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Chapter Text

Welcome to 'Bearer of Flames'.

Before you proceed to the next chapter, thank you for giving this fan fiction a chance and a read. Additionally, I would like to take this time to give a few warnings for the content ahead.

First and foremost, I would like to announce the disclaimer that while I have written the contents of this fanfiction, I am not responsible for the content you consume as it is your choice to read it. This is your reminder to go through the tags of this fic to make sure that you want to read this fanfiction. As per this warning, any complaints about what this story contains will not be tolerated. If you do not wish to read any longer, this is the time to back out. Don't like it? Don't read it.

There are some themes that may be triggering or uncomfortable and are as follows: Death, Loss, Suicide, Survival, Religious Fanaticism, Grief and Mourning, and Self-Sacrifice.

If you wish to spread unsolicited and unnecessary hate or "critique" (that is not constructive) in the comments, I will blast back twice as hard, freeze the comment thread, and immortalize your clownery. In other words, fuck around and find out.

'Bearer of Flames' is a fic written and thought out from the combined fixation of the game Punishing Gray Raven's the Surviving Lucem chapter and a newfound love for the character Phainon from Honkai: Star Rail. He's just so asbhofiudfgjvsoivjmfoqgv babygirl. ...Ahem. This fanfiction is told in the Second Person Point of View and can be read either as a Reader-Insert or a Self/OC-Insert. The character, or the reader, is not given a name but will go by the alias 'Hestia'.

Lastly, if you wish to spread unsolicited and unnecessary hate or "critique" (that is not constructive) in the comments, I will blast back twice as hard, freeze the comment thread, and immortalize your clownery. In other words, fuck around and find out.

Honkai: Star Rail and other elements taken from other games are the intellectual property of their respective owners. It goes without saying that this fic is a fan work and I have no claim nor ownership of various story content and ideas.

Nonetheless, I hope you enjoy this fic that I have written, inspired by the height of hyper-fixation, and wish you all the best of days.

~DescendedGaia

Chapter Text

The genesis of this world, the genesis of civilization, came about when twelve roaring flames were cast upon the earth. And from those flames, great beings stepped forth and took up the mantle of guiding civilization.

Three carved the heavens and the earth from the abyss.

Three spun yarn from oblivion and wove the loom of fate.

Three sunk their fingers into reality, molding and sculpting the populous life.

Three took their weapons and stood guard at the gates of calamity.

That is the story of Amphoreus’s conception. 

Your life is not defined nor dictated by an edict of the divine nor prophecies of those who shall bleed golden ichor. You know you bleed crimson like any ordinary human being, breathe the same way they do, walk amongst the same earth as they do, and live under the same starry sky.

But at the same time, something tickles at the very edge of your consciousness, a recollection of something more and beyond this ordinary life. It’s not a tale. It’s not a story or an epic of those heroes of old. Rather…it is an ordinary story of someone in a world so mundane compared to this one that was forged by twelve Titans.

Laughter, sobs, yells, the cacophony of a sprawling steel metropolis, the melody of wind carding through your hair, and the rhythm of the sea lapping against the beach. They are all the remnants of a former you that lived and died, smiled and cried, loved and hated in a single heartbeat. 

“That sounds like it could be quite the romantic story, doesn’t it?”

You blink, eyes momentarily blinded by pastel pink, soft and bright as the stretching dusk sky. Her hair curves like the gentle tresses of the sea’s waves and her blue eyes sparkle with the mischievousness and whimsy of the celestial atlas. 

“Mou~, I think it all sounds interesting,” she kicks her feet out, tilting her head back up to feel the breeze card through her frame. “Could you tell me more about it? The life beyond this one?”

“Mmm,” you press your lips together. It’s not that you don’t want to share it with her, but you barely remember it. All you remember are momentary flashes of sounds and visions that flit past your sight like a butterfly. “...I don’t remember it that well.”

“That’s alright,” she shakes her head. “I think that just the idea of it is delightful. It’s like one of those stories don’t you think? Two destined people going through different lives just trying to meet each other.”

She pauses, an idea lighting up in her eyes before she turns to you with an indulgent smile. “Do you think you ever met someone destined for you in that past life?”

You shake your head. “No…I don’t think so.”

“You’re no fun.”

At that, giggles bubble deep within your chest and you let a few of them spill, lips curling at the edges into a small smile that makes hers all the more brighter, a little more softer.

“Do you miss it?”

You hesitate. In a way you do. In a way, you don’t. The memories are muted and out-of-reach only ever showing glimpses of something former. But here, under the sky and upon the earth, staring at the night as the stars begin to become visible as the sun sets, you don’t think you could trade this life for another.

“I don’t know,” you eventually settle, and somehow she understands. She always does. “If you had something like that, would you?”

She hums, tapping her finger to her chin in thought. “I wouldn’t know either.”

You stare after her…and somehow a flicker of something is superimposed on her. Opulent, ephemeral, yet ubiquitous in the same breath. Of someone so flawlessly perfect in a way that made them unnatural and otherworldly…yet somehow the most human out of anyone. A flawless human.

She smiles at you, eyes twinkling with a spark of something other: something divine. And you can’t help but smile back.

“Cyrene, here,” you call out softly. You pluck one of the flowers from the hill that the two of you are on. Its petals are white, yet at a certain angle in the light, the tips catch and become iridescent. You reach out, gingerly tucking a lock of her hair behind her ear and placing the flower, an Empyros Lily, on her ear. 

Her expression pauses in surprise before her lips curl into a beatific smile. She readjusts the flower behind her ear, shifting so that she gives you a better angle of her profile. “Does it look pretty on me?”

“Of course,” you laugh. “Everything always does.”

“Mou~,” she drawls, mock-sheepishness and joy in her voice. “You have quite the way with words, don’t you?”

But she dims, soft, and almost…sad. She lays down, close to you so that your arms brush against each other’s sides, and can feel your respective body warmth. 

“Cyrene?”

“No matter how I wish…there will be a need for Deliverers for this world,” Cyrene whispers. “Not only heroes can save this world. They’re called heroes because they saved the world.”

You don’t know the true meaning behind those words. But every syllable she utters trembles and carries through the very atmosphere itself, almost as if the entire world is holding its breath. 

“Even though things are beyond saving. They must become heroes because they must save it.”

You measure the weight of her words, soft yet heavy with mourning for something that you cannot see. It’s something you’ve come to know about Cyrene. Whimsical almost to the point of being childish yet deep with introspection and an endless love for something that only she can see. And in some ways that same love becomes a grief…sharp and deep.

“That sounds sad,” you say frankly.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Cyrene agrees. “People who must become heroes but cannot become heroes because they are doomed to fail as heroes. It’s not very romantic.”

“No, it isn’t,” you shake your head. You think of stories from beyond, of what you can barely parse through. A man doomed to die a hero through prophecy or could forsake all glory to live quietly. In other stories just like that, people who struggle with all their might to become something bigger than they are.

“I don’t think being a hero is ever worth it,” you tell her quietly. “It’s too much trouble than it’s worth.”

“What would you rather do?”

“Mmm, I’d like to live comfortably. Being a hero is too much work.”

Cyrene giggles. “Of course you would say that.”

You turn your head just to soak in the sight of her giggling. Yet the depth of her lament still tugs at your heart, deigning you to speak to her worries honestly without deflection.

“I don’t like stories of heroes,” you say. “They always end in some sort of tragedy. I think…I’d rather prefer a story about humans. A story about laughing, crying, smiling, frowning, and everything in between to experience. Because someway somehow it’s never as lonely as being a hero shouldering the world.”

Cyrene hums in thought. “...I think I’d like that kind of story. A story of humanity.”

She shifts, knuckles brushing against yours before she decides to curl her fingers around your palm to hold your hand. The two of you lay down like that: comfortable, quiet, together. You watch as the hues of the sky turn from pastel reds, oranges, and pinks into deep shades of blue and violet. 

“I’ll write that story for you,” you tell her all of a sudden. “A story of humanity that’ll be so romantic that you won’t feel sad anymore.”

“Hm?”

“And…,” you know in some way that these stories that Cyrene talks about are something more than just stories, something real. “That way if it ever comes to a need that heroes will need to bear the weight of the world, they will succeed because they have the strength of humanity lifting them.”

Cyrene pauses before she giggles. “Okay! I’m looking forward to that kind of story you’ll show me.”

“It’s a promise,” you beam.

Yet somehow, just like the stories of heroes doomed for tragedy, this promise you made to her was doomed to fail in the same stroke. All because…

The Black Tide arrived.

Chapter Text

When Phainon first hears about them, he hears them in whispers of the people of Okhema. A tale of derision and words dripped in poison and scorn, of a rebel leader leading too many people to the path of Okhema and of hundreds of refugees who call for the gates of Okhema to be open and to let them flood and live in the streets.

From the Tribios (Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon), he learns of their name.

“They call them Hestia,” Tribbie tells him as she flutters by his shoulder, keeping pace with him as they walk the path to join Aglaea in the Bathhouse for some meeting. “...Trinnon went down from Okhema to check out what the people are talking about, and there are hundreds of people down there waiting by the paths up to Okhema.”

“Did any of you see this Hestia?” Phainon asks. 

“No,” Tribbie shakes her head. “Apparently from what Trinnon managed to gather, Hestia is always journeying to find more survivors and bring them to Okhema.”

“A hero then,” Phainon concludes. He hasn’t seen the multitudes of people at the base of the mountain where Okhema perches, but from what he hears from Tribbie, he can only come to that conclusion. He has heard stories and whispers of the state of the general world of Amphoreus: villages razed and grand cities toppled with the encroaching Black Tide and leaving survivors scrambling for salvation in its wake. 

For someone to go out there in a dangerous world marred by the Black Tide, Phainon could only commend their bravery and initiative to guide people to Okhema. Would such heroism be a sign of prophecy? 

“But…,” Tribbie shuffles with discomfort, her expression creased in concern and guilt. “I don’t understand why we can’t accept them into Okhema. We have enough space, we should be offering them sanctuary.”

Phainon quietens before he offers the demigod a small smile. “Then we should ask Aglaea if she knows anything. You know how she is, she knows everything that’s going on here.”

And when they ask Aglaea about why none of them are permitted into the Eternal Holy City…

“Phainon, Tribbie,” Aglaea sighs. Her unseeing eyes are fixed into the distance as she weaves golden string together artfully. “We are the Chrysos Heirs. Our duty is to pluck the Coreflames of the Titans and become the gods that will hold up this world. What the people of this world desire cannot be something that we should interfere with.”

“But, there’s hundreds of people out there!” Tribbie protests. “How can…How can anyone deny them at the gates like that?”

“Is there truly nothing we can do?” Phainon asks, throwing his lot in support of Tribbie.

Aglaea falls silent, contemplative. She plucks a finger at one of her many strings and closes her eyes to hear how it thrums and resonates with a low-string sound. She lets out a shaky breath, and Phainon thinks he can hear the hint of some trembling song: one mournful yet full of conviction.

Aglaea retracts her fingers from her strings and slowly opens her eyes. She turns, her otherworldly gaze falling upon Phainon.

“I think…,” Aglaea starts, testing the feel and meanings of her words upon her tongue. “I would like to see this Hestia. To see where their string of fate leads to and from where it originates.”

It isn’t a yes or a no. But it’s a sign of something hopeful and more to come. 

Phainon has heard stories and whispers, and thus he wishes to see this figure for himself.

“I can go out and see if I can bring them to Okhema,” Phainon volunteers earnestly, placing a hand over his chest.

“Hmm…yes,” Aglaea nods. “Then I will entrust this task with you, Phainon.”

Phainon smiles and nods once and decisively. “I won’t let you down.”

He turns to leave, and once out of earshot, Tribbie turns to Aglaea.

“There’s something else going on, isn’t there?” Tribbie asks.

“Yes,” Aglaea nods. “This presents an…opportunity. If the Core Flame Phainon is to chase is what I suspect it to be. Perhaps this will set him down a better path to inherit it.”

***

When Phainon descends the mountain he sees the encampment of refugees. And it is indeed much larger than he anticipated. The perimeter of the camps stretches out for miles, and from Phainon’s descent down the mountain, he can say that it only needs to stretch a bit more before it looks like it reaches the horizon. 

When he reaches the very outskirts of the camp, he stops when a small ball bounces against the dirt and stops by his foot.

“Ah!”

Phainon blinks when a little girl tumbles out. Her eyes are zeroed in on the ball, but her vision traces the ball to his foot and up his body until her eyes meet his face. “Oh…”

Phainon smiles softly. He kneels to pick up the ball and the little girl startles.

“Tha-That’s mine!” she interjects, loud and nervous. Phainon pauses before he holds out her little ball in an offering. 

“Here you go,” Phainon assures her. “I’m not trying to take it. I was going to give it back.”

She stares at him suspiciously before inching forward and hesitantly taking the ball from Phainon’s hand. Once it's secure in her grip, her suspicion fades away into a bright smile. 

“Thank you, Mister!” she tilts her head back to give Phainon a full view of her smile.

“You’re welcome,” Phainon chuckles. “What’s your name?”

“My name?” the girl blinks. “My name’s Phoebe. What’s yours?”

“You can call me Phainon,” he replies warmly. 

“Oh!” the girl brightens. Her lips twist as she tries to pronounce Phainon’s name. “Phai—”

“Phoebe! Where are you?!”

A woman tumbles out of the same bushes from which Phoebe emerged. Her hair is tied into a pragmatic bun, but it reveals scars that stretch all over her neck and the underside of her jaw and dip into the right side of her body and her clothes. 

“There you are!” the woman sighs in relief. “Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you?”

She pauses, just registering Phainon standing beside Phoebe. Her eyes light up in a fearful recognition, taking in Phainon’s regalia and all the suns etched upon his clothing. 

“Esteemed Chrysos Heir!” the woman stumbles over herself to curtsy. “My apologies for not recognizing you and for Phoebe.”

“Auntie?” Phoebe tilts her head in confusion, but this woman furiously motions for her to come over. Phoebe turns to Phainon in confusion and a bit of trepidation before shuffling over to her aunt’s side.

“There is no reason for you to stand on ceremony,” Phainon shakes his head. “You may call me Phainon.”

“Then, Lord Phainon,” the woman dips her head even further.

Phainon can’t help feeling awkward and rubs the nape of his neck. “May I ask for your name?”

The woman freezes before she looks up with a hint of fear. However, when faced with Phainonn’s, hopefully, disarming smile, she relaxes just the tiniest bit. “My name is Lamia, Lord Phainon. May I ask why you are here?”

“Ah, I’m here to see Hestia,” Phainon replies. “If that’s possible. I’m interested to meet them and Aglaea has also wanted to see them as well.”

“...Hestia?” Lamia asks. She reaches out, bringing Phoebe to her leg. “My apologies Lord Phainon, but you just missed them. They returned with another group of refugees before setting out just this morning.”

“Oh…,” Phainon slumps. “I was hoping to meet them…”

Lamia hesitates, smoothing down Phoebe’s hair before she tentatively offers an alternative. “If it’s alright with you, Lord Phainon, then perhaps I can take you to Helena. She is…has assumed the role of leading this camp and works closely with Hestia.”

“Really?” Phainon brightens, eyes lighting up in delight. “Then that would be great! Thank you very much, Lamia!”

Lamia blinks, taken away by Phainon’s radiance. What she bears witness to is contrary to her perception of the Chrysos Heirs or anyone from Okhema. A small surprised smile curls upon her lips and she nods once.

“Then, I’ll take you to Helena,” Lamia replies. “If you would follow me, Lord Phainon.”

“Of course!” Phainon beams. “You have my thanks.”

She leads him through the camps of all the people here. There are camps of different sizes and arrangements, whether family units or singular people living. And there are many faces and hundreds of more expressions: relief, happiness, exhaustion, sadness, grief, anger, wariness. But all of their eyes follow Phainon, wondering why there is someone from Okhema, someone so opulent, amongst the masses. 

Phainon stifles the instinct to shudder under their collective scrutiny.

The pathway begins to clear up as they emerge from a barely established street. 

“How is the situation? Have we gotten the newcomers settled in?” 

“They’ve been settling in pretty well. But there are a lot of people concerned about the supplies we have…”

“...And a few people are talking about how Hestia is bringing too many people.”

The woman in the front sighs, flipping her blond hair over her shoulder and her green eyes narrowing in distaste. “Who is saying that Hestia is bringing too many people?”

The two people reporting to her shift uncomfortably under her gaze. Sensing that the two of them are hesitant to answer her question, she sighs tiredly and closes her eyes. “We’ll have to send out more people to go out and look for more supplies. It’ll take some time for Aristaeus and his ilk to produce enough good milk and eggs to circulate, and even then we have too many mouths to feed…”

“If only Okhema would let us in,” one of her reporters mutters sullenly.

“Helena,” Lamia calls out softly. The woman perks up, turning around. Her narrowed expression softens when she spots Lamia.

“Lamia, what do you need?”

“Oh,” Lamia motions over to Phainon. “Lord Phainon, one of the esteemed Chrysos Heirs wanted to see Hestia. And so I brought him to you.”

Helena blinks, expression turning severe as she takes in Phainon’s appearance. The two reporters lean in toward each other, eyes darting to Phainon and whispering gossip amongst themselves.

“...One of the Chrysos Heirs?” Helena repeats suspiciously. “What business do you have with Hestia?”

“I had hoped to meet Hestia,” Phainon replies. “And Aglaea also expressed an interest in meeting them at Okhema to…,” Phainon hesitates to continue because as much as he has learned under Aglaea, the demigod is still very mysterious beyond Phainon’s understanding. “...assess whether or not to open the gates of Okhema.”

Helena's frown becomes even more pronounced and the two behind her whisper even more furiously. 

“...I see,” Helena remarks curtly. “Well, if you haven’t heard, Hestia had just left at dawn. It will be a week at best and three months at worst before they come back.”

“Then…,” Phainon hesitates. “If Hestia needs help, you can direct me where they’ve gone and—”

“I’m sorry, Lord Phainon, that’s impossible,” Helena cuts him off. “First off, Hestia never goes in a set path to find survivors and we don’t know which direction they go. Second of all, going out where the Black Tide has claimed most of the land is suicide.”

“Oh…,” Phainon dims. He can hear the scathing implications of something being left unsaid, but he isn’t quite sure what it is. 

“For now, you can wait until Hestia comes back,” Helena shrugs dismissively. “But why now? I’ve constantly reached out to Okhema asking if we would be allowed in for years, and only now you’ve come down here?”

“I…,” Phainon is taken aback by the hostility that is shown to him. The words ‘I don’t know’ almost fall from his lips, but he swallows them before he can. No one would appreciate an admission of ignorance, and so he keeps his silence.

“Helena,” Lamia cuts in quietly. She doesn’t need to say anymore as Helena lets out a breath and the tension in her shoulders. 

“You can stay here as long as you need to or go back to Okhema if you want,” Helena barely stops herself from spitting out the words. “Hestia will return and then you can talk to them. We’ll see what happens then.”

Helena looks up to the globe that the great titan Kephale holds up high into the celestial atlas. “But I’ll tell you now, Lord Phainon. We hold no love for the divine.”

With that, Helena turns away to handle other affairs for the refugee camp leaving Phainon feeling so off-kilter. He has been the subject of uncomfortable worship and askance for revelations from the divine, being one of the Chrysos Heirs. The frank hostility and wariness is a new thing. 

Not that Phainon prefers one or the other it’s just…something he isn’t used to.

“Mister Phainon,” Phoebe reaches up and tugs at Phainon’s finger. “You can stay with me and Auntie if you want.”

Phainon blinks, offering Phoebe a small smile and gently patting her head. He turns to Lamia who delicately intertwines her fingers together.

“Would that be alright with you?” Phainon asks.

Lamia’s lips part before she presses them close and looks down at Phoebe who’s looking up at her imploringly. “Yes, you’re welcome to join us, Lord Phainon.”

***

Phainon learns quickly that amongst the refugees, he is not welcomed but he is not quite shunned either. He can only assume that it’s because Lamia and Phoebe have welcomed him and that they do not seek to drive him out.

He could easily go back to Okhema. There is no need to suffer and experience the hardships that these refugees are going through on a day-to-day basis. However, there’s something that keeps him here. He doesn’t know exactly what it is, but he listens to it nonetheless.

And he begins to learn.

“Phoebe calls you her aunt,” Phainon asks Lamia quietly. “Where are her parents?”

Lamia stops breath stuttering while she is stitching a fellow refugee’s clothes. She lowers her needle and cloth, looking at where Phoebe is playing with the other children. 

“I never saw her father,” Lamia confesses quietly. “Her mother told us that he was lost to the Black Tide. As for her mother…when we traveled from Old Ladon and relocated here…she died while giving birth to Phoebe.”

“Oh…,” Phainon exhales quietly. He looks out to Phoebe who’s giggling as she raises her hands and waves to one in their group currently holding the ball.

“Toss it to me! Toss it to me!” Phoebe laughs carefreely. 

“I decided to take her in and look after her,” Lamia continues. “I’ve been raising her ever since.”

“She seems very happy,” Phainon offers. “I’d like to say that you’ve been raising her well.”

Lamia’s eyes grow wet. She holds a hand to her mouth, silencing a quiet sob as her other hand curls around a flower woven into her hair. It’s not a true flower, but rather several fabrics stitched together beautifully into a delicate flower with cerulean petals that stretch from yellow filaments. 

Phainon isn’t too sure about what it is, but he’s pretty sure the flower is an imitation of the Iris flower. He’s curious about the story behind it, but in the face of Lamia’s expression that belied a sharp and unhealed grief, he refrains.

***

“Mister Phainon!” Phoebe bounds up to him with a few of her friends one day. “Everybody kept on talking about you and the Crisis Hares?”

“Chrysos Heirs?” Phainon offers the correction with a small amused smile. 

“Yeah! That one!” a boy pipes up. “What’s that? Can you tell us?”

“I wanna know!”

“I wanna know too!”

“Tell us!”

“Tell us! Please!”

“Alright, alright,” Phainon laughs as he waves his hands in a gesture to placate the insatiability of the youth. “I’ll tell you guys, okay? You need to settle down a little bit, alright?”

Thankfully, the children are obedient but gaze upon with excitable wide eyes like a den of puppies. Phainon’s smile grows soft as he leans back and exaggerates his words and movements with a flair of whimsy and mystery. “Hmm, where should I start?”

“The beginning!” Phoebe immediately pipes up. A moment later she realizes her manners before shifting in embarrassment. “Please?”

“Alright, alright,” Phainon stifles the urge to reach out and pat Phoebe’s head. He doesn’t have a talent for the musical arts like Tribbios, but he knows the ballad and prophecy by heart enough to recite it with some extravagance to these children.

He clears his throat before his voice swells into a grandiose chant. “Happiness abound in this lush land by gods chosen. Giants raised their glasses in a toast beheld by the twelve constellations.”

“Three carved the heavens and the earth, three wove the threads of fate, three molded life with their hands, and three guided calamity’s gate.”

Thankfully, it seems that Phainon is expressing the prophecy in an engaging enough way that captures the undivided attention of his little audience. They hang onto each of his words, fascinated and anticipating the next one eagerly.

“They declared the world too unstirring, hence wished laughter amongst the living. Thus you and I were created, with words and songs to weave, and love and intimacy to give.”

“Thus, creation was complete, who then will bear the weight of humanity’s souls, to lighten the steps of the living as a whole?”

Phainon releases a breath and turns his head to the mountain. The children follow his gaze laying eyes upon the figure of Kephale holding up the light that illuminates the vast sky. 

“Oh great Kephale, all-knowing father of stature so tall, yet low does their gaze willingly fall. With the light of dawn heavy upon their shoulders, golden ichor spills unto the land forming the boiling river that flows through the legacies of heroes who take their stand.”

He lets the prophecy hang in the air, reverberating through the strands of the atmosphere and sinking into the soil of the earth. 

“So does that mean the Chrysos Heirs are supposed to be heroes?” a boy asks.

“Yes,” Phainon nods. “Us Chrysos Heirs are tasked with saving this world and making sure that everyone will be able to have a smile on their face.”

“Then, you’re just like Hestia!” Phoebe laughs in delight. “The Chrysos Heirs are just like Hestia! Hestia saved all of us!”

“They did?” Phainon asks gently. He didn’t want to fish for information like this, but if the opportunity presented itself, he wouldn't deny it. 

“Hestia came down from the sky and turned the night into morning!”

“Mhm! When I hurt my knee, Hestia made sure to put medicine and bandage it!”

“Hestia would always do their best to make sure all of us get here!”

“Do you guys remember when Hestia pushed back the Black Tide so that we could walk through?”

“Hestia sounds like a very good hero,” Phainon smiles at the children softly. Phoebe nods enthusiastically.

“Hestia’s the best,” Phoebe beams. “Maybe Hestia, Mr. Phainon, and all the Chrysos Heirs can work together to save the world!”

“Huh? No way! Hestia is way better than the Chrysos Heirs!”

“But the Chrysos Heirs sound so cool! ”

“Guys…Mr. Phainon is right there.”

Phainon laughs, loud and hearty. The more Phainon hears about this Hestia, the more he wants to meet them and get to know them. Who is the person behind all of these stories and admiration? 

At the thought of all these people rescued and delivered to salvation from their ruined homes, villages, and cities, something that simmers low in Phainon’s heart that’s vaguely familiar. It isn’t until a week amongst the people that he realizes what it is.

Chapter Text

Upon the next day, Phainon takes the initiative to learn more about the people that have set this place as their temporary home. Thus, he asks Lamia to introduce him to more of the people living here. He doesn’t ask to learn about their stories out of respect, but it seemed that Lamia understood the unsaid request nonetheless.

“We’re here at the medical tents,” Lamia informs Phainon. They approach a tent, stark against the brown and black, with a tarp pale like the white ash from a fire. “Medea is in charge of running them.”

Arf!

Phainon blinks and is immediately enraptured by a small Border Collie that jumps out from the folds of the tent. Its tongue lolls and its tail wags a mile a minute. How can Phainon resist?

He grins, dumb and dopey, as he kneels down and rubs his hands all over the dog’s fur. “Aww, who’s a good boy? You are! Hahaha! You’re so soft too!”

“Hector! Don’t go running off like that!”

A teenage boy leaning on a cane saunters out a few seconds later. He pauses when he sees Phainon kneeling in front of his dog. “Uh…”

The boy whips to Lamia in fright. “Is that the Chrysos Heir?!”

“Ah,” Phainon cuts in before the boy devolves into any more fright. “There’s no need! You can just call me Phainon.”

“Oh…alright,” the boy answers with great hesitance. He looks down where Hector is lavishing in Phainon’s attention and his expression twists into something akin to grief and regret. He pats his hand against his thigh audibly and repeatedly. “C’mon Hector! C’mon boy!”

Hector perks up at his name and whips around to bound up to his owner and twist in between his legs.

“This is Patroclus,” Lamia introduces him. “He was one of the refugees with me when we came here from Ladon.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Phainon introduces. He rises from his kneel and offers a hand.

“Erm…the pleasure’s all mine?” Patroclus replies, words pitching in confusion. Fortunately, he still takes Phainon’s hand and shakes it once. 

“Your dog’s really nice!” Phainon compliments.

“My dog?” Patroclus blinks and looks down at Hector who’s rubbing his face into Patroclus’s good leg. Patroclus doesn’t say anything else and turns to Lamia instead. “What are you doing with Lord Phainon, Auntie?”

“Lord Phainon asked me to introduce him to and teach more of what’s going on here,” Lamia answers. Patroclus turns back to Phainon, expression creased in scrutinization.

“Oh…” Patroclus presses his lips together. “Well, I’m Patroclus. I help Medea out sometimes with the medical tents, but I’m mostly in charge of growing herbs and flowers that we need for medicine.”

Patroclus quietens, shifting on his good leg before jutting a thumb over his shoulder. “Medea’s inside if you want to meet her but…it’s not going to be a pretty sight going inside just so you know. People inside have been touched by the Black Tide so they’re still in the middle of treatment.”

“My thanks for the warning,” Phainon nods slowly but gratefully. 

“Well, I’ll be going to the gardens,” Patroclus informs, nodding to Lamia. “Auntie will probably show you there later but uh…good luck going around the place? I guess?”

With that, Patroclus turns, beckoning Hector along, as he limps in the direction to his aforementioned garden. Lamia takes the lead, stepping forward to open the entrance to the medical tents.

Phainon follows her inside and is immediately hit in the face with the stench of pestilence and encroaching death . There are hoarse moans of pain that intermittently linger in the atmosphere and they go deeper into the medical tent until they see a lady who stands over a young adult and is slathering some sort of salve over his scratches.

“Medea—!” the man whines, bottom lip curling as he hisses in pain, orange hair bouncing every time he tries to lean away from Medea’s touch. However, Medea is not having any of it and grasps her patient firmly to be able to put on the medicine.

“Jason, hold still,” Medea speaks low but firm. “You wouldn’t be in these tents if you weren’t so damn reckless all the time!”

“But I’ve gotta be!” Jason protests. “You heard from Helena how supplies are growing scarce. Even though Hestia managed to bring back some farmers with their animals and seeds, it’ll take some time before they can actually grow anything. And we’ve been hearing nothing from Okhema either.”

“Yes, I understand that,” Medea shoots back. “ But , carelessly and recklessly risking your life is not something you should be doing! If you go out there and die someone else is going to have to take the same dangerous risks.”

“Ah…,” Jason trails off. “Right…”

Then he notices Lamia and Phainon and perks up. “Ah! Lamia! You’re here! Is there something you need?”

Medea turns around, indigo eyes softening when she looks at Lamia. “Are your scars feeling tight? Anything you need?”

“I’m alright, Medea,” Lamia waves her off gently. “The salve that you gave me last week is more than enough for the month. Instead, I’m giving a tour to Lord Phainon here.”

The two look at Phainon, and Phainon’s been getting the hang of not shifting or stiffening under the abrupt attention of these refugees.

“Ah, the Chrysos Heir,” Medea speaks, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “My apologies for not being able to stand on ceremony, Lord Phainon. But I don’t think that the medical tents here is something that someone of your stature should be visiting.”

“Ah, you really don’t need to stand on ceremony,” Phainon waves. He’s a little overwhelmed by how many times he has been met with suspicion and wariness from the refugees here. But he hopes that going out like this will warm them up to him. “And I just wanted to go around and learn about what’s been going around in this camp.”

Medea makes a soft hum in interest. She turns to Jason who is absolutely beaming. “ Jason .”

“I can help!” Jason volunteers. “If you’re here, then that means that you can get the gates of Okhema to open and let us in!”

Phainon purses his lips in a hesitant unsure smile. “I can certainly talk to Aglaea. But I’m not sure how much I can do…”

The tent falls into a disappointed silence. Medea scoffs before she pats a cotton swab onto a cut on Jason’s cheek with a bit more force than before. It makes Jason lean away with a squeak.

“You’re already doing more than anyone else has for the past few years,” Medea shrugs. “It’s gotten to the point that we’re not hoping that Okhema opens their gate to accept us. We just need it to open because there’s too many people out there who are struggling to survive. And our camp won’t be enough to sustain everyone.”

“Patroclus has been growing as many herbs as he can with the help of others,” Lamia supplies gently and helpfully. “But we consume more than we can produce. And the soil at the base of the mountain is not good for growing those kinds of herbs and flowers.”

“Oh…,” Phainon sighs. He looks over the many people suspended in cots and mattresses in the tent. They’re in all forms of hurt and healing, but there is a constant undercurrent of struggling to survive in these conditions.

Life down here at the refugee camps is so different from the lives lived in Okhema. Even though Amphoreus faces the imminent threat of oblivion, people in Okhema are still able to live a life of luxury. They don’t struggle, protected by Kephale and the Chrysos Heirs. And how is it fair to exclude all of these refugees and survivors from being able to at least not fear for their own survival? To not fear where their next meal will come from? To not fear if their struggle to survive throughout the days will only result in their end?

“I’m sorry.” Because what else is Phainon supposed to say?

“We don’t need your apologies,” Medea immediately shoots back.

“Medea!” Jason gasps appalled. He turns an apologetic but nervous smile to Phainon. “Sorry, Medea’s a bit prickly, but we appreciate the sentiment. It’s just that…for people like us, apologies won’t really do anything.”

Phainon dims. 

Medea pauses and puts down her cotton swab and sighs audibly. “...I guess you’re not all that bad.”

Phainon pauses before his lips curve into a soft small smile. Yet he gazes into the distance because that feeling in his heart grows a little stronger, flares a little brighter. It’s so familiar, yet he can’t put a finger on it.

***

“Ah! So you’re the Chrysos Heir that everyone has been talking about! Nice to meet you, Lord Phainon!”

“Nice to meet you too!” Phainon nods and shakes the man’s hand. The man, Aristaeus, grins widely as he grasps Phainon’s arm firmly before motioning out to the small clearing that was made for his animals: a singular cow, half a dozen chickens, and two goats.

“Might not be much but at least it’s better than nothing,” Aristaeus tells Phainon. Despite the dismal content of his words, his voice is peppy and optimistic. “Hestia was really helpful in managing to get this over to this camp. Heard that you were going around to see how it’s like before asking Okhema to open the gates?”

“That’s hopefully the plan,” Phainon replies. Aristaeus beams and pats Phainon’s back.

“Good man,” Aristeaus nods. “The people here need all the help they can get. But as much as I love these animals here, they’re nothing compared to my actual treasure.”

“Hm?”

“Lemme show you.”

Aristaeus waddles over to a box that’s near Patroclus’s gardens and pulls out a slot, revealing deep amber honeycombs and the rich oozing honey that drips out. 

“Managed to bring my bees with me,” Aristeaus explains. “These babies make a lot of rich and sweet honey. It was a good thing that they had flowers here, and it’ll be a good win-win situation here.”

And Phainon’s a bit taken aback because the way Aristeaus addresses him is so casual and carefree unlike the others in the refugee camp. Why? Why is he so comfortable around Phainon where everyone else isn’t?

“Why…,” Phainon hesitates. “Are you alright with me here?”

“Hm?” Aristaeus blinks as he dips a finger into the honeycomb and licks the honey off. “...Ah.”

His smile grows less bright, but no less genuine. “The people I came here with kept on telling me that I should’ve abandoned my animals here. That they were too much trouble than they worth. But Hestia believed in the value of these animals and still did their best to make sure all of us got here safely.”

“You’re a Chrysos Heir, eh?”

Phainon nods silently.

“The fact that you’re here listening to all of us is already more than enough for me,” Aristaeus replies. “Haven’t been here for long, but I can understand the people here. Even though they look like they don’t like you being here, even though they swear up and down that they don’t believe in Okhema, you’ve already fanned the flames of hope that Hestia ignited.”

“If you see, hear, and understand us, then you can’t easily turn us away. And I don’t think you’re that type of person. Beyond that, I still believe in the Titans and the Chrysos Heirs. I believe that just like how Hestia was a hero who brought us here, you’ll also become a hero that’ll protect us.”

Aristaeus turns a sad look to the multitude of people huddled amongst each other in the refugee camp. “I just hope that things won’t be too late for us.”

***

What stands out to Phainon, meeting all of these people gathered together at the base to Okhema’s mountain is a story of resilience and perseverance. But it is a tale that blooms from an undercurrent anthem of grief, mourning, loss, and suffering.

With every person he met, that feeling in his heart grew stronger and stronger until Phainon remembered what it was. 

Anger.

An anger for the world. An anger for the injustice of it all. An anger for all the people that were lost. An anger for the people who suffered. An anger for Aedes Elysiae…for Cyrene .

When he cried out to the heavens, no one answered. There was not even a sliver of salvation or acknowledgement from the gods that they heard his prayers for Aedes Elysiae. But the gods above could not acknowledge their prayers, unable to move from their pedestals or save anyone from the Black Tide’s corruption.

So he became a Chrysos Heir, to become the god that would protect the people.

And even though he has not yet ascended to become a demigod, that purpose to become a aegis, a guardian, a hero pushed him forward. Year by year, that anger he held in his heart for everything was set aside and nearly forgotten.

But being here amongst the refugees, Phainon cannot help the frustrated rage and helpless anger at the world for these people.

“Mr. Phainon?”

“Hm?” Phainon looks down when Phoebe reaches up and curls her hand around Phainon’s finger. “Is there something wrong?”

Phoebe shakes her head. The two of them watch as people come together to place all sorts of wood together: logs, branches, twigs, and more. 

Helena stands in the front. Even though her eyes are fixed upon the pile of wood, Phainon receives the impression that she’s lost in her own world. She procures a matchbox from her cloak and strikes a match. She holds up that small flame, just to observe it for a moment. Then, with a graceful flick her wrist, the match twirls thrice in the air before joining the pile of wood.

Slowly but surely, the flames grow in size and heat. They trail lazily through the gaps, ebbing over the logs until the entire hill is gently set ablaze.

“Here you go,” Lamia speaks gently. She kneels to hand two imitation small flowers woven from mismatched fabrics. 

“What are these for?” Phainon asks quietly.

“A memoir,” Lamia replies simply. “A way to remember the people we’ve lost.”

Phoebe holds the two flowers close and looks down on them. The usual happy smile on her lips has faded away to a somber expression. “...Mr. Phainon? Can you go with me?”

Phainon purses his lips together in uncertainty. He looks to Lamia for help. Lamia’s lips curl into a small smile and offers Phainon another one of her imitation flowers. Phainon stares at it before he gratefully takes it.

Uncharacteristically, Phoebe silently tugs on Phainon’s finger and he lets her pull him to the bonfire. Phoebe is quiet as she holds these two flowers to her chest, staring at the flames. Perhaps she’s thinking about her parents she never knew? Phainon can’t quite say for sure.

He holds this procured flower for him. He thinks of his parents he once knew. He thinks of his once-home, Aedis Elysiae. He thinks of Cyrene and all of her whimsy and care.

“May this world never have need for a Deliverer.”

Well I’m here now, Cyrene , Phainon thinks as he stares into the dancing edges of the blaze. He is one of the Chrysos Heirs, but maybe in another world he would know nothing but bliss amid the fields of Aedis Elysiae. However, this is not that word. So here Phainon is standing amongst the many that have lost.

He watches Phoebe let go of her flowers and release them into the fire. Phainon follows suit a moment later, one last prayer and thought for a dear friend he would never see again.

The two of them return to Lamia and Phoebe lets go of Phainon’s finger to bury her face into Lamia’s skirts. What catches Phainon’s attention, however, is the percussive sound of delicate notes trailing in the air.

The origin? A band of people sitting in a semicircle with different instruments. One of them holds a small piano over their lap, gingerly pressing the keys and eliciting a sweet but sorrowful sound. The melody dims until a flute sustains the song, undertoned with delicate plucking strings.

“Who are they?” Phainon asks quietly.

“The Tempest Troupe,” Lamia answers easily. There is something sad and nostalgic in her body posture. 

“Is that the song that Iris wrote?” Phoebe looks up at Lamia. Lamia, in turn, pats her head gently, but her eyes are still trained upon the musicians. 

“...Yes. It is. ‘Dreaming to the Glowing Place’.”

An accordion joins the ensemble, adding an element of whimsy to the measured melody. Phainon watches as the music begins to swell, each note imbued with emotion and an unheard story. And then all the instruments join to crescendo into a melody that climbs so high in the air: a unified but lonely song of sorrowful reminiscence.

“Lord Phainon?”

“Yes?”

Lamia reaches out, taking Phainon’s hand in both of hers so gently it feels like something in Phainon’s heart is bleeding. “Please…save our people. I know it’s not my place to as you this but…our people have already lost so much. I don’t want to see them losing anymore.”

Phainon gazes at her hands, and that anger within his heart seems to grow even brighter and hotter. An anger extending on behalf of the people here in this camp. Because everyone had lost something. It leads Phainon to wonder about the story behind Hestia. What propels them to work tirelessly to guide more survivors to sanctuary?

But is learning about Hestia matter? No. It shouldn’t. Whether or not these people should be allowed entry to Okhema shouldn’t be predicated on the characteristics of their common savior. They should be allowed entry because they’re seeking safety. Nothing more, nothing less.

“I’ll do my best,” Phainon replies. It’s not a promise. Phainon doesn’t know if he’ll be able to convince Aglaea and he isn’t going to give these people empty promises. Instead, he’ll give them his effort.

***

It’s late at night, long after the grand bonfire has faded to a smoldering heap of white-gray ash and glowing embers. 

Helena sits alone, gaze sitting distantly upon the flame’s remains. Phainon doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t. He approaches the leader of the refugee camp and, once gauging that she won’t lash out against his mere presence, sits close but not beside her.

They quietly sit together, cradled in the warmth of the hearth’s afterglow. 

“So, Lord Phainon,” Helena breaks the silence first. “What do you think about all of us?”

Phainon exhales softly. He doesn’t answer Helena’s question, but returns a question of his own. “What do your people need in Okhema?”

Helena pauses, slowly turning to Phainon. For a second, her face flickers with a raw expression of hope and disbelief, but she quickly masks it with narrowed suspicion. “Did you not say your lot needed to meet Hestia before making a decision?”

“But you don’t know when they’re coming back, do you?” Phainon returns. “And I understand how everyone here can’t afford to sit around and wait anymore. Entrance to Okhema shouldn’t be determined by meeting one person.”

Helena quietens before she returns her eyes to the smoking hearth. “...Have you lost someone before?”

Phainon thinks of days of laughter, of fingers brushing through his hair, and of a smile crowned in pastel pink and offered him happiness.

“...Yes.”

Helena nods once. “This godforsaken world takes too much away from us.”

Phainon lets out something between a surprised laugh and a tired sigh. He doesn’t know whether it’s one or the other, both, or neither. However, it makes Helena relax just the tiniest bit around him.

“I’ve been hearing about how you’re going around to learn about the people who live here,” Helena continues. “But I can’t trust you or your words. No hard feelings. I’m in charge of too much people here and too many people depend on me to trust you.”

“I can respect that,” Phainon offers.

Helena turns to nail Phainon with an intense look. But there’s no hostility, just a pure sheer conviction that burns in her eyes. A determination that Phainon has seen in the eyes of all the people living here.

“I’m not going to believe your words just because you said them,” Helena declares. “I won’t set my people up for hope and then have them face disappointment and despair. But…for what it’s worth. Thanks.”

Phainon smiles, soft and genuine. He can only remember that time when Cyrene drew a card for him and told him that he was to be a hero loved by all. Phainon had never wanted to be a hero but…he hopes that he doesn’t Cyrene or any of these people down.

Chapter Text

“~In the endless darkness~”

He remembers back at Aedes Elysiae. Before the Chyrsos Heirs, before the Black Tide, before the name Phainon , he was just a little boy following Cyrene's shadow and footsteps and the companion always by her side.

“~I find you with your scent~” she sings, head tilted back as her pink hair catches in the sunset’s light.

And the one next to her sings along. Not as soft or graceful as Cyrene, but there is something emotional to their voice that compliments and harmonizes with Cyrene’s vocals. “~Even if I fall asleep for infinity, don’t leave my universe~”

Then the two sing the next lyrics together, voices swelling in unison and shimmering in the air. “~Oh my Clematis, hope bloomed from the abyss~”

“~Oh my Clematis, always stay by my side~”

They hum the last notes of the song together, breathy and fragile as they lean into each other. When the tail end of the melody fades into the atmosphere, Phainon finally pipes up.

“What’s so fun about sitting here, singing, and just staring at the stars?”

The one beside Cyrene stares at him with a pointed look. “If you don’t find it fun, you can just leave.”

Phainon bristles, but Cyrene giggles, lightly swatting her friend on the shoulder. 

“Don’t be mean to him,” Cyrene chides them. “If you want, we can teach you the words so you can sing it with us.”

“He’ll sound like a dying rat,” her friend accuses. 

“Will not!” Phainon shoots back hotly. “Cyrene! Come onnnnnn! We can do more fun stuff than this.”

“Didn’t you promise them that you wouldn’t make a fuss about what we do for the next week?” Cyrene giggles.

Phainon grumbles, lips pressed together in a pout. 

“Come here,” Cyrene smiles as she pats the earth next to her. “Sit with us. They can teach you the song.”

“Cyrene,” they stare at them, but Cyrene gives them a beam that makes them melt.

“Please?”

“...Alright, fine.”

~Oh my Clematis, hope withered in the abyss~

~Oh my Clematis, please stay by my side~

~Ah…my Clematis…~

And he stares down at it: The broken, mangled body of Cyrene as golden ichor flowed around the sword that pierced her heart. The screams of her friend haunted his ears as they were thrown away and left for dead in the grasp of the Black Tide.

***

He ascends the mountain to Okhema. In his heart he holds an anger that smolders and tarnishes, dancing as it is fueled by the screams of horror and anguish of those who were not delivered from the apocalypse: of those who desperately prayed for salvation and received nothing and of those who gave up on hope and were forced to build their makeshift havens.

But what pushes him up the mountain are the fervent wishes of the desolate, the need and desire to offer them help by any means necessary. 

Because the tragedy of Aedes Elysiae cannot happen again.

“Snowy!” Tribbie greets him, lighting up at the sight of Phainon. “Are you okay? What happened with the refugees?”

“Everything’s alright, Tribbie,” Phainon laughs, pulling on a smile as easily as the sky was blue. “It’s a long story, but I need to talk to Aglaea.”

“Oh…,” Tribbie dims. She shifts, her expression troubled, and Phainon tilts his head in confusion.

“Tribbie, what’s wrong?”

“I think…it’s better if you see for yourself,” Tribbie says instead of answering Phainon’s question.

Phainon doesn’t know what it is, but there’s a sense of foreboding in the atmosphere that he distinctly does not like. When they climb up the hills of Okhema and into the Marmoreal Palace, Aglaea is with another person.

Her delicately placid expression is pinched with a barely-veiled frown, brows barely angled in a furrow. The man talking to her, nearly screaming expletives, is not very much to look at. He is aged, hints of silver peeking out in his normally brown hair, and his face is creased in a disdainful sort of anger.

“Agy!” Tribbie calls out, interrupting their conversation. “Snowy’s back!”

Aglaea turns her head, unseeing eyes staring in their general direction. 

“Phainon,” Aglaea greets, uncaring if she snubs the man. And, well, the other is quite offended, evidenced by the way he reels back with an indignant expression. “How was your trip to the refugee camp?”

“It was…alright,” Phainon replies. His tone is uncharacteristically slow and measured, wary of the man who stands beside Aglaea.

“I see,” Aglaea closes her eyes. She motions in the man’s general direction. “This is Elder Menelaus, a member of the Council of Elders.”

Ah , Phainon winces. Never had the relationship between Okhema’s Council of Elders and the Chrysos Heirs been…cordial. Even after Aglaea had assumed Okhema’s leadership position in the wake of the Black Tide’s crisis, the Council of Elders constantly iterated and reiterated that this was a temporary arrangement. Too many times had Aglaea quelled rebellions, stamped out attempted usurpations, and foiled even assassinations from the Council of Elders. 

Menelaus raises his nose toward Phainon and Tribbie in disdain. He clicks his tongue, eyes roving up and down Phainon’s person.

“A Chrysos Heir… fraternizing with the outsiders.”

Phainon bristles but stops when Aglaea raises a hand. 

“Elder Menelaus,” Aglaea speaks. Her voice is deceptively soft, but there is a razor-thin danger hiding behind her words because she is not a mere Chrysos Heir but a Demigod that has already plucked and inherited the Coreflame of Mnestia, the Titan of Romance. “Speak your grievances now, lest your prattle tests my already thin patience.”

The or else hangs heavily in the air, unsaid but heard all the same. Despite the undaunted front he tries to put on, there is a tremble and falter to Menelaus’s frame that betrays his fear. Unfortunately, he still musters the courage to continue his berating demands. 

“You may be the current leader of Okhema right now,” Menelaus scowls. “But do not forget the power you hold is on the condition of the Council’s permission. And that permission can easily be rescinded if you decide to go with this foolish act of accepting these outsiders into the city walls.”

“What?!”

“Snowy, no!”

A mere hand motion on Aglaea’s part or an interjection on Tribbie’s part is not enough to assuage Phainon’s anger. Phainon storms up and grabs a fistful of Menelaus’s robes. “Do you know how those people are suffering out there? They’re waiting for a chance to be safe in Okhema, and you’re going to deny them that?!”

“Get your hand off of me, barbarian!” Menelaus yells instead. 

“Phainon,” Aglaea places a hand on Phainon’s shoulder and gently pulls him away from the Elder. Phainon releases his grip on Menelaus, and he scowls as he fixes his robes into some semblance of the orderly fashion they were formerly in.

“Tch,” Menelaus clicks his tongue. “Uncouth barbarians, the lot of you! Those refugees must be cut from the same cloth as well!”

Aglaea’s hand squeezes Phainon’s shoulder, a gentle and subtle reminder not to beat the Elder over his head. However, her words are no less sharp.

“Council of Elders you are,” Aglaea tilts her head mockingly. “And you preach about how power must be divested to humanity, but you inhumanely exclude the people in need from coming in?”

Menelaus only clicks his tongue. Whether or not he feels shame in the face of Aglaea’s words, Phainon can’t tell. Nonetheless, Aglaea takes the reins of the conversation.

“We will have an audience with Hestia, their leader,” Aglaea says. “We will see then, if we will accept them into Okhema or not.”

Phainon turns to Aglaea. “Wait, but—”

“And what will mere refugees offer but losses to our food and livelihoods?” Menelaus challenges Aglaea audaciously. 

“We’ll have to see, won’t we?” Aglaea returns, a barely-there note of patronization coloring her voice. Menelaus clicks his tongue. He knows that he cannot argue the point any further without risking his life, much less his dignity. Imperiously, he pivots on his heel and walks away with his head up high, a false bravado woven in each muscle. 

Phainon turns to Aglaea. “Aglaea—”

“Not here, Phainon,” Aglaea raises her hand. “At the Hero’s Bath.”

Phainon barely swallows his words and nods his assent. They ascend from the general public baths of Marmoreal Palace into the exclusive Bath of Heroes reserved for the Chrysos Heirs. And once they do…

“Aglaea, why can’t we just let them in?” Phainon argues the case. “All of these refugees are waiting for safety and sanctuary, why can’t we just give it to them?”

Aglaea sighs, her shoulders slumping with exhaustion. “Phainon…Elder Menelaus was not wrong when our position in leading Okhema is given by the conditional consent of their Council. Tensions are high as they are, and letting the refugees into Okhema can put us into jeopardy.”

“But why? Why does that matter?”

“Snowy…,” Tribbie mumbles remorsefully. “You weren’t there for the Chrysos War.”

In the face of Phainon’s confusion, Aglaea continues. “There was never one cohort of Chrysos Heirs set in stone. There were many of them in Amphoreus’s history. When the oracle was first received and spread amongst Amphoreus, many of those who had the aptitude to pluck the Core Flames waged war against each other out of greed…and some of them were killed by the disciples of the Titans that declared the prophecy heresy.”

“Phainon, our current leadership over Okhema is a new and delicate thing,” Aglaea shakes her head. “With many of Amphoreus’s city-states falling one by one, we must tread with more caution than ever. One wrong step could lead to major internal conflict that could end Amphoreus as a whole.”

“So, we’re just going to let them suffer at the base of the mountain?” Phainon fires back heatedly. “We'll have them prove themselves to receive basic human rights?! Aglaea, they’re the very humans that the Chrysos Heirs swore to protect!”

Aglaea falls silent and unresponsive. 

Phainon turns to Tribbie. “Tribbie, you don’t agree with this either—”

But he stops at the guilty and downtrodden look on her face. There would be no help from her either.

And Phainon feels… betrayed.

“So you’re just going to let this happen…,” Phainon bites out. “I never thought you would do shit like this.”

Lest he do something foolish and regrettable, Phainon pivots violently and makes to leave the Hero’s Bath. 

“Wait, Snowy!”

But he doesn’t turn back, going toward the elevator that will take him away from the Hero’s Bath. But…

“Phainon.”

There isn’t an askance for Phainon to understand in Aglaea’s voice. No, there’s something else, some other intent behind her words. Phainon pauses and turns around to see how Aglaea’s head is tilted, eyes half-lidded as if she were listening to something. “...Something is coming.”

“Something?” Tribbie asks.

“Yes…,” Aglaea nods. “If an individual string ascertains an individual…then this singular string is spun and woven from the remnants of other strings…countless lives. There are too many sounds and fibers interwoven into just this one.”

“Is this Hestia?” Tribbie hazards a guess. 

The two demigods turn to Phainon, who bites his bottom lip in consternation. 

“Phainon…”

“I get it,” Phainon sighs explosively, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll bring Hestia here. But still…just meeting with Hestia alone shouldn’t determine whether or not the refugees can come into Okhema.”

***

Phainon is less enthused about descending the mountain without good news of Okhema’s unconditional acceptance of the refugees. His disappointment and bitterness are palpable, swirling from his posture, and the refugees part ways for him when they see him approaching their encampment. 

When he reaches the center, he sees Helena talking to a figure hooded in an ash gray cloak. Behind that figure, several refugees are being tended to, waiting for where they would be allocated to, waiting to be accounted for, waiting for their information to be written down. And then…in the midst of their conversation, they pull down their hood, and Phainon sees you.

And he recognizes you. He recognizes you as the companion always by Cyrene’s side, singing and lazing about with her and shooting insults in his direction. He didn’t think that anyone else from Aedes Elysiae would be alive. 

But here you are.

“Isn’t that…the Chrysos Heir?”

“The Chrysos Heir? Didn’t he go back up the mountain?”

“Remember? When he first came here, he wanted ot see Hestia.”

“What do the Chrysos Heirs want to do with Hestia?”

You look up from your conversation with Helena, and then your eyes meet his. A breath catches in your throat as startled recognition fills you to the brim. “...Are you—?”

Phainon hesitates because even though it seems like the two of you recognize each other, he can’t be too sure. But…

“Were you…,” Phainon bites his bottom lip to come up with a better question. “Do you remember Cyrene? Aedes Elysiae?”

“...Yeah,” you nod. You take a breath before a small smile graces your lips. “You were the snot-nosed brat that always wanted Cyrene’s attention.”

Even though you rarely directed such a warm tone to him, the snark is so familiar to him. He lets out a mesh between a cough, a laugh, and a sob. Because someone else besides him survived Aedes Elyisae. He’s not alone. He’s not alone.

He is herded into the central tent where maps, letters, reports, and many other important papers are strewn about the table. Helena closes the tent’s flap behind her to keep prying eyes and ears from spying on the both of you.

“The two of you know each other?” Helena asks you.

“Of a sort,” you tell her. “We’re from the same village, and…we had a mutual friend.”

You turn to him, taking a step and tilting your head back to take in his appearance in full. “You’ve grown…and you’ve changed.”

Phainon’s not sure if that’s an accurate assessment. In some ways, he still feels like that little boy in Aedes Elysiae, tackling things that are way over his head and out of his weight class. But he can see the change in you…as Hestia. 

The disdainful expression on your face is gone, melting away to a tired but gentle look. The childlike glow of years long past is gone, and there is some sort of pallor and exhaustion woven into your posture. In some ways, Phainon would say that you look more fragile than the you he remembers, but the weight of the name Hestia and all of its stories speaks of an unseen strength. 

“You’ve changed too,” Phainon says, because all he has noticed isn’t something that he can say with mere words. 

“I’m afraid to cut this reunion short,” Helena cuts in. She turns to Phainon. “Lord Phainon, what happened in Okhema?”

Phainon presses his lips together, guilt swirling in his heart. “I tried to talk to them but…”

Already, understanding washes over Helena’s and your faces. The two of you turn to each other for a conversation on logistics, all flying over Phainon’s head as the two of you ignore him for practical matters.

“Helena,” you turn to her. “How low are supplies?”

“Relatively to our time at Ladon?” Helena draws out a comparison. “We’re not strapped for supplies, but what we have won’t sustain all these people.”

You purse your lips in thought. “I might have to make supply runs then. Are there any other places we can relocate everyone to?”

“From what I’ve been hearing, all the other city-states aren’t in good shape,” Helena shakes her head. “And if Okhema isn’t accepting us, what other city state will?”

You sigh, pinching your chin in thought. “Aristraeus?”

“He said it might take months to get something sustainable in place.”

“That’s not good,” you hum. “The Black Tide has been spreading even more. Now, it’s only a day’s journey away from the mountain before you encounter the Black Tide.”

“Already?” Helena hisses in surprise. Immediately, she whips around to her maps, cursing under her breath as she rustles through the papers. “That’s faster than we originally predicted.”

“Priam didn’t tell you anything yet?” you blink. “Wasn’t he supposed to be scouting out the perimeter?”

“He was out on a supply run with a few others,” Helena shook her head.

“Then we should get everyone ready to evacuate somewhere else,” you nod to Helena. “I can buy us enough time—”

“The last time you tried handling that much of the Black Tide yourself, you almost died,” Helena cuts you off. “You are Hestia. The people here need you.”

There is a story there that Phainon isn’t privy to. However, the words and thought of you dying ignites a spark of fear in his heart. He just found out that you are alive and that you're here in front of him. The thought of you leaving and disappearing makes him scramble. It’s what pushes him to interject in your conversation. 

“Aglaea said that she wanted to talk to you,” Phainon says. “To Hestia. She said that if she had an audience with you, then maybe you’ll be able to bring everyone into Okhema.”

You stare at him in confusion before turning to Helena. “They didn’t call for you?”

Helena snorts, smile dryly amused. “I might manage things here, but you are the one bringing refugees back and the one everyone looks to for hope.”

You quieten, staring off into the distance, which leaves Phainon wondering and yearning. He wonders what you’ve been doing all these years after Aedes Elysiae. He yearns for that curiosity to be quenched, to hear your story.

“Do they…do they want something from us?” you ask cautiously.

“...something like that,” Phainon nods. “The Council of Elders don’t want people coming in, so Aglaea hinted at showing them you have something of worth that’ll let you all in.”

“Something of worth?” Helena deadpans. “We’re refugees, and yet they expect us to provide for them?!”

“Helena,” you placate her anger. “...We…I have something I can offer them.”

It takes a moment for Helena to realize. “Project Prometheus? Are you sure you want to give that sort of power to the people in Okhema?”

“Even if Okhema is protected by the World Bearing Titan,” you say. “You and I both know that the Black Tide won’t stop at anything. Sooner or later, they will need something like Project Prometheus. We just need to make sure we leverage it.”

“I don’t like that idea,” Helena advises you. “That will be handing them too much power.”

“It’s not that we have much of a choice, do we?” you say softly. “Too many lives depend on us right now to take any other option.”

That silences Helena, and you turn to Phainon. Phainon takes in the firm look in your eyes, the strong set of your shoulders, and the unwavering conviction woven into your bones. At this sight, he thinks he understands a little bit of what makes you Hestia.

“Let’s go,” you nod. “They wanted to see me? They’ll have me, for better or for worse.”

Chapter Text

Five Years Ago

Of the twelve great Titans that created Amphoreus, three stood guard at the gates of calamity and unleashed the world’s end, spilling forth a foul torrent of destruction and depravity: consuming, consuming, and consuming with unmatched voracity and igniting a war between Titans and their disciples.

The air is stale and stagnant. It’s a sort of atmosphere where one feels like they need to hold their breath because it feels like the smallest of sounds would crumble the stillness and give way to disaster.

You journey through dilapidated streets, stepping over crumbled and toppled pillars and suits of armor, marred with soot and encasing the blank countenance of their skeletal bearers. 

Ladon, once known as Amphoreus’s Golden Apple, is reduced to nothing but a smoldering ruin: a pitiful facsimile remaining after the war.

While the Black Tide declared the end of the world, its progress to oblivion was hastened by wars: A war between Titans and their disciples bringing up and bearing arms to fight in the name of their patrons, turning their blades against each other. The Black Tide was the beginning, but it was not the sole reason for humanity’s ruin.

You traverse to the very ends of the citadel, the dusty wind nipping at your ankles as you tread the roads to a large farm. Your steps are brusque and assured as you approach the barn and knock rhythmically against the door.

You only need to wait a moment before the door opens to the face of a man grousing at you. When he sees your face, his eyes light up in recognition and relief. “You found anything?”

“Not a lot,” you shake your head, pulling off your hood and shaking off the dust in your hair. “I tried for the mountain ranges going to Aidonia, but the path is blocked off by the Black Tide.”

“Tch, shit’s everywhere,” the man clicks his tongue. “Supplies?”

“Not much,” you reply. You brush a part of your cloak aside to reveal a wrapped-up package. “A lot of the other villages and cities have already been ransacked and pillaged. There aren’t a lot of survivors, and whatever supplies are there are sparse.”

“Fuck,” the man sighs, running a hand through his hair. 

“What about the others?” you ask quietly. “Have they come back?”

“Yeah, you and Helena are the last ones to come back,” he replies. “From what I’ve heard, all the villages up the west coast are gone. From what you’ve told me, the Black Tide is pushing up into the Hesperides Mountain Range into Aidonia but…”

“It could easily push down the mountain and come here,” you finish. “Where did Helena head off to?”

“Edessa,” he replies. “If things go well with her, she’ll be back tomorrow. But if the Black Tide is choking off routes to Aidonia, then things might not look good for Edessa.”

“Once Helena comes back, we’ll have to start making plans quickly,” you surmise.

The man nods before he pulls the door wider for you to slip in. “Yeah, for now, get in. You’ve had a long day, and we need all the strength we can get for the coming days.”

Gratefully, you step inside. The eternally dim skies of Amphoreus are cut out of sight in favor of a barely-illuminated barn ceiling. It’s crowded in here, dozens of people huddled together, at least a hundred. What paltry warmth that could be derived in this place is a hearth crackling quietly in the center.

Medical cots are pushed up against the far side of the wall. Sleeping bags, tarps, blankets, and whatever haphazard bedding is spread across the floor. In the corner, crates and boxes of supplies are all stacked together.

You shrug off your cloak, loosely folding it and tossing it to a crate. Then, you collapse against the boxes, eyes fluttering shut as you let the exhaustion drag at you. 

It pulls, tugging at you like silk strings until you’re in a light sleep, easy enough to wake at the moment’s notice, but a dream, a memory, still flits over your eyes. 

“You’re so weird.”

His hair gleams white, and his eyes glow blue. It’s not the same shade as the cerulean of Cyrene’s own, but deeper and crystalline like the sapphire ocean. But he doesn’t have any of the whimsical grace Cyrene has, evidenced by the way his nose scrunches up and eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Mou~,” Cyrene interjects. “That’s not a nice thing to say.”

“But why do you like being with them?” the boy turns to Cyrene in accusation. “Why won’t you play with me?”

“She can choose to do whatever she wants,” you bite back a little more harshly than necessary. “And if that means preferring me over you, then that’s her choice.”

“Why would anyone want to spend time with a bore like you?”

“It makes sense that a brute like you doesn’t have a single thought between those ears.”

“You just lay around and do nothing! How is that not weird?!”

“Says the one who always picks fights with fairies and loses his sword every other day!”

“Enough! Enough!” Cyrene laughs, waving her hands in between the two of you to quell the petty childish fight. But there’s no reprimand in her giggles, just pure mirth because she knows that this means that she is loved: Even though the two who shower her with love, affection, and companionship tend to butt heads even on the best days.

She reaches out, holding your hand with both of hers, and smiles at you. You know that smile: it’s her smile whenever she wants to persuade you to do something. And you never fail to cave in the face of her requests.

She doesn’t have to say anything before you sigh in defeat. “Alright, fine.”

Cyrene beams before she turns to the boy who smiles, a tad bit on the side of cocky and self-assured in all of his boyish youthfulness. He looks at you, ‘I told you so’, written all over his face. It makes you want to smack him so you can swipe that expression off his face. 

Instead, you turn to Cyrene and tell her, “If we get into an accident or if either of us gets hurt, I’m not talking to you for a week.”

The boy squawks in indignation while Cyrene giggles because she knows it's a bluff. You wouldn’t actually go through with that threat with her. Cyrene squeezes your hands and smiles at you before she turns to the boy.

“Well, what do you want to do today?”

“Ah…,” he pauses, taken aback because he didn’t expect the question. He steals a glance at you before his cheeks turn red in embarrassment, shyly inclining his head as he murmurs inaudibly.

“Hmm?” Cyrene tilts your head.

“Speak up, we can’t hear you,” you shoot at him.

“I lost my sword to the fairies yesterday!” the boy yells out suddenly, eyes squeezed shut because he really doesn’t want to be admitting this in front of you. “So…I need your guys’ help to get it back.”

You click your tongue. “See? A brute.”

The boy fumes, glaring at you at his perceived injustice.

“Be nice,” Cyrene chides you lightly. “A hero always needs his sword, so this is definitely a crisis! What kind of hero will he be if he doesn’t have his sword?”

You certainly have something sarcastic to say to that, but a softly disapproving look on Cyrene’s part has you refraining. 

“Fine, we’ll help you get your sword back,” you sigh long-sufferingly because your day of just lazing on the fields and stargazing with Cyrene has been ruined by this. “But you don’t get to complain about how Cyrene and I spend the day tomorrow.”

The boy’s lips twist, clearly unwilling to compromise on that front, but he sighs explosively. “Fine. It’s a deal.”

“Great!” Cyrene claps her hands together because now the two of you are finally willing to work together. “Now let’s get that sword back.”

You wake up to the loud creak of the large barn door being opened. Immediately, you rub the meats of your palm into your eyes to wave away the lethargy and push yourself up and off the crates. It takes a moment for you to fully reorient yourself and walk stably, but once you do, you make haste to the entrance.

“Priam, did everyone else make it back?”

“Yeah, you’re the last one to come back now. Any luck?”

“No. Edessa’s gone.”

You approach the door, and the man, Priam, sees you and steps aside for you to join the conversation. You turn to Helena, who cards her fingers through her long blonde hair before tossing it over her shoulder. Her green eyes momentarily widen when they see you before they soften in relief.

“You look exhausted. How was your trip?”

“It was alright,” you tell her. “The trip wasn’t dangerous, but I couldn’t find much. And all the routes to Aidonia have been choked out by the Black Tide.”

“We think it might get to Aidonia since it is pushing up against the Hesperides Mountain Range,” Priam supplements your information. “Or it could easily come down and approach us.”

“I see,” Helena sighs warily.

“We might have to go to the Eternal Holy City, Okhema, this time,” Priam continues. “From what I’ve been hearing, it’s the only place that the Black Tide hasn’t touched, and Kephale still protects the city.”

“We can talk about that later,” you mutter quietly. “Did you find anything in Edessa?”

“No,” Helena shakes her head. “When I got there, Edessa had been swallowed up by the Black Tide, and I only found two survivors.”

You crane your neck a bit to see two adolescent boys behind her shifting awkwardly on their feet. One of them is holding a cane, and their leg is marred with traces of corruption from the Black Tide. The other seems relatively fine but a little bit weak in exhaustion and nourishment.

“His leg is badly corrupted,” Helena explains. “He’ll need an Empyros Lily seed.”

“It probably won’t be enough to heal his leg completely,” you shake your head. “But it’ll at least get rid of the corruption. Luckily, we still have plenty left, but we only have one bed left in the medical cots.”

“What about Hector?” the boy without the cane speaks up. 

“Hector?” you tilt your head.

“Below you,” Helena explains.

You look down and, squeezing between Helena’s leg and the door is a small border collie dog. 

“Hector!” the boy sighs in relief. He bends down, encouraging the border collie to come back to his proximity. He pets Hector’s head before gathering his dog up and hugging him close to his chest.

“Thank you for letting me bring my dog with me,” the boy smiles small at the three of you. “If there’s anything I can do—”

The other boy interjects with a resentful sneer. “No, thank you for bringing food.”

His loud voice makes some refugees in the barn and close to the door stir in curiosity. Some of them are trying to peek through the barrier of your and Priam’s body to get a look at the newcomers. 

“Hector is my family!” the boy hugs his dog closer to his chest. “No one can eat him!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” the one with the cane drawls derisively. “You’re willing to starve people for the sake of your family.”

He turns to Priam, Helena, and you. “Wanna hear something funny? He was teaching his dog about Dromas and how you could ride them on the way over here.”

He raises his hands, miming holding the reins to a Droma, and then he speaks with a mocking impression of the dog owner. “Hector! You tell Dromas how to go left this way and right this way! Cool, huh? Now we just need to find an actual Droma.”

“Hey!” the boy flushes in embarrassment.

“And on top of that? There was a warehouse with a bunch of supplies on the way here, but his dog ate a bunch of the cans before Miss Helena could go in and recover the supplies!”

“That’s not true! Hector didn’t do that! A person was trapped in there!”

The dog whimpers at the verbal spat the two boys are having, ears folding and pressing against its head.

“When Miss Helena went in to bring out supplies, she just said there were two bodies and a bunch of empty cans in there! We could’ve had more food to bring back here to help out—”

“That’s enough,” Helena cuts into the conversation. She sighs as she reaches up and massages the brow of her nose. “Talking about supplies already gone won’t get us anywhere.”

“I just want to ask,” Priam addresses the boy with his dog. “Did you bring any supplies?”

“I-I’m sorry…,” the boy shakes his head, clutching Hector tighter. “But I didn’t bring any…”

“Then what are we to do about your dog?” Priam arches a brow.

“I…I’m sorry, I’ll feed him myself.”

“And how do you plan on doing that?” Priam grills him. The boy shuffles on his feet, eyes evasive and fearful, but you step in.

“Priam, enough,” you stop him from interrogating the boy any further. Priam thankfully falls silent, and you take a step forward. 

“Right now,” you explain to the boy patiently. “The situation is dire. We don’t have a lot of supplies, and we can barely even feed ourselves right now.”

“I can just take Hector and leave—,” the boy’s voice rises to a fever pitch, but you stop him by raising a hand.

“That’s not what we’re going to do,” you shake your head. “We’re not going to send you away to fend for yourself. We just need assurance that you can take care of your dog by yourself.”

“I…,” the boy gulps, looking down at Hector. “I can split my share of food with him. You can even separate me and keep an eye on me the whole time to make sure that Hector doesn’t accidentally eat any of the supplies!”

“Kid, we barely have enough space as it is,” Priam snorts.

The boy dims, utterly downtrodden. Helena shoots Priam a look, and the man sighs, chastised. “That’s enough for us. We’re holding you to that promise, okay, kid?”

The boy pauses before he brightens, an exuberant smile stretching across his features despite the situation. “I promise! I won’t ever break it!”

You look over to Priam and Helena. Priam closes his eyes before he jerks his head once in acceptance. Helena doesn’t say anything; she merely pushes the door even further.

“Come, we’ll need to address your wounds,” Helena says. Priam waits until the four of you are inside the barn before he shuts the doors. The two boys look around, soaking in the sight of the barn and all the refugees that are huddled close to each other.

“What are your names?” you ask gently, softly.

“I’m Astyanax, and this is Hector,” the dog owner introduces himself. At the mention of his name, Hector yips, tail wagging and tongue lolling in exuberance.

“Astyanax,” you repeat before you turn to the other boy limping with his cane.

He stares at you, looking disdainfully at Astyanax and Hector because he doesn’t seem to understand why you would be accepting the boy and his dog with food being scarce as it is. He looks back at you, curling a little bit at your patient stare before he grumbles out his name. “Patroclus.”

“Patroclus,” you repeat. “I would say it’s nice to meet you three, but…there isn’t anything nice about the situation, is there?”

Your attempt at humor is received relatively well, seeing as how Astyanax smiles and his cheeks dimple as he desperately tries to stifle it. Patroclus makes a better attempt at hiding his amusement, but the way he purses his curling lips still gives him away.

“You’ll be alright taking care of them?” Helena asks you.

“I’ll be fine,” you nod in the affirmative. “You should get some rest. I’m sure we’ll have to talk about plans tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Helena pats your shoulder. “You get as much rest as you can, too. We’ve all been working hard.”

You watch her leave before you turn back to the other two. “Come on, let’s get the two of you checked out.”

You direct the two of them to sit on the bed, and you take a look at Patroclus’s leg first. It’s a marred and mangled thing, the skin infected and decaying with the touch of the Black Tide. 

You procure a small seed for Patroclus to take.

“What’s this?” the boy holds the seed up so he can see it better.

“It’s an Empyros Lily seed,” you tell him. “For some reason, it’s good at protecting the body from the Black Tide’s corruption. It’ll flush out the toxins in your body.”

“Really?” Astyanax shuffles over to get a good look at the seed. However, Patroclus scoots away, turning his shoulder so that he cradles the seed to his chest and out of Astyanax’s sight. A little dim from that, Astyanax instead turns his attention to you. “How did you guys find out about that?”

“An Empyros Lily is normally a good medicine for a lot of things,” you explain patiently. You pull out disinfectant and a roll of bandages, gently wiping off the traces of the Black Tide from Patroclus’s leg and wrapping up the exposed flesh with fresh bandages. “Chewing on its petals is good for migraines, boil its stem in water and the tea is good for fevers, and the seed is a good painkiller. We had someone badly corrupted from the Black Tide, so we gave them an Empyros Lily seed to help with the pain…and the rest is history.”

Patroclus is suitably convinced by the small story. He chews on the seed before his expression twists. “It’s spicy.”

“Yeah, that’s how you know it’s working,” you pat him on the knee. You drag over a bucket and place it nearby for him to grab whenever he needs to. “Here, a side effect is throwing up, but it’s a good side effect. It means that your body is purging the poison from the Black Tide.”

Patroclus nods, a little uncertain, but he takes your word for it. “Thank you.”

Next, you turn to Astyanax, and obediently, he rolls up his sleeve to show severe rashes on his skin, also resulting from the Black Tide’s touch.

“Uhm…,” Astyanax stammers before he finally musters up the courage to speak. “Thank you for letting me bring Hector in and to Miss. Helena for bringing us here in the first place.”

“She’ll appreciate the thanks,” you tell him softly.

“And uh…,” Astyanax continues with a shy blush. “Sorry for all the trouble I caused. If there’s anything I can do…”

His eyes become downcast, body shuffling awkwardly because he’s afraid that he might say something wrong. You pause, looking at Hector who’s curled up on Astyanax’s side, head resting on his thigh.

“Everything’s fine,” you shake your head. “Don’t worry, it takes a lot of courage to look after that little guy in times like this.”

You reach out, gently scratching behind Hector’s ears, and he yips, licking your fingers in gratitude.

“You and Hector must’ve had your fair share of hunger and suffering,” you speak softly. Astyanax’s eyes go wide before they shimmer with a wet glaze. He sniffles once, stroking Hector’s fur.

“I don’t get it,” Patroclus interjects. “Why did you bring that mutt here with you? If you left it behind, then you won’t have to worry about another mouth to feed.”

“Be nice,” you chide Patroclus lightly. It’s enough to make him seem somewhat apologetic about his harsh words, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting an answer from Astyanax.

“I…,” Astyanax purses his lips. “I thought about releasing Hector into the wild, but he’s already used to living with humans. If I let him go…the next time he sees a human, he might be attacked and killed for food.”

Patroclus opens his mouth, probably for a derisive comment, but thinks the better of it.

“I know I’m being selfish,” Astyanax concedes, his fingers spasm around Hector as if he wants to hug the dog to his chest. “But I need Hector by my side. He’s the only thing that keeps me going. So, I’ll just keep him with me. If I ever run out of supplies, I…I’ll abandon myself, not Hector.”

You and Patroclus fall silent from that bold declaration. You close your eyes and let out a small sigh. “...Do you realize what you’ve just said?”

The boy’s breath stutters, but instead of answering your question, he deflects with words of gratitude. “Thank you for treating me.”

You purse your lips before you accept his answer. Every person wandering Amphoreus in the wake of the Black Tide’s destruction has their own personal turmoil. It’s useless to ask about their pain and see if you can address and soothe each one. The only thing that would ever banish the common suffering of the people was if Amphoreus was restored to its former vitality. Anything else would only temporarily delay the pain.

But the goal of Amphoreus being restored to its former glory is nothing more than a futile wishful hope at this point. As such, people have no choice but to wade knee-deep into a daily life of constant struggle.

You methodically disinfect Astyanax’s arms and roll them up with bandages, offering the boy an Empyros Lily Seed. You don’t push the question, out of respect for the pain he has gone through up until this point. As long as there is something that can be improved, that is the next best consolation you can give these people.

“As long as you stay away from the Black Tide, your corruption won’t get any worse,” you tell the two of them. “And also…”

You look up at Astyanax, leveling a firm look at him. “Since you’re unwilling to let Hector go, you need to keep living, got it? Don’t be going around saying you’re going to abandon yourself so casually. It’s just like you said, you depend on Hector, and Hector depends on you.”

“I don’t know what you see in the dog, but they’re right,” Patroclus interjects. He looks down at Hector disdainfully, but it’s an improvement from his outright sneer. “No one else is going to look after your dog, so you’re going to have to stick around to take care of it.”

“Okay…,” Astyanax nods, small and quiet. 

You pat them both on the shoulder and give Hector one last scratch behind the ears.

“The two of you get some sleep. You guys must’ve had a long day. If you need anything, just holler for me, got it?”

“Thank you,” the two of them chime together.

You give them one last smile before you turn and leave, aiming to get a bit more rest for the next day.

Chapter Text

“Cyrene? Cyrene? Where are you? This isn’t funny anymore!”

“Cyrene?” the white-haired boy calls out as well. “I’m sorry for losing my sword all the time but please just come out! I’ll be better, I promise!”

“You better!” you snap at him, nerves frayed because where the hell could’ve Cyrene gone? “If it weren’t for you and your stupid need to wave your sword like a maniac all day long at the fairies, we wouldn’t be here in the first place!”

The boy is taken aback, expression creasing in anger. But his eyes water because he knows that you’re right. If it weren’t for him losing his sword as constantly as he did, then they wouldn’t be in this mess desperately searching for their mutual friend.

He sniffles noisily, lips rebelliously twisted to keep any sound from coming out as he wipes at his eyes. But you hear the sniffles anyway.

“Are you crying right now?” you stare at him incredulously.

“No!” his voice wavers so obviously, tone full of tears. “I’m not crying!”

You sigh because you really don’t want to deal with this, but if Cyrene heard about this then you were going to get her disapproving look for days afterward. That’s not something you want to go through. Yet at the same time, you can’t really find it in yourself to console this boy because the idiot dragged you out here like this in the first place.

The command to “suck it up” sits temptingly at your tongue, but you think for the better for it. “Alright, since yelling isn’t going to get us anywhere, we’re changing plans. You play with, fight with, deal with—whatever, you do something with the fairies. Do you have any idea where to start looking for them?”

The boy presses his lips together. “Maybe the heart of the forest? That’s where I usually find all of the fairies.”

“And pick fights with them?” you snark before you sigh. “...Sorry. But that’s where we want to look first?”

He nods quietly and you can’t help the second sigh that expels from your lungs. Him being so small and teary is so unlike him. It kind of makes you feel a bit bad. So you reach out, grab his hand, and pull him along. 

“Where’s the heart of the forest?” you ask him, a little softer than how you usually talk to him.

“Uh…,” the boy stammers, taken aback by the sudden contact. You raise an eyebrow at him patiently before he points in the general direction. “That way.”

“Alright, let’s go,” you tell him. “Keep up.”

The dream ends abruptly when you startle awake at the sound of someone desperately battering their fists against the barn door. Several people stir awake from the sound, spooked as they gather their things in some semblance of an attempt to protect and brace themselves for what is to come.

You rush to the door just as Priam nears it. You pull open the heavy barn door just a bit for you to peek through, and you’re greeted with the sight of several people huddled together against the rain. A man is holding a child covered in blood and a woman holding another woman who has much of her right side covered and marred with the Black Tide.

“Shit,” Priam curses. He doesn’t question the newcomers, seeing the situation to be as dire as it looks, and wrenches the barn door open.

“Bring them here,” you tell them urgently. “We need to get to the medical cots.”

“Clear the way!” Priam yells at the refugees inside the barn and they immediately move, making haste to make a direct path to the medical cots. 

You sprint the vanguard of this emergency procession, to the medical cots and wrench one of the curtains aside. You hesitate because the realization that there are no available medical cots dawns on you and—

“I have my own fold-up cot,” Astyanax gets up from his medical cot. He gently nudges Hector off the mattress and stands aside. Patroclus grumbles, but he also gets up as well, leaving room for the man to rush in with the child in his arms. 

A second later the young woman follows suit and lays down the elder one. 

“Astyanax, can you give me the pouch of Empyros Lily seeds?” you ask quietly, but urgently. “It should be in that open crate over there.”

Helena comes to your side a beat later, eyes knit in worry and determination. She looks you in the eyes to assure you of her presence and her help. “What do you need?”

“Make sure that Black Tide is being purged from her body,” you tell her quickly as you look over the child who’s bleeding and sobbing softly into the mattress. “I’ll have to take care of the child here.”

“Got it,” Helena nods.

“Here it is,” Astyanax offers the pouch to Helena. She nods silently in thanks, kneeling by the woman’s side and gently coaxing her to chew on the Empyros Lily seed.

“Does he have any allergies or anything else I need to note?” you ask the man who brought in the child.

“Uh…I don’t know,” he shakes his head. He turns to a pregnant woman who hobbles in and stands next to him. “Do you?”

“No,” she shakes her head. Her expression is one of concern, a hand cupping the bottom of her belly. “I don’t know either.”

“That’s fine,” you shake your head. “I’ll give him an evaluation before I give him an Empyros Lily seed.”

Gingerly, you peel the shirt off his back and cut through the cloth to expose his wound. You quietly shush the child quietly sobbing as you inspect the wound on his back. It’s a stab wound, but thankfully not over anything critical or life-threatening but he has lost a lot of blood. 

“Thank you,” the pregnant lady murmurs in horror, eyes glued to the child’s wound.

“I need to stop the bleeding,” you report. “How was he injured?”

“He was stabbed by one of those creatures from the Black Tide,” the man tells you. “I’m not sure how though. I wasn’t with him at the time.”

“Helena.”

“Here.”

You don’t need to say more before Helena hands you an Empyros Lily seed. You bring the seed to the boy’s lip and tell him to chew on it. 

“What has he eaten in the past few days?” you continue interrogating the two of them.

“I don’t know,” the man shakes his head helplessly. “He said he hadn’t found any food for the past few days and was starving last night, so he wanted a pack of my biscuits.”

Astyanax and Patroclus stiffen, staring pointedly at the man’s bag which is obviously full of supplies.

“After eating it,” the man continues his explanation. “He said he wanted to set out for the next village and look for supplies.”

“What about her then?” Helena motions to the woman that she’s tending to. The young girl who carried her pipes up to answer.

“My mother saw that he was missing and went out to find him and bring him back. But the Black Tide rushed in before we could anticipate it and she barely managed to push him out of the way.”

The girl’s mother suddenly lurches, gagging violently before throwing up. Helena catches it in time with a bucket, bile and gunk from the Black Tide being expelled from her lips. The daughter’s hands fly up to her lips in horror, eyes wide in fear.

“She’ll be alright,” Helena assures her. “It just means that the Empyros Lily seed is working and we’re flushing out poison from the Black Tide. She might have permanent scars or injuries after this though.”

The daughter nods quietly, lips pursed delicately, but a hopeless sort of hope shining in her eyes.

“I need thread and a needle,” you call out and Priam runs over with the materials you need. You tie a small knot at the end of the string and get to work stitching up the boy’s wound. Thankfully, with the painkiller effect of the Empyros Lily seed, he isn’t suffering too much, but he still seizes and sobs quietly at the pain of the needle poking through his flesh. While you’re busy tending to this child, Astyanax speaks up.

“...Why?”

He stares at both the man and the pregnant woman, eyes flickering with scorn so contrary to his earlier modesty. “Why would you let him go alone? Your backpack is obviously full of supplies. Why would you let a child risk his life?”

The two of them startle at the accusation. The man blinks, brow knitting in defensiveness. “Kid, we were—”

“Sorry,” the pregnant woman cuts in. She places a hand on the man’s shoulder to stop him. “It’s because of me. I’m pregnant and sprained my ankle so I can’t walk that fast. That child wanted to go out ahead of us so he left early…I never thought he would…”

She trails off, eyes growing glassy and brimming with tears. She stares down at the child you’re working on to suture his wounds. 

Astyanax stares at the same boy. He slumps against the wall, sliding down until he’s sitting with his legs loosely crossed. Hector, sensing Astyanax’s plummeting mood, whines as he butts his head against Astyanax’s arms and buries himself into his owner’s chest.

“Then why…get pregnant?”

His voice is quiet but imbued with a depthless resentment.

“What’d you say?” the man blinks, astounded by Astyanax’s audacity.

“Since you obviously can’t raise him, why have another child?!” Astyanax roars. 

The woman takes a step back, lips parting in surprise. She didn’t expect such a question to be leveled at her, especially by a young boy like Astyanax. She tries to say something, but she closes her lips, eyes averted to the ground in shame. 

“He’s lucky you found him and brought him to such a kind doctor,” Astyanax jerks his head to you. “But what in the future? He’s going to be just like me…or worse.”

Hector whines audibly against Astyanax’s chest and Astyanax sub-consciously raises a hand and holds Hector close. 

“...Why do you say that?” the man beside the woman asks.

“Why?” Astyanax tilts his head, voice cold and teeth gritted. “Because my parents were just like you. They had me without thinking about the future. As soon as they couldn’t raise me, they just kicked me to the side of the road.”

“Without thinking about the future?” the woman repeats in disbelief.

“Exactly. You know what I’m talking about,” Astyanax hisses. “Refugees and other camps give preferential treatment to expecting parents and those with children.”

The woman doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t deny Astyanax’s claim.

“I know they have good intentions…but some people like to take advantage of this. Just like my parents. They just used those good intentions for their own benefit without considering the future.”

He huffs, trying desperately and failing to hold his wits in the tsunami of his anger, despair, and pain. “After my mom was pregnant, they were given special treatment at refugee camps, where they had me and my brother. When I was two years old, my dad gave me to another family for a bowl of porridge. My adoptive father turned out to be just like him too. He was just freeloading off the sympathy of others and used me to get supplies from the refugee camps.”

Tears gather in Astyanax’s eyes and roll over his cheeks as he begins to sob. “But no matter which ‘parents’ I was with, they would only give me scraps. Once I got bigger and lost this privilege, they just threw me by the roadside like those empty cans they finished eating.”

Silence falls upon the group save for the pained moans and cries of the suffering. 

The pregnant woman is also crying silently at Astyanax’s story. Her voice trembles, wavering with horror and her sympathies. “...How could they do such a thing?”

The refugees in the barn, the ones close enough to hear Astyanax’s outburst, murmur amongst each other. 

“I’ve heard of people doing that. Refugees just want children to survive, but who would’ve thought there’d be bastards like them?”

“How are they bastards? Without them, who would dare to have children in a world like this?”

“They don’t look into who the child belongs to and just give out supplies.”

“How can they? Can you guarantee that you’ll be alive tomorrow? If someone’s alive to take care of a child, that’s all that matters.”

“Have you ever thought about it?” Patroclus speaks up. He rallies behind Astyanax’s anger, standing tall even though he’s leaning on his cane. Because he also intimately knows the weight of Astyanax’s revealed pain and suffering. “How can abandoned children survive on the side of the road? Being a burden on others, banished from refugee camps, and cursed at…”

“So why?” Astyanax glares at the pregnant woman despite his tears. “As a parent, why would you want to have a child if you can’t take care of them? Are you just looking for short-term benefits? Or is it because you don’t care about your child’s future?”

The woman in question can only hang her head in silence, unable to come up with an answer in the face of their scorn. 

The man coughs, lips twisting in sympathy. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t an answer, but…I’m not the child’s father. And, of course, she isn’t his mother. Her husband and I used to be merchants…Our profession is much more dangerous now, but some of us are willing to take the risk. Half of the supplies belonged to her husband…and I can’t go eating someone else’s food, now can I?”

Astyanax’s eyes widen. He deflates, the anger leaving him so suddenly at the unexpected answer. “Oh…sorry, I didn’t realize…I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have misjudged you and spoken out of turn.”

“It’s okay,” the pregnant woman shakes her head. “It really is a serious issue. We aren’t his parents, but I heard him say that he had a similar experience as your own. His biological parents died in an accident two years ago when he was only eight years old.”

She presses a delicate hand to her belly. “None of us can be sure that we’ll live to see tomorrow in this cruel world, let alone stay together with our children. And of course, we can’t guarantee a safe upbringing for our children.”

“Okay…,” Astyanax sighs quietly. The woman hesitates. Her fingers wring and tangle together in uncertainty before she steps forward. She walks over to Astyanax and sits down, patting him on the back, and rubs Hector’s head.

“It’s so hard for children to even just stay alive when they’re separated from their parents at a young age,” she murmurs. Her eyes are sad as she tries to give Astyanax as much comfort as she can. “I’ll consider what you said carefully and be sure to make the right decision.”

“...Okay.”

“That’s enough,” Helena speaks up, finally bringing her insight to the table to quell the conversation and argument from going on any longer. “It’s quite obvious, isn’t it? If you have a child, you should raise them. Everyone is faced with hardship in this world in this cruel world. We’re all equal here.”

“I’m sorry,” Astyanax mumbles.

“No need to apologize,” the pregnant woman shakes her head. “The world is full of injustice. We’re all struggling with the same adversities, but some people are armed and some people can move freely. Others…carry lives yet to be born and others are forced to run before they can walk. It’s amazing if you can survive in this world and save another life.”

You finish sewing up the crying child’s wounds before wrapping him up in a blanket to warm his body. The atmosphere is depressed and you close your eyes and let out a quiet sigh, a flash of more blissful days passes your eyes. But that is in the past, and the grim reality is the present you are in. No matter the side of the debate, each had their own reasons.

“Astyanax,” you call out to him quietly. “I know what you’re worried about. The arrival of new life should be a joyful thing, but we don’t want to give each other a burden beyond our means.”

That’s something you know is along the lines of what Cyrene would say. And your heart aches fiercely for her. Because maybe she would put it in more eloquent words that quell the despair more thoroughly. But she’s not here. You are, and you are the one who can step up to at least warm the embers of hope by the hearth.

“Even still, this difficulty can be rewarding,” you say softly. “By that, I don’t mean getting more supplies or receiving preferential treatment, but hope and dependence.”

You smile softly and motion in Hector’s direction. “Did you choose to take care of Hector because you think he’ll help you get supplies?”

“No,” Astyanax shakes his head.

“But by doing so, your life has become more difficult and has made your food more scarce,” you continue your explanation. “But as you said, he gives your life meaning and motivation. That’s why you made that choice…right?”

“Yeah…”

Astyanax turns to the woman beside him apologetically. Seeing the remorse on his expression, your smile becomes more soft, more gentle. You also turn to the woman beside him and pose the question for Astyanax’s sake.

“Well then…how do you view this child?”

The pregnant woman doesn’t speak, only looking down at her belly in silent contemplation. But one of the refugees in the barn pipes up, joining the conversation.

“You should still have the baby,” the refugee says. “We’re barely making it through each day and we don’t have enough to eat, but it’s also sad to see someone die. If there are only a few living people left on this land, what good are more supplies? This world won’t be so lonely with more lives around.”

“Yeah! I agree!” another refugee joins in excitably, clapping his hands together. “Whether it’s a person or a dog, you need to protect them as their mom! You can’t be so quick to give up…”

The way his earlier words sounded catches up to the refugee and he cringes. “...Actually, never mind. Ugh, there I go running my mouth again.”

It sends soft laughter rippling up the multitudes of people and the refugee rubs the nape of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry, I’ve never been too good at talking with others.”

Priam clears his throat. “Well, since we’re all more or less situated, let’s change the subject. What’s your name? Where did you come from? How’s the situation outside?”

“Take your time,” you add to Priam’s words. “You don’t need to answer all the questions all at once.”

That elicits a few more barks of laughter and an embarrassed blush on Priam’s part.

“I’m Io,” the pregnant woman introduces herself. “I’m from Icatus. I was originally going to head for Janusopolis, but there were a few problems along the way so I joined the Tempest Troupe.”

At the mention of the Tempest Troupe, the daughter who was at her mother’s bedside stands up. Her expression is slack in surprise but she quickly recovers, gracefully smiling. She daintily pinches her skirt and curtsies. “Hello, I’m Iris. I am the lead musician for the Tempest Troupe. We were originally from Stymphalia, but we were forced to relocate because of the Black Tide. Ever since then, we’ve been traveling the lands helping out however we can.”

She then motions to her mother who’s resting on the cot after throwing up most, if not all, of the Black Tide’s poison. “This is my mother, Lamia.”

“I’m Argus,” the man who accompanied Io greets everyone. “And the child is Jason.”

The rest of the Tempest Troupe introduces themselves after Iris and then Priam asks another question.

“What of the cities south from here? Icatus was south, as well as Handak and Olenius.”

“Last we heard, they were also swallowed up by the Black Tide, and the people there were forced to evacuate,” Iris dutifully answers. “We came up here hoping Aidonia would be able to accept us, but we ended up detouring here instead.”

“Aidonia is cut off from the rest of the world,” Priam massages his brows. “The way there through the Hesperides Mountain Range is cut off by the Black Tide.”

Iris falters, falling silent. Murmurs begin to race up and down the crowd of refugees.

“If all the cities in the south are being swallowed up by the Black Tide then we should hurry up and evacuate ASAP!”

“But where would we even evacuate to?”

“Everyone,” Helena raises her voice. “Please calm down. We’re already thinking about plans on where to evacuate next.”

She nods to Priam. “There are discussions about going to the Eternal Holy City Okhema. But we’ll need to scout and survey the lands so that we can map out the fastest route there.”

That seems to pacify the crowd to some extent. You sigh quietly, gently looking after Iris’s mother, Lamia. It would be a long day for you, looking after the two patients and tending to them. But hopefully, with the promise and plans of Okhema as the next destination in sight, perhaps things would start looking up.

Chapter Text

Done with suturing Jason’s wounds and making sure that he has had an Empyros Lily to flush out the Black Tide’s poison, you leave him to Io and Argus to look after. Thus, you turn your attention to Lamia. 

While much of the corruption had been purged with the first round of hurling from the Empyros Lily, there were still many traces of the Black Tide’s touch that still needed to be removed. Iris sits at Lamia’s bedside, the part of an ever-filial daughter. 

Her brows are knit in worry as she clasps Lamia’s hand with both of hers. While it would be good to give Lamia another Empyros Lily seed to continue purging out the Black Tide, she had already exerted her body enough. You err on the side of caution, thinking that Lamia might be worse off if she forces her body to work overtime to expel the Black Tide.

“Here,” you offer Iris a small canteen of water and a cup. 

“Thank you,” Iris nods gratefully. She takes them from your hands, delicately tipping the canteen to pour out a bit of water into the cup. Iris raises it to her mother’s lips, a hand poised below the cup to catch any stray droplets, and slowly tips it so Lamia can take measured sips of water. 

“How much longer would you say before we can give her another seed?” Iris asks quietly.

“About another hour,” you assure her. “Your mother’s managed to purge most of the Black Tide from her body so that it’s not life-threatening. But we just want to be safe so that she isn’t too weak after.”

Iris purses her lips in worry, a worry that would never truly fade because Lamia is her mother, but her shoulders relax just the tiniest bit and her expression eases in that same minuscule amount. 

“Thank you,” she whispers. “Truly.”

Iris lets out a breath, forcefully loosening the tension in her posture as her eyes flutter shut. She takes a few deep breaths as if she’s going to practice vocalizing a few notes, but her breathing is only to gather her wits. When her eyes open, there is a new light to them, one of conviction.

“Is there any way that I can help?” Iris asks. “I don’t have much medical knowledge but I see there are a lot of injured here.”

You blink in surprise at the sudden change in disposition. However, you don’t deny the gift of help when everyone here is in sore need of aid. 

“I was just about to check on everyone here so you can help me with that,” you offer. “If that’s alright?”

“That’s perfect,” Iris nods with a smile. 

“Alright then, follow me.”

While the Tempest Troupe brought in two injured people who were thankfully saved, and although the refugees here should’ve been happy to see new survivors, the increasingly scarce supplies make it hard to celebrate. 

Before the Tempest Troupe arrived, the days had blurred together into a constant mesh of desperately waiting for good news. Even though people still fall asleep to the tempo of their biological rhythm, time isn’t measured by clocks. Instead, the reference for seconds, minutes, hours, and days is measured by a sense of hunger.

There are times you wish to speak to those who would listen, and imbue your words with a sense of hope that would at least embolden the people to seek the new day. However, you know that those words would be empty and false. Even if you want to do something, there’s nothing you can do. Even if you wish to speak, your listeners have already gone their separate ways. 

Someone takes a pair of cards that were almost crumpled and slickly tosses them in front of their comrade’s bed. 

Someone rummages through their pants pocket, desperately searching for a bit of wheat lost between the stitches.

Someone knows that they are dying from a terminal disease and have given their rations away to others for the past few days.

Someone lies down in a damp corner, weeping for the relatives they just buried.

While most try to ignore the passing time, they stare up at the mottled ceiling and their eyes have already lost their light, leaving an empty silence in its wake. But despair will not stop growing in the hearts of those who raise their hands and surrender. 

Before your regret for these people can condense and turn into a needle that pierces your heart, you instead weave it into a little booklet that you have been using to keep a record of the injured.

『Intensive Care Patient Record

Ianthe , 21 y.o.

Fell from height

Open fracture, skin damaged, open wound in skin exposing broken bone.

Hemopneumothorax, ruptured spleen, ruptured liver

Septic Shock

Medical History: Nil

CPR performed. Return of spontaneous circulation

In urgent need of AB blood, splenectomy, and liver repair.

However, such complicated surgeries cannot be performed in the current environment』

“Ianthe was rescued at noon three days ago,” you explain softly to Iris, tilting your booklet so that she can see the records. 

“Why…do you continue to try and save her?” Iris asks without accusation.

“...Even if it would prolong her pain,” you close your eyes. “I saw her struggle and desperation to survive in her eyes. Whenever she slightly regained consciousness, she would be looking for her partner that she saved in exchange for her injuries.”

You hear Iris exhale, a trembling shaking thing. Still, you continue your explanation. “Her partner Iphis, wanted to give Ianthe a blood transfusion, but their blood types don’t match. And whenever Ianthe found Iphis like this, she would always try to say something to her. So I did my best to give her first aid. Her chances are slim, but…I’m still hoping a miracle will happen.”

The two of you move on to the next patient.

『Intensive Care Patient Record

Daedalus , 37 y.o.

Abdomen injury caused by Black Tide creature attack, acute renal injury

Severe Black Tide infection, festering wound, unconscious most of the time

Medical History: Post-polio syndrome, scoliosis, right foot pronation, prolonged malnutrition.

Maintain fluid resuscitation and keep checking for infection』

“Mr. Daedalus,” you introduce the form of this prone man. “I don’t know much about him. But he hates the taste of sweet cookies and oftentimes he wakes up around 2-4 AM and cries.”

“Oh…,” Iris remarks softly. “Do you know why?”

You shake your head. “He’s never lucid long enough to know, and whenever he is awake, he’s inconsolable.”

『Intensive Care Patient Record

Calliope , 21 y.o.

Left leg fracture (fell from height), hemopneumothorax

Medium Black Tide infection, multiple ulcerations in lower extremities, still conscious

Medical History: Infection-induced cardiac tamponade

Emergency treatment has been performed, but surgery cannot be performed due to lack of equipment. Keep draining and checking for infection.

Suffering from severe, intolerable chest pain. We are running low on non-Empyros Lily painkillers.』

“Calliope loves her bunny plush which was left behind by her late sister. Talking about it can reduce her pain slightly.”

『Intensive Care Patient Record

Theo , 79 y.o.

Stage 4 gastric cardia cancer, esophageal cancer, severe anemia

Light Black Tide infection

Medical History: N/A

Soybean allergy 』

“I told him his condition when he asked. After learning the news, he hasn’t eaten in three days and has only had water. …Did I do the right thing?”

『Intensive Care Patient Record

Jasper , 47 y.o.

Attacked in the middle of a rescue mission. Head injury.

Multiple broken bones throughout body. Large area of skin burned.

Medical History: Nil』

“He was one of the many disciples who was part of the Titan War. He looked furious when Helena brought him back and kept on saying that he should die in battle instead of becoming a burden.”

“What did Helena say back?”

“Being injured isn’t a burden. Giving up is.”

『Intensive Care Patient Record

Euterpe, 17 y.o.

Attacked in the middle of a rescue mission. Head injuries.

Broken bones on left leg. Left arm amputated.

Medical History: N/A

All infection symptoms have disappeared, but she is in constant pain. Painkillers are used sparingly to prevent addiction and to conserve supplies.』

“She lost all of her friends in a rescue mission. She likes music and it helps calm her down a little. But the few musicians we have here can’t help but be scared by her wounds. I’ve only put her near the musicians and never in their sight.”

『Intensive Care Patient Record

Elliana , 12 y.o.

Severe Black Tide infection, multiple traumatic wounds on the back.

Medical History: Bipolar Disorder

Apart from her injuries, Elliana’s extreme mood swings are why she is put in intensive care.

There are no medicines that can treat her disorder here at the camp. Many also hold a lot of prejudice against her attitudes.』

“She and Euterpe get along well, but I still have to keep an eye on her. She likes Calliope’s bunny, but she sometimes takes it away without telling Calliope and then suddenly unleashes her rage on it.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I promised her that I would make her an identical bunny if I ever got the required materials.”

『Intensive Care Patient Record

Cora , 51 y.o.

Hit on the head while protecting supplies and her children. Traumatic brain injury. Currently in coma.

Medical History: Her children are unable to provide further information』

“I found her when I was out on a supply run. There weren’t a lot of supplies, but I gave them to her children anyway. They always stay by her bedside waiting for her to wake up.”

You flip to the next page, growing quiet when you read the records scribbled on it by your handwriting. 

『Intensive Care Patient Record

Hippocrates , 45 y.o.

Multiple tears in chest and abdomen caused by Black Tide creature attacks.

Severe Black Tide Infection and abdomen ulceration.

Prolonged malnutrition, anemia

Medical History: Dysfunctional uterine bleeding

She was already in hemorrhagic shock before the surgery.

Thanks to blood donors, we were able to save her from death.

However, her wounds weren’t healing well and required intensive care.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Time of Death: Month of Freedom, Day 23, 1:49 PM』

“She was a doctor from Carmitis,” you fill in Iris’s curious silence. “I was still learning first aid and emergency treatment under Helena and she would teach me some things and reassure me when changing the dressing on her wounds.”

If you close your eyes, maybe you can feel her gentle weathered hand on your shoulder. The soft weak tone of her voice as you were bent over her wounds, tying knots in the bandages to keep it secure. She taught you many things in the times Helena wasn’t there to fill in your knowledge of all things medical.

“She told me not to lose my courage even after witnessing so many deaths, not to be disappointed even after I fail to save someone, and to let go of my remorse and embrace the future so we won’t have new regrets.”

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips. “I never confided her in anything, but she read me like an open book.”

“What happened when she died?” Iris asks.

“Hippocrates saved a lot of people back from her home village,” you answer. “So the refugees here, that she saved, voluntarily hosted a funeral. …She was smiling when she passed away on her deathbed.”

Even if one holds the precious water of life in your palm, without a container, you can only watch as it drips away from your grasp until it dries up.

“The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain,” Iris recites. Her voice holds a measured and elegant cadence, almost as if each syllable is a stanza in a sonnet. “Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed. Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy. Only when you are empty are you at a standstill and balanced.”

You stare at her, unable to parse through the true meaning behind her words. Iris, sensing your ambiguity, turns a small smile to you, reaching out to hold your hand with both of hers.

“There are people out there who look down on life and death with indifference,” Iris explains. “But you don’t. Even if it’s a more cumbersome path, even if it will give you more pain, you choose empathy and kindness. You chose to hear the stories of these people suffering and have done your best to ease their pain.”

“What I mean to say,” Iris continues, looking down at your fingers shyly. “Is that you’ve already gone through so much and experienced much more. Even if we have just met today, I want to say that you’ve done well.”

You’ve done well.

There’s something that unfurls in your chest at the praise. Something that fills your heart to the brim with an inexplicable warmth but is underlined with some sort of intangible pain. Iris must see something in your expression because she slowly lets go of your hand and raises her arms.

“May I…hug you?”

Your breath catches in your throat. You press your lips together, afraid of some unknown sound coming out before you incline your head once. Iris smiles as she steps into your space and gathers you into your arms, tucking her chin on your shoulder. 

This warmth and comfort reminds you so painfully of Cyrene that you feel tears starting to gather in your eyes. Even if you are soaking in this comfort that moves you to tears, it cannot change this grim reality.

The lives of many injured here in the refugee camp hinge on the list and booklet you hold in your hands. But no matter how many times you check through it, flip through the pages, or scribble updated information, the supply shortage won’t miraculously get any better.

So many people have prayed desperately at makeshift altars to their preferred patron Titans. Many more have prayed in the direction of the Eternal Holy City Okhema, desperately hoping that they would hear their prayers and deliver them to salvation. But there is no answer, not even a sign of acknowledgment. The Titans are gone and there is only the Black Tide that will continue spreading.

Faith in gods is an evil thing. It’s the thing that makes you jump deep into the raging sea, hold your breath, and desperately wish for some higher being to come and save you. But there is no one to save you and you can only come to the realization that only you can help yourself before it's too late and you drown.

“Hey! Doctor!”

The loud call jars you out from your hug with Iris. 

“Sorry,” you say quietly, desperately wiping your eyes and putting your booklet down.

“It’s alright,” Iris shakes her head with a sympathetic smile. “Take your time.”

You sniffle, tilting your head back as if to tip your tears back into your eyes. After a moment to center yourself, you hurry over to Priam who’s standing outside one of the medical wards. He shuffles on his feet, eyes lighting up when he sees you. “I think I heard Elliana crying. Can you check up on her?”

“Yeah,” you nod faintly. “Thanks for the heads up.”

Gently, you draw the curtain aside and step in.

“...Elliana?”

Elliana pauses from where she’s sitting on the foot of Euterpe’s bed. Her eyes widen when they land on you before her bottom lip curls. She sniffles loudly before she throws herself into your embrace, muffling her cries into your stomach. 

Quiet as it is, Elliana’s cries still carry through the barn, stirring empathy and sorrow from the other refugees. 

Again, you’re reminded of the frustrating helplessness you have felt time and time again in this situation. Every day just like the other refugees, you await good news, hoping that somehow it will give you the power to ease if not end everyone’s suffering. But you are still here in this nightmare.

Patting Elliana on the back, you begin to sing to alleviate at least some of the despair in the air.

“~Let there be light shining down on us…Upon past and pain that we’ve all been through~”

You close your eyes as you tilt your head back, to ease your neck, patting Elliana on the head. “~Our faith shall become light pushing us to the sky…now down the road, we go as one~”

At the sound of your soft and breathy singing, Elliana seems to calm, shifting against you so that she can look up at you with curious eyes. “...What song are you singing?”

“Oh…,” you pause your singing as you offer Elliana a small smile, brushing her hair back and thumbing the traces of her tears away. You think of Cyrene and the times the two of you would lay in the fields together and stargaze in bliss. “It’s a song that a friend taught me back home.”

You startle when the curtain is swept aside to Priam and Iris staring at you.

“I’ve heard that song,” Priam adds. He shivers at the sight of Euterpe’s injuries before he fixes his expression and sits beside you and Elliana. His usually grim face is alight with the simple joy of recognizing the song you sang.

“I as well,” Iris joins you at your other side. “I remember hearing about how a composer wrote that song when the Black Tide first appeared. They wrote it to commemorate their friends but it became popular because so many people had lost their friends and family.”

“Is that so?” you blink in surprise. It was Cyrene who taught you that song amongst other things. You remember how the little boy from back then who would trail after Cyrene would sometimes throw a fuss that you and Cyrene had something exclusive, but then Cyrene had consoled him by telling him that there were things that Cyrene and he did that didn’t include you either. 

“The older generation sings it for comfort,” Priam explains. “How about I teach it to you, Elliana? What do you say?”

Elliana frowns, brows creasing in uncertainty before she turns to you. “Uhm…can you teach it to me?”

“Oh…,” Priam dims a little comically. You can’t help the small chuckle that bubbles in your chest from the sight, but you give Elliana a nod.

“Of course, I can teach you.”

“Wait, allow me!” Iris volunteers. She quickly rises from her position beside you and dashes out of the medical ward. It’s not even a minute later before she’s rushing back with a black rectangular bag. She unzips it before pulling out a smooth wooden portable piano and lays it over her lap. “Do you remember the first verse?”

“Vaguely,” you shake your hand in a so-so gesture.

“Mm, let me see,” Iris nibbles on her bottom lip, tracing her fingers over the piano keys before she finds the right chords and plays the beginnings of the melody that you recognize.

“Oh, I remember now…,” you murmur as the melody and the lyrics come back to you. You hum a little, tuning your voice to the tone of Iris’s piano.

“That’s it,” Priam nods encouragingly. Another musician from the Tempest Troupe pokes their head in curiously. 

“Hey, what brings you in here playing your piano, Iris?”

“Hey.”

Musicians from the Ladon refugee camp and the Tempest Troupe alike are drawn to this medical ward by the soft sounds of Iris’s piano. They crowd in one-by-one placing their curious and hesitant gazes upon you. 

“Come join us,” Iris smiles before raising a prim hand in your direction. “We’re just playing a song with them.”

“Alright, can they sing?”

“Of course, they can sing!” Iris gasps, a little affronted on your behalf.

“I uhm…,” you stammer, tripping up over the nervousness of singing in front of this gathering crowd and the amusement of Iris standing up for you. 

“Sing?” Ellania insists, smiling in anticipation.

“~Don’t be afraid~,” Iris vocalizes masterfully, voice trilling with unmatched elegance and melodic finesse. “~Open your heart, and let the music flow out~”

You’re a little daunted by Iris’s beautiful voice and she smiles at you. “Oh come on, don’t get cold feet on me! Your voice is also so beautiful!”

She stares down a little sadly down at her piano. “Playing music might not fix anything, but getting your feelings off your chest is better than holding them in.”

Then to banish her uncertainty, her fingers effortlessly play a major scale up and down the piano, her voice rising to give words to the notes. “~Lalala! We’ll sing instead of crying~”

“Okay…,” you laugh at Iris’s theatrical encouragement. Even though you’re still a little unsure of yourself, in the face of everyone’s fragile curiosity and budding hope, you can’t help the feeling of not wanting to let them down. You take in a deep breath and then begin to sing.

“~That which, I faintly see in your eyes…An endless, crimson swirl of tears~”

As you begin to sing, the other musicians drum along with their hands, rhythmically and in tempo. They are all rallied to a unified front with the delicate chime and chords of Iris’s piano.

“~We bid farewell to the grounds of yesterday…and carry what we have been taught~”

Hearing the singing, Euterpe opens her eyes and listens as she checks that her wounds are covered. 

“~We’re told to pave our way for the future…and dream as big as we can dream~”

Ellania wipes her eyes as she listens, head swaying to the music. Here in your arms, she lets herself be soothed and her worries be assuaged.

~Below the path of hope we do walk upon, are the footsteps of our forerunners~

Entranced by your singing, the musicians don’t notice the crowd of curious eyes gathering behind them. Long for the past, longing for days of bliss once gone, they enjoy your singing in silence.

~Let there be light shining down on us, upon past and pain that we’ve all been through~

~Our faith shall become light pushing us to the sky…~

“~Now down the road~” you sing the final notes of the first chorus. “~We go as one…~”

As your voice fades, you finally notice the crowd standing around you as everyone erupts in applause.

“That sure brings back memories! I didn’t think anyone could sing!” a refugee chimes in.

“Well we don’t want to waste such a rare opportunity,” Priam laughs. “Let’s teach everyone to sing.” He clears his throat and tries to emulate Iris’s earlier singing…but his voice falls a little too flat and hoarse. “~Lalala! wE’lL sInG iNsTeAd Of CrYiNg~”

He clamps his mouth shut, cheeks dusting pink as people laugh at his expense. 

“That’s alright,” Iris consoles the man. “Everyone starts somewhere. If you want, I’ll teach you as much as you want until you can sing any note without effort!”

“Don’t the wounded need to rest?” another refugee asks in worry.

“It’s okay,” Euterpe says weakly from her bed. “I wanna listen to everyone singing too.”

“Me too!” Ellania pipes up.

“Then…,” Iris interjects. “If you would allow me. The Tempest Troupe has supplies that we can use. We can give everyone a warm meal and sing songs together for today.”

Though exhausted, there are cheery murmurs that ripple up the crowds of refugees and you can’t help but smile at the mirth that envelops the atmosphere and drives away the despair just for this moment. 

“Alright,” you nod in Iris’s direction. “We’ll be counting on you.”

Chapter Text

“Hector look! They’re actual Dromas!”

Arf!

Astyanax, Patroclus, and Hector follow you out when you join Iris to look over the supplies she brought with her troupe. The rain that heralded their arrival had stopped, leaving the skies clear but still dim. 

The Tempest Troupe rode to the refugee camp in Ladon by a herd of Dromas: four of them. Even though you’re not as excitable as Astyanax at the sight of these massive creatures, there is a childlike wonder that flickers in your chest.

“We have just enough supplies to feed everyone,” Iris assures as she easily approaches one of the Dromas. Helena is also with the group, watching over the Tempest Troupe as they unbuckle their supplies from their mounts and do the laborious work of getting them into the barn.

“It’s good news,” Helena crosses her arms, but the severe contour of her expression is undertoned with hues of relief. “I’m sure everyone will appreciate this in these trying times.”

“It’ll be good to raise everyone’s spirits,” you agree. “Even if it is just for a day…”

Helena blinks at you before she places a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You deserve this relief just as much as the next person.”

“Miss Iris!” Astyanax pipes up. “Can we see the Dromas?”

“Of course!” Iris waves them over. “Come over!”

Astyanax runs over and Patroclus hobbles behind him. Even though he still holds some reservations for Astyanax and Hector, there’s no hiding the simple boyish delight at seeing the Dromas. 

You watch them as Iris pats the creature’s neck, encouraging it to bend its neck down. Gently and with ease, she strokes its head before encouraging the other two boys to shower this gentle creature with their attention. 

When you return to the barn with all the supplies in two, people murmur in surprise and blooming hope. 

“Most of what we have is rice,” Iris explains. “So, we’ll be making porridge tonight!”

Someone whoops loudly, a refugee immediately standing up, newly invigorated. “Get your pot! Everyone’s getting food tonight!”

At that exciting declaration, many of the refugees stand up in surprise, starting to crowd the Tempest Troupe but Helena and Priam are immediately there to quell the crowd from unintentionally becoming a mob. 

“Looks like we’re getting some porridge tonight.”

“Finally! Some good news!”

“Everyone, please,” Helena’s voice washes over the crowd, authoritative but fondly exasperated. “We still need everyone’s help to prepare our meal tonight. We’ll need to sit down and rub the rice ears with our hands to get rid of the husks.”

There are a few disappointed murmurs at that.

“My apologies,” Iris smiles sadly.

“Don’t apologize!” someone interjects. “The fact that you brought food here for all of us is enough!”

“Yeah! We gotta put in the work too.”

“I’ll collect some rainwater,” Priam nods, rolling up his sleeves in anticipation of labor. “It’s been raining nonstop for the past few days, so there should be more than enough water.”

“Want me to help make it?” Argus offers his help. “I have a stove with me, but I just need a canister of gas.”

“We got one for you!”

“Really? Great!”

It warms your heart seeing the normally placid and subdued air being filled with newly invigorated energy. All, who can, line up to take strands of rice and begin husking them in every corner of the barn. All the while, there are so many joyous conversations between the people that it becomes a cacophony…but it's good noise. It means that while despair is ever-present, it is not all-powerful.

You take a few strands with yourself, becoming a part of a group comprised of Iris, Astyanax, Patroclus, Io, Ellania, and Lamia.

“Mom!” Iris brightens when she sees Lamia sitting upright. The Black Tide’s traces are gone, but it has unfortunately left its mark in the form of a mesh of scars stretching over her skin: reaching her jawline and extending below to the rest of the left side of her body underneath her clothes.

But at least Lamia is still alive, and perhaps that’s all that matters.

“Iris,” Lamia smiles, voice soft and still a little weak. Iris rushes over to her side, enveloping her mother in a hug and burying her face into her shoulder. They hold each other for a moment as they converse in low comforting tones to each other. To give them a little bit of privacy, you herd the others just a little bit away to sit down in a loose circle to husk the rice strands.

“Like this,” Io shows them, rubbing the rice strand in between her two hands. Patroclus and Astyanax follow suit, utterly concentrated on their task. Ellania takes the time to watch just a little longer before she follows suit.

It’s about a minute before Iris and Lamia join you. Iris escorts her mother by the hand as Lamia joins your group with shaking steps.

“Let me help,” you immediately rise, taking Lamia’s other side as you help her sit down. 

“Thank you,” she smiles quietly at you.

“Of course,” you tell her in return. “Please take it easy, you’re just recovering from severe Black Tide infection.”

“Lamia,” Io exhales in relief and reaches out to hold Lamia’s hand.

“How are you, Io?” Lamia asks quietly, squeezing back Io’s hand. “Is the baby alright?”

“Yes, they’re alright,” Io nods, putting a hand over her belly. She sniffles, tears beginning to shine in her eyes as she stifles her sobs. “I thought you were going to disappear just like my husband…”

“Oh, Io,” Lamia sighs as she reaches out, gently nudging the expecting mother into her embrace.

“I’m just so scared,” Io weeps. “I’m so scared for my baby, what am I going to do?”

“Things will be okay,” Lamia assures her. “You won’t raise your child alone. You’ll have help so long as you love your child.”

There’s a bit of silence that ensues after Lamia’s declaration.

“If you need help…,” Astyanax offers reluctantly. “I can help babysit with Hector.”

“Really?” Io blinks in surprise.

“Mhm,” Astyanax nods. “I’m sure Hector will appreciate another person to play with.”

The dog in question yips, as if he’s affirming Astyanax’s words. 

“I guess, I’ll help too,” Patroclus adds in his two cents.

“We’ll all be there to help,” Iris affirms. 

Io’s eyes go wide, bottom lip trembling, before she nods. She wipes her tears away and gathers herself together, piece by fragile piece.

Shortly after, the water, the purifier, and the cooking utensils are ready. Everyone puts the husked rice into the water to be filtered and then set to boil over the water.

Food is rationed out almost immediately once it's done cooking. People take their meals, gathering amongst each other, joyfully talking and eating. Only a man is left holding a bowl of rice. He stands up weakly and attempts to address the crowd, but his feeble voice is overtaken by the chatter and fails to garner anyone’s attention.

“Mr. Theo?” you ask him, walking over to him. You place a hand over his back in an attempt to comfort him. “What’s wrong?”

Since being diagnosed with cancer, he has refused to eat. 

“Can I…,” he rasps weakly, desperation and anxiety pooling in his eyes. “...hold onto this?”

Your heart breaks just a little bit for him. “Of course. It’s meant for everyone to eat.”

“Not eat…,” he shakes his head. “Just…save.”

His voice shutters with fragility. He was already malnourished before refusing to eat. Now? It isn’t inappropriate to liken him to a candle in the wind, about to go out at any minute. 

You press your lips together. “...Of course.”

These days, the old man gave his food or the food he could get to others. It was his only request. You had no reason to refuse.

You don’t quite understand his motivation to not eat. Yet seeing him struggle, you refrain from asking any more questions. You just guide him back, helping him sit on the bed next to his wife.

“Thank you,” the old woman, Katherine, tells you. “My legs aren’t what they used to be. I told him not to stand, but he’s as stubborn as a mule.”

The elderly couple sit together holding their rice and watch over the crowd gathered around the hearth. You would hesitate to say that they’re joyful, but there’s a quiet sort of happiness and contentment that blankets the two of them.

The sobbing that once echoed through the barn has stopped at this moment. One by one, the bedridden people open their eyes to catch rays of light in their dim vision. Even in this dark world, people can still find companionship around the hearth, gathering together to warm each other against the chill night.

If hope were to manifest itself, then the sight before you would surely be the embodiment of it.

The Tempest Troupe gathers chairs, tuning their instruments with each other: a flute, oboe, piano, accordion, cello, violin, and horn. 

It gathers the attention of the people, making them watch on in curiosity. Once they are finally attuned to each other, Iris stands, curtsying delicately in front of the crowd, a hand over her chest.

“Everyone,” Iris smiles. “I would like to present to you, ‘Dreaming to the Glowing Place.’”

And then from her words, the violin begins to play. It plays a sustained high octave note, just barely bordering on shrill. But it sets the tone as the somber notes of the piano begin to play. 

Iris conducts the Troupe, elbows bent artfully and hands waving with an unmatched grace. As the piano begins to finish its part, the strings of the violin and cello are plucked in time, heralding the woodwind notes of the flute. 

Iris begins to become lost in the music. Her eyes flutter shut, chin tilted up as she begins to move her whole body. She sways with the beat, black hair following her movement, as she holds out her arms as if she’s waltzing with an invisible partner. 

Then the cello, violin, and accordion take up the melody, allowing the flute to rest. 

At this, Iris momentarily stops her dancing, looking through the crowd before she finally finds you. She rushes over to you, a smile on her lips.

“Come dance with me?” Iris asks.

Immediately, the instinct to turn down the request sits on your tongue. But there is a joyful twinkle in Iris’s eyes and her hand is raised to take yours. 

“I don’t know how to dance,” you tell her, even as if you place your hand in hers. 

“That’s alright,” Iris gently pulls you close and to the center. “Just follow me.”

She holds your right hand raising them together in the air and then guides your other hand to her hip. She places her free hand on your shoulder and you let her pull you along in a slow but gentle waltz.

You stumble on your feet, but the inherent playful tone of the accordion in this somber piece encourages you to find your footing. Even though you don’t have quite the same grace as Iris, you can relatively keep up. 

Soon, all of the string instruments begin to swell together, crescendoing in both melody and in sound like a cup being slowly overfilled. It continues to rise and rise until it gently tides over to the sound of the oboe carrying the melody with intermittent accompaniments and tunes from the other instruments.

Lost in your world, you aren’t quite aware of the multitudes of people who watch your dance with Iris. How beautiful the two of you move in the light of the hearth. Because somehow beauty and grace can still be found in this apocalyptic wasteland. Despite all the horrors and despair, there is still room for light and hope to thrive. 

With each note that begins to slow, you and Iris slow with it, letting the momentum of your waltz begin to gently wind down as the oboe fades and the piano eases you two into the end.

You let out a small breath, a little overwhelmed by the whole experience, and Iris beams at you. You yelp when she whirls you around, raising your joined hands together before she curtsies to the crowd. You don’t know quite to do, so you place your free hand over your chest and bow your head.

As such, your audience erupts in applause, utterly delighted by this impromptu performance. You raise your hand and you notice Iphis, who had been sitting at Ianthe's bedside, joins the crowd and stares at the hearth forlornly. 

Quietly, you let go of Iris’s hand, sensing the change in mood, and come up to her side. 

“Iphis?” you ask her quietly.

“Hi,” Iphis greets. She tries to squeeze out a polite smile but fails. “Ianthe just woke up. She wanted to try some porridge and told me to join the others…but right after that…she…”

Iphis bites her bottom lip. She sniffles loudly as she lowers her head, tears shining as they drip from her eyes and onto the floor. 

“I don’t think,” she gasps, tilting her head as her expression twists in heartfelt agony. “...I don’t think she’s going to make it at all.”

Her sobbing begins to grow in intensity and volume. Her sobs echo through the barn and gradually quiet the refugees, bringing them back to the cold reality.

Katherine sighs forlornly. “... Some people can’t endure this moment, others can’t endure the next.”

Hospital walls have heard more repentance and prayers than temples. But no matter how intensely one prays before the life of a loved one that has been lost, nothing can change. 

“Why…,” Iphis sobs. “Why did she sacrifice herself to protect me? I—I might as well join her…”

You reach out, enveloping Iphis’s hand with your own. There are no words of comfort that you can give her because the underlying situation cannot be changed. Empty words of hope will only be shallow in the face of such tragedy.

You recall Hippocrates’s words when she was alive and taught you the ways of the healer when you were at her bedside.

“Optimism, calmness, indifference to life and death…These all help persuade ourselves, but we can’t force others to maintain a positive outlook.”

She pats your hand as she rasps, the pallor of death overtaking her skin and branding her for an inevitable parting soon to come. But that doesn’t stop her from passing on words of wisdom to you, from giving you the flame that burned bright with all of her convictions and experiences.

“Don’t deprive others of the right to be sad, nor discourage them to grieve, because persuasion is always more useful than force. Especially you. I look at you and I know you can’t learn how to remain emotionless when treating lives that cannot be saved, so that’s why I’m telling you this.”

Hippocrates smiles at you, squeezing your hand with all the strength she can muster. “I hope you can allow yourself to be sad and use this accumulated regret as motivation to save those that you can. This is also a comfort to those who cannot be comforted.”

You turn back to Iris. Iris is subdued at this change of events but she holds your gaze regardless. You remember the playful words that she sang to encourage you to sing. 

You take a shaky breath, heart aching for Iphis and Ianthe, for Theo and Katherine, for Hippocrates, for all those you are struggling to save and all you have lost. “...Should we…sing instead of crying?”

Iris gives you a faint encouraging smile. She takes a step back, turning on her heel to rally the Tempest Troupe. At her cue, the musicians raise their instruments in preparation and begin to play. In the crowd, those who are familiar with this hymn of parting and mourning raise their voices to sing along to the music.

~That which I faintly see in your eyes…an endless, crimson swirl of tears~

~We bid farewell to the grounds of yesterday…and carry what we have been taught~

There is a sense of awe that fills your chest when you see how the crowd begins to unify their voices so easily. Even though all of you come from different backgrounds and have suffered things unique to themselves, there is still a way for everyone to reach a mutual understanding and cause. As such, you raise your voice to sing the lyrics as well.

~We’re told to pave our way for the future…and dream as big as we can dream~

~Below the path of hope we do walk upon…are the footsteps of our forerunners~

The music and the hot porridge warm the hearts of the despondent and weary. Those who are familiar with the song but not the words hum along with the tune. Those who are unfamiliar with both pat their hands against their knees or the ground in the rhythm to join this procession. They find solace in these melancholic lyrics instead of relying on false hope. They use this song to let go of their grievances and shed tears, imbuing each syllable with the faint echoes of their cries.

~Let there be light shining down on us…upon past and pain that we’ve all been through~

~Our faith shall become light pushing us to the sky…now down the road, we go as one~

***

You take a step out of the barn and into the night. But you don’t stray far, instead opting to press your back against the building and slide down until you’re sitting on the ground. It is a bit cold, but your belly is warm with a bowl of porridge, and you gather your legs to hug them to your chest. 

And so, just for this moment, you decide to reminisce about blissful days long past. If only to escape the present for a little while.

“Cyrene!”

“The two of you certainly took your time~!”

As if mocking the amount of stress that you went through trying to find her in this forest, Cyrene is unharmed. In fact, she’s more than fine. She’s sitting amongst the fairies that are frolicking around her, pampering her with their light and magic.

Honestly, it’s a little stupefying just how dangerous situations with Cyrene turn out to be so carefree and whimsical like this. The boy whose hand you are holding seems to have the same thoughts, evidenced by how he stares at Cyrene in dumbfounded silence.

Cyrene notices how the two of you are holding hands, a little surprised but her expression gives way to a beam. “Oh, the two of you are finally getting along with each other!”

Immediately the boy reacts. He pulls his hand away from your grasp almost violently, a red blush coloring his face down to his shoulders. “No! We’re not! It was just—!”

“It was just a one-time thing,” you tell Cyrene nonplussed because you’re used to her sort of teasing. 

The strange thing is, the boy seems a little…disappointed by your words? Cyrene smirks, eyes creasing with a catlike smugness as she regards the two of you. 

“What are you thinking about?” you sigh, crossing your arms.

“Nothing!” Cyrene denies it brightly. She knows better to tell you what’s on her mind because then you’ll try to stop her fun. “You don’t need to worry about it!”

“Cyrene.”

“Mou~! You need to be a bit more spontaneous with your life! Don’t be such a bore!” Cyrene giggles. She pushes herself off the tree stump and holds up a wooden sword. The young boy’s blue eyes light up in recognition.

“My sword!”

“I just asked the fairies nicely to bring it back,” Cyrene explains as the boy runs up and takes his sword back. “They actually find it very fun when you come over and play with them. But they find it more fun if they manage to take away your sword and make you have to get it back.”

“That’s fine,” the boy shakes his head as he raises his wooden sword to check for any damages. “I’ll just get stronger and better until they can’t take it away from me!”

You keep your silence as you watch the two of them. Cyrene tilts her head in confusion because normally you would make some sort of snarky comment about how weird the boy was with his sword and his constant fights with the fairies.

“Are you okay?”

You roll your eyes. “So. You got into an incident here when we could’ve avoided the whole thing.”

Cyrene remembers your earlier threat with a start. “Oh…that.”

You nod once before harrumphing and turning on your heel. This time, you’re really not going to talk to Cyrene for two weeks to make sure she doesn’t run off so carelessly like this. 

“Wait! No!” Cyrene whines as she runs over and tugs on your hand. “Mou~! I’m sorry, okay! I won’t do that and make you worry again!”

You huff wordlessly and continue to walk, despite her trying to pull you back.

“Hey!” the boy grabs your other arm, trying to help Cyrene. “Don’t make Cyrene upset! Two weeks without talking to her is a stupid threat!”

With the two of them pulling you back, it’s much harder to try and walk forward. Each step forward is a hard-won battle, struggling to go further and further as your arms and body strain with the effort. 

Unfortunately, the combined effort of Cyrene and the boy proves too great for you to face alone. 

Your foot slips on a wet patch of the earth, abruptly snapping the tension. Without the opposing force of you trying to walk away, the strength of Cyrene and the boy is all that’s left, sending the three of you crashing onto the ground on your backs.

Immediately, the other two scramble, weighing their body weights on you to keep you from moving.

“Mou~! I said I’m sorry! Please don’t give me the silent treatment! Please~!”

“Hmph!” you pout and turn your head to the other side.

“Don’t be an idiot!” the boy scrambles, a little frantic because he doesn’t want to see Cyrene upset. And if conceding to you means that Cyrene doesn’t get upset, then he’s willing to compromise. “For the next week, you guys can stargaze and be lazy in the fields all you want! I won’t complain, I promise! Just don’t go through with this threat!”

“...”

“Oh c’mon!” the boy takes your hand and squeezes, giving you wide puppy eyes. “Please!”

You stare at him incredulously cause that’s an expression you’ve never seen him make before. However, before you can dwell too long on it, you hear a sniffle.

Immediately, you and the boy whip to Cyrene who’s sniffling. Her bottom lip trembles as she rubs her hands over her eyes.

“Are you crying?” the boy panics. “Don’t cry, Cyrene!”

You stare at her before you sigh. Gently pulling your hand away from the boy’s grip, you place them gently on Cyrene’s arms. “Alright, I’m sorry. There’s no need to cry, Cyrene. I won’t give you the silent treatment.”

You gently pull Cyrene’s hands away from her face, ready to wipe away her tears. But…

“Really?” Cyrene smiles at you and there are absolutely no traces of any tears. “You said it yourself!”

You stare at her for a long minute before you violently try pushing the two of them off your body. 

“Wait! Wait!” Cyrene laughs as she wraps her arms around your neck and hugs you. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“Hey! Don’t just go back to fighting us again!” the boy grabs your hand again. “We’re sorry, okay! We’re really really sorry !”

“I am so done with the two of you,” you groan, but you let yourself be hugged by Cyrene and let your hand be held by the other boy.

“No, you aren’t,” Cyrene giggles. “You’re too nice and you love me too much to actually mean that.”

You sigh, a small smile curling on your lips because, despite it all, Cyrene is right. “Yeah, whatever.”

Cyrene pulls away and looks over to the boy and sees him holding your hand again. She smirks, tapping her finger on her chin teasingly. “You really like holding their hand, don’t you?”

The boy sputters, letting go of your hand and dropping it like it’s a hot potato.

“It’s okay! There’s no shame in admitting it!”

“Cyrene!”

Your eyes flutter open when you hear the barn door creaking open. You look up to see Iris peeking out before her shoulders slump in relief. “Some of us were looking around for you.”

“Ah, I’m sorry,” you apologize softly. “I just needed a moment by myself.”

Iris nods. She closes the barn door behind her and sits next to you. “It’s quiet out here. I kinda like it.”

You hum wordlessly, tilting your head back to just stare up at the emptiness of the Amphoreus night. The two of you sit together in companionable silence until the door creaks open again. Astyanax and Hector shimmy through the opening, coming through and sitting at your other side.

“Are you okay?” Astyanax whispers.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. You smile softly when Hector paws at your leg and you open your arms for him to snuggle into your chest. You look up to see Helena peeking through the cracks.

“Don’t stay out for too long,” she tells you instead of offering words of comfort. With that, she stands guard at the doors, leaving the four of you alone in the night. Astyanax scoots close, laying his head on your arm while Iris curls in close, placing her head on your shoulder. 

“Have you…,” Astyanax asks quietly. “Have you lost someone too?”

You pause. You raise a hand and pat Astyanax’s head. “Yeah, I have. I…I lost a lot.”

“If it’s alright with you,” Iris murmurs. “Would you like to share? Letting those kinds of things off your chest would help I’m pretty sure.”

You take a moment before you nod. You begin to tell them of a village surrounded by golden fields, where the figure of the mighty Kephale could be seen. A place close enough to the Eternal Holy City to experience a day and night cycle and the days you would spend in bliss just gazing at the stars. 

You tell them of a little boy with dreams and ambitions sparkling in his eyes. Of how he raised his sword in that childish and boyish need to become the strongest in the village.

You tell them of a girl whimsical yet deeply introspective in the same stroke. Of how she loved romantic stories and would never fail to put a smile on your face.

You tell them of yourself. Of Aedes Elysiae.

“Aedes Elysiae,” Iris repeats, tasting each syllable of the name of your beloved village. “It sounds beautiful. Do you miss it?”

“I do,” comes the simple answer.

“I’d like to have a home like that,” Astyanax mumbles. “Somewhere warm and peaceful.”

“Maybe someday you’ll have a home like that,” you tell him.

"So...this Cyrene taught you that song?" Iris poses the question.

"Among other things," you nod. 

"Were there any other songs she taught you?"

The three of you descend into silence as you dwell upon blissful memories brimming with mirth and love. You sigh inaudibly through your nose before you nod. "There were a few songs that we taught each other."

"Each other?"

"Yeah," you nod. You remember the first song that you taught Cyrene, one from that life beyond this one. A song attached to a tale of innocent love and companionship undertoned by despair and tragedy. "Do you want to hear it?"

"Yes please," Iris smiles at you. You look over to Astyanax who looks up to you shyly and nods. You slump against the wall and take in a deep breath. Then, you begin to sing.

~Oh my Clematis, hope bloomed from the abyss~

~Oh my Clematis, always stay by my side~

If you close your eyes and imagine as deep as the night, then maybe you could dream that Cyrene is singing the lyrics here with you. It pushes you, imbuing your desperation and grief into each syllable as you continue to sing.

~You bloomed from the huge black wall~

~The galactic stardust spread out in your eyes~

Iris begins to hum along. Even though she doesn't know the words as intimately as you do, her musical talent allows her to follow the melody, cradling your words and voice with her own. Astyanax merely sways to the beat, curling into your side as he lets your voice wash over him. He reaches out to rub Hector's head, who has seemingly melted on your chest in contentment.

~In the endless darkness, I find you with your scent~

~Even if I fall asleep for infinity, don't leave my side~

"~Oh my Clematis~," you feel the hint of warm tears gathering at the edges of your eyes. "~Hope bloomed from the abyss...Oh my Clematis, always stay by my side~"

The melody fades, unable to be sustained as there isn't another to sing this song with you. But the feelings you have placed upon this song has not faded, and the three of you sit together, staring up at the night sky above. 

Iris stares at the heavens in contemplation before she suddenly declares, “I’ll make the journey to Okhema.”

You and Astyanax blink in surprise, turning to Iris. She smiles sheepishly at the lack of her explanation and begins to. “The people here have already suffered enough. And we need all the help we can get. There were plans to evacuate to Okhema, so I at least want to do this for everyone. That way, we’ll at least go to some place where we won’t have to fear for food, for comfort, or our lives.”

“Alone?” you ask her.

“Alone,” Iris affirms. "That way I don't need to take too many supplies that we desperately need for everyone else."

“That’s dangerous,” Astyanax inputs. “Isn’t Okhema at least a week’s journey from here?”

“And a two-week’s journey if we were to take everyone there at the same time,” Iris nods. “But if I go alone, then at least I can go fast. And the faster I can get there, the faster I can come back with help.”

You want to tell her about the inherent dangers of making such a journey alone with the Black Tide spreading everywhere as it is. However, you swallow your words at the flames of conviction that shine in Iris’s eyes.

“Okay,” you tell her instead. You hold her hand and squeeze it. “Just tell us what you need.”

Chapter Text

The next day, Iris’s departure for the Eternal Holy City is a quiet affair. You are with the members of the Tempest Troupe and her mother as they give Iris their well wishes.

“Are you sure about going alone?” Lamia asks her daughter quietly and with worry. Iris’s eyes are soft when she regards her mother. She gathers Lamia up in her arms and hugs her as tightly as she can.

“Mhm,” Iris nods, low and melodic. “I at least want to do this for everyone. The faster I get to Okhema, the faster everyone can get help.”

When she pulls away, Lamia sighs as she cups her daughter’s face and kisses her brow.

“Stay safe, okay?” Lamia tells her. She procures a small flower woven from different cloths. Its petals are violet with the stamen yellow. It is an imitation of the iris flower…and a gift for Iris. Lamia weaves this cloth flower into her daughter’s hair and leans back to inspect her handiwork.

“We’ll see each other again, Mom,” Iris assures Lamia again. Then, Iris turns to you.

“We haven’t known each other for long but…,” Iris smiles at you. “Thank you for everything.”

“There’s no need to thank me,” you shake your head. “I should be the one thanking you. You’ve already done a lot for the people here.”

“Not as much as you,” Iris shakes her head. She raises her arms, her head tilted in askance and you accept. You let her step into your space and wrap her arms around you.

“Be strong,” Iris murmurs. “And don’t be afraid to just let go sometimes. You deserve that just as much as anyone else.”

“I will,” you promise her. “Be careful.”

“I will.”

She squeezes you one last time before she parts with a dazzling and encouraging smile. "Once we all get to Okhema, will it be alright if you can teach me all the songs you know? I want to write them down and arrange them to be played by an orchestra." She pauses, expression faltering before radiance returns to her features. "Of course, I'll teach you all the songs I know as well!"

You pause before you give her a soft smile. "Of course. When we get to Okhema."

Iris nods before she turns to the others.

“I have everything I need,” Iris announces. “I’ll make sure to convince those at Okhema to help us here at Ladon. This is not a farewell, but a promise to see you all once again.”

She curtsies once and the Tempest Troupe either curtsy or bow their heads in a customary greeting. 

Thus, she takes off on her journey to the Eternal Holy City, the prayers and the gazes of the people pushing her forth.

***

Between you, Helena, and Priam, the three of you set up a war room, planning a plan of evacuation or relocation to Okhema. 

“You don’t think we should wait until that musician comes back?” Priam asks. You turn to Helena who had called the two of you to join her in the first place.

“It’s not that I don’t trust her,” Helena shakes her head. “However, we can’t put all of our eggs in one basket. We need options.”

It leaves a strange taste in your mouth because it feels like you’re somehow going behind Iris’s back, but Helena’s reasoning is sound. 

“If we plan on doing an evacuation,” you speak up. “Then the critically injured and the wounded should be evacuated first. If the healthy are evacuated first…”

“Then those wounded may end up being abandoned,” Helena finishes. She nods at your reasoning. “We’ll go with that.”

“Journeying out to Okhema will take two weeks, and we barely have any supplies to make the journey,” Priam notes. “Can we even take stops at this point?”

“No,” Helena shakes her head. “It’s risky, but if we don’t shoot for Okhema in one continuous journey we die from hunger, but if we do risk it, we can easily be killed by the Black Tide.”

“Damned if we do, damned if we don’t,” you mutter.

“We still have the Dromas that the Tempest Troupe utilized,” Helena adds more to the table. “The Dromas will make the journey faster than if we did it by foot. But…”

“Four Dromas can’t carry 164 people all at once,” you sigh. 

“179,” Priam corrects. “That number’s increased ever since we accepted new refugees yesterday. We’ll have to make a pitstop every night we go on the way to Okhema and ration things out as much as possible.”

“Then we’ll need to gather as many supplies as we can before then,” Helena nods decisively.

“When do we plan on putting this all into place?”

“Three or five days?” Priam suggests. “That’ll give us enough time to go out and scavenge for as many supplies as we can.”

“We’ll also need to use some sort of wagon for the critically wounded,” you add on top of that. “Having the critically wounded ride on the Dromas themselves will most likely exacerbate their injuries.”

“The barn has an unused wagon that we can use for that,” Helena nods. “We’ll make some supports between the stretchers so we can put the wounded together without being cramped.”

“Good idea,” Priam nods. “I’ll get some of us on that pronto.”

“You have a list of all the wounded we need to take?” Helena asks you.

“Always,” you nod. 

“How many can we take in a single trip?”

“If each Droma can carry 17 people if we squeeze them all together and the wagon can carry around 14 people give or take…48 people in a single trip on two Dromas. But that leaves 14 people behind. How are we going to use the other two Dromas?”

“We’ll also use them for the critically wounded so we can fill that quota,” Helena nods. “We’ll pack as many supplies and take as many people as we can.”

“That leaves 97 people.”

“We’ll have to be fast enough to make three rotations throughout the journey then.”

***

The next two days are a return to the regular days of hunger and silent desperation. Despite the momentary glow of hope heralded by Iris and the Tempest Troupe, they have not brought enough food to sustain the people past that singular day. Perhaps it was foolish of Iris to use up all of their supplies only to feed the people for one meal and one night of light. But you don’t think so.

Even though silence hangs heavy in the air, despair’s hold over the people has been weakened, allowing people to quietly warm the embers of hope in their hearts. 

But even the smallest flickers of hope could make the abyss of tragedies all the more darker.

Tragedy is heralded with someone sprinting to their refugee base to speak of the terrifying news.

“The—The…!” the man huffs as you try to offer him sips of water. He refuses as he looks up to Helena and tries desperately to choke the words out. “The—Black Tide! It’s coming! It’s here! To…Ladon!”

“How far away is it?” Priam grills the man.

The messenger gulps the water, regaining his breath. “I saw it at the base of the Hesperides Mountain Range! It’s coming in this direction!”

“That’s eight hours out from here,” Priam curses.

“Do we have a city to relocate on the journey to Okhema?” Helena whips to Priam.

“Fuck,” Priam runs a hand through his hair, desperately thumbing through his memory to try and find a city-state or a village that would fulfill that criterion. “...Olenius! Heard there were a few there but they turned away outsiders since they’re also strapped for supplies.”

“Turning people away doesn’t matter,” Helena bites her lip. “No, we’ll just be there temporarily before we continue to Okhema.”

“How far is Olenius from here?” you ask.

“One and a half hours give or take,” Priam does the quick calculations.

“Will that be enough?” you ask Helena.

“I don’t know but…,” Helena turns to you. “We evacuate everyone now .”

Helena and Priam take the initiative to rouse all the refugees that are able and ready the Dromas residing outside of the barn. You, instead, go to the critically wounded, quickly jotting down a list of people who need to go now but…

“Thank you,” Io shakes her head. “But I want to give up my spot for the first trip.”

“Why?” you blink at her in disbelief. “You have a baby on the way you should—”

“The first trip would be too crowded for me,” Io shakes her head as she rubs her belly, assuring herself of the weight of her child. “And…I haven’t decided if I want to bring my child into this cruel world. I still need some time to think.”

You dim, looking down at her belly. Somehow, there is a sense of guilt that arises. If it weren’t for the questioning and the grilling for her intentions behind having this child, then maybe Io would’ve just simply gone on the first trip instead of risking her life like this.

“It’s alright,” Io tells you, squeezing your hand. “Once you leave with the first group, there are still wounded to look after. My medical knowledge may not be as deep or as expansive as yours, but I can still help. Can you take Jason instead? The wound on his back is still serious and he needs room.”

“...Okay,” you close your eyes and nod. 

“Thank you,” Io squeezes your hand one last time.

But Io is not the only person willing to stay behind at a time like this.

“It’s alright,” Katherine tells you, patting and holding her husband, Theo’s hand. “You don’t need to take us.”

“At all?”

“No,” Katherine shakes her head. “We lived long enough and have already troubled you enough, child. We won’t want to be burdens any longer.”

“But you’re not burdens at all,” you tell them, a little on the side of desperation. “Please reconsider. If we get to Okhema we might—”

“Here…,” Theo rasps. You pause when he gently pushes a wrapped-up bowl of porridge from that night to your hands. “Food…to save. For journey. Old…no more…for young.”

“Yes, he’s right,” Katherine agrees. She places her weathered hand on your wrist and pats it consolingly. “The future is not for us elderly, but for the youth. For those like you.”

“...I understand,” you say quietly. But you don’t understand. Why would these people be so willing to risk or even throw away their lives? 

“NO!” a heart-rending cry cuts through your thoughts. “Don’t go! Please! IANTHE! Don’t leave me!”

Startled, you step over to the source of these cries. And there you see a lifeless body lying in the blood-slick bed. Iphis is lying by her side, weeping. Another wandering life lost to the twilight.

“Iphis…”

Iphis struggles to lift her head, but she does and looks at you lifelessly. Her skin is pale, and her cheeks are struck with the glimmer of tears.

You swallow what platitudes that want to well up from your heart. “...The Black Tide is heading our way in eight hours…we need to evacuate.”

Iphis sobs as she manically shakes her head and grips Ianthe’s cold wrist.

Your bottom lip curls in sorrow, and you take a deep breath to stifle the tears that are already threatening to come.

“I still…,” Iphis sniffles. “I still don’t know why Ianthe saved me. Seeing her in agony like this, there was even a moment that I hated you…”

You don’t say anything. You don’t defend yourself in the face of Iphis’s grief. 

“Why…Why do we have to go through all this agony and pain? Why do we always have to say goodbye like this?”

There’s a time you asked yourself, is it meaningful to treat a patient who’s bound to die? Before death’s embrace of oblivion, prolonging a patient’s life is just prolonging their pain. But you remember the light in Ianthe’s eyes: struggling to live and struggling to say something. Thus, you chose this “cruelty.”

“...Did she regain consciousness at all?” you ask.

“Yeah…,” Iphis nods. “Just before she died. But she only said a few words: ‘I’m happy you’re okay. My life didn’t go to waste. But don’t come looking for me just yet.’”

She turns to Ianthe forlornly. “I asked her why she saved me. She said ‘Because I’m a scaredy cat.’ …What’s that got to do with it? What does that mean?! Why couldn’t she have just left me behind and live?!”

Her tears drip continuously like raindrops lost in a lake.

“...Scaredy cat,” you repeat in the somber silence.

If there’s anything that can rouse humanity’s strongest fear, it’s death. Yet she calls herself a “scaredy cat” and is willing to face death alone to protect another person.

“...I didn’t know Ianthe that well,” you tell Iphis quietly. “I think people who are willing to give up their lives to save another person must value the lives of others more than theirs. She must’ve been afraid of your death. And she must’ve struggled to her last breath to tell you that.”

Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? When humans see their fellow friends and peers, death for the collective is always scarier than the death of the individual, isn’t it? 

“Really?” Iphis asks, voice fragile and trembling. “...But I felt the same way for Ianthe…”

You exhale softly before stepping forward and placing a hand on Iphis’s shoulder. “So you need to keep living. That’s what Ianthe wanted for you. Okay?”

“...Okay.”

You squeeze her shoulder lightly. “Let’s go. It’s time to leave.”

Iphis nods mutely. She stares at Ianthe’s features, committing them to memory and yet remembering that face full of life. Then, she turns away and follows you. 

You lead the congregation of the wounded, whether they are carried on stretchers, or limping out of the barn. Thankfully, with everyone’s help, it doesn’t take more than 20 minutes to get everyone into position. 

“Helena and I will take them first to Olenius,” you inform Priam. “We’ll come back as soon as possible.”

“Stay safe,” Priam nods gravely. He holds out his arm and you clasp his forearm firmly.

“We will,” you nod in return. 

“Everything’s ready,” Helena calls out to you. “Let’s go.”

You give one last nod to Priam before you turn and climb one of the Dromas. And then, you all take off.

***

Even though Priam had plugged in that the people who gathered in Olenius were unwelcoming of outsiders, that didn’t cause much trouble for your group of refugees. 

Olenius is a large city-state. Not ruined but abandoned and stale. Those who declared Olenius as their abode long after it was abandoned chose to occupy the middle of the citadel. 

As such, you all instead set a temporary base at the resident district on the very outskirts of the city. 

“Helena you should stay here,” you tell her as the two of you watch over everyone being dismounted from the Dromas and the wounded being carried to the safe indoors. “You can look after the wounded and take care of them.”

Helena blinks at the assertion before she nods. “Alright. Are you sure you want to keep making this journey? I can take care of things.”

You shake your head. Because somehow, unless it's with your own eyes that you see that you can bring the people to safety, you’ll be ridden with anxiety and stress. Rather it would be better if you were productive and direct with your hand on how things are proceeding.

“I’ll be fine,” you say instead. “You taught me first aid and emergency treatment, so you’re better than me when it comes to taking care of the wounded.”

Helena doesn’t argue the point. She nods to you once. 

“Helena.”

The two of you turn to Argus who steps up. “I scouted out the place and the people who were already here at Olenius are starting to get antsy.”

“Tch,” Helena clicks her tongue. “Did you tell them we’re only going to be here momentarily?”

“I tried,” Argus runs a hand through his hair. “But they kept on demanding for us to move out.”

Helena sighs, massaging her brow. “This is not what we need right now…”

She turns to you, spotting the worry on your face. “Go. Get more of our refugees here. I’ll handle things with Argus.”

“...Okay.”

You turn back to the herd of Dromas, pushing yourself up to the helm and taking the reins. 

“We’ll be going,” you tell Helena resolutely.

“Godspeed,” Helena wishes you well. Then, you take off.

***

When you return to the refugee base in Ladon, people have already packed up their belongings and are waiting anxiously for you to return with the Dromas.

“What happened?” you ask Priam, sensing the stress and tension in the air.

“We miscalculated,” Priam drags a hand over his face. “It wasn’t eight hours, but six.”

“Then…,” you stare at him incredulously. “We won’t have enough time for a third trip.”

“People are going to be left behind,” Priam confirms.

“We can have people walk beside the Dromas,” you protest. “That way we can all journey together—”

“If we slow down, we’re dead,” Priam shakes his head. “There are hundreds of creatures from the Black Tide that are closing in on us. You know how weak the refugees are. Our pace will be too slow to escape the Black Tide and its creatures.”

You look over the people who are shifting anxiously behind Priam. You open your mouth, but close your lips in the next moment. The tension in the air is fraught with anticipation because all the people here are anticipating the ‘sentencing’. The sentencing of who would go and who would be left behind.

“Get any of the wounded on first,” you instead tell Priam. “Then we have to squeeze in the rest however we can—”

You don’t get to finish. The moment you speak of mounting people on the Dromas, the refugees all rush forward like a tsunami laden with fear and panic. The Dromas bellow as people grab their white scales as they desperately try to board the train that would deliver them to salvation from the immediate threat of the Black Tide. 

“Stop pushing and shoving!” you yell at the crowd. You rush into the crowd, weaving between elbows and grasping hands, getting to the Dromas and warding people off from driving the Dromas off or even overturning them in their panic. You take a deep breath before you yell with all your might. “Form a line!”

Out of respect for your tireless work as a medic trying to sustain the lives of refugees, some people reluctantly form a line as you try to block the Dromas, but most of the injured refugees scramble onto the Droma, making the creature bellow and stumble.

“I’m going to push my way on if I have to! There’s not enough space!”

“Why are you pushing?! You’re barely even hurt! Think you can steal my spot?!”

“Of course I do! Hear that sound? It’s like an earthquake! The Black Tide will be here any minute!”

“That’s the sound of everyone’s feet! Who the hell do you think you are?! Quit stepping on my shoulders!”

“Doesn't matter! Argh! I’m getting on!”

Their frantic movements strip the people of their empathy nor do they care about other people’s wounds. The only thing in front of them is the need to get on the Dromas and leave Ladon. Even then…there are some people who make no move to board the Dromas.

“Please! Let me on!” Patroclus yells as he tries to pull himself up. Yet his lame leg is a hindrance, making him slip with every attempt.

“Scram! You’re barely hurt! Take care of yourself!”

“There’s a dog in here! Why don’t we kick the dog out so that someone else can fit in?”

“Please!” Patroclus turns to you desperately. “I—I don’t want to die! Please don’t leave me!”

You squeeze your eyes, heart tearing at the sight of everyone’s desperation. You don’t want to leave anyone behind. But as pattern dictated, no matter how hard you pray or labored over the numbers, the outcome will never change.

When Patroclus sees you holding your tongue, he turns back to the people climbing the Dromas. “I beg you! Please! Take me anywhere! Just don’t leave me to die!”

Patroclus kneels, hands clasped in askance, and looks up at the Dromas in despair. He pleads to those who are climbing the Droma, those who are shoving to carve out their own spot, and those who have already climbed the Droma and are grumbling about being nearly pushed out. But the common thing about all of them is that they all ignore his cries.

You take a deep breath before placing a hand on Patroclus’s shoulder. “You just need to get to a high place and hide, there’s a chance that you won’t be swallowed up by the Black Tide.”

You whirl him around, nailing him with a look that cuts through his desperation. “I’ll come back for you, I promise.”

“No…No!” Patroclus shakes his head, hysteria climbing with each syllable. Tears streak over his cheeks as his face is filled to the brim with desperation. “Please don’t make me stay! Don’t do this to me! Please! PLEASE!”

He sinks onto his knees, grabbing the helm of your shirt with white knuckles. Patroclus buries his face into your shirt as he sobs and begs you to not forsake him.

“...I…,” your lips part as you try to come up with something else to tell him. But you can’t force someone to give up their spot for Patroclus. There’s nothing you can do.

“You’ll really come back?”

You turn to Astyanax who pushed his way through the crowd and sits on the edge of the Droma’s back. Hector is held to his chest, whining and licking the underside of Astyanax’s chin.

“...”

You take a deep breath, gathering all your resolution and conviction, and imbue them into the next three syllables. “I promise.”

Astyanax stares at you, searching your face for any trace of deceit before he nods. “Okay, he can take my spot.”

Astyanax pushes himself off, sliding off the Droma’s side, and lands on his feet. He loosens his hold around Hector so that the dog can curl around Astyanax’s legs. 

“I’ll wait for you,” Astyanax looks at you. But there’s a tremble in his voice. Despite the courageous selflessness he has shown, there is still fear and hesitance in his heart. You know that he doesn’t want to be left behind either…but the thought of another being left behind is just as painful.

Patroclus turns to look at Astyanax. He sniffles and rubs the meat of his palms into his eyes to wipe away his tears. “Astyanax…thank you. Thank you. I…I’m sorry for insulting you and Hector. I-I’m sorry .”

“It’s okay,” Astyanax shakes his head. “Go.”

Patroclus nods, swallowing his sobs, a wounded heartbreaking whine buzzing at the back of his throat. The two of you help Patroclus onto the Droma’s back. You watch as the scarce few sympathetic refugees help pull Patroclus to be secure and safe on the Droma’s back.

“Here,” Patroclus rummages through his bag. He rips out the last blank page on his notebooks and reaches it out for Astyanax to take. “It’s not much but it’s a thank-you gift. It’ll make your wishes come true.”

Astyanax accepts the paper quietly and stares down at us. He’s not going to believe such a claim, but he will still receive what gifts of gratitude Patroclus can manage to give.

“Thank you,” Astyanax says softly. “Now you need to go.”

You turn to the other two people who plan on staying behind.

“I’ll come back as soon as I can,” you vow to them.

“It’s alright,” Katherine shakes her head. “This is enough.”

“No,” you tell her firmly. “If… When I come back. Will you at least come with me your husband? It might not matter if you’re old or young, I don’t want to leave anyone behind.”

Katherine’s breath hitches. She reaches out, patting Theo’s hand and squeezing it. There is a flicker of hope that shines through her resignation before she nods once. “Alright, when you come back.”

You exhale shakily, giving the three of them one more look over. “Remember, hiding away is your best bet. Just hold on until I come back.”

“Okay,” Astyanax nods as Hector whines. “We will.”

You don’t want to go. You don’t want to leave them. But you must. 

Priam pulls you onto one of the Dromas, and then you all depart. But you keep your eyes upon the three figures, even as they become indistinguishable and even until you leave Ladon. 

Do you still have time? 

…Is there any other way?

“No, there isn’t…,” you mutter forlornly.

If only there was a way to carry more people…but there is no other choice. You close your eyes and painfully turn away from Ladon’s direction to the direction of Olenius.

“If we can hurry, there still might be a chance,” you say.

Priam heeds your words and snaps the reins of the Dromas, rallying the creature and all its brethren to push just a bit faster. Time is of the essence, and you can only close your fingers around the slipping temporal sands for as long as you can.

Chapter Text

Shortly after the main congregation of refugees has left Ladon, the very earth seems to quake and reverberate due to some sort of explosion. After the deafening noises fade away, it disperses and gives way to the sound of a horde of creatures scrambling and running over the ground.

It is a sound that would inspire fright in any heart. For the amount of sound that is generated, the horde is large indeed, and any human unfortunate enough to be caught in it would be ripped up in seconds.

Fortunately, the horde of Black Tide creatures don’t seem to notice the people hiding in the barn. Theo, Katherine, Astyanax, and Hector hunker down in the barn, huddled close together as they fervently pray and wish in their hearts that they would not be noticed.

Eventually, the footsteps begin to fade in volume and in number. It takes half an hour before they can say for certain that they do not hear the advance of the Black Tide’s horrors and hear only the ringing in their ears.

Trapped in this barn, the elders and the boy have no way of knowing what is going on out there, but the in dim light of the barn, they notice viscous black liquid seeping through the cracks and pooling over the earth in a thin layer. 

Even though the Black Tide’s creatures have gone, Ladon is still amidst the Black Tide itself. This barn, once filled to the brim with refugees, can no longer serve as a sanctuary for the left behind.

Katherine helps Theo up as they make their way to leave the barn. But just half-an-hour later, they return back, quickly learning a journey to seek safety in Ladon is not but an exercise in futility.

“What happened?” Astyanax asks.

“All I saw outside there was the Black Tide,” Katherine informs the little boy. “It’s like mud scattered everywhere on the surface. There are even pits full of the Black Tide.”

She points at her legs. From her ankles down, her body has begun to fester with the corrupting touch of the Black Tide.

“The pits are even deeper further out,” she continues. “We’re trapped here.”

The question of how people would come back to save them is left unasked. If just for this moment, if they didn’t give voice to those debilitating doubts, they can at least hold onto the embers of hope in their hearts.

Katherine trudges over to the stretcher, sits down on Theo’s bedside, and pats his leg. “Get some rest, Theo.”

“...Ouch…,” Theo rasps. He is too delirious from hunger and from the pain of the Black Tide’s touch to coherently come up with full sentences. Yet, Katherine understands him nonetheless.

“I know,” Katherine sighs. “I’m hurting too. I stepped in the Black Tide trying to find a path forward. My legs are festering now and…I’m afraid my time is coming soon.”

Theo reaches out, grasping Katherine’s weathered fingers, and the old woman smiles at her aged husband. “Rest now. When you wake up, the pain will have gone away.”

Trembling, Theo nods and curls on the stretcher.

***

They don’t know how long it has been…perhaps it has been hours, maybe it has been mere minutes. But time has passed by, that they are sure of.

It’s not accurate, but Astyanax feels that the time that has passed by means that the refugees have already arrived at Olenius and are making their way back now. They’ll be back, he’s sure of it because you promised.

At this thought, Astyanax smiles. He raises his hand to rub Hector’s head, warding off the hunger with the soft touch of the dog’s fur. Katherine who is sitting not too far away, reaches down to the hem of her pants leg and pulls it up, revealing a pair of legs completely corroded by the Black Tide.

Before you had left, you gave them a pouch of two Empyros Lily seeds and a can of food from the scarce resources. The three had struggled to distribute these supplies, but ultimately ended up with giving the Empyros Lily seeds to the elder couple and the can of food to Astyanax.

But Astyanax has not opened this can. He plans to save this precious supply until the very end.

Astyanax curls around Hector, burying his face into his fur as he holds this last can of food to his chest. Despite the pain of starvation, somehow he manages to find sleep.

Theo sleeps peacefully, laying by Katherine’s side, but the old woman has her eyes wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling as she reminisces.

***

Time stretches out into an infinity staying here in this barn. Astyanax doesn’t know how long he has slept, but he has awoken and already stayed laying there for maybe an hour.

But he doesn’t have the ability to measure hours, minutes, and seconds naturally. Even if he is not in direct contact with the Black Tide, being in the midst of its expanse still exposes him to its corruption. Astyanax can feel the open wounds on his arms festering very quickly. 

He is no doctor and he can’t measure how severe the infection from the Black Tide is, but judging from the purulence coming out of his wounds, he can make a rough estimate.

“How much longer will they take?” Astyanax murmurs into Hector’s fur.

Judging by their speed, they should have returned by now. But so far, they have heard nothing. Perhaps it’s because there are more people being escorted this time. Whatever the reason is, Astyanax continues to come up with these excuses and reasonings to calm himself.

He believes in you. He believes in Helena and Priam too. The three of you have assumed the leadership position of all of these refugees and planned out a safety route to Okhema that will take them away from the dangers of the Black Tide. He believes that you will keep the promise you made to them. He believes that you will surely come back. 

But he cannot plan such a safety route himself, therefore he is stuck here waiting for salvation. 

And belief alone will never deliver a person to salvation.

Astyanax’s body aches as time goes by. He has to rip and pull at the sheets and pillow to distract himself from the pain. Worried, Hector licks Astyanax’s hand which is tightly gripping the pillow. This would have brought Astyanax some peace of mind, but the same trick doesn’t work so well this time.

Still, Astyanax struggles to raise his arm and brings Hector close to his chest. 

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Astyanax mumbles as his eyes tear up from the pain. “I wish I could be just like you, able to touch the Black Tide but not get affected by it.”

Hector whimpers and Astyanax is quick to assure his dog. “It’s okay. I’m sure I’ll get better. The kind doctor said so themselves, right? They will return.”

Tears drip from Astyanax’s eyes and onto Hector’s head, but the droplets stop rolling down from there. Instead, Hector’s fur sucks the tears dry, as if the dog is stopping Astyanax’s pain.

“I will get better,” Astyanax whispers, both to convince Hector and himself of that belief. It’s a struggle to even a put a smile on his face. He pulls out the pen and paper that Patroclus gave him.

“If I can make my wish come true…” Astyanax stares down at the blank paper, waiting to be filled with one’s fervent desperations. “...I want to leave this place…to find freedom.”

Even though he knows that it will all end in vain, even if it’s all an exercise in futility, he dares to dream all the same. In the corner of the paper that will “make wishes come true” he draws a pair of wings. 

“Take me to the sky,” Astyanax wishes. “Across and beyond the Black Tide.”

Like a person who’s drowning, desperately holding onto his life-saving straw, he draws the lines of this pair of wings over and over again, making it darker and thicker. “Together with my Hector. Away from this place and somewhere warm where we can belong.”

However, tormented by hunger, agony, and the Black Tide, he struggles to see the drawn pair of wings no matter how many times he traces the lines. In a trance, he notices crimson pearls drip over the pair of wings and blossom like a flower of despair. 

It’s blood.

***

Theo wakes several hours later. He shifts, turning over on his side and taps Katherine on the shoulder. But he realizes that her body is as cold as ice.

“Kath…rine…,” Theo rasps. He struggles to pronounce her name, but no matter how many times he utters those syllables, this ice cold body will not respond to his call. 

Time was always a step ahead. He couldn’t even say goodbye before she disappeared into the night.

In the dim light, the old man caresses her wrinkled skin and the festering wounds as if combing through his memories to recall the Katherine he remembers. They spent a long time together, but illness and aging had claimed most of his memories. The ones that remain, however, are all whispering the same name. “...rine…Kath…rine…Katherine…”

With tears in his eyes, he holds her cold hands with his rough ones and leans against her. “Wait for me…We’ll go back home together…”

Hunger. Cancer. Infection. Aging. With these as his tickets to ride the ferryman’s boat, he will surely follow his wife’s footsteps soon. And when he closes his eyes, he is graced with a glimpse of golden abundant fields as far as the eye can see.

And that is how Astyanax finds them. He had tried so hard to fall asleep, for slumber is the only form of respite from the pain and hunger, but he is continually awakened from sleep by the same pain and hunger. 

“...Theo? Katherine?” he tries, confused by how still they are. Confused, he taps on Theo’s shoulder, but realizes their faces are pale and white. He tries to resuscitate them, just like how you would do, but realizes their bodies have long grown cold and stiff. He slightly lifts up their clothes and sees their skins have turned into the festered Black Tide.

Just like the wounds on his body.

“Hector…,” Astyanax exhales. “They’re gone…”

The dog whimpers and Astyanax hushes his companion softly. “It’s okay…even if we’re the only ones left, we’ll make it out of this place.”

His clothes are stuck to his sticky, coagulated purulence and blood. The slightest pull at his body brings him indescribable pain. But in hopes to find hope beyond this barn, he heads out for the outside world. 

“Where are you?!” 

Mustering all his strength he cries out. The shout echoes throughout the wasteland, but only the wind answers his call. Just like Katherine had described earlier, the remnants of Ladon are marred with puddles and murky formations of the Black Tide that stick to the earth and the buildings like a tumor. 

“They must be almost here, right?” Astyanax says to no one in particular. “It’s been so long that they must be in Ladon…”

He doesn’t want to give up on hope. He takes a step forward and leaves the people sleeping forever in that barn. He searches and climbs, scouring every inch of Ladon for a sliver of life. But even now that he has reached the top of the tower in Ladon’s epicenter, there is not a single soul in sight.

“...No one is coming back,” Astyanax mutters despairingly. Having lost all hope, he lies prone on the very top of the building and stares down at the earth below. The urge to cry strangles him, but there are no more tears left to be shed. “Everyone is dead.”

Astyanax stares up at the sky and his eyes flutter shut as he just lets himself feel the wind whispering through his hair and fingers. 

“...Take me away from this place, please…,” Astyanax whispers, begging and praying in the same breath. All of his steps until now have exacerbated his wounds and inflicted him with agony. Laboring and persevering with each breath beforehand has left him a withering husk, sapped of all of his stamina. He doesn’t even have the energy to descend the tower.

For more than a month, Astyanax and Hector have never had a proper meal. It is not just him. Hector has run out of strength and lies flat on the ground.

Too many refugees that wandered the ruins of Amphoreus, a full day is nothing more than time that passes in the twinkling of an eye. But here? Wrought and tormented by a month of illness and hunger, these hours of waiting for salvation are enough to nearly kill him. 

Astyanax is on the verge of death. He looks at the can in his hand…the only form of hope left for him.

“Will things get better if Hector and I start eating this now?” he asks to no one in particular.

But the answer to that question is no.

A half-full can of food will not bring back strength or heal wounds. The fact that he is here stuck on the central tower of Ladon and stranded in the midst of the Black Tide’s advance will not change.

Before long, the poison of the Black Tide that took root in his body will take its toll. His very body will fester before he meets his end. To Astyanax, eating is pointless now. He might as well as save it for another that needs it more.

Astyanax makes up his mind. Weakly, he pries open the can and places it front of Hector. 

“C’mon boy,” Astyanax rasps. “You can have it.”

Astyanax watches as Hector whines and licks the food before chowing down. He finds his lips curling in a small smile. But why is he smiling? It is because the situation has improved? No. Of course not.

This boy is smiling because he sees his dog happy.

That alone brings peace to his mind.

“Sorry,” Astyanax whispers weakly. He reaches out and places a hand on Hector’s head, encouraging his faithful companion to eat more. “I couldn’t find supplies to feed you sooner.”

He looks down at the pair of wings he drew on the paper before casting his gaze to the heavens above. Some memories once lost in that dark endless sea make their return to Astyanax.

“I need Hector by my side. He’s the only thing that keeps me going.”

“If I ever run out of supplies, I…I’ll abandon myself, not Hector.”

“...I remember now,” Astyanax mumbles aimlessly. “I remember what I told them.”

Tucking the paper into his pocket, he weakly grasps a delusional fantasy. 

“Hector,” Astyanax smiles softly down at his dog. “I’m happy I still have a can for you. So…”

Astyanax has no more regrets. In his mind, the boy, on the verge of death, grows a pair of strong wings on his back.

“I’m leaving this place to soar in the sky,” Astyanax exhales. Perhaps it’s because the end is drawing near, but he’s imbued with a weightless sort of strength that pushes him onto his feet. 

Woof!

Hector barks, springing up and looking up at his owner. But Astyanax shakes his head as he looks down at his dog.

“Sorry,” Astyanax tells Hector regretfully. “I can’t take you with me…will you hate me for that?”

Hector’s ears fold to his head and he whines. 

“Forgive me?” Astyanax smiles, heart aching so much that he feels the warmth of tears gathering at the corner of his eyes. “...I’m sorry, Hector.”

Slowly, he moves to the very edge of the building. But before he takes a step to take flight, he turns to Hector. “...Do you think…they’ll ever come back?”

Hector is silent.

“I hope they do,” Astyanax continues. “But at the same time, I’m scared that they’ll run into the Black Tide trying to get here.”

With each shift of his limbs, every movement of his body, the festering wounds that cover every inch of his flesh are pulled and torn, bringing insufferable pain. But he does not stop.

Arf!

“If they do return and realize there is no one left here, will they be sad?”

Hector whimpers, as if begging Astyanax not to go.

Astyanax shakes his head. “I guess I won’t live long enough to find out…”

Still, he decides to leave a message on the back of his slip of paper. But he doesn’t know if he’s writing the words right. If only he had more time to learn his letters. If only, If only, If only…

With this small regret, he puts this paper scribbled with barely intelligible words into the cleanest pocket of his shirt. 

“I’m leaving now, Hector,” Astyanax tells his dog. “Stay strong and live. Even if you have to eat my body to survive, do it. …This is all I can do for you.”

Hector barks: loud, sharp, and desperate. But there is nothing that tethers Astyanax to the earth anymore. He spreads his wings in his mind and, like a bird longing for freedom, he embraces the sky and looks up to chase the horizon.

“I’m sorry…,” Astyanax words carry in the quiet breeze. “See you in the next life.”

The boy jumps off the building.

And…

…He…

… Falls.

As expected, a pair of wings woven from one’s desperate wishes cannot take flight. Gravity takes hold of Astyanax’s form and drags him down to shatter on a pile of empty boxes.

If it was in a scripted play, his pain would’ve stopped right then and there. But reality doesn’t have such mercy on him. The sharp pieces of scrap have only delayed his death. Thanatos, the Titan of Death, is not here to collect his soul and take away his pain as quickly as he thought.

He tries to move his body, but it is to no avail. All he can do is wait to see how things would unfold.

The first thing he notices is the sound of flowing liquid. Unlike the sound of raindrops falling on the ground or the sound of water streaming out of a faucet, this sound is akin to milk leaking out of a broken bottle. Though there isn’t much difference, Astyanax can tell that this liquid is thicker than water.

…It’s his blood.

Later, numbness and pain seep through his limbs and eat through his consciousness. With this agony pouring into his body like molten lava, Astyanax finds that he no longer has the strength to even scream.

Death has never been just a number or a name on a list of victims. It is a body that carries the weight of both past and future, experiencing unimaginable anguish as the mind is ground to dust.

The agony of fractured limbs becomes a moment stretched out to time immemorial. Each droplet of blood takes decades to fall onto the ground.

“...It…hurts…,” Astyanax gasps weakly. His voice is muffled by his blood, rendering his voice into barely intelligible bubbling noises. His heart is ravaged by this pain. Had he known that this would be so tormenting, would he have still chosen to take his life this way?

Death has never been easy. It has never been a simpler way out.

“Do I…regret this…?”

Astyanax has experienced many people’s deaths. Many refugees would tell themselves, “the worst thing that could happen is death.” He remembers when someone mentioned a term: Sustained Suicidal Ideation. The person said that the thought might look pessimistic and negative, but it could help people find a way ‘out’, and in that process, also find a little bit of courage to carry on.

Except. That never is a way ‘out’, is it? Once a person steps into it, they are swept up into a downward spiral that never ceases.

The boy is tormented by extreme pain that continues to corrode his mind and soul. Without being able to scream with his throat, his heart wails, bleeds, and anguishes for him. But despite this agony, his thoughts have never been any clearer.

Will death really free me?

No.

Freedom was the ability to run free even when burdened with shackles. If a man gives up his life for freedom, he is but a slave to his own desire, forced to give up on himself.

Every inch of Astyanax’s body is in pain and protesting his foolish decision. This agony pulls at the edge of his consciousness, desperately beseeching him to stand up and save himself. 

So did all of this happen because I made the wrong choice?

No.

Astyanax struggles, but gives the same answer to many questions posed to him. From the very beginning, he thought about that possibility that you would never return to save him. But even so, Astyanax does not regret giving another person a chance to evacuate. 

My regret is that…

Since he was born, he has suffered much pain from failing other people and other people failing him. All of it makes one idea clear.

My regret is that I was born into this world.

If Astyanax had a choice, he didn’t wish to be born in this world. This regret has already sunk its roots deep into his conscious, driving him to value the lives of others above his own. But no matter how much he regrets this life, no human can deny their existence. Thus, this child who resents and despises life so much, knowing death isn’t a way out and that there is a heavy price to pay, has no choice but to face his tragic ending all the same.

People who have not experienced love will spend their lives looking for substitutes.

This child, abandoned time and time again, has always wanted to prove somehow that he doesn’t always have to be left behind. Now that he has felt the pain and loneliness of wanting to die, he finally understands the value of life. And he is more than certain that there is no regret that would make him wish to do it all over again.

“...This is all I ever wish for…,” Astyanax exhales delicately. Tormented from pain that tears him apart at the seams, the boy finds his answer and begins to pray. And when all of the blood has trickled out, it leaves his cold body frozen in time. 

Though it was only a fleeting moment. Astyanax felt that his soul finally learned how to fly.

Chapter Text

You don’t know how long it has been, but it has at least been a full day since you last left with the second group of refugees. And now, you have finally made it back to this hellscape, kneeling before the broken body of a boy who wished to fly and hold his ice cold hand in yours.

Your breath trembles and falters. You want to speak, to say something , but your words are lost before they can reach your trembling lips. It feels like something is lodged into your heart, and every breath pulls at the pain nerves. 

No matter how many times you check, the result is the same. They boy in front of you has grown cold and lifeless. A gentle breeze echoes through the ruins, whispering and echoing through the courtyard and empty halls like a frolicking child. Yet the gate to freedom is so close but yet so far for those who were trapped here.

“I…,” you gasp out. “...I…”

The sorrow and sadness that you’ve tried so desperately to bottle up within yourself is too much to bear. You can no longer hold it in as the barrier crumbles and lets out the deepest of your emotions.

You hate yourself.

You hate yourself for breaking a promise that you made. You hate yourself for not being capable enough. You hate yourself for not doing more despite the situation. You hate yourself for not trying harder to save these people. 

You hate yourself because, through it all, you are always the only one remaining.

The skinny border collie circles around his dead master, licking the blood that has run dry and turned black, but the wounds will never heal again. Hector turns around and touches your hand with his wet nose, whining as he beseeches you to bandage his owner.

“...”

Your path to Olenius had been beset by creatures of the Black Tide. Monsters that howled soundlessly and dripped with corrupting stygian sludge. All who were able had fought back as much as they could with makeshift weapons. And by some grace and the effort of everyone together, there were no casualties albeit many critically injured from the altercations.

But if the path to Olenius had been dangerous, then the path back to Ladon had been hellish.

You had elected to go back with only Priam and one Droma, but even a fast journey between the two of you hadn’t been enough. Several detours had to be taken, and several more creatures staved off from dragging you into the Black Tide and consuming you.

And when you finally returned, it was all too late.

The two of you had split up to look for survivors. Tired and wounded, you had trudged back to Ladon only to find the three people who had stayed behind have passed away.

All the deaths you have witnessed doesn’t make you indifferent or cold-hearted. You will always regret your inability to save lives.

If only you had the ability to change all of this. If only you had taken them with you, then you would’ve been able to save them. Theo. Katherine. Astyanax…all of them.

But there is no “would have”. And “if only”s are simply a fantasy borne of desperation and regret.

Woof!

Just when you’re about to fall down deeper into a vortex of regrets, a loud barking sound interrupts your thoughts. 

“Hector…,” you reach out and place your hand on the border collie’s head. Upon hearing his name and feeling your touch, the dog sits obediently. Your lip curls and you choke, chest aching painfully and swelling until it presses white-hot against your eyes. “You’re the only one left…”

Should you take him with you? The people are biased. Supplies are scarce and a dog will only exacerbate the people’s agitation. Perhaps you should let him go free for his own good.

But Hector might not live safely out there. Those wandering the world might attack Hector, humans included.

You don’t know what to do, but you notice something white in the boy’s breast pocket. You reach out with trembling hands, tugging out a folded note stained in blood. You unfold it and are greeted with the sight of a pair of wings. The lines are thick, constantly traced over, as if they were going to tear through the paper. 

Your fingers move along the pencil lines before you flip over the paper, finding the scribbled message left behind by the boy.

『i’m worried about hector. if by the time you return, hector is still here, please take him with you.

i don’t regrt leaving the droma. i wanted to help him

if you see me like this, please don’t be sad

the fact that you kept your promise and returned makes me hapy

thank you. i’m afraid i must go now』

Before, the writer of this note had bled, dripping crimson pearls that soaked the paper. And now, in the hands of its reader, translucent pearls of tears drip and smudge over the words. The one left behind, after trying so desperately to save everyone, begins to cry.

***

“It’s only Hector…” Priam stares forlornly at the four makeshift graves situated by the barn.

You gave proper burials to Ianthe, Theo, Katherine, and Astyanax. 

You nod silently, unable to use your voice. But thankfully, Priam at least sympathizes with the depth of your grief. He herds you back on the Droma and doesn’t bother you as you keep your silence for the journey back to Olenius. 

The difference is stark. Riding on the back of a Droma had once been a hectic affair with all of the refugees crammed together: shouts, sobs, cries, whispers, and prayers. But now it is only silence.

The voices of self-doubts crowd your mind, and it isn’t until you reunite with the refugees do you finally gather yourself together and pick yourself up.

“You’re back!”

Patroclus hobbles to the front of the crowd. Helena walks briskly to you beside him, but when she sees the expressions on both of your faces, she already knows the fate of those who had stayed behind.

“Where’s Astyanax?” Patroclus asks you. “Hector’s here.”

“...Patroclus,” you speak softly. You can’t muster the strength to raise your voice, but thankfully, only speaking his name is enough to quell his questions. You pull out the bloodstained note and hand it to him.

He stares down at it in disbelief before his shaking hands gingerly takes the folded piece of paper. He unfolds it, seeing the drawn pair of wings before scanning the barely intelligible words that Astyanax had left behind.

“Is he…?” Patroclus looks up at you in desperation.

Your unseeing gaze silences him and you shake your head. And in the face of your confirmation, Patroclus shatters.

His breathing pace becomes faster, reaching a fever pitch, as his posture hitches with each inhale and exhale. And then he chokes, quiet sobs spilling out as tears stream from his eyes and drip upon the desolate earth.

“I-I…I didn’t…,” he sobs. “I didn’t mean for this to happen! I…I didn’t want him to die!”

He wails. “I didn’t mean to make anyone die!”

You purse your lips together before you step forward and gather him in your arms, holding Patroclus close to you as he cries and cries. 

“...Hey.”

You look up at Helena who is looking down upon you. She stops when she sees the blank gaze in your expression before she sighs in sympathy. “Let’s get you some rest, alright? We’ll leave tomorrow as soon as we can.”

“Okay…,” you nod woodenly. “...Okay…”

You let yourself be guided inside, barely cognizant of the sympathetic gazes cast upon your form. In the end, shock and depression give way to exhaustion, and when you lay down you fall into slumber.

“Hmmm~”

“Is something wrong?”

The three of you are sitting upon that hill once more. But instead of laying down and casting your gaze into the heavens, you and the boy bracket Cyrene in as she looks at the card that the boy had picked.

“Mmm~?”

The boy groans, nudging Cyrene’s shoulder with his own impatiently. “Don’t keep me in suspense! Come on, tell me already. What did you see?”

Cyrene giggles, eyes creasing in mirth as she holds the card to her lips to stifle some of her laughter. “Haha, I just wanted to get a reaction out of you.”

“Cyreneeeee!” the boy whines. He looks at you hoping that you would at least reprimand Cyrene for his mischief, but you simply roll your eyes and nudge Cyrene’s shoulder.

“Don’t leave the poor brute in suspense.”

“Hey!”

“Alright, alright, I’ll tell you,” Cyrene interjects before the two of you could devolve into another petty squabble. “This card is the Deliverer.”

“Deliverer?” the boy repeats, tilting his head in confusion. “What does that mean?”

You recognize the term from one of those conversations you had with Cyrene long ago. Even though there’s a whimsical smile on her lips as she regards the little boy, you’ve known her long enough to spot the glimmer of sadness in her eyes. 

“Cyrene…”

Cyrene blinks at you before she beams. “It’s okay. I’m alright.”

The boy watches the exchange between you two, and before he can demand Cyrene’s attention again, Cyrene turns to him. “The interpretation is really long. Maybe I should skip it…”

She taps her bottom lip in thought before she gives the boy a smile. “All you need to know is, this card means…you’ll be a hero worshipped by all! You will protect this world and save lots and lots of people from scary enemies with your sword! Do you like the sound of that?”

From how much he has played warrior with that wooden sword of his, you would’ve thought that he would’ve been ecstatic at such a prospect. However, you’re surprised at how his face scrunches up in uncertainty. “But…”

Cyrene is similarly caught off guard. “What’s the matter? This is a good card!”

“But…I don’t want to be everyone’s hero,” he shakes his head. “I just want to stay in this village with everyone I know. Grandma and Grandpa said the outside world is full of bad people. That’s why they’re always at war. Who wants to save bad people like them? I can be a hero, but only our village’s little hero!”

Cyrene blinks before her expression softens with a small giggle.

“That’s…surprisingly mature of you,” you remark.

“Hey!” the boy reels back indignantly. “I can be mature!”

“Well, little hero,” Cyrene steps back into the conversation. “If the day comes for us to say goodbye to Aedes Elysiae, could you become a Deliverer then?”

The boy falters. “Do I…have to leave the village?”

Cyrene dims for a moment just too fast for the little boy to catch. But you see it and squeeze her hand in comfort. “If something like that happens, someone will have to save the world.”

“Then…,” the boy tries to come up with another answer. “Then I’ll…”

Cyrene hums as she watches the uncertainty woven into the boy’s form. “I’m just teasing you. Don’t worry, Aedes Elysiae is a peaceful place. Bad people won’t reach us here.”

Cyrene shuffles the ‘Deliverer’ card back into the deck and smiles at you. “Do you want to pick a card too?”

You look down at the deck. “Are you sure?”

Cyrene pauses but she smiles. “I’m sure.”

“Alright…,” you sigh. You take a moment, fingertips ghosting over the cards before you pluck one that catches your eye and turn it over. “...The Hearth.”

“The Hearth?” the boy repeats in confusion. Cyrene leans against your shoulder and peers at the card that you’ve picked out. 

“It means home and family,” Cyrene tells you. “...You will be the Flame Bearer that will warm the hearts of the people and provide them a sanctuary that will stand strong against the chill night.”

“Is that right?” you hum as you let your eyes trace over the card’s glimmering designs. You let your hand fall on your lap and look over to Cyrene. And she…sniffling? There’s a smile on her face, one of sheer relief, as she hugs your arm and buries her face into your shoulder. 

“Cyrene?” the boy asks quietly and uncertain.

You shake your head at him, before you shift your posture into something more comfortable for Cyrene. And the three of you stay like that on that lone hill in Aedes Elysiae.

But no matter how much you wish it otherwise, a dream cannot replace reality. There is nothing that you can do that will change the course of this story, this tragedy .

Whether it is Astyanax and Hector, or the other memories buried deeper in your heart…the lives you couldn’t save are like sand in an hourglass, falling down with each second that passes. Even when you catch a single grain, it will eventually meet the same fate despite all your efforts.

Just like how Astyanax didn’t want Io to have a child, no mortal can change this world. Even survival is just extending the pain.

“Sorry…,” you whisper quietly in the silence as grief and regret threatens to strangle you. “I’m so sorry…”

Astyanax, Theo, Katherine, Ianthe, Hippocrates… everyone . But no matter how much you fervently apologize or labor over your guilt, your words will never reach them again.

You hear the whining of a dog and lift your head to see Hector bounding to you. You let the border collie snuggle into your arms. And then you see Helena. She doesn’t say anything, but simply eases herself down to sit beside you.

“...Are you alright?” she asks quietly.

You bite your bottom lip and look down at Hector. The words “I’m fine” and “I’m managing” are instinctual and almost spill from your lips, but they die quietly before they could be uttered. Instead, you only shake your head. 

“I see…,” Helena sighs forlornly.

“...Helena,” you start. “...Is anything I’m doing meaningful?”

Helena turns to you in confusion. But your eyes are not on her, but the dog who remains after his master’s passing. “Everytime…everytime I try to save someone. Everytime I keep on wishing that someone will live. Nothing I do ever changes what will happen in the end. What’s the use of it all?”

Helena purses her lips before she reaches out and places her hand on your head in comfort. “You’re young, and much more sensitive to the passing of life…”

“I know that, but I—”

“It is meaningful.”

“...”

Helena holds your gaze and imbues her words with conviction. “It is meaningful. Even the smallest change and help can make a difference, although they may not seem so for the time being.”

You don’t know what to say to that, but Helena still continues to fill the silence.

“It’s only meaningless if you give up.”

Helena sighs as she leans back, resting her head against the wall and staring up at the ceiling. “I was in this position just like you. I felt that no matter how many times I went out to save people, to give them some respite, to heal their wounds, so many of them ultimately lost their lives at the end of the day.”

She laughs bitterly. “I still feel that same way now too.”

You continue to listen to her, sensing a ‘but’ in her tale.

“Then there was you,” Helena turns to you. “I remember when me and the others first found you drifting down the Black Tide.”

“Mm,” you nod. “It was Cyrene who protected me. Or at least…I’m pretty sure it was.”

It was always Cyrene who protected you in the end. Everything always traced back to her. How would this be any different?

“Well, whoever it was,” Helena says. “You were saved, and many people including myself helped you. And here you are, a culmination of all those efforts. You may not see it yourself, but I can see how you bring comfort and help the people who need it.”

“Just like everyone who came before you, I can see how you carry their hopes, convictions, ideals, memories with you now.”

Helena strokes your hair to offer some modicum of comfort. “So yes, everything you do is meaningful, because you are also the living proof that people in the past have done something meaningful.”

You quiet, leaning into Helena’s touch as your eyes flutter shut. Even though Helena has offered this ‘comfort’ and has alleviated some of the pain in your heart, it will not change the reality. But just for a moment, you allow this guilt to melt away. 

But before you can completely shake off the negative thoughts, you hear a commotion from outside. 

You and Helena exit the building you had taken as a resting place to spot a group of refugees desperately trying to catch their breath.

“It’s Leo and the others!” the refugee gasps as he holds onto a bloodstained cloth. “They…Pheidippides died before he could finish his sentence. I don’t even know where they are?”

You and Helena finally join the group as Hector weaves in between your legs. “What happened?”

“It…It’s Io,” Lamia explains to you. She is part of the group surrounding the refugee struggling to catch his breath.

“Io?” you blink incredulously. “She shouldn’t be moving around this much! She’s pregnant.”

“It’s exactly why she went out,” Lamia shakes her head. “She said that she’s been pregnant for long enough that she needed to find supplies to get prepared for the delivery. I…I tried to stop her, but she said the others didn’t know what supplies she needed, so she had to be there herself.”

“Idiot!” Helena hisses. “Does she not already know there’s too many creatures from the Black Tide around here and that the people of Olenius are already hostile toward us?”

“Can we even find her fast enough if we split up?” you turn to Helena. Yet before Helena could answer, someone brings forth new information.

“You don’t need to waste your strength,” another refugee cuts into the conversation. “Pheidippides said something happened to Leo and died in front of him. The only person who’s MIA instead of KIA is that woman.”

“...No…”

“We search for her now,” Helena snaps you out of whatever trance, the same time Hector barks and nips at your leg. 

“Yeah, take the dog with you too,” the refugee sneers down at Hector. “He would’ve wasted our food first, if we didn’t turn him into food first anyway.”

There is shocked silence at the refugee’s audacity and tactlessness toward the circumstances as to why Hector wasn’t being taken care of by his master. But Lamia steps in, hand raised and slaps the refugee across the face.

“You—!”

“Enough,” Lamia enunciates firmly. “You may not recognize the value of life, but others do. Still your tongue and your unsightly words unless you want me to sew your lips shut.”

The refugee’s mouth clicks shut at the threat. But you have no time to mind the argument between these people.

“Lamia,” you ask her. “Where’s Io’s things? I want to let Hector sniff if and remember her smell. He’ll help us find Io.”

Lamia peels her gaze away from the refugee and nods at you. “Follow me.”

Chapter Text

Ten Hours Ago

As you had journeyed with Priam to hopefully fetch those who had been left behind, the rest of the refugees had stayed together at the outskirts of Olenius. Thankfully, due to a two-pronged approach of Helena’s blunt fierceness and Argus’s diplomacy, the refugees of Ladon and those of Olenius had entered a tense truce.

As there were only two Dromas instead of three, Helena made the executive decision to wait before they continued the long and arduous journey to Okhema. Thus to search for supplies and get prepared for her delivery, Io gave a heads-up to Lamia and others before leaving with Pheidippides and the others. 

Protected by her companions, Io manages to collect all she needs much earlier than she expects. As she is pregnant and cannot move that much, she sits on a bench in the ruins of an open-air plaza that must’ve once been a bustling street market. Casting her gaze at the boundless horizon, Io rubs her hand against the blanket she just found and checks the supplies she will need to deliver her child.

“Yeah…,” Io murmurs to no one in particular except to reassure herself. “Everything’s here.”

Nonetheless, her conscience is occupied with the future of her child. And yet…

“I’m not sure…,” Io places a hand over her belly, feeling the warmth under the flesh of new life yet to be conceived. “I don’t know if it’s a good idea to bring you into this world.”

She thinks about this harsh and cruel world that has ripped brethren from family, of the same world that took her husband and the father of this child. Of this world that discarded children like Astyanax and Patroclus and forced them to scramble for each scrap. Of the many refugees in this apocalypse that have lost their livelihoods. And of you, the one who labors to save each ephemeral life and painfully grieves each one that passes on.

“If only you could answer that question for me my child…that’d be nice,” Io sighs. She sniffles and tilts her head back to blink away her tears. 

Before meeting Astyanax, someone else had asked her the same question: Why have a child? Back then, Io didn’t hesitate to give a positive answer about loving her child and shielding them from the horrors of the world. 

Io grew up in an environment where she was constantly hungry and on the run, but even so, she considered herself a happy and lucky girl. She was loved by her family and her husband, and she wanted to share that same love with her child. Io and her husband had planned out a future for their baby and worked very hard to make it happen. She remembers the tears of relief and joy that slipped down their cheeks when they were welcomed by the Tempest Troupe and traveled with them to ensure the safety of their family.

But like all things in this ruined world dictated, everything crumbled away like fragile sandcastles into the Black Tide’s whirlpool. Those who once loved her are now nothing more than memories of the past: fleeting and forever out of reach.

If things get worse Io cannot protect herself, let alone her child. So…

Is it really a good idea to bring her child into this world?

She has lost count of how many times she pondered the question after talking to Astyanax. 

“Everyone’s gone and there’s no more home for me to go back to…,” Io whispers into the wind. “If I have to lose you too…”

Humans do not have the capacity to be solitary creatures, thus craving interaction and connection with others of their kind. This truth is what is captured within each tear droplet that Io sheds as she thinks about the possibility of having to live out the rest of her life alone: For she wishes to love her child and be loved back. And that reasoning…

“...It’s so selfish of me,” Io weeps. It is a selfish act to bring a new life into this cruel world just to not feel lonely and be loved. That is not fair to a child who cannot consent to being born. “But…”

Who is to say that this child will despise this world?

Short and eventful as it may be, Io’s 27 years of her life are beautiful because of her loved ones and especially, her parents. 

“No one knows what the future may hold…”

So, who should make this decision?

As Io thinks, a familiar face calls out from the alleyway. It’s so faint that she could’ve mistaken it for the wind. 

“Run…now…”

She looks over to the source of the raspy voice and her heart crawls up to her throat. It is no human but a monstrosity of the Black Tide. Its jagged and clawed hands skitter and hook at the ruined concrete. Its body, though shaped with sharp and hostile angles, drips with sludge that gives an impression of rotting flesh…and the amber in its breast pulses with a poisonous gold.

“...Io…run…now…”

The Black Tide was never simply a black sludge that poisons all that it touches. It is a calamity: the same force that drove the Titans of Amphoreus mad with insanity and salts the soil so no one may live in this world. It is the apocalypse itself that festers the body and the cruel predator that lures its victims with the voices of others lost to the evernight.

And whose voice does it imitate before Io?

Pheidippides.

Fortunately, this monster is too far to pounce and Io immediately runs away before it's too late.

“H-...Help!”

She has read many books and knows that running at 39 weeks of pregnancy could lead to early labor. She is not ready to see her baby yet, but at this moment, she has no choice but to sprint with all of her might while holding her baby.

“...Kephale…!” Io begs with each sobbing wheeze. “Oronyx…Please give me a little bit more time. Please!”

With her pain gradually increasing, Io runs as fast as she can toward the direction of the rest of the refugees from Ladon. And as always…no god will answer a mortal’s desperate pleas.

***

Woof! Woof! Woof! Woof!

Priam huffs as he stumbles back, dropping his broken pipe, and takes care that there are no splatters of the Black Tide on his person.

“That creature had Pheidippides’s voice,” Helena clicks her tongue as she looks over the remains of the Black Tide creature. “We’re too late…”

“Yet, there hasn’t been anything from Io,” you mutter as you herd Hector away from approaching the Black Tide creature. 

“Then we keep searching for her,” Helena declares.

“Right.”

***

She doesn’t know for how long she runs, for how long she passed out. Ten hours? More? Io has no idea anymore. The only thing she is aware of is the fact that the distant dim light of Okhema in the distance has dimmed to signify the beginning of the night, a darkness that conceals the bloodstains on the road.

The child in her arms, who should’ve been born in a clean room surrounded by their family, slipped into this world and was greeted with the gritty mud.

“...Hello there little one,” Io huffs as she cradles this precious babe to her bossom, quietly sobbing to herself as the shrieks of her newborn pierce the night. “...It’s a girl.”

Are her tears one of happiness?

No, they are of despair.

Io weeps in despair because she cannot stymie the flow of blood from her body. The more she bleeds, the colder and colder her body becomes. Io doesn’t need to know what exactly is going on, because she can tell all the same.

She’s dying .

But there is no time to lose. Io trembles as she swaddles her baby covered in blood. “I’m sorry…but we have no choice…”

Tremors race up and down all of her limbs as she adjusts her hands around her newborn, palms flat and fingers curled around the most vulnerable parts of her child. The baby’s neck is so soft and delicate. Simply strangle it and this life, who has not yet seen this world, will die a quick and painless death.

This little life will not have to wait in this long cold night for aid, nor will she be forced to face the horrible unknown.

But even if such an action is as simple as squeezing her fingers, Io cannot bring herself to do it. Because just as a baby cannot consent to being born, it also cannot consent to being killed. Perhaps if Io had made this decision when she first became pregnant, she wouldn’t be in this predicament. But this child has already been born and is now alive. 

“I have to make this choice for you, sweetie,” Io murmurs to her babe as tears spill over her cheeks. “You hate Mommy, right? I’m so sorry…”

Is it because she regrets her decision back then? Does she regret meeting her husband and conceiving this little life? Would she have lived a safer life if she hadn’t been pregnant?

“Maybe…,” Io curls forward, placing her forehead delicately against her newborn’s own. And at this intimate contact, her little precious baby quietens her shrieks and coos in curiosity. Such an innocent sound makes Io’s heart ache and brim with so much love. But it is that same love that tears her heart apart at the seams and brings her unimaginable anguish. Because pathetic as it may be…

“This is the happiest I’ve ever been,” Io whispers.

Are you really happy?

There is no yes or no that comes up to the forefront of Io’s mind. Instead her body betrays her as her hands rhythmically pat her babe instead of curling her fingers and extinguishing this life. 

“I’m such a cowardly and selfish mother…”

Because having this child is neither Io’s happiness or her torment, but her longing. The nearer death draws, the more she cannot bear the thought of parting with this child.

In this everlasting twilight, Io huddles in despair and desperately makes a prayer once more to the many Titans of Amphoreus. 

“Please save my child…let her live. Please give her enough time to choose wisely.”

And yet again, none of the divine answer her pleas but you do.

You are announced with the sound of a loud bark a short distance away. Hector yips frantically as he rushes forward, weaving through the terrain. You follow just close behind and are greeted with the visage of Io’s broken body weakly cradling her newborn baby in her arms.

“Io!”

You come immediately to her side, hands immediately helping her to a better position when Io strains and shifts at your presence. Immediately her bloody body, her baby, and the blood that pools at Io’s legs paints a clear picture to you.

“This is…postpartum bleeding,” you identify quickly. Thankfully you have your medical supplies with you and you make to rummage through them to help. But the reality of the situation is that what medical supplies you have are sparse, and you are not equipped to handle blood loss. If you did, then you wouldn’t have had to bury Ianthe in Ladon.

“We can’t do a blood transfusion now,” you talk aloud as you furiously rummage through your bag, trying to find something, anything , that would help this situation. “And even if I can’t stop the bleeding then—”

“...Thank you,” Io rasps. 

You don’t want to hear any ‘thank you’s in this situation. 

“No…,” you shake your head furiously. “I haven’t done anything yet.”

Hector whines as he nudges his hand against the back of Io’s hand. Though weak, Io smiles and musters enough strength to place a hand over Hector’s head in comfort.

“Can I…,” Io gasps for each breath. “Can I ask you for one thing?”

You open your mouth, the words to tell her to stop talking like this sit heavily on your tongue. But you swallow those words painfully and squeeze your eyes, holding your desperation from spilling over. Both you and Io know that there is nothing you can do to save Io’s life.

“I’m listening…,” you barely manage the words. 

“Take my baby away…,” Io holds her child to you. “Please let her live…Help her grow up and make sure she can think for herself and make her own decision.”

You gently take this baby from Io’s arm and cradle her to your chest. Already missing the warmth of her mother, this baby whimpers and sniffles, but you bounce her in your arms and assuage any tears or sobs that may come about. And Io, Io is so relieved to see her baby in your arms.

“...Thank you. Truly. Thank you.”

The dying Io sighs and relaxes, almost as if the weight of the world has been lifted from her shoulders. But it does not change the deathly pallor that has taken ahold of her skin. 

“When she grows up, please tell her Mommy and Daddy brought her into the world. Because…because we thought this world was as beautiful as it was turbulent. We would love to tell her about it ourselves, but we can’t. We’re useless…”

Tears roll down Io’s smiling face. “So…if in the future she tries her best to get what she wants and still despises this world…tell her to go find Mommy and Daddy.”

“Io…”

“It’s okay…life isn’t supposed to be a bondage, but a force for good. The choice is hers.”

Io’s breathing becomes increasingly more shallow and quiet, but she hangs on tight for as long as she can, straining against death every second to keep her eyes on her child. “I want to name her Phoebe, what do you think?”

You look down at this baby who is grasping at your shirt clumsily with her hands. “Phoebe…it’s a beautiful name.”

“Good…,” Io sniffles, eyes so full of love until the last glimmer of life fades away. “I don’t regret giving birth to my baby girl. I’ve been looking forward to seeing her. Now…I see her…but I won’t be there for her…”

Her eyes glaze over, her chest undulating with one last inhale before her body becomes deathly still. But even in the face of death, there is a smile on her face, as if she’s still repeating her last words to you.

I don’t regret giving birth to my baby girl.

“Do you also not regret dying?” you ask her still body sadly. “Why…”

Astyanax’s answer was written on paper: he wanted to help others. Io’s answer is pronounced: she gave birth to a life she held dear. Both the boy and the woman, in their different situations and with their different beliefs, made the same choice to sacrifice themselves for another life. 

Astyanax, who abhorred the future and despised life, saved another despite wanting to belong.

Io, who embraced the future and a loved life, gave birth to someone dear even at the cost of her own life. 

However faint the hope appeared, they both tried their best as singular people to alleviate the burden and horrors of this world’s calamity. Here, you finally understand what Helena meant.

“Even the smallest change and help can make a difference, although they may not seem so for the time being.”

Life is so short, but that doesn’t make it meaningless. Every life leaves its unique mark in this world, passing on to the next life. You understand that death gives life from one being to another being: to birds, beasts, insects, and flowers. And those lives, in turn, will give their lives to others through death. Life breeds life, without death life cannot continue.

You gather Hector and Phoebe close and tight to your body, holding them and sharing your warmth beneath the cold empty sky. The border collie whimpers, curling into you and nudges your arm sadly. 

“Even the smallest change and help can make a difference,” you repeat aloud. “Although they may not seem so for the time being.”

You hold proof of that truth in your arms. Hector, the faithful companion, that Astyanax chose over himself for compassion and love. Phoebe, the tiny babe, that Io chose to give birth and love even if her life was nearing its end. 

Every life and effort will make a change in the end.

The question is, at the very end of the road, when you will also have to offer your life to preserve others, how much could you change?

Chapter Text

This time, it is not you who buries the bodies of the deceased, but Helena and Priam. The funeral for Io and all the others who went with her is a quiet and solemn but quick affair. Phoebe whines and whimpers in your arms, writhing with quiet coos as if asking where her mother is. But for the rest of her life, she will never know nor feel the loving warmth of her mother ever again.

“Let me,” Lamia offers. You nod quietly and gently pass Phoebe to Lamia, letting her take care of this baby.

“Did Io name her in the end?” Lamia asks.

“Phoebe,” you tell her. “Io named her Phoebe.”

Lamia looks down sadly at this little life, brows knit together in solemn contemplation.

“...Lamia?”

“I’ll take care of her,” she answers you, giving you a sad wane smile. “Even though this life is precious because it is proof of Io’s love, this life doesn’t need to be another burden for you.”

You understand her reasoning. As Hippocrates has passed and Helena is too busy shouldering the mantle of leadership, it has fallen on you to take care of the sick and the wounded. And though you have alleviated much pain and helped many wounds heal, you have experienced numerous deaths and losses. 

“Thank you.”

When you turn away from Lamia and little Phoebe in her arms, you notice Hector curled around Patroclus. You’re not surprised by the development, just a little taken aback. You walk up to his side and kneel to lavish the border collie with some attention.

“Are you taking care of him?” you ask quietly.

“Mhm,” Patroclus nods, subdued. “Astyanax cared so much for this dog…and it’s the least I can do for him.”

“Are you sure?”

“...Yeah,” Patroclus reaffirms himself. “I’ll look after Hector.”

You study his profile, the way that his head is bowed in grief and the way his fingers are curled into tightly wound fists by his side. His walking stick trembles under the force of his grip, and you cannot pinpoint the exact range of emotions Patroclus is feeling. Grief? Anger? Guilt? 

Even though you cannot identify those feelings, you can empathize. With one last parting pat, you stand and clasp a hand over Patroclus’s shoulder. “If you need any help, don’t hesitate to come ask me, okay?”

“Yeah, I will.”

Within an hour, the refugees gather what paltry belongings they have and thus begin the long journey to reach Okhema. You planned to make this journey on foot beside the Droma that carries all the injured, but…

“Let me,” Helena says instead, gently nudging you to climb onto the Droma instead. “You’ve already done enough these past few days. Let me take care of things for a bit.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, even as you let yourself be herded onto the back of this gentle beast along with the other injured and disabled. “I can still—”

“It’s not a matter of can but should—,” Helena shakes her head. “Sleep. You’ll burn yourself out at this rate.”

“Okay…,” you relent. “...Okay…”

You climb onto the Droma’s back and the people, already there, shuffle aside to make room for you. Though they may not have personally or have intimately shared your burdens, they know of how you have labored tirelessly to try and save those who have been lost to the twilight. They offer their sympathies in the form of their silence and accommodation, diligently watching over you as you close your eyes and rest. 

And thus you dream.

“So you don’t even know what Cyrene even likes?!”

“I said that Cyrene likes a lot of things so it’s hard to pick out one specific thing she’ll like most for her name day.”

The little white-haired boy sighs explosively and rolls his eyes in irritation. Again, as characteristic as it is to be around him, you have to press down on the urge to smack him atop the head. You’re very tempted to do so, considering Cyrene isn’t here, but there’s something uncanny about her and she would definitely know.

“She’s the type of person to like your company for her name day,” you reiterate yourself as you wrap the gift you’ve painstakingly procured for Cyrene. “If you want to give her a gift, put some thought into it. If you can’t find a gift, then she’ll appreciate you just being there with her.”

“If I don’t give her a gift, that makes me worse than you,” the boy accuses.

You roll your eyes. “Cry a river about it.”

The boy pouts, feet dangling from where he’s sitting on the stool and watching you finish wrapping your present. “No, but actually, what am I supposed to do?”

“Again,” you reiterate with a sigh. “She doesn’t really care about gifts.”

The boy grumbles before changing his tactics. “Then what if I want to give her something? Just like how you are?”

“Then if you want to give her something, figure it out yourself.”

“Come onnnnnnnn,” he whines, leaning forward precariously on his stool in an attempt to convince you. He claps his hand together in an beseeching hand sign and bows his head as he begs for your help. “Please? Help me? Pleaseeeeeee?”

You stare at him because what the hell is he doing? Ever since that one excursion out into the forest, this boy had been occasionally joining your company out of his own volition. Of course, it didn’t dull the petty spats between the two of you over Cyrene, but…you would hazard to say that they have lost a bit of hostility.

All in all, it’s a strange situation.

You sigh through your nose because Cyrene’s nameday is today and there is no way that you can guide him to make a gift in this short time. “Do you have money on you?”

“I’d have ask my grandparents,” he mutters sullenly.

“...Fine,” you sigh. You tuck your present under your arm and take a moment to think. Maybe…yeah, that could work.

“So?” the boy asks you, leaning forward and unable to veil his hope.

You tilt your head back and look over your shoulder. “Do you know how to make a flower crown?”

You awake to someone shaking your arm. You make a barely-bitten back sound as you rub your palms into your eyes and shake off your grogginess. “Yes?”

“Doctor…,” Elliana whispers quietly. “Miss Helena told me to wake you up.”

“Hm?” you forcefully blink back the rest of your sleepiness and survey the area, and you find out why you’ve been woken up.

The three Dromas and the congregation of refugees who walk on foot are now walking a precarious winding trail. What dangers lurk at the edge of this road are not enormous heights or forests filled with the unknown, but the Black Tide in all of its depravity. 

“It smells bad,” Elliana pinches her nose for as long as possible. And it does. The Black Tide that has claimed many lives of humanity, leaving only a sparse few to live and roam the lands of Amphoreus aimlessly. Though it may seem like an ocean of pure black, with waves that occasionally lap at the shore, it is no sea. Its stench, one of death, blood, and rotting flesh, reminds the unfortunate who remain that this stygian ocean has claimed countless human lives.

It is an apocalypse, all in the simplicity of the word and all in the complexity of its many facets and meanings. But it’s wickedness does not stop at the mere form of an ocean.

“I—Icarus? My boy is that you? Icarus!”

One of your critically wounded patients, Daedalus, surges forward with the desperation of a madman but people immediately pull his back, restraining him from charging into the Black Tide. 

“No! Let go of me! My son! Icarus! I need to get to him! MY SON!”

“Do you want to die?! Look carefully and see! Get yourself together! That’s not actually your son!”

Up and down the multitudes of refugees there are desperate cries of the people who have lost and grieved and have not healed. Of the people who desperately wish and dream each night but wake up to this cruel reality. And among them are the people who are familiar with the Black Tide, restraining their fellow human beings from wading into certain death.

“What’s going on?” Elliana whispers in fear. “I’m scared.”

You gather her in one arm and press her close to your side. 

“Do you see anything?” you ask her quietly.

Elliana cranes her neck and pauses. “...Mom?”

You sigh forlornly before patting her shoulder in sympathy. “It’s not her.”

“No,” Elliana agrees. “I saw mom die. …Is that what the Black Tide does?”

“Yes,” you reply. “It creates illusions of of loved ones who have already been consumed by the Black Tide to lure its victims in.”

How the Black Tide claimed most of its victims was not its spread or poison, but by exploiting the desperation of the grieving to be reunited with the ones they have lost.

“Do you…do you see someone too?” Elliana asks hesitatingly.

“Yes.”

You stare at the ghostly figures of Astyanax and Io, smiling and waving at you, silently beckoning you to come join them at the stygian river.

“But they’re all dead,” you peel your eyes away and pat Elliana. “Keep your eyes away from the Black Tide. Don’t put any of your attention on it.”

As this is the Droma tasked with ferrying the injured and disabled, the gentle beast comes to a stop when its brethren in the front pauses. There are murmurs of confusion as to why this journey has taken a pause in the midst of the Black Tide.

Craning your neck, you look beyond to see Priam pushing himself off the Droma’s back and rushing forward to pick something off the ground in front of them. Far away as he is, you aren’t able to make out what he has picked up, but as if to answer your query, he rushes through the crowd and approaches the Droma your on.

“Lamia!” Priam rushes back, desperately catching his breath. “This thing, it has to be what you gave your daughter right?!”

He raises his arm for you all to see, and just as he has uttered, what droops in his fingertips is a cloth imitation of the iris flower, the same accessory that Lamia had given Iris before she set off to Okhema.

Lamia stares at it, and the longer she stares at that flower the more stricken and horrified her expression becomes. “No…Iris…my daughter, where is she?”

“I don’t know,” Priam shakes his head. “We didn’t see Iris herself but we…there was blood on the road and a few other things ahead.

“Show me,” Lamia demands. With a tight hold around Phoebe, she pushes herself off the Droma. 

“Doctor…?” Elliana whimpers in fright.

“It’s alright,” you shake your head. “Stay on the Droma, alright? I’m going after them.”

You slide down the Dromas back and chase after Priam and Lamia. You weave through the people murmuring in confusion and finally catch up to the two of them. And on the road ahead you can see splatters of blood salting the earth as well as shredded cloth.

Shredded cloth that you remember being the same color and material as Iris’s skirt, albeit marred.

“What’s going on?” Helena approaches the three of you. “Why have we stopped?”

“It’s Iris,” Priam answers. “We saw signs of her here. If she’s injured then we should find her?”

Helena grasps the situation immediately, seeing as the way her expression becomes severe and contemplative. “Here? Out in the midst of the Black Tide? Chances are that she is dead.”

“Helena!” Priam barks, and glances over at Lamia who stiffens at Helena’s words.

“We cannot spare a search party right now!” Helena shoots back. “I’m sorry, I don’t want to do this either, but we have many more people to worry about right now!”

The two of them begin to argue, and oftentimes you’ve had to play mediator between the two of them. Though both Helena and Priam mean well, Helena’s pragmatism and Priam’s idealism clash as they both voluntary lead the refugees.

However, you’re attention is occupied by something else.

Because in the distance you see her. Cyrene.

She’s standing there, smiling at you, as she delicately tucks a lock of her hair behind her ear. Her expression is warm, open, affectionate . Something that your heart has ached and missed but now yearns when seeing her. As if privy to your very soul, her smile becomes even gentler and she opens her lips calling out to you.

But it is not her voice you hear.

“Over…here…over here…here…”

What? You blink in confusion. Cyrene’s voice has never been so faint or weak. Soft, sure, but it has always been bright and graceful even at the verge of death. Even if you remember seeing her broken body amidst the ruins of Aedes Elysiae, even though you know logically that this must be an illusion from the Black Tide, you can’t help but wish to see her.

And perhaps that same yearning is what makes you sensitive to how wrong the sound of her voice is. Because it’s not Cyrene’s, it’s someone else’s.

“...here…please…over here…”

When you figure out that this possibly cannot be Cyrene’s voice, her illusion smiles and turns away. She walks until she disappears behind a boulder at the perilous shoreline between land and Black Tide. And then you hear that same voice quietly and desperately singing the lyrics of a song you know intimately.

“Oh my…Clematis…hope bloomed—fro…from the abyss.”

There are only five people who know that song. You, who have tided this song over from your past life. Cyrene, the first person you have taught this song too and sung with her. Astyanax and Helena whom stayed with you outside that barn in Ladon along with…

Iris.

As if hypnotized, the sounds of Priam’s and Helena’s argument become muted as you concentrate on that quiet, shaking singing. Your feet take to you to that same boulder Cyrene’s illusion disappeared behind, and your heart drops and shatters to the ground in horror.

Iris is there.

The sight is naseauting as it is horrifying, because the lower half of Iris’s body is gone . What remains of her spine drags against the blackened dirt and her hair is matted both to her head and to the earth, devoid of its former luster. Her lips part in shallow gasps and breaths as she sings brokenly.

Her bloodied and split fingers weakly scratch against the dirt as she drags herself away from the Black Tide and clutches some sort of metal tablet under her arm. 

“Ah…,” Iris gasps weakly, so unlike her former and bright self. Her eyes are dull and empty, but her pupils focus on you. “My…Clematis…here…”

“Yes, I’m here,” you whisper, quiet and horrified. The sheer travesty and horror before you stills all thought and coherence. “I’m here, Iris, I’m here.”

You kneel by her side, watching as what remains of her body undulates with each labored breath. 

“Here…,” Iris repeats mindlessly. With what strength she can muster, she pushes the metal tablet to you. “Take it…way to pur—...ify. …Black…”

“It’s okay, save your breath,” you shake your head. “You don’t need to say anymore.”

Even though you don’t quite understand what she’s trying to convey, you still take the tablet and hold it close to your chest. When Iris sees as such, she seems to relax and sink into the soil.

“Good…,” Iris breathes in relief. “...Good…”

You kneel and enclasp her hand with yours, imbuing her with what warmth you can offer. And this gesture alone is enough for her eyes to flutter shut, and for tears to wet her eyelashes and trail over her face.

Finally noticing your disappearance, you hear people call out your name.

“Where are you?!”

“I’m here! I’m over here!” you raise your voice to reach them. You hear skittering pebbles and dirt crunching underfoot before the other three appear. Helena and Priam immediately recoil, hissing in sharp breaths while Lamia…Lami is devastated . 

“Iris!” 

She is immediately by her daughter’s side, looking over the mangled remains of her body. 

“...Mom…,” Iris croaks soft and weak, barely inaudible over the sound of the Black Tide lapping against the shore. She cries quietly in the face of the warmth of her mother which she thought she would not have in these last moments. And she cries because she does not want her mother to see the state that she is in.

And so you leave Iris’s side to usher Helena and Priam away, to give this mother and daughter privacy in their last moments together.

“Hey…,” Helena reaches out, soothing her hands over your arms in comfort. “Are you—”

She’s interrupted by a guttural anguished cry from Lamia. Mourning and grief so palpable in the air that it weighed down like a Sword of Damocles poised to make their very hearts bleed with sorrow.

You squeeze your eyes shut and take in as much of a deep breath your aching heart could allow. Because horror and sorrow still clump together like a blood clot in your chest, persisting at the juxtaposition between an Iris so bright and filled with life in your memories to an Iris mangled and tortured beyond human comprehension in your present.

And you know, just with Lamia’s cry of agony, Iris has fallen into the evernight: never to be seen again.

Chapter Text

With breath imbued with a coppery tang and limbs laden with exhaustion, you collapse and press your back against the mountainside, sliding down for just a moment of rest. In this brief break, you pull on the metal tablet stuffed in your pack and press its screen before it glows into life.

A 3D hologram elevates itself from the screen, highlighting your destination in red and your current whereabouts in green. It won’t take long before you reach it, since you’re about half-an-hour’s hike away from the mountain’s peak.

But why is it that you are making this journey without the rest of the refugees?

“This tablet is the thing that Iris gave you?”

“Yeah,” you nod, placing it down on the table. After leaving the precarious winding trail beset by the Black Tide on both sides, the refugees from Ladon set up a temporary camp to catch their breath and rest. “I don’t know what it was, but it was important enough for her to have protected it in her last moments.”

Silence falls down on the three of you as Helena and Priam gaze down at this nondescript tablet.

“But what is it?” Priam asks as he reaches out. He fiddles with it, turning it about in his hands as he tries to ascertain its functions. His fingers pass by some sort of groove on the edges and the tablet flares, shining into life.

Surprised, he drops it quickly, the tablet clattering on the table before its light comes together to create a hologram of some sort of person hovering above it.

“We hope that the recipient of this message is her Majesty Cerydra of Okhema,” the woman speaks. “However, knowing the current situation of Amphoreus, this message is for anyone who is able.”

“Cerydra?” Helena repeats in confusion. “The Monarch of Okhema hasn’t been seen in centuries. How old is this message?”

“We are researchers…or heretics you may say that have been banished from the Grove of Epiphany,” the woman continues her introduction. “We have sealed ourselves in Astraeus in the wake of the Black Tide’s advent and hope this message can be received soon and bring supplies to us. Dire as the situation may be we wish to express, that we found a viable solution to purify the Black Tide .”

The three of you are astonished by this bold claim. 

“However, as limited as our supplies are, we believe that we may not reach this project’s completion and hope that you will be able to bring both more researchers and more supplies so that we may complete this project and reclaim Amphoreus from the Black Tide. This tablet has coordinates to where we are and shall act as a key to unlock and enter Astraeus.”

With that, this hologram fizzles out and the tablet lets out a small hum as it forms a new 3D hologram mapping out the precarious terrain and highlighting Astraeus at the very edge of the Hesperides Mountain Range.

“Astraeus?” you repeat in confusion and look to Priam. He sighs and runs a hand over his face.

“I didn’t think it was actually real,” Priam shakes his head. “Astraeus, the Stargazers’ Abode. Apparently, it’s been a place where people who are branded heretics for committing blasphemy against the Titans go to continuing pursuing their truths, no matter what that may be.”

“Considering this message was originally intended for Cerydra,” Helena continues. “This must’ve happened centuries ago. We can only assume they never got the supplies they needed because if they truly had the ability to purify the Black Tide…”

She needn’t say anymore. If this “solution to purify the Black Tide” had reached Okhema, then the world would’ve been a vastly different place. 

“What should we do?” Priam asks. “Isn’t this at least worth checking out?”

“Who knows?” Helena shrugs. “But this is not a detour we can afford. Plenty of people are still counting on us to get to Okhema. At best, we’ll probably just have to leave this be—”

“I’ll go,” you cut in.

Priam and Helena stare at you in confusion before you clarify yourself. “Priam and Helena…both of you are the unofficial leaders out of all of us. Helena can also look after the sick and wounded. This is not an opportunity we can’t pass up, so it makes sense for me to go.”

“Alone?”

“We’d be wasting too many supplies if we sent too many people to check out a possibility.”

And so here you are. But the truth is, what truly drove you to this decision isn’t entirely the possibility of being able to purify the Black Tide. Rather, it’s because you’re exhausted: tired of life and it’s continuous suffering. 

Even the smallest change and help can make a difference, although they may not seem so for the time being.

Those are words that operate as the lifeline and the force that drives your heart to beat. For this amount of grief and suffering is too much for a single human heart to bear, and left unchecked it can lead any human being to the brink of sanity: and topple from the cliff to embrace their own oblivion.

Perhaps Astraeus may hold the key to purify the Black Tide. That you may not know and have a hard time believing with all the things that happened until now.

But if Astraeus does not have this solution…then you have already decided that the Stargazers’ Abode will be your grave.

You sigh quietly and dig out the small bowl of dried porridge. One last gift from Theo and Katherine back at Ladon.

At this reminder you can feel your heart ache and eyes tingle with a burning itchiness that trails down over your cheeks. However, you ignore all of this and dig at the dried and clumpy rice and chew through it even if your jaw hurts.

The desolation that had haunted your heart when burying all of your companions is amplified now with you taking this lonely path. It is an emotional agony that feels physical, tugging at your nerves as this chasm widens with an aching emptiness. And like Pandora’s Box, it lets loose the anguished yearning for simpler times back in Aedes Elysiae: back with Cyrene, back with that annoying little boy, back at those golden fields, back under the stars.

And with this desire that seems to tear your very being at the seams, you lean against the jagged earth and close your eyes to rest.

“Happy Name Day!”

“All of this for me?”

Cyrene giggles as that boy affixes three flower crowns over her head. She adjusts them so that sit more comfortably and more securely and beams at the two of you. “Who made all of these?”

“I taught him how to make them,” you say and the boy nods in pride. However, just to be petty and cut his ego at the knees you add another tidbit. “He messed up dozens of times before making those three.”

“I didn’t mess up that much!” the boy yells at you indignantly. “I messed up like…once or twice.”

“Right…,” you drawl sarcastically. You turn back to Cyrene and hold out your gift. “Here, this is for you.”

Cyrene smiles at you before gratefully taking your present. She gingerly unwraps it to reveal a small book bound in smooth leather. Pressed on the cover is a simple depiction of an Empyros Lily.

“This is…?”

“It’s a blank book,” you tell her, feeling sheepishness creep up on you. “A place where you can write the romantic story that you want to see.”

“Oh…,” Cyrene looks down at this book, eyes curving into a gentle smile that gives her an impression of being on the cusp of crying.

“Cyrene?”

“Thank you,” Cyrene shakes her head and beams. She reaches out and brings you and the boy to an embrace to express the depth of her love. “Thank you both for everything. I’ll always remember this name day.”

And you awaken, left reeling for more of that warmth. But the air is cold and stale, and the warmth left to comfort you is your own body heat. You take a moment just to sit there, to keep yourself from shattering into a billion fine bits of sand. And once you’ve gathered yourself into some semblance of strength, you continue this arduous journey up the mountain.

***

A long time ago, before the apocalypse, like everyone else visiting this mountain-residing city for the first time, Hesione is trying to view it and soak in its entirety.

If Amphoreus’s Golden Age is likened to a crown, then this city would be one of the brightest jewels on it.

Its towers glitter under the sunlight, pearl-white and holy. Its windows line up over its buildings, casting its reflections over the cityscapes like rows of stars falling upon the earth. It looks opulent, as if belonging from another time.

While not as populous as the Eternal Holy City, its civilian population could be seen by naked eye even from Hesione’s distance. To and fro these people move from their homes and to the central towers. But sacred as its appearance may be, it is the destination for where those exiled by the disciples of the Titans shall go. 

But as dark excommunication and exile may be, this city illuminates its possibility. Free from the edicts of Titans and the worship of their disciples, it stands as a lighthouse beckoning the ushering of humanity’s truth and future.

No matter how awe-inspiring this city’s visage may be, Hesione is relatively unmoved by it. Hesione thinks herself someone who is unmoved by “wonders.” She has always been rational, so much so that she has been called cold by others. 

But the moment she sets foot beyond its gates and immerses herself in the perspective of one of its occupants, she finds herself reconsidering her stance. 

Astraeus, the Stargazers’ Abode, is quite the apt name for it.

She takes a look upon the sun setting in the sky, casting its waning radiance on the city of starlight.

Others have given the sun many epithets: earth gracing, life giving…more or less. But it’s nothing new to Hesione. To her, it is simply a ball of energy. Inside, nuclear fission is always happening. The energy it generates every second is enough to sustain the entirety of Amphoreus’s civilization for hundreds and thousands of years. 

It is much less inspiring than the Core Flames that breathe life to the Twelve Titans.

The distance between the sun and humanity is quite large, and they will not be able to easily conquer it. However, Hesione pursues a more daring path. 

For the sun is simply nuclear fission and requires a fuel source at the end of the day. What she pursues is neither sun or moon, but the very heart of the Gods themselves. For if one could recreate the phenomenon of the Core Flames, if one could extract energy from them, then it would revolutionize humanity’s understanding of the world around them and march toward that uncertain future with confidence.

For if humanity conquers the divine, then there is no need to worry about the sun.

Hesione retracts her gaze from the setting sun and keeps her eyes ahead toward the future. A path that she will forge with her own two hands, away from the people who decree her ambitions heresy.

***

Now hundreds of years later, you step foot at the abandoned gateway to Astraeus. The city walls are stained with blots of the Black Tide, and its once tall buildings lay in heaps of depraved ruin.

The Stargazers’ Abode, once dazzling light the starlit night, is nothing but a whimpering facsimile of its former self. Even high above in the mountaintop, it cannot escape the same fate that befell the many other city states of Amphoreus. 

You step up to the gates shut close, pressing a hand against the wide doors that will not budge under your singular strength. However, undaunted by this turn of events, you hold up your tablet to the doors. The screen flickers with some sort of light and you can hear some mechanism unlocking.

With a shuddering heave, cogs and wheels that were left untouched and unmoving since time immemorial are finally brought back from the dead. The heavy doors open with each turn of it machinery before fully opening with a final thud!

There are no people to greet you, except for the countless remains of skeletons strewn haphazard across the streets. There is not a single living being, much less a human soul, in sight.

Taking a deep breath, you set your sights on the Astraeus’s citadel and walk forth.

***

“Dr. Hesione, congratulations on becoming research director.”

Hesione merely inclines her head to the other researcher who expressed their congrats. Then she refocuses her attention to the large machine in front of her. It is laid against the wall with electrical wire and cooling tubes connected to its body. 

Sparks fly as machinery whirr to temper the body of this entirely man-made Titan.

“How is research on the Core Flame going?” Hesione asks. 

“We are still having trouble on the stabilization period,” the researcher shakes her head and hands Hesione a tablet. “While we have managed igniting energy sources similar to the Core Flame phenomena, we are still have trouble in crystallizing this ignition to shape it into an actual extractable energy source.”

Hesione merely hums as she looks over the data and the dozens of words that encapsulate the decades of research put into this. 

“So it seems cold fusion is also a failure,” Hesione remarks mildly. “Are there any other energy sources available to us or…energy sources that have been observed?”

The researcher nods. “We were observing a sort of fluctuation on the atomic, perhaps the quantum level, of particles in the closest temperature to absolute zero. When extracting it, we were met with tools suddenly failing and program entirely being terminated.”

“Oh?” Hesione tilts her head in interest. “Have we made any breakthroughs in that front?”

“We’ve managed to extract just a bit,” the researcher nods. “And that energy has been able to fuel things that roughly three cold fusion reactors have fueled. Only with rigorous shielding to protect from its…terminating effects have we managed to utilize it.”

“Have you all decided on a name for it?”

“Yes…the researchers have decided to name it ‘Finality’.”

But all of a sudden, the world is plunged into darkness. Researchers and civilians alike cast their gaze up and watch as the very life-giving sun of Amphoreus is eclipsed without rhyme or reason. The sky bleeds as the celestial atlas is razed of its stars and comets, and it is not crimson blood that seeps through those gashes, but stygian sludge that encroaches like an infection.

The apocalypse has arrived.

***

With a shove, you push open the doors to reveal a corridor leading to the heart of the citadel. Fumbling with your pockets, you rip a part of your cloak loose and wrap it around a stick. Once procuring a matchbox, you strike a flame and feed it to your makeshift torch.

Raising this flame above your head, you walk down the dim corridors, letting the warm light cast your long shadow across the walls and floors. You stop at the first door you see, holding your tablet against it. There is a electronic chime as it accepts the presence of your tablet and opens up with a quiet hiss. 

With your entrance part of the room lights up from electrical lights, but from centuries of disuse, it only flickers on and off as you walk through the room and inspect what’s there. 

You let out a quiet exhale when you walk up to a large glass wall. The isolation chamber is cold to the touch, and with the light cast from both your torch and the flickering lights, you see a skeleton half-corroded next to a puddle of the Black Tide.

You walk toward the largest desk in this dilapidated office and graze your fingers over the letters of the nameplate situated on it.

Research Director: Hesione

You circle around the desk, inspecting it for anything that might give you clues or leads to this “purification” solution that was alluded to. Accidentally, your hand smacks against a button and a projector screen lights up. 

The image is fuzzy and the sound is grainy, but the projection isn’t corrupted to the point where you can’t make out what this projector is saying or who is being projected.

It’s the same woman who was projected from your tablet, and you can only assume that this person is the Research Director: Hesione.

“We’ve sent out five different squads out to see what is going on,” Hesione says in the recording. “Out of the five, only one has returned with a fraction of its numbers. All the people who have returned have all said the same thing: the end of the world is here.”

You sigh at the confirmation of Helena’s theory that all of this was from centuries ago. 

“We managed to intercept a messenger who was running on foot,” Hesione continues her report. “They said that they were tasked from Okhema to send out a warning about the Black Tide. They claimed that it was some sort of substance that originated from the sky and spread out in a very short time. If it were not the fact that we observed that phenomenon here at Astraeus, we would not have believed it.”

“We have received reports that exposure to this Black Tide has adverse effects on the human body and has driven even the Titans insane. There have been claims that there have also been two other Titans born alongside with its emergence: Nikador and Zagreus.”

“Thus, I have ordered Astraeus to close its borders. We held a meeting with the Board of Directors on where we should go from here. Some suggested broadcasting to other areas and taking in refugees. I turned it down as they already have a stigma against many of us as heretics and will likely commit genocide. Others have suggested leaving Astraeus immediately to join the rest of Amphoreus to join the effort to safeguard humanity. I also turned it down as a few drops of water will not stop a raging wildfire. Our researchers research, we don’t save lives.”

“...How cold,” you can’t help but whisper softly at this Hesione rattling off her report with pragmatic rationale.

“Instead I have made my stance clear. If the Titans are falling to the Black Tide, then our research here is all the more valuable to make sure that humanity has something else to fall back on. If we can recreate the Core Flames of the Titans, then this will give humanity a better fighting chance than any heroic sacrifice.”

You blink at the shocking ambition of “recreating” the Core Flames of the Titans, but Hesione continues to speak without batting an eye.

“As we are researchers unafraid of blasphemy, that places us in the best possible position to look into the intricacies of the Black Tide and find viable ways to deal with it. I want humanity to survive, thus Astraeus must not fall.”

Hesione closes her eyes and takes a deep breath to center herself. “I have adjusted our research direction to understanding the intricacies of the Black Tide and placed it on the same priority on our original goal of recreating the Core Flames. We have thus agreed to name this initiative…”

Project Prometheus.

Chapter Text

“Unfortunately, even with ‘Finality,’ we haven’t been able to truly recreate the Core Flame Phenomenon.”

You sit there, legs hugged to your chest, and watch the projector screen. With each journalistic log you parse through, recorded by Dr. Hesione, you peer through the window of time to catch a glimpse of the lives at the very beginning of the apocalypse.

The projected Dr. Hesione sighs, reaching up to massage her knitted brow. “We can reach and execute the ignition and extraction phases without any trouble. Initially, we believed that with this new energy source, we would be able to successfully complete the crystallization and stabilization phases. However, we have always fallen short of reaching it.”

Dr. Hesione snorts derisively, looking off into the distance with disdained irritation. “Perhaps this is the restriction placed upon us by the Divine? Perhaps some higher being has refused to let us recreate it? Or maybe, we are missing something fundamental to the Core Flames that we cannot recreate. Well, no matter. While we can sustain ourselves here at Astraeus, we believed that the goal of truly recreating the Core Flame phenomenon would be abandoned for now, but the entirety of the research leading up to it will be…shifted, for lack of a better term.”

“Instead of recreating a Core Flame, we have decided to harness this ‘Finality’ itself and contain it in a reactor,” Dr. Hesione squares her shoulders. “Progress on this front has proved extremely fruitful, and we have managed to condense this Finality Reactor to the diameter of 5 centimeters.”

You rest your cheek against the fold of your elbow as you watch the projection. Much of Dr. Hesione’s terms and references fly over your head, but you can somewhat parse through the gist of it. You don’t know why or how, but the term ‘Finality’ sends a flicker of familiarity through your consciousness. You have never come across that term before arriving at Astraeus, but it eludes just the very edge of your understanding. It’s not that you’re supposed to know what it is, but you know somehow that it’s extremely important.

“We have tried studying ‘Finality’ itself, but with the time and tools we have now, much of our studies remain inconclusive. However, we’ve observed that ‘Finality’ exists on the quantum level and transcends even time and space. Through the use of ‘Finality’ and theories on quantum tunneling, we believe we can use this to send messages through time and space: from the past to the future or even from the future to the past. We have tried, of course, but experiments have shown no results.”

Dr. Hesione sighs. “For now, that concludes our research on ‘Finality’ and the obtaining of an energy source that will help sustain our technological needs here. We have thus pivoted to studying the Black Tide. Taking samples, we’ve immediately observed that the Black Tide seeks out human consciousness and other technological human advancements. Without proper and rigorous shielding, we have found programs and datasets corrupted without the ability to restore them. As per this log entry, we haven’t found why or how it can drive the Titans to madness.”

The projector clicks off once Dr. Hesione rattles off the time that this data was entered. Then you reach out and scroll through the projector, pulling up the next data file.

Dr. Hesione appears once more, looking much more haggard and run-through. “We have listed all the effects of the Black Tide that have been observed so far: corruption of human technology, allegedly inducing insanity amongst the Titans, and infecting the human body to the point of organ failure and eventually death. Interestingly enough, we have used several instruments to observe the Black Tide, and all have become inconclusive except for one: the same tools used to discover and observe ‘Finality’.”

“We discovered that the Black Tide is more than a corrupting force. For some reason, it also contains data, and from experiments, we have concluded that the Black Tide records the biometric data of its human victims.” Dr. Hesione takes a moment, pursing her lips together before adding the next bit of information. “Some of my colleagues have even asserted that it may record the consciousness of its human victims as well.”

You think back to the specters of the Black Tide, illusions woven to form visages of those lost to the Black Tide: a way to lure the grieving into its voracious embrace. 

“We’ve decided to experiment with the Black Tide with ‘Finality,’” Dr. Hesione continues. “And results were…interesting. The ‘terminating’ effect that Finality had on our tools and instruments before intentional shielding also affected the Black Tide. When put near each other, we found that samples of the Black Tide are repelled from ‘Finality’ reactors, almost as if it’s trying to escape. And when we force contact, the Black Tide is… eliminated. So far, we haven’t observed any adverse effects on the Finality Reactor.”

There is a gleam in Dr. Hesione’s eyes. “Perhaps we have found the water that will quench this raging wildfire. While we have found ‘Finality’ repels and eliminates the Black Tide, we have shifted our goal from repelling the Black Tide to eliminating and purifying it. Our next goal is finding a way to reduce the ‘repelling’ factor of our ‘Finality’ reactors so that we may increase efficiency in purifying the Black Tide.”

***

“Start reporting. You first.”

Dr. Hesione points to the closest person in the conference room.

The man winces before he sighs and recites his findings. “Not much to say. All of our communication is unresponsive. We’ve been sending out messages and some have even sent prayers in the direction of Okhema. While we’re fine, it seems that there’s an issue in either transmission or the receiving end.”

Dr. Hesione closes her eyes. “What’s the worst-case scenario?”

“...All human civilization outside of Astraeus has been eliminated.”

There’s a disconcerting hush that falls over those who have gathered here today for this meeting. The prospect that they are the only survivors of humanity is a daunting thought to even harbor in their minds.

“A less bad one?” Dr. Hesione asks.

“The priests and the disciples are busy reeling from this apocalypse and are either protecting themselves or are clogged up with too many other prayers.”

Eyes turn to Dr. Hesione, the de facto leader of Astraeus and its researchers. “Understood, we operate on the assumption the basis that human civilization has ended. Perhaps there may be survivors, but they are in no position to aid us.”

Dr. Hesione concludes that part of the meeting concisely and turns to the next person. “How are things on the administrative end?”

“Internal communications between departments remain stable,” the Administrative Director reports. “All personnel remain at their posts, and Astraeus is in order.”

“Equipment?”

“We’ve run diagnostics on our technological equipment, and so far, we haven’t received any reports of mechanical or technological failure.”

“Then how are our supplies looking?”

Dr. Hesione turns to the person sitting the furthest away from her. The man coughs into his fist as the others turn to him. He looks down at the table with a grim expression. Before Dr. Hesione reiterates her question, the man begins to make his report.

“With the agricultural fields at the foot of the mountain out of commission and without any supply chains from other cities, we can survive for a maximum of 15 months.”

“How did you get that number?”

“I calculated the minimum calories of all staff members needed based on their weights, then divided the total calories of food that we currently have by that number. …Right now, it is merely an estimated figure. Give me more time, and I can calculate a more accurate answer.”

“If we are to see Project Prometheus to its completion,” Dr. Hesione repeats the facts with cold rationale. “We need at least 21 months.”

Only silence graces her assertions. Dr. Hesione sighs and flips through her documents, leaving the matter be for now. “We have researched more into the viability of using ‘Finality’ to eliminate and purify the Black Tide. Due to our goal of being able to increase the efficiency of purification and eliminate the repelling factor of this reaction, we’ve come to the hypothesis that human consciousness can act as the stopgap between the Finality Reactor and the Black Tide. We have named this theoretical technology the Origin Filter.”

Hesione takes a deep breath. “We have not proceeded with experimentation as we would need…human samples.”

Again, there is a deathly silence at Dr. Hesione’s words. It is only a few seconds of quiet before a person raises their hand: it’s the same person who reported on their supplies.

“I volunteer to be a sample for this experiment. If we reduce personnel through human experimentation, then our supplies will last longer.”

It is a cold and brutal rationale, but it expresses the willingness of the human spirit: walking into adversity and sure death without faltering. One by one, all of the other members of the meeting raise their hands as well.

“I volunteer to be a sample for this experiment.”

“I will be part of this experiment.”

“I accept being part of this human experimentation.”

Hesione stares at all of them in silence. She didn’t expect all of the people to be willing to offer their lives to fuel this flame of progress. She closes her eyes and pauses to center herself before she inputs her next orders. “Then let’s sort volunteers through the importance of their departments. Administrative department first, then logistics, medical, communication, robotics, data, and finally research.”

She points at the directors around the table according to the order, and at last, points to herself. “Share this information with your departments and see who else is willing to volunteer for this experiment. Any objections?”

No one voices any dissent, and the Administrative Director immediately packs up her folders and nods to Dr. Hesione. “It’s decided then. I’ll notify my people.”

***

The recording of the meeting fizzes out of existence. The projector flickers before Dr. Hesione appears before you again. “To whoever sees this recording in the future, my name is Dr. Hesione, the research director and leader of Project Prometheus.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Even though there is horror at the idea that these people willingly offered themselves as human experimentation, there is also a sadness that blooms with it. Why is it that this cold and cruel world pushed these people to discard their own lives for the sake of this cure? Why must there be a cure in the first place? Why did this apocalypse happen?

Not for the first time, you find yourself utterly loathing the Black Tide with all your being. Because if it weren’t for the Black Tide, then the people of Amphoreus wouldn’t have to suffer like this.

“I’ve put our first and final ‘group’ meeting at the beginning of this video. I assume any human with common sense would understand what happened after watching it. Presuming that you are an intelligent life, such as a human, please allow me to summarize the process of our research and findings.”

“Everyone in Astraeus agreed to be part of this human experimentation. The first batch of trials was trying to successfully implant the ability to harness ‘Finality’ in the human body. However, ‘Finality’ is a terminating force if not handled correctly, and many people have died as a result. As such, we have made modifications to the ‘Finality’ Reactor with proper shielding to make up the Origin Filter Core.”

“From then on, we were able to successfully harness Finality through the human body and moved to trials in purifying the Black Tide. However, these people were met with agony as the Black Tide did not reach the Origin Filter Core and infected their bodies instead. We have adjusted the parameters of the Origin Filter to increase its power output and have found success in purifying Black Tide samples.”

“We moved on to more widespread Black Tide purification and ran into more trouble. After some time, purifying the Black Tide has driven people to insanity and incoherence. We observed the brain waves of the human subjects and found that their neural networks became increasingly overwhelmed before burning out completely. Even though their bodily functions were operating, they were declared brain dead.”

Dr. Hesione sighs tiredly. “This has been an obstacle that we have not solved. The Origin Filter technology operates using human consciousness as a wall to ‘Finality’, luring the Black Tide to pass through that wall and be eliminated by ‘Finality’. However, we believe that the biometric data that the Black Tide possesses overwhelms the human consciousness to the point of death. We have tried to find a solution to this problem, but to no avail.”

“While we have increased stopgap measures to protect the human mind, it is only delaying the inevitable and merely prolongs their suffering. One subject described it as…living through the lives and deaths of thousands of people.”

“After everyone else passed on, there was an unexpected variable that I received. We theorized that Finality, working on the quantum level, would allow us to send messages through space and time. And I received a message in the form of reverberations from the first 'Finality' Reactor we ever created.”

“It was easy to decode the contents of this message. It was titled…a ‘Gift from the Future’. How distant in the future, I don't know. Perhaps the one who sent this message isn’t even from Amphoreus. However, what the message contained was a code that they named the Ark Program.”

“To put it in layman’s terms, it is some sort of code, but I cannot parse how it operates. However, I deciphered as much of it as I could, and I believe that I haven’t even skimmed the surface.” Dr. Hesione lets out something too weak to be called a laugh and too fragile to be called a wheeze. “The Ark Program serves as a conversion sequence that translates biometric data into something else that I currently cannot observe. However, by itself, it is incomplete as it needs something external to the human consciousness or the Origin Filter to store this translated data. But that is not its only purpose.”

“Its secondary purpose, I have not ascertained. But I believe if one were to purify the Black Tide with the Ark Program in hand, they would experience something different. Now, this is a hypothesis that I have not confirmed, but when absorbing the Black Tide, they may see the biometric data bank in its entirety and activate the Ark Program’s secondary algorithmic function. But we have no more people to continue experimenting, and frankly, I must admit that I am at my limit.”

Dr. Hesione looks up, looking straight at the camera as if meeting your eyes. Her face is gaunt and pale, teetering at the very edge of lifelessness. “We have sent out messages to other cities and have received nothing. We have run out of food, and no one’s coming to save us. The most logical conclusion is that the human race beyond Astraeus is extinct. Thus, I must conclude during this lifetime that Project Prometheus is a failure.”

Her eyes flutter shut, and her expression twists in pain as she visibly cannot accept this outcome. However, denial will not change this grim reality. “We have stored all data of Project Prometheus in the data department’s server room, as well as all other innovations created by our colleagues and predecessors. It will serve as a vault…or a time capsule for any budding human civilization in the far future.”

“If my department and I had at least two more years’ worth of supplies, perhaps Project Prometheus may have reached completion. But all my staff and everyone else are dead now. We’ve gone as far as we could…and we leave behind embers lest anyone else will be willing to take up this mantle and torch.”

“We decided to continue this research and carry out our duty to the very end. Although many of us had doubts after our meeting, we did not regret anything. We did what was right. We would have chosen the same thing even if we were given the choice,” Dr. Hesione opens her eyes and stares at the camera, stares at the future, stares at you, with the utmost conviction. “This is what we leave behind as our legacy. Take it and forge the bright future I know humanity deserves.”

Dr. Hesione steps back. “As per my final recording, I will go down to the Titan Chamber and join my colleagues. There, you will find the surgical pod that was used to implant the Origin Filter into the human body, as well as our last Origin Filters. Goodbye.”

With that, the recording ends and blinks out of existence. You are left alone in the graveyard of the courageous pioneers who have displayed the strength of the indomitable human spirit until their last breaths. Although Dr. Hesione declared Project Prometheus a failure, it still could grow in the right hands.

They did not lie; they have indeed found a viable solution to purify the Black Tide.

And it’s only natural that you honor their sacrifice. With heavy steps and a heart aching for dozens of people you never knew or met, you exit the office and walk down the corridor to search for this Titan Chamber.

Perhaps it’s half an hour or more, you don’t keep track. But you finally stumble across a door that slides open automatically once it senses your presence. It reveals a large, dark space that has you hesitating. However, once you step through lights turn on with resounding clicks!

There, laid against the wall, is a machine that emulates the sheer size and grandeur of the many Titans of Amphoreus.

You descend the stairs, eyes affixed on the road ahead, and arrive at the foot of this stillborn Titan. A skeleton wrapped up in a lab coat is slumped against a wall where the names of the researchers who offered their lives are inscribed. Without needing to check, you know this skeleton is what remains of Dr. Hesione. Turning to her remains, you place a hand over your heart and bow your head in respect. 

“I’m sorry that you all went through this,” you whisper in the silence. “But it’s alright, I will carry all of your burdens until someone better than me can finish your work.”

Even though your words will not reach their ears, you find yourself speaking to the past as someone who stands in their future.

They were pioneers who believed that existence was comprised of problems that could be overcome by finding answers and solutions. Thus, much like all things in the past, they faced the Black Tide and confronted the abyss with the intent of finding the spark that would light up the evernight. They offered their tears, blood, time, and very souls to continue paving the road ahead, but they found that there is no simple solution that can save the world.

Possibilities do not simply exist on paper, nor can the divine erase our problems.

Thus, as the one who stands at the cusp between the "past" and the "future," you must embody their ambition and become the so-called "answer" for humanity.

Although you yourself are also tired and exhausted beyond belief, you climb the stairs leading to the heart of the false Titan, where the surgical pod resides. The leather is cold and unforgiving as you settle in, sterile lights flashing to life when you settle in this seat.

“You will be undergoing surgery for Project Prometheus to implant the Origin Filter into your body,” a pleasant robotic voice chimes close to your ear. “This surgery is entirely automated and has an 87.56% success rate. Do you consent?”

Your breath falters before you nod. “I consent.”

The surgical pod closes, keeping you in this chamber as sleeping gas seeps into this space, easing you into sleep. And for this last slumber before you will ignite your own body to burn away the darkness in the world, you dream.

***

“Cyrene, don’t let go!”

You sprint as fast as you can, hand tightly clasped around Cyrene as you cut through the fields. The modest houses of Aedes Elysiae are toppled and burning, destructive flames spreading even to its golden fields. 

The two of you struggle, out of breath from the exertion, to climb up that hill of flowers and try to find an escape route. But it is not an expanse of Empyros Lilies that greets your eyes, but a river of the Black Tide, depraved and murky.

“No…where are we supposed to go?”

“Watch out!”

Cyrene pushes you down just as a jagged sword swings right where your head was once at. You scramble immediately, yanking Cyrene behind you as you level the boy’s wooden sword in front of you. 

“Stay behind me!” you bark as you grip the hilt with both hands, trembling in the face of this monster. You cannot see his face, but he has the figure of a human and is donned in robes as black as the darkest night. He approaches with a slow gait, and each step he takes forward has you shuffling back in fright.

“Stay back!” you yell at him, swinging this wooden sword wildly, trying to ward off this being with exaggerated movements. But he remains undaunted and continues his slow, predatorial advance. 

“Cyrene, go find him!” you tell her. “The two of you need to get out of here!”

“I’m not leaving you!”

Stuck between a rock and a hard place, you decide to take your chances. You let out as best of an intimidating war cry and charge forward with this wooden sword, if not to at least give Cyrene a chance to escape. 

You don’t even last a second.

The blade is knocked out of your hands, and this being rears back and slams his foot into your gut, sending you hurtling back with a pained wheeze. Cyrene catches you, and you try to surge forward to at least use your body to protect her, but Cyrene hugs your neck and drags you back.

“I’m sorry, but this is the best that we can do, one last gift,” Cyrene whispers. She places a hand over your heart, and you can feel warmth suffusing from her fingers as if she’s imbuing your body with something. “Forgive me?”

And with the strength you didn’t know Cyrene had, you’re yanked away and pushed far from Cyrene and your pursuer. It almost happens in slow motion before your eyes: his jagged stygian blade being raised before skewering Cyrene through the chest. 

Scalding blood splatters over your cheek, but it is not crimson. It’s gold .

“...Cyrene?”

Cyrene smiles at you, even if her lips are coated with her golden ichor. “Go.”

“CYRENE!”

You lunge forward and try to reach her, but her killer swings around, blade poised to bite into your neck and sever. Yet that warmth, the last gift Cyrene imparted to you, becomes sharp to the point of being overwhelmingly burning or frigidly cold. It blooms throughout your body, thrumming through your veins, and surging under your skin until it pushes forth into shimmering fractals.

You are left suspended in this moment, encased in crystalline ice colored in the gradient between pink and blue. The killer’s blade slams against this ice but cannot cut through, and instead launches you and your protection into the current of the Black Tide.

…Cyrene…

And you keep your eyes on her mangled body for as long as possible, desperately wishing to be by her side, until Aedes Elysiae disappears into the distance.

Chapter Text

“Get close together! Children and the injured in the middle! All who are able, defend!”

Helena and Priam bark orders as they form a tightly knit formation. People who can hold all sorts of makeshift weapons, from shovels, pans, and anything that can bludgeon or pierce. Around them are the creatures of the Black Tide.

“We leave no one behind!” Helena barks as she whacks away a creature from touching her. “Stay close together! Do not go off by yourself, or else you’ll die!”

But the fact of the matter is this. They are refugees who have repeatedly starved and struggled with scarce supplies. Though they may put forth a valiant effort now, hunger will and has taken its toll. With no salvation in sight, they will fall and fade into the feeble twilight.

There are not enough Empyros Lily seeds to protect all of these people. Nor is collective mortal strength alone able to guarantee survival from the Black Tide. But…

“If we’re destined to die here!” Priam sounds a war cry. “Then we should greet the long night with a roar!”

There is an ensuing cacophony of sounds, guttural cries of desperation and conviction that resound through the atmosphere. For it is the instinct of humans to struggle and seek to preserve their lives in the very jaws of oblivion. If they are to die, then they will die fighting and having exhausted all other options.

The dark clouds tile the night eternal, and the wails of the monsters and those soon to die linger on. The stygian waves lap against the road, once again trying to drag down the congregation of refugees and consume them. They are a sinking island with not a single inch already filled with the shifting feet of those who desperately wish to live, praying for the end of the night. But just as they are afraid that their prayers will not be answered…

Daybreak arrives.

Light shines forth, spilling upon the abyss like water seeping through fractures. You stand forth at the tip of the mountain, dressed in robes of white: stainless and divine. The ivory flame you hold in your palm stretches outward like wings about to take flight. It heralds the dawn and carries your declaration.

For no matter how many lives are taken, no matter how long the night will be…

“The apocalypse will end with me,” you decree.

A halo of light explodes from your body. It rushes forth like an advance of angels, piercing the hearts of the Black Tide’s creatures and rendering them impotent. Even the ravenous maw of the Black Tide is sewn shut, muzzled by ribbons of light that suppress its voracity. 

As the ivory flame burns, the creatures and the waves of the Black Tide are ground into mist, surging and sinking into your body. But even as the Black Tide and all its horrors pass through your body and into the Origin Filter embedded in you, you know this to be true: The Black Tide is being purified.

The light you radiate underneath the night’s dark canvas is strong but extremely gentle. Even when those eyes have stayed shut or have grown accustomed to wandering in the darkness for so long, they feel no pain when they gaze upon you and greet the dawn.

“Is that…light?”

Without the physical danger of consuming the Black Tide, nor its poison that ravages the body, the refugees become invigorated one by one, gently pushed forward by your hand. 

“You’re healed?”

“The Black Tide’s gone here, too!”

“It’s…a miracle!”

No longer needing to fear the Black Tide’s creatures—no longer needing to fear their corroding touch of the Black Tide—the refugees brim with joy and perseverance. 

“Hey, we need help over here!”

“You got it!”

Together, the refugees push themselves forward, out of the abyss and into the heavens. But you step forward, beginning the death march into hell.

You have become a vessel of hope, shaped by the trembling hands of martyrs and tempered by their blood. You have become an eradicator, wiping out the monsters of the night and subsuming them into your light and body. But you reclaim humanity’s right to life from the stygian river.

Yet…this is just a drop of the cure for a wound the size of the world. Humankind has already paid a hefty price to find a cure that can even begin to heal the rot. Every person who is reborn in this light is cheering. A new morning has arrived, and a clear sky is sure to follow. 

“...It’s all going to plan,” you watch as streams of black mist sink into your body, and you extend your radiance to the refugees.

As the many researchers and scientists have planned, the Black Tide is being funneled into the Origin Filter through your consciousness. And as they expected, the more of the Black Tide you bring into yourself, cracks already begin to accumulate in your mind. 

You have not been controlling the rate you draw in the Black Tide, nor have you wanted to.

Just like every life that has been sacrificed just for this very moment, your life is ephemeral. You will only last for a moment with no time to waste. But if you could at least trade this singular life for the lives of the many, then it would all be worth it.

Thus, you push yourself to the absolute limit.

“Come with me,” you tell these people. You raise your flame high, a beacon in the night, and pave a safe path to Okhema. To burn away the Black Tide’s vile touch, you offer every painful second of your life as kindling to sustain this flame without restraint. 

And as you walk forth, you begin to hear muted cries. Those voices become louder, become more apparent. Then the memories hit you.

Just like how the Black Tide consumes biometric information and the consciousness of its victims, you are slowly fusing with them. Their cries pierce your mind like spikes nailed to your heart. The volume gets louder and louder, almost as if you were right there experiencing what they felt. 

Then, you begin to feel the torment the victims felt before they died.

“Help! It hurts so much! Help! HELP!”

It feels like having a needle skewering your fingertips, or having your skin being peeled methodically with each swing of a bladed pendulum. 

“I’m all alone…Everyone is dead…please just make it stop…”

It is as if a tip of a pen has slit open your eyelids and engraves the lament and final words of the dead into your pupils. 

“You said you were going to protect her! You killed her!”

“What else could I do?! She was infected! She wanted to die!”

Even though you have never heard those exact words yourself, even though you have not heard these voices, it is still familiar nonetheless. Because these tragedies have been echoing throughout Amphoreus every moment.

Why are you experiencing their “deaths” so intimately?

Is it because your consciousness is being ravaged as it draws in the Black Tide to be obliterated by the Origin Filter? Or is it because you have wished to bear the suffering of others?

Even when this answer is no longer clear to you, you do not choose to stop.

“That’s okay…,” you speak softly, your voice barely heard over the anguished cries of the dead. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore…let me take your pain…”

In the brief moment with the present crosses paths with the past<</MEMORY DATA>>, you hold the dead in your arms.

You<</FILE SOLDIER>> hear a deafening explosion before seeing your body shatter into pieces. Blood spills out from your abdomen, and a violent pain floods your senses.

“AAAAAGGHHH!” you<</FILE SOLDIER>> scream in anguish as you dig your fingers in the dirt to drag your mangled body away from death. Death still claims you, dragging you back by the ankles as your eyes involuntarily shut from this feeling of suffocation. But in the darkness, you see a city in ruins.

You<</FILE REFUGEE>> are running through an alley covered in rubble. The exit that would’ve led to your freedom is guarded by several Black Tide creatures.

The moon hangs in the sky, cold and indifferent, mocking your<</FILE REFUGEE>> futile struggles.

“Let me go! Let me go!” you<</FILE REFUGEE>> scream at the top of your lungs as your flesh is flayed from your bones. “I don’t want to die! I need to find my sister!”

Your cry overlaps with the weeping from the “memory data.” 

Six years after leaving, you<</FILE YOUNG DISCIPLE>> have returned home as a deserter after fighting the war against the other Titans and their disciples. The familiar streets are now ruins, and the men and women left behind and ravaged by the war are now corpses and bones. 

“I’m sorry…,” you<</FILE YOUNG DISCIPLE>> mutter sorrowfully. “I’m back…”

You<</FILE YOUNG DISCIPLE>> lay next to the remains of your “family” in tears, letting the Black Tide wash over you and reduce you to nothingness.

You are crucified over the murky waters of the Black Tide. But this is no symbol of holiness as the hands of the dead reach and dig their fingers into your skin, carving out bloody wounds in your flesh so they may sink into you in a twisted attempt to find respite. They howl and scream in anguish as they bury themselves into your body, shredding your sense of self and blending you into the many memories of the dead.

You are the broken skull buried in the avalanche. You are the child stuck under rubble and left for dead. 

You are the hammer that forges weapons of war. You are the very metal tips in a shower of arrows. 

You are the loyal guardian of a farm. You are the reaper of hungry men who come for food. 

You are the nurse who holds a sleeping baby. You are the gravedigger who brings them nightmares. 

You are the one who destroyed a Black Tide creature that attacked your companion. You are the companion who killed the infected you.

You are the one who lit the charcoal in the sealed room with your family. You are the one who fought to the death with 78 other soldiers.

You are the one who holds a baby above the water during the flood. You are the baby held up by a mother, delaying your time to be slaughtered just as every other person.

You<</WE>> are forced into the eternal night of death. Inside your bright, burning flame, you<</WE>> might speak a different language, and you<</WE>> might have a different body, but you<</WE>> cry with the same fury.

You<</WE>> carve on your skin “joy and sorrow.”

You<</WE>> search but fail to find “freedom.”

You<</WE>> hold nothing back when it comes to “giving.”

You<</WE>> abandon the land for a “ship.”

You<</WE>> ignite your soul for a last “farewell.”

You<</WE>> burn before greeting “death.”

We struggle<</DO NOT YIELD>>, we hate<</WILL NOT YIELD>>, and we regret<</CANNOT YIELD>>.

All those emotions and deaths converge into your body, turning into an elegy comprised of lives. If it is possible to protect that small spark from the darkness…you<</WE>> are willing to give everything for the world that brought us life. 

Traversing through countless deaths, you<</WE>> find your body and mind broken beyond recognition. You still walk and lead those human figures to a glowing city of safety, but you<</WE>> can no longer distinguish their faces, their voices, nor reality from the nightmares of the deceased. 

How long has it been? You<</WE>> no longer have any concept of time. It feels like it has only been a moment or maybe a hundred years. 

Have all these people been cured from the Black Tide’s touch?

Have they been led successfully to Okhema?

Is this duty almost fulfilled?

Walking alone, you<</WE>> cannot see the hourglass that measures the countdown of your life. You<</WE>> can only push forward, using your broken body to absorb more and more of the Black Tide. 

You<</WE>> just need to hold on a little longer.

If you<</WE>> can help one more person than expected, then there will be a little less regret before the end. With that thought in mind, you<</WE>> walk to the finish line, one step at a time. Difficult as it may be, it is time to go. 

“NO! STOP IT!”

A cry pierces through the mournful wails, and you<</WE>> feel a hand tugging at your body. It is a voice that feels familiar, but you<</WE>> cannot recognize it.

“You have to stop! You’re killing yourself! Look at me! Come back!”

“...”

“None of us wants to lose any more people! Please!”

“...”

Drawn to the unrelenting shout, you try your best to focus, turning toward where the voice came from. Because of that, your muddled consciousness finally gets a chance to breathe, breaking from the surface of hell. In the next moment, the distorted memories of the dead that tormented you part like the sea, revealing a blurred sky with twelve constellations shining through the haze. 

“This is…,” you look up exhaustively. You can barely make out the constellations, much less their general shape. But there are several ruins in suspension in this space, houses and buildings from a village so achingly familiar, but something you still cannot put a finger on. 

"Now, this is a hypothesis that I have not confirmed, but when absorbing the Black Tide, they may see the biometric data bank in its entirety," Dr. Hesione recites in the darkness.

“Is this…what all the data of the Black Tide looks like?” you exhale weakly. 

“Metaphorically speaking—when presented with something beyond comprehension, humans won’t be able to perceive its true form, like how three-dimensional beings cannot understand four-or-more-dimensional beings.”

The words are spoken in the cadence and sound of Dr. Hesione’s voice, and you tilt your head as that voice continues to drone on. “Now, all you can do is interpret what you can from what you cannot. People who connect with the deeper levels of the Black Tide for the first time will usually find data that belongs to them. Consider it a visit to the fortune-teller.”

“...Why am I hearing this?” you speak softly.

Several voices reverb together into a discordant cacophony of warbling cries. “If<</BECAUSE>> you<</I>> desire<</WANT>> answers<</TO>><</KNOW>><</SECRETS>>.”

Perhaps they’re answering, or perhaps they’re repeating a conversation that already happened. However, you feel incredibly serene. As if time had stood still, you no longer feel any pain as long as you stay here.

“It’s like…”

Death.

…How about you just stay here?

“I think I’ve fulfilled my duty.”

…Then stay here.

When you close your eyes, you hear the heartrending cries that beg you to stay once more.

“DON’T GO!”

“No?” you mutter, voice so fragile and shallow. Having experienced tens and thousands of deaths, it is not inappropriate to say that you have been shattered beyond repair. Even so, you cannot let the heartbreaking voices go. 

“Can I…hold on for a little longer…?”

You consider it, but are incapable of choosing from these unknowns. However, as if answering your question, the night sky splits into two, becoming two pathways that lead somewhere in the distance. A road leads to the left with a sign that says “LIFE” appearing out of nowhere. Another road leads to the right, marked by a sign that says “DEATH.”

“Is this where I make my choice?” you pose the question. “Or are you letting me see the outcome of these decisions?”

For a brief moment, you hear the voice of Dr. Hesione echo in the silence. “I hope you will not regret this decision.”

Chapter Text

【TO LIFE】

“We did it! We got here! Everyone’s safe!”

“Please wake up! Why did you do something so damn dangerous?!”

“Let them rest…After this…there’s nothing left to fight.”

“How can you be so cruel?!”

“Cruel? Who’s cruel here? There’s nothing left in this world for them, isn’t there? How much longer do you want them to suffer the migraines from the Origin Filter and the death mirages?”

“...Perhaps…maybe we should be glad that they’re human and can welcome death.”

The sound of crying slowly dissipates as you walk away from the people. Their tears and their weeping flow and billow around your form like long trains of exquisite silk, and you keep your eyes upon the road ahead.

You don’t know how long you’ve walked, but when you reach the end of the world, what greets you is a sea of flowers. 

You touch the wounds upon your body, only to find that they turn into luscious roses whose red petals scatter into the wind. 

“Hey…!”

Hearing a familiar voice, you turn around and look. Even with a broken body and a barely pieced-together mind, you recognize Priam and Helena. There are wounds all over their bodies as well, and their smiles are sad but happy to see you.

“How come you’re also…,” Priam trails off before he shakes his head. With a wry smile, he shakes his head and nudges Helena along. Helena sighs exasperatedly, and her lips curl into a small rare smile.

“Come on,” Helena beckons you, offering a hand for you to take. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

You look down at her hand. “Everyone…?”

Helena sighs fondly. She motions out to the edge of the field, and you see them. The multitudes of people that you’ve once known call out your name, waving and beckoning you to come join them.

And at that sight, all the walls you put up around you crumble into nothingness. 

What is this place? Are they momentary mirages? Or are they the consciousness and impressions that remain after death?

It does not matter. The companions that you’ve missed so dearly are now with you. 

“...Have you been waiting here for long?” you ask quietly. 

Priam nods, still smiling, and you find that the pain in your body has been slowly melting away. Helena steps forward, hands smoothing over your shoulders as she looks over the wounds that mar your body. “What happened to you? There’s so many injuries on you.”

“...I don’t exactly remember.”

Helena sighs. “You probably went to protect another person, didn’t you?”

You shrug, helpless and exhausted. Helena raps her knuckles lightly against your head. “You always do that, putting yourself in harm’s way.”

She inspects your wounds, and incredibly, you don’t feel pain anymore. 

“You’ve suffered all this time…,” Priam sighs. “I’m sorry we weren’t there for you.”

All this time? 

“Right,” Helena nods. “The migraines from the Origin Filter that you embedded in your body never stopped. It’s as painful as arthritis or bone fractures, but it’s localized in your head. Plus, the mirages from the death…it must have been tormenting to live.”

“...Death mirages?”

There is a flicker of something that glitches at the edge of your sight. A flash of pain and a cacophony of despairing screams and anguished cries as you were crucified over the suffering masses.

“You were suffering a lot,” Helena explains. “We tried everything we could, even putting you on a daily regimen of Empyros Lily seed painkillers, but it was only a temporary measure. Even after we passed away, some people took care of you, but… over time, with so many people passing away, you were eventually forgotten and…”

“It’s alright…,” you shake your head. 

“Too bad I couldn’t make them feel the same pain you were going through,” Helena curses.

“Feel what…?”

Helena pauses before she procures an Empyros Lily and hands it to you. You stare at the flower, admiring the iridescent petals before you take it from her fingers. Taking the flower, you find your memories flooding in. Standing in the “present”, you can see what your future<</MEMORY>> holds. 

You remember how this will happen.

Memories, as well as the pain and the crimson illusions, return to your body. You remember departing from Astraeus, the Stargazers’ Abode, to deliver the refugees from the jaws of the Black Tide. Despite all odds, you had survived the battle and managed to bring the people to Okhema.

But it was merely survival.

You could hear Helena and Priam argue as you went in and out of consciousness after they arrived at Okhema. 

“Even if you let them live, they’ll be suffering migraines and death mirages all their life!” Helena hisses.

“At least let them wake up so we can hear their choice!” Priam shoots back. 

What happened after that? You seemed to have had a long and wonderful dream afterward. In that dream, you were amongst all the people in a world where there was no suffering. But even dreams end. And when you awoke from the immense pain, you were reduced to nothing but a…

Burden.

You became the very critically injured patient that you fought so hard to treat. Even as you didn’t use the Origin Filter in your body to help heal the scars of the world, you were tormented with migraines and the memories of the deceased. The afterimages were too much to bear. You couldn’t be a healer, and you couldn’t be a voyager looking for new refugees and supplies. 

Years passed by, and Phoebe grew up. She learned about her mother’s wish after talking to you and taking care of you, and she became a remarkable healer, working hard to heal the wounded. And as all of you headed toward that uncertain future, you met new people and lost old friends. But there were always obstacles ahead, always another fight to face. 

People searched desperately for a miracle to save Amphoreus. But they failed, and the calamity of the Black Tide continued to surge. You brought forth a key that would purify and burn away the Black Tide, but yours was broken from the time you brought all the refugees to Okhema. 

There were journeys and missions made to Astraeus to uncover and replicate Project Prometheus, but there was never a person who returned. The salvation brought forth by the blood and efforts of a select few was left to rot.

Eventually…Helena left first into that endless night. After that, Priam sacrificed himself, bringing down a tunnel to buy time for a group of refugees to evacuate safely. And then the next. And the next. And the next. And the next.

The scars on all of your bodies connected and deepened into trenches, building safe passages amidst the rain. Their souls were the fuel to the fire that would guide the lost out of the abyss. And finally, at the very cusp between the night and daybreak, you fell as well.

“Do you want to meet the others?” Helena brings you out of your reminiscing.

You don’t even have to think twice. “Yes.”

“Let’s go,” Priam smiles at you. “They’re on the other side of the flowers.”

Standing by each other, you all begin a new journey<</FANTASY>>. 

And that resplendent visage of flowers glitches before being torn away to reveal the hazy night. What was it? A fantasy before death? A gathering of wishes from the deceased? No one knows what this dream built by the Black Tide is made of. But this heartwarming scene foretells a future where the endless night takes your companions one after the other.

After everyone had left, you were racked with migraines. You had no journey and were left to lie upon a bed, waiting desperately for good news and wishing fervently that your useless body could at least help someone. 

“...” you peel your eyes away from the sign emblazoned with the word ‘LIFE’. 

…This is surely not the past you were hoping for.

“But I felt warm,” you smile brokenly.

Is this your decision?

“I still have to see the other path,” you say, and cast your gaze upon the second sign.

【 TO DEATH 】

By the time the globe that the great Kephale held dimmed its light to imitate some sort of day-night cycle, the mourning crowd had already departed. 

Your name is marked alongside many others on a makeshift memorial, etched on stone and standing solemnly for new and old refugees to hear your story. Just like yours, the many names carved for eternity tell of lives and bodies that were given to mend the rifts caused by the Black Tide, paving a road for humanity’s future.

The brightest daybreak will eventually fade into feeble dusk, and the river of time will relentlessly ebb and flow into a new night.

The history of this world goes between light and darkness. It has been this way, and it will always be this way.

Underneath Kephale’s dim light, all but two remain before this memorial. They stare at your name and share neither words nor tears. But if it weren’t for the fact that they shouldered the weight of leading the refugees, then perhaps they would’ve stared there at that memorial until noon and beyond.

But heartbroken as they are, they will still visit tomorrow, even though every new day will bring another conflict that will not leave them time to grieve.

You will lie in the eternal night with countless others, dreaming about what could be as what once was. Here ends your journey. From then on, it will be another’s story that will take your place.

“...”

Becoming a name on a memorial. Building a future with your past. History will never change dramatically with one person, but everyone can come together to at least lay the foundation for the future. If the future is still filled with difficulties, perhaps it's easiest for you to depart at your most glorious moment, no longer having to face suffering and pain.

“But…,” you exhale, standing unseen and watching as people visit and leave this memorial. 

But your heart still worries for these people.

The Black Tide responds to this worry and extends this illusion even further.

A few days later, you see a familiar figure. It’s Helena. Helena places down a singular Empyros Lily in front of the memorial before sitting down. At this late hour, the place is empty, with many deciding to turn in for the night. 

You take in her haggard appearance and sigh. “You look more like a wanderer than a leader or a healer now. Is this how you are sometimes? Helena…you should take care of yourself more.”

But Helena cannot hear the “past” calling for her. She just sits there talking to herself.

“I looked into it,” Helena starts. “Project Prometheus. It took a bit of time, but I managed to find it since you were begging for me to find it with your last breath…”

Helena dims, a sigh expressing the depth of her exhaustion and her grief. “But the more I think about it, the angrier I get. Why would you do something so foolish as to use an unfinished project to save us? But what makes me angrier is that I can’t think of a better way.”

Helena’s fingers curl into fists. “If Project Prometheus had been completed, would you have lived? But it wasn’t completed, and who knows how long it would’ve taken to finish it in the first place. Would you have lived if you had waited?”

She answers her own question. “But if you had done that, then none of us would have lived. None of us would be here. We were all too injured and exhausted to get through the Black Tide, and in the end, you guided us to Okhema and saved everyone.”

“If…,” Helena bites her lip. Her voice trembles with unshed tears, and she bows her head as if to hide her tears and her vulnerability. “If I could go back in time, what could I have done to protect you? But the more I think about it, the more I’m sure that I can’t save your life without trading countless others. And…you would’ve never wanted to see that.”

Helena tilts her head back as if to tip her tears back into her eyes. “Do you know that Priam…”

She stops. And she doesn’t continue.

Days later, after Helena has left, Priam also comes to the memorial.

“Hey…”

Just like Helena, his appearance is haggard and worn out. He greets your name before falling into a long silence as if all that he needs to say is being conveyed wordlessly. He only moves after a long moment, frowning at the floor. 

“I’m here to say goodbye,” he says. And you finally notice the way there’s a mechanical split on his chest, another Origin Filter implanted into another person. 

He goes quiet again, considering what to do or say. But in the end, he leaves without another word, and there’s nothing you can do to stop him.

Priam never returns.

Time passes day after day. This temporal flow is measured by marks and scars that are left on Helena’s body every time she visits. Though you cannot see further, tethered as you are to the memorial, you begin to hear whispers.

Whispers of the Black Tide consuming more and more of Amphoreus and its people: Of more land and cities lost to the apocalypse until the surface is nothing more than an ocean of encroaching death and agony. And then…Priam’s name is etched on the memorial next to yours.

Then Helena’s name joins yours as well.

Some years later, an unrecognizable girl stands before the memorial. 

“Hello,” she greets your name. “Do you remember me? I’m Phoebe. You saved me when I was a baby.”

She falls into silence, as if she were waiting for an answer from your name. But she lets her words sink into the atmosphere before she continues. “Auntie Lamia told me that my parents thought I’d be a genius. That’s why they risked their lives delivering me to you.”

“...No,” you shake your head. “...That’s wrong. All they wanted was for you to be happy…They wanted to give you the choice to choose your future.”

But once again, your words cannot reach Phoebe<</FUTURE>>. 

“But what have I achieved?” Phoebe sighs. “I’m just a healer who can’t do anything well. All of you would have been so disappointed if you were here.”

“Of course not…,” you shake your head. Even though you know these words will be left unheard, you still give them voice, nonetheless. “This is not what they wanted.”

“What were my parents like?” Phoebe asks. “Why did they bring me to this world? Tell me, please…”

“...”

You understand that Phoebe has lost everyone she held dear in this eternal night. She no longer has anyone to talk to. The young girl talks to your name until her words turn into tears that water the earth. And then she, too, departs into oblivion, a new name etched into the stone as they all encircle your name.

You cast your gaze up and watch as this world marches toward its inevitable end.

The first messenger that shattered herself into a thousand stars is snuffed out one by one before leaving the celestial atlas empty.

The queen piece is burdened by the weight of her edicts and binds herself from the ability to usher in salvation.

The seaborne violinist washes away the infection with the ocean, only to sink into its depths and disappear under its pressure.

The earthen sculptor molds life anew, but is powerless to prevent his beloved creations from crumbling away like fragile sandcastles.

The resplendent dress-maker and weaver of gold is ripped apart by the seams until her ichor salts the earth.

The fleet-footed trickster outrunning the cruel truth has her life, worth more than her weight in gold, stolen in a twist of irony.

The blasphemous sage who thrives and challenges the edicts of the divine achieves enlightenment upon his final breath.

The solemn ferryman’s promise of peaceful sleep is corrupted until an eternity of suffering and unending agony awaits the dead instead.

The immortal warrior’s body is cut up and pierced, rendering his blessing of invincibility into a curse, suffering and suffering until his spirit is ground to dust.

The painter of the sky finds the end of the rainbow's arc and is rewarded with suffering that extends to the four corners of the horizon.

The flawless sun, foretold to nurture and warm the earth, is eclipsed and leaves the world scorched and tarnished. 

And from their remains lies a fate crueler than oblivion: reliving the agony and suffering of their cruel and twisted lives. And from then on, they shall continue to rise and fall to their wicked fates in an eternal cycle that stretches until time immemorial.

Is this the future you’ve been looking forward to?

“No…”

It is easier to rest eternally in death than to bear all those sufferings and pain.

“But I find it colorless and cold…”

Everything falls silent, and you look up in this space woven by the Black Tide and placed in the limbo between consciousness and death. To choose life would mean to suffer and be impotent and useless. You would not be able to help anyone anymore. But to choose death means that all that you’ve loved will topple one by one until nothingness remains.

Both of the choices laid out before you are equally unacceptable. But you cannot see the possibility of a third choice. To live or to die. What else can you do?

Frozen with the inability to choose either, you simply stay there and gaze listlessly upon the blurry constellations that shine down upon you. With each second that passes by, you can feel yourself slowly sink back into the vortex of the deceased and their laments.

But in the distance, a figure approaches you.

The same eclipsed sun that you saw at the end of the world looks at you, wading through the murky currents of the Black Tide before looming over your form. 

“Ah…,” his raspy voice reverberates through the silence as he sees your broken body. The two of you gaze at each other in silence before you break the silence.

“Are you…,” your voice trembles. “Are you here to kill me?”

He freezes at your question before he kneels. With uncharacteristic gentleness, he scoops your body into his arms and pulls you from the immediate embrace of the Black Tide. Weak as you are, you cannot muster the strength to resist. 

Your head lolls until it rests against the breastplate of tarnished gold, and you are swaddled in cloth as black as the deepest dark.

“Will you stay with me until I go?” you ask hoarsely.

He doesn’t answer, but the fingers that cradle your fragmented frame tighten just a little bit. 

“DON’T GO! PLEASE!”

“We don’t want any more people to die!”

The heartrending cries, already so distant, sound even fainter. But you have no strength to answer their calls, withering away as you are.

“Will you not go to them?” the eclipsed sun asks you quietly.

“I don't know,” you whisper. “…I can’t do anything anymore.”

He watches you in silence before he rises, carrying you with him. You don’t ask him what he’s going to do, and your eyes flutter shut, breath slowing down. Thus, you let him take you wherever he plans to go. One last journey before you greet the abyss.

Chapter Text

“Don’t fall asleep.”

His voice rasps and reverberates with a low timbre, sinking into your consciousness and imbuing just a little bit of strength to resist going gently into that night. But it’s hard to resist the temptation to close your eyes and drift off.

You press your forehead against his breastplate, breathing deep and measured as you strain to keep yourself awake.

The coldness of his armor and the gauntlets over his fingers help keep you tethered in the waking world.

“Where…?” you whisper weakly. “Are we going…?”

The eclipsed sun looks down upon you, and you see the gentle corona that peeks out around the darkness. His gaze is sad as he gazes upon you, an ivory flame at the brink of being extinguished.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he repeats. You don’t, and you lie bonelessly in his embrace as he wades through the Black Tide. But you are not the same as him; you are still human. And the Black Tide will never cease to seek out human consciousness as long as it exists.

It starts with the low moans of pain and suffering. Then they climb in volume and pitch until they are warped into shrieks and demands of anguish, the souls of the dead begging for salvation to be freed and purified from the Black Tide.

“Silence!” the eclipsed sun demands. At his command, the Black Tide falls silent, but just for a moment. It is not some trained or domesticated dog, but a rabid, voracious monster that will stop at nothing to consume as it desires. 

It warbles and wails, and tendrils of the Black Tide lash out, seeking to snatch your body away from the grasp of the eclipsed sun. In a flicker of ghostly pale flames, the eclipsed sun conjures a blade forged of glossy stygian crystals and a hand guard of a sun ripped in twain.

He slashes through the Black Tide’s advances with prejudice, flickers of violet energy cutting through the murky sludge. 

Strong as he may be, he is but one person amid the Black Tide. No matter how valiantly he wards off its greed, there is just too much for him to handle alone.

You gather what remains in you, condensing it into a white candle flame that will extinguish with the slightest breeze. But you’ll make it enough. 

You press it against the eclipsed sun’s chest, letting that flame disappear into his body. His breath hitches, looking down at you in surprise, but his form is imbued with a white haze. Curiously enough, it burns away the black of his clothing, letting it brighten into purest day. 

But this sun will always be eclipsed and torn in two. Dull blue eyes look down at you with shock, and his white hair is so stark against the night. You’re not sure why he’s so familiar, and you’re too tired to try and figure out why he is. 

“It’s alright,” you tell him. “I think…it’s time for me to go.”

The Black Tide shrieks as it tries to climb up the body of the eclipsed sun, but it is repelled by this purifying blaze that you have imbued him with. 

“Why?”

You offer a tired smile. “If I can help at least one more person before the end, then it’ll all be worth it.”

You can feel yourself sinking into that night. But the Black Tide will not claim you, as you are the inheritor of Project Prometheus. But you’re left to wonder. After being thoroughly torn apart and dissolved, what will happen to your body? Blended with countless lives that have been lost to the Black Tide, will it continue to walk the lands of Amphoreus, taking the Black Tide into the Origin Filter long after you’re gone? Or will it rot around the Origin Filter and collapse in the twilight?

You’re not sure…and the worry is beyond you now.

But if there’s one last wish in your heart. You want to see her just this once. To properly greet her and bid farewell. To give voice to words left unsaid and affirm a love so pure and eternal. You want to say goodbye properly before your final breath. As such, your lips part as your weak and shaky voice gives song to lyrics you have held beloved.

"~Oh my Cle...matis...hope bloo-med from the-...abyss...~"

Perhaps it’s a delusion on the very edge of your death. But you swear you can hear a breeze so achingly familiar. A breeze that carded through that hill in paradise, weaving through a field of Empyros Lilies, and billowing through you and her.

“~Oh my Clematis, always stay by my side~"

Her soft voice flits by your ear, and you stop breathing for just that moment. You crane your body as far as it can go and strain your dim vision, catching glimpses of pastel pink gracing your world.

“I never expected anyone to come this far. So, how about I greet you properly?” she smiles. “Hi~ how are you?”

“Cy…rene?”

You reach out, arm so weak but just as yearning. And she meets you halfway, wrapping your outstretched hand with the warmth of both of hers.

“Of course, it’s me,” Cyrene giggles. “Who else would it be, silly?”

Your breath hitches, throat and eyes burning as you soak in her visage, whole and healthy. You try to stifle it, pressing your curling lips together, but a heartrending whine buzzes high at the back of your throat. It becomes too much before you make a sound, meshed between a gasp and a sob. “Cyrene? Cyrene. Cyrene. Cyrene.”

“Mou~,” she sighs, pulling you into her embrace. “This is supposed to be a romantic reunion; you’re supposed to be smiling.”

Her words elicit a surprised cough and a laugh on your part as you sink into her hold. “I’m sorry…”

“No more apologies,” Cyrene shakes her head, squeezing this hug just once before she pulls back and beams at you. 

Baptised in her light, you feel some semblance of strength and coherence return to your body. Even if you feel fragile and seconds away from shattering into nothing, you feel a little bit more normal, a little more settled into your body.

“You…”

The two of you look back at the eclipsed sun. His grip on his blade is tight, posture wound and tense. But when he sees the glow of life slowly invigorating your body, he stops abruptly. Seeing the two of you whole and bathed in the light of paradise, a raw yearning and grief is born on his expression. He reaches out, almost afraid as if this sight before him will shatter with a single touch. Seeing this, you reach out as well, offering a hand for him to take.

But he doesn't take it. A self-deprecating smile stretches on his lips as he draws his hand back. "No, I shouldn't."

"Why not?" you ask him. "If you come with us..."

"It's too late for me," he shakes his head. "There's still something I must do...and going with you may ruin this paradise.

With that, he turns on his heel, intent on journeying back into the abyss.

“Wait!” you call out after him. He pauses, head raised and tilted as he listens to you. “What’s your name?”

He doesn’t respond and only walks further into the darkness, leaving your question unanswered.

“Hmmm,” Cyrene hums. “I knew it would bear heavily on him after all this...but I didn't expect it to be to this extent.”

You watch his figure until he disappears. Somehow, you know deep inside you're supposed to know that face, but the pain and suffering of the death mirages from earlier hampers your ability to recall any names or identities. “Do you know what happened, Cyrene?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Cyrene replies quietly. She squeezes your hand and smiles at you. “Come with me?”

“Okay,” you reluctantly peel your gaze away from the darkness and welcome her light. “Where do you want to go?”

Cyrene giggles and pulls you up with her. In an instant, the Black Tide is banished as the unblemished petals of a thousand Empyros Lilies chase away the darkness. And you’re back home, back at Aedes Elysiae.

“We’re back home,” you breathe in this almost forgotten scent of home. You let this breeze you missed so dearly caress your skin and weave into your hair. 

“Mhm!” Cyrene nods. “Every hero of their story needs to return home eventually, don’t you think?”

“Yeah…it’s good to be back.”

Cyrene watches your expression morph into one of contentment and peace. She tugs you along, as the petals herald the entourage that welcomes you home.

“...How?” you ask quietly. Because even if the visage of this paradise beckons to wrap you in its embrace, you still carry the memories of crimson illusions and the pain of sacrifice. 

“Mou~, you can’t just believe it’s a miracle and leave it at that?” Cyrene pouts at you.

“That’s not what I meant,” you laugh at her antics, but your amusement tapers off.

Cyrene’s smile dims, but it’s no less happy and genuine. “Well, to tell you the truth, it’s because a being from beyond the sky has noticed you.”

“...A being from beyond the sky has noticed me?” you blink in confusion. 

“Yes,” she nods in affirmation. “Weaving the cries of the suffering selflessly into your own body, and carrying the anthems of countless others who gave their lives to forge a miracle. Many things could’ve happened, but when you chose to carry the flame of those before you, you became brighter than any star and caught their notice.”

“Then…”

Does this mean that the Cyrene before you is just a mere illusion? 

“But simply noticing you wouldn’t be enough to create this miracle,” Cyrene motions out to this visage of Aedes Elysiae. “This true miracle happened…because you missed me so much! Am I right?”

You blink before the laugh bubbles from your throat and spills over. “Always. I really, really wanted to see you again.”

Even if this is an illusion, even if it is all fake. As long as you choose to believe in it, then what else matters? If you believe in it hard enough, it will become your truth.

“Mou~!” Cyrene whines. “Why is it that you being honest always catches me off guard?”

Your smile stretches so much that it almost begins to hurt. “Did you miss me too?”

“Of course!” Cyrene nods. “Who wouldn’t miss someone like you?”

The two of you giggle in unison before Cyrene takes you on a journey. “Come on, there are so many people waiting for you.”

You stare at her outstretched hand for a moment, still unable to completely process and believe that Cyrene is in front of you. But you still take her hand nonetheless, and Cyrene giggles as she intertwines your fingers together. The pure white petals scatter into the wind as the two of you bound down this sacred hill. What greets you is not the village of Aedes Elysiae in its entirety, nor are its smoldering ruins there either.

Instead, there is a lone house that sits in this golden field, large and warm enough to house as many people as it needs to. You hear a squeal of mirth and panic and cast your gaze upward to watch a winged figure desperately flap his wings to maintain his flight. It's a boy...and he looks and sounds so much like-

"Astyanax! Be careful!" Io's voice calls out.

"I'm trying! I'm trying!" Astyanax laughs, carefree and bright. He flaps his wings once more and twice before spiraling out of control. However, no matter how hard his wings flutter, he crashes against the dirt with a yelp. Fortunately, he pops up a second later, giggling in innocent mirth as he flicks his wings to dust off the soil. "I'll probably get it next time."

"...Astyanax...Io...?"

They turn at the sound of your voice, surprise flickering in their expressions. But it quickly dissipates as Astyanax beams and pushes himself up to bound over. "You're here!"

"I uh...," you don't know what to say in the face of his joy, and barely catch him as he crashes into you for a hug. You can't help but think back to when you promised him you would return for him at Ladon...and how that promise was broken, and you only came back to his cold and broken body. "Astyanax...I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Astyanax shakes his head, bright even as his smile grows somber. "I didn't expect someone to save me, but I saw that you read my last message and took Hector with you. That alone makes me happy."

"Oh, Astyanax..."

"C'mon," Astyanax tugs your hand. "You've gotta meet the others too!"

You take a hesitant glance back at Cyrene, who simply smiles at you, taking your other hand. With that reassurance, you let Astyanax drag the two of you over to Io, who waits patiently at the house's patio. Astyanax lets go of your hand just as you step forward to reach out to her. "Io..."

"Hello," Io greets warmly. "We meet again."

You swallow your words and nod. "Phoebe...Phoebe is being taken care of by Lamia, and I'll make sure to pitch in..."

"It's okay," Io shakes her head. "I already know. Again, thank you, truly, for taking care of her."

You don't know what to say in the face of their gratitude, and can only nod in silence. Io steps back and opens the door, beckoning all of you to enter. What greets you is not the interior of a house, but a grand open-air theater with a piano placed in the center. A figure waits patiently, hand gliding across the instrument's smooth and glossy body, and head bowed in contemplation. With hair gently rolling down her back and dressed in an elegant mermaid dress, your breath catches in your throat when you realize who it is.

"Iris?"

Iris, jolts before she looks up with a dazzling smile. She tucks her hair behind her ear and curtsies in your direction. "It's been some time, hasn't it?"

You still can't help but remember how horrific and gruesome her death was. Yet again, you are hit with this strange sense of juxtaposition, seeing Iris whole and healthy before you.

“How is it?” Iris asks, giving a small twirl to let her mermaid dress flare out elegantly and momentarily.

“You look beautiful,” you tell her honestly. And your honesty has her blushing, shyly fixing her hair.

“Mou~,” Cyrene playfully swats your arm. “I never thought of you as a Casanova. Do you give out compliments like this so easily?”

“Of course not,” you laugh, falling back to an easy flirty rhythm with Cyrene that you missed so dearly. “I only say that to beautiful people like yourself.”

“Mou~!”

Iris covers her giggles daintily with a hand as Cyrene pouts at you dramatically. You feel joy fill your heart like a cup being gently overfilled, because never in your wildest dreams would you have imagined such a joyful reunion.

“Now, now,” Iris clears her throat and offers her hand, just like the time she guided you to dance with her in Ladon. “Would you please step up?”

“What is it now?” you ask in amusement, taking her hand and stepping onto the stage, with Cyrene just a step behind. “Another dance?”

“A performance, yes,” Iris nods. “But well, this won’t be like any performance.”

“This will be the most dazzling banquet,” Cyrene pipes in. “The only sort of banquet that our beautiful lead role will have tonight, to crown your journey on a cosmic path.”

“Lady Cyrene is right,” Iris nods in agreement. “And of course, any banquet like this can’t be a proper one without a good invitation list.”

Iris waves her hands out, and you look as several people begin to file in. You haven’t met a majority of these people personally, but somehow, deep in your bones, you know that these people are souls that were freed from the torturous grip of the Black Tide. And there are others that you have held dear and watched go: Theo, Katherine, Ianthe, Hippocrates, and many, many others.

All of them smile upon you, their voices rising into a clamor of well-wishes and blessings upon your form. In any ordinary circumstance, you would not be able to distinguish these words from each other, but somehow you can.

“To our kind doctor, may you fly high in the sky and go wherever you want to go,” Astyanax wishes with all of his heart.

“May you be surrounded by many loved ones even through the darkest of nights,” Io prays earnestly.

“May you be blessed with many beautiful songs,” Iris seats herself at the piano. “And be with many people who shall sing your songs with you.”

To the one who grieves us. To the one who spared no effort in taking care of us. To our hearth who warmed us in the darkest of nights.

“And to our Flame Bearer who will carry all of our stories forward,” Cyrene finishes. “Thank you.”

Cyrene smiles as she offers a hand. “To our leading role, who will take the spotlight today, are you ready?”

You stare down at her hand before you nod, placing your hand in her grasp. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

The music begins to play at this final banquet. The many people whose hearts you have touched raise their voices to sing in unison, and they come together into a harmonious song that resonates through your very being.

You let Cyrene guide you through this dance, steps delicate as you spin amongst the multitude of the saved.

“Cyrene…,” you ask quietly. “Are you…just a reflection in my heart? Is this all a dream?”

Cyrene blinks as she twirls you around before bringing you back close for this partnered dance. “Why do you ask that?”

“Because…,” you say, each syllable choked up with this desire to just be reunited with everyone. Here and in the waking world. “Because… Because… ”

But nothing gold can stay. And perhaps it’s best that way. So that all these precious people and their memories won’t be marred by the apocalypse.

And looking at Cyrene, who waits and smiles patiently at you. How could you be so selfish to hold onto that smile even amidst all the suffering?

“No…,” you feel the tears that run down over your cheeks. “I don’t…I can’t—”

“It’s alright,” Cyrene carries the conversation where your voice cannot. “As long as you remember us, our story will live on. After all, the present you and your friends are a part of us, and we’re all a part of you. So how can we ever disappear?”

Cyrene glows as she seems to grow and grow. Her hair grows longer, pink waves spreading as far as the ocean’s span to the horizon. Her clothes gleam with a stainless and pure white that seems to spread and imbue the entire world with wonder. “Thank you for finding me. Thank you for loving me. And thank you for bringing me this true miracle.”

She reaches up, cupping your cheeks before she leans in and kisses your brow. “Well then, shall we?”

The sky stretching above you shatters into a million puzzle pieces, and THEY gaze down upon you. A thousand faces look upon your form, joining the countless people who push you upward. 

“Cyrene…”

“It’s alright,” she assures you, squeezing your hand. “I’ll always be right here with you.”

THEY see your story, a tale that begins with love, continues with love despite all tragedy, and will one day surely end with love. THEY smile down upon you in approval, gathering the songs of the many: anthems of perseverance, ballads of romance, elegies of grief, and everything in between. Expertly with the astral essence interwoven through THEIR fingers, THEY weave the many into a harmonious one whose chord trembles the very universe itself. And THEY do not recreate this song, but simply imbue their great and unimaginable power into the strings until it crystallizes into something so opulent and beautiful like the night sky.

THEY offer you that chord, a conductor’s baton crafted from iridescent stardust and imbued with a power beyond your wildest imagination. But even from a distance, you can feel its heat warding you off from grasping this baton lest you burn your hands. But the hands of the many who you loved and have loved you in return carry this crystalline baton to you, imbuing each of their well-wishes and hopes into it, tempering its heat into something manageable. And then, Cyrene hands it to you.

“Cyrene…”

“Now, now, this is a happy moment!” Cyrene giggles. “Why don’t you give me a smile?”

You look down at this baton, burning with the heat and radiance of a million stars, but warm and gentle in your hands, tempered by the prayers and wishes of humanity. You cradle this precious thing into your chest and give Cyrene the best smile you can: not a radiant beam, but a gentle upturn of lips that imbue your eyes with a soft and gentle glow.

“There you go,” Cyrene returns that smile. “That’s the smile that I know and love.” 

She takes your hand and pulls you up to the surface, supported by the many who push you up as well: Iris, Io, Astyanax, Theo, Katherine, Ianthe, Hippocrates, everyone.

Go, Flame Bearer, and don’t look back.

Imbued with an infinite strength that steals your breath and warms your heart until it feels like it will burst, you kick up to reach the surface.

***

“Protect them!” Priam screams as he swings his makeshift weapon and slams a creature of the Black Tide away. Helena is poised over your body, hands desperately cradling your neck and giving your head elevation. But no matter what she does, your eyes cry tears of the Black Tide, and the blood spilling from your mouth is stygian black. 

But you’re still breathing, albeit weakly. Your heart still beats in your chest even when you do not wake. And that is the hope that Helena is desperately holding onto.

“Helena,” Patroclus pushes an Empyros Lily Seed into her hand. “Will they—?”

“There’s so much of the Black Tide in them,” Helena shakes her head. “But we have to try.”

She crushes the Empyros Lily seed as much as she can in her hand before she pushes its remains into your mouth. Then, procuring a flask, she uses the remaining water to carry its remains into your body. But as severely infected by the Black Tide, to the point that your tears are black, will it ever be enough?

There’s a blood-curdling scream as another is wounded critically by the Black Tide’s creatures. 

In the absence of your light, the Black Tide is reinvigorated in its voracity and desire to consume all these people. 

“We’re almost there to Okhema,” Helena heaves as she carries your unresponsive body. “We just need to reach it. We just need to get there!”

But is merely arriving at sanctuary enough for those desperately fighting back against the Black Tide’s horrors? Reaching the doorway will not erase the suffering, wounds, and scars that are carved into the bodies of the many. 

“We just need to get there,” Helena repeats to herself. It’s a foolish delusion that as long as she believes in these words, a miracle will happen. 

At first, she believes that it’s a trick of the light, but the Origin Filter core in your chest begins to glow. Then its radiance grows in its intensity and splendor. Light blooms like a nebula filled to the brim with newly born stars under your skin. Like fireworks in the sky, iridescent sparkles float from your body, banishing away the Black Tide’s touch and decreeing your vessel pure and divine. 

And then, the night is torn asunder to herald the day once more. 

You gather the light, the melodies of the many into the cradle of your fingertips. Your flame is reignited anew, imbued and invigorated by the prayers of the countless. And as you stand, suspended between the earth and the heavens, you take the blessing of Harmony and bring it forth upon this world. The crystalline baton bestowed upon you shimmers into existence at your outstretched fingers. Delicately, with your wrist elegantly bent, you wave the baton and conduct the choir and orchestra who accompany your apotheosis. 

From your pure flame, a legion of angels carrying their instruments play a song of triumph, the chords of the ensemble, the notes of their unity, shimmer in the air and banish the pervasive Black Tide. Silken, iridescent strings waver and float throughout the atmosphere, wrapping around the creatures of the Black Tide that dare to encroach upon those under your protection. Even as they let loose their depraved and warbled cries, they are drowned out by the entourage of this empyrean hymn, rendering their shrieks impotent and unworthy.

With a flick of your hand, your baton shatters into a thousand puzzle pieces. And those same puzzle pieces gather and swirl together, coalescing into a stained glass mural that pierces the sky. Quickly as it formed, it cracks and fractures, spiderwebbing across the glass mural before it shatters as something pushes through.

A body shaped of clear crystal that catches light and casts countless rainbows, embellished in pure gold that radiates the light of the sun, and a long trail of hair woven from light. To the unknowing, it is the figure of a never-seen goddess pushing through to grace this land with her presence, but to you, it is the achingly familiar visage of a Cyrene that could’ve grown.

But this is no time to be hung up on “what ifs.”

You cast your imperious gaze down on the Black Tide creatures that writhe in the face of your bright and burning flame. They struggle and reach, desperately trying to attack those under your protection and smother your light. But you will not let them.

Never again.

You raise this inherited flame above you, fingers closing around it as it shapes and flows into a bow and a singular arrow. And this titanic formation that you have conjured follows your movement, raising an arm to steady an arrow woven of heavenly fire. 

“What will you name it?” Cyrene asks you just before you leave that blessed dream. After all, this entity gifted to you once had a name that resonates like a melody known by heart: Constantina, the Singer of Panacoustic Theater. But now, tempered and reforged by the hands and prayers of those whom you delivered into salvation, this entity has been reborn anew, awaiting a new name to be bestowed upon it.

“A name?” You look down at the conductor’s baton, carrying a great power bestowed upon you from beyond the sky. You think of Cyrene right next to you, of the paradise in the form of Aedes Elysiae, and the countless people who wove their songs to push you forth. “I’ll name it…”

“Elysia, the Bestower of Flawless Elegies.”

‘Elysia’ heeds your command as you pull your flaming arrow to the absolute limit. The price may be high for civilization to continue to survive, but there will always be people out there who are unable to sleep gently into that night. 

Struggling with a broken body. Resisting fate with a mortal will. Igniting a flame to maintain ruins and embers. 

Miracles are forged by will.

Tomorrow is written through sacrifice.

Now you are here. Burn it all away: the tragedies and the so-called inevitability of destruction. 

Shine eternally in this cold and brutal world, and illuminate the path that humanity longs for. 

Declare hope’s rebirth from the ashes and give this story the grand and spectacular ending it deserves.

You place all of these prayers upon this singular arrow and then release the bowstring. Your arrow joins the collective in the hands of ‘Elysia’, and then that arrow, too, is released. It flies through the atmosphere, blazing through the border between dawn and twilight before piercing the heart of the abyss and the Black Tide.

And for a moment, everything grows quiet—before the world goes…

Supernova.

***

He watches from a hill, distant from the traveling group of refugees. The eclipsed sun lets this rush of power and light wash over him.

He continues watching silently, even when the ‘Harmonic String’ fades away and leaves you collapsed and exhausted. He stays until he sees that the refugees will take care of you before his attention turns to his own person.

Even now that purifying blaze you gave him still shimmers around his body, keeping him safe from the Black Tide’s touch. But as if to reflect your reinvigoration, this flame purges as much as it purifies, mending scars and rifts on his body and banishes the pallor of deathly stone to the warmth of human flesh.

At the end of the world…will it be this hearth that will save Amphoreus?

Despite everything, he wishes that there will be a miracle at the end. He will nurture this little ivory flame you have given until it is time for him to return it at the final page of this story. 

Whether it will be Flame Chase Journey or the Flame Bearing Voyage that will provide salvation, only time will tell.

***

>>>Query: δ-me13 Experimental Progress Status.   .    .

>>>δ-me13 Experimental Progress: 98%

WARNING! MALWARE DETECTED!

>>>Initiating Anti-Virus and Firewall.   .   .

>>>Failure to Activate Anti-Virus and Firewall.

INSTABILITY IN 'AMPHOREUS EXPERIMENT' DETECTED

>>>Amphoreus Experiment Instability: 13%

>>>δ-me13 Experimental Progress: 97%

>>>Malware Now Designated As 'Ἑστία'

Chapter Text

Present Day

Thump! Thump! Thump!

The Droma ascends the mountain to Okhema at a steady pace. Both the air and earth reverberate with this gentle creature’s steps, but silence reigns on its back.

Phainon steals nervous glances at your figure, who is staring off into the distance and soaking in the sights of Okhema with a placid expression. Your ash grey cloak pools from your neck like a gentle river, but somehow feels like an uncrossable barrier for Phainon to talk to you.

With all of these years passing by after Aedes Elysiae’s fall, he logically knows that you are the same person who was by Cyrene’s side. Yet, at the same time, there is a strangeness and unfamiliarity because you’ve grown, and he doesn’t know how to approach you. 

Again, Phainon finds himself wishing for simpler times back at that quaint village. Without Cyrene between the two of you, he finds himself off-kilter and awkward. An established dynamic of sarcastic jabs and rivalries has crumbled into a strangeness where two people have reunited, but cannot truly recognize each other or reconcile with what has been lost.

Phainon clears his throat into his fist, and you turn your head to give him a questioning look. Phainon fidgets under your gaze, feeling claminess ebb through his limbs and conjure a feeling of cold sweat.

“So uh…,” Phainon laughs awkwardly as he attempts to get a conversation going. “You go by the name Hestia now? What about your…real name?”

You don’t answer right away, casting one last look at Kephale’s distant figure and the Dawn Device he labors under. Fortunately for Phainon, you shift and fully turn to him, fixing your cloak again so it loosely wraps around your body.

“Hestia is a name that the people ended up giving me,” you tell him. “I…had a habit of not giving people my name, so they ended up giving me one instead. It’s caught on ever since.”

“Oh…”

“I could ask the same question for you,” you shrug. “Phainon, huh?”

“Yeah, I just…,” Phainon rubs the back of his head sheepishly. “I er—”

“Wanted a fresh start from Aedes Elysiae?” you suggest. “Or perhaps wanted to keep that memory and past self separate from today? …At least, that’s what I’ve been doing.”

Phainon blinks before he nods, somber because both you and he know that they’re just dancing around the touchy subject of Cyrene.

You notice how he is silent and downtrodden, so unlike the bright and boisterous boy in your memories. Somehow, it’s a sight that you distinctly don’t like. Just like the apocalypse that has trampled on the dreams and aspirations of the common people you have met in your travels, Phainon’s radiance seems to have dimmed as well.

You press your lips together in thought before you take the reins of the conversation. “I haven’t paid much attention to the Titans and Chrysos Heirs, but is golden blood a prerequisite to becoming one of them?”

“A-Ah?” Phainon blinks in surprise. He’s caught off guard by your question, but his lips curl into a smile as he answers. Whether it’s because this conversation has taken a turn into familiar territory or that you have taken the initiative to speak to him, he doesn’t know why a smile graces his expression. “You haven’t heard the prophecy yourself?”

You shake your head. “I’ve been too busy journeying out and bringing back refugees. Legends and information on that sort of thing have always been Priam’s forte.”

“Well,” Phainon muses as he thinks about how to approach this topic. “Short answer? Yeah. Tribbie and Aglaea have always mentioned that the Chrysos Heirs are people who have golden blood. But there are more than twelve Chrysos Heirs, though! I think I’m just one of the lucky ones who got to Okhema.”

“Aglaea and Tribbie,” you repeat. “Are they also Chrysos Heirs?”

“Yeah, but they’re demigods.”

“Demigods?”

“Ah, right,” Phainon raps his knuckles against his head for overlooking your lack of knowledge. “Demigods are Chrysos Heirs who succeeded in plucking a Titan’s Core Flame and inheriting their role.”

“I see…,” you hum. “Then, which Titan are you tasked to inherit?”

Phainon pauses at that. He feels a bit embarrassed to admit that his current position is aimless, not yet chosen or determined a path to take forward. Somehow, he feels inadequate compared to you who has already tread a path of your own accord, spreading hope and delivering people to safety.

“I…don’t know yet,” Phainon admits reluctantly, cheeks burning in embarrassment. He half-expects you to sarcastically jab at him, maybe say something along the lines of how it’s natural for a “brute like him to be unable to make a decision.”

But it doesn’t come.

Instead, you hum and accept his answer as if it’s natural. No further remarks, no sardonic words, nothing. Simply acceptance.

It makes him realize again that you’re different from the you he remembers in Aedes Elysiae. Phainon can’t help the feeling of being out of place.

You notice his quiet and take pity on him. “Okhema is a beautiful place. Do you like it here?”

Phainon blinks before he smiles gently. “Yeah, I love it. I’ve gotta introduce you to all the things around here. The Marmoreal Palace is probably the best bathhouse I’ve ever been to, but I’ve never really been to any other bathhouse…oh! You should also come and see the Droma stables! I can ask them to let you—”

And you let him jabber off, watching him ramble over the things that he has grown accustomed to in the Eternal Holy City. All the things that he has come to love and how willing he is to share them with you, there’s a sense of warmth in your heart.

Despite Amphoreus falling into ruin, he has not suffered to the point that he cannot genuinely smile.

And you want it to stay that way.

“Alright,” you say, cutting in before he can get too carried away. “If I can get entrance for all of the refugees and help them settle down, then you can give me a tour.”

Phainon nods, but pauses at your smile: soft and elegant but, oh so, fragile. Again, he’s hit with a sense of distance that makes him stand on edge, because you look like you will disappear the moment he takes his eyes away.

“You…”

“Snowy!”

Phainon looks over, abandoning the words that sat at the tip of his tongue. Tribbie stands beside Aglaea as the Droma gently approaches before kneeling to let you and Phainon easily depart.

Phainon slides off first, and once he makes footfall, he turns around to offer you a hand with an encouraging smile. You mutter words of gratitude, delicately trailing your knuckles through the underside of your cloak, letting it flutter as you use Phainon’s hand as leverage to jump off the Droma.

“This is Aglaea and Tribbie,” Phainon introduces. “Aglaea, Tribbie, this is Hestia.”

You place a hand and incline your head in a respectful greeting. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you, Lady Aglaea, Lady Tribbie.”

You notice how there’s an underlying tension between Phainon and the other two. Having seen the genuine smile on Phainon’s face when he rambled about Okhema, you can tell now that this is a forced smile affixed on his lips. The little one, Tribbie, shifts awkwardly, eyes darting as if trying to get Phainon’s attention silently.

Aglaea, on the other hand, seems utterly nonplussed by this. However, the listless gaze in her eyes leads you to suspect that she may be blind.

Nonetheless, you are not one of them, so you don’t believe you’re in a position to pry. Not that you were going to anyway.

“Hestia,” Aglaea repeats, tasting the words on her tongue now that you are before her. “...An alias? Similar to Phainon, I presume.”

You glance at Phainon, who gives you a little more genuine smile as a sign of assurance. You turn back to Aglaea, whom Phainon has revealed is a “demigod.” You aren’t sure what abilities she may possess, so you decide to tread lightly for now. 

“How did Kha—Phainon introduce himself?” you tilt your head.

Aglaea says nothing about your momentary slip-up, but Phainon jerks in surprise.

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” Aglaea answers. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

Though you may not completely understand the intentions behind Phainon introducing himself in that way, you have some insight into the intricacies and nuances of that choice. If he wanted to keep the past of Aedes Elysiae protected, then it’s only natural that you do the same.

Your lips part as you think of how to word your greetings before deciding to take the already beaten path. “Then you may think of me as Hestia of Aedes Elysiae.”

You’re not as well-versed in the art of deliberate words and leaving things unsaid, but you have accompanied Helena, who has imparted some of that conventional wisdom to you. And from your first impression of Aglaea, you believe that Aglaea is well-versed in this way of speaking.

Introducing yourself this way has positioned you in a couple of ways. Expressing a shared past with Phainon would make the Chrysos Heirs less likely to demand or exploit you and your people. Additionally, reaffirming the name ‘Hestia’ would make your allegiance and intentions clear. You are here, not because of Phainon, but because of those who have crowned you as ‘Hestia.’

You notice how Tribbie glances at you and Phainon, trying to discern the connection that the two of you have. On the other hand, you spy the barest of smiles on Aglaea’s expression. She inclines her head once. “Well met, Hestia of Aedes Elysiae.”

She then sweeps her arm out elegantly to gesture toward a building in the distance. “The Council of Elders has assembled and has…organized themselves for your audience.”

You notice the subtle but clear distinction of “them” for the Council of Elders: it seemed that the leadership of Okhema is not as united as you originally thought.

“Before we go,” you speak up. “Is there a way for me to keep in contact with my refugee camp? We’ve noticed signs of the Black Tide approaching, and I’d like to be in touch in case anything happens.”

“Then, I can help!” Tribbie interjects. “Trinnon and Trianne can go down to the refugee camp to keep an eye on things.”

“Then…please tell them to seek out a woman named Helena,” you request politely. “Tell her to please contact me in case the Black Tide is too close.”

“Right!” Tribbie nods and leaves it at that, walking alongside Aglaea. You stare at her in confusion before turning to Phainon, who meets your gaze. He realizes your worry.

“Ah, the Tribios are connected so they can read each other’s thoughts no matter how far apart they are,” Phainon answers.

“I…see.”

You don’t comment further on things. You have half the mind to ask Phainon about Aglaea’s sense of sight, but think better of it. Asking about a person’s disability behind their back doesn’t sit right with you. So you keep your silence and follow the two demigods. But you don’t notice how Phainon gazes after you.

He wants to understand the unspoken conversation between you and Aglaea. He wants to know what you have that will protect others from the Black Tide. He had assumed that the children’s accounts of you, ‘Hestia’, clearing away the Black Tide, were only fantastical tales. However, it seemed that there was merit and truth to their words.

He wants to know, he wants to understand, he wants to talk to you. But he remembers that fragile smile on your face and the distance and walls you put up. Despite this desperate yearning to learn your story beyond Aedes Elysiae and before Okhema, he keeps his silence and follows you to this meeting.

It doesn’t take long to enter the audience chamber on foot. You discreetly rummage through your bag to procure the same tablet that had led you to discover Project Prometheus all those years ago. But you keep it hidden under your cloak until the time is right.

The audience chamber is opulent, like all things in Okhema, but there is a distinct heavy atmosphere in the room: one that prickles your skin from the hostility bearing down on your figure.

It is like an amphitheater, with the Council of Elders seated on differing levels to look down imperiously at the ones who have entered. Each one seated has a placard placed in front of them, holding elegant lettering of their names. Already, with the presence of the Chrysos Heirs, many of them are disgruntled, but much of their attention is attracted to your visage. Curiosity, hostility, dismissal, disdain, and everything in between. But their attention flows off your body like rain over oil, and you keep your attention focused on the one sitting in the middle.

“I am Elder Caenis,” the woman asserts herself domineeringly. “And you must be the leader, Hestia, no?”

You…distinctly do not like her attitude or her way of speaking. 

“Yes,” you stare back at her unflinchingly. “I am Hestia. I have to ask, even when all of you know the perils of the Black Tide and that refugees are hoping to find sanctuary in Okhema, why have you all denied them entry?”

Perhaps you have broken a tradition of some sort, because the Council’s Elders recoil in some sort of indignation and disdain, unbelieving of the fact that you spoke. They murmur amongst each other, giving you disgusted side-glances as if regarding you as vermin under their foot.

“Insolence!” another elder interjects, his placard reading Menelaus. “You are here on the grace and permission of our council, show some respect!”

“Respect is given to those who earn it, not those who demand it,” you immediately retort before you think better of it. But considering you have already spoken, you decide to go along with the flow, especially considering the indignant expression on Elder Menelaus’s face that makes him look like an angry tomato. “I have seen the sights of Okhema, golden and opulent, luxurious even when there are those suffering right outside of its gates. But now I see that all this gold only hides your depravity.”

Your eloquent but barbed words dig into the assembled council members, making them stew in their anger. Menelaus is by far the most egregious, with his fingers flaring white from how hard he grips the table in front of him.

“Excuse the words of my colleagues,” another Elder speaks up, voice smooth and sonorous. You’re a little caught off guard by his appearance, because he seemed to be some sort of machine, and his placard read Theoros. He places a hand over his chest as his lips curve into an amicable sort of smile. “We are certainly of the opinion that humanity must be safeguarded in these perilous times, but we are merely…concerned for the livelihoods and order of Okhema already established here with the introduction of the many under your protection.”

While his words are meant to be diplomatic and disarming, there’s something about this man that sets you on edge. To you, his attention feels weighty in a different way compared to the other Elders who gaze at you in disdain. Under his eyes, you feel like some sort of…rare specimen.

“So you intend that I provide some sort of collateral?” you narrow your gaze.

“Please do not misconstrue my intentions, Esteemed Hestia,” Theoros shakes his head. “We simply wish to appease the people of Okhema, so that you can provide something of use that will calm and lower tensions.”

There is some sort of angle here that you can’t properly discern. However, you pay him no mind. You glance behind your back to gauge the reactions of the three Chrysos Heirs who have accompanied you: the very people who have kept their silence as you confronted the Council alone. 

Aglaea is entirely undisturbed, and considering your first impression of her, you suspect that her silence is intentional.

Tribbie, the little one, seems unsuited for speaking in this gathering.

Phainon…you would hazard to say he also has the same inaptitude for political speak, seeing how he shifts his weight nervously between his feet and his lips purse as if he wants to say something.

It was also Phainon whom you had reunited with back at the refugee camp, and revealed that Aglaea recommended showing something of “worth” to the Council members. His tone and reluctance at the time told you he didn’t necessarily agree with it himself.

You sigh through your nose. Even if this Council of Elders is aggravating and you’d rather do without them, the refugees are still depending on you to open the gates to sanctuary. You pull out the tablet and place it on the podium in front of you.

“Then, what I offer is this,” you say. “An initiative called Project Prometheus, which has armed us with the ability to purify the Black Tide.”

Whatever the Councilmembers expected, it is certainly not this. You press the tablet, and the same message that beckoned you to Astraeus lights up before these people. The projection of Dr. Hesione shimmers into existence, and she begins to speak. “We hope that the recipient of this message is Her Majesty Cerydra of Okhema. However, knowing the situation in Amphoreus, this message is for anyone who is able.”

The name of the absent monarch of Okhema has some of the council squirming in their seats, but they listen until the end of the message, where Dr. Hesione lays down the method of purifying the Black Tide and reclaiming Amphoreus. It is indeed a bold claim, but it is not a false one, seeing as you stand here today.

However, Elder Menelaus bristles and rallies his doubts. “Astraeus?! You mean to have us trust the words of heretics? What use is there for such a thing like this? Kephale has and will continue to protect us.”

“Is the might of the Titans absolute?” you retort. “From the legends I have heard, Kephale is dead, and his corpse holds up the Dawn Device. And Titans are not infallible, nor are they immune to the Black Tide. You would be a fool to deny that claim.”

You do not need to reiterate the stories of the Titans going mad. Everyone in this room is aware of it.

You turn to the rest of the council. “If you want proof, I am right here. I have journeyed to Astraeus myself and have inherited Project Prometheus. I can show you all that these people have not lied about this solution.”

The council members talk and whisper amongst each other in the face of your undaunted statements. To be able to vanquish something that the Titans, the patrons they worship, is a thought that many of them would’ve never even dared to entertain. 

“You would have us partake in blasphemy?!” Menelaus roars. But the truth of the matter is, in the face of the apocalypse, faith and blasphemy have no room on the table orbiting humanity’s survival. It is only a tool in the hands of the depraved and the inhumane, desperate and greedy to hold onto power even as all things fall around them.

You understand his aims, as do many others in the council, experienced with this play for power. But those of the council do not share your perspective on the lives of humanity, berating your boldness and your “audacity” to present blasphemy before them. Even more absurdly, there are still those with faith in the Titans and who speak words of condemnation.

Truly, there is no hatred like the fanatic religious love for the divine.

Irritated by the meaningless prattle of deluded fools, you concentrate a shimmering power that always stands at your disposal. Warmth and sound coalesce to your throat to amplify your voice to cut through the council, but—

“Hestia!”

Tribbie’s voice jars you out of your concentration because there is a panic and foreboding in her tone.

You turn around and see the unadulterated horror in Tribbie’s voice, head tilted as if listening to something no one else can here. “The Black Tide! It’s coming straight for the refugee camp.”

And you, the inheritor of Project Prometheus, the only one who can purify the Black Tide, are here in Okhema and far away from being able to immediately help. 

You don’t need to think about turning your back on the Council and storming out.

“Where are you going?!” Menelaus roars after you. “You dare turn your back on—”

Several golden strings thrum into existence, poised threateningly with the intent to cut up. Aglaea intervenes just as you reach the Chrysos Heirs and intend to brush past them to get back.

“Lady Aglaea!” Elder Caenis barks. “You may be a demigod, but you are in the abode of the Council! Such disrespect will not go unanswered!”

“When should one ever concern themselves with the barking of dogs?” Aglaea says mildly.

Over her neck and face, Caenis’s blood vessels bulge from the weight of her fury. She slams her hand against the table and roars. “Cleaners!”

Seemingly appearing from the shadows, four assassins wreathed in black lunge forward with their weapons gleaming in the light. Phainon reacts, summoning his sword in a flare of light and raising his blade to defend, but you have already acted before he has even thought about it.

The air around you warps and shimmers from the sheer heat you exude. Your ash grey cloak flutters as it dissipates into motes of iridescent embers, dematerialized for safekeeping. With a mere sharpening of your focus, your hidden might is unleashed and forces the Cleaners to crash into the ground in the face of your presence. 

“W-What?” Caenis blinks in incredulity. Because the Cleaners are assassins tasked to kill the Chrysos Heirs, how are they being subdued by someone like you?

Another step on the earth. Then another step forward on the air. You begin to ascend, as flames coalesce together in your curled fingers. Jerking your arm upward, an arc of white flames crashes into the ceiling of the council’s chamber, blowing apart wood and stone to reveal the open sky.

“What are you doing?!” Caenis demands.

“I’m doing what none of you all will do,” you look down upon them disdainfully. “Acting on my humanity.”

In a burst of heat and light, you become a blazing comet, arcing from Okhema and down to the refugee camp to protect the people under your charge.

Chapter Text

Helena remembers a long, long time ago when she first came across you.

It was one of those days when supplies were scarce and people were being sent out to scavenge and try to scrape together what paltry remains were left in this dying world. And others still were being sent out, hoping to find another city or village that would take them in and offer sanctuary. 

What Helena came across first was neither another village nor abandoned supplies, but an iceberg, in the gradient of blue to pink, floating down a river of the Black Tide. 

A strange sight by itself, but even stranger was the fact that a person was encased within that icy formation.

“What is—?”

Buoyed by the Black Tide, as if it were a mere river and not the apocalypse manifest, the iceberg continued to drift down before pushing into the shoreline, earthen soil parting at the iceberg’s advance and keeping it secure, anchoring it from being swept away by the Black Tide.

Unsure of what else to do, Helena slowly approached, eyes focused on the colorful iridescent reflection of Kephale’s distant light hitting the crystalline fractals of this iceberg. She reached out slowly, and even the barest of contact with the iceberg immediately made a hairline crack.

Startled, Helena backpedaled, holding her hands close to her chest as that initial crack began to spread out and spiderweb all over the face of this colorful ice until it shattered.

Chunks of crystalline ice scattered as they slipped and slid against each other, either being swept up in the Black Tide or falling against the earth. However, your unconscious body slid down gracefully, untouched by any impact that would bruise your skin and haloed in shards like crushed diamonds.

This was how Helena first met you, unconscious and liberated from a crystalline capsule like a nymph from one of those old stories. 

This memory, Helena thinks in retrospect, was perhaps the beginning of ‘Hestia.’

She took you back to the refugee camp and nursed you back to health…but perhaps it was only physical health. Like many of those traveling and scavenging to hold onto the barest bit of life, you were no different from others wracked with grief and loss.

The first two weeks had you despondent, silently looking into the distance with a shock and silence that seemed unbreakable. Helena patiently looked after you, giving you small meals at regular intervals, and helped you go through the motions. Helena doesn’t quite remember how long it took, but something finally cracked. And just like the ice that ferried you down the Black Tide, a single crack was enough to make you shatter.

It was a single sniffle that let Helena peek into the depth of your grief. Your lament was not loud, but stifled and soft: tears dripping down over your cheeks and onto the blanket. Each sob was quiet, but no less heart-wrenching as you kept cycling through apologies and desperate repetition of a name. “Cyrene, Cyrene, Cyrene.”

But no matter how many times one utters the name of the dead, they cannot come back to life.

Helena never knew the story or person behind that name, nor the village of Aedes Elysiae. No matter how many maps she may have consulted of Amphoreus, there was never any sign or mention of Aedes Elysiae. But because you believed so wholeheartedly in that village, in that former home, Helena couldn’t bring herself to think that you were under a deep delusion.

But she would’ve never thought that such a person, from a village that no one ever heard of, would be the one to usher in salvation.

She remembers that harrowing journey to Okhema when you stood on the precipice between sky and earth, ushering in an army of angels that charged through and dispersed the Black Tide: of the Titan that was not a Titan that pulled back an arrow of holy flame and eradicated the apocalypse’s audacious advance. 

You had fallen unconscious after calling upon that unknown power and were reverently carried as they made the journey from the immediate grasp of the Black Tide and set up a temporary camp. 

Not many of the refugees were religious, cast aside and abandoned by the Titans when the Black Tide flowed across the world, but they prayed earnestly in circles and kneeled in deference around your tent as you slowly awoke from consciousness. And as always, Helena was by your side when you awoke.

“You’re awake,” Helena whispered in relief. She reached over and pressed a hand over your head to check for a fever. Thankfully, there wasn’t any, and she helped you sit up into an upright position. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alright,” you shook your head. Helena doesn’t know how to describe it, but in that moment, there was something about you that shifted, for lack of a better term. For a short moment, you gazed into the distance, listening to something only you could hear, and when you turned back to Helena with a smile, the whole world seemed to stop.

Even if it was on another face, even if Helena had come to terms with never seeing it again, she would never forget her mother’s smile for all her days. 

“Helena,” you smiled at her, warm and gentle, and your eyes crinkling in a way that Helena ached to see once again. Even the way you uttered her name was so familiar, the way the syllables rolled off your tongue in a smooth, unbroken flow that was somehow full of intimacy. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Helena didn’t know what to say, and you simply gathered her in your arms and gave her a hug that still reminded her of her mother. And then you departed to greet the others who had so desperately prayed for your recovery. From then, another tale had risen to lay the foundation of ‘Hestia’. That the people who had been lost to the Black Tide, the souls that were condemned to unending torture and horror, now lived reborn in your light and burning flame.

Hope had been reborn from the ashes of civilization, and it was here to stay.

On the last legs of that journey to go to Okhema, you had stopped on the final hurdle and turned to Helena and Priam.

“You all should go on,” you told them quietly.

“What do you mean?” Priam blinked in confusion. And you smiled that unspeakably gentle smile of yours and cast your gaze back into the abyss that they had just escaped.

“There are still more people out there,” you said to them. “I’ll bring them to Okhema.”

And there were many things that Helena wanted to say to that. But remembering the light ignited from your very hands, she knew deep in her bones that this was the path that you had chosen. No one would be able to stop you.

“Alright,” Helena nodded. “Don’t push yourself.”

“I know,” you reassured her. “I’ll always come back, Helena.”

“I’ll always come back, my daughter.”

Helena swallowed down the words she wanted to say and instead reached out to squeeze your hand. “I’ll be waiting.” I’ll wait for you, Mom.

And over the years, you kept true to your promise even though Helena failed to gain entry to Okhema. More and more people were guided to Okhema by your hand, and the group of a hundred hailing from Ladon had stretched into nearly a thousand people. 

That was when the name ‘Hestia’ first began to circulate. After Aedes Elysiae, you had opted to keep your own name close to your chest, letting others call you doctor or simply just call for your attention. But now, as the messiah that delivered the lost from the Black Tide, being nameless simply wasn’t enough. 

Questions for your name was met with amusement in the beginning. For those who traveled with you from Ladon, they were familiar with the peculiar habit of keeping your name to yourself. But as more and more people began to join the refugee camp at the foot of the mountain, people began to become disgruntled by a lack of a name to call you. It was not a sentiment born out of irritation, but rather the desire to pay the proper reverence to their savior.

And so, their faith and respect converged, unifying into the singular name of Hestia.

Hestia the Hearth. Hestia the Blazing Martyr. Hestia, the Black Tide’s Bane. Hestia the Flame Bearer.

And it was a name that was given to you without your knowledge.

“Priam? Helena? What is this Hestia that they’re talking about?”

Both Priam and Helena stared at you disbelievingly before Priam exploded into uproarious hysterical laughter, placing a hand over his eyes and a hand on the table to keep himself from falling over. You blinked at Priam’s confusion, the face of innocent confusion. 

Helena’s lips twisted into an amused smile before she patted your shoulder. “Hestia is you.”

“...What?”

Helena patiently explained to you that Hestia was the name that the people gave you from your habit of keeping your name unknown.

“And you couldn’t have just told them my name?” you flushed in embarrassment. “Why would they do that? Why would they do that? ”

“Because you’re their hero,” Priam reached over and ruffled his hand on your hair. 

You look downtrodden by that statement, as if remembering a conversation from long ago. “But…I’m only human.”

“And it’s why they follow you and have such faith in you,” Helena agreed with Priam. “Because despite being human, you’ve held nothing back when it comes to giving people hope.”

And truly, you have never held anything back to save these people. It was another day of managing the refugees and rationing out supplies to make sure that the people could at least be fed before a woman emerged over the hill and stumbled frantically into their camp.

“Helena! I need to find a woman named Helena!” she gasped in panic and exhaustion. “Where is she?!”

“What’s wrong?” Helena approached, handing off a clipboard to Iphis as she walked over to this woman. “What do you need?”

“My—ugh—My name is Medea,” the woman desperately tried to catch her breath. “Hestia told me to find you. The rest of the group that I was with is currently trapped in the ruins of Adian! They told me to come find you to get help!”

And Helena didn’t even need to think twice.

“Get together a group now!” Helena barked orders immediately, and the people were quick to obey. Because if it came to Hestia, there was no expense that anyone would spare for you. It took half an hour for a group to get ready and depart, but the journey to Adian from Okhema was at least a journey of three days. 

If they had no supplies, or worse, if the Black Tide was there, then things were looking grim. And Helena desperately prayed, not to the Titans of Amphoreus but to you, wishing with all of her heart that you would be alright.

Adian, when they arrived, was already beset by the Black Tide, but much of it was already purified and blown away. However, there were no immediate signs of life. They searched desperately, calling out for your name and journeying over rubble and ruins until…

Yip! Yip! Yip!

“Helena!” Jason called out in a hurry. “I think Hector found something!”

The said border collie was digging and scraping his claws against a collapsed building. The scraped door was wedged shut, blocked by several mounds of rubble. 

“Get everyone here now!” Helena yelled, and the people scrambled together. Arduously and methodically, they heaved away boulders and rubble to free the scraped door. And once the last stone was removed, Helena was quick to step forth and wrench open the door.

Their torchlight spilled into this cramped room where dozens of wounded lay exhausted. Some had lost limbs or suffered great trauma, and some were showing signs of infection from the Black Tide, but they were all alive. 

And as the light of flames stretched out to illuminate their faces, Helena could see that there were glimmers of hope in their eyes. 

“It’s real…,” one of them rasped. “Someone has come for us…”

They were all wrapped up in bandages, and some had medical treatment, and their caretaker huddled amongst them, dead quiet.

“Hestia—”

“They’re alive,” another told Helena.

“Help them! Hurry!” Helena ordered and made a beeline for your collapsed form. The team that followed Helena quickly filtered into the room, helping people leave this cramped space that many were afraid would be their tomb. 

35 people, wounded but treated, and you, heavily injured but selflessly labouring to keep these people alive.

And the people who came with Helena are simply astounded by this sight: all these people treated and kept alive by a single ‘Hestia.’ It’s a reaffirmation of their faith and respect, because what kind of person would drive themselves to the brink of death, giving to strangers they have never met?

You are their savior. You are their miracle.

“Don’t bother Hestia, right now,” Helena commanded as she kneeled by your side and checked your injuries. “They have multiple compound fractures.”

Your eyes fluttered under your eyelids, and you groaned softly as you strained to see through the darkness. “...Helena? Is that you?”

“I’m here,” Helena whispered assurances and positioning you in a better posture to be carried. “Things are going to be alright now.”

“I’m glad,” you relaxed in her arms as she carried you out. “I’m glad that everyone got out.”

And for the first time, Helena wondered why you selflessly gave so much of your own life and dignity away to safeguard all these people. “Why?”

You tilted your head to rest your temple against her shoulder. “We are all unique. No matter how hard life treats us, we all have our own ways to shine.”

“There is always hope as long as we are alive.”

“Thus, everyone has to try their best to live life to the fullest. Even if I may not have a home to go back to, others still do…the things and people they love are still waiting for them.”

And perhaps, that was when Helena managed to glimpse into the great and true strength of ‘Hestia’. Just like when you gave her hope when you followed her and Hippocrate's footsteps to become a medic. Just like when you brought light into this doomed world with the flame of Prometheus. Because when you extend your hand and reach out to the wounded and suffering of Amphoreus, you are spreading your faith. 

Where others have faith in ‘Hestia’, ‘Hestia’ has an unwavering faith in ‘humanity.’

When Helena pulled open that door, she saw light on the faces of those soldiers. It was their resurrection from being baptised in your blood and effort.

This is the flame lit in the hearth of ‘Hestia’: the flame of humanity. Born from the ode of the predecessors and ignited by the very souls of the pioneers, this is your inheritance of Prometheus’s flame that you will spread to the rest of human civilization. 

Each person you have saved will carry on a bit of that flame, nurturing its light in their hearts so that they will spread the gospel of humanity that they have received. And over the lands of Amphoreus it will spread, until the hymns of the people will not be dedicated to the mighty Titans or the depraved Black Tide, but the indomitable human spirit.

Tomorrow has been shaped by your hands.

And it is exactly that tomorrow that Helena has chosen to defend.

“The Black Tide’s come here faster than I thought,” Priam hisses as he joins Helena and surveys the encroaching waves of stygian sludge creeping toward the outskirts of the refugee camp. 

“How are the refugees?” Helena asks.

“We’ve managed to evacuate them as soon as possible,” Priam drags a hand over his face exhaustively. “The only thing is, they won’t open the gates.”

“Tch,” Helena clicks her tongue and looks over at Okhema in the distance. “Even when death is right on their doorstep, they won’t open their gates to save people.”

Helena looks over to Trianne and Trinnon, who were told to meet her on Hestia’s directive. “You’ve alerted Hestia about what happened?”

“Mhm!” Trianne nods. “Tribbie just told Hestia that the Black Tide is closing in.”

“Coming down from the mountain…won’t that take at least an hour?” Priam’s eyes trace out the slope of Okhema’s mountain.

“We don’t have an hour,” Helena shakes her head and picks up her makeshift spear. “Get the injured and the disabled to get as close to the gates as possible. Everyone else who is willing and able, to me.”

“Got it,” Priam nods and runs off to gather the necessary forces.

“What…What are you going to do?” Trinnon asks. 

“We’ll hold off the Black Tide until Hestia gets here,” Helena replies and fastens her supplies to her person. 

“But if you charge into the Black Tide, won’t you die? We should wait for Agy and Snowy to come down!” Trianne suggests worryingly. Helena isn’t able to control her expression, and the two of them are subject to the weight of Helena’s intimidating look.

“We’ve never depended on the assistance of the Chrysos Heirs,” Helena declares. “And we won’t start now. I’m not exactly sure what kind of prophecy you all follow, but chasing the Titans has left the rest of us humans to desperately scavenge and rot in this doomed world.”

Chastised, Trinnon and Trianne shrink back. “We just…we just don’t want people to die. Can’t you trust us?”

Helena sighs, reining in her anger at these two little ones, shivering and trying to keep her from marching into the abyss. “All of us refugees have prayed day after day to the Titans and to Okhema, but we never received an answer. The only one who ever answered our desperation was our Hestia.”

“And it’s because of Hestia and the possibility of a future that we’ve all chosen to fight.”

Helena turns to welcome the brave people who have chosen to bear arms and fight against the Black Tide, bringing precious seconds for Hestia’s arrival. None of them even flinches at the possibility of you not coming down the mountain, because such a thought never crosses their minds. Their faith in you is that unshakeable.

Even if they are to fall into the twilight here, they know the people and things they left behind to fight the Black Tide will be protected in your light.

“Lady Tribios,” Helena addresses Trianne and Trinnon, much to their surprise. “I do not and will not disrespect the sacrifice you made to usher in the Chrysos Heirs and the prophecy of salvation, but the fight that we have chosen as humans is this one. Go, we’ll stop the Black Tide’s advance here.”

Thus, Helena turns to the people who have chosen to join her in this stand against the apocalypse. “Brave brothers and sisters! We fight today to protect our hearth! To me!”

They all charge, bellowing fervent battle cries. They are not a disciplined army, nor do many of them have proper training as warriors. But they will fight nonetheless, laying their very lives on the line for the sake of their dignity as humans.

Their flickering blades crash into the wicked claws and talons of the Black Tide. All of them slash and hack wherever they can, aiming to bring as many of the Black Tide down with them. Even in the face of excruciating pain and the looming ferryman’s boat, they use their very bodies to delay and buy you precious time.

Even as the corruption of the Black Tide seeps into their veins, momentarily stopped by the protection of Empyros Lily seeds, they move with single-minded purpose. Even as the first of them falls into the embrace of the Black Tide, the rest of them do not dare to falter. 

But they are still human, and they’re slowly but surely being pushed back. Even when her brethren have been consumed by the Black Tide, Helena levels her blade and rips apart the howling creatures of the Black Tide. Provoking their anger and diverting their attention, she takes her remaining comrades in silent agreement to lead the Black Tide into a chokepoint.

“Now!”

At her signal, several explosives ring out as earth and rubble are dislodged. The mountains thunder and shake as hills come down and strangle the Black Tide’s advance. But the remaining humans, too, are unable to leave. They have trapped the Black Tide here with them.

“It was an honor fighting beside you, Helena,” a man huffs. A cut from the Black Tide, already infected by the Black Tide, stretches over one of his eyes, and his limbs, coated with its touch, and is already festering and rotting. Helena is no better shape, already feeling the touch of decay on her legs, and her strength deteriorating. This is, in essence, a suicide mission, and none of them expect to survive beyond this point.

“Do you think our Hestia will mourn us?” another one asks.

“What kinda stupid question is that? Of course, Hestia’s gonna be sad.”

“It’s a shame that things had to happen this way,” Helena shakes her head, and pushes herself up against the face of the Black Tide. “But for Hestia’s tomorrow, this is all worth it.”

“For tomorrow.”

“For tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

With that last parting thought, and the malevolent Black Tide creatures clawing their way to them, they leap into the abyss and fight with their last strength. And as Helena is the last one to topple into the night, she sees the white comet come down and purge the Black Tide. And even though it was too late for them, they will all be at peace, because their faith in you has been rewarded.

I’m sorry, Hestia, give Priam my regards. I’ll be joining my mother tonight.

And she is swaddled in a lullaby as flowing as white silk and opens her eyes to a paradise of golden fields.