Chapter Text
Traveler, your footprints
are the only road, nothing else.
Traveler, there is no road;
you make your own path as you walk.
As you walk, you make your own road,
and when you look back
you see the path
you will never travel again.
Traveler, there is no road;
only a ship’s wake on the sea.
– Original (in Spanish) by Antonio Machado, translation into English by Mary G. Berg and Dennis Maloney.
Phainon can admit that he doesn’t know what exactly happened at the end of it all.
He only remembers the nothingness that came from drowning in corrupted code after letting out all the fury and hatred he harbored for millions of cycles, after reaching out and touching the real stars for only a second before lashing out at Destruction THEMSELVES and falling and falling–
He remembers a distant call, a familiar hand, childish laughter floating in a familiar field of gold. He remembers the hand pushing him– or maybe it was dragging him away? He couldn’t quite tell, he only knew that it was finally time to finish writing the new page that had been turned, the moment to burn everything away so they could start anew.
He remembers burning, he remembers soaring, he remembers tearing apart something that wasn’t quite physical.
He remembers looking into something red, something that tried to drag him under, under its control.
He remembers the gold in his veins burning like pure fire – but he was used to it, anyway.
He remembers a wild fight, he remembers locking eyes with the Trailblazer, Stelle. He remembers the relief in her eyes, the silent promise between them. He remembers Cyrene, changed and yet just as he knew her in a past that only he had seen.
He remembers shooting through the skies of Amphoreus, now red once again, tearing apart something that shouldn’t have existed – couldn’t exist.
He remembers the other Crysos Heirs stepping up and fighting by their side, eyes ablaze with a myriad of memories they shouldn’t have had.
And at the end, he remembers Cyrene borrowing power from beyond the skies and pouring all her love and memories into this crumbled world that was never entirely real– until it was. It is.
Because Amphoreus is now real and free and the universe embraced them all in welcome and oh, how beautiful the real stars are.
Phainon is not sure what happens next, but he’s quite sure that he collapses. Darkness claims him again, even as his body burns once again, not with hatred but with exhaustion. He doesn’t know if someone catches him before he smashes against the ground, but he doesn’t really care. He’s already fallen so many times, another fall would not kill him. Probably.
(They do catch him.
Stelle screeches like a creature from the Nether Realm and waves her arms in the air, helpless, as a shooting star falls dangerously quick towards the ground.
A flash of gold and red manages to stand at the perfect place at the perfect time, and then immediately falls to the ground with an undignified grunt when the body falls on top of him in a mess of wings and golden blood.)
He wakes up some time later, and things have… changed.
Of course they have changed.
Amphoreus is saved.
Stelle tells him the news, a wide grin on her face, with Cyrene by her side– and oh, Cyrene, how he’s missed her. She’s alive. She’s alive and breathing and her eyes glint and her following hug is strong and firm around his torso, but her hands shake and he can feel her tears making a mess of his borrowed shirt – and he feels himself tremble and cry just like her, even though a big part of himself doesn’t quite believe it yet. He doesn’t know if he will ever believe it.
Amphoreus is saved and free to step onto tomorrow, but there is still a lot to do.
And yet, the Crysos Heirs make them stand down and rest. “As thanks for your hard work,” they say, which is probably born from good intentions, but it only makes Phainon’s insides itch with restlessness.
And the worst part– He can’t quite bring himself to look the Crysos Heirs – his dear companions and family – in the eye.
Oh, he tries. He tries every time he's visited when he's stuck on bedrest. He tries every time he passes them in the halls when he's allowed to roam around. He still tries when he finds them in the courtyard and they strike a conversation with him – not that he’s very receptive to it, as much as he would like to lose himself to the normalcy of it all.
It’s just– hard. His mind is a mess, his memories are a mess, his appearance is a mess, his body is a mess– he is a mess.
He remembers every loop, every mistake, every failure, every choice. And he would do it all again if it’d mean they could reach this point, this future, but–
He looks at Hyacine and hears her screams of pain.
He looks at Tribbie and Trianne and Trinnon – only three, because her ‘data’ was apparently too damaged by the end to save much else – and his hands shake every time they laugh.
He looks at Professor Anaxa and sees his worried and then furious eyes glaring at him and then his hand through his chest.
He looks at Cipher and sees her mocking grin before he raises his sword.
He looks at Castorice and feels her brittle hands trying to keep him in a field of beautiful flowers.
He looks at Aglaea and sees her falling down and down and he sees his outstretched hand.
He looks at Mydei and– and he sees so much blood, his sword digging into his spine and yet the eyes that turn to him, half-dead and delirious, regard him with pride and satisfaction and–
Phainon distances himself from them. He tells himself that it’s just as well– they don’t mean their worried questions, their gentle touches. How can they touch him, when he’s– he’s–?
He dreams of golden eyes looking down on him.
Sometimes he senses pride coming from them. Sometimes it’s interest. Sometimes it feels a bit too much like pity or empathy. Sometimes his mind twists every feeling into fury and hate. Sometimes–
Sometimes his body burns again and yet when he wakes up, he feels energized, as if he could escape this world, wave a hand and drag into nothingness three entire planets. He feels more power inside himself, different from the Coreflames, like a push from something greater to wield it in whatever way he wants – he doesn’t know what to do with it. His blood sings for Destruction, and yet, he doesn’t want to destroy.
He’s always been a protector, so why–?
He goes to Cyrene, because Cyrene always knows what to do, always knows what’s going on.
“You’ve attracted the gaze of an Aeon too, haven’t you?” he asks, and it still makes him flinch, how dispassionate his own voice sounds, how tired, how old.
Cyrene’s writing stops.
“Yes.” And her eyes find his, steady and knowing. Her smile is bitter. “So have you, right?”
He grimaces. He sits down on the klismos with a sigh and crosses his arms, as if it would help him retain that restlessness inside himself.
“Stelle mentioned that people like us are called Emanators by the people– outside,” explains Cyrene, careful. Her hands play with the writing feather in her hold.
“Like– Irontomb?” he asks, because even after all this time, he still remembers what Lygus told them in that first cycle. He made sure to brand those words, that following promise, in his mind.
“Irontomb was… weird,” answers Cyrene, and she makes the same face she did when they were kids and she didn’t quite know how to explain her strange dreams or intuition to Phainon. “But– yes. Something like that.”
“So… we’re Emanators,” he says, more for himself than as a request for Cyrene to explain it more. He can’t stop the deep frown that pulls at his lips then, the cold that travels down his spine. He crosses his arms more tightly, but at this point, it’s as if he’s trying to hug himself. “And I am… an Emanator of…”
There it is again, that golden gaze looking down on him. As if everything went according to plan, as if Phainon is once again dancing on the hands of something greater than himself, as if he’s once again something to be watched–
He feels sick.
And then, there’s a hand on his shoulder, careful and gentle. He jumps, but it’s only Cyrene, who has now sat down next to him, a worried glint in her eye.
“This doesn’t mean your doom, Phainon,” she says, soft and yet firm. “It’s in your hands, whether to be an Emanator that strives for protection… or an Emanator that pursues destruction.”
“It’s in the name, isn’t it?” And his smile is bitter and annoyed, more of a grimace, really, but after all these cycles - after all this fighting - he feels like his inner rage and fire are more difficult than ever to stoke.
Cyrene hums, just like she did as a kid. Her next smile has a hint of mischief.
“An Emanator can still go against their Aeon, you know?” she says, as if it’s unimportant, as if that simple possibility isn’t the only hope Phainon has. “What was it… Destroy Destruction with destruction?”
Phainon’s only answer is a shake of his head. He lowers his head and stares at the floor and wonders if the hope that simple idea gives him is dangerous, if the inescapable fall it presents is worth it.
It probably is.
Another moment of rebellion, another gamble. Destruction versus destruction; even if that’s what that Aeon wants, it works just as well for him. Let THEM fall to THEIR own sword, let THEM drown in THEIR own ideals and reap what THEY sowed.
Cyrene pats his shoulders with a small smile.
“The universe is so vast and unending… why should we limit ourselves so?”
And indeed, the mere idea of the universe being real and now tangible beyond their skies is overwhelming, but also exhilarating.
Cyrene’s words help, but they don’t make the path any easier.
He still can’t look the Crysos Heirs in the eye, he still spends most of his time alone, not-quite running away from them but definitely avoiding them, contemplating the new Amphoreus with tired eyes and a heavy mind. His head is still a mess of misplaced memories and a myriad of emotions he’s too tired to put a name to and process.
He’s– tired.
And overwhelmed.
It takes him days, but he finally realizes that every time he looks at something or someplace or someone in Amphoreus, there’s millions of memories associated with it that clamor up to gain his attention. It leaves him aching, nauseous, ready to retreat into a dark room and disappear for a while.
His memories consume him, they push him around like the waves at sea would push a small and insignificant fishing boat.
Amphoreus is drowning him, he realizes.
He can’t stay, he realizes.
He looks at the holy city of Okhema in the distance, all the citizens preparing for the festival celebrating their new future, and finds that he can’t bring himself to be a part of them anymore.
Instead, he looks up at the starry skies they can now see. The endless possibilities. The distance from everything he has gone through they promise.
And he makes his choice, even as his heart aches, even as he longs to find every Crysos Heir and hug them and apologize and–
He opens his wings, takes a last look at the laughter the wind carries from Okhema, and then looks up, forward. He can only look forward.
And a shooting star leaves Amphoreus without looking back.
—
Mydei’s head feels ready to burst open from all the information he has been given in such a short amount of time.
A distant part of him wonders if this is what Phainon felt when he inherited all those memories again and again and again, but then decides that it would be best to save himself the pain and worry that thought would cost him.
The most important thing is– Amphoreus is saved.
Era Nova came, though not in the way they ever expected.
Mydei doesn’t understand yet what happened – he does still need to ask quite a few dozens of question to Stelle, after all – but what he does know is that they are… free. War is over. Amphoreus can step into a bright future, thanks to the Deliverer 1, Deliverer 2 and Cyrene.
Then– why the hell is Phainon so… disheartened? Distant? Mydei has only seen him a few times since what everyone calls the True Era Nova, but he hasn’t seen the damn Deliverer smile once. He looks like a ghost, silent and haunting, gliding along Marmoreal Palace without a clear destination, eyes glassy and lost.
Mydei feels frustration and worry roar in his mind, but it’s not like he can do much – not when he has his people, his soldiers, to look out for, first and foremost. The final battle took countless lives, and it’s still his duty to carry out the rites, give them the glory and peace they deserve.
Still, he tries to talk to Phainon, tries to get him to banter with him like before, tries to goad him into a spar once or twice. He meets defeat, being faced with a short and dry conversation about Phainon’s healing injuries instead for the former approach and a panicked and horrified look for the latter, before Phainon essentially– runs off. Avoids him. Like a coward.
“Give him time,” says Tribbie, when Mydei goes to her after one too many refusals from Phainon. “He’s… gone through a lot. I think he’s still processing everything. Looking at us… must be hard.”
Mydei can’t help but flinch at that.
They still remember the last loop and the one before that, when the Express arrived, with perfect accuracy. They do remember bits and pieces of the other loops, though it’s hard to remember anything too specific; corrupted data – explained the strange Madam Herta – lost in the final fight, data that was used as kindling by Irontomb in a desperate attempt to fight them off. What little they remember is already enough to make them shiver and have nightmares. Mydei has overhead Castorice talking to Aglaea, and Tribbie talking with Castorice, and everyone with everyone.
(Everyone... except Phainon, that is, who doesn't talk to anyone.)
Mydei can understand. He remembers fragments from past lives, some so different to his own past that he sometimes wonders if he’s numerous people at once. But– that would be false. The only one like that, the only one who is actually a collage of every loop would be…
Mydei sighs and turns away.
He sees Phainon a few more times, always too far away. He takes Tribbie’s advice and leaves him space, waiting for him to approach first, as long as that would take.
“Will he be okay?” he asks the one person who probably knows Phainon’s struggles the best, seeing as she has always been on the same wavelength as him, always tied to the same chain they bond themselves with from the start.
Cyrene hums and takes a big bite out of a fruit pastry.
“He needs time, I think,” she says, just like Tribbie. And somehow, her words always seem so much heavier.
Cipher finds them soon after, and Cyrene greets her with a wide smile. And yet– Mydei sees the slight surprise in her eyes, always present with the Crysos Heirs, as if she’s always surprised that they actually remember her.
Mydei rubs his eyes tiredly. They’re all a mess, aren’t they? Struggling to accept the past, trembling under its heavy weight, cautious and wary of the future they can now touch, but oh so hopeful like a naive child.
Okhema lights up with millions of lanterns in the night in celebration of a new era, a new future, a new world full of possibilities.
The Crysos Heirs are greeted with wide smiles, respected and praised like heroes as they walk amongst the citizens. The sky over their heads is dark, but it shows the countless stars – all of them real, all of them possible planets, full of life, just like theirs.
It makes Mydei feel incredibly small, and a part of him dreads and fears it. He’s a prince, he’s a king, he’s a god, he’s always been expected to be greater than the world itself, powerful and strong, and yet now– he’s so very insignificant. In the light of countless worlds, his humble nation and people must seem like insects to whatever laid out there.
And yet, it’s also exciting. If he wanted to, he could pull on his connection to the Express, find a way to leave Amphoreus and– explore the universe. Find other warriors, each with their own ideals and codes of honor, each with their own dreams and aspirations and a shared respect for everything that made them them. Millions of worlds, all different but so similar at the end of the day.
“Dreaming of touching the stars?” asks the other pink-haired demigod – demigod? – sliding next to him with a wide grin. “Believe me, it’s much more beautiful out there.”
“I can imagine,” he says, simply. Because he can only do that for now: imagine. Maybe in the future, after making sure that Amphoreus, that his people, would be okay, he could…
“If you ever want to travel the cosmos– well, the Express is… a bit full at the moment… But! I’m sure we could figure something out!” she continues, nodding with excitement.
“You have many friends out there, right?” he asks, just out of curiosity.
“Oh, we sure do! Which reminds me… we should check on them, what happened in Amphoreus was quite important, after all…” At this point, March – Evernight? – seems to be just rambling to herself, so Mydei doesn’t pay her much mind anymore and returns to his previous stargazing, letting the loud cheers of celebration and music flow over him like a soft blanket.
Okhema glows like a miniature sun with all the lanterns hung up from the buildings and archways. People dance to the music that intertwines between different streets. The children seem to have been able to shrug off the danger of the past, instead focusing on their games and laughter.
A smile curls his lips, even as he remains on top of the roof, arms crossed.
He can see Aglaea and Anaxagoras arguing with each other over a plate of snacks and a couple of ambrosia cups; a bottle that never runs out.
He can see Hyacine and Castorice feeding snacks to Little Ica, laughing when the small animal makes a funny face at some of the strongest flavored foods.
He can see Cipher staying close to Aglaea, until her argument with Anaxagoras reaches a point where it’s just the same points over and over again. She slunks off, then, sliding into the prongs of people dancing. Mydei sees her hand reach into wrists and hands, taking necklaces and rings. He ignores it.
He sees Cerydra and Hylisens close to each other, talking in hushed whispers but with smiles on their faces.
He sees Tribbie, Trianne and Trinnon dancing in the middle of the plaza, hair a mess, a few of their ornamental flowers missing. Their smiles are blinding.
He sees Cyrene close to the musicians with one of the other Express members, Sunday maybe, both of them looking at the musicians and their instruments with interest and, in the case of Sunday, a deep nostalgia that shines in his eyes.
He sees the other members of the Astral Express, talking with each other, eating snacks, trying to stop Stelle from rummaging through the trash.
He… doesn’t see Phainon.
The contentment he felt… fizzles out like a small candle. In its place there's only a coldness he can’t quite shrug off, disappointment, but no surprise. He expected this, and yet, he hoped that – maybe for one night – Phainon would let himself see the present, instead of the past he couldn’t quite outrun. Mydei would have been with him, after all. If he could anchor Phainon to the present–
“No Phainon? Really?” Stelle blinks at him half an hour later, before grumbling and struggling to take out her teleslate with only one hand, since the other was full of snacks. “Wait, lemme– I’m gonna send him a message.”
“Oh, me too!” chirped March, just as ready to cause mayhem as her friend.
“... May as well,” sighs Dan Heng, taking out his own teleslate.
Mydei doesn’t know why, but he does the same.
At once, they all send their respective messages.
March and Stelle share wide grins and chuckles, while Mydei and Dan Heng look on with suspicion.
“Maybe Aglaea can find him. We can drag him here with us– for his own good!” points Stelle, when Dan Heng looks at her with a long-suffering sigh and hard eyes.
“I don’t think forcing him to come would be a good–” says Dan Heng, but then promptly gets cut off by March.
“Um, guys? Is it normal for our messages to just– not reach him?” she asks, hesitant and a bit afraid.
Immediately, they all check their teleslates. Indeed, their messages are sent, but they don’t reach Phainon.
“The World Wound Web is still up, it should work,” grumbles Stelle, sending another message. And then another. And another.
“Unless…” And Dan Heng trails off, twisting his mouth into a grimace. He sighs and closes his eyes. “Unless he’s just not in Amphoreus anymore.”
Everything screeches to a halt.
Mydei feels something cold spreading down his spine. Suddenly, he can’t quite feel the weight of his teleslate in his hand.
“Fuck.”