Chapter Text
He’s brought into the city in a farmer’s cart.
It’s a shabby old thing; missing one wheel. As the remaining one spins, its ungreased, rust-filled axle lets out a litany of sharp creaks that echo like the cries Okhema should let out at the sight.
As it is, the only thing the Holy City has to give in response is silence.
It’s a rather bright day, that eighth of the gate. The Dawn Device on the Sky Father’s back does not dim and does not falter, rather, it shines and bathes this insignificant little piece of the world, with its cobblestone paths and marmoreal buildings, with its tentative hope and scared children, in light and warmth. Uncaring that the one meant to carry it is gone, uncaring that the last piece of salvation this doomed land had has been ripped out of its hands.
Uncaring that he and Castorice were supposed to go browse the new books the library in the Marmoreal Market had gotten once he returned.
The punctual ‘click, clack, click, clack’ of her heels rises over the silence that had settled over the space like a heavy blanket. People flinch at the sound, turn their heads sharply, as if some sort of sacrilege was occurring, before moving out of her way once they realize who she is.
“Lady Death,” greets in a whisper the old man grabbing onto the cart’s handles with a bow of his head. A farmer, perhaps, he once was; now feeble and brittle. His long hair now thinned and dry, with eyes gaunt and bandages around his arms.
Castorice bows back, hands clasped in front of her.
On the side without a wheel, one of the city guards holds the weight of the cart along with a little girl with fresh scars on her face. Nine, maybe eight, maybe less. One of the refugees hidden somewhere on the edges of the ruined Okeanas that Phainon had been sent to save.
It wasn’t anything too dangerous, not really. A rescue mission just like the other hundred thousand rescue missions he had done before. Once the news of the man asking for help upon the gates of the city had reached both him and Aglaea, he had taken a droma, about a dozen men and told her he would stop by the Grove of Epiphany and ask Hyacine to come with him—for the wounded, he had said.
Hyacine, who stands on the other side of the car and sends her a small, comforting—albeit strained—smile when she turns to see her despite the exhaustion irradiating from her. The skin around her eyes isn’t red, but there is a glassy sheen over them that tells Castorice she’s holding back.
She wonders how long she has been doing that; wonders how long has Phainon been lying inside this shabby old cart that smells of rotten vegetables and burnt wheat.
It couldn’t have been long, Castorice thinks, as she peers down at him with a strange sort of detachment that had overcome her as soon as she came to know, his body has yet to show rot.
His complexion is pale, or, well, paler than usual, but not quite edging on sickly just yet, strangely enough; but his lips have already dyed in a faint blue tint, making more apparent the places he picks and chews when stressed. Both of his hands rest over his chest.
He looks… peaceful, almost. Castorice could almost make herself believe he was merely sleeping were his chest raising.
“...I will take him from here,” she hears herself say.
The old man nods, stepping aside to let Castorice take the cart’s handles; rough and brittle, full of splinters. There’s some faint darkening in the wood.
She turns her eyes towards the old man’s hands, just to find the skin on his palms peeling off like cracked paint in old stone; blood oozes out sluggishly from the cracks and one single drop slides towards his index before falling down to the cobblestone with a loud, almost poignant ‘drip’, like a tear.
Immediately after, the old man hides his hands.
Castorice frowns, mouth opening, but the old man shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Her frown deepens and, realizing her confusion, the old man’s gaze shifts to the side, towards Hyacine, before shifting back to her.
Ah.
Right, yes, of course.
Castorice turns her head to the other side, just to find her staring at the cart, eyes still glassy. She must be really out of it not to notice their little exchange, and it’s… perhaps for the best, really.
With a creak and a pull, the remaining wheel starts to spin again with a ‘racka, racka, racka’ sound that echoes almost gratingly through the Path of Parting and snakes its way into every little nook and cranny of the Holy City. The Gate of Infinity’s rather cruel way, perhaps, to deliver the news, or perhaps it is merely the Coin of Whimsy’s poor idea of a joke.
A couple of steps go by, and she shifts her head back a tad as they walk, watches the old man with his bleeding hands and gaunt eyes staring at them before people swarm him with questions and exclamations and, just like that, he’s swallowed by the crowd.
It almost seems to sway, ever so slightly, back and forth, back and forth, forth and back, like the waves of an ocean about to crash into a shipwreck as people press against each other and crane their necks to catch a glimpse of what remains of the Deliverer—one to be but never will.
It’s a strange thing, she thinks. Disrespectful, another part of her mind supplies with strange clarity. Castorice can understand why, of course, people peer and peek with such lack of shame; but it doesn’t change the fact that the ekphora1 is not supposed to happen in such crude, not to say vulgar, manners. He hasn’t even been washed.
She decides against going through the market, for this very reason, even though it would make for a shorter trip to the Marmoreal Palace. The dead deserve to be given as much dignity as they were offered alive—and there’s no reason why Phainon ought to be an exception.
But the longer this poor excuse of a procession goes on, the more restless the people get. Amphoreus, forever at the edge of the world’s end, is no stranger to Death, of course; but its—hers—very own nature is not, and will never be, something pleasant to come face, especially not so plainly, and much less when its cold grasp claims an heir.
A low muttering starts to arise once they come pass the dromas old stable; bits and pieces of broken conversations dig in between the 'racka, racka, racka' of the lonely wheel. Racka, racka—from the back—racka, racka—the black tide—racka, racka—can’t see—racka, racka—that child—racka, racka—but the physician—racka, ra—
“Why didn’t she save him?”
There, an accusation.
“Wasn’t the only reason she was brought to heal?”
The first real sound the Holy City deigns to give is not a wail, not a sob, and much less a lament, but, rather, an accusation.
“The best the Courtyard has to offer—!”
Anger is just another facet of grief, she’s well aware, another part, another lament; and in the face of powerlessness—
“—And this is all she can do?”
—Outrage is always easier. A comfort, almost.
“Why, you—!”
She just never expected it to rear its ugly head towards Hyacine, of all people; and perhaps that makes her naïve, a little bit.
Soon enough, the low murmur of hisses and accusations grow and shift into something bigger, more destructive, like the harsh avalanches of Aidonia, ever-frozen, where Persephone’s warmth could never quite reach her Lady Mother. Castorice tries her very best to ignore it all, the screams, the insults, the baseless accusations that border on the fantastical, the defenses drowned by the rest, but she ends up with gritted teeth at the end of it.
Castorice shifts her head back towards her friend, steps getting slower, just to find Hyacine; kind Hyacine, sweet Hyacine, who is far, far more resilient than people tend to give her credit for, with head raised high. Eyes still glassy, she sends her a smile once she catches sight of her gaze, reassuring, ever-gentle.
It’s okay, she seems to say.
It’s really not, Castorice thinks, swallowing the sudden lump that catches in her throat.
“Thanatos,” she exclaims, voice soft as ever, and yet, it spreads over the space like the chill of a last exhalation. “Made the decision to take Lord Phainon.” Her voice softens even further, for this is meant for her friend as much as it is meant for the people. “No matter her efforts, there’s nothing Lady Hyacine could have done to change that. Death is not something that can be refuted, and much less avoided.”
But, “And what are we to do, then!?” is the immediate response. “Wait for the same fate to catch up to us? The Deliverer is dead! The Era Nova won’t come now!”
“Bah!” Another scoffs. “It was never meant to be, anyway. The Era Chrysea—”
“—Is long gone now!” Yet another cries.
“And you all really thought,” explodes the same another from before, voice scornful. “The Era Nova would have been brought by some uncouth lad with no titles—!”
“The Deliever—!”
“—Is dead! He’s dead! You said so yourself! Why, he couldn’t even bring a handful of servants back alive!”
A loud piercing bleat from one of the dromas in the stable cuts into the growing discontent with enough force to make the ground rumble with the beginnings of unrest. Castorice’s head twists back towards the sound just to find Mydei’s uncharacteristic disheveled shape shoving his way through the crowd with quick steps.
He’s coated in sweat, breathes coming out in harsh pants, and he carries one of those dull, nondescript lances used to train up-and-coming soldiers. He mentioned something about that yesterday, she thinks she remembers.
She wonders if Phainon was already dead by then.
How Mydei came to know, that, she also wonders; whether the news have already spread so far, or if somebody's very first course of action upon learning of his fall was to let the prince know—either way, it couldn’t have been particularly graceful, much less tactful, if the wide, wild-eyed look in his face is anything to go by.
His mouth opens, but the beginning of the question whose response Castorice’s mere presence answers catches in his throat, and he closes it again.
He swallows.
The lance in his hand is promptly given to one of the guards who was doing a rather poor job at keeping the people at bay before he starts to make their way towards them like a man marching into battle. The loud ‘blam, blam, blam’ of his steps resonates through the once again silent city.
And yet, for all his might and all his steel, even Mydei, almighty lion, starts to hesitate once he actually gets closer to the cart; steps relenting as if he wanted to stop.
He doesn’t, however, of course he doesn’t, he’s not that kind of man; and, soon enough, he’s standing next to the cart. His gaze drifts to Castorice one last time, almost as if he were hoping she could… what, disprove it? Deny it? Change it? She’s not sure. Perhaps it’s none of those things. She can not tell. There’s a certain hollowness in her chest and Mydei’s face does not give anything away.
She can only shake her head.
A certain something flashes through his expression, raw and painful, though whatever emotion is overflowing through his blood is quickly reined in with closed eyes and a low breath. One second, two, perhaps even three and a half pass before he looks down; the movement makes long strands of hair fall around his face, shielding it from view.
He’s not hiding it, not on purpose, at least, but Castorice still averts her eyes. Sadness, pain, sorrow or anger, it doesn’t matter, whatever he’s feeling is his to keep. She wouldn’t want to intrude.
Instead, her eyes fall onto Phainon’s still figure once again, still pale, still inert, still dead, still, still, still. His blue cape is in tatters, and a faint yellowish tint clings to the clothes around his chest. His eyes are half-opened and the bottom of the Sky Father’s symbol peeks almost mockingly from beneath his eyelashes; once gold and vibrant, it now rests against his irises like a dying star sunk in the bottom of a well filled with stagnant water and—ah, the blue of his eyes has dulled, too.
Mydei must be thinking the same thing because in the next second, with surprisingly careful movements, he brings his hand to close his eyes, keeping his palm against his eyes, as if wanting to shield him, as if he still could.
After a while, as gently as she can, she calls his name. He doesn’t even twitch.
Her mouth opens, closes, opens again, “Lord Mydei, we… we should keep going,” she tries, stifling a wince. Castorice does not wish to hurry him along, she really doesn’t, but she just—she can’t stand the way people keep… keep gawking at Phainon for a second longer and he—his body—it’s just—she really wishes to cover him with something. Would it be too unbecoming to request Mydei’s cape?
“...Lord Mydei?” It’s Hyacine, this time.
She sends Castorice a concerned look with her too-glassy eyes when Mydei fails to respond once again, missing the way he goes from shielding Phainon’s eyes to grabbing the hands covering his chest and the stab wound underneath.
It falls a little below his neck, having gone through his sternum and pulverizing the bone to dust. It doesn’t seem to have hit any internal organs—if Castorice angles her head just so, she might actually catch a glimpse of his lungs—but the sheer size of the wound would have had his blood draining out of his body in a matter of seconds. There wasn’t… there wasn’t any chance, really, that he could have been saved from such horrid, gruesome thing and, surely, logically, Hyacine must know this, right? She must know, better than Castorice, whose touch could never hope to bring salvation, ever could.
She must, she thinks again, if only for the comfort that the calumnies and venom spat her way do not take root upon her like maggots under her flesh; but as she turns towards Hyacine at her right and catches her blinking hard with her head tilted to the sky, something in her chest drops.
On her left, Mydei is all too still and all too quiet, uncannily so, dangerously so. Something akin to the silence that comes before a storm, charged and heavy—electric, almost. She thinks she can taste ozone.
“Who?”
Demands he.
Hyacine exhales, still looking up. Her lips mouth the shapes of an answer, but not a sound leaves her throat. She’s close to breaking, Castorice can tell, and wonders again just how long she has been holding back.
“Lord Mydei,” she calls yet again, a bit more firmly. “I think this matter is better discussed elsewhere.”
From the crowd, someone shrieks: “Elsewhere!? Don’t we des—!”
“Quiet!” Mydei snaps, and the ground itself seems to shake with his voice, stifling any and all sounds that were about to explode.
His head turns back to Castorice, then to Hyacine and he grimaces.
Carefully, he places Phainon’s hands back on his chest, though he does not manage to cover the wound as neatly as it was before. Through the gaps of Phainon’s curled fingers—rigor mortis, she thinks—and through the gap in his chest, she realizes she can see the end of the cart.
“I will take it from here,” he then tells the guard, who quickly steps back once Mydei has grabbed the side without the wheel.
The little girl who was at his side does not. Her brittle fingers tighten around the wood as her eyes remain fixed on Phainon’s form.
“...He saved me,” it’s her quiet imploration.
Castorice looks around, finds people muttering between themselves a litany of ‘that brat’s’, ‘poor girl’s’, and ‘how-dare-she’s?’, a strange amalgamation of pity and indignation. The little girl’s lips wobble, but her eyes remain fixed on Mydei’s face with something that reads less like determination and more like desperation.
Please, she seems to say; the scars on her face are still tender.
The guard places his hands tentatively on her shoulders once it is clear there’s no one to fetch her—and it’s not hard, really, to imagine what happened to her parents, if she even had them.
“Leave her,” says Mydei before he can coax her to step away from the cart. His eyes fixed on Phainon. “It’s a heavy weight.”
They keep going; they can’t afford not to.
Time, ever-uncaring, seems to lose a bit of sense around the edges, lost along with the edges of her sense of self, as if this body did not belong to her. Distantly, she’s aware the rest of the walk towards the Marmoreal Palace is uneventful, Okhema’s restlessness not placated, but restrained, by Mydei’s intimidating presence; whispers and indignations tapering off as the first sobs and cries come to be heard, all drowned by the grating racka, racka, racka of the lonely wheel. But she does not know how long it takes. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, years and millenia—the world ends seven times over and begins eight times anew and none at all in the span that takes her to take a single step.
The eternity of a blink, the fleetingness of a life.
Still, for the life of her, she could not tell when, nor how, they reached the Palace.
The little girl is no Chrysos Heir, she can’t come with them to the Hero’s Baths. Careful not to jostle the cart too much, Mydei brings one of his hands to pet her hair in a comforting gesture that people who don’t know him would find surprising as Hyacine says something or another to her in a warm voice.
And Castorice just… watches.
It’s for the best, really, she does not know how to comfort people, not unless they are on their deathbed, anyways; and she’s no good with children, nor people—the living, in general. She doesn’t think so. The isolation death brings has made her awkward, a duck out of water, someone who only ever gets to see others from behind a glass.
It’s fine, she has made… peace, of sorts, with that. It’s better that way. It’s dangerous when people get too close to her, lest she forgets herself.
Her eyes settle back on Phainon.
It’s only when Hyacine has made sure the little girl is left in good hands that they go up to the Hero’s Baths. Lady Aglaea, as she’s prone to be, is already there, composed and elegant as ever. Her face impassive. Lady Trinnon is at her right, hands clutched against her chest, and Lady Tribbie at her left, eyes alternating from them to Aglaea anxiously; her wings twitching in her back, as if she wanted to take flight. Lady Trianne nowhere in sight.
None of them say anything as she and Mydei push the cart forwards. Racka, racka, it makes, the old wheel wobbles and creaks and, as they bring it down the steps, it finally breaks.
Castorice’s heart halts for a beat before her pulse bursts with such intensity it nearly has her vomiting as she, along Mydei and Hyacine, scrambles to stop Phainon from tumbling down, but it is only due the golden threads snapping into place that he doesn’t actually fall.
The disturbance seems to be just about enough for Lady Tribbie, who shoots forward like an arrow with a flap of her tiny wings and comes to stop exactly above the cart.
“Oh, Snowy,” she lets out, expression forlorn. She cups Phainon’s face with both hands and delicately, as if afraid she might break him, pulls his head up from where it had slid and slumped down with the movement. Then, in a motion that strangely reminds Castorice of the old ladies in the market, Lady Tribbie pushes the hair out of his face. His eyes have opened again. “It’s alright,” she murmurs. Castorice doesn’t think she’s meant to hear that.
Hyacine takes a couple of steps forward. “Lady Aglaea,” she starts, falters, not entirely sure how to address her. From where Castorice is standing, she can only see the back of her hair. “It’s—I tried—”
“Hyacinthia,” Lady Aglaea interrupts, firm, but not unkindly. “Are you alright?”
Hyacine goes quiet.
“Thank you for your concern, Lady Aglaea, but I’m fine—as is the rest of the caravan, really. The only loss we suffered was… Lord Phainon’s.” There’s a bit of a pause when she finishes speaking, but Hyacine picks up again right before Lady Aglaea is about to speak. “I, uh, do forgive my impetuousness, but I made to call Professor Anaxa on the way to Okhema, and I would prefer for him to be here before we discuss anything further. I…” she trails off, clears her throat. “He was his professor, too.”
“Do you think he will take much longer to arrive?”
Hyacine shakes her head. “No, I sent him a letter with Little Ica halfway here.”
Lady Aglaea considers it and, ultimately, “Very well,” she decides. Hyacine bows her head with silent gratefulness.
The rushing waters are ever a constant on the Hero’s Baths, though the usually comforting sound now ends up unpleasant under the lugubrious silence that had settled over the space like a heavy blanket. Castorice bears it for about a minute and a half, mulling over her next course of action, before walking towards Hyacine.
She’s careful for her heels not to click-clack against the floor. Hyacine still hears her approach, nevertheless.
“Cassie,” she greets with a smile that’s entirely too practiced; the sort she gives to patients when she’s trying not to add further to their burden. Castorice can’t help the thought that she looks brittle. “How are you holding up?”
Castorice blinks once, twice. Hyacine doesn’t—she’s trying not to, she realizes, staring at moisture gathered in the bottom of her starry eyes. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that, Lady Hyacine?”
Her gaze lowers.
“I’m fine.”
“...Hyacine.”
“I really am,” she replies gently. “I know you worry, but I—” Her gaze drifts back up, and she must see something in Castorice’s expression that makes her admit: “I am exhausted.”
Tentatively, Castorice takes a step further towards her so that she’s no longer standing at arm’s length. It’s the only thing close to comfort she can give. “I’m sorry you had to deal with…” she tries, not entirely sure how to describe it. “...all that, down in the city, upon your return. It… it couldn’t have been easy.”
“No, but I know it’s not easy on them either.”
“Still…”
Hyacine’s eyes soften. Her fingers twitch as if she wanted to take Castorice’s hand; she hides both behind her body. Hyacine does not mention it, instead, she says, “Don’t get angry on my behalf, Cassie. I understand, I really do, but it’s not the first time I have had to deliver bad news as a medic.”
“Does this happen often?”
“Not particularly, no.” She shakes her head. “Most people understand I am trying my best to help, but from time to time there will be someone who doesn’t know where to direct their sorrow—and, you know, this was the Deliverer and—and—Titans, Castorice, it’s been days—” she blurts out and covers her eyes with her hands. There’s gold sticking under her nails.
And Phainon has been dead for days.
The knowledge should hit her harder, she thinks, but it’s all swallowed by the cold, impersonal hollowness swirling inside a chest that doesn’t feel to belong to her. Days. How many? Two, four, six? What was she doing at that time? She tries to remember, but the memory escapes her like water between her fingers, and what could be seen in the reflection has been replaced by Phainon’s half-opened empty eyes and the racka, racka, racka of a wheel that no longer exists.
Days.
Hyacine is nearly silent, at her side, breaths coming out in structured intervals as she tries to calm herself. Inhale for four seconds, hold for two, exhale for six. Four, two, six; four, two, six; four, three, one; two, eight, three; a hiccup; four, two, six. She’s still holding back and Castorice can’t do anything but stare from somewhere far outside her body, hands behind her back.
To her own immense relief, Lady Trinnon can, however, and she comes to hold Hyacine between tiny hands.
It doesn’t take much longer that the almost pointed ‘tap, tap, tap’ of Professor Anaxa’s hurried steps resonates all the way from below the baths—not because he’s in any real rush, but because he always walks as if he had somewhere better to be. It’s a bit of ever-present normalcy between the chaos, and surprisingly comforting for that. Castorice does not miss the way Hyacine’s shoulders relax marginally at the sound.
With a flash of gold, the platform at the edge of the Hero’s Baths lowers, and when it raises once again, Professor Anaxa comes to appear; eye closed and arms crossed. Little Ica floats at his side, and the little thing makes a quick beeline with nearly frantic flaps of her little wings towards Hyacine, who greets her with open arms.
His gaze falls quizzically upon the once cart, now turned crate, held to the ceiling with golden strings, with palpable derision. She can understand the sentiment, somewhat, it certainly isn’t the sort of dignity any person should get, much less a Chrysos Heir, and much much less someone like Phainon—though, somehow, she’s well aware Phainon would disagree with her with that view of himself.
His eye shifts to the side.
“Aglaea,” he says.
“Anaxa,” she answers.
He clicks his tongue, but doesn’t bother correcting her—and it might be the biggest tell of how much this has affected him. In fast steps, ‘tap, tap, tap’, he goes towards the crate. Lady Tribbie steps aside, but does not stray far from Phainon’s side, even as her professor peers inside.
It takes him a beat to speak up, but his tone is as pragmatic as ever when he does. “This wound…” he muses to himself, bringing a hand down to touch it, presumably, ignoring how Lady Tribbie winces. “It doesn’t show any corruption from the Black Tide.”
“It couldn’t have been from a titankin either, otherwise his torso would have been ripped clean off his legs,” Mydei adds, voice flat, arms crossed over his chest.
“It was a swordsman,” Hyacine says eventually, voice still a bit shaky, petting Little Ica absentmindedly. Her brow furrows. “Well, I think it was a swordsman. I couldn’t take a very good look at them because it just sort of—appeared, out of thin air, and… just… from the back…” she goes silent. “It didn’t give Lord Phainon even a chance to react.”
Mydei’s grip on his arms tightens.
“Do you remember anything about its appearance?” her professor asks.
“Tall,” replies Hyacine immediately. “Very tall. With death for a face and dressed in all black. ”
Death for a face, going after a Chrysos Heir. Hm. “Could it have been the Cleaners?” Castorice proposes.
“But it just vanished after it killed Phainon,” Hyacine speaks again, voice small. “If it were them, wouldn’t they have come after me too?”
“If their attempt was to destabilize the Flame-Chase journey, I would argue there were hardly any better candidates than him,” Lady Aglaea says, tapping a long finger against her cheek in consideration. “I would be surprised if they weren’t to use this as a point of contention in the upcoming assembly.”
Professor Anaxa scoffs. “Of course that would be your first concern.”
Lady Aglaea’s eyes narrow.
It’s the only warning they all get before an argument breaks out, which, was an inevitability, really—and more so considering the situation at hand. Castorice has always thought it is because both of them have always cared far more than they would like to admit; perhaps more than they even know.
And maybe that’s the reason why it takes a more severe note than usual, with more derisions and accusations and scalding words, to the point that even Mydei of all people starts to look uncomfortable.
Castorice’s gaze shifts back towards the crate.
She doesn’t mean to tune the conversation out, she really doesn’t, but words and meanings start to feel farther and farther away, drowned out by the low buzzing in her ears, strangely reminiscent of the low racka, racka of a wheel.
Days, she thinks again. Yesterday, she went to the market. Yesterday, Phainon was long dead while she browsed through fabrics.
Isn’t it unfair?
“Cas?”
Slowly, she shifts her head down towards the sound, just to be met with Lady Tribbie’s worried face. She blinks at it, once, twice, almost incomprehensibly, before she realizes everything has gone strangely quiet.
She clears her throat. “My apologies, Lady Tribbie, could you repeat what you said?”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, sorry, I was just… thinking about something.”
Lady Tribbie does not look convinced one bit, but she continues, voice soft as if she was speaking to a spooked cat. “Agy was wondering if you would take care of Snowy’s burial—but only if you are feeling alright! We know it’s heavy weight, and we don’t want you shouldering everything alone.”
“His burial,” she repeats, nearly breathless. “Yes, yes, of course I will.”
“Castorice.”
“Professor,” she replies, turning towards him.
He doesn’t say anything, not immediately, choosing instead to stare at her critically for a moment or two, searching for something. Castorice can’t even begin to guess what, exactly, and much less whether he finds it or not. Probably not, because he sighs.
“Don’t push yourself too hard.”
“I won’t. Thank you.”
He stares at her for yet a moment longer before he nods. “Well, then,” he says, facing Lady Aglaea. “If there’s nothing more to discuss.” Lady Aglaea’s face does not change, and she hears Professor Anaxa scoff yet again before he turns around again. “Hyacine, a moment?”
At her side, Hyacine nods and Castorice watches them go out of the Hero’s Baths towards a more secluded area of the Marmoreal Palace; and right about they disappear around a corner, she still manages to catch a glimpse of Professor Anaxa placing a hand between her shoulder blades.
The sob that leaves Hyacine’s throat sounds as if it had been ripped straight out of her. It echoes almost hauntingly through the space.
Castorice closes her eyes.
It’s been days.
“Lord Mydei,” she calls. His gaze shifts towards her. “Would you help me take his body to his house?”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Lady Aglaea interrupts. “A crowd has congregated around his house, and even if you manage to pass through, I doubt leaving his body there would be safe in the current conditions."
Mydei’s jaw tightens so hard that Castorice might actually have heard his teeth grinding and, along his arms, there are little pinpricks of gold from where the sharp edges of his gauntlets are digging into his skin.
“...Mine, then?” Castorice asks. Lady Aglaea nods.
They golden strings around the crate untie themselves one by one, settling it gently upon both of their hands. They are both careful as they move, but no matter how slow they try to go, Phainon’s head still shifts and bobs limply. His dead, empty half-opened eyes stare directly at her.
They exit the Marmoreal Palace through one of its many secret passages, sneaking through alleys and deserted corridors like thieves in the night. All around them, the city is submerged in complete chaos, laments of death and cries of desperation weaving through the air.
The ground shakes faintly under their feet, as if the ruckus had made the earth itself start to rouse from its long slumber, with people running around desperately—towards Kephale’s silent body, towards Phainon’s home, towards the Marmoreal Palace, anywhere that might provide any semblance of answers, any semblance of comfort.
Nobody thinks, of course, about Death’s quaint, silent house nestled in complete isolation at the very edges of the city.
The crate itself is too wide to fit past her door, so, in ever careful movements, they lower it down to the floor with a faint ‘creak’ that feels all too loud in the newfound silence. Castorice opens it. When she turns back, it’s just to find Mydei sneaking his arms under Phainon’s legs to lift his lower half.
He could probably carry his whole body on his own, truth be told. Castorice might be able to do so too, actually, but…
It’s a heavy weight.
…Too heavy for someone to bear on their own.
Castorice walks to the other side, bends down, but when she’s about to bring her arms under his shoulders, her joints lock in on themselves, whole body freezing. Rigor mortis, she thinks again, but her heart beats all too loudly in her ears.
She can not move.
“Castorice,” she hears Mydei call, not softly, but not unkindly either. She can’t bring herself to look at him. “...He’s dead.”
Her fingers twitch. “I know,” she replies. “I know, it’s just…”
Phainon keeps staring at her.
In stiff, rigid movements, she moves one of her hands upwards to close them, but finds she can not bring herself to do so. It’s stupid, really, idiotic, even—she’s under no delusion whatsoever of the reality presented to her right in front of her, but even then—even then—
Her finger comes to caress his cheek in the faintest of touches, but she can feel none of the warmth that Phainon tends to irradiate in waves, only the cool chill of death.
He really is gone.