Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

From my sky you arrive to say goodbye

fine orvallo that you slowly bathe

the oaks that dress the mountains

of my land, and the corn of its vegas.

Pitying my dryness, you water

mountains and valleys, those of my entrails,

and with your mist you tarnish the horizon

of my fate, and thus in faith you drown me.

–De vuelta a casa, original (in Spanish) by Miguel de Unamuno.

In nearly a year, Amphoreus has grown from a ruined world that only recently started basking in the light of the countless stars of the real sky to a thriving promise of the future.

Aglaea spends the first hours of the morning gazing out at the spreading landscape of Okhema, taking note of all little details that still need fixing, that are still missing. The most glaring of all is, of course, the missing silhouette of Kephale in the distance, protecting them all under the light of the dawn upon their shoulders. The dawn has already arrived, though, and the dawn ended up being just another lie, the lock of the chains that bind them when Amphoreus was just a string of numbers.

She watches as Okhema greets another day, its people getting to work once again, together. Buildings are fixed, or maybe constructed from zero. Gardens are tended. Soldiers patrol and take care of any monsters foolish enough to approach their city. Messengers rush from place to place. Children play on the streets, their laughter high and loud.

And she can see all of this – maybe not perfectly, because some scars remain even in a perfect and real world, but well enough to realize that this is happening, that this is her (their) reality now.

Amphoreus is on the mend, striding forward every single day, unrelenting, determined to embrace the future they have fought so hard for. And thus, this means countless meetings, days and nights of hard work, nightmarish set-backs and stumbling relations between the people that have– pretty much returned to life. 

Though, not all of them have, and that only raises countless riots and numerous families knocking on their door, wailing and crying for their lost loved ones. It makes Aglaea’s heart twist, now – she still struggles with her emotions, every time. 

Sometimes these (new?) feelings feel muted, sometimes they feel like a Dromas running her over, sometimes she has to stop her newest project to breathe through the tears that flow down her cheeks without a clear reason. Sometimes she has the strange urge to laugh loudly, at Tribbie’s antics, at a cute chimera, at pranks from the children. She feels the emotions she didn’t feel in the past centuries bubbling past her lips, her eyes, her hands.

The first time she bursts out laughing when a hurried Garmentmaker tops over her tower of paperwork and then immediately after tears up, Tribbie looks at her with wide and worried eyes. She hesitates for a moment, unsure whether approaching Aglaea would help at all or if it would make matters worse, even as Aglaea herself rubs her eyes and chuckles still shake her shoulders. She doesn't miss the dichotomy of it and it almost makes her laugh again – oh, how she called Anaxagoras mad, back in the day, when she isn't any better herself.

In the end, Tribbie takes her hands with a teary smile that doesn't really help Aglaea reign in her own tears.

“Don't hesitate to feel again, Agy,” mutters her teacher, terribly gentle and patient with her, as always. 

It's only when Aglaea finishes her laughing-crying that she realizes that Tribbie's hands are also shaking.

Maybe they’re all trying to get used to this – this hope. She can’t blame Phainon, then. Somehow, this ‘after’ feels more difficult than the Flame-Chase itself, but maybe that’s because she’s done it so many times, it’s become easy for her to discard herself in favor of forging ahead.

But through the ‘after’, they all learn to live again. They all learn how to look to the future and accept that they will be a part of it.

Aglaea takes small sips of tea, standing alone at the Garden of Life, Okhema coming to life slowly beneath her perch. Their new sun peeks over the horizon, so bright it cannot be looked at directly. A new day of meetings and visits to the edge of the city awaits her, and yet, she can’t help but feel a spark of what could be expectancy itching under her skin. She tugs at her golden threads – still just as loyal as ever and just as useful now that Amphoreus is headed to a new future and enemies crawl from the shadows to once again mess their plans up – but she finds no changes. 

And yet, she just knows. Maybe today will be the day.

So, she goes about her duties, always ready to reach for her teleslate. And when her day ends and it comes the time to continue her newest project – a navy dress with gold that has been nagging at her mind for days, hands itching to find thread and needle and get to work – in her workshop, and when her teleslate finally pings– She smiles, unlocking her teleslate and reading the newest message in the Crysos Heirs groupchat.

Phainon is coming home, after more than half a year of traveling around the cosmos and – as far as she knows – bringing literal hell to the minions (and not only minions) of the Destruction.

Immediately, there is an explosion of excited messages and ideas and soon, Aglaea has been pelted by at least a dozen private messages from various Crysos Heirs in less than a minute, all of them asking her for permission to go ahead with the not-surprise party and a welcome committee when Phainon finally gets to Amphoreus and everyone asks her where he should land first and–

And Aglaea has to cover her mouth – maybe to keep her jaw from trembling, maybe to hide the wide smile on her face, maybe to try to contain the wave of emotions that washes over her.

Falling back to work is easy, so easy. Soon, she’s pushing her agenda around so she can be present at the Garden of Life a few days later, she sends a deeply-apologetic note to the new budding Council they have been working with lately, telling them that the Crysos Heirs will be unable to attend the appointed meeting. The nervous and overworked members write back to her with a million questions and worries, trying to figure out why their usually reliable co-leader of present Amphoreus could even think of leaving her duties aside – for a single morning, really? Aglaea scoffs at the parchment in her hands – and abandoning them with the mess, until Cerydra steps in and firmly shuts everyone up.

She feels young when the appointed time comes, days later. The Crysos Heirs gather at the Garden of Life, so early in the morning the sun is only just peeking over the distant horizon and gently pushing the stars off the sky.

Dawn embraces them as Hyacine and the Tribios fidget on their feet, as Castorice adjusts and readjusts her dress, as Cipher counts her coins and doesn't ignore her surroundings, as Anaxagoras’ eyes dance away in a futile attempt at seeming uninterested. Mydei, of course, stands firm in the middle, arms crossed on his chest, but his usual serious expression melts into something warm the more he looks out at the clear sky over their heads.

Even Cerydra and Hysilens hover by the edges of the garden, leaving them all space and yet too curious and interested to stand aside and lose the opportunity to properly meet the last of their golden-blooded companions.

Aglaea herself stands at the front of their little group, hands clasped in front of her, staring out at the sky over their heads.

It is when Cyrene finally appears at the specified time that something in the still dim sky moves – a flash, bright and short, and then a trail of golden flames streaking through the canvas of the sky.

“Ah, I came just in time,” comments Cyrene with a terribly knowing and almost sly smile on her face.

Aglaea follows the trail of fire with her eyes, unable to speak through the sudden knot of a myriad of emotions in her throat.

The Crysos Heirs stir, then, and soon, Tribbie is skipping forward and pointing and her sisters follow, grins wide. Even Anaxagoras has straightened up from where he’s been leaning against the wall, his single eye following the shooting star.

Said shooting star descends in a waterfall of fire and gold and soon Aglaea can finally make out the silhouette of long mismatched wings and a thorned halo and gold, so much gold, a distant part of her mind wonders if he’s been wrapped with her threads long before he could even touch the surface of their world.

Phainon lands on Amphorean soil more than half a year later, radiant in gold and power – and yet, Aglaea takes a step forward, steady and unafraid, and smiles warmly at this boy she’s seen grow up countless times, has seen shatter himself over and over again, has seen follow the path she had tried to bury in the past.

And Phainon– meets her eyes head-on, just as unafraid, without a hint of hesitation – so different to the last time she saw him, when he couldn’t even stand being in the same room as her, as them – and smiles. 

It pales in comparison to the ones he donned in the past, much more tired and old now, but still just as radiant and heartwarming as ever.

Something sparks in her chest, another emotion she can’t quite name after centuries of grinding her soul into nothing, after countless tragedies. But it still makes her feel warm, like the sunlight caressing her skin now that they have a real sun.

Aglaea opens her arms, a clear invitation.

Phainon doesn’t hesitate this time, either – he surges forward, leaving behind the gold of this divine form born from suffering, letting Destruction float away from his body like the wind, like a wave. When they meet, he’s that young boy again, white-haired, blue-eyed, with a great burden on his shoulders but strong enough to carry it, with a kind and warm heart beating away in his chest.

His arms clutch at her shoulders, her back, and Aglaea hugs him tight – and she surprises herself when she has to remind herself to be careful not to dig her long nails into his skin from how tightly she’s holding him. 

He’s warm, alive, and when she leans her head against his shoulder, she can smell ozone and something that can only be stardust clinging to him. Aglaea calls forth her threads and they wind lightly around his arms, his torso. She finds no injuries, no bruises, only a steady and strong furnace inside him, beating along with his heart. That’s good, she decides. When her hands brush over his cape and coat, she finds worn down cloth and frayed edges, and so she grimaces and frowns and makes a mental note to add another personal project to the list.

But for now– she sighs and closes her eyes.

“Welcome home,” she whispers, and she hopes that the warmth and fondness she feels in her chest pours into her voice.

It must have, because Phainon sighs and his shoulders relax and his grip tightens for a moment.

“I’m home,” he answers, another whisper.

They linger for a moment longer, before they both part slowly. Reality creeps back in and only then does Aglaea finally hear the loud and cheerful laughter that envelops them, the good-natured argument over a not-surprise party, the direct attempt of Tribbie to get Hysilens and Cerydra to approach the group.

Aglaea meets Phainon’s gaze and finds the usual warmth there, but also a glint of something terribly ancient. Her heart twists, as it’s wont to do lately, but she falls back with a small smile as she hears the familiar light steps of who can only be Cyrene.

“Glad to see you back, I was starting to get bored,” came her usual airy voice, tinted with fondness and clear relief. 

Aglaea turns away from them as they embrace tightly, whispering to each other like only life-long friends can, and crosses her arms at the clear disarray in the Garden. Trianne is, of course, dragging Hysilens closer to their group by the hand, which in turn makes Cerydra also gravitate towards them – and the group's loud argument over the best place to gather and spend time together until it’s time for lunch.

“We can stay here for now,” she says, cutting through the voices easily after years and years of public speaking. Immediately, there are various eyes on her. “I’ve already posted a few Garmentmakers at the entrances to the Garden. We will not be disturbed.”

“Classic Agy! Thinking of everything!” nods Tribbie, with a proud glint in her eye – and just like in the past, Aglaea’s heart soars at the clear praise and trust.

She sees Mydei approaching Phainon, then, direct like an arrow, and Cyrene skipping away from them with her hands behind her back, her long white gown floating in tune with her bell-like chuckles.

“Are there any chairs we can use?” asks Anaxagoras, predictable as always, because there’s no way he would sit on the grass like a child.

Aglaea, just as predictable – not that she would admit it – scoffs and moves her threads to jog a cluster of chairs left to the side, usually meant for informal meetings or for chimeras to sleep on. Soon, a few of the Crysos Heirs begin preparing the site, organizing the chairs around the Garden and moving a table to the middle, once again arguing over the fruits available. 

Aglaea leaves them to it, taking a moment to just – breathe and enjoy the peaceful atmosphere, the laughter, the wide smiles and grins and the way Hyacine, Castorice, Cipher and Tribbie and her sisters all ignore the chairs in favor of sitting on the grass like– children.

Phainon and Mydei return a few moments later, still stuck close to each other, and so Hyacine jumps up to hug him too, closely followed by a much shier Castorice, who even now is hesitant when touching people. Cerydra and Hysilens admit to not remembering much about him – seeing as he only associated himself with them in the earliest cycles – and nod in respect and Phainon follows their slightly awkward introductions and greetings with ease and a welcoming air around him. And yet, the group soon derails into a more relaxed conversation about the photos Phainon has sent them over the weeks, of planets Aglaea never imagined could exist, of astronomical phenomena her old and pragmatic mind couldn’t make sense of anymore, of wonders and a beauty that has finally inspired her to create with her own two hands again.

As Phainon gets swept away by the excited questions of the Crysos Heirs, Aglaea leans back and tries to brand this moment into her mind. Who would have thought that they would one day enjoy something as simple as this gathering of friends, of family? Era Nova came, after all.

(And yet, the scars they bear seem more poignant than ever under this new sun – Aglaea doesn’t need her threads to see the signs.

But– they heal. They recover. They continue on.

They live.)

When the sun is already climbing up the sky and Okhema has already awakened and rivers of people flow from one place to the other beneath their peaceful little Garden, Phainon sits in the middle of the messy circle they have created and leaves a bag in front of himself. And his lips twitch up, a hint of nervousness in his eyes.

“I think I’ve made you wait long enough,” he says, amused.

“Oh, you sure have,” grumbles Cipher, arms crossed on her chest where she’s sitting on the table instead of a chair or the grass now.

“Who wants to go first?” asks Hyacine, terribly amused, a glint in her eyes.

“Us, of course!” jumps Trianne, standing up and nearly tripping on her dress in her hurry. She’s saved by her sisters, who also rush to Phainon’s side and look at him with big eyes. Trianne raises a hand. “Gimme, gimme.”

“Okay, okay,” laughs Phainon, and it’s not like his old ones, it’s softer, maybe more tired, but the warmth is still as clear as the sun. “Here you go.”

And he gives them a wrapped up box, which disappears from his hands in less than a second. So does the wrapping, and the three redheads let out soft ‘ohh’s and ‘ahh’s and then they all tilt their head to the side, curiosity and confusion clear in their eyes.

“We’re very thankful for this, Snowy, but… what exactly is it?” asks Tribbie with a small nervous smile, hands fidgeting with the wrapping left abandoned on the ground. It’s clear that she doesn’t want to offend Phainon, after the trouble he went through to get them all presents from outside their world.

Phainon, of course, takes no offense to her question and just gets his teleslate out, typing something and, after a short pause, he shows them all a video of– people singing.

“It’s called a karaoke,” he explains, nodding to the video.

Immediately, the three Tribios’ eyes glint with excitement and they all lunge for the box, tearing it open and scattering the few accessories it contained on the grass, grabbing the thick booklet of instructions and – probably – the songs available for them to sing.

Aglaea leans forward in her seat, pulling at her threads, trying to get a peek at the unfamiliar names, but she only manages to read a few before she gives up. The excitement of the Tribios is infectious, though, and soon she’s smiling softly as the three demigods fight good-naturedly for the booklet. In the middle of all this chaos, Trinnon sneaks away for a moment to hug Phainon tightly, which only makes him huff a laugh, before he’s back to rummaging through his bag.

“Next– Lady Cipher,” he calls and Cipher perks up, ears twitching for a moment and tail swishing, before she huffs and snatches her gift away from his hand.

And yet, she opens the package carefully, with slow hands that sometimes hesitate. Phainon rolls his eyes, but he smiles and goes back to rummage through his bag, asking who would like to be next, effectively moving attention away from Cipher and her reaction – Aglaea knows she’ll be begrudgingly thankful for that. She still keeps an eye on her, anyway, and the way Cipher startles when she opens the small jewelry box and sees whatever is inside.

Cipher takes the delicate cat-paw-shaped pendant and ties it carefully around her own throat, opening the pendant once and humming to herself. It covers the void left behind by her destroyed old coin, now lost to the cycles and the no-longer-existing Titans of old. Aglaea hides a smile behind a hand, but she’s sure that Cipher has already caught her in the act; that’s fine.

Hyacine gets her own gift and she retreats to her seat, Castorice peeking at the two objects inside the wrapping: a polaroid photostone and an album, decorated with clouds and rainbows. Hyacine’s smile is wide and her eyes light as she caresses the pages and colorful rainbows with Ica perched on her shoulder.

“For all the photos we’ve made around the cosmos?” asks Hyacine, sending a knowing glance at Phainon.

“Or any new adventures and excursions?” asks Phainon, just as knowing, smile small but genuine.

Hyacine’s smile widens.

“We’ll see,” she says, simply. And then she takes out her teleslate, taking a photo of her new polaroid camera – probably to send it to their Express friends. “I’ll have to ask March for any advice on how to take the best photos, then.”

Phainon offers a gift to Anaxagoras next, and the professor huffs, maybe rolling his eyes as he stands up with crossed arms, but he does take it from his student’s hands and he does open it with a glint of curiosity in his gaze that turns considering and interested as he lays eyes on the notebook and pen carefully arranged inside the package.

“It’s a self-writing notebook. You only need to dictate what you want to write,” explains Phainon, and Aglaea stifles a laugh at how Anaxagoras’ eyes lit up like a kid with new toys – and then she pauses when a particularly worrisome chuckle leaves the Professor’s mouth. A chuckle that only means trouble.

Oh, well. This is the Grove’s mess, not hers. Maybe even Phainon’s too, seeing as he’s the one who gifted this miraculous notebook to Anaxagoras. He’s old enough to live up to his mistakes, after all.

The next gift is given with much care and it’s obvious why when Castorice slowly unwraps the gift and the few small flowerpots inside almost tumble to the ground. The three Tribios – still on the grass, arguing with each other about the songs they should look up to sing first – scramble up to grab the few that escape Castorice’s nervous hands and return them to her lap, where she stares at them for a moment, their beautiful and colorful flowers, so small, so delicate – and then she touches each of them carefully, still hesitant. 

The flowers don’t wither, and Castorice’s answering smile is brilliant like the morning sun over their heads.

“I’ll take good care of them,” she promises Phainon, a heaviness in her words that is felt by everyone.

Phainon nods with a small smile, perceptive and meaningful.

Then, Phainon takes out something delicate from an elegant box, and Aglaea’s breath hitches for a moment, because how…?

She accepts the delicate and utterly breathtaking headdress Phainon hands her, like an offering to the Titans of old, like a crown, and she gapes for a moment – only him could render her speechless with a simple gift. She gulps down the countless words that rise up in her throat and instead, touches the fine thread that keeps this little art piece together, the thin cascade of crystals that falls from one side. She stares at the midnight blue of the cloth that composes it and–

“How did you…?” she asks, a bit breathless.

“I remembered you working on a dress– gold and dark blue… ah, you know I’m not good with color names– I don’t even know if you have it now, I don’t remember in which cycles you made it or– or if you liked it, in the end, or if you simply discarded it, set fire to it? I hope it can still be used, anyway–” rambles Phainon, fidgeting with a worn sleeve, but Aglaea reaches out and stops him, grabbing his wrist and finally looking up from the headdress resting on her hands like a crown.

“It’s perfect, Phainon,” she says, trying to will all of the emotions that drown her in the best of days to pour into her words like ambrosia. “Thank you.” The answering smile is still small, but there’s a glint of relief in his old, old eyes. She curls up her lips, then, looking down at the headdress with a considering hum. “In fact… It has come at the perfect moment. With this, I expect my current project will be… completed.”

With that, she sits down again and leaves the headdress on her lap. Her fingers run through each individual crystal as Phainon moves away and gives a thick package to Mydei, obviously book-shaped, and for a moment, they all frown at the gift, but when Mydei tears the wrapping away, they all finally understand the vision: a recipe book, thick, full of the – allegedly – best recipes the cosmos has to offer.

“It’s also pretty heavy, so it’s a win-win,” comments Phainon, smiling wider now, eyes glinting with a hint of amusement and impishness.

Mydei half-ignores him, offering only a hum as he skims over the countless recipes the book offers. He does send a grateful smile at Phainon, though, and Phainon huffs a small laugh, before he returns to his bag and– pauses.

And then he very obviously tries to keep a laugh in, as he offers Cyrene a lumpy package.

Cyrene, for her part, makes a show of accepting it with a wide smile and a knowing and suspicious glint in her eyes and even a low bow at the waist, lifting a corner of her dress in an exaggerated curtsey. Phainon has to bite his lip to keep his laugh in, now, so all Crysos Heirs watch curiously as she unwraps the gift, painstakingly slow, until it reveals–

“What the hell is that?” asks Cipher, point-blank, confused and maybe even offended on Cyrene’s behalf.

Aglaea… has to agree, to some degree, because that’s the ugliest stuffed toy she’s ever seen, and she’s helped countless children over the ages make their own toys and plushies with the spare cloth from her workshop and seen their amateur creations time and time again – and some of them are better than whatever is in Cyrene’s hand.

And yet, she handles the scarecrow toy with great care. She smiles down at its mismatched eyes and crooked face, adjusts its half-open shirt, moves its uneven arms. And then she huffs out a laugh, looking up at Phainon, and it hits Aglaea then, how Cyrene's eyes glisten with unshed tears and a nostalgic shine difficult to overlook.

“You big buffoon,” she says, and her voice is a bit wobbly, even if amused and warm and fond. “I love it.”

And with that, she throws her arms over him, crushing him into a hug with a million unsaid words. Aglaea can’t even begin to understand or imagine the great weight over them, their past, their choices. 

It’s too big to say out loud, she thinks.

And yet, they are both strong – the strongest people Aglaea has ever known… They’ll be fine.

“Knew it,” huffs Phainon, and it’s clear in his voice that he’s smiling. “It’s still better than whatever monstrosities you created back in Aedes Elysiae.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know that my scarecrows were the best!” huffs Cyrene, pinching Phainon’s arm and getting a light swat that she evades easily in return. “They scared the birds– they did their job!”

“Traumatized the birds, more like,” came Phainon’s answer, full of mirth.

“Oh, shut up. You can ask Stelle – I made one in her image. She loved it. She has taste, not like you,” shoots back Cyrene.

Aglaea lets them to it, looking down at the headdress on her lap once again and smiling softly.

She missed this, she thinks. Or maybe– maybe they never even had it in the first place. For as long as she can remember, the sword of the Flame-Chase had been hovering over their heads, waiting for the perfect moment to fall and crush them, to make everything crumble away, to destroy their wishes and futures. First a simple Crysos Heir, following the tides, then a demigod with more responsibilities and a looming threat, then a leader clinging to her sword with a vague hope of a prophecy that rang true, that didn’t stomp all over their wishes and lives, that didn’t end in tragedy.

She looks around now, sees laughter and smiles and a peace they’ve fought so hard for, sacrificed so much for– and decides that it was worth it. It was all worth it.

And then– a pinch on her arm, like a bug-bite, and she jumps slightly and turns, threads ready, only to meet Anaxagoras’ calm single eye by her side. Anaxagoras arches an eyebrow at her, hands behind his back, but very clearly the culprit.

“Why?” she pretty much grumbles.

“Just thought you’d like a reminder that this is real,” he says, terribly calm and unbothered, with an accompanying shrug. She glares lightly, but he meets her eye anyway.

“I know that already,” she says, a bit petulant maybe, but this man has always managed to rip that annoyance from her stone heart and make her lips spit it out against him – the fact that they were so similar in the end only exacerbated it further, she feels like.

“Maybe. But it’s good to keep it in mind, anyway,” he says, still unbothered, but it’s also pointed. Knowing.

And so, Aglaea sighs and relaxes. She follows his gaze, finds the Tribios trying to set up their new karaoke with the help of Mydei, who squints at the instructions in his hand, finds Hyacine explaining to Castorice and Cipher the best way to get the flowers to grow big and healthy, finds Cerydra and Hysilens finally talking calmly with Phainon and Cyrene, their shoulders relaxed.

“It is difficult to believe,” she admits, soft, maybe too soft to be heard. But Anaxagoras, always in-tune with everything in their reality, still does.

“Do you need another pinch?” he asks, dry and yet amused. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

“Keep your hands to yourself, blasphemer,” she shoots back with a roll of her eyes. “My eyes don’t lie.”

Her heart doesn’t lie, either.

And so, she leans back on her chair, a hand on the headdress, and watches with a slight smile as the Crysos Heirs continue on with their lives, now all together, reunited. Alive.

Her teleslate rings and vibrates with countless unseen messages and calls, but she ignores it. This is more important.

Family is more important.

—

(That night, before she goes to bed and prepares for another harrowing day of wrangling the new Council to agree on an exact date for their impending meeting with the infamous IPC, she sneaks into her workshop with the headdress.

She finds her current project with ease, standing as it is in the middle of a chaos of chiffon and silk and patterns. The night blue dress almost melts into the darkness that hugs the corners of the room, the gold shines under the moonglow, and when Aglaea carefully places the headdress on the head of the mannequin and steps back to admire her work– she smiles, wide and relieved, hands on her hips and eyes glinting with the satisfaction that only a successful piece can shower her with.

“Perfect,” she mutters to herself, watching the light dance from crystal to crystal – a beautiful sea of stars on her wall, like the ones Amphoreus can now see and touch.)

Chapter Text

Being back in Amphoreus is… a lot, if Phainon is being honest. Which he tries to be, now, after everything is said and done.

Reuniting with the Crysos Heirs was freeing and welcomed, reminiscent of their eventual meeting on the Xianzhou Luofu what felt like a lifetime ago, and seeing Okhema finally shaking off the injuries from the chains of Irontomb and the Scepter’s nature itself is nice and relieving, but – as he thought – landing on Amphoreus again means that the memories he’s managed to push back in his mind have resurfaced like a predator chasing its prey.

And yet, it’s not as– bad as he expected. It definitely isn’t as bad as it was, back when everything was still too fresh in his mind, when he had to run away to avoid drowning in the past.

Sure, as soon as he enters his new room – because his old one was erased after resetting the cycles – he feels that now-familiar sense of displacement, as if he’s been plucked out from the hallway and plunged into the past. And yet… not, because the assortment of artifacts and trinkets he amassed in previous cycles are gone, the books he hoarded are nowhere to be seen, the wardrobe is empty.

(Aglaea invites him to her new workshop, now down by Okhema’s streets. A budding tailor shop, she says, with a glint of pride and excitement in her eyes that Phainon hasn’t seen in a long time. She will make him new clothes, she says, and Phainon can’t bring himself to refuse.)

Walking through Marmoreal Palace is like walking down memory lane. He wishes it would be something heart-warming and comforting, but it only makes him remember how these walls were once crumbled, how the sky past them was once red and cracked. The laughter warps and twists in his ears until all he can hear are screams and cries.

The streets of Okhema are similar in the sense that all he can see sometimes are the chaotic memories of countless apocalypses.

It’s– hard, looking past the dense memories his mind keeps showing him and seeing the true world he’s standing on. The distance from the numerous travels has helped him avoid drowning – now, he needs to let himself step into the water once again and keep himself afloat.

Fortunately, now that he’s renewed contact with all the Crysos Heirs, they help him in whatever way they can. It becomes uncommon to see him walking through the streets of Okhema alone; instead, he’s usually accompanied with at least one other Crysos Heir, who use the excuse of running errands to follow and guide him through the still-being-rebuilt city. It’s during one of these outings with Hyacine and Castorice that he’s pushed to go ahead and make his ‘new’ room his once again.

“I remember your room being full of trinkets left and right,” comments Hyacine, as they leave Theodoros’ antique store. She throws Phainon an amused smile that only grows when her eyes glance pointedly at the vase now in Phainon’s arms. “You have the money to recreate your old room, now.”

“If those trinkets still exist, that is,” he points out, arching an eyebrow. “A lot of things have probably changed during the cycles and the final recreation of Amphoreus – who knows, maybe some of those trinkets never even came to be.”

“Oh, that’s too pessimistic,” huffs Hyacine, but her smile is still amused.

“We’ll help you find them, anyway,” nods Castorice, determined, sticking close to their sides, seeking contact as much as she can get away with now. “And if some of them don’t exist anymore… well, we only need to find replacements.”

Soon, Phainon’s days fall into a loose routine, different from his months of wandering through the cosmos – but just as welcome, if he’s being honest. As nice as adventuring and taking commissions was, coming back home and resting felt just as nice. It made the homecoming all the sweeter.

Hyacine and Castorice – and sometimes, one or two of the Tribios ‘sisters’ – usually help him roam around the city in search of his past trinkets, visiting stores and stalls and usually ending up having lunch out by the markets.

(Phainon doesn’t have the heart to tell them that he doesn’t remember what most of those trinkets were, but something tells him that the other demigods don’t particularly mind – in fact, he’s pretty sure that it’s just an excuse to spend more time together and not become too obsessed with their own duties.)

He usually visits Aglaea’s workshop at least once every few days on her request, to make her job easier. And from what little he has seen of her work, he can’t help but feel a weight lifting off his chest at how… inspired and alive she looks now. Her workshop is overflowing with beautiful dresses and accessories, and the citizens of Okhema stop by and watch as her hands move expertly over the silk, sewing with golden and white and blue thread.

He sees the famous navy and gold dress displayed proudly on one side and he hides a smile when he sees his gift on top of the mannequin's head, proud and complete. Aglaea’s answer is to adjust his body so she doesn’t mess up the measurements and accidentally poke him with a pin.

(It reminds him of every time he arrived in Okhema as a small child, as a young adult, as another Crysos Heir with heavy expectations on his shoulders – too small, too young to carry the long cape Aglaea always adorned him with. He’d like to think he’s grown into it, now.)

—

“Hey, Deliverer boy,” calls Cipher one day, while he was staring blankly at the emptiness left behind by Kephale and the Dawn Device’s absence. He jumps, fire licking at his fingers for a moment, and he turns to her, glaring half-heartedly at her wide grin and terribly amused eyes. “Do you know any interesting planets where I can… you know, open up a business, if you know what I mean?”

And it surprises him, because Cipher usually keeps her distance from him – whether it’s because of his ties to Dolos’ fall or because of his image and relationship with Aglaea – and for her to ask him outright feels… odd. Not unwelcome, but odd nonetheless.

Still, he considers her question carefully. He doesn’t have anything against her, after all; he can see that they are somewhat kindred spirits, in a way. Then again, does he want to advise her on what planets to steal from? Really? Oh, well. It’s not like his image outside Amphoreus isn’t a mess already. It will be even more messy by the time the negotiations with outside forces start and conclude, but for now…

“I’ve heard that Edo Star has a pretty big presence of Elation Pathstriders,” he comments, slowly, giving himself enough time to backtrack – but why would he want to? He’s quite sure that Cipher would feel like home, there.

Cipher’s eyes shine, interested, and so, Phainon doesn’t flinch when she laughs under her breath and sprints off. 

He huffs out a slight laugh, too, and then frowns when something glints on the bench next to him. He tilts his head, reaches with a hand, and takes into his hand the glittery bracelet left behind, clearly from an older age, adorned with runes too old to make out. 

It's… familiar. He's quite sure he's had this very same bracelet in his collection in various cycles.

He smiles and, with a shake of his head, pockets the bracelet in his pocket.

—

It only takes him a few days to learn of Hysilens’ daily street performances, and so, when his wanderings take him close to the former Kephale plaza, he lingers close, as she sings softly and attracts all nearby citizens, like moths to a flame. He sees people from all over Amphoreus stop and watch and listen, and he sees how their tense shoulders relax, how they start to sway to the sound of Hysilens’ voice. It reminds him of the earlier cycles, though he can’t quite remember many details from them anyway – he only remembers feeling a glimmer of peace every time she sang, every time he let himself pause and enjoy something as simple as a siren song.

Today is one of those days, he thinks, leaning on the wall and crossing his arms as children hurry past him and gather in front of Hysilens as she hums with her eyes closed. Soon, those children are not the only spectators at the plaza.

And soon, there is another presence by his side, too close to be something unconscious, but too far away to be one of the Crysos Heirs he’s more familiar and close with.

“I need to know what your standing will be, when the time comes,” says Cerydra, as serious and firm as always, arms crossed on her chest, but expression light as she watches Hysilens sing away.

“You’re talking about the negotiations with the IPC or in general?” he asks, just in case, even though his standing wouldn’t really change much anyway. He doesn’t remember that much about his past collaborations with the Imperator, but he knows that Cerydra likes being prepared ten times over and more. If what she seeks is answers, he will gladly give them to her.

“Both,” she answers, predictably, chin up, but not glancing at him once. Phainon would say that she’s entranced by Hysilens’ song, were her lips not pressed tightly into a thin line and were her eyes not razor sharp.

“My standing won’t change: I’ll always be by Amphoreus' side, no matter how far my fight against the Anti-Matter Legion takes me,” he says, pointed, glancing at Cerydra. “If someone is daring and foolish enough to go against this world, I won’t hesitate to step in.”

Finally, Cerydra hums and turns to him with a swish of her skirt and hair. And yet, her crown doesn’t move on her head. Her eyes, sharp as a sword, rake over him shortly before she meets his eye – even all the way down at his elbow, she commands respect.

“You’re not staying for long, are you?” she says, terribly knowing and just as pointed as him.

“No. My battlefield is amongst the stars, not around a negotiation table,” he admits with a slightly bitter smile. Even if he wanted to stray from this bigger battlefield he’s willingly stepped into, he isn’t sure he would be able to. The Destruction still sings in his blood, the unfailing rage that has accompanied him for millions of cycles still beats in his chest like war drums.

Cerydra hums and turns back to Hysilens.

“Do the others know?” she asks, a bit uninterested at first glance, but heavy under the surface.

Phainon pauses for a moment, but then he huffs a sigh or a laugh, he can’t be sure.

“I haven’t told them outright, but… I’m quite sure that they know, anyway,” he says, thinking back to how the clothes Aglaea is making him follow the usual battle-style, with better armor, better padding, more comfortable and made for easier movement.

Cerydra falls silent for a moment, in which Hysilens takes a short break to drink water and accept requests from the flock of children that clamor for her attention. A finger taps at her arm, her eyes sharpen like blades, and Phainon can understand how this relentless Imperator managed to run circles around Lygus – or Zandar? – and dream of conquering the stars. Even if Amphoreus is just a budding new world, now, he has no doubt that, were Cerydra to focus on her old dream, she might just accomplish it in the end.

“I still expect you to be present at the first few meetings with the IPC,” she says, commanding, leaving no room for refusals or complaints.

Phainon thinks back to Aventurine’s calls, the slight and discreet pushing Phainon did for his associate to join Topaz in this new and promising project. He thinks back to how Aventurine eventually caved, too interested in this new world that would undoubtedly become something big in this conflict-afflicted cosmos.

He can’t quite stop an amused half-smile from appearing on his face.

“Wouldn’t dream of missing it,” he says, easily enough.

Cerydra only ‘humph’s and raises her nose, falling silent as Hysilens gets the children to quiet down so she can continue her performance.

When Phainon eventually leaves and retreats into his new-old room, he finds a suspicious pile of scrolls and books, with a note on top, written in a familiar scrawl, just as messy-looking and short as usual.

‘You’d do well to review the ‘official’ history of Amphoreus before the so-called visitors from beyond the skies come knocking on our door.

And if you’d be so kind as to note down as many differences as you can about how it compares to previous cycles–’

The last sentence cuts off into a messy knot and splatter of ink and he huffs a laugh, turning the note to – predictably – find another added paragraph written in a familiar neat handwriting and a messy drawing of a little pegasus.

‘Ignore the Professor. You know how his curiosity makes him forget how politeness and consideration work. You don’t need to do anything you don’t want to.’

He leaves the note on his desk and sits down on the bed, looking over the scrolls and books with interest and curiosity. He recognizes a few of them from his previous stays at the Grove and visits to the Library of Philia, but others he’s surprised to see he hasn’t read before. New products from the resets, he thinks, skimming over the texts and frowning at the different dates and events.

His fingers twitch for a moment – maybe he can note some things down, after all. Mostly for the benefit of his confused and messy memories and tired brain, if nothing else. And if Professor Anaxa wants to take a look at his disorderly notes, he won’t say no.

(He will, however, remind the Professor that these are technically his private notes and thus, he has no right to groan and complain about how messy his timelines are presented on paper and how a lot of the events he describes are lacking in detail.)

—

Even though Mydei and him did find time to see each other out in the vast universe, their meetings were few and far between. It was the only thing he hated about his travels out in the cosmos, apart from the homesickness that nagged at the back of his mind.

Usually, they met up in some corner of the universe – a floating bar in the middle of an asteroid belt, a half-abandoned planet, a tourist spaceship that wandered the stars. Mydei usually relayed on the Astral Express for transportation – which was helpful when Phainon decided to give his gifts to the members before they left Amphoreus for good – and when that option became unavailable, he found other ways: a visiting ship, a merchant ship, he even joked about getting one of the Luofu’s starskiffs, once.

They didn’t really have that much time together before Mydei had to leave again, but a short time was better than no time, so it worked. Mostly. It did help them strengthen their relationship, at least – make a good base for them to build upon, instead of the past swords stabbing into spines and crystals of blood against undying flames they both wanted to leave behind, forgotten.

Now that Phainon is back in Amphoreus, they grow even closer. They resume their past routines: the baths, the walks, the banter. 

All of them… but the sparring, which is glaring in its absence.

The Kremnoan warriors, who still remember in bits and pieces how much they sparred and trained together back in the day, frown and whisper between them when they see both Mydei and Phainon walk past the courtyard. For a moment, the noise of steel against steel and wood splintering stops – instead, the warriors stare after them, their gazes heavy on Phainon’s back.

“I thought going through the cycles and basically cannibalizing a newly-born Lord Ravager to become one yourself would have made you finally ignore every kind of rumor people could throw at your back,” says Mydei one day while they take a bath together, the sky a pale pink and orange, the sun descending slowly to welcome the night that hadn’t touched Okhema for centuries. Mydei’s voice is not accusing, only a bit confused and tired.

Phainon still sighs and closes his eyes, tilting his head up.

“They wouldn’t bother me if… the cause of the rumor wasn’t something that troubles me anyway,” he admits, a bit too much like a whisper.

“What do you mean?” Mydei leans forward, but he doesn’t touch him – Phainon is grateful. It’s become clear over the weeks and months, now, that his tolerance for touch is a game of chance, most times. Maybe he’d like it, maybe he’d jump away, maybe he’d even get startled enough to burn the skin of whoever tries to touch him – and that only makes things worse.

Phainon sighs again and this time rubs his eyes, effectively getting water all over his face.

“The thing is… I want to spar with you, Mydei. I want to, so bad,” he admits, and it pains him, how raw his voice sounds. When he opens his eyes and meets Mydei’s eyes, he finds no judgement there, however. Only understanding, an exasperated kind of fondness that is so very familiar to see. “I just don’t know if I can.”

“You can,” says Mydei, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. And it would be, if it wasn’t for–

“I mean I don’t know if I can spar with you without… freaking out over all the times we fought during the cycles. I don’t know if–” he cuts himself off, biting his lip and almost drawing blood. Mydei stops him, though, humming and moving to sit by his side.

“Do you want to kill me, Phainon?” he asks, terribly serious and yet unbothered, looking up at the scattered vestiges of the sky they can see through the ceiling of the bath house.

Phainon turns to him with wide eyes, heart skipping a beat.

“Of course not,” he breathes, almost offended.

Mydei arches his eyebrows, moves a hand pointedly and the movement splatters water around them – as if it was just that simple, that easy.

Phainon sighs once again, rolls his eyes hard enough to tilt his head to the side, and he wastes no time leveling an unimpressed stare at his partner, a grimace pulling at his lips.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” he points out, dry.

“I think you’re overthinking this too much,” answers Mydei, with another roll of his eyes. Mocking him.

Phainon frowns, slightly offended again, this time on his behalf.

“I don’t think you’re thinking this enough,” he shoots back, pinched.

Mydei slaps the surface of the water and the water predictably splashes over them – and into Phainon’s eyes.

He answers with retribution.

And soon, they’re tangled in a battle of water and tripping each other so they threaten to slam against the edges of the shallow pool.

“See?” says Mydei, when they both stop and climb out of the water, completely drenched, but with a weight off their shoulders. Phainon arches an eyebrow at him, and gets a pointed glance as an answer. “What’s the difference between this and a friendly spar?”

Phainon grimaces.

But the very next day, early in the morning, so early that no warrior – no matter how obsessed with battle – is present or even near the training grounds, Mydei stands in front of him and offers him a wooden broadsword, made for practice.

Phainon takes it slowly, hesitating for a moment before he wraps his fingers around the handle and moves it to his side like so many times before. It’s familiar, he thinks, even though the lightness of it throws him off enough to realize that this is not a serious battle – he’s wielding wood, not steel, not flames.

“First rule: no otherworldly forms,” says Mydei, raising a finger and looking at him pointedly.

Phainon’s answering grin is probably too weak and small to be called genuine, but he tries anyway. The wooden sword in his hand feels alien – too light, too feeble, too vulnerable. One simple swing and he’s sure the sword would fall apart. One tiny flame from his all-encompassing rage and it would be turned to ashes, a too-big torch that would fall apart before it could be passed down to anyone.

“What? Afraid you’d lose?” he asks, but it comes out half-hearted instead of the cockiness he showed back in the day, when everything seemed much more simple.

Mydei lets out a loud laugh, short and sweet, and the fire in his eyes is a welcomed sight – it means Mydei is not afraid of him, of what he can do, even when Phainon’s sword is once again turned against him. Or– no, not turned against him. This is not a fight to the death. This is a friendly spar. His sword is made of wood.

“No, I just don’t want to deal with explaining to Aglaea and Cerydra that this area is reduced to cinders because someone decided to cheat with a meteor in order to win a simple spar,” shoots Mydei, smirk fiery.

Phainon gasps in mock-outrage.

“I wouldn’t throw a meteor at you,” he says, even though he definitely threw more than one at him in countless cycles. He tries not to think about that. He– fails, but he tries again anyway until the memories are once again pushed back enough to be locked away for now.

Mydei, fortunately, doesn’t answer and instead, he takes a few steps back, into their usual posts.

“Second rule: we stop at first blood. Even if it’s a simple papercut,” says Mydei, and that– that’s good. Phainon lets out a discreet breath, feeling something unwind from his chest. First blood, even from a small cut. He can do that. Mydei shifts into his usual starting form, fists ready by his sides, legs apart. His eyes glint, that first wave of adrenaline and anticipation. He grins, wild and free. “Ready to lose?”

“Not a chance,” he shoots back, falling into his usual stance, easy as breathing.

And so, they fight.

It’s like a dance, if one were to dance with their fists and a wooden sword that splinters with every blow until there’s only the handle left. He takes another wooden sword, then. And then another. And another.

And warriors and soldiers slowly trickle into the training grounds, snapping to a stop as soon as they see the whirlwind of blows and the deep dents in the grass from their prolonged fight. They all pause, silent, and only a few of them even snap out of their staring to start their own training, instead of gaping at the two demigods.

Not that Mydei and Phainon notice at first; no, they remain immersed in their own fight. And yet, it’s light, it’s unserious, it’s– nice. Mydei pushes him back and Phainon pushes back in return and so they dance, like so many times in the past.

Phainon’s hands don’t unconsciously aim for Mydei’s back. 

His inner fire does lap at his throat sometimes, though. It does scream to be let out – to burn, burn, burn – but he only needs to take a moment to pause, a moment to breathe through the surging tides of Destruction that boil in his veins. A moment to calm down, to remind himself he's not in the middle of a battlefield, fighting against the foes he hates so much, against something that needs to be annihilated. It would put things into perspective – how tantalizing the Destructions is, how tightly he needs to keep his fire locked inside his chest, how violence is still branded into his soul after millions of cycles – if he let it bother him, that is. He already knew all of that. Making peace with it is still a work in progress, but he's accepted it, this new reality of his and what it means.

Mydei soon catches on and waits these tides out with him, taking the time to shoot pointed glances at their spectators and wave at them so they return to their own training and stop “gaping like idiots”. And these tides always flow away, almost disappointed that he can’t quite let loose, that he can’t sear everything around him and turn it to ash – but it’s fine, he thinks, taking sword after sword, their hilts too burnt to hold properly.

Most importantly: he sees no blood in his hands, he sees no corpses left abandoned on the ground, cold and bathed in gold. No, there’s just Mydei, standing in front of him with a satisfied smile that makes him glow under the sun and an offered hand in respect after a good fight. It’s only then that Phainon notices the movement around them, finally sees the numerous soldiers staring at them as if they were seeing gods themselves – and were they wrong? – and sees the pale colors of morning over their heads. How long have they been sparring? Long enough to get an audience, it seems.

He takes Mydei’s hand and tries to hide the flush of his cheeks as he realizes just how many warriors stare at them.

“Not bad, huh?” says Mydei, pointed and with a glint in his amber eyes that never fails to make Phainon’s heart skip a beat.

Phainon’s lips twitch into a small smile.

“No. Not bad at all,” he mutters, and tries to ignore the satisfied hum that Mydei lets out as they finally retreat from the training grounds and the almost star-struck stares of the soldiers.

“If you really want to throw meteors, we can always relocate to outside of Okhema,” mentions Mydei, and Phainon can’t help but wonder why he’s so fixated on those meteors that probably ended up– killing him at some point.

(No. Don’t think about that. He was doing so well.)

So, instead he lets out a shaky exhale and shakes his head.

“I don’t think Amphoreus is ready for that,” he says, and when he next looks up at Mydei, he finds him waiting for him further up the stairs, looking at him with something Phainon can’t quite get a read on. And then– he sighs, grabs Phainon’s hand and drags him up and behind him.

“Overthinker,” mutters Mydei, like one would utter an insult.

Phainon rolls his eyes.

“At least one of us should think,” he shoots back.

Mydei tries to trip him down the stairs.

—

“So? How long do you plan to stay in Amphoreus?” asks Aglaea one day, hands busy sewing a new skirt – pink and warm tones, like the dawn. She doesn’t even look up from her project, intent on making the most of the few remaining hours of daylight left in the day.

Phainon freezes before he can make it out of the workshop, caught off-guard. He carries his newly made clothes under an arm, all of them in the usual gold and white and blue colors Aglaea has always dressed him with – some things never change – but they almost fall from his grasp at Aglaea’s direct question.

Then again, he shouldn’t be surprised. Aglaea has always known him the best, hand in hand with Tribios and Mydei and Cyrene. And it’s not like the fact that this is just a temporary stay is a secret anyway – his friends are more perceptive than that.

Still…

“So you knew,” he says, turning and throwing a rueful smile at Aglaea. For a moment, he even feels like a kid again, caught red-handed.

Aglaea simply sniffs, finally leaning back from the skirt and looking at him with hazy eyes that still see right through him.

“Of course,” she says, a bit pointed. And then she arches an eyebrow at him. “After all, it’s not like you’re hiding it.”

“It wouldn’t really be fair to you,” he admits quietly, and he can’t help the small spark of self-consciousness that goes through his chest, the slight guilt he feels. He scratches his hair, like so many times in the past. Indeed, some things never change. “And… well, it’s not like I have a definite timeline.”

Aglaea hums, understanding, and looks down at her sewing, clicking her tongue at a particularly messy stitch – she rips it off carefully but firmly with experienced hands.

“You’ll stay until we have a preliminary deal with the IPC and other factions, though,” she says, and it’s not a question, so his smile grows and he huffs something that was once a laugh.

“Yes. I did promise, after all,” he nods, a bit pointed, but leaning more on amused than accusing.

“And after that?” asks Aglaea, terribly perceptive, as always. This time, she doesn’t look at him, and it reminds him of long afternoons sorting through paperwork and tedious conflicts with the Council, messy campaigns against the Black Tide and the shaky progress of the Flame-Chase journey.

Phainon thinks of being vague for all of one second – it would be easier on their minds, a part of his mind whispers, soft – but Aglaea doesn’t deserve empty white lies. None of them do.

And– it’s not like he’s running away, disappearing into the darkness of the cosmos. Not anymore. They would follow him again, no questions asked. And this time– he’s not about to drag them into his own mess.

“Have you ever heard of that saying? That it’s impossible to rip the battlefield out of a warrior after decades of fighting?” he says, soft and maybe even solemn – not that he was aiming for that, but he’s starting to understand that living and remembering most of millions of cycles often results in his words being tinted with an ancient weight difficult to bury under his old optimism.

“It’s Kremnoan, right?” Aglaea only glances at him, short and yet full of meaning.

Phainon nods easily.

“Mydei told me about it,” he explains shortly. 

There’s more to the story, of course: how Mydei looked at him right in the eye, in some hidden corner of the cosmos, and then glanced pointedly at the stardust on his coat, the golden liquid representing the blood of countless Anti-Matter Legion followers killed by his hand. Mydei sighed, then, not surprised, and then he spun a tale of a veteran Kremnoan warrior that ended a war, only to start another soon after, unable to bear the weight of peace. Phainon joked that he wasn’t starting anything that wasn’t already taking place; Mydei flicked his forehead with a finger and reminded him that there was a home waiting for his return.

(And who is really the overthinker here? Phainon thinks that Mydei is no better, sometimes. Terribly paranoid in some cases, too careless in others.

If anything, Phainon is only continuing the ‘war’ that he started half a year ago, when he decided to tear the sky asunder and confront Destruction itself.)

“So you will continue fighting?” asks Aglaea, and this time she does stop sewing. In fact, she leaves her new project on the table in front of her, careful and telegraphed, and stands up so she can face him properly.

“Yes,” he answers, simple and leaving no room for argument. Aglaea knows this – she lets out a long breath, unsurprised, and yet with a shine of worry in her eyes. He tilts his head, a smile pulling at his lips. “Do you not agree?”

“No, it’s not that.” Aglaea walks over to him, never letting him go from her sight. She’s shorter than him, and yet her presence is as heavy as always. “I just want to make sure that you’re sure.”

“I am,” he says, nods, and hopes that she can see the fire that has never gone out, the inferno raging in his heart – and yet, he keeps it tightly contained, honing it, letting it roar, until it can be unleashed again, unerring and lethal.

“Then I know from experience that no one would dare make you stray from this path,” she says, and it’s heavy and solemn, but the smile that forms in her lips is small and genuine and full of warmth. “Continue onwards, child. And blaze a path for those that dwell in the dark.”

Chapter Text

It takes them a week to talk about the troublesome Memokeepers.

There is just too much to talk about, reminisce about – their shared childhood, the confusing mess of the cycles and the final stretch until the fight with Irontomb, how daily life is now that Amphoreus has been turned into a real world, a real planet, with real people with real memories that Remembrance embraces tightly.

Cyrene has been busy, she says. The thing about the cycles is that there are a ton of contradicting memories associated with the same terms and events and people. Making all of these memories make sense for the normal people of Amphoreus was… a challenge, she admits with a tired expression.

“Turns out that only the Crysos Heirs can tolerate remembering various cycles at once,” she sighs, rubbing her eyes and then covering her face with her hands, half-hunched over the dinner table they share, and only avoiding getting her long hair into one of the dishes by pure luck. “So, I had to sort through the memories and organize them so the other people didn’t– I dunno, explode, maybe. Turn into giant ice creams, most likely.”

Phainon… can’t even begin to imagine the nightmare that was. He pushes a whole plate of strawberry cake to her, because he can’t really think of anything else that might cheer her up. Apologizing would probably make her mad, trying to make it up to her would make her use the card of ‘you lived through millions of cycles and burned yourself to a crisp’ and then he would have to use the ‘you died millions of times’ card and then they would get into a long and useless argument they have already gone over at least five times since Phainon returned to Amphoreus.

Try to cheer her up it is, he thinks.

“So… you know all the gossip now?” he asks, arching an eyebrow at her.

She looks at him through her fingers, eyes wide, and they are so mortified and horrified that Phainon has to bite his lip to keep himself from bursting out laughing and inevitably interrupting the musician’s performance on the other side of the restaurant.

“Don’t remind me… I know too much. I have seen too much…” she whispers, haunted, and Phainon hides his growing smile behind his glass of water.

“So, you’ve witnessed all the memories from everyone on Amphoreus?” he pokes her, once again, and arches his eyebrows.

Cyrene answers with a long groan and lowers her head to the table.

“Say, then – should we expect any weddings soon? Now that Amphoreus is on the mend, it’d be the best moment to celebrate, after all,” he rambles, watching as Cyrene hits her head on the table, before she snaps her head up and glares at him, unimpressed. He smiles innocently. “I’m just asking.”

“I hate you. You’re cruel. Bad, bad Lord Ravager,” she says, but her voice is too bland and sarcastic to be genuine. He’s never seen her actually pissed, and he hopes he never does. Stelle mentioned Cyrene being pretty scary when she wants to be, but– that’s not really surprising. Cyrene sighs and finally stabs her cake with her fork. “But– yes. We can probably expect weddings soon. Not because I’ve seen things,” she amends quickly after seeing his wide grin, “but because… well, people are happy now. There’s no more Black Tide, there’s no more conflict, we’re all… safe.”

And as she stuffs her face with cake, she looks around at the full tables, at the hurried cooks and waiters, at the cheerful musicians filling the little restaurant with dancing notes and songs that a good part of the customers sing along to. Phainon follows her gaze, too, feeling a familiar warmth in his chest – for as hard as it is to walk through Amphoreus without seeing what once was, it’s still comforting to see how far they’ve come and how far they’re now able to go.

“Was it worth it?” asks Cyrene, when they’re both ready to leave. They still linger, though, unwilling to part from this cheery atmosphere, full of life and music.

Phainon turns to her and finds her looking around with a small smile, chin on her hand, eyes full of life.

He takes a breath and watches as a group of friends climbs onto a table, only to topple it over in the process. The person in charge of the restaurant yells at them, face red and fists ready to punch them in the head at least once. People laugh loudly and cheer with their drinks.

There’s a lightness here that makes it easy to breathe, he thinks. And so–

“It was worth it,” he answers.

When he meets Cyrene’s gaze, her smile is wider, but unsurprised.

They tackle the troublesome matter of the Memokeepers when they can hide in the Marmoreal Palace’s halls, now empty of people, quiet and private. Not all Crysos Heirs know of the full threat of the Garden, just as most of them don’t know what the Lord Ravagers generally stand for. It’s better this way, thinks Phainon – at least for now. They can focus on Amphoreus, and Cyrene and him can focus on their respective problems. They could be too heavy for a new world, after all.

“I made sure to put a safeguard in place, when I used Fuli’s full attention to– well, to channel it through Stelle’s pen,” explains Cyrene, hands tapping restlessly on the handrail of her new private quarters. “It should be enough to keep Amphoreus from being tampered with, but… I worry, anyway. Amphoreus is still fragile, like a small fawn learning how to stand.”

“Would they attack up-front?” he asks, though he doubts it. The faction Cyrene speaks of seems too underhanded for a frontal attack, especially knowing that he would involve himself in the crossfire with no hesitation. It would be foolish of them – though, it would make it all much easier to deal with.

“Probably not, which is… a pain.” Cyrene’s answering smile is bitter and a bit annoyed. “Stelle has introduced me to a Memokeeper that seems to know a bit about the situation, and well, March – or Evernight? – has helped too, but… I suppose I’ll have to stop sitting on my ass so much and hurry to finish stabilizing Amphoreus once and for all.”

“I don’t think you’re sitting on your ass,” he shoots back, pointed, and when Cyrene opens her mouth, probably ready to refute him and lead him into an ever-cycling argument, he shakes his head. “You can’t make a fuss about me taking a ‘vacation’ and then go and beat yourself up over resting when you need to. No. Not happening.”

Cyrene crosses her arms, lips twisted into a slight grimace and glare.

“It’s not like you went on a true vacation,” she answers, just as pointed. “Did you, Mister I-became-a-merc?”

“That’s just a bonus,” he replies, but Cyrene sniffs and turns her head with a satisfied smile. Phainon lets her have it, though. This time. “Anyway, they won’t come for you now, right?”

“The Memokeepers? I hope they aren’t that stupid,” she grimaces, looking out to the dim silhouette of Okhema in the night. “Not because I outrank them, but because Amphoreus is starting negotiations soon– we’ll be allied with powerful factions from now on, if everything goes well. I don’t think they can touch us anymore.” And then she turns, looks at him pointedly. “Now, you, who will be outside of Amphoreus doing your own thing…”

“I’ve already dealt with one. It’s fine,” he says, before she can say more, but she shakes her head.

“You had the help of the dream. I worry that next time you won’t be so lucky,” she admits, and her smile is dry and rueful, but Phainon knows her well enough by now to see that she won’t let this go so easily. “The mind is fragile, Phainon. Memories… they are like glass. A simple hit and they can shatter oh-so-easily. And you… well, you have a lot of memories.”

Phainon wouldn’t argue with that. He can’t, really. He knows how to pick his battles.

“So? What’s your plan?” asks Phainon, crossing his arms.

Cyrene taps a finger on her chin, thoughtful, and then her eyes lit up and a wide and amused smile appears on her face.

“Say… do you still have that card I gave you in the dream?” she asks, making a motion with her hand, asking for it.

“Ah… yes, I do. I haven’t done anything with it yet, though,” he admits easily enough, taking it out from an inside pocket of his coat and handing it to Cyrene. 

As soon as the card touches her cold fingers, it wavers in reality. Something, something, Memoria, he remembers her explaining to him when he returned to Amphoreus, though he doesn’t quite understand it entirely. She squints at the card and swipes a thumb over it – ice follows her touch.

The next time Cyrene looks up at him, she grins.

“I think it’s time to get a bit creative,” she says, terribly amused, and Phainon leans back a bit, unsure. “And what better way to do it… but with friends?”

—

Cyrene tells him to seek out the Crysos Heirs he’s the closest to and ask for a material they like or that represents them to add to the card.

Phainon tries to tell her that, if they do that, it will look just like the handmade projects kids do in school, but she just pushes him away with a grin and tells him that she will handle it.

So, here he is, fidgeting with his card as Mydei frowns at the wall and taps a finger on his arm, lost in thought.

“I can come later, if you want,” says Phainon, smiling a bit helplessly. “I know this is a pretty strange question…”

“Cyrene asked you to, didn’t she?” asks Mydei, just as perceptive as always. Phainon nods. Mydei sighs. “Figures. Give me a day. I’ll think of something.”

Phainon gets out of his hair before Mydei predictably offers his blood or something similar – he probably thought of that as soon as Phainon asked him and only held his tongue because he imagined Phainon’s probable less-than-stellar reaction.

He goes to Castorice next, if only because she at least has a lot of experience with handmade crafts. He finds her at the gardens, sitting among flowers – and it’s still such a nice sight, to see her so comfortable surrounded by life and color. She smiles up at him as soon as she catches sight of him and approaches with curiosity as soon as she sees the blank card in his hands.

“Something that represents… me?” repeats Castorice, blinking in surprise.

“Yes,” he nods with a dry smile, because he can’t exactly explain why he needs something like that, other than it’s Cyrene’s as-always cryptid idea.

Castorice doesn’t ask, though. Instead, she taps her chin, eyes roving over the colorful flowers around them, and for a moment Phainon wonders if she’ll just give him a bouquet of flowers and call it a day – it would represent Castorice, after all. A beautiful flower field, where the dead can rest easy…

He shakes his head, pushes the very unwelcomed memories away, and follows Castorice through the garden as she hums under her breath.

“I think I have an idea, but… can you let me think it over some more?” she asks, turning to him with a glint in her eyes.

“Ah, of course. It’s not like this is something urgent, anyway,” he says, easily enough. 

After all, the completion of this card is probably related to his inevitable leave from Amphoreus. He has ideas about what this little card could do, after Cyrene has used her ‘magic touch’, but they are just that – ideas.

So, he finds the few Crysos Heirs still in Okhema and sends short texts to those out of town like Anaxa and Hyacine, who have decided to move back to the Grove to aid in the rebuilding there too. Hyacine responds almost immediately, always keeping a close eye on her teleslate, just in case. Professor Anaxa leaves his message unread until the next day, responding only with an absent-minded thumbs-up.

And so, the matter of his little divination card gets pushed to the back of his mind as he teams up with Cerydra, Aglaea and Cyrene to figure out how they can get the upper hand during the negotiations that loom over them all more and more as the days pass and the date for the first meeting gets uncomfortably close. Soon, it’s like the old days – mornings full of Council meetings, talking in circles and arguments left and right, afternoons full of paperwork and long talks with Cerydra about how other planets are treated and their relationship with the IPC, courtesy of Phainon’s travels.

He’s reminded of his uncommon request a few days later, when he finds a small glass jar full of red crystals on his table after another long meeting with the Council. He frowns and picks up the jar and– yes, those are definitely Mydei’s.

Still frowning at the crystals, he takes out his teleslate to type out a message for the man himself. 

Phainon blinks and– ah. Right.

He eyes the crystals again, how the light bounces off the smooth surface, too dark to be real crystalised blood, but red enough to remind him of Mydei’s clothes, of the red-ish tint to his hair. And so, he huffs and shakes his head, and places the jar next to the card itself. At least, he muses quietly to himself, Mydei hasn’t decided to give him his blood – Phainon would have thrown it to his face, then, and probably yell at him and try to hide the shaking of his hands with a loud ‘gross!’.

He finds a similar offering the next day in the form of a small bag full of dry flower petals. He– doesn’t quite grimace, but he seeks out Castorice later and looks her in the eye anyway.

“Are you sure?” he asks, serious and heavy, showing her the bag of dry petals, all of them in dim yellow and blue.

“Yes, Phainon,” she smiles, gentle, so gentle. “Though my touch no longer brings death to all… I am still close to it. This is fine.”

Phainon keeps her gaze for a moment longer, before he sighs softly and nods.

The next ones to approach him are, of course, the three Tribios. They hurry to him while he’s definitely not hiding from the loud Council members at one of the balconies of Marmoreal Palace. Trianne steals some grapes from his table, Trinnon remains by the door and Tribbie places three white flowers made from cloth in front of him with a wide and proud smile.

“For the card?” he asks, already smiling softly. He picks up the flowers, caresses their petals and the small azure gem in the middle of each.

“Yep!” nods Tribbie, hands on her hips.

“Reney also told us to–” says Trianne, mouth a bit too full to pronounce all words correctly, but Tribbie and Trinnon jump to close her mouth. This almost makes her choke, and Phainon leans forward, concern sparking in his chest, before the two ‘sisters’ grab Trianne and drag her back with nervous smiles.

“Don’t mind her, she’s just… She’s working with her on something for… Agy! Yeah!” Tribbie grins widely at him once more, before they all rush away from his hiding spot, leaving him confused and frowning.

His suspicion grows when, while waiting for Mydei to show up so they can go have dinner at one of the recently opened restaurants – that was one of their favorites in many of the cycles – he sees the man himself parting ways with a terribly cheerful Cyrene, who only waves at him before scurrying away. Like a mischievous child. Like a childhood friend with too many secrets. 

He arches an eyebrow at Mydei and gets an unimpressed stare as an answer.

“What were you two doing together?” he asks, curious and suspicious.

“Talking. Can’t I talk with her?” answers Mydei, as dry as the desert.

“Of course you can talk with her, it’s just–” He frowns, a bit chagrined at not really knowing how to explain himself. “I know her. She’s up to something.”

“Are you jealous?” shoots back Mydei, just as dry as before.

Phainon turns to him with an even deeper frown, feeling offense roar in his chest.

“Wha–? No! Why would I be?” he asks, but Mydei keeps staring at him with an eyebrow that ever so slowly climbs up his forehead. Phainon huffs and shakes his head. “It’s just– you know how, when you’ve known someone for a long time, you kind of know when they’re up to something?”

“Yes.” And Mydei keeps staring at him, pointedly, obviously turning his own words against him.

Phainon would take offense to that any other day, but not when Cyrene is acting even more cryptid than usual – and tangling the other Crysos Heirs into her schemes, too. No one can dangle a puzzle as interesting as that in front of his face and expect him not to try to get to the bottom of it.

So, he turns to Mydei, eyes ablaze with determination and smiles as charmingly as he can – which isn’t much by his old standards, but it’ll have to do – and then pokes him on the arm.

“Can you tell me what she’s plotting?” he asks, point-blank, because he knows better than to try other strategies with Mydei.

“No,” is the cutting answer, and Mydei starts walking down the street, nodding to the few Kremnoans that still roam around Okhema and that still show him the respect he deserves, even if he’s no longer a prince or a king.

“C’mon… I’ll pay for dinner,” he tries again, with an amused smile.

“I can pay for my own dinner,” answers Mydei, dry.

“I’ll… spar with you double,” offers Phainon, and he already knows that if this doesn’t work, nothing else will.

It makes Mydei pause for a few long seconds, in which Phainon almost feels hopeful, but then Mydei shakes his head and Phainon’s shoulders drop.

“No,” is Mydei’s final answer – as expected.

Phainon huffs, disappointed but not really surprised.

“I’ll get to the bottom of it, anyway,” he points out, and that finally makes Mydei huff out a laugh.

“Of course you will,” he says, and it’s fond and warm, and yet, his next smirk is infuriating. “But until then… It’s amusing seeing you lose your mind over it.”

Phainon takes advantage of the fact that Mydei is paying for dinner today to order the most expensive dishes in the restaurant as revenge.

—

A few days later, he finds himself at the Grove at Hyacine’s request. 

The trip there is no trouble, especially since he can now get there in just a few minutes, thanks to his wings. People stop and stare and even point at him as he flies close, eyes wide and whispering under their breath. After months of going mostly incognito around the universe, suddenly returning to being the centre of attention is… strange, but he finds that he’s gotten used to it again pretty easily. So, he only nods – maybe a bit awkwardly – at the small crowd that has stilled by the main path to the Courtyard and pretty much scurries off before anyone can actually stop him and try to get information out of him.

Hyacine smiles as soon as she catches sight of him loitering by the entrance to her newly rebuilt Twilight Courtyard. Her eyes are proud as she walks to him and gestures around at the colorful flowers and vines hugging the walls and the countless notebooks and notes she still keeps around from her trip beyond the sky – last he knew, she’s been studying them meticulously and updating her own logs.

“So? What do you think? Is it still as you remember?” she says, and while the question could be loaded, her eyes are light and relaxed.

Phainon still looks around again, humming, and then he shrugs with a wry smile.

“The Courtyard usually changed a lot between cycles, so… I couldn’t say,” he admits, after a very short and quick poke at the mess of memories at the back of his mind. 

Even months after the True Era Nova, there’s something he hasn’t dealt with – doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to deal with it, if he’s being honest. He could always ask Cyrene to help him, maybe even the cheerful March herself, but… he’s not sure he feels ready for that, even now. He only hopes that the nest of dark memories won’t explode, or jump at him like a ravenous beast and swallow him whole.

“Mm, well. I’ll do my best to make it special, anyway,” chirps Hyacine, clearly in a good mood, and she gestures for him to follow her to a small table to the side. “So, about your little request… This was Little Ica’s idea.”

She waves to a small glass full of medicinal plants. When he takes it, a strong scent of various plants assaults his nose, but– it’s not uncomfortable. No, in fact– it smells just like the Courtyard itself.

He turns to Hyacine, eyes wide with surprise, and she laughs softly.

“How did you manage to…?” he asks, impressed. He takes another sniff of the glass and then sniffs the air again and– yes, it’s exactly the same scent: fresh, with a hint of sweetness, clean.

“How did we manage to get the scent just right? Well… let’s just say, the other healers are a bit tired of going along with my experiments,” she explains with a small and innocent smile that reminds Phainon a bit too much of the ones Professor Anaxa offered when someone asked him about the suspicious explosions coming from his laboratory – a bit too wide, with a manic glint in their eyes.

Phainon smiles slightly at that and carefully stuffs the medicinal plants in a glass container that soon goes into his bag. Little Ica does sniff at it, and so Phainon huffs a soft laugh and offers the little pegasus the small snack he pocketed, just in case. Hyacine shakes her head, amused.

“Where’s Professor Anaxa?” he asks, looking back up to the sacred tree – intact, with no signs of any explosions. Good. Let the Grove stay intact for at least a few weeks.

“Ah, you know how it is. He’s probably passed out in his laboratory,” and Hyacine shakes her head again with a helpless smile.

“Should I… prepare myself for whatever he’s made? Is it over the top?” he asks, half joking and half serious. When he told Professor Anaxa of Cyrene’s request, he did so with a lot of doubts at the back of his mind. He only hopes the Professor didn’t create any… fallacies.

“I… honestly don’t know,” admits Hyacine, frowning slightly. That isn’t really comforting, and she definitely knows this from the way she smiles at him, rueful. “I’ve been busy with the Courtyard these days. But, if it eases your mind, I haven’t heard a peep from any explosions.”

“Well, that’s better than usual, at least,” he says, and even though his smile is still wry, his voice is amused.

When he knocks on the Professor’s door, he gets a muffled answer. He has to almost slam his entire body onto the door to open it and push away the tilted cupboard that was pressed against it. And then, he has to cover his nose and mouth from the heavy scent in the air – dense, sticky, not disgusting, but uncomfortable enough to make him reluctant to breathe it in.

“Professor? What…?” he asks, but then he rounds the corner and sees said Professor standing proudly over his workbench, a wide smirk on his face and a glint in his eye that Phainon knows to avoid.

There’s a vial of a green and blue liquid on the table, with gold specks, almost glowing. Phainon eyes it, cautious and suspicious.

“It’s ready,” announces Professor Anaxa, proud, and then he takes the vial and shows it to Phainon, who takes a step back on reflex.

“Is that…?” he asks, but he soon gets lost in the swirling gold, the deep green mixed in, the blue, so similar to glitter and gold and silver and–

“Your request,” nods Professor Anaxa, and then he gestures to it like how a mad scientist would show their greatest creation, before it inevitably destroyed the world. “I recreated what my soul–”

“Your soul?” chokes Phainon, and he turns his wide eyes to his Professor, heart skipping a beat, reaching with a hand to shake his shoulders– and thinking better of it as soon as he remembers that the Professor has the vial containing (part of?) his soul still in his hand. “I can’t– You can’t just give me that, you don’t even know what I need it for, I can’t accept it–”

“Fool, let me finish,” snaps Professor Anaxa, waving the vial in the air, and Phainon watches with a stilted breath how the liquid moves precariously close to the open top. “I said, I recreated what my soul looks like in liquid form. It’s not actually my soul, just a physical representation of it.” And then he looks at Phainon with something similar to disappointment and annoyance in his only eye and Phainon can’t help but look down for a moment, like a chastised student that has answered their Professor’s question wrong. “I would never be so foolish as to give you a piece of my soul for whatever arts-and-crafts project you have in your hands.”

“Debatable,” mutters Phainon under his breath, and gets a glare for his trouble. Still, when he reaches out to take the vial, Professor Anaxa gives it to him with only a soft huff. Phainon looks at the liquid again, mesmerized by the ever-changing colors. “How do you know what color your soul is?”

“I did experiment with it, did I not?” says Professor Anaxa, like it was the most common thing in the world. He starts tidying his messy table – not much, though, it’s always been a mess – and then he looks back at Phainon with an arched eyebrow. “I don’t know what Cyrene’s idea is, but if it’s related to you, wouldn’t it have been better to ask you for something that represents you? Or at least, something that we all think represents you?”

“You should ask Cyrene that,” he shrugs, unbothered. He trusts Cyrene, after all. He does wonder what she’s planning, though, and he’s already given it much thought – for all the good it did. He’s no Memokeeper. He has no idea what she’s truly capable of doing, if she puts her mind to it. He watches the glass some more and then hums. “Hey, Professor? What do you think my soul looks like?”

Professor Anaxa huffs, as if it’s obvious. Phainon frowns at him, but Professor Anaxa has already turned away to glare at a lopsided cupboard, books scattered throughout the floor.

“Of course, it’d be pure gold,” he says, absentmindedly.

“Like Destruction,” says Phainon, a wry smile on his face, a small spark of bitterness in his chest.

Professor Anaxa’s glare is sharp as he looks at Phainon over his shoulder.

“No, Phainon. Like the sun,” he points out.

That makes Phainon’s lips twitch, lifts some of the weight from his chest. He can’t quite agree with the Professor, though, but he supposes his opinion is null, because he has no other color to attribute to his own soul.

(He would say white, but… white is too pure a color for him, isn’t it?)

—

Aglaea gives him an embroidered piece of weave cotton the next time he swings by her workshop to pick up a pair of bracers she insisted on making for him. He stares at the delicate embroidered flowers and vines on the cloth, so reminiscent of the ones that once adorned his sleeves, and meets her gaze – she smiles, a knowing glint in her eye, and so, he smiles back with a small huff of laughter.

He looks over his little collection back at his room. Dry flowers, medicinal plants, hand-made flowers, red crystals– and then he pauses at the small collection of golden coins, bordered with copper – not the most expensive coins he’s ever seen. Quite… cheap, really. It makes a bitter smile appear on his face and he shakes his head. He adds them to the pile, anyway, on top of Aglaea’s embroidered cloth and Professor Anaxa’s glittery liquid

He shoots a quick text to Cyrene, who soon responds with a cheerful reply.

He tries to figure out what all these things could be used for, but he can only guess that they could be added to the card in some way. Maybe small details, like a collage of little reminders of his most precious people. But if that’s the case, why so secretive, sneaking around with Mydei– and maybe with the others too?

“Don’t think too hard, there. Your head will explode,” comes Cyrene’s amused voice, and Phainon levels an unimpressed stare at her.

“I wouldn’t have to, if you were more forthcoming,” he points out, gesturing to her with his card.

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” she laughs. She stops by his side and nods at his little collection, satisfied. “These will do nicely. So– let’s get to work?”

“How?” he asks, arching an eyebrow at her. “Are we going to make… a collage? Like kids?”

“I think that would be a mess,” admits Cyrene, easily enough. Instead, she takes his card carefully from his hands and lets her icy power spread over it. “No, let’s do it in a more elegant way.”

She keeps the card close to her as she touches all the little trinkets on the table – and he watches, curious and maybe even a bit impressed as they all turn into memory crystals that then flow into the card and– every object turns into one of the rays of a sun, a…

A dawn.

Phainon huffs what could be called a laugh when the realization hits him, shaking his head. Cyrene’s smile only grows, too focused on her self-impossed task to poke at him further.

And so, the simple card comes to life in a myriad of colors: each ray of sunlight a different color, with different motifs woven into the surface – white flowers, wilted petals, blue-green glitter, golden embroidery, green plants, red crystals, metallic coins. If Phainon looks closer, the land now embraced by the sun rays is too similar to Aedes Elysiae’s golden wheat fields to be a coincidence.

And yet, the sun itself, peeking from the gentle waves of wheat and crooked trees, remains without color or form. The rays still embrace it, like a multicolored crown, open wide like a fan of dreams.

It leaves Phainon almost breathless, speechless, eyes unable to look away from this precious gift that Cyrene is now offering him with careful hands. He takes it, reverently, as if this simple card is an ancient relic that could crumble to dust in his destructive hands. It doesn’t, of course – it’s warm, like recently-baked bread, like a hand on his shoulder, like…

Like new clothes made with his measures in mind, like gentle hands piecing his body back together, like soft words and a listening ear, like questions meant to guide him forward, like mischievous fingers tapping his shoulder and disappearing with a laugh, like loud laughter and a door always open, like… like fierce eyes and a firm back and a never-faltering heartbeat and hands that can hurt but that are always so gentle and careful when holding him–

“Ah,” he breathes, and it finally hits him. “These are…”

“Just as you asked everyone for a token that represents them… I asked everyone for their warmest memories they had with you,” explains Cyrene, an amused tilt to her voice, hands on her hips and a proud glint in her eyes as she watches her newest creation. The almost-solemn air between them shatters when she sticks her tongue out at him briefly. “You never had a chance, Khas.”

Phainon only sniffs, like he’s seen countless nobles do in the past. Still, he moves the card in his hands this way and that, admiring these little pieces that make up his world, the little reminders – he already knows that this card will turn into his most precious reminder when he goes out into the cosmos again, leaving Amphoreus behind.

“You won’t put your own mark here, then?” he asks, a bit jokingly, but also curious. The card’s sky is already covered by the other colors – and he feels a bit bad about not having been able to get Stelle and Dan Heng’s tokens, far away as they are in their next adventure – so, there’s not much space left for Cyrene’s…

“Of course I will,” she nods, and then she moves a hand– and a crystalline figure steps up to her, shorter, younger, but very clearly her, and deposits a thin and delicate-looking mirror in Cyrene’s hand. “I have the center piece.”

And with that, she fuses said mirror into the card. This time, it doesn’t turn into a sunray – no, it turns into the peeking half-sun over the horizon. For a moment, it reflects Cyrene’s wide grin and proud eyes, before she turns the card and so, the sun turns into– his eyes.

He lets out a soft sigh, and his smile is small and tired, but he thinks he understands what his oldest friend is trying to get at – what she’s trying to do.

It is supposed to be his card, isn’t it?

What better way to make it his than… a literal mirror that would reflect him as he is, surrounded by his closest companions that would always guide him back home, into their gentle and welcoming embrace?

Phainon hugs Cyrene, then, and even now, after months of knowing that Amphoreus is already safe, already real and free from its fated tragedy, it still feels surreal to be able to wrap his arms around her, hear her tilting laugh.

“You didn’t need to go this far,” he mutters, feeling a bit undeserving.

“Oh, but I did,” nods Cyrene, firmer than he feels – and she’s always been like that. “I don’t trust the Garden at all. And you’re going off again, to fight and to protect everyone. I have to do my part, too.”

He’s almost ready to complain, to drag this out, but– what use would that be? Mydei has been nagging at him to accept their help more, to lean on them for once instead of bearing it all on his shoulders – there’s no more Kephale, Mydei has reminded him on various occasions now.

So, he sighs and lets his shoulders relax.

“I understand,” he says, soft.

He steps away from the embrace and raises the card – and comes face to face with himself, with his tired eyes that still hold a raging fire behind them, with the small smile that never quite gets to shine as bright as his old ones– but it’s alright.

The multicolored sun rays surround him like a protective barrier, like a lighthouse in the darkness of a stormy sea.

Cyrene pokes him in the arm, a spark of doubt in her eyes and a dimmed smile on her face.

“When you leave Amphoreus again… you’ll come back, right?” she asks, nearly a whisper.

“Of course,” nods Phainon. Promises, more like. He waves his new card in the air, and his smile grows. “After all, I now have this card to guide me back home.”

—

That night, Mydei smirks at him as they finish off their dinner.

“You lost, didn’t you?” he asks, smug and amused.

Phainon sniffs again.

“How could I have known?” he complains, not really serious.

“I don’t know. How could you?” shoots back Mydei, pointed.

Phainon punches Mydei’s spoon, left on his plate, and so it twists in the air and launches a polished bone off the plate and straight towards Mydei’s face. Unfortunately, Mydei dodges at the last moment, and so Phainon clicks his tongue, not really disappointed, but amused.

“We do hope it helps you, though,” comments Mydei, when they have both taken revenge once and twice and finally settle back down on their table, listening once again to the new musicians playing at the back of the restaurant – peace inspires people to create, to share, to celebrate, and so, many new artists and musicians have appeared from under ruins and tragedies, willing to sing to the skies and stomp on the ground. “We hope it can protect you out there, where we can’t reach you.”

Where I can’t reach you, he doesn’t say, and yet, it’s as loud as the people belting out out-of-tune songs.

Phainon smiles and his hand seeks out the card he always keeps in his pocket now – it always emits a warmth that reminds him of home, of gentle hands and soft laughter and relief and unity in the face of tragedy.

“I’m sure it will,” he says.

He promises.