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" I don't need the world to see
that I've been the best I can be, but
I don't think I could stand to be
where you don't see me. "
- Francis Forever; Mitski
Time. His greatest friend, and worst enemy. Just another constant yet fitful encounter he has every cycle of again, again, and again during the thirty-three million five hundred fifty thousand three hundred thirty-six repeats he had gone through.
Khaslana is numb to it, it simply is the normal that has to be or everything ceases to.
It is duty, honor, benevolence. Something they have entrusted upon him to keep safe, to stop it 100% and leave it, not to die, but to never live.
Sometimes he wonders if that honor is a double-edged sword. That the golden rule of whatever you do upon others, will be done upon you. Should the Irontomb be considered someone at all, should he be considered someone too.
Sometimes the irony gets to him in days that are too shattered to understand. When he wonders when he had ever lived or has he even lived at all— it all seems like a distant dream that's fleeting against the flexing of Khaslana’s fingertips, a brief whisper of what once was or what could never be.
Hah, it's horrible, not being able to differentiate this augmented reality from glorious myths that he wishes to feel again, again, and again. A cycle of never-ending…
Never-ending?
That's laughable.
Gazing at his hands that he'd come to familiarize himself with, of endless memories that are his and not. Khaslana clutches the hilt of his blade tighter; he cannot recognize himself.
If tears existed in this body, he would have drowned way too long ago.
Never-ending is a word he had once used too freely, something that now recurs in his mind, and a reality he now lives, but there were days he wished it were never-ending. It’s foggy in his memory, how this “never-ending” was just a slip of tongue, a laugh against smiling lips, or a gaze within those sun-touched eyes that yelled more than what someone could ever say.
Never-ending, like how shiny his blade illuminates when the ichor of Mydeimos’ blood rushes through it like a waterfall. Down his back like he had done it millions of times before, for duty, honor, benevolence.
Khaslana turns just before Mydei’s body makes a wet thump against the ground. He had seen his face lose that shine too many times to stop and revel in it. The images are so incredibly fresh in this corrupted mind of his that he doesn't have time to remember the guilt or indescribable anger that rushes through his veins at the sight of it, translating it all to nothing, a numbness, a feeling that he can recall one too many times but refuses to acknowledge once more.
The pain of his death was the worst he could've ever experienced.
Corrupted by the coreflames or not, t was always a little harder to drive a blade right through his vertebrae than anybody else.
Maybe it's because he knows that place more than anybody else. Entrusted to him like a gem, a life to be protected, not decimated.
Of duty, honor, benevolence.
His foot is almost through the portal before Mydei speaks.
“Become the dawn… Deliverer.”
And he is through.
Khaslana tries to remember when he was last called that name, how truthful it sounded coming from his lips, as if it were more like peace than duty—but, right, his current cycle was there, and those lips were not meant for him…The knotting in his chest was something he did not appreciate being reminded of.
Khaslana will never be called Deliverer again.
Not at least from the one person he wishes to hear it from, not as sincerely as the first.
He takes one more step forward, and the portal closes behind him. He's supposed to be teleported somewhere he could seek more coreflames, but damn his mind, or rather, subconscious, for insisting on another place.
He really doesn't know whether to laugh or to cry. Then Khaslana remembers he can do neither anymore, so he simply remains where he stands.
The portal took him to a shattered building, burnt with magma-like edges that still smoke with a mischievous taunt. It’s indistinguishable from all the other places that surround it in obsidian sand, crunching like glass when his knees can’t bear his own weight at the sight of it.
Cyrene's ceremonial blade buries itself in the ground while he takes refuge in its stability, using it to hold him kneeling against the ashy floor.
Khaslana shouldn’t be able to know this place at all.
He’d ravaged it beyond recognition, for all its promises lay dead in his hands.
Come visit my library sometime, Deliverer, you might enjoy it.
Try he might, Khaslana had visited the Library of Garbaniphoro one too many times, more than anyone can even count. It’s an insult not to recognize it at first glance, an insult to even be here in the first place, since he was the one who tore it down, reminiscent of how the Blacktide would mindlessly shatter anything that came towards its path.
Is he any better than the enemies he faces, the ones whom he deems to be unrighteous, to proceed with an act of justice against them, when he, himself, is unrighteous?
He had tried to regain a sense of humanity through the pages of these books once before, when he was still too young into the cycles and naive enough to believe he could still retain the person who knew Mydeimos. It was a hopeless wish, and Khaslana probably knew that, but still he decided to read every single book that could be read within it; he even learned Kremnoan, for him (it’s silly, that it is true that the language barely had any words.) Probably so if there comes a day when somebody else would take over, he could find Mydei and surprise him, calling the man blasphemous words that contrast the sweetness behind them.
But his Mydei is long gone.
His Mydei can no longer look into his eyes and read what he can feel, his Mydei can no longer call him HKS, his Mydei can no longer receive warmth in his cheeks because Khaslana himself took even that from him.
All because he couldn’t bear waiting for something he knew he couldn’t get. Where grief overpowered desire, and stability was reckoned with inhumanity. He wished there would be a day when he and Mydei stood together within this building, days when he’d wished Mydei and him could've stood on the same ground without golden blood painting it, a cycle where it would've been mock duels that lasted for days rather than ending far too quickly with violence.
Though, a grumble passes through his lips like he's trying to laugh. I somehow still remember you.
The blade shines in front of him, the flat side still dripping in ichor resembling the form of Hero from Within. Khaslana’s forehead touches the cold steel, the sticky wetness a contrast to the metal.
“Can you still save me?” He asks the liquid as if it contains all the memories they’ve shared. “You always seemed to be beyond the stars, Mydeimos.” Otherworldly, unreachable. Like a hero from space that would become the true hero of this world, to save them from strife and destruction. Mydei had always been it, for Khaslana, more than that, even. More in ways that Khaslana didn’t have time to understand.
Even if you argue he has all the time in the world.
He takes a long breath, the blood drying against his skin. It feels one with him, like it was supposed to be a part of Khaslana’s body.
How…—
—
“Foolish.”
“Such a sore loser, Mydei!” Khaslana snickers, legs buried under thousands of flower crowns—shabby, but they hold themselves together.
Mydei sits criss-cross in front of him, arms folded defensively. “HKS! You are like a child,” his eyes narrow inconceivably, even though half of his legs are also covered in flower crowns. Delicately made, but undeniably lesser. “You practically ravaged the place.”
They’re sitting in a meadow of wildflowers in Okhema, a place of solitude where not many come across. Mydei had discovered it while walking around and decided to make it his and Khaslana’s designated meeting place. They didn’t have to say anything to know that they both adored the plains.
It was another challenge, of course, ‘who could make more flower crowns than the other’, and even with the amount of buds they plucked, the meadow still looked intact… if you disregard the place beside Khaslana, which he practically made barren—they’ll definitely need to replant these.
“And I still won a round because your crowns look like they’ve been trampled by hyenas.” Mydei continues, unable to actually accept defeat against this man.
Khaslana looks at his lap, where all the twisted crowns lay in pathetic little piles, looking more like horribly made bracelets of all different sizes. If meant as a crown, they could probably only fit a doll’s head. Also, make sure the doll is extra pretty because this accessory will not flatter anyone. While Mydei’s looks like a ring of bouquets that would fit well on someone’s wedding or coronation. Khaslana looks back up sheepishly, “Perfect for you, your highness.” he plays it off, scoffing.
Taking one of the larger ones—where the stem separates, and branches out like split ends, with missing sky blue petals, and wrinkled buds. He dusts it off slightly before reaching for Mydei, who backs away at the sudden move, but Khaslana throws the ring like a hoop to land the flower crown right on top of Mydei’s sunny head. Too small to actually fit properly, but he manages to balance it perfectly.
His brows furrow into a frown, “Tsk.” but Khaslana knows better—looking inside sunflower irises, it was not irritation he saw, but more fondness that makes something in Khaslana’s chest bloom, threatening to strangle him with the multiplying growth of it.
Before Khaslana knew, rose gold petals were sitting neatly against the crown of his head. Though it was rather big, and the front fell slightly to the side, blocking his right eye's vision with greenery. He stares for a big moment while Mydei's cheeks resemble the flowers that lay on top of him. Silence envelops them with charged energy that should’ve been alarming, but Khaslana just laughs. He breaks the silence with undiluted laughter, which makes him fall back against the flower-covered ground with the force of it, giggling in hysteria as the crown rolls off, settling near his face.
In a few moments, Mydei joins beside him, flower crown now in between his fingers since it was a pain to hold on his head. “You are so weird.”
“Hah? Speak for yourself, Deliverer; you are the one who laughs for no reason at all. Tell me, do I need to get you to a doctor?” Mydei deadpans, huffing in retaliation. Their shoulders touch, and neither of them is sure if this was intentional or not. None of them say a thing.
Surprisingly, they descend into silence again, looking up at the sky, slowly turning pink with time. There aren’t many instances where they would stay unresponsive towards each other. It’s so unlike them, but Khaslana finds himself liking this tranquil experience where they would both just shut their mouths and let the silence speak.
Their relationship had always been different from others, but they both decided to never question it for fear of that turning into something that they could not control. It was bigger than both of them, anyway. They both understood that this wasn’t any ordinary affection that you’d feel just for anyone. It felt like it transcended the stars that look down upon them this very moment.
“Let’s do this forever.” Khaslana smiles, particularly at no one, even though they hadn’t donemuch of anything for the longest time. Khaslana trusts Mydei to understand; he always does, turning to look at him only to find Mydeimos already staring. It’s startling, how beautiful he is. Khaslana can’t seem to look away, even if he tries.
Mydei’s response comes late, like he'd been weighing the words he would say if it would bring them into an equilibrium or the collapse of everything. “... Let’s.” The other promises, clutching the wire of sky blues closer to his chest. Voice gruff with something Khaslana doesn’t understand, but he’s sure he does, deep down, Khaslana knows what it means, the implications heavy within his words, and he doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.
He instead reaches for the flower crown that lies on a patch of grass next to his head, holding it tightly, but not enough to ruin the intricate designs Mydei had made. He thinks his jaw might cramp from how much he’d been smiling today. But then again, it has always been like that with him, always something that made it hurt, but ultimately it was worth it just to see Mydei return the gesture even in a minimal way.
It’s somewhat unnerving how normal it is for Khaslana to want him, to need this man.
He looks down at the crown, thumb smoothing over the shiny petals that illuminate against the sun’s rays. Mydei’s gaze remains steadfast on Khaslana’s. “It’s a date, Mydeimos.”
—
Time goes too fast.
Time is his greatest enemy, damn time, why should time exist anyway? Why couldn't time just die so he could relive this moment again, again, and again?
Damn him—damn Mydei and his stupid half-naked body. He's such a fucking show off, like, why does he need clothing anyway? He should just take it all off–
Okay… we're not going down THAT road. Khaslana huffs from where he sits in the bath, across from the other while trying to win another challenge.
This should be considered cheating, he's too distracting. Khaslana complains in his mind, lips pursed at the demigod that looks way too composed being in boiling hot water—the only thing that gives him off is the tick on his brow.
And how he fucking groans…
Can he stop? Like seriously, he's just making the place hotter at this point—it’s definitely cheating.
“What, is it getting too much for you already?” Khaslana grits out, arms folded across his clothed chest—why did he think this was a good idea at all? Like, it would've been so much better if their clothes were off.
Mydeimos scoffs, eyes blazing in challenge. “As if. Speak for yourself, HKS. You look like you're about to pass out.”
…
Turns out Khaslana did pass out. While he was at it, he also got the highest fever of the century.
It's so stupid, so stupid! Laying down in bed, being taken down by a 40° fever, also while being plagued by the fact that Mydei was right—that’s so… embarrassing.
Especially when he's beside him, spoon-feeding Khaslana some miso soup, spoon-feeding! Smug bastard is probably smirking condescendingly like he always does. What a total—
“Hey. What is up with you? Eat your food.”
Khaslana opens his eyes to the sight of Mydeimos holding a spoon against his mouth where he's propped up against the bed, his brows furrow as Mydei looks down on him expectantly, there's a downward tilt to the corner of his lips.
He gulps.
Jerk.
Khaslana still drinks the soup, and it somehow tastes better than before.
This is insanity, of course, and Khaslana closes his eyes again, frowning at the thought of Mydei being concerned about him, the man who made him stand in water that could boil half your flesh off your bones!
That thought was swiftly taken away when a thumb came to massage the wrinkles formed between his brows, Khaslana peeks one eye open just to see Mydei already looking at him intently.
The force he had closed his eyes backfired since the migraine that he was dutifully ignoring, came back full force like a train running over the front part of his lobe.
It was also slowly forgotten as Mydei insisted on massaging that part of his face. Making him involuntarily soften and relax the muscles around it. Making Khaslana forget why he was even sulking in the first place, making his stomach do weird little flips and squirming, making him stupidly dazed from both the fever and ministrations.
He thinks he might be allergic to the soup, or maybe Mydei finally had the gal to poison it.
“It is not my fault that you did something you couldn't do.”
Khaslana swore he heard a vein pop on his head, rivalry suddenly rearing to kick this guy out of his room—he opened his eyes to look at Mydei and retaliate, making the other retrieve his hand.
But the sight of his face made Khaslana’s words die in his throat. He looked almost… sad.
He blinks for a couple seconds, not knowing if he wants to revel or be guilty in the defeated posture of the prince, looking like a kicked puppy with the way he's staring down at his hands from where he sat on the chair next to the bed. Spoon and soup forgotten on the drawer next to them. “... Whatever, you have to treat me to something next time.” Khaslana mumbles, looking at the nearest wall like it personally offended him. Did his fever get higher, or something?
Mydei looks up tentatively, “You have the keys to my library, anytime.”
And Khaslana couldn't stop the grin forming on his face, feigning exhaustion so he could turn his back towards Mydei, smiling like an absolute idiot. “Alright.”
The soup must really be poisoned.
—
Foolish.
Foolish he is to believe that he could keep that forever, to take him for granted.
Khaslana might know which vertebrae to strike for Mydei to die, but with every flatline of his heart makes Khaslana’s infinite cycle stop.
The memories that now flood his body replace the tears he couldn't shed. The dried blood that stains his forehead is an offering to whatever is listening out there to save him. The ash that stains his knees is repentance to the one sin he regrets—throwing away that fucking key.
That promise,
That he could be a part of the world Mydei built for himself.
Trying to forget that insistence of humanity that wriggles its way through his heart at the thought of him. He was wrong, trying to find himself in these books rather than than the person who handled them.
For no death could ever make Khaslana feel so alive.
…
It takes him a long time to finally stand up, the sky parts to see the morning star beaming down at him, knees numb from disuse.
The feeling had ebbed away, and the need to find more coreflames came back tenfold because of time he had spent moping inside the place.
But there's a calmness inside his head that wasn't there before. Like a puzzle piece that clicked correctly after so many cycles of it being misplaced.
Words came out of his mouth before he could stop.
“It seems like I cannot ever simply forget you, Mydeimos. No matter how hard I try to shed from this very world I am trying to protect…
“…I understand it, now.
“You serve as my connection, not to duty, but to peace. You are the preservation of forever that embodies my tomorrow. You haunt me like how uncertainties come and yet inevitably need to be faced to become something familiar.
“You are my greatest uncertainty.
“A constant, something I can predict to come, but never actually know how to deal with.
“Don't ever stop being it for me, Mydeimos.”
And the wind whistled like it said forever.