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Phainon is not proud of how he came to be aware of the Professor's capabilities.
It was through whispers heard through the metaphorical grapevine that brushed past the generous foliage of the leaves of olive trees, almost ripe with the fruit they bore, bouncing off the leaves in quiet transmittance to each other before the words finally reached his ears. If the Professor knew of these tales, he did a wonderful job of not letting it show, or perhaps, he simply didn't care. Phainon thought the latter more likely.
Nevertheless, drawing himself back into the present through those now ripened olive trees, sitting in his chair in class with a slightly wobbly leg and worn paint no one ever thought to freshen up with a new coat, Phainon remained silent, the synapses in his brain firing at a million miles a minute on how to ask the Professor to perform the same procedure on him. At the same time, a million doubts seeped through the crevices of his mind. What if it wasn't true? What if it was simply just a rumour, started by one bored student with nothing better to do than spread worthless gossip between the smell of fresh parchment and the stains of ink coating their fingers?
Perhaps, it was better to leave it — it's not as though they are noticeable in the first place; not with his toned muscle coupled with his refusal to wear anything revealing too much skin now that his sweet paradise of comfort is no longer, leaving him feeling much colder than before he arrived in Okhema.
Phainon sighs and shakes his head, gathering his class materials, meticulously arranging them into their desginated spots in his school bag before he attempts to leave the classroom. It would be better to wait, perhaps, until he graduated — until he could make his own appointment and no one would be any the wiser — "Phainon!"
Hyacine calls his name brightly, a notebook with fading corners hugged tightly to her chest, as though they were old friends meeting on the schoolgrounds for the first time in months, though that is how Hyacine calls everyone; her radiance lights up the world around her effortlessly. The grass always appears a little greener when Hyacine is near.
Phainon's eyes fixate on the crumbling corners of that notebook as he turns to face her, watching as they fall and fade away in minute particles, joining the dust on the ground, their fate to be swept away by the wind, as though they never existed. Aedes Elysiae's fate swims through him, the desolation he felt when he saw those burnt wheat fields, reduced to nothing but ash, indescribable.
"Phainon…" Hyacine calls again, worry seeping into her tone. Phainon's ears prick at the sound, his bright and boyish smile returned to his almost dimmed countenance, his eyes shining like the blue sky on a cloudless summer morning.
"Is everything alright, Hyacine?" Phainon replies in question. As long as he appears cheerful enough, maybe she will let go of her worry - let it fade into the distance to join those litany of corpses that wrap rotting vines along his every step, drawing around the heel of his shoe to reach the tip of his next steps, always carrying their weight, unable to let go, even with a knife in hand; but, aside from Cyrene, the silence of the dead is all he has from that once beautiful haven of peace.
"That's our question," Prof. Anaxa (though he will insist upon the proper title and his full name if he heard Phainon calling him this, unless the Professor can read minds, he cannot berate him for his thoughts) cuts in. Phainon blinks. Has there been anything amiss? A smile missed here, a gentle tease missed there — Ah.
"You were very quiet in class today, Snowy," Hyacine states, the worry lacing her tone once more.
The image of Miss Pythias flashes in his mind, joined by her stern tone reprimanding him for his wandering attention whenever his mind would drift off to more exciting things like the smell of grass underfoot, a sword made of metal instead of wood at his side, as he set off on a journey to become a hero. Like the rest in that fading watercolour painting of memories, Miss Pythias' smile is slowly eroding, until, one day, the corners of her upturned mouth will fall into a cold sneer, joining the rest of those curling vines.
"Is something bothering you? You… aren't being bullied, are you?" Hyacine inquires this very sincerely, therefore Phainon tries not to take it too personally it was her first thought, though he supposes her worries are not entirely unjustified with the barely concealed whispered jeers of "country bumpkin" whenever he asks a question his more privileged classmates deem as "stupid"; a reflection of his countryside upbringing. It doesn't bother Phainon as much as Hyacine seems to think it does. Phainon would like to see them last a single day harvesting the wheat that made the bread they adore so much, knowing their weak constitutions would see them keel over and threaten death by dehydration before they manage to harvest a single stack.
Phainon shakes his head before replying, "No."
Simple, stated without hesitation. A short answer, though not sweet with the way his disappointment cracks open the ribcage of his already hollow chest and builds a home warring with anxiety in there. Yet, Hyacine does not send him on his way, nor does she turn around to let him leave. If at all possible, her blue eyes, more like the shining warmth of that summer sky than his own appear now, focus on him further. After a brief pause;
"Are you sure?" Hyacine asks in her way that indicates she already knows the answer, so it may as well be said.
Phainon adjusts the strap of his bag slung loosely over his shoulder. The feeling of something lifting the disappointment, like a heavy weight being released from his chest, breath restored to his lungs, inspires a small bit of confidence inside him — the mortifying yet comforting ordeal of being known, of being seen, of being worthy of listening to. Phainon inhales slowly, exhales in the same cadence, his fingers digging into his bag like an anchor, holding on for dear life.
"I wanted to ask the Professor something," Phainon proclaims. The words are out there now, and as quickly as it takes to say them, does said Professor hear them. His face, hidden beneath a curtain of mint green hair, now views him fully. Phainon suddenly becomes all too aware of the way his heart thumps against his chest in a dangerous rhythm, the ba-dump, ba-dump of his heavy heart in step with his uneven breath. His fingers dig in to the strap at his shoulder.
Professor Anaxa does not bother to respond with words, inclining his head in a way that indicates he wishes for Phainon to voice his query. The Professor did not gain the position he did by way of happenstance, after all. If it were academically related, Phainon would have no difficulty voicing it, perhaps even interrupting class just to argue with him, ignoring the whispers and jeers sent his way with bright, curious eyes, eager to learn, and an even brighter smile — and the Professor, ever perceptive, knew this for a fact.
The skin of his fingers gave way beneath the strip of fabric they clung tightly to, a stinging sensation singing along his now marred flesh. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, leaden; in the time it takes to form the words in his mind and climb along his throat, it appears to move slower. In his anxious state, mind at war with his very self, there is no delicate way Phainon can find to ask; no flowery language he can dress around it, therefore, he blurts out;
"Can you cut my boobs off?"
Professor Anaxa blinks. Hyacine also blinks accompanied by a small, involuntary "oh" at Phainon's anxious and unexpected outburst. Phainon blinks, too, but because he had to blink. The seconds pass in a liminal space between an unnamed atmosphere neither of them could pin down — the space between an unanswered question and an answered. The silence seems to last for hours in that unknown space, stretching for hours across the chaos of time, until the Professor asks:
"What, right now?" Anaxa asks, almost unimpressed.
"What? No, of course not," Phainon responded, almost flabbergasted by Anaxa's response. He had expected him to ask why, or to explain about why he couldn't do it, or even flat-out refuse him; he hadn't expected the professor to agree so readily, nor did he expect him to reply so brashly.
Hyacine deflated next to him, her shoulders drooping as she shook her head with an indelicate, audible sigh that noted her displeasure with the Professor's conduct. Smiling tenderly, warmly, her smile like the softness of a Spring day where flowers are just beginning to sprout, Hyacine takes his hand; the hand digging into the strap at his shoulder, pale skin now contrasted with angry cuts, and soothes it in her own two, clasped between them in reassurance.
"Of course we can help you, Snowy," she promises, like a light in the dark tunnel of a life he has gone through since the moment he left those shimmering golden wheat fields, infused by the beauty and warmth of the sun, behind. The thought comes unbidden, of her standing in those fields, the warmth of the sun illuminating her face and refracting back, as though standing in front of a mirror.
Phainon smiles at her, his earlier anxiety melting slowly away the longer he spends in her comforting embrace, even if it is only clasped in his hand.
"Right, Professor?" Hyacine asks brightly, directing her question in the direction where Professor Anaxa is standing. The Professor looks between them. Hyacine is still smiling, sparkling and daring the unapologetically unique Anaxagoras to say anything to the contrary. Phainon smiles shakily, resolve almost wavering if not for the comforting weight of Hyacine's hand in his. Professor Anaxa lets his arms drop with a slow, steady exhale, resigning himself to the position he has found himself in today.
"Follow me."
Not without some gentle coaxing on Hyacine's end, between the anxiety of becoming exposed, and the thrill of taking a step towards a happier future, Phainon finds himself laying on a cool table, shirtless, staring up at the ceiling as he wills the tension from his body. Professor Anaxa studies him. It's almost sterile from how clinical it is. Hyacine smiles at him apologetically before her attention turns back to the Professor, waiting for him to say something.
A gloved hand descends upon him instead, intently focused as he draws an imaginary line beneath his exposed breast. Phainon jolts beneath him a little, hoping it can be brushed off as the coolness of the Professor's hand. However, the Professor's eyes flicker up to his face, the Professor retreats, and his mother's words about how he's always been easy to read crawl their way through the rest of the memories locked away in his poorly-steeled heart to forefront of his mind. Blessedly, the Professor does not say anything about it.
"What made you think asking me to perform this was a good idea?" Anaxa queries.
Phainon's mind short-circuits a little, the question posed both harshly and unexpectedly. Long lashes flutter quickly over startled blue eyes once, twice; his lips hang agape as a short breath rushes past them, swirling answers around his mind, a slight blush rising to his cheeks when he remembered exactly how it was he led himself here.
"I… heard you performed the same procedure on yourself," Phainon answered, honestly.
"Hm," Anaxa responded, simply. "I wasn't aware you listened to rumours, Phainon."
"I don't, really —" Phainon begins, though he's abruptly cut off when Hyacine chimes in: "Is it a rumour if it's true?"
"Of course it is," Anaxa answers. "Gossip and rumours all have the probability of being true, or retaining a modicum of truth as they go changed by time and interpretation, whether that be embellishment or understating it. However, that does not make them any less gossip and rumours."
"So, you did perform the procedure on yourself?" Phainon asked.
"Not exactly," Anaxa responds as he moves to Phainon's other side, careful not to brush too much over his other breast as he draws another imaginary line beneath it, frowning slightly, a knit between his eyebrows. "I developed the theory, but Hyacine performed the surgery for me."
At the mention of her name, Phainon glanced at her. Hyacine smiled at him once more, with a slight waver to the corners of her lips. The memory must have been less than pleasant, though the Professor certainly seemed to carry himself differently; his shoulders appeared less stiff these days, therefore Hyacine's capabilities were beyond what she must have imagined for herself. Nevertheless, if the Professor had not exactly performed the procedure himself, then…
"Should I be worried?" Phainon asked, trying to keep his tone light.
"Hmph, you were only too eager before when all you had was gossip to base your trust on," Anaxa replied, without missing a beat. Phainon cringed away from the way it sounded too much like one of Aglaea's lectures on his recklessness, except instead of words threaded by the sharpness of an imaginary needle, it was the spear of his own actions pointed towards his chest, though it clatters to the floor without a sound at the Professor's following words: "You have nothing to fear."
Anaxa coaxes him to sit up then. Hyacine hands him his clothes. All too grateful to have them back, to hide the way his breasts follow gravity as they pull his chest down, Phainon slips them back on quickly, hiding them from the view of the world, even if the world is only two other people, once more; and hiding them from his own sight, pressed in by the tightness of the fabric of his shirt.
"As you are aware," Professor Anaxa begins once Phainon has redressed himself, the only thing left to slip on being his jacket, "exams begin shortly. I will perform the procedure the day after they finish."
Nervous anticipation electrifies his very being at the promise of it. However, disappointment, slow and sludge-like, that he has to wait over a week for this one wish he wants to see fulfilled — this one and only wish — does not come sooner, but nothing worthwhile comes without a price. Phainon nods, his jacket now pulled over his shoulders, hoping the fabric hides the way his shoulders slump slightly.
"Don't worry, Snowy!" Hyacine attempts, cheerily. "You'll be too focused on studying, the time will fly by!"
"The procedure will take a further six to eight weeks to recover from," Professor Anaxa continues. "That means you cannot do any heavy lifting, nor sword training, until the incisions have healed properly."
Phainon shifts uncomfortably. While it was Aglaea and Tribbie's idea to enrol him in the Grove as a student, he still had his duties as the promised Deliverer to attend to.
(No matter if he didn't want it, no matter if he believed himself undeserving of the title, destiny had its ways of coming to pass, and even the omnipotent Kephale bowed to prophecies.)
His complicated feelings must have presented themselves, twisting his features, as Professor Anaxa exhaled slowly, his eye fixating sternly on Phainon.
"Your incisions could tear, among other complications," Anaxa continues, crossing his arms, "if you insist upon acting foolishly. Fake being sick, if you must, but don't do anything that could ruin my hard work."
Phainon laughs a little at the Professor's words, never sure if he's serious or joking when he says something like that. Be that as it may, at the thought, a sombre feeling overtakes him again. "I just don't like lying…"
"Is the alternative more appealing?" Anaxa asks. Phainon's eyes flicker to the floor. "No need to answer me. Answer it for yourself."
Phainon's aptitude for school lay in his dedication to it, devouring every possible piece of knowledge from the subjects he wasn't interested in to the subjects he was, not his talent for it. The books lay in a haphazard pile on the floor, a copy of Castorice's notes she had generously provided for him discarded at the top of the pages, his head pressed against the book's harsh pages, dangerously dancing with the possibility of a papercut on his cheek, as he groaned slightly.
The hour had long since moved past Curtain-Fall Hour. Despite Hyacine's assurances that his studies would keep him busy for a long time, and Cyrene's promises she would help him keep his mind off it once he told her, Phainon found his thoughts wandered, regardless. Lately, he found himself focusing on that sweet paradise lost to time and confined to memory — and sweet Cyrene, who had long retired to bed at this time, yet whose words never failed, and her disposition, like that of the soft moon whose light illuminated the sea in the enticing mystery that promised adventure; she was the first person he told, golden blood seeping past his thighs, as he cried in her arms.
Cyrene, his steady moon, helped him wash it off in the waters of Aedes Elysiae, offering him something she used for when, what she delicately called her time of the month called, before offering to cut his long hair that very same day. ████████ watched as the damp snow-white strands fell around them, carried away by the wind, no longer a part of him, each strand lost to time and dust in the golden fields of splendour.
The breeze carried them home, whipping past the nape of his now exposed neck, until reality settled in as his mother's hand, his hair no longer identical to her own, ran past his head, turning him around to see the choppily done haircut Cyrene had performed on him. His mother sent him inside, Cyrene sent home, and moments later, that gentle, idyllic breeze found him crying in his mother's arms about how he did not wish to be a girl.
He wished for adventure, to see a world beyond their little Aedes Elysiae. To protect it from whatever threatened their village, and to do that, he needed to see what threats were out there — but in those pictures of adventure in his mind, when he imagined himself, sword slung over his shoulder, cleaving through the air to dispatch of the perils that would seek their village, he had the body of a man, and in little ████████'s mind, men did not bleed every month.
His mother did her best to assure him, that even if he bled every month, even if his body continued to develop into a shape that resembled hers, there were still measures he could take that did not include allowing his friends to give him haircuts done with a stolen (borrowed, Cyrene later insisted) paring knife and no hairdressing experience. His father took rather more convincing, asking what exactly was wrong with being a girl — that he did not have to be a boy to be a hero; that Cyrene was a girl, and she shared his dreams. Despite ████████'s insistences there was nothing wrong with being a girl, he just… wasn't one, his father failed to understand.
In the explosive terror that can only come from a young child feeling unheard, ████████ exclaimed what he had already said, three times over, in the hopes that, perhaps, if he said it louder, his father would finally understand, before he escaped into that river of gold, illuminated by the setting sun. Lying here, his palm splayed out towards that burning star representing life and light, yet also destruction and chaos, ████████ never felt more at home.
However, eventually the sun sets, and the stars and moon begin to dapple the sky as it darkens. ████████ picks himself up and journeys home where his father waits by the moonlight, the shadows the lamp casts defining the sunken corners of his eyes, worry painted in heavy brushstrokes inside his blue eyes, fading away into relief as he catches sight of ████████. His father rushes to him, hugging him tightly, so close to him, as if afraid ████████ may fade away and wither into nothing if he lets go.
His father draws back, brushing the hair from his face with delicate fingers made for rough work, the way ████████ hopes his look one day, strong and dexterous, and apologises for his earlier conduct, but reproaches ████████ for his own; how he cannot just run off. If he wishes to become a good man in the future, then he should face his problems rather than running from them.
████████ sniffles, tears filling his eyes, as he hugs his father as tightly as his little arms will allow. His father carries him inside, putting him to bed with the promise of a proper haircut in the morning.
While it was not his studies and rather those picturesque memories Phainon held close to his heart that brought him through this week, sure he had failed at least one of those exams, the week passed by quickly, regardless, the extra days following suit, and that is how Phainon found himself, once again, on that table — chest exposed, lines drawn, no longer imaginary, beneath his breasts.
"Before we begin," Professor Anaxa starts, in his curious tone that indicates the want of an answer, "if Hyacine had not stopped you that day, what were you planning to do?"
Phainon laughed sheepishly. "Well… I was just going to get it done alone…"
Professor Anaxa shook his head. "Foolish. Always surround yourself with people you trust to take care of you when it comes to something like this."
Phainon swallowed. The only person he could think of was Cyrene, as the first and only person who knew, before Professor Anaxa and Hyacine, which was only through a matter of relatability and necessity, respectively. He had little idea how Aglaea and the rest would react. Those who counted on him, believed in him, honoured him; how would they see their venerated Deliverer if they knew? How was he supposed to hide it from them for six to eight weeks? Hyacine offered him a space in the Twilight Courtyard to recover, Cyrene promised she would cover for him, but would it really hold for so long without causing concern? Was it better to be honest? Did the truth sound more appealing than allowing the others to live under assumptions? Did he have the courage for that? If Professor Anaxa could do it without care for the words of others who failed to understand, then…
"And Phainon?" Professor Anaxa called, Hyacine at his side, ready with the sedative. Anxiety mixed with anticipation swirled in his chest as he noticed it. Phainon looked up at the Professor, eyes wide with the expectation the Professor was going to leave him with a philosophical remark or question to ponder. However, instead, Phainon felt his muscles relax, the tension ebb away from his shoulders, as the Professor remarked, softly, "Thank you for trusting me."
Hyacine gently ordered him to count back from ten. Within less, the world faded away to darkness.
Dreams, sometimes, are an accumulation of old memories one thinks of sparked by the nostalgia of the gallery of paintings one walks through depicting said memories. An old memory blooms to the surface as he sleeps, unwise to the waking world.
Cyrene brushed his hair. The contour of muscles were now beginning to show on his arms and legs, his torso and chest. The more field work he participated in, the more his muscles seemed to shape around it. The more he trained, the more defined they became. The more he hunted for the mice in the fields and swam for fish in the sea, the more they worked for him instead of against him. In short, ████████ was happier, though not when Cyrene disapproved of the tangles in his hair, scolding him for leaving himself without the proper care for his appearance. He would stick his tongue out at her and she would threaten to pull on it before she chased him around the wheat fields with a hairbrush as he laughed, commenting on how they both needed to brush their hair now once they ran out of breath.
The only thing he could never settle on was a name.
The village had asked how they should address him now, yet ████████ could never find one he liked enough, could never find one that felt like his name, no matter the suggestions from his parents, from Miss Pythias, and from Cyrene herself. The sun illuminated them in warmth, in life and light, because it chose to, knowing it could bring chaos to their small village if it truly wished so. ████████ would stand against it if it did, however. He would bear that chaos, and be its executioner, protecting those in his village from the danger. The corners of his lips upturned, and that is how he announced his name, the name that felt like a proper name for himself, that settled into his bones, rushed through his blood, and made its home there:
Khaslana, "one who bears chaos".
Cyrene asked him if he was sure he wanted such an imposing name. Khaslana defended his choice that it was "cool", and besides, it was the only one he liked. Cyrene nodded thoughtfully, trying it out for herself, before coming to the conclusion she liked it herself, though she was unsure if the others in the village would find it so appropriate for him — which they did not, not for his brilliant smile like the sun that cast the wheat fields in their golden haze, or for his sunny disposition, always eager to help and assist his fellow villagers where he could, which is how he ended up with his nickname, special and born from affection:
Phainon, "the shining one".
The dream ended there, and if only it ended there, if only the memory of that chaos, that destruction he could not protect his village from didn't manifest clearly in his mind as Phainon felt tears begin to form in the corners of his eyes. Attempting to reach his fingers up to wipe them away, Phainon felt heavy, his arm sluggish, and his chest twinge with pain. Peering down, bandages, seemingly fresh by their unblemished appearance, covered his chest. Hyacine peered into his room just then, a clipboard in hand, her eyes brightening as she noticed his journey into wakefulness.
"You're awake!" she exclaimed cheerily.
Phainon attempted to respond. His mouth felt like that time his classmates dared him to see how much wheat he could fit in his mouth before he couldn't take it any longer, chased out by their own parents, promising to teach those sorry brats a lesson as they ran as fast as the winds would take them. Heavy eyelids drooped over his eyes, blinking sluggishly. Hyacine smiled sympathetically at him, suddenly by his side Phainon did not remember her walking to.
"Everything went well. Cyrie went to find you some water. You just have to remember to rest for six to eight weeks," Hyacine reminded him. Phainon deflated at the reminder. Hyacine patted him in gentle reassurance, her small fingers looking far smaller than they were compared to the broadness of his shoulder. "If you'd like, I can show you how it looks now."
Phainon's gaze flickered to the bandages around his chest, watching the steady rise and fall, feeling as though he were dreaming. However, if this were a dream, that peaceful comfort of his homeland would still exist, and no longer live between the memories of himself and Cyrene. Swallowing, and not trusting himself to speak due to the dryness of his throat, and an emotion he cannot name, Phainon nods.
Hyacine smiles once more, and Phainon notes her smile is more genuine than his. Her smile is comforting, gentle; inviting, friendly, and peaceful all at once. Hyacine's smile does not hide dark shadows of a past she is ashamed of like his does. It doesn't hide the weight of failure, of disgrace; of a promise unfulfilled to the point it may as well be considered a broken one. Finally, she removes his bandages, drawing a mirror closer to his bedside before she helps him to sit up, taking him gently by the hands, her arms displaying an unexpected physical strength Phainon does not have the wherewithal to be surprised by.
Instead, Phainon is too focused on his body on the mirror, chest exposed, and aside from the definition his musculature gave him, completely flat. Angry red lines exposed themselves beneath the incision site, still yet unhealed and warning of further damage if Phainon did not take proper care for himself, but nevertheless, his body. How he had always imagined it to look. Defined by muscle, like that of his father, like that of Galba, and all the other men in Aedes Elysiae whose appearance he coveted yet thought he would never obtain for himself until now.
Hyacine wiped his eyes with a tissue. Phainon had not realised he was crying.
And in that four million and first cycle, where his body began to break beneath the weight of the Coreflames, burning his humanity away to replace it with divinity, to the point where his flesh was charred and burnt and this body was only kept as it was by whatever sliver of humanity remained inside, Khaslana looked to The Hero Within, and told him he would find his next self to continue the cycles, to pursue this fruitless endeavour, in the hopes someone would come to save them from this hopelessness; from this despair.
Perhaps, Aglaea would come up with a better idea. Perhaps, Professor Anaxa of the very first cycle before the Eternal Recurrences would berate him for walking this path alone, lonely and surrounded by nothing but the ghosts of his past, but the first person he trusted with his life was gone, always death by his blade, and the second, steady and rock-like Mydeimos, his kindred spirit, suffered the same fate with Khaslana's blade lodged in his back.
Nevertheless, he stepped into the next Eternal Recurrence with the intention of pushing his next self on to that tragic journey, where the only poems penned by his hand would be written in the blood of his comrades, and marked by the tears of his countless failures to save them, and wondered if his self would be the same — and in that four million and first cycle, Khaslana found he could still shed tears as he watched his younger self choose the same haircut, choose the same name, and be given the same nickname.
In every cycle, the same choices. Perhaps, Khaslana's hope that his next self would carry on what he began was not in vain. Perhaps, hope was something worth holding on to.
And in that four million and second cycle, Khaslana gripped Dawnmaker tighter, countless memories flooding his consciousness, The Hero Within suggesting he take a moment to breathe before he made his choice, yet Khaslana of the four million and first cycle trusted him to continue, and since they are the same, even if he had not asked it of him, the Khaslana of the four million and second cycle would, too.
Khaslana flexed his fingers around Dawnmaker, gripping it tightly, journeying on to the four million and third.