[ 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?
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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.
no subject
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. ]
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?