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“Professor!”
“Hyacine, Do not–!”
Dawnmaker cleaves the earth beside Hyacinthia's trembling body, her arms outstretched in an effort to protect the man behind her. Reason drags himself to his feet, stumbling forward to clamp his hands down on her small shoulders, a golden bloodtrail spattered behind him.
Flame Reaver doesn't move, his looming form casting its terrible shadow over her brightness.
The sword in his hand would have killed her. She isn't Sky, not yet. Still weak, now. Still human. Yet she protects Reason with her life.
Only one should die here. Only gods should fall to his blade. Remember. Remember, ■■■■■■■■, the one who ■■■■ ■■■■■ the ■■■■. Remember how it feels…even if…
…losses are…
“...Constant….” Flame Reaver rasps out, words scraping the charred flesh from his throat.
Ahh. Frightened. She's frightened of him. Can't see her face. She trembles as if her limbs have cracked like his. But in the blackened pages of his memories, she was always the brave one. It was…never him…
…What did it look like? How did she wear…those expressions? What was it like…for her to speak his name in that gentle voice…? ■■■■■■■■, the one who…must remember…
“Leave now, Hyacine. While they're distracted.”
“I won't. You should go. They only became distracted when they saw me.”
Reason's voice.
Retrieve the Coreflame.
Flame Reaver lifts his head, fingers of his gauntlet tightening once more on the grip of Dawnmaker's hilt.
“Wait.” Hyacinthia's voice is slightly breathless–afraid. Yet she reaches out. Her trembling hand touches the back of Flame Reaver's, stilling him.
…?
Hya…cine?
…Can't feel it.
She tried to heal him…so many times. A futile endeavor. Wasted kindness…as it always is on him.
“Pointless…” he grits out. Yet he doesn't pull away. He has always let her try…even if her efforts have never borne fruit. The hands that tarnish themselves in burying the seed…should never be met with cruelty. Though he has nothing else to meet them with.
“Sir,” Hyacinthia says, tremulous. “Please, come with me. You…you're in pain, aren't you? Don't be scared; I'm a healer. I won't hurt you.”
Scared…? Her hand is…so small. Gentle. She could never scare him…
He hears her exhale when she tugs him forward and he moves with her pull. He's peripherally aware of Reason's careful, quiet movements. But…Hyacinthia asked for this. She's touching him. She's here…and it has been so very long…Hyacine…
She guides him through the evacuated hall of the Grove, his cold gauntlet pulled by her warm grasp. She doesn't speak. He can sense her attempting to conceal the proof of her racing heart from his gaze. She doesn't realize his eyes have burned to ash just as surely as the rest of him. The sounds of her drumming pulse and carefully regulated breathing travel along golden threads of Romance to reach his ears. The minute trembling of her unheld hand reverberates against senses. She can hide nothing from him now.
Hyacinthia…how many cycles…have contributed to this broken body…since you last reached out for me…?
He can't remember. The details elude him. As they often do, now. The broken pieces of his mind are forced to prioritize. Memories that were once so vivid have become nothing but cinders, burnt for the sake of illuminating the ones he must never forget. Anything to stoke the flames of wrath. Anything to save the Flame-Chase Journey.
“We're here,” Hyacinthia says, voice soft.
He raises his head. A useless gesture. The golden threads already gave him all the information he needed.
They stand before the doors to the Grove's medical wing. It's completely empty; if the golden threads didn't tell him that, the sound of the locking mechanism working to open the doors would.
Hyacinthia steps into the room, leading him forward. When they reach a medical cot, she releases his gauntlet. “Sit,” she bids him. “I'll perform an evaluation on you now. Please tell me if there's anywhere you don't want me to touch."
Such admirable composure in the face of her fear. He has always thought her more of a hero than he ever was. Even when he thought a hero was something he could become. Kind, brave Hyacine. Only she could prove worthy as the open arms of the vast, unyielding sky.
Just like only he could bear enough hatred in his heart to carry it endlessly from one world to the next.
It has to be him.
Remember. Remember, ■■■■■■■■–
“Sir?” Finally, the golden threads weave a tapestry of her worried face. “Please sit down. You're a little too tall for me to reach right now.”
Hyacine. Speaking–requesting. Words meant only for him.
Flame Reaver mindlessly obeys.
“Thank you,” she says, relief spilling from her voice and body. Relief that is abruptly cut off with a gasp when something shoves its way into Flame Reaver's hands.
His grasp reflexively tightens, then consciously relaxes as he cradles the weight of a small animal between his palms.
Hyacine makes an aborted gesture to reach out. “Little Ica,” she says, almost pleading, “what's gotten into you? Come here, you're troubling my patient.”
Ica gives her a humming trill in response and only buries themself deeper.
“I'm so sorry,” Hyacine says to Flame Reaver. The tremble in her voice is audible now. “They mean no harm, I promise.”
He knows. Of course he does.
Ica has always been a part of this hero's journey. At times accompanying Phainon to the end, at times staying with Hyacine high above in the Eye of Twilight. Now they willingly lay themself in the hands of an adversary in an effort to protect their dearest companion.
Courageous. Just like Hyacine. They had been…such a comfort to Phainon, when he had no one else. In every cycle, the echo of that prophecy haunted him, constantly clinging to his heels as if it were his own shadow. Telling him ‘no matter what you do, you will always face the end alone.’ And it was right. Always.
But for a brief time, there at the crossroads between fate and failure…Phainon had the luxury to believe it was wrong.
Flame Reaver carefully, carefully shifts Little Ica to one hand and rests the clawed fingers of his gauntlet on their back, dragging those fingers lightly down their body. Their buzzing vibrates all the way up his arm. He can feel it inside the cracked recesses of his head, like a choir humming in unison behind his eyes.
The sensation is strange and new. It feels as if…it's emptying out all the thoughts he previously harbored in his mind. As if he could rest if he only chose to. As if he could dream again…
…But that is an impossibility. He is the dreamweaver. Death herself will not persuade him to close his eyes and sleep.
“Little one…” he rasps. “Are you…scared?”
Ica gives their soft trill.
A denial. And…a lie. Beneath the humming of Ica's voice, he can hear the sound of their small heart beating like the wings of a nymph in flight.
Such a shameful thing…to be feared by this little hero. But he can no longer feel the shame itself. His broken shell has room for nothing but the fire burning within.
As it will continue to be…until the flames burn with enough fury to consume even the stars themselves.
The Flame Reaver's hand extends, lifting Ica towards Hyacinthia. “Go…now,” he says hoarsely. “Your plan…has succeeded. Do not…sacrifice…more than you…must.”
That thankless duty…is one that will arrive for her soon enough.
Hyacinthia holds Ica close to her chest, yet she doesn't retreat as she should. Instead, she steps forward. “Wait,” she says softly. “You really are in pain, aren't you? Please. Let me help. I…I know you see us as enemies, but…is that truly what you want?”
The golden threads illustrate her face for him. Her gently creased brow, her kind eyes, gazing up at him as if he could ever be more than what he is now.
The answer she seeks does not belong to this body; to this world. And the words she speaks are ones he will never hear from her again.
He makes no effort to respond. His sword is already flying up to block another blade from slicing him open, a deafening shriek of noise ringing out as a figure bursts past Hyacinthia and steel clashes against steel.
“Lady Hyacine!” Phainon calls, voice strained as his sword trembles against Dawnmaker's edge. “Run! Go with Lady Tribbie!”
“Lord Phainon!” she gasps. “Wait–this doesn't need to be a fight–!”
“Yes…” Flame Reaver grits out, “...it does.” He shoves Phainon back, his other self's boots skidding on the stone floor as he loses their battle of strength. With one sweeping slash from Dawnmaker, the nameless sword in Phainon's hands shatters into hundreds of mismatched shards.
Hyacinthia cries out, but Phainon doesn't make a sound. His unerring focus is on his opponent, his mouth pressed into a thin line. The hilt left in his hand clatters heavily on the ground as he lets it go. His spine straightens, feet shifting apart and body settling into a grounded stance, muscles tensed to move.
Flame Reaver lifts the point of his blade towards the center of Phainon's chest. He rasps, “This battle…has already…been decided. Victory…is out of your…reach."
“No,” Phainon says, low and intent. “This isn't the end.” Immediately contradicting the battle-ready form he'd taken, he leans forward, and in the next split-second–
Flame Reaver's fractured mind is unable to translate the rapid influx of information being transmitted to it, and an armored fist crashes directly into the side of his face.
It's only after he's staggered back and instinctively parried another blow that his brain catches up. A Century Gate had snapped open behind Phainon just to spit out a newly ascended demigod. Strife had leveraged himself off of Phainon's body for the ringing hit he'd delivered to Flame Reaver.
Now bloodcrystals spike out of the floor and shatter against a slash of Flame Reaver's sword, mass collections of razor-sharp quartz all aiming for his death. In this moment, he's the one who retreats, quickly gaining distance between himself and the heroes opposing him.
“Deliverer,” Strife says, without looking away from Flame Reaver. “Here. A gift from Chartonus.” A sword materializes in his golden grasp, and Phainon deftly catches it as it's tossed his way, both hands closing firmly around the hilt.
“Remind me to thank him later," Phainon says, smiling for the first time since the battle began; a fierce expression that would break open Flame Reaver's face if he was still capable of making it.
Phainon doesn't wait for a response, just launches himself towards his enemy, sword in mid-swing. It holds up far better than the last one, its weight and durability exceeding the shattered blade twenty times over.
A cacophony of steel sings its shrill song, reverberating off the walls of the enclosed space. Flame Reaver no longer has time to think. The embers of his thoughts are swallowed by the blaze of battle, his body moving as it has billions of times before, nothing but an animal of instinct. His chest heaves, corroded lungs dragging in air as if the atmosphere itself is fighting back. The animal recognizes that its oversized form is at a disadvantage in closed quarters, and so creates its own path.
A Century Gate snaps open around Flame Reaver and shuts just as fast. In an instant, he's outside the wall, and then ancient stone is crumbling as Dawnmaker bisects the barrier concealing its targets. Phainon immediately leaps through the plume of dust, sword swinging out to separate Flame Reaver's waist from his sternum.
The sword is caught by one bronze gauntlet, unbreakable fingers closed tight around the blade.
A breath hisses out from between Phainon's teeth as he strains against his enemy. Golden threads reveal the burning blue eyes staring up at Flame Reaver's faceless mask. “You…you're so strong…so why…”
What a pointless question.
Why do you fight against paradise?
The answer is one that Phainon will reach in every cycle.
Kh■s■■a rasps, “Because this…is the only way…to fulfill my ‘wish’.”