[ 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. ]
no subject
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.