Archive of Our Own

Time in Amphoreus was a strange thing.

Millenia filled every Cycle, and every Cycle begets destruction. Such was its predetermined fate, as unyielding as the black tide. Years, Cycles, Eternal Recurrences, they all gradually lost their meaning. It was the only constant, the precise blueprint, and a desperate, vain war of ants against a single mad man.

Nothing else had mattered then; and nothing shall matter now.

On the first day of Amphoreus' birth—now unshackled by laws written in code—Khaslana had fled. He had awoken from a long slumber after passing on his title of Deliverer, and now freedom was no longer a pitiful wish. No longer was Amphoreus in need of a Deliverer. Victory had been wrestled into mortal hands, granting the cave an endless sky to explore and ponder without hindrance. 

Everyone was alive—they lived and breathed and remembered. They had housed Khaslana whilst he slept, as if they did not fear the echoes of the black tide thrumming beneath his calcified body. They had cared for him, blanketed him, left him food and water at his bedside for when he would wake.

If only he could ever partake.

But with his duty complete, he saw no purpose in accosting the people he had hurt time and time again. Whether they cared or not—whether they could even fathom the extent of his danger—Khaslana would rather leave them to face the life ahead of them.

Thus, he had limped to the balcony, spread his wings, and took to the silent night skies without ever looking back.

Even if he were still too weak to fly far, he had managed farther than human legs could traverse in days. Without the Evernight, Amphoreus seemed so much more vast. Mountains and valleys, rivers and plains, Khaslana recognised the skeletons once left behind by destruction's wrath.

The weight of innumerable Recurrences will forever plague him. Not only was he tainted by the Destruction, Khaslana still bore the duty of the Worldbearing Titan. It was a blight, a stain on the otherwise perfect ending he had fought so hard for—and it shall be his burden to bear, alone, for the sake of everyone's wishes.

Atop a steep mountain cradled by frigid clouds, he could almost breathe a sigh of relief from the sweltering heat within his body. His wings were already aching, and his mind kept wandering away. He supposed a cave would suffice, one hidden deep in the alpines and shrouded by dense ferns and thick snow. 

His ichor illuminated the walls as he walked. His boots crunched against frozen soil. The mouth of the cave soon closed behind him the deeper he ventured.

Only when a spacious and forgiving cavern opened up did Khaslana pause. He steadied his breath, smelling only ash and blood. Fatigue once again fettered his limbs as he buckled under the weight of his memories.

His cursed wings wrapped around his stone body just as he hugged his knees to his fractured chest. It was all Khaslana could do to close his eyes and drift.

Time became immaterial, as sanity had in his broken mind. The Deliverer, the pawn, the scapegoat... He was once everything, and nothing. Now that Amphoreus had been granted its most humble wish, he had neither colour nor a brush to paint the canvas that was his soul.

What other use was there for him, anyway? To play at Nanook's hand? To bring down the Aeon responsible for Lygus' sadistic obsession?

Over his dead body.

Khaslana would rather give another ten thousand of his own lives before ever stooping to such a fate.

So here, he hovered high above the frosted ground, untouched, unwanted, and unseen; and he hovered in a restless slumber blanketed by visages of past Recurrences.

Sometimes, he would rouse from his slumber and drift in wakefulness, but never for long. Exhaustion clung to him like rot, swaying him between the borders of consciousness and sleep.

Sometimes, he would be awake for long enough to open his eyes, though there never was much to see. This cave was illuminated by his light—and perhaps he'd caught a strange item suddenly appearing, but he was soon swept back by a tide of lethargy that he thought it a hallucination.

Sometimes, he would even be idle enough to entertain his muddled thoughts. He would hover, and remember, regardless if all he saw was bloodshed and destruction.

For however long it went, he cycled through this lonesome eternity with nary a glance to the outside world.

Until one day—indistinguishable from the constant drawl of snowfall—Khaslana swore he overheard... commotion.

"...he's still here. Let's go!"

"Shh!"

From the bleary daze of incurable exhaustion, what remained of his heart dared skip a beat. His ichor turned cold in an instant as footsteps echoed down the cave's entrance. 

Suddenly, his mind was far too clear, and his earliest thought struck paranoia.

Was it... the Chrysos Heirs?

No, it couldn't be.

"Come on. I'll lay down the blankets."

Of all the possibilities.

What was he to do? What was Khaslana possibly to do? There were no other exits, and he could hardly expend what little energy he had to... escape. It'd be just as fruitless, anyway. He could predict it all too well; the Heirs were stubborn. If they had endeavoured to hunt him down, they would stop at nothing to trail him to the ends of Amphoreus.

He was just... so, so tired.

Why? Just why couldn't they embrace the Era Nova?

Had they been making the trek here all this time?

His wings tightened their embrace. Khaslana hid his face into his knees as the footsteps resounded. Though his light may shine like radiant gold, it bore the mark of the Destruction, a power harnessed through hatred; it was a false ray of hope, something that didn't belong in the true Dawn.

It shouldn't bring comfort to those who see it.

"He still hasn't eaten anything..."

"Doot doot..."

"He's still asleep, Lady Tribbie. Let's be mindful to not startle him."

"Poor Snowy... He must be freezing here."

Those voices... Khaslana recognised them. Tribbie, Hyacinthia, and Little Ica. Why were they in the mountains?

"Be careful, now."

"Okay, let's spruce this place up a little more and go home."

Never had Khaslana felt fear, but there was consolation to be found knowing that they will leave on their own accord in due time. He simply needed to feign slumber till they accomplished their mission, whatever it was. Then, he shall fly further... away; and he will ensure to cover his tracks.

Though he had long lost his sense of time, he paid attention to the ruckus brewing in the cave to count the seconds. Be it blankets unfurled or glass set atop stone, Khaslana followed the Heirs' footsteps without ever emerging from his cocoon.

"Doot doot."

Strange. Why did Ica sound suspiciously close? It was as if—

"Little Ica? Oh, Titans... Psst. Psst! Come back down, Ica!"

"Doot..."

Before Khaslana could predict the inevitable, he felt a faint brush against the pinions of his obsidian wing. Gentle as it must have been, the meagre touch seared his nerves and tore a haggard scream from his throat.

Ica was swept aside by a frantic beat of his wings, and in the sudden chaos, Tribbie couldn't help but let out a startled shriek.

"S-Snowy?"

Khaslana clawed at his chest, digging into the cracks and submerging his fingers into molten ichor. He tried desperately to slow his frenzied pants, to quell the flames threatening to erupt and swallow him whole. The heat was near-unbearable, blinding to the point he could no longer discern power, and poison.

"Lord Phainon, please, try to focus on my voice. Can you look down? I'm right here."

Hyacine... was much too kind. Her empathy had never waned throughout countless Recurrences, and it persisted till now, even for a vile thing such as he.

Her outstretched hand risked so much, yet her compassion flared brighter, challenging the blistering sun of the Destruction.

Oh, how a sliver of Khaslana yearned to seek her warmth, but it was a sliver quickly snuffed out, for his eyes darted toward the other souls standing before him on the cavern floor.

He could never compromise after what he saw; Little Ica, even Tribbie, shuffling back from the sheer heat of the coreflames within him.

To be looked upon with fear, as if he were a monster...

As if he had thrusted a sword through their chest.

Against his better judgement—against all he ever knew—Khaslana had fled.

Out of the alpines, away from the mountains. 

Somewhere, anywhere, elsewhere.

Oh, how the righteous had fallen.

Perhaps it was instinct ingrained into his very soul; to flee at the first sign of danger and rest in solitude between stagnant centuries. The Recurrences were rarely ever pressed for time. Each life endured spanned at least a few millennia. Thus, had Khaslana learned to adapt his mind to a state of hibernation, regardless if his body remained awake and alert. During times of inactivity, he would exist in a state of dissociation; and once it came time to seize yet another coreflame, he would awaken like clockwork.

Although, that was unnecessary now—as unbelievable that was. At present, the most threatening thing was likely a wild squirrel who had stumbled into his current place of rest, just amidst a grand tree crowned by dense leaves. It was safest here, for now.

He was a coward to have fled.

He had acted with impulsivity. Perhaps, if he had been lucid enough to consider—

No. Why should he entertain the thought?

Amphoreus had no need for him, and it certainly didn't need a monster as savage as he.

Khaslana fell into a deep slumber once more. He dreamed of nothing, overheard nothing, and took solace in the absence of fate.

Until one day, when the true sun was near-rest, the Deliverer caught sight of a familiar head of hair.

Pink. As vibrant and sweet as the stories she wrote, adorned with lavish embellishments. She, once a mortal just like him, now bearing an Aeon's mark.

Cyrene did not tread carefully around Khaslana, nor did she greet him with a playful tease. She merely landed atop a sturdy branch near his perch and sang in a chipper tune.

"Heya. I knew I'd find you, eventually."

It was... terribly, torturously familiar. Khaslana could muster the ghost of a smile. Memories of Aedes Elysiae surged within his mind; golden wheatfields as far as the eye could see, the gentlest breezes, the entrancing tides of the ocean...

If Cyrene knew what her mere presence invoked, it would hardly surprise Khaslana. Perhaps the Chrysos Heirs wished to sway him with a dear friend's persuasion.

"Oh? Not going to say hello to your bestest buddy after all this time?" she chuckled. "It's alright. You must be tired still. I hope you don't mind me sticking around for a little while. You can just listen to me as you always do, pinky promise."

Of all the people cut down by his sword, it was Cyrene who harboured no ill will. Khaslana knew that perfectly well, even if guilt tore him up regardless. This sacrifice was theirs to share, all to stall the emergence of Irontomb and grant Amphoreus a true, unfettered future...

And, as Cyrene used to regale time and time again, every story needed both a hero, and a villain.

It was clear where they stood.

"Hey, don't go sulking like that. That's not like you at all." She filled her cheeks with air and pouted; quite a bizarre expression for her divine form, but it hardly lasted a moment. "The Khaslana I know is a cheerful boy with a heart of gold. No matter the hardships he's endured, he proved to everyone that we can carve our own fate."

Such dull flattery. 

Khaslana hadn't done nearly enough to deserve such sentiments. 

Her smile was as gentle as ever, brimming with love and compassion, rather than hatred and apathy. It was the glaring difference between them—their nature, their flaws, their primum mobile, calculated to perfection. 

He was the seed with which Irontomb would fester. If Cyrene had spared him from Amphoreus' true birth, the universe would've been saved from two Lord Ravagers.

"You don't believe that," she said with all the confidence in her heart. "You're just like us, Khaslana. You deserve to live out your days in peace. It's because of you that everyone gets to live under a true sky. You've been carrying such a heavy burden for so long, it's about time I try to even the scales a bit."

She clasped her hands behind her back and swayed idly on her feet. Her smile—he recognised that impish grin—harboured a sneaky plan that bore a decent chance at succeeding.

"So... I dare you—no, I double dare you to tell me what it is you want most right now. Anything at all; don't be shy!"

Something he wanted?

It was a fruitless question. No matter how hard Khaslana searched within, he couldn't find a single wish spawned from his own desire. However, as an old friend, the swordsman supposed... he could humour her with a simple confession.

"I... just want to rest." Words could never encapsulate the weariness ingrained in every fiber of his being. Sometimes, he would ponder whether gaining a true, physical body of ichor and stone had exacerbated his exhaustion.

Cyrene hummed a chipper tune. "Then, why don't you come and rest back home? Okhema, Aedes Elysiae, anywhere you want. Everyone misses you so much, I'm sure you won't have any trouble finding a place to sleep."

"No."

He wouldn't dare indulge in that possibility.

As much as the coreflames within him burned away the fuel that was his body and soul, he was suddenly awash with cold dread. That he would ever be granted absolution... It was an undeserved ending he could never accept.

Time became a meaningless construct, melding days into hours, seconds into weeks.

Khaslana was tired beyond all reason.

But... he had left. 

He had fled.

Cyrene hadn't stopped him, nor had she given chase. She had simply watched as the Deliverer unfurled his wings and took to the skies.

Though she had approached him with a Titan's patience, Khaslana could recognise the pattern quickly forming between him and the Chrysos Heirs. They sought to placate him, to whisper sweet words as if they were coaxing a skittish chimera closer. They saw through their eyes a visage of the man they once knew—one whom they assumed had ventured into the Era Nova with them.

Why, if Khaslana had the wherewithal for tears, he would have mourned the man they missed so dearly.

Khaslana, Phainon... His name weighed about as much as the blood in his hands. It was Khaslana who bore the memories of Amphoreus' Recurrences, who defied fate with all his might, yet had never managed to do more than slaughter and stall.

Phainon... was an ideal. He, who bore no flaws, and housed the wishes of everyone he met. His drive was noble, his purpose untainted. Hatred may fuel his blade, yet he would never abandon his duty of protecting those he held so dearly.

What was Khaslana to that in comparison? The answer was inconsequential, for his mind would always drift back to slumber before long.

Unconsciousness, then wakefulness, then a fleeting instance of paranoia, of soul-deep fear, before he remembered this blip of the present.

Then, he would fly, never allowing himself the chance to catch his breath.

At some point—many, many, manymanymany cycles of dozing off later—Khaslana found himself sprawled amidst a vast grassland. His wings fashioned an obsidian and golden nest, shading him from the unfiltered sun whilst he slept. How strange it was, that he felt not the least bit rested. It felt as if his body had gotten heavier. 

His head was cradled in the crook of his wing, yet his vision spun till he was nauseous. Over his limbs were a thousand needles dancing along flesh and stone, and a perpetual scowl had been chiselled to his face as he curled tighter into himself.

The exhaustion was now suffocating, pinning him in place like a blanket made of the very earth. It festered into a feverish haze, muddling his thoughts and blinding him the world.

How pitiful. Had he truly endured millions upon millions of Recurrences just to fall to an ailment as mundane as this?

Perhaps... it was for the best.

A quiet, unceremonious death was what he deserved.

To sputter like a dying flame...

A bed of sun-warmed grass, cocooned by obsidian as dark as the Evernight. Were Khaslana in any fit to peer between his serrated feathers, he would've caught strange shadows approaching him—silhouettes bearing... nothing, yet everything.

He heard not a sound of the outside world. If anything, he could swear that every possible sensation was growing duller, till light faded from his eyes and unconsciousness sunk its claws into his soul.

If the voices of departed spirits had whispered to his mind, then he hadn't the care to ponder its significance.

"...looks worse than I feared."

"—owy..."

"Is he—"

"...for later. Lady Trianne, open the..."

Time passed without preamble, flowing between one's fingertips like sand.

Khaslana must have slumbered for much longer than usual, for his body remained in a state of paralysis even as he slowly resurfaced. His body refused to obey his command, yet he could hardly muster up the energy to panic. Perhaps... it was because he was still much too dazed to comprehend the gravity of his circumstances.

Such as... the voices muttering nearby.

"It's unfortunate, but this is all we can do, for now. I've already asked another associate of mine who once studied a case like him to assist. She'll be along soon enough, provided he doesn't fly away again."

"If he does, we'll just keep following him! We can't just leave him!"

"Listen here, tiny one, you shouldn't corner a frightened bird. Need I remind you just how dangerous an Emanator of Destruction is? Besides, we can only track his signal so long as he's on the planet. If he leaves the star system for any reason, then there'll be little I can do. Oh, and an undocumented Lord Ravager who's too tired to even defend himself? Hmph. Believe me, if either the IPC or another segment of Zandar doesn't get to him first, then something or someone else will."

"His condition has long been critical. It was his resolve and hatred that had fueled him throughout the Eternal Recurrences. Now that he feels his duty is complete, his body is finally buckling under the immense pressure he's built up. Conclusion: as it stands, it is in our best interest to monitor his situation and mitigate the symptoms."

"Then, what do you suggest we do? He's becoming agitated. If we keep cornering him, I know that he will resort to drastic measures."

"Snowy wouldn't hurt us!"

"Please understand, Lady Trianne, Lord Phainon is currently enduring a plethora of ailments. Not only is his body crumbling under the weight of countless coreflames, but the human mind can only tolerate so many lifetimes' worth of memories and trauma before it shatters. We've all read those logs, yet we can never begin to imagine the full scope of his sacrifice."

How... strange.

Were they... speaking about him?

"Do what you must for the time being. No matter what, keep him in your sights, and try not to set him off. The universe could do with one less ill-tempered Lord Ravager on the loose. Let's go, Screwy, we've got enough on our plate."

Silence fell—or had he fallen asleep again? Khaslana couldn't tell, nor could he pick out the identities of those strange voices. They were abundant, yet hushed, as if they cautioned themselves from rousing him. 

They treaded on eggshells, thinking him volatile. They spoke about him as though he were a caged and injured animal.

Just who were they? What did they want from him?

Before the swordsman's mind could sync with his body, he found himself shifting, moving, twitching. Cracking, rustling, clattering objects echoed into his skull, yet the world remained dark—a total abyss. Then, from a warm, soft bed came the cold, hard floor. He felt the impact of stone against his shattered flesh, and agony lanced up his spine as his wings became entangled by...

Blanket, curtains...

Cables, chains.

The ground rumbled. A hurricane of memories drowned out the haggard scream ripped from his throat. He fought against his bindings with all his might, even at the cost of burning himself to cinders. He struggled till the blazing fire seeped through the blinding dark.

And what he first saw... was a woman dressed quite strangely.

"Calm down, little one. Go get some beauty sleep."

Cycles upon cycles... light, then dark... silence before a spark of thought.

It was only when Khaslana remembered his name that he could recognise the world as it was. Rather than hallucinations or exhaustion-induced paranoia, a frigid apathy now returned to him.

His body still weighed no less than a mountain, but it obeyed his command, and that was enough.

Marbled ceilings, stone floors, carved walls, and golden threads... It seemed he'd been taken back to Okhema. Unfortunately, he bore no recollection of it.

Ash filled his nose with every raspy breath. His cracked lips were numb, as was his tongue. His body, though it moved at his will, felt detached from his own soul.

Even so, instinct guided him toward the source of light—toward the balcony granting him the first breeze.

He felt his balance shift as his wings spread wide.

Home...

He shouldn't be home.

He was merely out of arm's reach of the skies—

Before a gauntletted hand seized his ankle.

"Where do you think you're going?"

The proud prince who grappled the baluster to tether his catch... How startling it was to meet him again.

Fortunately—blessedly—Khaslana kept his composure as he lowered his feet unto the top railing. His wings shrouded his face, yet he peered past his shoulder to regard the warrior with some cordiality.

"M-My...dei." His voice was that of a ghost's, a tormented whisper speaking through withered lungs.

Though Mydei refused to release him, his grip slackened enough to offer an illusion of comfort. The prince's eyes were ablaze with emotion, many of which Khaslana no longer remembered ever feeling for himself.

Ire, shock, desperation... It was a tempest brewing beneath the prince's otherwise stoic countenance, yet he restrained himself from acting impulsively.

Instead, Mydei tipped his head toward indoors. "You should be resting. Save the exercise for after you can stomach a proper meal."

"Are you... my ward?" Khaslana could hardly believe he had been reduced to a mere patient. The Chrysos Heirs weren't obligated to do anything for him, not after the innumerable crimes he'd committed. Surely, they must know—

"If it gets you back inside, then, yes. You are in much too fragile a state to leave," Mydei said without a moment's hesitation.

Fragile.

As if he were an antique vessel.

Regardless of the hollow pang within the swordsman's chest, he allowed himself to be cordoned back into the bedchambers, if only because...

Well, he couldn't answer why, exactly.

"When was the last time you've looked in a mirror?" Mydei asked so suddenly.

"Two Recurrences ago, before... the campaign against Aquila." Khaslana remembered it well. It had been one of the last few milestones before that particular Recurrence drew to its close. He had stood before a grand mirror in his old bedchambers and steeled himself for the battle ahead. Victory had seemed unachievable, but failure was just as unacceptable.

Now, that feat was but a speck of dust compared to all that Khaslana had done.

If Mydei were disappointed in his response, he passed no comment. He simply escorted Khaslana back to the bed. Then, he took a seat on the kline by his bedside shaded from daylight.

Now that the swordsman scrutinised him further, he finally noticed the bowl of fruits perched atop the table between their headrests. There was a crimson goblet of juice, an oinochoe, as well as an empty quartz vessel turned upside down. There was a scroll, a journal, a quill and ink bottle, and even a plate piled high with oat-speckled biscuits.

Perhaps Mydei had been here a long while.

"Have something to eat, if you can." The prince turned the quartz goblet right-side up before pouring Khaslana a generous fill of pomegranate juice. "Hyacine will be around soon. You would've worried her if you'd suddenly disappeared."

Was that supposed to rouse an iota of guilt?

"No. I am stating a fact. Everyone is concerned about you."

Well, for all it mattered, "I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted. Now, drink." The goblet was pushed Khaslana's way, though he could do little more than stare blankly upon it.

When exactly was the last time he'd taken a sip of water? Was his body even capable of human functions anymore?

Khaslana would rather not come to an answer. In fact, he would rather steer clear of anything of the sort. He was just—so, so tired.

For the first time, he had neither the strength nor the drive to push forward. What use was there, after all, now that he had outlived his duty.

Golden claws curled around his wrist, pulling his hand away from... his own face.

The prince regarded him strangely.

"Don't scratch your face," he chided with only a gentle bite. "You'll exacerbate your scars."

His scars? Khaslana tipped his head aside. If he were more sober, he would've picked up the quiet snap of something brittle, and thin.

Mydei didn't dare release his hold. He was careful to not tighten his grasp, yet his expression was stern and unflinching. He did not look upon Khaslana's eyes directly.

"Do you remember the black-robed swordsman?" he asked tersely.

"Of... course..." Professor Anaxa had dubbed him the Flame Reaver, more often than not, but the identity remained the same regardless of title.

"Have you ever seen his true face?"

"I have..." countless, innumerable times.

"Can you tell me exactly what happened to him? All of him?"

That...

It was a natural cycle, was it not? The coreflames carried far too much power for a mortal body to house. Sooner or later, the flesh would be immolated, leaving behind calcified remains. Eventually, Khaslana would become no more than a walking corpse, fueled only by the pyre of hatred till the next Phainon was ready to make the same sacrifice as they had.

But that would not come to pass now, would it?

Perhaps... Khaslana now saw the predicament.

"Am I... falling apart?" Was that why he's felt so tired?

Mydei pressed his lips to a thin, flat line. His brows seemed to furrow with concern—more than before—perhaps it was because Khaslana had forgotten his question. Nonetheless, the prince explained, "Your condition is stable. So long as you take ample rest and heed the Twilight Courtyard's prescriptions, it will not worsen. We will find a cure to this, eventually."

The Twilight Courtyard? A cure? What had they got to do with this? Surely, they hadn't all been mobilised for his sake. Did they truly believe they could fashion a cure for an ailment such as this? The coreflames still burned within him, eating away at his flesh not unlike the black tide's ravenous corruption.

Was there even any use in prolonging his life?

"Deliverer—"

"Don't call me that." Fire laced every word, but it did not sting like venom.

The prince sighed, his composure waning for just a moment. "Very well. Would you rather I address you as 'Phainon', then?"

"No." That was much, much worse.

Silence befell, just as his wings rested themselves atop the bed. No wonder his shoulders had felt so tense. Had they flared like the hackles of a cat earlier? Khaslana wasn't certain. The serrated pinions were quick to catch unto the threads. Just the slightest shift, the most careful twitch, and they sliced through the embroidery of everything they touched.

It... hurt.

Not as much as becoming ensnared or being touched, however.

"Don't worry about that," Mydei assured. "It was time they were changed, anyway."

Only when Khaslana showed docility did the prince dare to release his grip, and he was sure to keep a close watch on the swordsman to compensate, but just as Khaslana lowered his hand to the edge of the bed, he suddenly found the world spinning before his eyes.

Nausea blanketed his thoughts. The next thing he knew, he was taken by the shoulders into firm and steady hands. His head was much too heavy for his neck, and he could hear a faint crack snapping from his ear.

The prince's voice was muffled through the fog, and from the blinding light of reality was... a golden sun eclipsed by night. It was then that sleep claimed Khaslana once again. Such a gentle and soothing embrace numbing him from his ailments.

He supposed... a short rest wouldn't hurt.

In some ways, Khaslana could sense the deterioration of his body.

He needn't have experienced it firsthand, for the memories of every Recurrence, every slow and eventual death, had flagged the warning signs before his consciousness truly realised it.

The sinking hollowness within his chest, the blazing heat of millions of coreflames creeping to the surface of his flesh, the stall in every movement, the sluggishness of his mind. The weight was immense. He could no longer bear its sheer intensity. It was akin to suffocation, shackled to the floor of Phagousa's ocean and left to drown endlessly.

Sometimes, the Chrysos Heirs would do what they could to alleviate some of the mounting pressure. One would sing him an entrancing tune, another would wind golden threads around his fingertips and whisper empty assurances. Some would bring him food and water, others would lend their companionship.

To this day, Khaslana still couldn't fathom why. Did they truly not remember the countless times he had plunged his blade through them? Did they not care about his tainted power? Why prolong a corpse's afterlife?

"Please, do not think of it in that manner."

Castorice... For how long had she sat on his bedside?

"Everyone is doing all that they can for you, both as a friend, as well as our hero. The torment you've endured remains... unimaginable to us, but we see its effects on you, and how it worsens day by day.

"You are not alone any more, Lord Phainon, nor must you continue to suffer for Amphoreus' sake. Our mission is complete. Now, we may rest. No longer must you shoulder the burden of others."

Such sincerity; such naivety.

If only she could fathom the price of freedom.

Though Khaslana remembered her face, the maiden at his bedside was nothing more than a silhouette. Perhaps she had come to rend his soul at long last. It was an interesting thought to entertain.

But she hardly lifted a finger. As always, Castorice was distant with herself, ever-cautious as a gentle giant. "Lord Mydei mentioned to us that you would rather not be called 'Phainon'. Lady Cyrene also advised that it would be kinder to ask you ourselves. So, is there a name you'd like to be addressed with?"

If only the swordsman had the strength to answer, but his body—

It felt... peculiar.

As though he were submerged in a hot bath, filled with steam and scented in something light and pleasant. His limbs may remain stiff, yet he could feel, as if... he were not a shell of stone housing molten ichor.

Suddenly, Khaslana lurched up from his bed. His hands flew to his chest, grasping and yanking at the chiton he was dressed in.

It was then he came upon the sight of his arms. What were once plated in gold and cracked as brittle, fragile glass, now wore a mended figure more recognisable as an attached limb.

What had they done to him?

"Hmm, it seems that treatment is going well."

Golden eyes snapped toward the door, finding a rare figure standing amidst the light.

Even Castorice shared the swordsman's surprise. "Lady Cerydra..."

The doors were shut, and in walked the imperator with neither her scepter, nor her crown. "No need to stand on ceremony. I was just making my rounds when I heard commotion in this room."

She stopped only at the foot of his bed, her arms crossed, her smile tempered, and her amusement as bright as her flame hovering atop her head. 

"Well? What do you think?" she asked. "Our associates from beyond the sky have worked tirelessly to reverse the damage done to your body. And according to the Twilight Courtyard, you should be coherent enough to respond to us."

Associates... from beyond the sky...

Did she mean the Trailblazers, as well as those strangers dressed in... curious clothing?

The blankets were shifted from behind his back. Khaslana spared a glance past his shoulder toward his obsidian wing. Though it was just as sensitive as he recalled, he was sure it felt the slightest bit calmer, as though it hadn't a mind of its own. The stiff feathers were no longer as sharp as pottery shards, and they settled to a less beastly shape whenever he took in a deep breath.

The swordsman flexed his fingers, grit his teeth, and willed his legs off the edge of the bed.

"Lord Phainon?"

"T-thank you..." he mumbled. It seemed healing his body hadn't cured the raspiness of his ill-used voice. No matter. "I... will get out of your hair, now."

He had stayed for far too long. He didn't belong here. The Chrysos Heirs had already expended much of their resources into his care when they should be focussing on fortifying Amphoreus for all that would come from the stars.

And because of that, Khaslana must leave.

The balcony... Yes, the balcony. He remembered stepping into the light. He had been caught by Mydei then, and he had only humoured the prince for lack of want otherwise. But, now, the swordsman could last another flight. Perhaps he should flee into the skies.

Perhaps he should leave Amphoreus for good.

But Death did not permit him to leave. 

It was Castorice who rushed toward the balcony's entrance, blocking the path as she beseeched, "Please, Lord Phainon. You musn't leave. You're still in a fragile state."

"It would be unwise for you to flee. And what for?" Cerydra asked. "We are no enemies, nor are we in any danger due to your presence. Your place is here, Deliverer, with the rest of humanity."

Even if so, Khaslana was no longer human—he had burned away his humanity long, long ago. Even if he still felt pain for each murder he committed, it was now so faint that he would hardly twitch an eye. This body, his very soul, had become a herald of Destruction whether he had wished for it or not. There was no place for him in a world born from the ashes of slaughter.

"My place... is not here." He was the very Dawn itself, a distant star granting light upon all who face him.

But Castorice denied that sentiment as though she could comprehend him entirely. "That is simply not true. The things that you've done were not out of greed or selfishness. You did what you must, for everyone's sake."

"If we are unable to reach a consensus, we will do our utmost to sway you," Cerydra said.

It was, in memory, a courteous warning. Khaslana wondered if they would dare raise their swords at him. "Will you stop me by force?"

For the maiden's benefit, she turned her eyes downcast, whilst the imperator remained steadfast.

"I... would rather not."

"We have been warned about your stubbornness, and we are prepared to speak at your level, within reason."

"Lady Cerydra..."

"What? Was that not what we've discussed?"

Stubborn, confident...

Khaslana did not wish to ever stand against the Heirs. Never again. He couldn't bear to slay another friend. Their blood was still on his hands.

His wings slumped, his shoulders slackened, and his body... became awash with a new wave of fatigue.

He was just so tired. It seemed to manifest so suddenly, that his words would tremble from his lips, an admission no louder than a mere whisper.

"I... just want... to rest." Where and how, it mattered not. The longer he stood on his feet, the less he cared.

Cerydra was quick to grant his simple wish. "Hmph, a comfortable nest is petty change for us. We shall arrange for your accommodations with exact precision. It is only fair that you receive the most opulent bedchambers Amphoreus has to offer for your sacrifice.

"Rest, Deliverer," she commanded with a strange gentleness in her tone. "By the time you next wake, you shall find yourself clothed in the Dux Goldweaver's finest wears, housed in our grandest chambers, and tended to by our most accomplished and experienced healers."

That... was unnecessary.

But Khaslana found himself drifting before he could argue any further.

The last thing he recalled before slumber once again clouded his mind was a gentle embrace as warm as a crisp blanket. Gravity lulled him to a sluggish daze, where his vision swam amidst a dazzling array of blinding colours; a dancing flame, a fluttering butterfly, a ray of light, a golden mane...

The sight of them brought him immense comfort, and at the same time, apprehension. Just what would await him come the next time he rose? Somehow, someway, he dreaded the unknown beyond the horizon.

Time became... an abstract concept.

For as long as Khaslana remembered, he would drift aimlessly between the thresholds of slumber and wakefulness. It was a sensation most familiar to him, yet he could not recall when exactly it had started, nor when it would ever end. He laid atop the surface of warm waters, as still as a pristine lake, swaying with the waves with neither purpose nor reason.

His soul was a dying ember, his cage a body of stone, his fuel an endless mountain of coreflames, and his memories a pyre on which introspection fizzled away.

Exhaustion weighed him down to his very blood. How he had yet to sink to the bottom of the ocean was a mystery, one that he hadn't the wherewithal to uncover. Instead, Khaslana remained adrift.

He would dream of the strangest things, scenarios that oft mirrored the last, never quite straying far. He would dream of... a dimly-lit room—as spacious as a grand library—clothed in gold and silk, furnished silver and quartz. He would find himself cradled in a nest of clouds, so soft and cold that he would hardly feel them against his wings. 

Sunlight would streak from the gaps of drawn curtains, just as moonlight would illuminate the darkest hours. In all those moments of vague lucidity, Khaslana could only ever muster the strength to flutter his lashes, before the world would dim once more, casting him back to the still waters that swayed his limp body.

Sometimes, however, he would overhear the quiet conversations of people by the clouds. They spoke in such hushed and familiar tones; had they done this before... before?

Khaslana remembered much, yet not enough. He could paint a blank face to each voice, yet never a true name.

"...no harm in speaking to him. I know it's lonely..."

"—rene, please. I do not think..."

"Who knows? Maybe he's awake..."

"...we musn't disturb..."

"Hey... just be gentle. He's always been a great listener. And maybe, just maybe, if we wish with all our hearts...

"He might believe us."

"Even if so... hasn't he done enough for..."

"Of course. But, for his sake, let's take it one step at a time. Give him something to cling onto..."

Strange.

How very strange.

"...treatment's been going surprisingly well."

"Mhmm. As expected of the esteemed Madam Herta. Honestly, prescribing..."

"We must still be at caution... We are, after all, dealing with a Lord Ravager."

"...be alright, though, won't he?"

"Physically, he is healing. We have yet... on his mental state. Conclusion: an estimated three Amphorean months before we can expect..."

"Cheer up, tiny one. A comatose patient is much better than brain death."

"...we just... want Snowy to smile again."

So... strange.

Khaslana wanted to hear more, but those conversations drew out of reach before he could latch unto them; and much like the waters on which he drifted, they slipped between his fingertips, sizzling away the moment they touched his flesh.

"—sure he's asleep?"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Anaxagoras."

"Ugh, does it look like I know? Those... Geniuses speak in terms utterly incomprehensible to..."

"Finally been humbled, for once?"

"Quiet."

Such familiar conversations... always but a flicker away. He was never alone. They would disappear before emotions could rouse, leaving Khaslana to play the spectator, as dull and vacant as... as—

"My wish is for Lord Phainon to be happy, and to be a normal person."

What?

"We want Snowy to live and laugh with us."

"We wish for dawn to rise upon you..."

"May all banquets flourish in your honour."

Those voices...

"I wish for Phainon to be blessed by the unbound skies; to enjoy the freedom he has worked so hard for."

"My greatest desire is to see my students flourish."

"And for him to shine like gold."

Were they speaking to him, or was it... another dream?

"I wish for Khaslana to learn to be loved, just as everyone has come to cherish him."

"The quiet Evernight shall lull you to restful slumber, never to be plagued by nightmares."

"The earth shall be paved before you for the life ahead..."

"Let the will of the Trailblaze embrace you into the new Dawn."

"And may he find rest, wherever he so pleases."

Such... selfless wishes, all for a monster who'd embraced destruction. Did they not see the blood in his hands? The very coreflames they embodied were innumerable within him, harvested from corpses through bloodshed and agony. They shouldn't expend such kindness to a bring of Destruction, nor should they think him the same as their white-clad swordsman.

Why?

Just... why?

It was an uncountable number of cycles before Khaslana next awoke. Consciousness found him gradually; first, by a gentle breeze against the tips of his hair, and next, by the scent of sweetness and warmth cleansing the ash in his lungs.

His body remained as still as a corpse, yet his wings shifted, brushing along silk and linens. Silence befell for nary a moment, before a small weight dipped the clouds on which he laid.

Strength trickled to his body. Sensation returned from the depths of numbness and static. Khaslana managed to twitch a finger, an arm, then a furrow of his brows as a torpid groan escaped his lips.

"—non..."

He buried his face into the cushions and placed his hands against the covers. His eyes were shut tight against the blinding light passing through his eyelids. They didn't dare open, not when he recognised the face behind that worried voice. Khaslana hid himself beneath his wings, for shelter, for shade, and for solitude.

However, it seemed that his body had rested for long enough, for he no longer fell so readily to slumber. It was as if he had slept for millenia, till his own body refused to entertain another moment of rest. Exhaustion clung to him still—like a second skin—but restlessness now coursed through his flesh.

His... flesh...

"Finally awake, are we?" Perhaps Mydei could read his thoughts, for the prince predicted his reaction perfectly. That teasing tone, the same as always... It stirred a strange emotion within Khaslana, something akin to relief, yet not.

His hair shrouded his eyes, his wings hid his face, and through the comforting dark he had grown so acquainted with, the swordsman spared a cautious, fretful glance between his feathers.

His vision blurred and shook, finding little else than a silhouette stark amidst candlelight. He took a raspy breath and calmed his mind, if only to prepare for the conversation ahead.

Khaslana had many, many questions—most of which could never be articulated through his ill-used voice. Thus, did he choose the simplest questions amongst them all.

"How... long?"

The darkened figure tipped their head. "If you mean since the time you were last lucid, about four months and three days. If you meant since the last time you were conscious, then eight days."

That... was far shorter than he'd assumed. Khaslana was accustomed to whiling away between each milestone within a Recurrence. Those would oft span decades—centuries, even. Perhaps it was the lack of such duty that roused him from slumber this time.

Another question, then. "Where... are we?"

"Okhema, the Marmoreal Palace, a secluded sector out of the public eye," Mydei explained. "Cerydra had ordered for these chambers to be adjusted to your preferences, in her eyes. I suppose she has a flair for opulence that many of us are quite averse to."

That was true, Khaslana supposed. If he were to be honest, he would rather sleep in a pile of hay; that, or sprawled among the wheatfields of Aedes Elysiae. 

"Hyacine thought you would prefer a more personal touch. Therefore, we had all pitched in to spruce up your chambers, to make it a little less barren."

Was that so? Khaslana felt inclined to look around. The marble ceilings stood high above their heads. Lanterns hung on silver chains like stars amongst the night sky. There were lavish curtains swaying with the wind outside, a nest of dolls accompanying his bed, a bedside side holding a plate of honeycakes and a goblet of water, an ornate rug warming the quartz floors...

Gold was laced into every bit of fabric, just as silver adorned every piece of furnishing. It was regal—fit for a king—yet from the cold, impartial skeleton of a king's quarters were homely decorations that softened the otherwise sterile cage in which he was housed.

Khaslana then looked toward himself, toward his hands, his arms, his torso hidden beneath a loosely-fitted chiton.

Instead of armour and stone, there was flesh; soft, pale, and warm flesh. Scars lined the memory of hollowed cracks, filled in like gold-mended pottery, and in place of molten ichor was blood and bones.

The coreflames still burned—he could feel their weight simmering within himself—but their heat was dimmer, fainter, as though they were contained deep inside his vessel of a body.

"The outlanders are quite accomplished," Mydei said. "They spared no expense in treating your wounds. It seems they have encountered cases similar to yours in the past."

But, his wings—

The prince spared him a gentle smile. "Unfortunately, even the gifted ones cannot cleanse an Aeon's 'blessing'."

Of course...

Of course.

Khaslana was grateful for all the Heirs have done, necessary as it may be. He was thankful, if appalled, for his heart had become unused to kind hands. 

Instinct beckoned him toward the swaying curtains. And, like a man entranced by the sound of rustling leaves, he found himself crawling off his bed.

The prince was quick to grasp his shoulder before his feet could brush the rugged floor. In the dimly-lit room, those golden eyes were as bright as coreflames, yet they held not a smidge of fiery heat.

"Where are you going?" Mydei asked.

"I..." Somewhere, anywhere, "just—away."

"You're leaving?"

Khaslana shook his head once. He stumbled to his feet as he shuffled toward the brightest light. He was only impeded from the balcony when Mydei tightened his grip on his shoulder.

It didn't hurt—it never did—but the gesture was a clear question, one which Khaslana knew only to answer in a coarse, uneven tone.

"Please, don't look for me. I... will come back, I promise. I just..."

Reborn in flesh and bone, yet accursed still. For the first time in a long, long while, Khaslana could feel his own heart beating inside his chest. He could think, and feel, and ponder much more clearly than before, and with that...

A trembling hand reached over to clasp the one on his shoulder. Oh, how he'd missed the warmth of touch, with neither armour nor unconsciousness to deaden his skin.

His words trembled from his lips. "I won't leave. I promise. I—"

"So long as you promise, I will wait for you."

A firm, yet gentle squeeze—nothing like a tether, but rather, an assurance. Mydei had all the patience in the world for a man he hardly recognised. Khaslana wondered if he deserved such treatment, if he was even the target of those warm and tender eyes.

"Just remember one thing." The prince hardened his gaze just a little, enough to command the swordsman's attention. "Wherever you go, and whatever you may think, you deserve a place in the Era Nova, as well. A soldier who fights without the promise of returning home is one who shall never find peace."

Khaslana nodded once, and only once. He harkened the prince's wisdom to his utmost.

"I will keep that... in mind." What use was a perfect memory if not to hold onto the wishes of others, after all. There was just too much in his mind, yet also nothing. He had never dared imagine a future outside the cave; and now that he was thrusted into the blinding light, he could hardly make peace with this sliver of time compared to eons of torment.

If Mydei understood—if he sympathised even a little—he made no comment. Instead, he offered the swordsman one last comforting smile before releasing him.

The doors were wide open, the winds beckoned, and twilight eased his eyes as he looked upon the vast lands beyond Okhema's gates.

Khaslana shuffled out into the balcony and spread his wings. A fleeting instance of indulgence guided him to look between his feathers one last time.

Golden eyes, a fiery mane, a face oh-so familiar, yet different. Free of burdens, duty, and fate.

How envious.

"Goodbye, Mydeimos."

He waited only for a gruff hum before he turned his back.

His feathers revelled the cool breeze. Goosebumps rose on his flesh as he shivered, but the heat of the coreflames thawed his nerves quickly. Then, with a beat of his mighty wings, Khaslana took to the skies.

Towards a future wholly unknown and free.

Though time may be a senseless construct, the swordsman had come to enjoy its current. Much like the unhindered breeze across a golden wheatfield, it carded through his hair ever-so sweetly, no longer a constant hourglass ticking away before the next slaughter.

He could do as he wished, fly wherever his whims fancied, and the first thing he had done since breaching the great plains was stand at the foot of a waterfall.

Then, he had bathed in the sunlight.

After that, a timeless nap up on a sturdy branch of a grand tree.

Then, then...

He wasn't sure what then.

It was surreal. For all the eons he had spent on Amphoreus, not a second had been spared to explore the world on which he lived. Why would he? After all, this reality had once been nothing more than a simulation. Perhaps that was why Lygus had revealed such a harrowing truth; to sow the seeds of helplessness and inevitability within the very core of Irontomb. 

Khaslana had never allowed himself the opportunity for true introspection. He had once believed it to be a foolish yearning, one spawned from a mind far from sane, something to look forward to if the eternal Flame-Chase ever came to an end. But now, that unreachable dream was now brought to life, and he hadn't the slightest clue on how to take it.

Each day passed with something new. Without purpose or directive, the swordsman ambled about the lands with much on his mind, but he stayed far beneath the clouds, as promised.

Come nighttime, he would learn to fall with the sun, if not to close his eyes, then to look upon the stars. Countless worlds once beyond Amphoreus' reach, now revealed in their full glory—and he knew just how keenly many souls longed to explore the vast universe. 

The door was now open, as was his.

Now, the possibilities were... endless.

And fate was his to weave.

Home.

That was what he longed for most.

Home, with family, friends, and comrades in arms; as they have wished.

When Khaslana returned to Okhema on foot, the guards had recognised him from a great distance away. Though he donned a mask to not rouse attention, he supposed the Deliverer's face was much too discernible.

It mattered not. He had hid his wings and shrouded his scarred body under a facsimile of mortality. He bleached his hair till not a blonde strand remained, and he'd drowned himself in the coldest lakes to wash off the illusion of ichor caked in his nailbeds. This body may take some power to maintain, but so long as he could bury the marks of the Destruction, he was content.

"Snowy?"

The first face to properly greet him was an astonished one, that which was mirrored twice more, unto different, yet identical, faces.

"You really came back." Trianne's eyes had already begun to shine with tears.

What else was Khaslana to do but greet them with a ghost of a smile?

"Lady Tribios—"

He had hardly a moment to lock his knees before all three had flung themselves into his arms. They clung to him as if he would vanish without another trace, crying up a storm of incomprehensible words that spoke of so much, and not enough.

"What took you so long, huh?!"

"We were gonna give De the scolding of a lifetime!"

"Everyone was so worried..."

So it may seem. His absence must have stirred quite the panic. "I'm sorry... to have troubled you."

"Quit that already! W-we're just glad that you're back," Tribbie said, yet they clung tighter to his sleeves.

How he missed them. The Chrysos Heirs, Okhema, everyone. Despite the eons of Evernight shrouding a fallen city in his memory, the present sun peered through the bleeding skies that casted its illusions.

He supposed he could learn to partake in reality. After all, he had all the time in the world; here, at home, in the Era Nova.