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Khaslana was the villain of this story. And so, the hero fought him to the end.
In this battle, he was at a disadvantage. A masked face and hollow, burned-out eyes left him with little of his vision. All that mattered was that he could see that ray of light blazing in the distance.
Phainon. His cause was noble. His anger was righteous. His hands, unstained. This battle, just like the countless ones before it, would be the ultimate test to see if Phainon was ready to face his fate.
The shallow waters within the Vortex of Genesis rippled with each step as Khaslana stalked that beam of light. Phainon stood alone, clutching the rim of the basin, letting tired tears roll down his cheeks and mingle with the pool.
“So, it’s you.” Phainon didn’t even have to turn around to know who approached him.
“Draw your sword, and let’s put an end to this,” they said in unison.
The pair clashed. Khaslana added the count to his tally. The same predictable moves, the same heroic declarations. He didn’t need to see to avoid Phainon’s strikes. And yet, even after all of these hellish recursions, he remained enthralled with each and every one of Phainon’s desperate final stands.
The Vortex was not meant for a battle. The slick floor and ankle-deep water threw even the most dextrous off their mark. No, the Vortex was meant for ritual.
Khaslana parried Phainon’s sword effortlessly and, with a flourish, sent it scattering across the chamber. This cycle, the hero did not make the mistake of chasing after it. He faced his opponent instead and beat his skull into the side of the basin with his bare hands. Khaslana hardly felt how the crack in his crown widened, and instead was overwhelmed by Phainon’s touch. How long had it been since he was under someone's fingertips? He crumpled to the ground. Phainon held him down by the neck and tore off the mask from Khaslana’s face.
“No… it can’t be.”
In his disbelief, Phainon continued to wrap his fingers around Khaslana’s throat like he could choke out a more palatable version of the truth from him. But he had long turned to cinders, and every altercation left new fissures on his form that hardly contested with the pain of burning alive. Khaslana grasped at Phainon’s wrist. A dim memory reminded him that Phainon was the only one who could withstand the scorching heat emanating from his body. If this were how he died in this cycle, he would be content.
Khaslana sighed. “Do it. End my life. It must be done.”
Even Phainon’s hesitation seemed noble to him.
“Why create all of this suffering just to surrender now?”
“You want to know why, even now. Doesn’t matter. You will find out. Soon enough.”
With his spare hand, Phainon crushed Khaslana’s mask against the ground. “I will never become you. I will never accept this kind of future.”
Every word was laborious, but Khaslana would indulge Phainon in each moment they shared together. “Correct. You will never become me. This is where. Phainon dies.” Khaslana reached out and caressed Phainon’s face. His gauntlet surely burned hotter than a dying star. “In this eternal stalemate. Against the gods. You are the perfect amphora.”
Phainon loosened his grip on Khaslana’s throat as a flicker of pity crossed his face. He undoubtedly wondered if the black tide had driven his future self mad, and whether his mind would clear if he could see reason. And even in this show of foolishness, Khaslana found him endearing. Phainon still believed in his own capacity for good. But Khaslana merely wore Phainon’s likeness like a mask, and all of that sentiment had eroded from his heart long ago. Villains have no path to redemption.
In that opening, he lurched forward and threw Phainon to the ground, restraining him before he could struggle. “You can kill me. Or I must do it myself.”
And so, Khaslana shared his fate. The long explanation was exhausting, and the more he said it, the less he believed it. But Phainon was swayed every single time. It was a gentler end, sending him to a fate that he grimly believed in. And Khaslana wanted to see that nobility shine one final time before he consumed Phainon whole.
“I will follow in your stead and deliver Amphoreus from its suffering,” said Phainon. “But–”
This was new.
“I know this endless slaughter is not the only way to protect this universe. So, I won’t let you take me over like that! I’ll choose to be different–” Phainon tried to wrest free from Khaslana’s iron grip. “–because Cyrene once told me that even the smallest memory can be meaningful. My memories matter. From this cycle.”
Khaslana held firm. “What makes you so sure. You won't be just another drop. In this sea of golden blood. Within my heart.”
“Love,” gasped Phainon. “I’ll carry the wishes of everyone I've loved with me. No matter the reason, nothing would make me want to end their lives.”
“Across these lifetimes. You have felt every kind of love. Philia. Storge. Eros. It is because we have loved. That we can hate so fiercely.”
“I pity the person I've become.” Phainon grimaced under the strain of Khaslana's sheer strength.
“Pity if you must. You will stop at nothing. To save the ones you hold dear. Even if it means. Betraying yourself.”
To that, Phainon did not choose to retort. He lay still, half submerged in the water in the center of the chamber, for what came next. And that’s what Khaslana loved most about Phainon – no matter how defiant or willing he felt, he was still unwavering in his resolve to save Amphoreus.
Khaslana produced a ceremonial blade and thrust it into his own chest. He could feel his brittle vessel break as the flame that held him together began to escape. In that eruption of heat, he collapsed onto Phainon. Memories lifted off his shoulders, and for a moment, Khaslana felt the relief of sharing his burden with another. But like grains of sand in a weighty hourglass, each moment that drained from one vessel crashed directly into the next. Phainon cried out from the pain.
Khaslana pressed his forehead against Phainon’s, aching to become closer to the hero in his final moments. You don’t deserve an end like this.
Memories warped in the heat between their bodies. The sequence of events lost all meaning in the eternal recurrences. Overlapping timelines converged and diverged in incalculable ways, refusing to merge in Khaslana’s mind. Each remained a separate instance in a data bank as infinite as the iterations, recorded by someone, somewhere, sometime. He only needed to pluck memories from one cycle to run on auto until the next, like following some kind of script.
Khaslana’s nose touched Phainon’s. Just let go.
Below him, Phainon began to burn alive. Hot tears streaked down his face until they faded into vapor. His blood boiled, melting his organs into liquid gold, charring his bones until he hardened and cracked like a misshapen dolium in a kiln. The blue in his eyes was the last to go out.
And then Khaslana was born.
I failed again, they thought in unison.
But it doesn’t matter. I won’t ever give in. I'll carry this burden until the end.
What if there is no end? What if all of this slaughter is for nothing?
Then we’ll bear this sin together.
With frail hands, Khaslana grasped at Khaslana’s face and kissed him.
Then he finally crumbled to ashes. The dust fell through his fingers and scattered into the water at his feet, dissolving as if he never existed to begin with.
Khaslana felt the silence descend upon him. The burning flames had already begun to eat away at his vessel. Within this cage, he felt for his better self just like he had done countless times before. But there was nothing. Yes, the villain of this story was always alone. It was what he deserved. As Khaslana tore into the sky, behind all the grief and rage of the burden he carried, he thought of Phainon. And how he longed to see that blazing light again.