Chapter Text
It started off with a petty chance.
There wasn’t any prince or princess, no wizards, dragons, or magical swords– but there was a sickle. It was a small one, the kind only used for children seeking to help their parents, but it was Khaslana’s.
That was enough.
The sword was his best friend– not in the way that Cyrene was. Of course, Cyrene was a good friend of his, but the sickle was just different. The sickle was the kind of friend that you would close your eyes with and be transported into a mystical land, far from the wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae.
In this land, his sickle would be a sword resting by his waist. He would be on the road, stopping to smell the grass in the air before running into a group of bandits. They would ask for his money, he would refuse, they would say they had knives, and Khaslana would pull out a bigger one. Then he’d beat up all the bad guys, not enough to kill them but enough to have them scurrying home. He would have saved 3 months or maybe even an eternity worth of travelers that day.
He would be a hero.
And heroes don’t tend to leave their swords behind, especially not by accident.
But Khaslana did.
Maybe it was the buzzing in his ear, maybe his mother’s voice was a little too loud, maybe he was just hungrier that night– whatever the case, he ran home, leaving his sickle in the dust.
He didn’t mean to, of course, he never meant to, and so he concluded he had to fix it. With more courage than his hands could muster, he snuck out of his home through a window after dinner. He felt the breeze tickle his skin, and the youth contemplated falling back into the comfort of his blanket. He could just come back tomorrow, and it would still be there.
The soles of his feet touched the ground.
He could not, no, heroes never back down, and Khaslana would be a hero. He’d just walk a little bit, find the sickle, and return back home. A small, unassuming journey, but it was a journey regardless. Lightning hit his legs, and he ran, dirt kicking off behind him.
Everyone starts small, he reminds himself, everyone does.
It’s hard to see in the dark, nearly impossible, and Khaslana thinks he would die if he had not been here a thousand times before. He knows this place like the back of his hand, for that hand had felt every thistle, every current, every pebble and grain in Aedes Elysiae.
His foot hits something and he winces, but does not scream. Instinctively, he bends down and feels the shape of the object. He feels the curve, the handle, but he doesn’t go to feel the tip because he already knows. Ah, there it is, his best friend.
Khaslana smiles proudly at the stars above him and waits for their praise. The stars only twinkle at him; they flicker a little too brightly, yet he doesn’t mind. It was a familiar sight to him, and it looked like home.
He wonders if the gods are looking at him right now.
Khaslana smells the smoke first.
Fire. Burning red and orange and getting brighter with every life it took. Windows broken, crying, screaming as blood spills over the path he had walked home to earlier. Swords, real swords, run through fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and all who try to escape. Their hopes are shattered under the tip of the blade.
The world burns before him.
The boy watches, the boy runs into the chaos with nothing but a sickle, the boy fails to do anything. Fails to save anyone.
The boy is no hero.
That night, Khaslana cries his throat raw for a savior.
The stars do not respond.
He’s taken into a temple.
Khaslana doesn’t remember what happened or how he got here, just remembers the earth on his feet as he walked aimlessly into the horizon. The sickle on his waist weighs him down, and he contemplates falling to the ground with it.
Khaslana would not allow it.
Not until he stares up into the statue of Kephale at the god’s temple. The air smells of dawn as the boy, aged 10, looks at the Sunbearer.
He curses at him.
“They deserved to be saved too!” Khaslana screams with whatever strength he has left, only to realize there is none. In its place is hate, a burning hate that sears through his skin and burns his eyes. The kind that was brought to Aedes Elysiae that night.
“My father, my mother, Cyrene–”
The kind that Khaslana inherited from the flames that burnt his world to ashes. It aches throughout his entire body, too strong for him to handle. He drops to his knees.
“If you are so great, then why didn’t you save them!?”
The sky is silent, bothered, unfazed.
The priests find the youth there later, collapsed at the steps, still spewing malice from his lips.
It’s a sanctuary of sorts, Khaslana learns. Secluded from the world and covered in the hope of the trees, it’s a place of quiet worship and rest for devotees and wandering souls.
Dressed in clothes too clean to wear and shoes too new to walk in, Khaslana leaves his sickle in a chest. The chest is in a small room that lies in the west wing of the temple.
It’s there where an older priest meets him, wrinkles soak his skin, and they spell out false pity.
“The neighboring nation,” He speaks slowly, not in a careful sense but rather because he knows that he can take his time.
“Their armies have been pardoned by the royal family; they do not want to risk war.”
“My family.” It leaves his mouth like a dying prayer. All his unsaid words hang thick in the air.
“They are gone, child.” The priest says, eyes cold and looking past him. “But the people will live. You will, too.”
“From this day forth, as a devotee to Kephale, you will live a new life. You shall be named Phainon.”
His protests die as the door shuts, closed.
That night, there is a celebration, a bonfire where priests and nearby townsfolk sing praises for the newfound peace that has settled over the land. Amongst their cheers, not a single one mourns for his hometown– only cheering for the survival of theirs.
Khaslana– now Phainon refuses to look up at the stars. He tucks himself under the warmth of his blanket and shuts his eyes close, pillow over his head. The hate festering in his body will flow out if he doesn’t.
The people of Aedes Elysiae died a meaningless death.
Curse you, Kephale.
They will not be avenged or remembered.
Curse you, those who sit on the throne.
Is your seat so high that you fail to see the blood pooling down below?
And he will live the rest of his life being unable to let it go. How could he when the smell of smoke lingers beneath his nose in wait?
Cinders cover the night air, and he suffocates quietly.
Phainon spends the next years stewing in that hate. No one turns their heads, no one says a thing.
It never went away, no. He just got better at hiding it.
It still seeped out quietly when he breathed a bit too loudly during prayers or when that subtle hesitation strangled his throat as he sang praises.
Sometimes, he feels the need to throw up. He doesn’t; he learned how to stop doing it after the first 4 months, but the bile always reaches the same place– to where his remaining cries lie untouched.
He wonders if they’ll ever get out.
Embers rest at the bottom of his stomach. The hymns to the gods sink down into his gut; they do not soothe the flames. The fire continues to burn.
The royal family is coming to the temple; it was for a pilgrimage of sorts.
Loud whispers flood the forum; Phainon does not react to the announcement. Instead, he smiles along with the crowd before they disperse and go back to whatever they’re doing. Phainon, luckily, doesn’t need to do much.
He’s still a child– they had reasoned, he should have some time to himself. There wasn’t much he could do, though, not when he was the only kid there.
So Phainon heads back to his room and lifts open the chest’s lid. The sickle lies there, untouched.
His fingers twitch; they ask to deliver justice. The voice that tells him so sounds so much like his mother, but he can’t tell anymore. He’s forgotten what home sounded like. He can only recall the cackle of the embers and nothing else.
Phainon is 13 when he sees her for the first time. He had stood by a pillar, sickle in hand, watching the coming and going of travelers on the road.
The king strides forward, paying respect to the statue of Kephale at the temple’s entrance. His wife, the queen, follows behind him with grace. The woman signals to someone still inside their carriage, covered in gold and carvings. It’s much grander than the several ones that follow behind them.
From there, a girl– his age or at least a year younger, gets out, clumsily slipping a step on the way. She lets out a little squeak before grabbing onto the railing, pulling herself back up to stare timidly at Kephale, clearly hesitant to step forward. Regardless of her feelings, her mother ushers her on, and she bows alongside her parents.
It’s the princess.
You.
Your name is [Name], the only one that he knows from the three, albeit not voluntarily. The high priest just mentioned it once or twice in passing, but that shouldn’t matter.
The rulers get down on their knees in joined, whispered prayers, and the grip on his sickle tightens when he remembers what he’s here for.
But then you smile.
The princess, you, smile at him, having spotted him from your place on the ground. It’s a clumsy smile, the kind you’d give when you were caught doing something you shouldn’t. You wave your hand.
Phainon doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he starts waving back.
The queen, swiftly taking notice, slaps your hand away and chastises you, and you go back to praying.
The sickle clatters on the floor.
His fingers tremble. They don’t call for blood this time, they don’t call out for anything in fact.
They are just afraid.
If he killed your parents, as much as he hated them, then he would be no better than the ones who had killed his own, for you were a child like him too.
No child deserves to live through flame.
But he did.
You will not.
Phainon resorts to spending the rest of the day at the edge of the springs that surround the main path. The king, he notes, must only be spending a few hours here at most before moving on if he seeks to visit all the temples across the land so the boy will just wait for him to pass.
Unfortunately, Kephale is not kind.
You, out of all people, are treading the path near the water. You stare at the environment with starry-eyed wonder before bending down to pick up a flower.
He watches you from afar, cursing you in his mind. If it weren’t for you, then he would have no problem running his blade through the king’s neck.
If it weren’t for you, then he wouldn’t be here anymore.
He swallows a sigh and leans against the marble steps. He supposes there is no point in complaining anymore. He should let you be if he is wise.
He does not.
He hears a large splash, and Phainon snaps out of his thoughts to see you flailing in the water.
Quickly, he scans the surroundings for help, but the both of you are completely alone. All the priests must have gone to the main chamber with the king.
If he left you here, then you would die.
If he left you here, then it would look like an accident.
If he left you here, then–
Phainon doesn’t finish that thought. Instead, he dives straight into the water. He’s fast, the way his father taught him to be. He doesn’t know why he’s going after you, he just feels as if he should.
He reaches out for your hand. The kind one that waved at him earlier that morning.
Your pained eyes look up at him with hope.
In the midst of the freezing water, he feels your warmth.
His grip on you tightens, and he pulls the both of you to the surface of the water. Your bare hands touch the ground, coughing desperately as Phainon pants beside you, adrenaline still running in his veins.
“Your highness,” Phainon asks, surprised by his own words. “Are you alright?”
“I am. Thank you,” You breathe out. “Thank you–”
“Phainon.” He says. “Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”
“Aedes Elysiae,” You test the name on your tongue, speaking of it as if it’s the first time. A twinge of regret creeps up the back of his spine, and Phainon cringes, ready to back away.
“That’s the village out on the north frontier, no?” You speak up, a sense of terror spreading through your face. “The one that was burnt down by–”
“Yes.” The boy swallows heavily; something is stirring in his chest. His thumping heart beats in his ear in anticipation. Aedes Elysiae was a small, obscure place in the farthest parts of the kingdom. No one had mentioned its name in years.
No one but Phainon, for he had never forgotten.
And it seems that you haven’t as well.
“I’m sorry,” Your eyes lower in shame, and you bow your head. His eyes widen– it’s lower than the one you had given the statue of Kephale.
“I’m sorry we didn’t do more for you when we should have,” You apologize, your voice so mournful and genuine that it hurts him too. “We should have rebuilt the land, we should have saved whatever we could.”
“We did not, and on behalf of my– no, of all the royal family,” You tremble before him like you’re an unsightly sinner before a god.
“I’m sorry.”
Phainon watches you wordlessly as you cry for him when he lacks the strength to move. The warmth that you had given him, he realizes, is not of fire or of hate like his– not even of indifference like the gods above.
It’s of love.
Love so raw and human.
The air clears up, it’s never felt this clear in ages, and he can only stare.
Then he cries.
“Thank you, princess,” He chokes up, heart beating into his throat. “Thank you.”
Phainon, for the first time in 3 years, falls in love again. There wasn’t any grand confession, there wasn’t a rosy first encounter, there weren't any gentle touches– but there was warmth in your fingers and it birthed out love that looked like home. The kind that was clumsy, unsteady, and uncertain, but it was Phainon’s.
That was enough.