle. "I will."

He's about halfway between Janusopolis and the Grove when it happens.

Tired from the walk, and somewhat desperate to let His feet rest for a few minutes, Kephale, upon spotting a boulder, lowered Himself to sit down. He sat His bag down beside Himself and extracted His canteen to drink water.

He doesn't think He can be faulted for this, right!? Surely, it's natural to look up while one drinks water, right!? And when one looks up, and their bag is on the ground, naturally, they would have to look away from the bag, right!?!?

Kephale cannot be faulted for this.

The bag tips over and falls to the ground—which is fine! This is normal! Sure, the surface of the boulder was almost completely flat—not smooth, but it's a boulder, so why would it?—, and sure, the bag had been leaning against Kephale, so it had no reason to tilt away from Him to fall to the ground, but, well, maybe He set it down oddly? Maybe something inside the bag was leaning away from Him and it dragged the entire bag down?

Regardless, His belongings scatter across the ground, so naturally, Kephale rushes to set His canteen down and scoop it all back into the bag.

And—

He gets slapped!

Which—is odd!! Because there's nobody around!!

So naturally, Kephale screams. Anyone would, He thinks.

It's shrill. It's loud. It's high-pitched. It's embarrassing. Cerces and Nikador would have laughed at Him. Oronyx would have laughed at Him.

And apparently, the slapper would laugh at Him too, because am angelic cackle echoes through the empty field.

It stops Him short. Because—

Because—didn't it sound kind of familiar? And wasn't the grass around Him dried up just a minute ago? He didn't think it was possible for plants to become so lively in such a short time.

His heart pounded against His ribs.

Stuck in His shock as the laughter fades away, Kephale doesn't notice that His belongings—still scattered across the ground—are being rummaged through. Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon's box of desserts—clumsily, lovingly made—is opened, closed, and then carefully set aside. The box containing His travel soap is opened, closed, and then—

Kephale is jolted from His shock.

"What are you trying to say about me!?" Self-consciously, He craned His neck to sniff at His under-arms.

The cackling renewed, though to call it cackling again would be a bit of a stretch. It was more like…

… It was more like giggling, this time.

Why am I getting soap thrown at Me!?!? Kephale cried in His heart.

"Cerces, I don't smell!" He yelped at the invisible force still sifting through His stuff.

The giggling cut itself off.

The pair of trousers Cerces had been picking up fell abruptly to the ground.

Dread curled in Kephale's chest.

"Ahaha…" He laughed awkwardly, desperate to save the situation. "I mean, wouldn't it be funny if you were Cerces…?"

There was a minute where nothing happened; where dread-anger-sadness-grief flooded His heart and He wondered if His love had already left.

He reached to pick up His stuff, fingers closing around the fabric of the fallen trousers—

He was slapped! Again!

"Wah!" Kephale cried, clutching His swatted hand to His chest. "Why!?"

And then—

The cool sensation of fingertips sliding tentatively across His cheekbones, and then slim fingers settling not firmly and cupping His jaw.

Kephale stilled, heart slamming against His ribs as though straining to jump from His chest and leap into Cerces'.

"Cerces?" He croaked. A finger tapped lightly against His bottom lip. He laughed wetly. "I'm not pouting, dear heart."

His cheek was pinched.

"I'm not!" A finger poked Him in the forehead.

His body felt hot—this felt like a fever dream.

When He raised His hands to His face, His palm met not the smooth stone embedded in the back of Cerces' right hand, nor the soft, unblemished skin of His left, but Kephale's own dirt-streaked face.

He let His hands fall back to His sides.

It wasn't fair.

He wanted to scoop Cerces into His arms and take Him to the safety of Castrum Kremnos' stronghold. He wanted to hold Him as gently as He could and never let go. He wanted to watch Him step gingerly across the field of flowers at the Grove, careful not to squash any because 'plant life could grow to gain just as much rationality as humans!' and He didn't want to cut any of their lives' short.

He wanted to wake up in the morning and watch the sunlight caress and settle on the curve of a soft cheek. He wanted to awkwardly shimmy into a seat at Mydei's fancy dining table and have to curry favor from two people instead of just one because he'd gotten caught up 'saving cats from trees' and 'helping the elderly cross busy streets' and arrived late to whatever meal time it was. He wanted to have his competitions with Mydei with Anaxa scoffing as he trailed behind them because he always poked fun at them before, in the same breath, agreeing to stand witness to whatever nonsense they'd come up with.

"Anaxa…"

Intangible fingers slid across his cheeks—an attempt to wipe away the tears streaming through the dusting of dirt on his face, Phainon thought. He cleared his throat.

"Anaxagoras, dear," he began again, staring down at the most vibrant patch of grass in the field. Blue flowers were beginning to bloom at the patch's center, where Phainon thought Anaxa's mind was settled. He thought he recognized them as the same ones that grew in the Grove—forget-me-nots? "Will you come with me to visit your garden?"

The hands paused on his face, then slid down his arms to clutch his hands. The start of a grin emerged on Phainon's face—perhaps this was a yes?— but then the pressure began to fade. Futilely, Phainon attempted to tighten his hold, but desperation didn't change the fact that he could not touch Anaxa.

"Anaxa," he breathed, begged, eyes darting around the field—but there was no where to look, for Anaxa's mind could not be seen. "Darling, please come with me. Mydeimos is waiting for you—has been for more than 2.500 years, please—"

The grass was losing its luster, the forget-me-nots wilting without the support of their god.

The feeling of smooth, slim hands in his own faded into nothing.

"Anaxa…"

Phainon clenched his fists as though it would force the feeling back and collapsed into the dirt, calling for someone who could not—would not?—respond, body shaking with his sobs and breath coming in short, harsh gasps.

Eventually, he mustered the strength to push himself onto his back, staring up at the sky—

Wait.

He wiped roughly at His face and jumped to His feet. Took a deep breath.

"AQUILA!" Kephale roared into the empty sky. After a moment, a fluffy, white cloud zoomed closer, sinking down to listen to what He had to say. "WATCH THE AREA FOR TRACES OF CERCES. SEND SOMEONE TO TELL NIKADOR I'VE SEEN TRACES OF HIM. I'M GOING TO OKHEMA FOR HELP."

The world seemed to pause. The light clouds that had been lazily drifting across the skies froze, the breeze ruffling His hair abruptly stopped.

Then, Aquila's face appeared as She looked down at Him from Her cloud, and a great, shining pegasus leapt from the cloud towards Castrum Kremnos. There was an eerie glow to Her eyes and a tension in Her jaw which Kephale had not seen in a thousand years. It reminded Him of how She'd been for the thousand years after Cerces had shattered—all one hundred of Her eyes open at all times, keeping the world drenched in sunlight until Mnestia or Thanatos were able to convince Her to rest, and a tense smile on Her face.

Kephale knew His friend had been itching to track down the perpetrators. He also knew that She was far too responsible to actually do such a thing. She was the greatest protection Amphoreus had against potential threats from beyond the sky, and because of that, She would never abandon Her post.

She had not become cruel— in fact, Kephale sometimes thought She was softer than ever. It was just that there was a hard fierceness set behind that softness, promising retribution in return for the harming of Her people and Her loved ones.

Now, as Aquila stared down at Him from above, glow from Her eyes intensifying as each of Her one hundred eyes opened over the field They were in, He thought the same thing. Aquila, Hyacine, was as soft as ever, just with a hidden harshness She previously might have hesitated to show.

She nodded once. I'll watch for Him here, She seemed to say.

Kephale could only nod back. Then, He pulled His tunic off to let His wings sprout from His back in a burst of energy.

With a flap of His wings, He was off, shooting towards Okhema.