[ 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?
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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. ]