Work Text:
Phainon's lungs never seem to fully fill.
Every iteration, every cycle, every year, every day, every minute, every second, his heart aches in his chest.
It is distant when he doesn't know, and when he does know, it is heavy.
Again he will do it.
Again he will see his friends die.
Again he will kill his friends.
Again will he trudge through the roads of this land roadmapped in his body like the very neural pathways in his brain.
He will bleed gold for an eternity. He will suffer for longer.
He will not stop. He can not stop.
Again.
He will do it again.