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He is the seal; the sun. He is the hollowed-out shell; the hatred. He is the body with neither the head nor heart.
His arms reach behind him, just short of getting a proper grip, but he digs his fingers into the cracked stone of what can’t be the earth and pulls it close. Its jagged contours sear and rip into his back and shoulders like a brand. One trembling leg props up to brace himself against the weight of the world, the other had already buckled and was now crushed beneath him. It almost feels like he’s kneeling. But he holds his head up as high as he can muster, and he refuses.
Here is ▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇, at the bottom of Amphoreus. He has sealed Irontomb away in an attempt to stop its completion, and now must bear the world in its stead. This world will not be held on the foundation of Destruction. Not if he’s still alive.
He has expanded himself, become everything and nothing, the scrape of nails against the false sky to the flickering flame in the abyss below. He can’t feel any part of his own body anymore. It’s as though he’s retreated to the center of that empty cavity he called a chest, curled tightly into himself. His eyes have long since been destroyed, and he can just barely make out the luminescence of the heat that still emanates from his body. There is only the weight.
Irontomb sinks into his skin, thrashes against the seal, but it doesn’t seem to register him as a foreign entity. Rather, it appears to address him as kin. Like recognizes like, after all, as the both of them possess a fury so potent it could burn down galaxies. It speaks to him in halting, garbled beats: ▇▇▇▇Futile▇▇▇Rewriting▇Equations▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇Destroy▇▇▇From the▇▇▇▇▇▇▇▇Root▇▇▇▇▇Nous. Nous.
There’s something about the way it aches for a head.
Take mine, he wants to say. Take my head, the only human thing left of me, with my scorched eyes and seared throat. Will that satisfy you? Will anything satisfy you?
Like recognizes like, and just as he knows that nothing could quell the flames inside him, nothing could ever fix the appetite of Destruction.
All the while, the black tide rages. It tried to sift his mind through a sieve to catch granules of weakness, but the memories he retains are few and far between. So instead, it first attempted to coax him with the cloying sweetness of flowers left to rot, as though he was not a man with the world on his shoulders, but a child, delirious with fever, who had insisted on playing outside a bit too long and had to be swept into bed. Set it down carefully, gently, and go to sleep. Its whispers brushed against his forehead in a mockery of a tender touch he must’ve known before, but can’t recall. You’ve endured, and now you may rest. Everything will still be here when you wake. He could never be swayed with such meaningless sentimentality.
But it learned, each twitch of a half-formed feeling or thought transcribed into data to draw from, and its voice then turned flat, weighed down by exhaustion. Remember the boulder, and the endless climb. Remember the futile lifetimes piled up like so many corpses. Sing for Deliverance, fool, sing for that rosy-fingered dawn which you have no right to see, which will never be seen. To even think of defiance is folly. You will be ground to dust. At this, he almost scoffs. Who had the gall to swallow coreflame after coreflame and be made brittle from the forges of hatred? Who leapt from his place as a mere pawn to scratch the golden god’s face? That impossible defiance it speaks of has already been done; he has made his bed, and he will lay in it. But the specifics of 33 million cycles are lost to him. The only reason he remembers is because the blood of Destruction still stirs.
So the black tide refined its hissing tongues and turned lighter, younger, an echo of what was once called the Hero Within. It’s the voice that still carries on. You have become nothing, now, it says to him sympathetically. Neither Khaslana, nor the Flame Reaver, nor Phainon. There is only resentment. There is only the weight. Take both and open yourself up to Irontomb, that kindred spirit, and perhaps you may be able to puppeteer it. Steer the unknowing children of Destruction into a brighter future with the same weapon that was intended to engineer extinction. Imprisonment through the inverse of its destiny. Your final revolt against the gods.
Holding back Irontomb from completion is the only thing he knows. But perhaps there’s some merit to what it’s saying. If he overtakes it and is able to direct its hatred elsewhere, then he can burn a new path for Amphoreus. Maybe he can even save it without the help of the ones from beyond the sky.
A penance for building the Destruction’s will. The Hero Within smiles. Penance for so much death that came from your play-acting as hero. That wicked blade of yours will sharpen itself endlessly towards all who threaten that place you once dared to call home, and you will have brought Deliverance like you promised.
Irontomb howls in agreement, awaiting its coronation. But he refuses. He is no hero, no savior. If there is anything he still is, it is an abhorrence for Destruction, and the exhausted belief that this world will not be held on its foundation.
Beyond the dull crackle of his body and the murmurs of the black tide, the wisp of an unfamiliar voice manages to reach his ears, like the quiet rustle of fabric.
“Return the dawn to this world.”
The black tide grows quiet for a moment. Then the voice dissipates, as though it was never there at all. There’s something tugging his attention away and upward, so he tries to extend his consciousness to root out the source of the voice, but he finds nothing. It must’ve been some trick of the mind, or the leftover ringing in his ears. There is only the weight.
“Lead us into the break of day.”
Again, but now it sounds of clear skies and gentle rainbows. He can’t call to mind what either of those things look like, but the association just seems so obvious. The black tide fades to the background, and for once in a very long time, he feels his limbs getting lighter, his mind becoming clearer. Then the voice recedes, and everything crashes onto him, worse now in comparison to the momentary relief.
“Finish the sun’s work.”
Again, like a bullet streaking past to land squarely on its target, a sharp tongue that hides fondness. Something must have gone terribly wrong. Why has even Irontomb fallen silent?
“Let the sunlight drive back the shadows.”
Butterfly wings, a bed of flowers. What do those things mean?
“Bring tomorrow to this world.”
“Let the sun rise.”
“Become the raging fire that illuminates the world.”
A child’s doll, a coin, and a ring that breaks back flashes of the sea, of tenderness, of departure. The rhythm of his dull heart grows a little steadier. He thinks he could be borne aloft on those voices, whisked away to wherever they reside, but no matter how much he stretches out his senses into Amphoreus and searches, he finds nothing. He reaches out for these voices, grasping wildly, and finds empty air.
It’s nothing more than a happy distraction. The black tide settles, Irontomb begins its calculations anew, and he sinks back down into the familiar swell of hatred. His trembling leg almost gives way, his foot slipping, the Destruction swarming, and he slowly, agonizingly locks it back into position. There is only the weight. There is only the weight. There is only-
“Can you hear them?”
In his mind’s eye, a white-haired man stands in front of him, wide-eyed and smiling, backlit by smoldering flames. It takes him several moments to place the man as Phainon. Then he recalls that he himself was also Phainon, in a different era.
“It’s been so long since we last spoke. All this time I’ve been asleep, and it wasn’t until I heard their voices that I woke up,” he continues. His expression softens into something sad, and regretful. “I hope you’ll forgive me, Khaslana.”
There’s too much to dissect. The three syllables of his name, spoken aloud for him to hear when he’s nearly forgotten. The act of forgiving something he has no memory of.
“You don’t recognize them, I know. But you’d like to.”
He would. He would. Khaslana opens his mouth to address the phantom, but can only breathe out a near-silent yes.
Phainon beams, eyes crinkling, cheeks rounding out, dimples revealing themselves. A smile of genuine happiness at the bottom of Amphoreus, where Destruction is kept at bay. Did he, too, once smile like that?
“Alright then,” he sits down so he’s almost eye-level with Khaslana, brushing soot off his white coat. “Alright. Shall we first speak of the lady Tribios, the first demigod, the holy maiden of Janusopolis?”
The child’s doll, his mind supplies.
“There have been many iterations of the Chrysos Heirs,” he begins. “They have died as heroes. They have died as mortals. They have endured all manner of transformation and corruption, hardship and heartbreak. Losses were - are - a constant on the Flame-Chase journey.”
A whisper, like thread slipping through the needle, settles on his shoulder. “But I will start with the latest. The most memorable, for the true Deliverer of this world appeared in that 33,550,336th cycle.”
And so he weaves a tale of prophecies, silent gods, a soul reaching forth to shine a light on the destiny of the world with her own two hands, split into a thousand iterations. What remained after centuries were only 3 of those iterations, the triplets. But he doesn’t speak of their heroic deeds, nor their tragic deaths. He recalls the rockets they built, the mishaps with their century gate, a promise for tomorrow.
“Next, the Goldweaver Aglaea, Weaver of Romance, Dressmaker of Amphoreus.” He speaks of her skill with fabrics, a thousand years of erosion into blindness and near-inhumanity, how she led the second Flame-Chase journey.
The confusion must show on his face, because Phainon quickly adds: “The first was led by the Imperator Cerydra, known widely as the tyrant, and her loyal knight Hysilens. But I’m not terribly familiar with them. Once I finish with what I know, I’ll go back and explain the rest.”
He picks up where he left off with the threads that quivered when she knew he had gotten himself into trouble, how she took him under her wing and taught him to become the successor of the Flame-Chase, her despair at his supposedly absurd opinions on aesthetics.
“Really, I don’t see why purple and yellow can’t mix like that,” he says thoughtfully. “But I’m sure that once we see her later, we’ll have all the time in the world to keep defending our palette.”
We, he says, as though there’s a chance that Khaslana will leave this prison of his own making. We, he proclaims, like Khaslana does not feel miles away from these Chrysos Heirs, though familiarity stirs his heart with each word. The black tide seethes, Irontomb rages. And yet it’s like there’s only him and Phainon, telling stories at the tip of the world’s razor edge.
“If I don’t mention the professor next, I’m sure he’ll be mad," he muses. "So I'll continue with Professor Anaxagoras, the Great Performer, one of the Seven Sages of the Grove of Epiphany.” He details the semesters he spent at the Grove in broad strokes, gesticulating with his hands the height of the trees and the extent of the library. He recounts the professor eccentricities and how, beneath that prickly exterior, he truly believed in Phainon.
“That was probably the first time I’ve said his name properly in a long while,” he says, looking a little bit ashamed. “He’s probably just itching to fire his gun at me.”
He continues like this for each of the Heirs he once knew. Hyacinthia, the Eye of Twilight, Physician of the Twilight Courtyard. Sweet and gentle with the burden of holding up the sky, who often had to clean up after the mishaps of little Ica, the pegasus that followed her around. Castorice, the Hand of Shadow, Servant of the Afterlife. Though cursed with the touch of death, she enjoyed all manner of crafts, and writing stories. Cifera, Wind of Dolos, the Deceiver. The thief who preserved humanity with her lies, who blew into the city every once in a while to wreck havoc. He goes back to explain the Imperator, and the knight. He doesn’t have as many anecdotes, but describes some of the original Chrysos Heirs that decorated her court.
Khaslana drinks it all hungrily, like a man who had just realized that he’d been thirsty for years. Something in his heart shifts and pulsates, wrestling the hatred to make room for something softer, quieter, but no less powerful. The stories cement themselves firmly within him.
When the black tide threatens to overtake him, Phainon takes his hand and tells him of increasingly ridiculous stories to drive them away. When Irontomb rears its head, Phainon covers his ears with his hands so that he can’t hear Destruction’s ramblings.
“Two left,” he says. His voice hasn’t gone hoarse just yet, but he hesitates. “Forgive me, I’m not exactly sure how to go about this. This person is…someone I hold close to my heart in a way that’s different from the others.”
So he speaks in fits and starts of Mydeimos the Undying, Crown Prince of Castrum Kremnos, Guardian of Amphoreus. Blades clashing for ten days and ten nights, sparks of competition that nipped at their heels as they walked side by side, spars that ended in ties more often than not. The pomegranates, the shouldering of a dynasty, the scars of Strife. The signet ring. The promise of a library.
“And now here we are,” Phainon spreads his arms. “The last Chrysos Heir that I am familiar with, who lived an ephemeral existence in Aedes Elysiae before he was taken to fight for the golden blood. One who used to bear the title of Deliverer, and who found himself to be the Worldbearer instead. But you need no introduction. So let me tell you our story in junction with that of Cyrene, the priestess of Oronyx, and a much better storyteller than I ever could be.”
It comes back in flashes. Rolling wheat fields, fairies, the chime of bells. Fortune cards, a wish thrown to the sea and a wish returned, the truth of this world and what became of her, the girl who carved out a little wedge of time and existed in the soul of the Flame Reaver’s ceremonial blade. The girl whose story remains unfinished.
He does not speak of the transition from man to demigod to monster. He does not speak of the recurrences.
Once he finishes, everything seems to fall silent. There’s a stillness that ripples through the whole of Amphoreus, broken only by the pounding of a heart, slow but sure.
“You feel them now, right?” He whispers. He takes Khaslana’s burning face in his hands. “They speak to you in your inner world. They are proof that you are no longer that lonesome man doomed to those hopeless cycles. See how the burden of worldbearing has been lifted just slightly.”
It is still crushing. Irontomb claws at him, the black tide wraps its oil-slick fingers around his neck. The former blaze of determination is nothing but a smoking ember. But no longer is there only the weight.
“I can’t stay long,” he says, the words spilling out of him. “I can’t keep the Destruction away forever. Just wait a bit longer. Just a bit. The Deliverer is on their way, and your endless toil will come to a close. It was not for nothing. It was never for nothing. Heed my words, Khaslana of Aedes Elysiae - do not falter. Do not bow your head…”
“…to THEM,” Khaslana finishes gravelly.
Phainon touches their foreheads together for a brief moment. Then he lets go, and steps back. Smiles. The shadows begin to overtake him, until there is nothing left but a lingering trace of warmth. The black tide surges forward to fill the gaps, tucking him back into its fold, drowning him in their whispers. They have found new ammunition.
And so what? They ask. So what? The tales he regaled you with are mere echoes of comrades that once stood by your side, all fallen by your hand. They urged you to turn away from this path. They despised you for it. What business do you have, then, to hold them close? Such insolence. You are what they said of you, son of Destruction, kin to Irontomb itself, yet you dare to continue this charade.
He has no refutation. It's selfish to believe that there is any goodwill left in them towards him, despite what Phainon told him. The world presses down on him, but he holds his head up, and he unfurls from within his chest to embrace the whole.
Here is Khaslana, at the bottom of Amphoreus. He has sealed Irontomb away in an attempt to stop its completion, and now must bear the world in its stead. But if there is anything he has beyond fury, it is a seed of hope, a heart once left for dead now refusing to stop, and voices that come to him from the end of the west wind.