[ 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?
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no subject
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?
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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?