Archive of Our Own ^beta

For as long as he could remember, Phainon had these strange dreams. They weren’t always the same ones, but they kept recurring. Most of them weren’t really all that clear – just flashes of things, feelings, brief moments in time – but others were more... substantial. He didn’t know what to make of them, if he was being honest.

The one dream he dreamt the most was him endlessly pushing a boulder up a never-ending mountain. He didn’t know why he was pushing the boulder at all, and what would even await him at the very top of the mountain, if he would ever manage to get there at all. It was always the same dream, but not. It was always the same boulder, but not. And it was always the same him, but not. It was a strange thing, and it haunted him way past the dawn’s break. When he told Cyrene and their friend, they had looked – sad? He wasn’t sure what that meant, and so he decided he wouldn’t tell them any of his other dreams either. He didn’t want to worry either of them and dreams were just dreams, right? There wasn’t even a Titan dedicated to dreams, so it couldn’t be that important. Even though Cyrene always said that a lot of prophecies are received in the forms of dreams... but he’s not Cyrene. He’s just good old Phainon, farm boy of no consequence, and he would only receive prophetic dreams if the world were to end, he’s sure.

Sighing, he closes his eyes again and sinks back into the wheat-field. He doesn’t mean to fluke out of work, but his mother is upset about something his father did, so it’s best to stay out of dodge. And besides, he’s promised to play hide-and-seek with Piso and Livia later, so it’s best to get his slacking off done now. He wonders, idly, what Cyrene and their friend are up to. He doesn’t hang out with them as often as he used to, and he’s not sure why. They are both his best friends, but for some unfathomable reason, he feels so strangely removed from them – like they have an inside joke he missed, or something.

When their friend drew the Deliverer card when they were children; that was cool. Even though – it felt weird. Like – he doesn’t know. Like he wanted it for himself? He swears he was so close to saying “hey that’s my card” but that’s dumb. First off, it’s not his card because he didn’t fuck draw it. And second off – he’d be a terrible Deliverer. All he’s remotely good at is some questionable swordsmanship. And math, surprisingly. Mom calls him her human calculator and he likes that. Phainon groans – he’s so bad at this slacking off. He opens his eyes again and stares directly into the sun.

Don’t stare directly into the sun, Phainon! You’ll ruin your eyesight!

And he’s a good son, but staring into the sun never bothered him. Still, he doesn’t do it that often, and especially not when his mom is around to see him do it. The sun reminds him of his dreams, and the golden wheat he lies in just strengthens that feeling.

Flashes of gold, molten and dripping, and eyes ever-clad in gold. A flame, burning hotter than the sun ever could, and yet never meant to hail a new day.

Anyway.

Strange dreams.

Groaning, Phainon gets up and sets out to find his friends for their game. Maybe Livia will try to hide as a scarecrow again while Piso will pretend to be a wheat.

Two weeks later, he leaves for Castrum Kremnos. Both Cyrene and their friend stay behind. All his life, he always thought they’d leave the village together – and that one day, they’d return here together.

“It’s not yet time for us, Phainon. But you go! Have fun, and if you make any friends, make sure to introduce us~”

As he leaves, he keeps looking back, like he’s looking for something – like he’s trying to burn the memory in his brain, even though Aedes Elysiae will never go anywhere. And still, he can’t help it. Just one more look, he tells himself, until the golden wheat is out of sight and even then – he keeps turning around.

One more look, and his insides are strangely hollow.

Like he lost something. Like something’s not right. Like something –

Golden eyes, casting a glance.

Like he forgot something.

But he never forgets.

But something important is missing.

*

Castrum Kremnos is nice. Phainon doesn’t really make any friends here, but he meets a lot of kindred spirits. He also breaks more swords than he can count. It’s happened in the arena, which would always cause both him and his opponent to stare at the broken blade, a little helpless. But that’s quite okay, because Phainon doesn’t need an intact weapon to fight. While not ideal, the broken blade will still serve its purpose. It’ll deliver the final win; it’s always meant to.

Without Cyrene or their friend here to watch him, he throws himself into every fight with wild abandon. He fights to win. Phainon doesn’t like losing. He needs to win his every battle. How doesn’t matter. Eternal victory is all that matters.

He stands in the arena undefeated and he looks upon the Lance of Fury.

Eternal victory; and eternal triumph.

Both phrases haunt his mind and his fingers itch. He thinks about stabbing Nikador in the back.

He closes his eyes and turns away. Titan-hunt is for the flame-chase, and he will never be on that journey. And yet, he thinks. And yet, he turns his head towards Okhema, the Eternal Holy City. In the far distance, he believes he can see Kephale. He can’t, of course. But the Dawn Device burns itself on his retinas, like he’s stared up at it a thousand times and a thousand more.

He leaves Castrum Kremnos, and enrols himself in the Grove of Epiphany. If he wants to become a scholar, he’ll have to study, at least. His teacher is a little weird, though.

He’s a Chrysos Heir – or at least, he’s supposed to be, but he doesn’t seem to believe in that. He’s blatantly disrespecting the Titans, his own included, and Phainon can’t help but admire him a little for that. To have such a strong sense of self – it’s worth striving for. He doesn’t think he himself could do that, if he’s being honest.

“Phainon,” Anaxa catches him by surprise one time. Phainon had been unable to sleep, and he’s snuck out to sit on one of the branches, to stare up into the sky. He doesn’t react to his teacher addressing him – honestly, the professor is very informal, but Phainon doesn’t mind. It reminds him of home, and he keeps wanting to turn around to Cyrene and their friend, but they’re not here. He’s written them letters, but they can’t respond – with him on the journey, he has no address they can send their answer to.

“Tell me,” Anaxa continues, “in your mind, what lies beyond the sky?”

“Tomorrow,” Phainon answers without thinking and golden eyes bear down onto him. Anaxa shifts beside him.

“The new dawn,” Phainon continues, even though he realises he’s not making coherent sense, “deliverance.”

“You believe in the prophesied Deliverer?”

I’ll wait, Phainon wants to say, even if it takes a million years, I’ll wait. After all this time – I must keep going.

He blinks, but he doesn’t answer.

“They say the Deliverer has appeared in Okhema. Alongside the demigod of time, I hear. Castorice and Hyacine will both depart soon – do you want to go with them?”

Go with two Chrysos Heirs? No, he couldn’t. He’s seen both of them around, but didn’t dare approach them. Being so important, he was sure they didn’t need to be bothered by him. He turns to look at his professor.

“Why would I? I’m not a Chrysos Heir, and I don’t need to go to the Holy City.”

“Hm,” Anaxa responds, smirking, “I did notice your surging interest in all matters of world-bearing. You have no desire to meet the silent Titan for yourself? Consider it a field study. If the dead Titan will not respond to their most devoted being, then maybe that seamstress will finally admit the wrong of her ways.”

Phainon frowns. He’s not – devoted to Kephale. He’s just... interested. He’s not sure why, either, but it’s not so bad, right? He averts his eyes. He doesn’t know what to respond. His professor’s way too smart for him, and he keeps speaking in half-sentences, like – like there’s something he knows, but won’t say. And the worst part is – sometimes, Phainon almost gets it.

“But that’s not why I’m telling you this,” Anaxa steers the conversation elsewhere, “Hyacine was not happy to leave you behind. Your headaches have been getting worse.”

Well, that’s an understatement. He’s always been prone to headaches, ever since he was young, but they’d been manageable. Nowadays, they were getting much worse.

“Like needles,” he agrees and wonders if Hyacine told Anaxa – Phainon’s brain is deteriorating at a rather rapid pace. It’s like he keeps suffering from brain damage, but there’s no trace of where it comes from. He gets that that nice, quiet life he dreamt about probably won’t come true, but hope is all he has. He has to keep going, for hope alone, that one day, his journey will have been worth it.

“Go with them, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. Maybe you will find your answers in the bosom of Okhema.”

“Is the Grove going to be safe from the Black Tide, when I’m gone?”

Anaxa puts his hand on Phainon’s head, softly.

“Don’t worry so much. The Black Tide has no leader, after all. The Grove will stand the test of time.”

And for a moment, Phainon thinks of flames, and a dark cape in the wind. But that thought is gone just as quickly as it came. Something’s missing. Something isn’t right.

He’s hollow inside, like a burnt-out husk.

Golden blood, and golden eyes.

Phainon goes to Okhema.

*

The Holy City is the largest place he’s ever been in. His village could fit in here three times easily, if not more. It stresses him a little, because the only two people he knows – Hyacine and Castorice – are part of the flame-chase and as such, will probably have little time to indulge him during his stay. Ah, well, he’ll see Hyacine at least once per week, he supposes, so that’s something.

He walks through the city, marveling at the houses. Back home, only Cyrene has had a house two stories tall – and here, the houses are even bigger. He wonders how many people can fit inside. He doesn’t look where he’s going, and of course, his first act in this grand city is running straight into someone else. He shrieks and instinctively caches the person on their arms so they don’t go tumbling.

“Well, hey now, who said you could catch me?”

He shrieks again and waves his arms around.

“I’m so sorry!” He shouts. “I didn’t mean to run into you, I – oh Titans, are these real?”

The person he so rudely bumped into – is a woman with cat ears. He’s never seen that before and he wonders if they’re as soft as Little Ica. So, in order to test his theory – he reaches out and grabs them. He’s not harsh but –

“Are you insane? Let go!”

Only at the woman’s shrill cry does Phainon realize what he was doing. Immediately, he throws his hands up again, going red in the face.

“Oh, oh titans, sorry, sorry, sorry! I didn’t – oh Kephale, please forgive me!”

He flaps his hands around helplessly and thinks he should have never gotten free reign among real people. Gods, this is embarrassing. He’s been in Okhema for like ten seconds and he’s already made a fool of himself.

“What’s happened?”

“Cyrene! Comrade!” Phainon cries at the sound of her voice. What is she – no, they – doing here? “Save me!”

“He touched my ears!”

“What’s going on?”

“Why are there more people?!”

Apparently, because he’s a lucky man, the cat-ear woman is a Chrysos Heir, and not only are Cyrene and their friend part of that group too, their leader also saw Phainon’s poor display of playing human. He’s so embarrassed; he could die on the spot.

“I can only apologise,” he says again, “thinking is not my strong suit.”

“Lady Aglaea, my friend meant no harm, I can assure you. He’s never been among so many people.”

“Cyrene, I am not a sheltered dog. I’m just stupid.”

“Okay fine, he’s also stupid.”

Phainon whimpers. That’s not how he envisioned their reunion.

“Hmm,” this Lady Aglaea only mutters, looking him over with unseeing eyes. He feels judged. Maybe she’s debating where to dump his body later. Okhema has sewers, right? He should’ve stayed home.

“Is this...” she starts and he whimpers again, “how you usually dress yourself?”

Phainon blinks and then looks down at himself. He’s wearing his normal clothes. He isn’t sure what she’s getting at.

“Yes...?” He answers uncertain. “These are all my favourite colours.”

Lady Aglaea frowns and Phainon starts to sweat. Is there something wrong with his fashion? He usually just wears whatever he likes best, and that’s not bad, right?

“No,” Lady Aglaea decides then, “this won’t stand. I can forgive many crimes, including the one you committed against Cifera, but this – this is unacceptable.”

And so, Phainon ends up with clothes woven by the Gold Weaver herself. He feels entirely undeserving of it but also – strangely comfortable.

“Dashing,” Cyrene comments giggling and he only frowns at her.

It turns out that the Deliverer and Demigod of Time Anaxa spoke of are his two close friends. He feels a little strange about it. Whenever someone calls out Deliverer to their friend on the street, Phainon finds his head turning on instinct.

Golden eyes; and golden blood.

Their friend has golden eyes; always had. Phainon wonders if his dreams had been about them all along, but – they weren’t. It’s just a coincidence. And it’s nice, knowing someone in the city, even if they can’t spend as much time together as they had in their childhood. Era Nova is more important than the memories of golden fields, even if the name turns Phainon’s stomach sour. He stares up at the Dawn Device often.

“I want to go visit Kephale,” he says to Cyrene and their friend one day, when they meet for lunch.

“No,” Cyrene says a little too quickly, “sorry Phainon. Only citizens of Okhema and Chrysos Heirs are allowed up there. But if you tell me your wish, I’ll make sure Kephale will hear it.”

Phainon remains silent. His wish? He doesn’t have a wish. Even thinking about it, he can’t come up with anything.

“Never mind,” he says then, “I hear they don’t respond anyway.”

Not even to their most devoted being.

Why didn’t Anaxa call Phainon a follower? With the professor, every word matters, but he doesn’t know what it means.

Phainon joins the city guard. Not directly as a guard himself, but as sort of a volunteer recruit. Members of the city guard get free repairs at the forge, and titans, Phainon needs it. He hadn’t known it was so easy to break swords left and right. Even the city guard captains had been stumped when they saw him keep doing it.

“Of paper, your swords are made?”

Grandmaster Chartonus just stares at Phainon when he stands before the man again for the third time in two days. Phainon wants to cry. Aren’t swords meant to be durable?

After having gifted the grandmaster yet another broken sword, Phainon trudges back to the training grounds. Maybe he should fight with wooden swords because for some reason, he doesn’t break those.

There’s a group of people crowded around the training area and Phainon perks up. Is something free? He’s lucky he’s so tall, it makes it easy to peer over the other heads.

Oh.

On the grounds, their friend and the – Mydeimos are sparring. Phainon has heard of Mydeimos the Undying, the last prince of Castrum Kremnos.

“Put your back into it, Deliverer!”

Phainon’s body jerks.

...it’s derogatory.

I know.

His head hurts. He doesn’t understand. He’s taking his medicine like a good boy. He saw Hyacine yesterday. He even took the bath she told him to take, even though he can’t stand the heat.

He only realises that he is being stared at when the noise goes quiet.

“Huh?”

He turns his head, and everyone is staring at him. He blushes and waves his hands. What has he done now? He hopes Kephale will forget this.

“I know you,” Mydeimos the Undying says and Phainon is ready to faint, “you stood undefeated in the arena.”

Phainon squeaks. “Haha, happenstance of circumstance only, ha... haha... ha?”

Mydeimos frowns. “The Deliverer didn’t mention that you are brain damaged.”

Phainon scrunches his nose. Of course they didn’t, they don’t know. “I’m surprised a Kremnoan even knows what a brain is. Don’t your scholars not just bash their heads together for debate?”

“HKS,” Mydeimos growls, “your demise seems imminent.”

“Oooh, big words, huh? Can you even spell imminent? We can go slow, you know. Guess what, I’ll spell out Haikas, and you spell out imminent, and whoever loses buys us honeycake.”

“There’s no word for lose in the Kremnoan language.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You know, at this point I think the Kremnoan language consists of like, three words, and a lot of grunts probably. Anyway, Mydei, you in or not?”

“My name,” Mydei squints, “is Mydeimos the Undying.”

“And I’m Phainon from Aedes Elysiae but you don’t hear people call me that, now do you? Are you chickening out? Or we can duel, too, I was just about to befriend a new sword from over there. Wood, because apparently that’s a bit sturdier than iron...”

“Wait, it’s you who keeps breaking swords? Chartonus was lamenting to me about it.”

“It’s not my fault! These things just shatter, Mydei! It’s like they’re made out of, I don’t know, ashes or something! But I’m not going to punch those gauntlets with my bare fists. That body of yours is way too hard. You know, I never did get why you’re walking around half-naked. Is it a tactic? Can the Black Tide creatures be distracted? Is it like a long-time study? Professor Anaxa would... probably not find that very interesting, but I’m sure he’d appreciate the effort!”

He’s babbling, and he has absolutely no clue what the fuck he’s saying. They don’t spar, in the end, because Phainon pukes his guts out after bending over to inspect a sword. Fun times, but at least that body of Mydei’s is really solid.

Phainon finds himself in the garden a lot. One, he likes the little chimeras, and two, this is the closest he can get to Kephale. He thinks Cyrene and their friend are keeping things from him, and that’s fine. He’s not upset. They’re going to save the world, and he’s – he’s not going to see it. His brain damage is getting worse, and he’s made Hyacine cry.

Golden eyes; and golden blood.

Flames, devouring the sun.

A black sun, never destined to rise, and doomed to burn.

His fingers twitch. He reaches out his hand, reaching for the silent titan, for something just beyond it, and the sun halos around his hand. The sun’s corona, he thinks. Nobody’s meant to see it. And he wonders – if nobody can witness it, then why does it exist at all?

“We know you,” a tiny voice says beside him, “you are Rene’s friend.”

Phainon blinks and looks to the side.

“Ah, Lady Tribbie,” he apologies, “I was just thinking.”

The red-haired child smiles. “You know us?”

He blinks. No, he thinks. He’s heard of the triplets, yes, but he hasn’t actually seen them around. They don’t usually leave the upper part of the Holy City, and Phainon prefers to stay in the lower part. He keeps taking pictures of Dromas to send to Anaxa on the teleslate.

“Who could not know you, Lady Tribbie? I’m honoured you even speak to me.”

The child giggles. “Rene did mention how kind you are. Were you thinking of Kephale?”

“I,” Phainon starts, “a little. I was – thinking about the sun, really. I’m a little scared of Era Nova, if I’m being honest. Is it true that we will all be reborn?”

Tribbie nods, confidently. “Yes, we believe in it. And if not, then we will all meet again at the end of the westwind. We all have faith in our Deliverer. We will all see each other tomorrow.”

“Kephale will not forget this,” Phainon whispers, promising. He doesn’t  know why he says it. His head hurts. He just took some medicine, he shouldn’t have any ailing for at least three hours.

“Are you alright?”

Ah damn, he made her worry. He looks at her, smiling through gritted teeth.

“Yes, of course, don’t worry! I’m sorry, I just have a headache. Please don’t concern yourself with that, Lady Tribbie. I’m just – burnt out.”

No, he hadn’t meant to say that. He blinks. Close by, he can see a nymph pushing a boulder up the tree. It will get nowhere, and instead it will forever stay exactly as it is – waiting for someone to come from the outside, and lift the boulder from its shoulders. And then, when that happens – what worth were their struggles? What did they suffer for? All they endured will be forgotten; and in time, nobody will remember the little nymph that couldn’t.

His face contorts and he sinks to his knees, holding his head tight. He’s so hot. He hates the heat. He has no wishes of his own. He’s just always been Phainon.

“My existence is of little consequence.”

What is he, beyond this? What is he now? What has he been before? His only purpose – his only purpose has been to forever walk this path and now, that he’s reached the end – what’s left? Beyond the journey, what is he even? What is left, after everything else has burned away?

Golden eyes; and golden blood.

He cries, he thinks, but his tears never make it to the ground.

You only meant it sincerely in the first cycle.

You don’t have to continue down this path.

I want to grant you the gentle embrace of death.

You can’t lose sight of your humanity.

“Phainon!”

Cyrene doesn’t touch him. He wonders if she remembers, because he does. How, he doesn’t know. Did he die? Did he vanish? He’s still the same. He still doesn’t know – at the end of the first cycle, he still doesn’t know who walked away, whether it was Khaslana or Phainon; and in the end, it doesn’t even matter.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “I just remembered something. I think we don’t have much time left.”

“What – what do you mean?”

He looks at her, and then he drags his eyes to the Dawn Device. How many times has he tried to breach the centre, and how many times has he failed? But now the true Deliverer is here, and maybe he can still serve a purpose. If they fail – and they might – he can still reset the world. As long as he keeps introducing a big enough logical loop into the equation, it should be enough.

“I think I’m all burnt up.”

“Tell me, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae,” Anaxa asks, “in your mind, what lies beyond the sky?”

“Tomorrow,” Phainon answers without thinking and golden eyes bear down onto him, and golden blood flows if only for a second but it’s enough. It’s enough.  

“The new dawn,” Khaslana continues, and he stares up at the lie that is Kephale. Kephale will not forget this, because he will always remember.

“Deliverance.”