Chapter Text
They say, hidden away in a far, foreign land, a god has been laid to rest.
A peaceful, quiet sleep. One that has lasted over a millennium.
They were not slain, but succumbed to slumber after millions upon millions of epochs spent bearing the world.
Kephale’s legacy, some say.
Kephale’s corpse, some whisper.
Kephale’s descendant, some claim.
A holy cradle, bearing a treasure of immeasurable worth, all agree.
Pity, that none can find the Worldbearer’s tomb.
When the Era Nova had finally been ushered onto Amphoreus’ stage, Oronyx had declared then and there, that no mortal soul would ever be allowed to step foot into Aedes Elysiae. An unknown village tucked away in a corner ‒ a place none had ever heard of before.
The Council of Elders, ignorant of the weight that obscure place held, had agreed without protest. Even Oronyx’ fellow Titans had conceded without hesitation.
(It was only in the absence of the Sky Father’s presence and guidance that the Council of Elders had realized their mistake.)
Oronyx’ personal Arcadia; hearsay speaks of a golden ocean, fae roaming among Oronyx’ favored mortals and a labyrinth with Kephale’s tomb resting at its heart. A silent, precious treasure, cradled within the embrace of the Time Titan themselves. Frozen forever in a gentle dream.
And thus, Aedes Elysiae had become a slice of paradise that only those with golden blood in their veins could find.
Yet even then, scant Chrysos Heirs have ever found their way to that sea of golden wheat.
Those who did, spoke of gold stretching as far and wide as the eyes could see, a village forever embraced by Time, and the shimmering visage of Oronyx themselves guarding the Elysian fields and playing with the mortal children in their domain.
None of the outsiders were ever allowed entrance to the labyrinth leading to the Worldbearer’s tomb.
The fae were unwilling to let any Chrysos Heir inside, claiming their hearts bore too much greed.
Only the purest of hearts were allowed inside, like the Elysian children who only wished to play and cook with the fae.
And so, Chrysos Heirs filled with avarice and vice, were banished from Aedes Elysiae as well.
Once, before Oronyx had banned every and all entry to their realm, there had been a moment Oronyx had gifted mortals access to Aedes Elysiae.
It was to celebrate a birth.
The Time Titan had been so overjoyed with the herald of that fragile, fleeting life, they wished for everyone to share their joy.
It had been the first and last time Oronyx would ever let outsiders without golden blood step foot in Aedes Elysiae.
A tragedy and grief so severe, Era Nova had risked an early end.
(And yet Era Nova persevered.)
(For the Titans knew that Destruction was not the answer.)
Tiny, frail fingers find their way to Cyrene’s, wrapping around them so delicately, she could cry.
Even like this, reduced to a fragile and mortal body, it appears her Phainon still holds on to that stubborn desire to fulfill people’s dearest wishes. He’s so, so small now. With her memories restored from the previous cycles, she can almost not believe her eyes, seeing him younger than she is.
In all her previous lives, aside from their childhood during the first, it had always been him who grew older and towered over her in height. It had always been her who was left behind, frozen forever in the erased flow of Time.
Her Phainon, sweet, kind and bright Phainon, sleepily babbling away in her arms as if the eons of suffering he willingly bore had been nothing more but a bad dream. And perhaps it had been, at least for this new life she now held. She knows that Phainon’s suffering will one day continue, haunted by Khaslana’s slumbering form cradled in the heart of the fairies’ maze. She knows, the weight of Amphoreus is nothing compared to the Destruction’s gaze. Phainon’s fate as a Lord Ravager will one day drag him to a precipice of no return, balancing his own wants against the fate of the universe itself.
She’s known him long enough to know what choice he won’t hesitate to make in the wake of such a dilemma. Directly experienced his resolve and grief when forced to walk a path with no end.
And yet, and yet...
“Not yet,” she murmurs, pressing a kiss against the babe’s temple, her nose brushing against sheer, snow white hairs and soft, warm skin. Unmarred by war and lacking the scorching heat of millions upon millions of Coreflames. “Let’s not grow up for a little longer, shall we?” she whispers, hopes, wishes, but doesn’t pray ‒ for the Aeons do not care.
Still, even with the uncertainties of the future looming over him like Damocles’ sword, happiness fills her heart as the babe blinks up at her with reflected joy. The sun mark on his neck is as damning as it gets, yet even that cannot deter the relief she feels when holding Phainon. Alive and well.
It’s been so long since she—since any of the Heirs, really—had gotten the pleasure of seeing Phainon.
The final battle against Irontomb...
She shakes her head, blinking away the dreary and horrific memory of the crumbling corpse wearing her dearest companion’s face.
Cyrene adjusts her grip on the bundle in her arms, making sure to not jostle Phainon’s sleepy form. Her teleslate has unread messages. Most are updates about the steady rebuild of Amphoreus, with Okhema spotlighted on the stage, sending aid and rescue in name of the Goldweaver and the Imperator. The Trailblazers’ names pop up often, flitting around with the rest of the visitors beyond the sky, lending their aid.
Fondness fills her as she reads about their Heroes’ shenanigans. Yes, perhaps, if it’s them...perhaps she can let them know about the miracle that’s in her arms.
She listens absentmindedly to Hieronymus’ humming as he prepares a meal in the kitchen, Audata peacefully resting in bed, no doubt exhausted.
They aren’t her Hieronymus and Audata, yet that doesn’t deter her from enjoying this peaceful bubble she’s managed to carefully herd into existence.
Just as she has missed this peace in Aedes Elysiae, she’s certain the others have missed her and Phainon as well.
At the start of Era Nova she banned entry in caution of the Council of Elders, but this joy, this miracle, is something her fellow Heirs and Heroes deserve to know of. Phainon’s existence should be celebrated, she thinks, especially now that he no longer needs to bear the weight of a false prophecy. Perhaps, she muses, he’ll finally get to become a wanderer or scholar as he desired in a former life.
Free of expectations, free of duty and free of an endless nightmare haunting his steps.
Yes, Cyrene thinks, in this life, Phainon will get to grow up as himself.
She noses the hair on the babe’s head, cooing at Phainon’s happy babbling as he tugs softly on her hair, fascinated by the color.
She closes her eyes, her body filling with Time’s authority as she forms a prophecy for Oronyx’ priests.
“The Sun has risen in Oronyx’ Arcadia. This warmth should be laureled with blessings and gifts.”
Then, she sends the Chrysos Heirs’ group chat a single message before turning off her teleslate to blow raspberries on Phainon’s cheeks, ignoring the flurry of notifications blowing up the chat as she soaks up the babe’s delighted laughter.
Yes, this happiness should be shared. Just as Phainon had always spread joy wherever he went.
(Oh, how wrong she was.)
“Hm, I wonder what gifts the others will bring,” she hums, “I’m certain Agy is going to be the winner of this battle.”
(How naive.)
“Everyone’s going to love you.”
(To think this happiness would have lead to—)
“May you finally be yourself in this life, Phainon.”
(“May this world never again lay eyes upon the Sun.”)
They say, once, within Oronyx’ Arcadia, Kephale’s legacy had been laureled by the Nameless Deliverer themselves.
The Titans had joined them, accompanying Oronyx as they heralded the rebirth of the Sky Father, granting blessings and gifts.
Three wished for a kinder fate,
Two wished for a calmer stage,
Three wished for prosperity, longevity and an ever-victorious blade,
Three wished for a body never unmade,
And the Nameless Deliverer revealed a wish never spake.
Kephale, oh Kephale, how grand their rebirth!
Humble and quiet, unlike the Sky Father of old.
Born from mortal flesh, golden blood flowing in their veins, without divine soil and clay from their predecessor.
Yet, divinity they lack not. Yes, the omniscient and omnipresent Sky Father that babe should have been.
Witness!
For the Sun has risen once more, within the cradle of Time’s embrace.
Witness!
For that grand feast only left Ruin and smoldering Destruction.
Witness!
For Oronyx’ Arcadia is both Kephale’s cradle and tomb.
If one lacks the strength to kill a god, point the dagger at mortal origin and kin, and flee from paradise with the unsprouted seed of divinity in tow. Outrun the gods, forever leave the sky and sunlight behind, vices and debts piling heavy on Talanton’s scales. The golden blood spilled in their wake will forever taint the shadows of those foolish, foolish mortals.
Cry not for the discarded and the blood on one’s hands. Life begets death, and not even Kephale can escape Thanatos’ embrace.
The sin of deicide, the desecration of a god, and the stripped innocence of a lost lamb.
Kephale, oh Kephale, how could your mortal children do this to you?
Pity, that the Hand of Shadow could not guide those lost, mortal lovers to peace.
Pity, that the Veil of Evernight closed off their Arcadia.
Pity, that the Throne of Worlds never witnessed the dawn.
Kephale, oh Kephale, may you be a blazing sun, forevermore, in a dawn that burns even the stars to ash!
Ten years. Ten lone, mortal years filled with pain and grief.
(“No...not yet...” Audata had murmured, her slashed throat gurgling with each syllable, “I...cannot pass on...without my child.)
(“No...not yet...” Hieronymus had gasped, his chest missing ribs and heart, “I must...see him...one last time.”)
(Castorice could only watch on in silence, as she held their hands, unable to guide them to the afterlife, their lingering regret weighing too heavily on their souls.)
Ten years spent waiting, searching, and vanquishing the remnants of the Black Tide.
Ten years.
Ten...years.
“This...”
“...is madness,” Caelus says, finishing Stelle’s thought.
Ten years of running themselves ragged alongside the other Chrysos Heirs turned Titans, finally discovering and following a threadbare lead, only to find...this.
Dull, dead eyes stare unblinkingly at them. Rather than the clear blue sky, they meet with the ocean’s darkest depths. His hair has grown so long, it cascades down the throne he’s tied to, a waterfall of snow. Dwarfed by his own hair, he looks even smaller. The white haired child lifts his head, the rattling of the chains echoing off the cold, stone walls.
A long strand of white falls over one of his eyes, as he opens his mouth with difficulty. “I...” the child’s voice is hoarse from disuse, and every breath he takes rattles against his lungs, “I don’t...do prophecies...today,” he whispers.
“Phainon...is that...you?” Stelle already knows the answer, but she can’t help the want of this being nothing more but an elaborate illusion. The people they fought to get here were blind fanatics at best and remorseless cultists at worst.
The child does not respond.
The twins meet each other’s gaze. It’s Caelus who takes the leap—
“...Kephale?”
The child blinks. “Yes...?”
—and they both fall into the depths.
“Aeons, what the fuck.”
Stelle slaps her own face and some clarity returns through the pain. “R, right! We should let the others know!” She cups her hands near her face and yells, “Mydei! Mydei!”
This deep underground, the skies’ thunderclaps are nothing more but whispers lost in the quietude.
“Let’s get him out of those chains first.” Caelus moves closer to the throne, tugging carefully on the rusted chains to find the weakest links.
The child, no, Phainon trembles silently as the chains come loose. His breathing is ragged and he dares not to look at either of them.
“Did...did I...do something wrong?” His voice cracks at the same time as their hearts do.
The chains drop to the stone floor with a loud thud, and Phainon flinches harshly. Caelus winces and shakes his hands. “No!” he grimaces, before continuing, quieter, “Nono, you didn’t do anything wrong! We’re...we’re saving you?”
“Saving...me?”
He turns to Stelle, hoping for backup.
“Uh, uhm, there’s...there’s people waiting for you! Yeah! Everyone’s been really worried and would love to see you!”
Though she doubts anyone would be happy to see Phainon in that state. At the very least, they’ll be relieved he’s alive.
“Come on, let’s get you out of this dump.” Caelus reaches out a hand, waits for the child to take it.
“I...” Phainon hesitates. “I...can’t.”
“Huh?”
“I can’t...walk.”
Only then do their eyes trail lower, landing on the scarred mess that’s the skin of Phainon’s ankles.
“That’s...they, they—what the fuck.” Caelus doesn’t finish his thoughts.
On a closer look, it’s clear that Phainon’s covered head to toe in scars, most of them clearly afflicted through torture. He’s all skin and bones, and his skin has a deathly pale glow. If it weren’t for the slow almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest, they would’ve thought they were speaking with a corpse.
“...You know what? That’s, that’s fine!” Stelle says, “It doesn’t matter if you can’t walk, we’ll, we’ll carry you, yeah?”
It’s Caelus who ends up carrying Phainon. It’s a terrible experience. The Trailblazer has to keep looking over his shoulder to check if the child’s still there, even though he can feel Phainon’s faint breath on his neck and the cold of his skin seeping through what little clothing he wears. It’s just that Phainon is so, so light and it feels like Caelus is carrying a memory rather than a living person.
Stelle walks at the front, flaming lance at the ready in case of an attack. The dark halls of the underground ruin stretch into maze-like tendrils, and it’s difficult to avoid being spotted by enemies. Even more so with how Caelus feels the need to fill the silence, to talk, to speak with and to Phainon on his back. The responses he gets are mostly hums and quiet, single word sentences.
At some point, they forgo stealth and Stelle simply decimates every cultist that crosses their path. The alarm has been sound and blares off in the background, an annoying, grating sound that echoes off the walls. It drives Caelus up the wall with worry and stress as he feels Phainon’s breaths grow weaker and weaker. He keeps on talking about everything and nothing at all.
“—and so he just kept barking like a dog, it was disturbing and funny, but mostly disturbing for the workers, but hey, at least he kept his word! Can you believe that, Phainon?”
“...that?”
“What?”
“Why...” Phainon starts, voice weak, “do you...keep...calling me...that?”
“...Call you what?” Caelus says, heart trembling.
“...’Phainon’, who...is that? Aren’t I...am I not...’Kephale’?”
“You can be both,” Caelus says, eventually, “Kephale, Phainon, any name is fine. As long as you want to be called as such.” He turns his head slightly, glancing back at the child on his back. “Do you want me to call you Kephale instead?”
The child stays silent, but his grip tightens around Caelus’ neck.
“You should do what you want, you know,” Caelus says, “If you don’t like me calling you Phainon, I can call you whatever you’re more comfortable with.”
“But I...I’m supposed...to fulfill wishes...that’s...that’s my duty.”
The Trailblazers’ footsteps falter for a moment.
“Duty?” Stelle starts, gaze forward, “Who forces ‘duty’ upon a child? Whether the blood that flows through your veins is red or gold, as a child you should get to play around. Screw duty! You don’t need to bear those burdens.”
“Yeah! Rules are made to be broken! You should do the things you want to do, not what other people tell you to do.”
For a moment, Caelus doesn’t feel a single breath against his nape and his heart sinks—
“...Really?”
—he lets out a shuddering breath of relief.
“I’m...allowed to...want?”
“Yes,” both Trailblazers say, resolute.
“Is there something you want?” Caelus asks, gently, quietly.
“I...” Kephale, no, Phainon hesitates, before he whispers, “I want...to see the...sky. Dawn.”
“You want to see the dawn?”
Caelus can feel the child on his back nod. “The dawn...is warm...right? I want...to be warm...as well.”
Stelle sucks in a breath, swinging the lance with more force than needed against a cultist’s side, sending them flying into a wall and letting them crumple into a heap on the floor. “Sure. That’s fine. We can show you the dawn.”
It’s currently nighttime, but she’s certain they can have Hyacine manipulate the sky to let Phainon see the dawn. Screw whoever’s sleeping schedule they’ll ruin or whatever mass panic they’ll cause—this one time they break the Laws of Sky and Time should be fine.
“Dawn...” Phainon murmurs, “Will it...be bright?”
“Yeah, it’ll be warm, bright, whatever you want. A cloudless sky or fluffy, sheep-like clouds swimming through the blue—anything you want.”
“Is there...is there anything else you want?” Caelus asks.
Phainon’s breath stutters in his chest, and Caelus can feel the strength in the child’s arms fade away. He quickens his steps. There’s something wet seeping into the collar of his shirt and he doesn’t need to turn his head to know his clothes are steadily growing stained with ichor.
Stelle’s movements are growing sharper, more desperate as they cut through more cultists and ascend the underground ruins.
“I...” Phainon coughs, it’s a wet, wracking sound. “Do I...have a...home?”
His voice is barely a whisper now. Stelle decides plowing through doors is more efficient than worrying about the structural integrity of the underground temple. Distantly, the sounds of thunderclaps echoes through the halls. She calls out to Strife, hoping they’ll meet quicker if she leads Mydei to them through his name.
“Yeah, you have one!” Caelus says, his voice wavering, “It’s called Aedes Elysiae, a small village with beautiful golden wheat fields at the waters. We’ve stayed there for quite a time, it’s really cozy! There’s also a maze filled with fairies, and oh! Cyrene also lives there. She’s gonna be so relieved once you’re back home. She’s uh, a big sister figure? Your godmother? I don’t really know how to describe your relationship in this life.”
“Aedes...Elysiae...” Phainon weighs the name on his tongue, “That’s...home?”
“Yeah,” Caelus says, his vision going blurry, “It’s the place where everything started.”
“...Aedes...Elysiae...” Phainon repeats, “...Home...”
(“...Hero...of my...heart...” Phainon murmurs, and Caelus goes still.)
Stelle spots red and gold moving through the halls. “Mydei! We need Hyacine!”
(“Dei...mos?”)
(Caelus feels like the ground beneath his feet is gone. He’s falling, falling, yet he can’t topple over yet.)
Mydei takes a fraction of a second to note their presence, before his eyes hone in on the figure on Caelus’ back. The halls crack and creak from the overwhelming force of Strife, before the newly-turned Titan reels back his emotion with the razor sharp precision of a honed warrior. “Hyacine is at the entrance,” he says, instead of the many, many other things he wishes to speak.
“The entrance...” Stelle clicks her tongue, “That’s too far.”
A flash of lightning bolts through the halls, and Cipher lands perfectly in place before them. “Give him to me,” she says, wasting no time, “Princess Homebody said she’s trying to block his way to the River. We don’t have much time.”
Caelus jolts, before he springs into action and hands over Phainon to Cipher as gently as he can. The Trailblazer’s back is painted gold. Their eyes meet. “He wants to see the dawn.”
There are no more words exchanged as Cipher runs off, Phainon’s fading life in her arms.
She’s as gentle as she can be at her speed. She cradles Phainon’s small body in her arms, jumps over corpses and debris, careful to not jostle the child. Her hands are soaked in gold. The wrong gold. It's liquid and warm and nothing like the solid coins and jewelry and knickknacks she likes to hold.
“Warm...” Phainon’s voice is a barely there thing. The last whispers of a dying candle flame. “Miss...so warm. I...home...want to...go...home.”
The blood loss has made him delirious, Cipher thinks. She can see the night sky, the stars twinkling in the true sky—a slap in the face compared to the dying starlight in her embrace.
She sees Hyacine at the entrance, just a little—
“...Cifera...thank...you...”
—her shoulder meets the ground in a harsh fall, and she cushions Phainon’s head with her hands as she skids across the soil. Never before in her life had she tripped while running.
Her heart thunders inside her chest. There’s tears welling up in her eyes. The pain in her shoulder is a dull, quiet sting compared to the stutters of her heart. Hyacine is at their side, already working on healing whatever little she can, though from the way Cipher’s face and Phainon’s hair get wet from the fresh, falling rain, Cipher knows it’s too late.
Phainon’s eyes are unseeing as she brushes his wet bangs back.
His breathing is slowing down.
“D...ark...”
Hyacine starts sobbing louder as she pours more strength into her healing.
It’s futile, and they both know it.
Cipher repositions them, she places Phainon’s head gingerly onto her lap ‒ just as Aglaea had once done with her, a long, long time ago ‒ white entwined with gold spills onto the soil, Phainon’s long hair a tangled mess. She cards a trembling hand through the strands, smooths them out, just as she remembers being done for her.
Like this, she might just be able to pretend they’re soaking up the sun, taming his unruly hair as he talks about the latest antique he appraised.
She can’t bring the lie to life.
As much as she desires to, she cannot Trick the World as it dims in her hold.
“Hyacine,” she says, instead, “Bring forth a dawn. The brightest, warmest one you can muster up.”
The Sky Titan halts, before she wipes away her tears and opens hundreds of eyes in the sky. Sunlight burns through the veil of the night, lighting up that small patch of soil.
Phainon’s vision has long failed him, but the warmth of the bright sky has his unseeing pupils trembling. “Ah, d...awn?”
Cipher bites her lip. Ichor drips down from her lip as she pets his head. “Yeah, aren’t you glad, Deliverer boy? The dawn has risen just for you. We’ll take a little break here, soak up some sunlight, and then we’ll go to your home. Sounds like a plan?”
The borders of the dawn tremble.
Hyacine’s voice breaks as she speaks, “Lord Phainon, once...once we’re home, Lady Aglaea will make you a beautiful outfit again, and professor Anaxa will most likely scoff in that fond tone he only uses for you. Grayie and little Ica will most likely sneak you some snacks during recovery, with Dannie reluctantly helping the twins...and...and,” she takes a shuddering breath, “Me, Cassie, Cyrie and Marchie would love to travel around and share gossip with you again. Lady Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon will tell you stories of old while you...recover. You’ll heal, and grow...a little older...and then, then Lady Cerydra and Lady Hysilens will teach you swordplay...and you’ll get to spar with Lord Mydei again.”
“...ya...cine...”
“Doesn’t...doesn’t that...” Hyacine sobs, grabbing onto Phainon’s frail hand, feeling his warmth slip away from skin. “Doesn’t that...sound nice, Lord Phainon?”
“Y...es...”
“Del—no, Phainon...are you...glad we found you?”
(Will you forgive us for being too late?)
“I...s...wa...rm,” Phainon says, his voice quiet, “so...w...arm...thank...y...ou...”
“Are you tired?” Cipher asks, her voice barely above a whisper. She doesn’t trust herself to be louder. “You can...take a nap, if you want. Someone, someone will guide you, so...you don’t need to be afraid.”
“See...see you tomorrow, Phainon,” Hyacine whispers.
“S...to...row...” Phainon breathes out. His heart stutters, once, twice, and then—
“...”
—Stops.
Darkness engulfs them once more as dawn falls, without ever having met Phainon’s gaze.
“Miss, where...where am I?”
Castorice’s heart aches as she stares at the pitiful state the child is in before her. She raises a hand to her chest, hoping to hide the tremble in her fingers. “You are in the nether realm.”
Kephale, no, Phainon blinks at her. “The...nether realm?”
There’s a clear, starry sky above them, and there’s flowers that stretch as far and wide as he can see. It’s beautiful. It’s peaceful. It’s so, so, so warm compared to that empty, empty room.
“Hah,” Phainon huffs out a breath of relief. “Are you...Thanatos, miss?”
Castorice clenches her hands. “...Yes, I am the Hand of Shadow, Thanatos. Will you...let me guide you, to the afterlife?”
“I...” Phainon blinks. “I’m allowed...into the afterlife?”
Castorice’s heart breaks. She sucks in a deep breath, overwhelmed by hollow helplessness. “Yes,” she says, “yes, yes, a thousand times yes, you are...you are deserving of an afterlife and much, much more.”
You deserved a kinder life, she wants to say, but doesn’t.
She gently sinks to her knees, and holds out a hand. “Will you...come with me? There’s someone waiting for you.”
She waits, patient and quiet.
She’ll wait for an eternity and beyond that if that’s what Phainon needs.
Phainon stares at her outstretched hand, and then, slowly, tentatively places his own hand in hers.
This is the second time Castorice has ever gotten to touch Phainon. The first time had been ten years ago, when she was allowed to cradle him in his arms as a babe. His hand is so, so small compared to hers. A jarring thought, compared to the millions of memories she has of him always being much taller and bigger than her.
The silence stretches on and neither moves. Castorice will not shatter this peace, and Phainon needs time to process this kindness.
There’s a glimmer that flashes through Phainon’s eyes, his hand twitches in her hold, and Castorice fears for a moment that they’ll lose him for good to the gods beyond—
“Cas...torice?”
The nether realm stills. Her butterflies and the flowers have stopped swaying as she wordlessly stares at the flicker of recognition in Phainon’s dull eyes. He’s confused. He doesn’t understand why he knows what he shouldn’t be able to, but it’s enough for her. It’s enough. It’s enough for Castorice to know that her first friend in millions of lifetimes still remembers her, however little and fractured that memory may be.
“Yes,” she says, her smile as brittle as glass and as small as the child in front of her, “I am also known as Castorice, a...friend.”
Your friend, she wants to say, but won’t.
“Are...” Phainon stares at her. At the endless field of flowers behind her and the shattered moon in the sky. “Are you...lonely?”
(Like me?)
Castorice blinks away the warmth behind her eyes. “I...only sometimes,” she says, “I am...not yet used to...getting to touch people freely.”
“Do you...want a hug?” Phainon asks. “I think...someone once...told me that...hugs make everything...feel better, but I...can’t recall...who told me. Is that...strange?”
“No, it’s not strange at all,” Castorice says, “I...I would like to hug you, Lo—Phainon.”
Phainon stretches out his arms. It’s a shaky movement, like he’s uncertain of whether he’s doing it right. It lacks his past confidence and effortless charm. Yet it’s still Phainon. Despite everything, it’s still her Phainon. Their Phainon.
Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.
He holds her so gently in his arms, and Castorice mourns the lifetimes she, no, they missed out on.
Castorice holds him like he’s not real and simultaneously the most precious thing she’s ever held in her arms.
It’s awkward and stiff.
But it warms his chest and has him sag in relief. It’s warm. It’s perfect.
It’s just as he’s always imagined. Castorice is a gentle, gentle warmth ‒ nothing like the harsh cold she claims to be.
He blinks, and the thought slips through his hands like sand.
She keeps holding him in her arms, carrying him as they cross the endless field of flowers.
They pause to stare at butterflies. They greet passing souls crossing the River. Castorice adjusts her hold on him to keep him comfortable. It’s a peaceful journey. If they weren’t in the nether realm, this walk could’ve been draped with boring, gentle normalcy.
“Who...” Phainon starts, “Who is...waiting for me?”
Castorice’s heart trembles. “Two people, who have loved you for a very, very long time ‒ and still do.”
“Love...me?”
Phainon says it with so much confusion and doubt, and Castorice wishes it was possible to spend millions upon millions of lifetimes catching up on the love that Phainon never allowed himself to have.
Castorice stops walking, and Phainon follows her gaze to the two souls waiting at a distance.
“This is as far as I can guide you,” she says, a gentle smile on her face. “They will guide you afterwards.”
Phainon stares at the two figures. It’s a man with sky-blue eyes and a woman with snow-white hair. They’re familiar. So, so, so familiar, and Phainon feels like crying when he looks at them.
They look terrible.
Their see-through bodies are brutalized beyond repair, yet Phainon can still recognize them.
He looks terrible as well.
Emaciated and body marred with wrongly healed scars, yet he can see the tears and relief in their eyes upon seeing him.
Phainon glances at Castorice as she places him back onto the ground. His feet touch the nether realm’s soil, his ankles steady despite the cut tendons he should have.
“When you go to them, please do not look back,” she tells him. “I...I wish you three luck on your journey.”
Phainon shifts on his feet. “...Castorice...thank you.”
A tear trails down her cheek as she watches Phainon run to his parents.
He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t need to.
His long, tangled and unkempt hair grows shorter, and the scars on his body fade away as he laughs and laughs and laughs. His parents tightly embrace him when he jumps into their arms, their own wounds gone as well. It’s so, so warm and he’s the happiest he’s ever been. He cries in their arms as they walk off to the River of Souls, carrying him away from a long, bad dream.
“I’m home,” he says.
“Welcome back,” his parents say.
“Lord Phainon...didn’t make it.”
“He has peacefully crossed the River. Hieronymus and Audata finally have as well.”
Never again, the Time Titan had declared, and thus, Aedes Elysiae faded away from written history and became only known in name and song. Not even Oronyx’ fellow Titans were spared banishment. Only the Nameless Deliverer, the brave souls who had ushered in Era Nova and left for the stars, would be allowed entry when they returned to Amphoreus.
(Though Oronyx’ Arcadia is inaccessible to outside souls, such fact does not bar mortal greed from attempting to find their way into that paradise.)
“Eh? That’s how the story ends?”
Cyrene hums, softly brushing back white strands to stare at clear blue eyes. There’s a pout on his lips, and she pinches his cheek, giggling softly when he swats indignantly at her offending hand.
“Yes,” she says, “This story didn’t have a happy ending.”
“That’s unfair. Why couldn’t everyone have been happy? Why did the Titans have to say goodbye to their friend?” The child’s head rests atop her lap, and his expression grows somber. “I don’t like this story. It sucks. I like the Deliverer’s Flame-Chase Journey more. That one has a happy ending! We get Era Nova and the Titans beat the bad guys and get to stay together!”
Cyrene’s breath hitches for a moment.
Rather than respond, she pets his head gently. Softly, kindly, as she wished he had been treated a long time (millions of lifetimes) ago.
He lets her. He’s known her long enough to know she needs these moments when she makes such an expression. One day, he thinks—hopes—she’ll tell him about that unspoken grief she carries, and why it’s him that’s hurting her.
“But is it true?”
“Hm?”
“That there’s a god sleeping inside the fairies’ Maze?”
Cyrene stills. She turns her head toward the sky, and wonders, if that golden gaze is still watching, waiting. Who is it THEY’RE looking at, she wonders, the child in her lap, or the slumbering shell tucked away?
She hopes it’s neither.
(She knows it’s both.)
“...Yes,” she says, defeated, “There is.”
“Really?” The child in her lap jumps up. There’s sparkles in his eyes and he’s wearing the biggest smile. “How come I never found them? I’m sure I’ve already explored every nook and cranny inside the Membrance Maze!”
Cyrene takes a steadying breath, before she pinches his cheeks and pulls, ignoring his protests. “That’s because you’re not supposed to disturb someone when they’re sleeping!”
“Uwah!”
Gentler, she cradles his face in her hands. He leans into her touch and she feels her heart break again. “One day,” she says, “One day you’ll meet that god.”
“You’ll take me there?”
Cyrene nods.
“Promise?”
“Promise,” she says. “I, Cyrene, promise Phainon of Aedes Elysiae, that he’ll one day meet the god slumbering in Oronyx’ Arcadia.”
“No takebacks!”
“Of course,” she smiles, “but not today. Let’s wait until you’re a little more grown up, shall we?”
Phainon pouts, crossing his arms, but eventually agrees.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Not yet.
Please, please...
Grow up within this cradle, Cyrene thinks, just for a little while longer. Just a little longer.