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"Even a rake would do."
The boy holds the tool in his hand, meant for scraping the earth. A gift from the benevolent Georios, Pillar of Stone — humanity shall never know the pain of carving ground with bare hands. A simple, sturdy instrument for farming, yet in his hands he knew it could be something more. He would etch verses upon the earth wielding this tool. He could protect his village with it, his first weapon, before he's worthy to taste the strength of a hero's blade.
He was so excited to try it out, making the fields of golden wheat into his makeshift battleground. A girl with pink hair and sparkling blue eyes smiled and enveloped him in a chilly embrace, not unlike a cool breeze, familiarly soothing his aching bones and smoothing his hair even as sweat dropped from the end of his brows. Her presence was always invigorating, like the serenity of azure waves rolling into the rock formations, dashing into it. She was his keeper, his sister, someone who always looked at him with an enchanting smirk on her face.
"Cyrene, look ! I can use this to fight !" The white-haired boy said, swinging his rake around clumsily — like it was a torch that could immolate his foes.
The dainty girl simply chuckled at him while she clapped her hands softly, "I'm looking, I'm looking. You're doing great █████ ! The Deliverer's humble beginnings."
"Just watch, I'll be strong enough to protect everyone here ! I can be the guardian of Aedes Elysiae, like that prince from your storybooks, the ones the fairies love so much !"
He remembered that she beamed at him in delight as he swung the rake, or whenever he picked up his wooden sword and pretended to strike at a beast (which in reality, was merely a scarecrow, overlooking the pastures from hungry birds). He remembered her fortune, the card that she read for him. Something about a Deliverer — a grand prophecy of sorts. The scrappy youth denied that fate. As they were still children, they decided to play some more with the fairies, a fun little game. They were ordinary and mundane, living out their days in bliss.
It was all just an idyllic dream.
When everything was so . . . innocent and sweet. When the weight of the world was light as a feather, and the taste of the harvest was sweet as honey brew.
When the world was bright, and the only shade was provided by a willow tree, sheltering them from the sweltering heat of noon.
On that day the tide of darkness came and swallowed their small, frontier village, he remembered a feeling that he vowed he would never feel again. Helplessness. Like a dimmed light, an opened box that brought only evil to conquer the lands. It terrified him. He thought they would be safe and sound. She said there were no bad people who would come to their village, and she is never wrong, right ? She had no reason to lie either. But she could have never expected this terrible catastrophe that wrought itself across their peaceful paradise. The monsters that became of everyone. The smoke and the twisted sword that made its way to pierce her chest — leaving a trail of golden liquid that still stung with the tang of iron. How could she ever anticipate that wraith, that apocalyptic cry, like a pale white horse and a horseman draped in void black and radiant platinum. The cards that scattered from her palm were not capable of foreseeing this doomsday. Cyrene was never a true oracle, after all, her divination limited in its scope.
The Black Tide wrought only destruction, and like the death of a star, everyone was lost to it in the blink of an eye.
When the tide scorched the earth, leaving only scars in its wake, there were a couple of things to be done.
Write an elegy for the departed.
Sing a requiem to soothe the souls of the dead.
Scatter seeds in the garden and use a shovel to bury it in the dirt.
But the boy did none of that. His arms trembled as he used the tines of the rake to bludgeon the corrupted creatures, controlled by the Tide. At least that's what he told himself as he heard their screams of pain, all cursing his name. They were his friends. His neighbors. His fellow countrymen. The people he called home, his family. Their blood spilled on the cracked soil — staining the golden meadows with a mix of brown, black, and red. The girl's ichor trickled downward and mixed with that of the common folk — her brave last stand and final breath still echoed in his mind like a haunting melody.
He was just going to be the village's little hero, the bright youth who would deliver them. He promised her, he would become stronger and grow up into a defender of mankind. Into a warrior that could. . . could. . .
" █████ . . . it hurts. . . it burns. . . AHH— Just end it !"
" Run, █████ ! Don't let them get to you, my son. "
" I'm sorry, █████. I can't . . . "
" █████. . . remember me, will you ? "
" Ah boy. . . I've seen you around before. . . █████, was it ? Please, don't worry about this. I'll be alright, you … go on ahead. "
" You . . . how could you just leave us to rot. . . this isn't a game, █████ ! "
" Don't forget me when you become a hero, █████ ! "
All of their death rattles fell short on his deaf ears. Crumbling away like a shattered clay vase, broken and ruined. How could he. . . how could he ever ? Their faces, burned away from his mind. He can't remember, he shouldn't remember.
What was his name again ?
" Become the dawn, █████. "
Ha. The dawn ? He was nothing but a fallen sun, a smoldering star burning up into nothingness.
Long time ago existed a people, hardworking farmers and fishermen in the cozy village of Aedes Elysiae. It was a land far away, yet still beholden to the light of the Sky Father's Dawn Device. Everyone treated the young boy with kindness and mirth — he was practically raised by all of those gentle folks. He played with all the kids his age, helped his grandparents' friends pick apples and store them in baskets. His mother and father always let him wander adventurously on his own while they worked tirelessly at the market stalls. It was such a tight-knit community, a tender home built by numerous hands. He loved them all dearly, for she nurtured that meadow and everything in it under the sun.
And now they were all gone, only left as epithets in his memory. He remembers them all, letting their voices lay buried in his mind. In that way, they would finally be able to rest. Even if that rest he grants them would only torment him for eternity. He had to be able to become that blazing sun, burning the world in honor of them. In tribute of his humble origins, and the rake he held that day, ruined forever with the remains of his home. A home that was now a cryptic tomb, lost to the wind without a trace of ever existing. He composed a threnody to their tragic end, as the sole survivor, the keeper of their unmarked gravestones in an empty cemetery.
He goes by Phainon now. It sounded easier to hear. Nicer to utter on his bitter tongue.
His old name only tasted of regret. It had lingered like decay, rot, and the smell of burnt wheat. It was the name of a young man who wanted to be his village's little hero. Unsuitable for the Deliverer.
In this current time, he wielded a claymore instead of a rake. The golden blood that flowed through his veins felt less like a curse, but it wasn't a blessing either. It was a symbol, sanctification of his body. A vessel that could harbor a divine gift from the Sunbearer would surely be one that could bring salvation to them all. In the end, Cyrene's fortune readings for him came true. He had the markings of a hero — even if he journeyed from the ruins of scarred lands. He recalled how it all began, a perilous odyssey as he embarked on rocky terrain and velvet skies.
Destiny lead him to wander with nothing but a cloak and makeshift wooden sword, the burden of harrowing memories still burning in his mind. He wasn't living to be the saviour of the world, but he wanted to hunt down that swordsman for the sake of retribution. For his people.
An eye for an eye, as the saying went.
So he walked and followed the Northern star.
He ventured into a distant land. Kephale's bastion, where His influence was strongest.
The Dawn Device as his guide, the Dusk as his constant reminder, of what he lost, and what he needs to do.
Until his blade pierced the chest of that monster , he would never rest.
He couldn't rest.
All he could do was continue the trek.
Letting his steps and the dromas take him all the way to Okhema. Where the prologue ends, and the first chapter of his life truly unfolded.
Lady Goldweaver had welcomed him with an open palm when he first arrived to the Holy City, binding him to the Flamechase with the threads of fate. She told him that she was weaving a tapestry with him as one of her muses. Phainon scoffed at that.
What kind of beautiful tapestry needed a scrappy orphan mutt to be depicted in it ?
Yet somehow — he trusted her from the moment they met. It was as if there was no other possible choice. Lady Aglaea was someone whom you could surrender your life to. She did not even need to ask for it.
He remembered an initial feeling of irritation at the thought of being used in a "Hero's Journey" he wanted no part in. The only thing that didn't wane in his mind was vengeance, seeking to vanquish the black-clad swordsmaster he designated as a Nemesis. He wanted to sink his teeth into him, not unlike a wolf biting an evil serpent. But the seamstress did not waver — her mercy and grace extended even to lost hounds like Phainon. Mnestia's heir took his claws, observed him with a gentle gaze, and pruned his thorns with shears. She sanded his horns down until his rage was quelled, until his wanton ire was a calmer, more manageable thing.
But hornless or not, a beast was still a beast. So there were the Three, who taught him that there were better pursuits. Knowledge, a weapon that could never wear out. They sung him lullabies and rhymes, they watered him until he was ready to bloom. A wonder-filled cultivator who showered him with abundant joy and whimsy even with their plight.
"This journey is full of countless losses," the quiet one once said.
He raised his eyebrow at this and questioned the reasoning behind their persistence on following the prophecy. Why would they walk a path that only leads to ruin and tragedy ?
"What a silly question !" The lively one giggled without a judging tone, "We have to keep moving forward anyway, Snowy ! Until we can see each other again at the end of the West Wind !"
They wrapped a knitted baby blue scarf around his neck, adorned with starry patterns. He remembered clutching at it and letting it dance, fluttering in the wind. Talking to the triplets of fate always felt like a warm blanket to hug his aching bones. They gave him the courage to walk the earth with kind steps once more.
He almost felt like it was a dream when he first shed tears in their company.
"Ah !! Snowy, what's wrong ?" Lady Tribbie fretted, assessing his figure — wondering if he was hurt.
On the contrary, he felt … free. Painless. Like he could finally live again without feeling guilt.
"Thank you Miss Tribbie, Trianne, Trinnon. I'm just … I-"
They circled him in a plush embrace. His tears started streaming like a waterfall. Was it truly okay to feel this way ?
"Are you all better now, Snowy ?"
He blinked away the droplets from his eyes. Then, for the first time in years, he gave the biggest smile he could muster from his little heart, channelling the love of the Sky Father Kephale and pouring it into his countenance.
"I'm all better, thank you Miss Trianne."
He truly was all better. It was exhilarating. It felt so good, so foreign, yet so right. This was how it was supposed to be.
The Deliverer should be as bright as the sun. So everyone would look at him and see that hero, a princely figure. A gallant knight, a dazzling champion, a fragment of divinity. Yes, this is something he could be. He could achieve this. They believed in him. He could be light, just like her, just like them, just like … him. He would be warm again.
A chill ran down his spine when he was first acquainted with Lady Castorice. She came from Aidonia, a city that worshipped death. Phainon greeted her gently, extending his hand despite the cryo emanating from her. She did not meet his eyes and took four steps back, clutching onto her cloak for comfort.
Like a timid chimera … he thought.
The Deliverer decided to bow to her instead to show his respect, and she responded to that with a graceful curtsy. He introduced himself and she does the same as well. It was easy to talk to her, and despite their physical distance, she was quite receptive to his questions and silly attempts at deeper conversation. All of his jokes were landing right with her. Well . . . there were some misses, but she still looked amused and laughed at them to be courteous. She was such a kind person. Someone that he immediately took to be a friend.
It was only after they gathered to a summons by Aglaea that Phainon learns of Castorice's curse. She was only keeping a distance so that she wouldn't send him to an early grave. However, that never deterred him. It sounded like Castorice was not used to companionship . . . but it was just so easy to bond with her. Everytime they conversed, there was an air of someone who knew of pain and loss, but still stood strong anyway. Something he could relate to.
He wanted to carry her sorrow with him. Making her laugh and enjoy her time in Okhema became his favourite pasttimes. Being friends and hanging out with Castorice became one of his greatest joys in life. He learned of her hobbies and talents for writing, making plushies, and crafting ornaments. She was skilled in mathematics as well, earning golden stars from Tribbie with ease.
Little by little, it felt like he was letting her know the warmth of spring that Aglaea and Tribios brought to him. Phainon's heart grew three sizes when Castorice gave him a gift, apparently to repay him for the trinket he gave her when they were first getting to know each other. It was a wooly gray chimera plushie.
He got a little teary eyed at the gift he received, holding it carefully and cupping it in his hand. He was thanking her and almost started hopping around. Almost. He was a grown man so he didn't do that, obviously, but well… his giddy reaction was still pretty embarassing. He was squishing the plush and gave the lil guy a name right away, tucking it into bed after going into his room in Marmoreal Palace.
When he asked Castorice if she remembered that time, she gazed at him fondly and chuckled like a delicate breeze.
"Of course, I'd never forget that day. You were so happy, Phainon. Like a little chimera who got extra snacks on their plate. I really appreciated it. I never thought … it would bring you such joy. I was actually nervous, I thought you might not like it."
"That's absurd, Castorice. I loved it !"
"Well, I know that now. Hehe."
"I was so happy, I think it took a while for me to sleep because I was just rolling around in my bed after receiving your present that day," he grinned.
She giggled even more, "But you usually fall asleep right after your head hits the pillow !"
"Exactly !"
She could just be carefree with him. Castorice was truly a dear friend. They could always comfort each other … understand each other's worries. Like a grounding presence that was liberating at the same time. He admired her courage — her love for creation and the way she carried herself like a precise and sharpened dagger. She could harn and efficiently threaten lives if she chose to, and indeed, sometimes Aglaea would call to her if she needed an execution to be carried out. For the most part though, she had a serene presence about her. Someone who could pull you down and bury you to the earth if she wanted, but chose to ferry you across a river and take the scenic route instead. Castorice was like a butterfly who was just starting to emerge from her cocoon, learning of the warmth of life. Something that Phainon was slowly relearning, vicariously through those who experienced life around him.
Phainon was helping a farmer move their bundles of grain when he received an admission letter from the Grove of Epiphany. It boggled him at first. Since when did he apply to go to an academy ?
Turns out it was Lady Aglaea's doing.
( "Do I really look illiterate, Lady Goldweaver ?"
She had chuckled at him.
"No, of course not, Phainon. But to be the Deliverer, you'll have to wield not only a sword, but be well-versed in the pen as well."
"I've read a myriad scrolls in the Marmoreal Palace libraries, Lady Aglaea. I … don't know if I can juggle training and devote myself completely to scholarly pursuits."
"Are you saying the flawless Hero can't handle a four year course ? I'll have to hold a raffle to give away your position to someone less fortunate then."
". . . Who said that ? Of course I'll go. I'll pack my things and I'll be heading to the Grove tomorrow. " )
He didn't really have many expectations when attending the school full of stuffy devotees of the Bough of Rift. It felt like he was being cocooned in philosophy papers and boring books. He didn't tell anyone but he was rather intimidated by Cerces' presence in the Grove. Phainon always felt like there were eyes on him at all times.
Why was he here ? He learned everytuing he needed from Tribios as his Teacher. Nothing wrong with learning more but . . . among spectacle-clad scholars ? It was like swimming in the sea with a shiver of teethless sharks. But whatever it is, since Lady Aglaea entrusted him with this task, he would perform well and expedite his education until completion. Following instructions perfectly was his forte after all. One of the many tools in his arsenal is his acute mind, his witty wisdom.
Now if only that helped with formulas and essays about dromas assigned to him by this crazy Professor. He didn't even pick to be in the Nousporists school — making the best of this situation was a real challenge, perhaps more difficult than defeating his enemies on the battlefield. Despite his (mostly) unspoken complaints, he pushes through regardless.
His only respite was the fact that Ms Hyacine and Castorice were with him. Hyacine was Professor Anaxa's understanding and enthusiastic Assistant, while Castorice was a fellow sponsored Okheman student. They definitely made the experience more fun. Well, it wasn't all boring anyway, with how eccentric the lectures were. He even started a lot of discussions. Joined Debate Competitions and reigned as a 10 time champion.
When he graduated, he actually felt like it was worth it. It wasn't combat training, but his mind was sharper. He still wouldn't call himself a scholar, but he felt more fit to call himself an aspiring leader. He could even write an autobiography ! Of his academic exploits ! He learned so much from studying the philosophy of Nousporists. It rekindled the embers that nearly burned up the firewood within him. He soaked up the knowledge like a sponge, with most of the lessons sticking close to his heart.
When he arrived back to the city he now considered 'home', he was greeted by the sight of a mythical figure come to life. A prince from the mighty city of Castrum Kremnos. A man who spoke few words. When they met, one thing led to another, and they ended up clashing for ten days and ten nights. A valorous, arduous affair it was, taking up a great amount of his strength. Yet somehow, he prevailed against the battle-hardened prince, who was more beast than man with his incredible strength. Phainon managed to steadily parry and land some blows with his slightly superior technique. They were equals in their bout, which ended with no clear victor.
The prince's name was Mydeimos. Phainon wondered why he chose to join the Flamechase journey, willingly allying himself with the city state that was his people's sworn enemy. Tales of the Kremnoan Detachment's conquest was quite well known, sung by bards as a hymn of terror. They were feared warriors — fighting and forging their own path of crimson across Amphoreus. Apparently, Okhema was their final stop. The last King of Kremnos had already been vanquished by the tip of Mydeimos' spear.
"Just call me Mydei," the man spoke to him with a gruff voice, and he kept it short. Like he had somewhere to go.
"Okay. You can call me Phainon then."
"I think I'll stick with Deliverer. Rolls off the tongue better." He said before walking away.
Did it really ? Well, Phainon didn't let it get to him. He would gradually become friends with Mydei, whether he wanted his camaraderie or not. If he could stay by his side then perhaps, he would be able to get stronger. Their rivalry would be Phainon's blacksmith, forging him into an immaculate blade.
And hey, getting to spar and know Mydei better when he walks around with that conspicuous body and confident gait ? That was a nice bonus. He could admire him for hours. It was like he was tailor-made for Phainon, to be his partner in battle. In the third quint of the Curtain-Fall Hour, he glanced at the Thief star streaking beyond the ether and pondered on his first meeting with the crown prince. Was it by design that they were to meet and become companions ? Did Cyrene foresee this too ?
After all, in the past, when he was just a child, he idolized a certain figure. A prince from the bedtime stories that she used to regale him with — a devoted guardian that would always watch over his people. That prince sometimes visited him in dreams, but now his presence seemed to be utterly engulfed by Mydei's. Mydei's golden eyes, Mydei's strawberry blond hair that faded into coral red, Mydei's sharp jawline, the crimson tattoos that glistened on his skin, his strong well-sculpted muscles that contrasted with the softness of his lips, his otherworldly husky voice that made him feel like he's ascended into a divine realm whenever he called to him. Which was pretty nice all things considered, but definitely made things a bit awkward between them sometimes. He's never going to tell Mydei about this of course. That would be too unprofessional and the man would definitely just laugh at Phainon's imagination — still he can't help but dream of him. It's almost like Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos was a spectre that kept on haunting Phainon's mind.
He was everything Phainon yearned to become. Everything Phainon wanted, coalescing into a godly being that could both protect and destroy. He could carve the world with his own blood, he could anchor a ship without lifting a finger. He was the perfect figure for Phainon to mold himself into. But even that wasn't enough, he could never be Mydei. What he could do was stand by his side and make sure that he's always within reach. It's not really like he worships Mydei, that would be blasphemous to the Titans.
That would be . . . ridiculous. Utterly laughable. It's not like Mydei consumes his every thought and mind that he reveres him so deeply and would elevate his position to equal that of the Titans. Chrysos Heirs who pluck the coreflames will only become demigods, not Titans. Phainon doesn't really put Mydeimos on a pedestal at all. He's a man just like him. An Undying man unlike him, but still, at the end of the day, he is his equal. Neither of them are better than the other, and that makes a part of him feel more worthy of his title. With Mydei as a guide then. . . he could be something. Something bigger than whatever he was at the moment. Someone special. A luminary the kids can look up to, a hero that the bards could sing about, a flawless Heir. If Mydei is the noble prince with regal bearing, then that would make Phainon his knight in shining armor.
But fantasies remain fantasies, since they already had a role assigned to them, and it was not that. They were to be the bearer of a Titan's coreflame, heralds of the Era Nova — and at the end of the journey, only one witness will be left behind. Even if he desperately wanted all of them to be with him, there is only one road to Deliverance. An unforgiving road that required sacrifices. That much was already set in stone, no matter what.
He gripped the sword tighter in his hand, wishing it could turn into a magical quill that could rewrite their future. Who cares if that's a fanciful delusion ? If his fairytale prince became a reality, then maybe—
"You're getting sloppy, Deliverer. What is going through that hollow skull of yours that's distracting you from our match ?"
It was getting heated as well. He was thinking too hard again. Phainon laughed and jumped backwards.
The prince narrowed his eyes, concerned. "Let's just call it a day, Deliverer–"
He leapt into the air and struck, forcing Mydei to block with his forearm. For a split second, his footwork was unbalanced, showing an opening.
"Does that mean you yield ?"
". . . Don't get ahead of yourself, HKS. There is no word for 'yield' in the Kremnoan language."
"That doesn't seem right." He swung again, aiming for the side that wasn't all well guarded.
Mydei parried him right on time. Typical.
"Now, I think I would know what words are in my own language's dictionary, Deliverer."
"How come it's missing so many then ? How do you Kremnoans speak proper sentences without a varied vocabulary ?"
That seemed to give rise to some anger. But Mydei never lost himself in a duel, even if Phainon could provoke him further in other situations. The prince jabbed Phainon's shoulder with his spear — but he didn't feel a thing and kept lunging, slashing away with his sword.
"You truly have no sense of etiquette, huh ?"
"And you lack a sense of humor, my dear Mydeimos."
"What would Lady Tribios think when they find out that their star pupil has been insulting other cultures ?" He tsked.
Phainon was sweating a bit now.
But he could win this, he could tell that he was overwhelming Mydei with his blows. One strike there and it would be over. This match will be another victory under his belt. If he could just find that singular moment where Mydei slipped up and close the gap between—
Ah. Whoops.
They tumbled together in a heap of tangled limbs. Phainon must have miscalculated his thrust, or Mydei pulled instead of dodged like he expected him to, but whoever's fault it was didn't matter because they were now rolling on the ground like a couple of foolish children. Laughter erupted from both of them, resounding in his ears like a musical performance or the chime of a dromas bell.
He didn't realize that Mydei was this close to him. Phainon could feel his breath fanning his face. Now there were only two directions this could go —
"I yield."
He blinked as Mydei got up, dusting off the grime from his pants in a rather aggressive manner. The (slightly) shorter man offered a hand to hoist Phainon up. He took it absent-mindedly.
"You got me fair and square, Deliverer. Well done. Guess you aren't too off your game today."
He hummed in response.
"Pretty good performance if I do say so myself. You weren't half bad yourself, Mydei."
"Please, you were doing terribly until I snapped my fingers near your ear," Mydei said, but there was a lightness to his tone, "not too shabby, but you really need to sharpen your concentration. A word of advice, Deliverer — stop bantering with your foes, and stop thinking too hard."
"I can't just fight without deliberating through my moves !"
"Contemplating too deeply is the same as being thoughtless. In the end, if you let your mind wander too far while engaged in battle . . . you'll be dead where you stand."
Phainon swallowed. "Well, I only let my mind wander when I'm with you."
"And why is that ? Do I ruin your brain whenever you're near me ? Does your heart tremble at the sight of my combat prowess ?"
From the sound of it, Mydei was joking but . . . Phainon caught a hint of red dusting his cheeks. There was also a certain glint that flickered in his eyes.
"As a matter of fact, yes, actually. I admit that you've been the only thing on my mind as of late."
The other man coughed into his hand, but he kept his voice even and spoke in a smug tone.
"No need for flattery, Deliverer. You've already gained my precious trust."
"I'm not lying, Mydeimos. In fact, I was a bit distracted earlier because I was thinking of you."
Mydei stared at him in disbelief. If he was a lesser man, he probably would've started gawking.
"Has anyone ever told you that you talk too much ?"
"You have, if I recall correctly. Honestly, I don't think you speak your mind enough, Your Highness."
"I say what needs to be said, unlike you. We only need to spare a few words, in a military campaign, the best orders are short — clear and concise with no room for elaboration to avoid misinterpretation. Deliverer, you may be an eloquent orator, but you run your mouth in a way that's unbecoming of a leader."
"Look who's yapping now . . ."
"Still you, most of the time."
"Whatever you say, Mydeimos. Honestly, I think you should get into debate. You'd do great."
"I'll leave that to you."
"Afraid of losing in a battle of wits ?"
"l simply prefer other activities. Ones that do not need any sort of talking involved. Like cooking."
"And posing for honeycake sponsorships too, apparently."
". . . You saw that ?"
"How could I not ? You're the ambassador of the diner ! Your beautiful face was all over the place that day the advertisements dropped !"
The prince simply gave a charming grin and turned to leave. He put his spear back in its rack, but otherwise seemed in a hurry to abandon Phainon in the training grounds. He pays it no mind though. That's just how princes are like … even if the white haired heir's only frame of reference was Mydeimos. He went home that day without thinking much of it, but still, that man occupied his waking thoughts relentlessly, like an antique vase that was still in use after centuries of safekeeping flowers. An art display that left such a deep impression on him that he could never forget it, even in another lifetime.
In the corner of the eye, Phainon sees a blur of a shadow sometimes. It reminded him of Cyrene, oddly enough. A legendary thief as quick as the fleeting wind, the elusive Chrysos Heir known as Cifera. He's heard of her exploits from Tribios and Aglaea. They said she's departed from Okhema, only stopping by once in a while to treasure a brief moment with them. But he's actually came across her in the markets. She gave him some advice, phrased like business jargon, ruffled his hair, and then she vanished like she was never there.
The demigod of Trickery became kind of a role model for him, despite their rare encounters. It was like a stroke of luck every time he caught a glimpse of her tail and a purple blob that never seemed to trail far behind the 'Kitty Phantom thief'. He felt quite fortunate to be able to get the chance to speak with her, even if it was never a long conversation.
Carrying the hopes and wishes of others, knowing their stories, it has shaped him. Creation is a prelude to all things, and like how the Throne of Worlds molded humans according to His image, Phainon felt like a mosaic of sorts — a piece crafted from all the people who he's spoken with, those who helped him and those he helped in turn, every single one of them has lingered in the crevice of his self, and there was not one he would consider 'insignificant' to the design and development of his character. Appraising antiques with Theodoros . . . talking to the Master Blacksmith Chartonus . . . and even the children of Okhema has taught him many things. It's made him understand his own heart, and the weight of the world.
He felt fulfilled. He had a purpose, and it was not to kill, but to guard the light of the people that dwell in this place. He would fight not for himself, but for peace, for a brighter future.
For them, all of them. For everything in this world. And all things that would be in the Era Nova, he would preserve it all, these ephemeral moments that would make way for a new dawn. A dawn that he would carve with his own two hands, bringing about a fire that would never burn out and engulf the world in blazing warmth.
He would Deliver them all, save them from The Black Tide. Once they retrieved all the coreflames and completed the trials, once the Flamechase Journey met its end, they could all just live in tranquil bliss without having to go through a cycle of endless violence and loss.
He would make this new world a home. A sanctuary. Just like his old one, but safer, untouchable, a haven that would never be scarred or lost to time.
It would be a garden of delight. A gilded altar, untarnished by darkness. No chinks in this armor, an impenetrable shield. A World where Dawn would reign eternal.
A starry dream.
It's possible.
It was certainly possible.
He could make it real.
Phainon could make it real.
That would be the end of the journey.
Like in the storybooks.
A happily ever after, where the prince defeats the evil dragon, and the kingdom is saved. He reunites with his loved ones and they throw a 10 day feast to celebrate his joyous victory. They all live for many prosperous years, enjoying bountiful harvests, and idyllic days of peaceful repose.
Just like in the stories she used to tell, with only one possible ending.
They all lived happily ever after.
The End.
████████ no longer slept. Whenever he closed his eyes, he was greeted with a boulder. On occasion, he was welcomed into the somnial realm with the sound of crying children. Vivid images of golden blood and crystalline figures. A goat with purple horns. Red lightning and thunder. Blue fire. Purple butterflies. Winged horses. Rockets and twinkles. A laurel wreath. Oddly shaped coins.
Waves.
Chess pieces. Ice shards. Forges.
Distant voices calling his other name, cheerfully conversing and laughing with each other about a joke that he was not privy to.
He strikes the ground with another light show.
Everything would be fine. It wasn't real after all.
It was all going according to her plan, her beautiful tale that would always put him to sleep. Except this time, there would be no prince coming to save him. There would be no hero to slay him, after all, he was the only Saviour around.
There is nobody else but him.
He is probably going to be here for a while.
A long time.
He's all alone.
But it's okay, it doesn't bother him. THEY are watching, and that's enough company for now. He only needed to wreck some more mountains to satisfy the itch, the hunger that clawed in his gut. This desolation would only be temporary, and then they would restart anew, not finding this time to their liking. He was getting bored already. It's fine though. There was a loud ringing in his ears as he watched the red and black stream forth from his fingertips to decimate the beasts in front of him.
He could deliver a satisfying ending this time, like they wanted. But he didn't want to. ████████ felt uninspired this round. Too busy thinking about those nameless faces, the ones who walked in a meadow towards the shining horizon. Towards something brighter.
Towards himself ?
There was only one option for the ending. A story he knows all too well, like the back of his hand. A tale as old as time.
A pair of golden eyes and a dream of sweet pastures. A small array of houses in the middle of a cozy village. Aedes Elysiae, it was called. Where the farmland stretched for days, and the children played games with each other. He would smile and giggle, burying his face in the crook of his lover's neck, who would pry him off as he proceeds to cook a delectable feast for twelve.
Phainon is warm again. He is happy because everyone loves him and everyone is alive and well and laughing with him and will never leave him forever and ever.
If Phainon's happy, then that means ████████ is happy too. Because they are the same.
Isn't it nice ? That the Era Nova finally came to fruition, and they all meet again at the end of the West Wind ?
It's wonderful. A beautiful, romantic story, unlike any other that came before it.
Happily ever after.
The End.