[ Eternal Recurrence #185,492 is an attempt Khaslana hasn't tried before, but one he has figured would be worthy investing into.
With each cycle Phainon is born again, in the secluded village of Aedes Elysiae, where the sun is always warm, the wind is always refreshing, where the lakes and sea have fresh fish, where the wheat is favorably kissed by daylight, and the Titans do not concern themselves much with a side of Amphoreus that seems nigh untouchable.
Here, Khaslana becomes a presence in Phainon's life many years earlier. A voice that guides, a presence that looms, an existence that explains, at last, what it means to be the Deliverer. A path by no means easy, that there are times where they cannot save a single life — and yet they mustn't give up. Not now, not ever.
A path, he says, that relies on sacrifices, and oft not only their own. ]
... [ He guides Phainon's hand the first time.
A sword that weighs as it should, perfect on their hands, as it spares Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon of a meaningless, prolonged existence. Their golden blood paints a warm, melancholic picture that he knows will scar Phainon for nights to come.
The second time, Khaslana has to remind him what this is all for. That Deliverance had chosen them, that this, too, will pass. That he will not remember, if it's any solace. That Khaslana will. Castorice will be freed from her suffering.
The third, fourth, fifth time are not any easier. Phainon wavers still, and Khaslana feels for him. They will be born again, he reassures. Unharmed, unchanged, with no memories of this. It will pass.
The sixth time, Khaslana is not present. He knows well what Mydeimos means to Phainon, as his Mydeimos had, too, meant to him. It brings him no joy still, and Khaslana continues to feel for him. He knows, after all, the weight of lives on his hands, much too heavy for any person to bear. He knows how much heavier a friend's life weighs, too. ]
...
[ The skies above Castrum Kremnos are soothing, still. Khaslana knows the truth of the Dawn Device and that truly protects Okhema, but a lie is a lie, and for all of Amphoreus's true nature, the stars above still shine, day in day out. Lives that do not truly exist, but lives that do, for each of them acknowledge it so.
He waits right at the entrance of the Castrum, for however long Phainon needs to ensure their mission does not fail. He can hear in the distance the clash of steel against steel, nostalgic sounds that bring no true comfort. He waits, however long. A day, or two. A week, or three. Time, in part, nonexistent as Cyrene had made it, they have in abundance.
... ] It is done? [ Only at the very end of it does Khaslana ask, when footsteps are the only noise that can be heard late at night. He needs not look at Phainon yet to know he has emerged victorious, and decides instead to give him the comfort of privacy first. ]
[ Phainon truly cannot tell if he is living a nightmare, or fulfilling a prophecy and a legacy that was born to him, offered to him at the hands of Khaslana, the future of his world a blazing, too hot flame that stands before them both, ricocheting the emotions in his mind and leaving him unable to do anything. The urge to become numb has stalked him for days, now, weeks, even years, the desire to turn off the feelings in his heart as he feels his blade pierce and cut and damn.
Growing with the other man's whispers and explanations near him, he had truly believed he was doing the right thing. It had all made sense, even if he had a thousand questions and a nervous wish that it wasn't so, that being the 'Deliverer' did not come hand in hand with so much death and so much loss. People that had been supporting Okhema and the people for so many years at risk from his hand, and the future needing it to happen. Sacrifice, for the future of their world; sacrifice, because he is the one to carry the burden of it, that he is the one who will deliver a better future, to bring to fruition wish and prophecy both.
Does it make it easier, better, a lighter weight? Of course not.
There is blood on his hands, on his very soul, marring him like a scar, a wound that will never heal. One by one, they fall, the grief he feels an unshakeable weight as he carries out his purpose. Is he a man, or is he a weapon forged in the hands of Khaslana, delivering unto the world a hellscape of which there is no freedom? Or is he truly a saviour, freeing those he had come to care for and cherish from the weight of years of suffering and a destiny darker than anything he can imagine?
His hand is guided, his future is written, and they share within one another the same guilt. It must be worse for Khaslana, Phainon thinks, in those quiet moments where he is alone and drowning in his own thoughts, his pained guilt, the hurt and ache that makes him feel as though he is ready to fall to pieces. How is he to survive this? How is he to come out the other side whole and put together, rather than a shattered creature with no hope or joy left in his heart?
They will be born again, he says. It will pass.
When? When?
The fight in Castrum Kremnos feels as though it might kill him, and a part of him does with that it had, as undying as he knows they all are. Mydeimos is a fierce and deadly opponent, and this feels better than some of the others - where the fight had been minimal, despite their strength, where their trust and faith in another heir had made them vulnerable. Phainon isn't sure how long the two of them trade blows, how much of a beating he takes because he feels as if he deserves it, but he has an upper hand that Mydeimos cannot predict: he knows his true weakness.
More blood on his hands. Gold, staining his face, his clothes, his blade. The quiet desire to find his own peace is gone, now, leaving his body with his happiness, even as he keeps himself determined and focused. This is for their future, and he believes, he has to believe in Khaslana, because if he doesn't then what has he done all this for? What has all the death and loss meant, if the future is not as he has said, if it is not as he has guided Phainon to know?
Is it done, he asks, and Phainon's voice breaks around his words as he speaks. ]
You already know the answer to that.
[ Tired, worn, he breathes out, rubbing his hand over his face and fighting back the urge to cry, to collapse to his knees and scream. ]
[ It has to be worse for Khaslana. This is a position he has chosen for himself, a mantle that shapes his body and reminds him of the world's weight on his very being. It is crushing, like the waves of Styxia that make even the sturdiest bolder crush if pressured enough. It is him versus time, or the absence of it. If Cyrene has gotten rid of its existence, if these cycles are meaningless repeats that form a cage of which he cannot free himself from, then Khaslana lives in his own endless nightmare — of bloodshed, betrayal, nihilism. A bleeding-red dream, fueled by wrath.
Phainon returns, wearing gold like he has once before, too. It, he realizes, does not look good on him. It contrasts the sun on his neck. It stands out against sky-blue eyes. It's an unfortunate reminder.
An answer does not quite leave his mouth yet. It needs not, for time they have plenty. The weight of silence is crushing but kind both, and he can only wonder whether the sound of his own voice is something they will grow to loathe, alongside themselves. Alongside the fate that awaits them.
So speak, Khaslana does not.
Words need not be said between them. He understands Phainon's anguish. He understands his sadness, his anger. He understands each of his feelings like a glove that fits well in his hand, one he wears still, to this day. He understands Phainon. ]
... [ It is not helpful and, worse yet, he thinks it would only make Phainon feel worse. Would he, had he someone in his place, all the times Dawnmaker drank the golden blood of his friends? Does it stop him, from reaching out a gentle hand, from wiping that same golden blood off Phainon's face, blood that does not belong on either of their hands, that they should never be bathed in?
It does not, for Khaslana understands how heavy the burden he carries is. He understands solitude, wears it alongside that duty of his. He does not know intimacy like this; does not know comfort, little has he experienced it. But Phainon, this Phainon, must he suffer the same pain that Khaslana has chosen to carry? Had this been a wise decision? Will he try it again, next cycle?
They will be born again, he said. It will pass, he reassures himself, too. ]
Deliverance is never easy. [ For it is as Cyrene had once said, too: May the world never have the need for a Deliverer again. Yet he is soft in his words, uncharacteristically so. The rage Phainon feels is rightful, but they must not be consumed by it. ] But only we can carry this pain. Or would you wish it upon your friends?
[ It is cruel, surely, the way that Khaslana treats him in these moments.
There's tenderness disguising his cruelties, the truth of what he is forcing Phainon to do - but is it forcing? He follows the directions and orders willingly enough, accepts the mantle of what is happening to their world and what needs to be done, believing that he is doing this for the right reasons. If he doesn't believe in that as strongly as he does, then what would be the point of it all? Would the blood on his hands be better or worse if he knew how true those promises were? That the future he wants is possible?
He doesn't know the answers. He doesn't know enough, blindly believing in what he's been told and clinging to his desperation, his need to make the world better. If he has to carry the mantle of death and bloodshed, isn't it better for it to come from him than have to share it with others, who might fold under the weight? Isn't it better that he handles it, takes it, that the two of them share it with each other so that others can find happiness? His own joy is an easy enough sacrifice to make.
It doesn't make it easier, not at the moment. In hindsight, perhaps...
The urge to punch the wall, the ground, anything - it overwhelms him, and he almost lashes out at Khaslana himself, almost bites at the hand that feeds, rips bone from flesh, anything to quell all the hurt inside of him. Shivering with his grief, he shakes his head, gazing up at his mirror, gritting his teeth. The touch to his face makes the tears come again, and he has to take a few steadying breaths to calm himself down, to anchor himself and stop himself from breaking.
He has to do this. He must. For the future. ]
No. I wouldn't wish this on anyone else.
[ His friends. His home, his people, his loved ones...
Cracking a little, eyes stinging, he falters, leaning into the touch, desperate: he needs something, anything to ease the way that it feels as if his very soul is breaking. ]
It - it must be done. I know that. It doesn't make it better, does it?
[ Old memories return to him, memories buried, memories of thousands upon thousands of cycles ago, memories that linger, still. Once, he had reached out for Phainon much the same way, spoken to him of their future, of their shared duty, of what must be done. Phainon, in turn, asked him:
Why didn't you shed even a single tear?
Phainon does, for him. Phainon does, warm tears onto his fingers that do not evaporate upon fall. Phainon feels, Phainon suffers, Phainon folds, too, under the weight of Deliverance. For the secrets that he keeps, the unspoken feelings and the ambition to carry on as the lone survivor of Aedes Elysiae, he wears his heart on his sleeves, so transparent of his feelings that it is cruel, to urge him forward. To forge Dawnmaker onto the hands of a boy who had longed for days of peace and the warmth of sun-bathed wheat fields.
Phainon feels, suffers, folds; and Khaslana does not, 185,492 cycles and 2,225,892 Coreflames later, he still feels — reassured, perhaps. As though Phainon feels, suffers and folds for the weight both of them carry, together. ]
No. [ The word weighs heavier with truth laced around it. It is the cost of Deliverance, the fate imbued into their coding. That the string of deaths and pain and suffering will lead onto hatred, and that, too, will become fuel to a fire that will turn Amphoreus into ashes.
There would, then, be no tomorrow. No dawn, no lies to uphold, no wishes to grant.
Through calloused fingers does Khaslana rid Phainon's face of tears that do not belong. It does no show in his face, the melancholy of a duty shared, yet the lament is all the same. Bitter, uncomfortable. There is a reason why they have always shouldered such burdens alone. ]
It is our unavoidable fate. Had you been in my place, [ and this, Khaslana does not specify. Phainon does not know what led him down this path of solitude, and he does not know the sacrifices that had been made. What the endless cycles mean, and who gave her life for them. ] You would have chosen this as well.
[ Words to reassure himself. Phainon has acted strayed the course before, in cycles past. It had alienated him, made Khaslana question. He takes Dawnmaker from Phainon's hand, and it weighs the same, still. A comforting thought. ]
Do you regret it?
[ Leaving Aedes Elysiae. Becoming a soldier in Okhema. Siding with Khaslana. An ambiguous question. ]
He doesn't understand how you can push things aside, how you can overcome the weight of the hurt and grief, and how you can push through it and keep going. Even as he keeps telling himself, over and over and over, that this is the right course of action, even if this is what they have to do, living with the burden is killing him. Phainon doesn't know if he's going to be able to come out of this the other side with any part of himself intact.
Phainon cries, he weeps, he breaks, because he has no other option. It stings, it makes his heart lurch, it makes him want to tear his skin off, it makes him want to crumble, but he cannot. He just can't. This is the world that he loves and the one he wants to save, above all else, and if he has to carry the weight of it all, then he will do what he must.
The craving for something to make is all fade and disappear overcomes him, but he shoves it aside. He can't rely on anyone but himself, can he?
Can he rely on Khaslana, who had placed this burden on him so easily?
Was it easy?
Looking up, he leans into the touch, swallowing the lump in his throat, the way his tongue feels dry. It's hard to speak, but he has to. He can't falter here, now, can he? ]
No. I can't regret the choices I made. I have to keep looking forward, to the future that this world deserves. To the... The path that is...
[ He crumbles a little, reaching out to grasp at the other man's arm. ]
I want them to be happy. I'm doing this for them. Whatever happens to me doesn't matter, does it?
[ There are plenty of words Mydei could use to describe Phainon. Naive, kind, foolish, determined; words that exist only in the Kremnoan language and words that don't. Choosing what Phainon reminds him of is a daily task, usually for his own private entertainment.
Today, he's decided on stubborn idiot.
At least, he assumes it's a matter of stubbornness and pride that has Phainon meeting the Heirs with a faint flush on his face and a sweet scent curling around him. It doesn't take long for Mydei to realize the floral notes among the Deliverer's normal grain-like scent are indications he's going into (or is in) heat.
It's not as if Phainon is in danger, nor is especially common, at least among Mydei's people, to sequester oneself during a heat. It isn't as if Aglaea and the others would force Phainon to attend to these duties during such a thing, either.
(And there's a small part of Mydei that bristles about other people smelling Phainon like this. Phainon isn't his, but he knows that there's something there between them, in the sunny scent of Phainon during their spars. There just hasn't been time to address it.)
Thus, once their meeting is adjourned, he waits for the other heirs to move further away before he approaches Phainon, arms crossed over his chest. ]
Deliverer.
[ There's a pause while he considers his words - being more delicate, or getting straight to the heart of the matter. He settles on the straightforward path. ]
[ It is a mixture of stubbornness, pride and a refusal to be a problem for anyone else.
Phainon has always brute forced his heat. He has always been the one who has been able to work through it, even before he had arrived at Okhema and begun the Flamechase journey; he had been dedicated and focused, and refused to let himself falter, not even for a moment. He had to be strong, had to be stalwart, had to be determined, to be strong, to be all the things he had promised himself that he would be.
Absently, he's well aware of how the others are going to react, the alphas especially. He's taken precautions to ensure that none of that will be a problem, his usual collar around his neck, his sword in hand, prepared to fight anyone who wants to try and risk his life over something as foolish as his mating season. It'll end, swifter if he can work through it and focus elsewhere, rather on the heat and the slickness of his body.
All of that comes crashing down as soon as Mydei approaches him, frustrated and annoyed, and he scowls a little as he crosses his arms over his chest. No one else has paid him that much attention, but he's not quite conscious of the fact that Mydei's anger might have been a buffer. ]
[ It's the (continued) disregard for his own health that's bothering him, Mydei tells himself. At the end of the day, however, it is indeed just a heat; he won't suffer ill effects for working through it. Mydei holds him in high enough estimation that he won't claim such a thing will make Phainon make mistakes, even in jest. Anyone who would try to use a thing to claim him would meet a swift defeat, if not at Phainon's hand, then at one of the Heirs.
His feet are restless, though. He wants to stalk in front of Phainon and keep him from leaving, to block others who dare to look at him. (The anger is partly at himself for letting this bother him so much. Does he believe Phainon so weak he needs to be sequestered elsewhere, with Mydei to guard him? Were his inner Alpha a physical thing, he might grab it by the scruff and shake it senseless.) ]
Be that as it may, you should still take time to take care of yourself.
[ His voice might be gruff but at least he's honest. Somewhat. ]
[ And Phainon is a little put out at the idea that he wouldn't be able to do so, even with the heat baring down on him.
Thus far, he has lived through years of this, has survived all of his heats alone without anyone at his side. There's no need to worry about what might happen, because he can take care of himself and protect himself, no matter what else might be ahead of him. It's what he has done for his hears for years, long before he had arrived in the city, and it is what he intends to do until he finds someone that wants him.
He isn't optimistic, considering his nature and the path before him, but he can hope. He can dream of a future, even if he isn't confident of his own. ]
I am eating, sleeping, and training, as I always do. If it was too much, I'd rest.
[ Which is true, even if all his instincts are bullying him to go home and make some kind of blanket filled, pillow flooded nest to hide in. ]
[ Mydei lets out a soft huff of breath, unable to censure the sound despite Phainon speaking the truth. Outwardly his scent flares with irritation; inwardly, he wrestles with his desire to protect versus the fact that Phainon has neither asked for nor needs it. ]
I know.
[ Sounding sour despite his best efforts, he shifts his arms and looks away. Trying to intimidate Phainon into taking time off isn't working, and he knows that this will end in a fight. Not an enjoyable one, either; so he huffs out a breath again through his nose like a Dromas before he speaks, still looking away. ]
Some part of my ... instincts are convinced that you should not be pushing yourself through this. I'm not in the habit of ignoring them, even if you are correct that you've been handling it fine so far.
[ There's the shyest curl of embarrassment in his scent now, but at least he's being more honest about what has him bent out of shape. ]
[ Phainon's instincts make him want to rebel against Mydei, twitching as he feels the frustration and the ire, but he refuses to let it make him falter. He has survived this long and will keep surviving, no matter what the man in front of him wants. ]
Oh. Your instincts.
[ It's natural for someone like Mydeimos to want to take care of the omegas around him, he imagines. Maybe he wants to urge Phainon away so that he can rest and spar without being confused or distracted, and that's understandable. He could take it a little easier on his friend...
He sighs, some of his tension bleeding away. ]
Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you? Anything else.
that icon is just mydei hovering behind him all day glaring at people
[ Mydei's expression is still sour as Phainon offers to make it easier on him, though he looks at him again, eyes widening slightly. It shames him to have that offered, seeing as he is not the two of them going through a heat; it shames him more that it sets some part of him at ease.
He's silent as he considers it. He cannot demand he sequester himself, and Phainon has made clear he will not agree to it. He cannot follow Phainon around all day; as casual as he could try to make it, he's not Phainon's Alpha and his friend doesn't needed the added stress.
What would ensure no one else bothers him? A moment later, he realizes, and exhales. ]
Let me mark you with my scent.
[ Not Phainon's Alpha, but anyone else would take it as an implicit claim for the duration of his heat. The idea seems to settle the restlessness within his bones.
It's still quite a lot to ask of Phainon, which has him adding, ] I won't force you.
Edited (mr never explains anything) 2025-11-03 20:02 (UTC)
[ It's hard, to watch Mydei as his mind works, to see him work through whatever is happening and whatever instincts are damning him. Phainon gives him the time to think, to consider, and hopes that they'll come to terms with things without the need for him to have to hide away from or avoid his friend.
That would be a bad outcome.
Lifting his head, he watches, his eyes flickering for a moment before he hums softly. ]
A scent mark?
[ It's not normally something that's done, but no one can deny how much time he and Mydeimos spend with one another. It makes his cheeks go red, his eyes darting to one side before he laughs softly. ]
Is that all? You can, if it will help. I don't mind.
[ Is that all? Phainon asks, and Mydei shoots him a slightly irritated look at that. He's not wrong, though; it's a relatively simpler solution compared to his earlier attempt to intimidate his friend.
The blush helps assuage some of what he perceives as teasing. With Phainon's consent given, Mydei steps a little closer. He could do this chastely, but he finds himself reaching out for Phainon, a hand closing around his wrist and pulling him up against him, waist to shoulder.
Like this, it's easy to duck down and turn his head to drag his nose against his friend's scent gland. ]
Phainon isn't sure how to describe it. There's something intense and heady about it, but he doesn't shrug it off or try to make Mydei give up or make it go away. Instead, he bites his words back and swallows softly instead, breathing out a little noise.
With how deep he is in his heat, and how desperate he feels... It's hard to ignore the pull, the thrum, but he has to.
[ It's an era of expansion for Castrum Kremnos. King Eurypon is dead at Mydeimos's hand, his mother avenged; a throne he did not desire is his reward for it. He considered abdicating, but that would leave this war-state with a vacuum of power. Someone worse than Eurypon might be sat upon the throne, and set his people against him. Thus, he claims it as his birthright.
While battle sings in his blood, Mydei is not fond of needless slaughter. His campaign of conquest is no less vicious and bloody on the battlefield, but he does not throw his army against the walls of his enemies. He considers the field tactically, chokes off supply points, starves them out.
He cannot undo the old ways, but for the first time in their violent history, he allows surrender without slaughter for the conquered. Those who do so will never be highly regarded under their laws, but if they are sheltered by his people, they cannot be targeted without consequence, either.
Aedes Elysiae is one such land. It's a small, quaint farming town; the only worthwhile item of note is the vast grain fields that the people take care of. It is those fields that make it valuable to Castrum Kremnos. Expansion requires an army; an army requires food, and razing such fields will only come back to harm them. Aedes Elysiae will be a key point for the next part of the campaign.
They had surrendered without a fight, since the only fighting force they largely had was made up of hunters. Mydeimos has no interest in upending their way of life, only the fruits of their harvests. (And not starving them out; the last thing they need is to foment a class of hungry peasants.)
Apparently, they think this is a kindness, because they have sent him a gift not even a fortnight after he's left. He's sitting on the throne of the castrum, goblet in hand, and eyebrows raised as the courier finishes reading the statement. When they informed him of a 'gift', he expected something like money, silks, animals or trinkets. Maybe a sacrifice, if they believed the old rumors.
Not this man with shocking blue eyes and white hair. A hazy recollection of a farmer amongst the hunters that had been gathered and then set free. His to do with as he pleases.
That doesn't necessarily exempt him from being a sacrifice. ]
Phainon, of Aedes Elysiae.
[ His voice is a command in and of itself. ]
Give me one reason why I shouldn't turn you loose to the lions.
[ None of them had anticipated Castrum Kremnos becoming their enemies.
All of them knew about the fierceness of their warriors, their determination to expand and grow, to grasp power with their gauntleted hands and take whatever they were able to, often heedless of the people they harmed on their way. No one in his small town had ever imagined that they'd be a target for such conquest, not when they remained barely more than humble farmers, country folk with no interest in more than defending their land.
Phainon was not entirely like the others, with a soldier's mindset and a desire to prove himself. Even so, he had been unable to do anything to stop the spread of the soldiers, to do anything when they had cried and whimpered and fallen to their knees with all their hopes and dreams dashed before they could do anything. Castrum Kremnos had come, and none of them were strong enough to defend against them.
There was no need to fight. Fighting would not have done anything for them, despite the rage that burns in Phainon's blood and the hurt that stings his heart.
It seemed easy enough for the others to select him as a gift to their new ruler, to dress him in the finest that they could muster and send him along to the Prince's hold, hoping that offering a hostage, a guide, a guard, whatever role he might take, would be enough to ensure the kindnesses continued. Phainon is not quite so determined, and his expression is tense, terse as the letter is read aloud, as he stands before the man who had robbed so much from them without even lifting his sword arm.
Swallowing, he breathes out. ]
My people would burn the fields and allow the rot to fester.
[ This, he believes. His life is a gift of peace, and if it is rejected? Aedes Elysiae would not stand for it. ]
They offer me in kindness and in hope, and if you disregard that? They will take matters into their own hands. We all know why you took our town and what you need, and we will let it spoil if you show such dishonour.
[ His eyebrows raise a little at that, though his face remains otherwise impassive. Mydeimos did not think the farming village was unaware of what they had, but the brazen way Phainon declares what they'd do impresses him.
His estimation of Aedes Elysiae climbs a bit for their shrewd behavior. Easily conquered, but not so easily kept.
He sits up a bit, leaning forward in his self-formed throne. He looks Phainon over again; he's strong, like many of their hunters. He holds himself like a warrior, though; not a hunter or a farmer. Mydeimos -
smiles, pleased. ]
Then what is it you want? Besides a chance to take your vengeance.
[ Farmers know their land, know the worth of the wheat they grow and the bounty they're able to harvest, and it means they recognise the damage the loss of it can do to a kingdom. Phainon doesn't really think they'd go as far as to destroy a crop, not with the risk to their own food stores for the change in season, but the threat is likely to be a good bargaining chip.
He is one person. The town is many, many more than that.
Phainon's eyes do not flicker, do not stop, do not hesitate, and he keeps himself as tall and confident as he can muster. It won't do much in the wake of a conqueror, but... It makes him feel better about the situation he's found himself in, a willing hostage for the people who had taken his world from him.
[ It's been a long time since someone looked at Mydeimos so brazenly, stubborn and confident. He doesn't hold the same disdain some of his people do for those who would avoid a fight; life is valuable, not just to the individual but those around them. He did not spend ten years drowning in the Sea of Souls to disregard it. Every death was a lesson others are often not afforded.
He raises one eyebrow this time, a gauntlet-covered hand waving through the air. ]
Have I given the impression I intend to bring further harm to Aedes Elysiae since they surrendered?
[ If he has, it wasn't his intent, not that he'll tell Phainon this. He had not heard of any deaths (though maybe someone had concealed such a thing from him). Some were injured, but he'd ordered them treated afterwards. ]
[ The reality is that, although he ought to be, Phainon isn't scared of the man sitting in front of him.
There's the obvious - even if they weren't on opposite ends of a war, he's not entirely sure if he would be able to take him in a spar. He would try, and do his best, but he lacks the training and gear of a warrior of his people, and that is something he cannot pretend otherwise. Phainon wouldn't willingly give in, but he would give all that he had.
It's why he was chosen for the gift, beyond his other attributes. Phainon can fight, is strong enough to survive whatever might come his way, and kind enough to make his way through this world without breaking. He can carry the burdens of his people and come out the other side. ]
Have you given the impression they have any reason to trust you?
[ Determined.
He might not have harmed anyone, might have treated some of the wounded, but they know the nature of his kin. Madness can overtake them, and death would be a swift consequence. ]
[ As annoying as it is to admit, Phainon has a point. Mydeimos was counting on fear to conquer them, and time to do the rest. Shrewd as they are, though, they won't trust him simply for leaving them alone. How many legends speak of Kings who killed on a whim?
So he hums, lost in thought for a moment. ]
Like your people, your point is well made.
[ Should he admit to a lack of insight? Some would argue he should not. A king who can't admit when he's wrong, though, takes the first step towards becoming useless. He's heard stories of Eurypon scorning his own advisors.
Instead, he smiles again. ]
I imagine there's very little I could offer that would, since I cannot afford to give them what they want.
[ Freedom. ]
Instead, I'll accept their humble gift.
[ He plans to have Phainon tell him of his home - but demanding he do so will give the impression he's trying to find a way out of it, he's sure. ]
There's an edge of frustration about him now, staring at this man and wanting little more than to gut him, to harm him for all the harm he had done to his people - but, for now, they're all alive. The offer of his own life as trade, bargain and hostage might be enough to settle things, and at least he can do something to try and help the ones who were left behind.
It's better than being there and idle, hating his lot in life.
Lifting his head, he doesn't flinch. He meets this man's gaze, and does not see himself as lesser. ]
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>>> Eternal Recurrence #185492
With each cycle Phainon is born again, in the secluded village of Aedes Elysiae, where the sun is always warm, the wind is always refreshing, where the lakes and sea have fresh fish, where the wheat is favorably kissed by daylight, and the Titans do not concern themselves much with a side of Amphoreus that seems nigh untouchable.
Here, Khaslana becomes a presence in Phainon's life many years earlier. A voice that guides, a presence that looms, an existence that explains, at last, what it means to be the Deliverer. A path by no means easy, that there are times where they cannot save a single life — and yet they mustn't give up. Not now, not ever.
A path, he says, that relies on sacrifices, and oft not only their own. ]
... [ He guides Phainon's hand the first time.
A sword that weighs as it should, perfect on their hands, as it spares Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon of a meaningless, prolonged existence. Their golden blood paints a warm, melancholic picture that he knows will scar Phainon for nights to come.
The second time, Khaslana has to remind him what this is all for. That Deliverance had chosen them, that this, too, will pass. That he will not remember, if it's any solace. That Khaslana will. Castorice will be freed from her suffering.
The third, fourth, fifth time are not any easier. Phainon wavers still, and Khaslana feels for him. They will be born again, he reassures. Unharmed, unchanged, with no memories of this. It will pass.
The sixth time, Khaslana is not present. He knows well what Mydeimos means to Phainon, as his Mydeimos had, too, meant to him. It brings him no joy still, and Khaslana continues to feel for him. He knows, after all, the weight of lives on his hands, much too heavy for any person to bear. He knows how much heavier a friend's life weighs, too. ]
...
[ The skies above Castrum Kremnos are soothing, still. Khaslana knows the truth of the Dawn Device and that truly protects Okhema, but a lie is a lie, and for all of Amphoreus's true nature, the stars above still shine, day in day out. Lives that do not truly exist, but lives that do, for each of them acknowledge it so.
He waits right at the entrance of the Castrum, for however long Phainon needs to ensure their mission does not fail. He can hear in the distance the clash of steel against steel, nostalgic sounds that bring no true comfort. He waits, however long. A day, or two. A week, or three. Time, in part, nonexistent as Cyrene had made it, they have in abundance.
... ] It is done? [ Only at the very end of it does Khaslana ask, when footsteps are the only noise that can be heard late at night. He needs not look at Phainon yet to know he has emerged victorious, and decides instead to give him the comfort of privacy first. ]
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Growing with the other man's whispers and explanations near him, he had truly believed he was doing the right thing. It had all made sense, even if he had a thousand questions and a nervous wish that it wasn't so, that being the 'Deliverer' did not come hand in hand with so much death and so much loss. People that had been supporting Okhema and the people for so many years at risk from his hand, and the future needing it to happen. Sacrifice, for the future of their world; sacrifice, because he is the one to carry the burden of it, that he is the one who will deliver a better future, to bring to fruition wish and prophecy both.
Does it make it easier, better, a lighter weight? Of course not.
There is blood on his hands, on his very soul, marring him like a scar, a wound that will never heal. One by one, they fall, the grief he feels an unshakeable weight as he carries out his purpose. Is he a man, or is he a weapon forged in the hands of Khaslana, delivering unto the world a hellscape of which there is no freedom? Or is he truly a saviour, freeing those he had come to care for and cherish from the weight of years of suffering and a destiny darker than anything he can imagine?
His hand is guided, his future is written, and they share within one another the same guilt. It must be worse for Khaslana, Phainon thinks, in those quiet moments where he is alone and drowning in his own thoughts, his pained guilt, the hurt and ache that makes him feel as though he is ready to fall to pieces. How is he to survive this? How is he to come out the other side whole and put together, rather than a shattered creature with no hope or joy left in his heart?
They will be born again, he says. It will pass.
When? When?
The fight in Castrum Kremnos feels as though it might kill him, and a part of him does with that it had, as undying as he knows they all are. Mydeimos is a fierce and deadly opponent, and this feels better than some of the others - where the fight had been minimal, despite their strength, where their trust and faith in another heir had made them vulnerable. Phainon isn't sure how long the two of them trade blows, how much of a beating he takes because he feels as if he deserves it, but he has an upper hand that Mydeimos cannot predict: he knows his true weakness.
More blood on his hands. Gold, staining his face, his clothes, his blade. The quiet desire to find his own peace is gone, now, leaving his body with his happiness, even as he keeps himself determined and focused. This is for their future, and he believes, he has to believe in Khaslana, because if he doesn't then what has he done all this for? What has all the death and loss meant, if the future is not as he has said, if it is not as he has guided Phainon to know?
Is it done, he asks, and Phainon's voice breaks around his words as he speaks. ]
You already know the answer to that.
[ Tired, worn, he breathes out, rubbing his hand over his face and fighting back the urge to cry, to collapse to his knees and scream. ]
I want to leave this place. Now.
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Phainon returns, wearing gold like he has once before, too. It, he realizes, does not look good on him. It contrasts the sun on his neck. It stands out against sky-blue eyes. It's an unfortunate reminder.
An answer does not quite leave his mouth yet. It needs not, for time they have plenty. The weight of silence is crushing but kind both, and he can only wonder whether the sound of his own voice is something they will grow to loathe, alongside themselves. Alongside the fate that awaits them.
So speak, Khaslana does not.
Words need not be said between them. He understands Phainon's anguish. He understands his sadness, his anger. He understands each of his feelings like a glove that fits well in his hand, one he wears still, to this day. He understands Phainon. ]
... [ It is not helpful and, worse yet, he thinks it would only make Phainon feel worse. Would he, had he someone in his place, all the times Dawnmaker drank the golden blood of his friends? Does it stop him, from reaching out a gentle hand, from wiping that same golden blood off Phainon's face, blood that does not belong on either of their hands, that they should never be bathed in?
It does not, for Khaslana understands how heavy the burden he carries is. He understands solitude, wears it alongside that duty of his. He does not know intimacy like this; does not know comfort, little has he experienced it. But Phainon, this Phainon, must he suffer the same pain that Khaslana has chosen to carry? Had this been a wise decision? Will he try it again, next cycle?
They will be born again, he said. It will pass, he reassures himself, too. ]
Deliverance is never easy. [ For it is as Cyrene had once said, too: May the world never have the need for a Deliverer again. Yet he is soft in his words, uncharacteristically so. The rage Phainon feels is rightful, but they must not be consumed by it. ] But only we can carry this pain. Or would you wish it upon your friends?
[ Your, deliberate. ]
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There's tenderness disguising his cruelties, the truth of what he is forcing Phainon to do - but is it forcing? He follows the directions and orders willingly enough, accepts the mantle of what is happening to their world and what needs to be done, believing that he is doing this for the right reasons. If he doesn't believe in that as strongly as he does, then what would be the point of it all? Would the blood on his hands be better or worse if he knew how true those promises were? That the future he wants is possible?
He doesn't know the answers. He doesn't know enough, blindly believing in what he's been told and clinging to his desperation, his need to make the world better. If he has to carry the mantle of death and bloodshed, isn't it better for it to come from him than have to share it with others, who might fold under the weight? Isn't it better that he handles it, takes it, that the two of them share it with each other so that others can find happiness? His own joy is an easy enough sacrifice to make.
It doesn't make it easier, not at the moment. In hindsight, perhaps...
The urge to punch the wall, the ground, anything - it overwhelms him, and he almost lashes out at Khaslana himself, almost bites at the hand that feeds, rips bone from flesh, anything to quell all the hurt inside of him. Shivering with his grief, he shakes his head, gazing up at his mirror, gritting his teeth. The touch to his face makes the tears come again, and he has to take a few steadying breaths to calm himself down, to anchor himself and stop himself from breaking.
He has to do this. He must. For the future. ]
No. I wouldn't wish this on anyone else.
[ His friends. His home, his people, his loved ones...
Cracking a little, eyes stinging, he falters, leaning into the touch, desperate: he needs something, anything to ease the way that it feels as if his very soul is breaking. ]
It - it must be done. I know that. It doesn't make it better, does it?
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Why didn't you shed even a single tear?
Phainon does, for him. Phainon does, warm tears onto his fingers that do not evaporate upon fall. Phainon feels, Phainon suffers, Phainon folds, too, under the weight of Deliverance. For the secrets that he keeps, the unspoken feelings and the ambition to carry on as the lone survivor of Aedes Elysiae, he wears his heart on his sleeves, so transparent of his feelings that it is cruel, to urge him forward. To forge Dawnmaker onto the hands of a boy who had longed for days of peace and the warmth of sun-bathed wheat fields.
Phainon feels, suffers, folds; and Khaslana does not, 185,492 cycles and 2,225,892 Coreflames later, he still feels — reassured, perhaps. As though Phainon feels, suffers and folds for the weight both of them carry, together. ]
No. [ The word weighs heavier with truth laced around it. It is the cost of Deliverance, the fate imbued into their coding. That the string of deaths and pain and suffering will lead onto hatred, and that, too, will become fuel to a fire that will turn Amphoreus into ashes.
There would, then, be no tomorrow. No dawn, no lies to uphold, no wishes to grant.
Through calloused fingers does Khaslana rid Phainon's face of tears that do not belong. It does no show in his face, the melancholy of a duty shared, yet the lament is all the same. Bitter, uncomfortable. There is a reason why they have always shouldered such burdens alone. ]
It is our unavoidable fate. Had you been in my place, [ and this, Khaslana does not specify. Phainon does not know what led him down this path of solitude, and he does not know the sacrifices that had been made. What the endless cycles mean, and who gave her life for them. ] You would have chosen this as well.
[ Words to reassure himself. Phainon has acted strayed the course before, in cycles past. It had alienated him, made Khaslana question. He takes Dawnmaker from Phainon's hand, and it weighs the same, still. A comforting thought. ]
Do you regret it?
[ Leaving Aedes Elysiae. Becoming a soldier in Okhema. Siding with Khaslana. An ambiguous question. ]
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He doesn't understand how you can push things aside, how you can overcome the weight of the hurt and grief, and how you can push through it and keep going. Even as he keeps telling himself, over and over and over, that this is the right course of action, even if this is what they have to do, living with the burden is killing him. Phainon doesn't know if he's going to be able to come out of this the other side with any part of himself intact.
Phainon cries, he weeps, he breaks, because he has no other option. It stings, it makes his heart lurch, it makes him want to tear his skin off, it makes him want to crumble, but he cannot. He just can't. This is the world that he loves and the one he wants to save, above all else, and if he has to carry the weight of it all, then he will do what he must.
The craving for something to make is all fade and disappear overcomes him, but he shoves it aside. He can't rely on anyone but himself, can he?
Can he rely on Khaslana, who had placed this burden on him so easily?
Was it easy?
Looking up, he leans into the touch, swallowing the lump in his throat, the way his tongue feels dry. It's hard to speak, but he has to. He can't falter here, now, can he? ]
No. I can't regret the choices I made. I have to keep looking forward, to the future that this world deserves. To the... The path that is...
[ He crumbles a little, reaching out to grasp at the other man's arm. ]
I want them to be happy. I'm doing this for them. Whatever happens to me doesn't matter, does it?
*points* breedable
Today, he's decided on stubborn idiot.
At least, he assumes it's a matter of stubbornness and pride that has Phainon meeting the Heirs with a faint flush on his face and a sweet scent curling around him. It doesn't take long for Mydei to realize the floral notes among the Deliverer's normal grain-like scent are indications he's going into (or is in) heat.
It's not as if Phainon is in danger, nor is especially common, at least among Mydei's people, to sequester oneself during a heat. It isn't as if Aglaea and the others would force Phainon to attend to these duties during such a thing, either.
(And there's a small part of Mydei that bristles about other people smelling Phainon like this. Phainon isn't his, but he knows that there's something there between them, in the sunny scent of Phainon during their spars. There just hasn't been time to address it.)
Thus, once their meeting is adjourned, he waits for the other heirs to move further away before he approaches Phainon, arms crossed over his chest. ]
Deliverer.
[ There's a pause while he considers his words - being more delicate, or getting straight to the heart of the matter. He settles on the straightforward path. ]
Why are you here while in heat?
[ THE SCENT OF DISAPPROVAL IS ENORMOUS. ]
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Phainon has always brute forced his heat. He has always been the one who has been able to work through it, even before he had arrived at Okhema and begun the Flamechase journey; he had been dedicated and focused, and refused to let himself falter, not even for a moment. He had to be strong, had to be stalwart, had to be determined, to be strong, to be all the things he had promised himself that he would be.
Absently, he's well aware of how the others are going to react, the alphas especially. He's taken precautions to ensure that none of that will be a problem, his usual collar around his neck, his sword in hand, prepared to fight anyone who wants to try and risk his life over something as foolish as his mating season. It'll end, swifter if he can work through it and focus elsewhere, rather on the heat and the slickness of his body.
All of that comes crashing down as soon as Mydei approaches him, frustrated and annoyed, and he scowls a little as he crosses his arms over his chest. No one else has paid him that much attention, but he's not quite conscious of the fact that Mydei's anger might have been a buffer. ]
Why shouldn't I be? I still have a job to do.
[ His nose twitches. ]
It's just a heat.
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His feet are restless, though. He wants to stalk in front of Phainon and keep him from leaving, to block others who dare to look at him. (The anger is partly at himself for letting this bother him so much. Does he believe Phainon so weak he needs to be sequestered elsewhere, with Mydei to guard him? Were his inner Alpha a physical thing, he might grab it by the scruff and shake it senseless.) ]
Be that as it may, you should still take time to take care of yourself.
[ His voice might be gruff but at least he's honest. Somewhat. ]
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[ And Phainon is a little put out at the idea that he wouldn't be able to do so, even with the heat baring down on him.
Thus far, he has lived through years of this, has survived all of his heats alone without anyone at his side. There's no need to worry about what might happen, because he can take care of himself and protect himself, no matter what else might be ahead of him. It's what he has done for his hears for years, long before he had arrived in the city, and it is what he intends to do until he finds someone that wants him.
He isn't optimistic, considering his nature and the path before him, but he can hope. He can dream of a future, even if he isn't confident of his own. ]
I am eating, sleeping, and training, as I always do. If it was too much, I'd rest.
[ Which is true, even if all his instincts are bullying him to go home and make some kind of blanket filled, pillow flooded nest to hide in. ]
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I know.
[ Sounding sour despite his best efforts, he shifts his arms and looks away. Trying to intimidate Phainon into taking time off isn't working, and he knows that this will end in a fight. Not an enjoyable one, either; so he huffs out a breath again through his nose like a Dromas before he speaks, still looking away. ]
Some part of my ... instincts are convinced that you should not be pushing yourself through this. I'm not in the habit of ignoring them, even if you are correct that you've been handling it fine so far.
[ There's the shyest curl of embarrassment in his scent now, but at least he's being more honest about what has him bent out of shape. ]
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Oh. Your instincts.
[ It's natural for someone like Mydeimos to want to take care of the omegas around him, he imagines. Maybe he wants to urge Phainon away so that he can rest and spar without being confused or distracted, and that's understandable. He could take it a little easier on his friend...
He sighs, some of his tension bleeding away. ]
Is there anything I can do to make this easier for you? Anything else.
that icon is just mydei hovering behind him all day glaring at people
He's silent as he considers it. He cannot demand he sequester himself, and Phainon has made clear he will not agree to it. He cannot follow Phainon around all day; as casual as he could try to make it, he's not Phainon's Alpha and his friend doesn't needed the added stress.
What would ensure no one else bothers him? A moment later, he realizes, and exhales. ]
Let me mark you with my scent.
[ Not Phainon's Alpha, but anyone else would take it as an implicit claim for the duration of his heat. The idea seems to settle the restlessness within his bones.
It's still quite a lot to ask of Phainon, which has him adding, ] I won't force you.
a real alpha attitude
That would be a bad outcome.
Lifting his head, he watches, his eyes flickering for a moment before he hums softly. ]
A scent mark?
[ It's not normally something that's done, but no one can deny how much time he and Mydeimos spend with one another. It makes his cheeks go red, his eyes darting to one side before he laughs softly. ]
Is that all? You can, if it will help. I don't mind.
he's trying to be NICE
The blush helps assuage some of what he perceives as teasing. With Phainon's consent given, Mydei steps a little closer. He could do this chastely, but he finds himself reaching out for Phainon, a hand closing around his wrist and pulling him up against him, waist to shoulder.
Like this, it's easy to duck down and turn his head to drag his nose against his friend's scent gland. ]
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It feels like something.
Phainon isn't sure how to describe it. There's something intense and heady about it, but he doesn't shrug it off or try to make Mydei give up or make it go away. Instead, he bites his words back and swallows softly instead, breathing out a little noise.
With how deep he is in his heat, and how desperate he feels... It's hard to ignore the pull, the thrum, but he has to.
Instead, he shakes his head. ]
Are you finished?
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i forgot to ask what he's rolling with so enjoy this vague tag and tell me if he has the phainussy
i think we said yes phaidussy
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giftnon as discussed
While battle sings in his blood, Mydei is not fond of needless slaughter. His campaign of conquest is no less vicious and bloody on the battlefield, but he does not throw his army against the walls of his enemies. He considers the field tactically, chokes off supply points, starves them out.
He cannot undo the old ways, but for the first time in their violent history, he allows surrender without slaughter for the conquered. Those who do so will never be highly regarded under their laws, but if they are sheltered by his people, they cannot be targeted without consequence, either.
Aedes Elysiae is one such land. It's a small, quaint farming town; the only worthwhile item of note is the vast grain fields that the people take care of. It is those fields that make it valuable to Castrum Kremnos. Expansion requires an army; an army requires food, and razing such fields will only come back to harm them. Aedes Elysiae will be a key point for the next part of the campaign.
They had surrendered without a fight, since the only fighting force they largely had was made up of hunters. Mydeimos has no interest in upending their way of life, only the fruits of their harvests. (And not starving them out; the last thing they need is to foment a class of hungry peasants.)
Apparently, they think this is a kindness, because they have sent him a gift not even a fortnight after he's left. He's sitting on the throne of the castrum, goblet in hand, and eyebrows raised as the courier finishes reading the statement. When they informed him of a 'gift', he expected something like money, silks, animals or trinkets. Maybe a sacrifice, if they believed the old rumors.
Not this man with shocking blue eyes and white hair. A hazy recollection of a farmer amongst the hunters that had been gathered and then set free. His to do with as he pleases.
That doesn't necessarily exempt him from being a sacrifice. ]
Phainon, of Aedes Elysiae.
[ His voice is a command in and of itself. ]
Give me one reason why I shouldn't turn you loose to the lions.
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All of them knew about the fierceness of their warriors, their determination to expand and grow, to grasp power with their gauntleted hands and take whatever they were able to, often heedless of the people they harmed on their way. No one in his small town had ever imagined that they'd be a target for such conquest, not when they remained barely more than humble farmers, country folk with no interest in more than defending their land.
Phainon was not entirely like the others, with a soldier's mindset and a desire to prove himself. Even so, he had been unable to do anything to stop the spread of the soldiers, to do anything when they had cried and whimpered and fallen to their knees with all their hopes and dreams dashed before they could do anything. Castrum Kremnos had come, and none of them were strong enough to defend against them.
There was no need to fight. Fighting would not have done anything for them, despite the rage that burns in Phainon's blood and the hurt that stings his heart.
It seemed easy enough for the others to select him as a gift to their new ruler, to dress him in the finest that they could muster and send him along to the Prince's hold, hoping that offering a hostage, a guide, a guard, whatever role he might take, would be enough to ensure the kindnesses continued. Phainon is not quite so determined, and his expression is tense, terse as the letter is read aloud, as he stands before the man who had robbed so much from them without even lifting his sword arm.
Swallowing, he breathes out. ]
My people would burn the fields and allow the rot to fester.
[ This, he believes. His life is a gift of peace, and if it is rejected? Aedes Elysiae would not stand for it. ]
They offer me in kindness and in hope, and if you disregard that? They will take matters into their own hands. We all know why you took our town and what you need, and we will let it spoil if you show such dishonour.
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His estimation of Aedes Elysiae climbs a bit for their shrewd behavior. Easily conquered, but not so easily kept.
He sits up a bit, leaning forward in his self-formed throne. He looks Phainon over again; he's strong, like many of their hunters. He holds himself like a warrior, though; not a hunter or a farmer. Mydeimos -
smiles, pleased. ]
Then what is it you want? Besides a chance to take your vengeance.
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He is one person. The town is many, many more than that.
Phainon's eyes do not flicker, do not stop, do not hesitate, and he keeps himself as tall and confident as he can muster. It won't do much in the wake of a conqueror, but... It makes him feel better about the situation he's found himself in, a willing hostage for the people who had taken his world from him.
Arms crossed, he glares. ]
I want my people to be safe, and unharmed.
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He raises one eyebrow this time, a gauntlet-covered hand waving through the air. ]
Have I given the impression I intend to bring further harm to Aedes Elysiae since they surrendered?
[ If he has, it wasn't his intent, not that he'll tell Phainon this. He had not heard of any deaths (though maybe someone had concealed such a thing from him). Some were injured, but he'd ordered them treated afterwards. ]
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There's the obvious - even if they weren't on opposite ends of a war, he's not entirely sure if he would be able to take him in a spar. He would try, and do his best, but he lacks the training and gear of a warrior of his people, and that is something he cannot pretend otherwise. Phainon wouldn't willingly give in, but he would give all that he had.
It's why he was chosen for the gift, beyond his other attributes. Phainon can fight, is strong enough to survive whatever might come his way, and kind enough to make his way through this world without breaking. He can carry the burdens of his people and come out the other side. ]
Have you given the impression they have any reason to trust you?
[ Determined.
He might not have harmed anyone, might have treated some of the wounded, but they know the nature of his kin. Madness can overtake them, and death would be a swift consequence. ]
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So he hums, lost in thought for a moment. ]
Like your people, your point is well made.
[ Should he admit to a lack of insight? Some would argue he should not. A king who can't admit when he's wrong, though, takes the first step towards becoming useless. He's heard stories of Eurypon scorning his own advisors.
Instead, he smiles again. ]
I imagine there's very little I could offer that would, since I cannot afford to give them what they want.
[ Freedom. ]
Instead, I'll accept their humble gift.
[ He plans to have Phainon tell him of his home - but demanding he do so will give the impression he's trying to find a way out of it, he's sure. ]
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There's an edge of frustration about him now, staring at this man and wanting little more than to gut him, to harm him for all the harm he had done to his people - but, for now, they're all alive. The offer of his own life as trade, bargain and hostage might be enough to settle things, and at least he can do something to try and help the ones who were left behind.
It's better than being there and idle, hating his lot in life.
Lifting his head, he doesn't flinch. He meets this man's gaze, and does not see himself as lesser. ]
Good. They will be pleased.
[ And he is a little relieved. ]
I am at your service.
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[ He stands from his throne, sweeping his way down - brushing past Phainon, clearly with the expectation that he'll follow him. ]
How experienced are you in combat?
[ Lest he think Mydei intends to renege on his statement: ]
I desire a sparring partner who can keep up with me.
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"would he have slaves" yeah ....
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