Chapter Text
The rumbling of the carriage down the desert’s gravelly roads hinders Phainon from slumber. Restlessly, for possibly the sixth time in the past minute, he shifts uncomfortably against the grain of the floor to relieve his back. His perturbed movements disturb other passengers he’s sharing the ride with; one man sniffs and closes his fists, as if he were to halt Phainon’s fidgety movements himself. He looks Phainon up and down, distaste pinching the edges of his sunken face. The man turns to his riding partner with a frown, gaze lowered at Phainon as he speaks.
“The Capitol is generous, taking in folks from all over the sticks,” he mumbles. “Letting low lives snatch our living from under our noses.”
His partner, eyes closed and legs crossed, doesn’t look up as he speaks. “That’s cause the Capitol doesn’t discriminate – or rather, that’s all they do. Folks like him and us all fall under the same group.”
The man grunts and settles back into a slouch, not before eyeing Phainon down with an irate glare.
Phainon lets the words wash over him as his picks at the dried blood under his nails. They’ve long since become muddied by dirt and other debris, alongside the dark stains on his tunic. His sword, rested behind his back, is possibly the only thing he’s kept clean, and reflects his hollow eyes when he peers at the blade.
As he inspects his sword, instinct beckons him to look up, and he meets the green eyes of a woman sitting in front of him. Her gaze is unblinking. When Phainon catches her staring, she doesn’t shy away. Her green irises, murky pools of gold and teal, seem to sink him in once snared. Irrationally, he feels as if she’s seen through him, and his hands without thought move to his blade. The woman doesn’t flinch, unwavering as the warm breeze stirs her golden hair, her body concealed underneath the pure white cloak draped over her shoulders. Unnerved, he shuffles to move away, before he understands why her gaze is clouded. Humiliation darkens his cheeks. He suddenly feels quite foolish for getting worked up at a blind woman’s gaze.
Phainon sighs internally. Perhaps seeking rest on this rocky carriage isn’t in vain, after all.
He leans back into the wall, to close his eyes and ignore the woman, but not before he sees her red-haired partner giggling into the palm of her hand.
Further embarrassed that someone witnessed his minute of hysteria, Phainon turns away with a shy scuffle, tilting his head against the wall and closing his eyes.
The carriage bumps and totters along the road. Briefly, longingly, he wishes Cyrene were here to break up the tense impasse with her romantic epics, to ease the anxieties tumbling around in his mind as the desert’s dry wind beats at his face.
As he’s resigned himself into another uncomfortable position in the carriage, the horses halt, sending them all staggering. The horses squeal, startled, hooves raised, scaring their driver, who attempts to calm them down with a hushed voice.
“Oi, what’s going on out there?” the man, who had made remarks at Phainon earlier, says, affronted. His partner stands and pulls out a knife, holding onto his knapsack protectively.
“Use your eyes, mate. We got bandits.”
Phainon ushers his bag and coin into his hands, before flinging a cloak over his shoulders and the sword on his back. He hears rather than sees the bandits approaching, their runner blocking their track – a wild metallic beast of no natural predator.
“Out, the lot of you!” bellows one of the bandits, tall and brawny, the scar on his cheek a reflection of the jagged jaw of their runner. Its steel feet scrape into the ground, towering over their carriage and impeding trespass.
Despite the gruffs from the men earlier, they acquiesce, jumping out of the carriage and concealing their weapons under their sleeves. The women across Phainon glance at each other and whisper too softly for him to hear, though they remain seated.
“Who’s dallying? I say get out before I blast you all to pieces!”
The red-haired woman flinches, and tugs at the cloak of the blonde. Phainon frowns and steps down to the red desert floor. Carefully, he reaches out for the wrist of the blonde woman, gently guiding her and her partner down from the carriage.
“I’ll keep you both safe,” he swears silently, attempting a warm smile at them.
The blonde woman stares, unaffable, and tilts her head towards Phainon’s hand on her wrist.
Immediately, Phainon withdraws, as if stung. His hand leaves a streak of dirt on her pale skin.
“Sorry!” he hisses. “I left a mark on your hand. Um. I don’t have a cloth on me at the moment, but if you’ll let me—”
The woman grabs his forearm, bringing him slightly closer. Instinctively, Phainon flinches back, but her grip is strong.
“Hush,” she whispers, voice soft and lilting like a siren’s. “You cannot be discreet if you make a scene here.”
She releases him and Phainon almost staggers back, panic seizing him as a cold hand by the neck. Her touch lingers, crawling up his arm and snaking around his brain, holding his thoughts captive in its maw. Her unseeing eyes seem to look through him as if he were naked.
“Who are you?” he asks in a shaky exhale. They’re in the middle of the desert, but he almost expects to see his breath leave in icy mist.
Before she can respond, the bandits staunch up to them, snarling.
“Hey, didn’t I tell you to get a move on?” the bandit with the scar barks. He seizes Phainon by the shoulder, shoving him to the other passengers, where they stand in line. Other bandits grab the women and roughly jostle them to join. They let themselves be moved easily.
Once they are standing in line, the bandits begin rummaging through their items.
“I’ll tell you what, you lot are better off turned away from the Capitol!” the scared bandit says. “Your coin is better off spent with us – a small donation for us commoners, now that the King is dead and the Council is in power!”
When the bandit reaches Phainon, he goes to grab Phainon’s bag.
Phainon twists it out of his range.
The bandit snarls and grabs Phainon by the neck of his cloak, dragging him.
“What’re you holding off from us, huh?” he spits.
“I can’t let you have it,” Phainon answers simply. He levels the bandit with a steady gaze, letting himself be dragged by his toes.
At his words, the other bandits draw their blades, encircling him as warning.
“You value coin over your life, kid?” the bandit snarls.
Making use of the distraction, the men from the carriage charge at the bandits holding their possessions, sending the group into disarray. Startled, the scarred man releases Phainon and scrambles back, making for his own blade by his hip.
The bandits strike back at the men, one slashing deep across another’s chest. The brash man falls with a startled cry, clutching to his body blood red coins. His partner freezes, eyes clear and wide – his body caught between fleeing or grieving. At his hesitance, he fails to notice the bandit that has already made his choice.
Before Phainon can cry out in warning, he’s interrupted by a blade’s screeching release from its sheath – a shriek so loud and cruel his shoulders draw to his ears.
He turns but doesn’t catch her move. The blonde woman’s violence is a waltz. She flits across the field on the tips of her feet before she pierces her rapier straight into the bandit’s heart, holding him high against her scabbard as he spills red, missing her cloak, pure and white.
“I assume that if you draw steel, you are also prepared to die by it,” she says, watching coldly as she drops the bandit to the ground.
“A Chrysos Heir!” a bandit cries. It ripples across the empty desert.
The scarred bandit turns to glare at Phainon, eyes burning. In the reflection of his pupils, Phainon sees them wearing the same emotion – fear.
With the roar of a man dying, the scarred bandit takes his blade against the woman.
Phainon lunges and grabs the man’s wrist. The bandit turns, teeth clenched hard enough to draw blood, as they struggle for strength.
“You!”
With both hands grappling for the bandit’s dagger, Phainon has no defence when he’s kicked in his gut. He doubles over in pain, coughing for air.
Seizing Phainon by the roots of his hair, the bandit kicks in his legs and shoves Phainon to the edge of the path, over the cliffside.
Alarmed, the woman with red hair throws herself against the edge of the cliff, arm outstretched.
“Snowy!”
Phainon’s last memory is of his desperate attempt to reach her hand, before he hits a rock on the way down, and blacks out.
Phainon awakens to a fierce throbbing in his head and hazy, blurred vision. Carefully, he attempts to sit up, spitting out sand and cradling the back of his head. He blinks to clear his eyesight, but the distance remains fuzzy, and thinking brings tremors of aches across his skull.
He might have a concussion.
He pushes himself from the ground, almost slipping on the sand. He feels a trail of blood trickle down his neck. Without further thought or pause, Phainon focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, towards the direction that he presumes the Capitol is.
Keep going.
He chants to himself – like a spell.
Keep going.
Keep going.
Eventually, the harsh, pounding light of the sun is overcast – shadowed by the towering brick walls of the Capitol city. Phainon almost staggers in relief, leaning against the wall as passersby stare and give him wide berth. If he closes his eyes, he can almost…
Briefly, he remembers Cyrene lecturing him about sleeping with concussions, and that’s enough for him to force his eyes open and stumble through the gates.
He hears people scrambling back as he wanders through, probably looking like an apparition, with blood dripping from his head down to the tips of his fingers. A pair of single footsteps rush to his right side, hovering but not touching.
“Hey lad, you okay?”
“Keep going,” he almost says, before he realises that’s not right.
“I’m Phainon,” he nearly says instead.
“Ch-Church,” he spits out, the one word fighting to leave his mouth. “Church.”
“The Sanctist Church?” The man besides him immediately seizes his arm – Phainon feels the man’s hands trembling and wishes he could apologise, if he could get the words out. “Hey, hang in there, we’ll take you to the Saintess.”
“Someone, help!” the man calls.
Another pair of footsteps rush over, and Phainon’s back is supported by a delicate hand as the man hauls Phainon’s arm over his shoulders.
The two strangers drag Phainon across the footpath, not tall enough to support his feet as they drag. Whispers follow them as they struggle to remain upright. Unable to lift his head, Phainon is subjected to the dull, grey pavement and the hurried breath of his help.
He blinks, slow. When he opens his eyes, he’s being dragged across black and white tile, drawing dizzying patterns.
“Saintess!” the man yells. He hears gasps and stumbles, as people lurch from their seats.
A voice bellows from above, making Phainon’s head throb.
“What impiety do you bring to this Holy ground?” the voice yells. “You—”
Phainon’s ears ring. He groans, slouching in his helpers’ grips.
“Where is the Saintess?” the voice on his left demands, trembling but defiant. “Forgive us, Father but we—”
“What’s the situation?” a vivid voice calls. Phainon feels himself being passed into small hands, soft but firm against his shoulders.
Embraced in this person’s arms, Phainon feels warm. He closes his eyes.
He feels hands lift him for support and remove him of his burdens. He feels lighter. He feels himself sinking into the depts of his empty mind.
When Phainon finds the consciousness to open his eyes again, he realises he’s lying in a cot. His vision has returned, though his head throbs and ears ring still.
Carefully turning to the side, he sees a figure with bright pink hair scripting on a book.
“Cyrene?” he mumbles, throat dry.
“Oh!” the girl startles, dropping her quill. Ink spills on the parchment, but she pays it no mind, instead shuffling her chair over to his bedside. She smiles warmly and reaches out a hand to his forehead.
“I’m sorry, I’m not Cyrene,” she says. “You were calling out for her in your sleep.”
Seemingly satisfied, she withdraws and reaches over to the bedside table to pour a glass of water from a pitcher, before handing it to Phainon.
“Don’t worry! Once I deem you fit, you’ll reunite with her in no time!” she hums, her grin turning her eyes up into pleasant crescents. “Do you need help looking for her? She must be quite worried about you.”
Phainon grips the glass, silent. His lips press together, refusing the words. He feels as if saying it aloud makes it truer – makes his situation all the more concrete.
“Cyrene, my sister,” he starts. Stops. Inhales shakily. “She’s dead.”
The girl’s face drops, cheer evaporating in a flicker. “Oh…” she says, voice trembling.
Phainon hurries to reassure her, mentally berating himself for burdening a stranger with depressing news. “I’m sorry, I normally wouldn’t…sorry.”
He chances a gentle hand on top of hers and tries a smile.
The girl’s eyes sink, swirling with turmoil. “No, I’m sorry for assuming. I got ahead of myself!”
She then inhales slowly, and seems to gather courage from this.
“You were in very grave condition when you were brought here!” she chastises gently. “I make it a practice to never ask why my patients put themselves in harm’s way, but this is quite the extreme case.”
Phainon grins sheepishly, effectively scolded.
“Now, if you’re willing to runs a few tests with me, I would be happy to let you off quickly!” she teases. Phainon recognises the silver lining for what it is and nods, keen.
The girl’s smile returns with his vigour. The damp air settles a bit.
“Alright, could I start with your name and where you came from?” she questions. She slides over to her desk to retrieve her quill and book, looking at him expectantly.
“Phainon,” he replies. “Just Phainon. I come from Aedes Elysiae.”
The girl nods neutrally, humming as she pens down his answers.
“Hello, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae! It’s nice to meet you, though I wish it were under better circumstances,” she says amiably. She reaches out with a hand.
Carefully, Phainon takes it and shakes.
“I’m Hyacinthia, but everyone around here just calls me Hyacine,” she says.
“Or Saintess?” Phainon adds.
Hyacine smiles a small, enigmatic smile. “Yes, though I’d rather my name.”
She notes down a few more things in her book before she questions him again.
“How are you feeling, Phainon? Any pain?”
Phainon describes his symptoms, from the dull throb to the ringing. Hyacine hums and nods as she writes it all down.
“Miss Hyacine…” Phainon starts hesitantly. He waits until Hyacine completes her script before he continues. “How long was I out for?”
Hyacine glances out the window next to the cot, tapping her quill against her chin in contemplation. “Perhaps two or three hours? Not very long – you were a very restless sleeper.”
Phainon exhales steadily, willing himself to calm down. He still has time.
Hyacine frowns but doesn’t question. Her fingers scrunch quietly into her book.
“Phainon,” she starts, hesitant. “Could you tell me the last thing you remember?”
Phainon rubs at his temples, pushing away the painful throb that resurfaces when he tries to focus.
“Bandits attacked our carriage – we got into a tussle, and one of them threw me off the road,” he says. His fingertips graze the back of his head, where he feels a small scar. Quietly, he’s amazed by the Saintess’s healing magic, though having heard many tales of her talent.
“I blacked out for a moment, but when I woke, I got up and made my way to the Capitol,” he continues. “I was then taken by some kind strangers to you, and I had my bag taken…”
He startles, sitting up and spilling water on his chest. “My bag!”
Hyacine, quick to react when he was shaken, is already hurriedly stepping back to rummage through the cabinet next to him. She pulls out his leather satchel and places it at the foot of his bed, before gently pushing him to lay back down. Her lips are pressed into a thin line, her eyes resolute and clear.
“Everything is alright,” she says. “Your sword is by the door and your bag was never opened.”
She takes his hand into hers and presses them close for warmth.
“Phainon, your injuries were almost fatal,” she says. “Whatever it is that you need to do in the Capitol can’t be more important than your life. Please treasure it kindly.”
Phainon’s ears start ringing. His heart pounds. His near death rattles in his brain and wrings the air from his lungs.
He almost failed because he almost died.
He grips the blankets tightly, feeling like he’s about to fall.
Hyacine seems to misinterpret his fear and gently pats his back.
“It’s alright! You’re safe, now,” she says. “Just one day of rest for me and you should be right as rain!”
Phainon tries to roll the words out of his mouth, but fails. He can’t trust himself to talk, so he turns to her and nods mutely.
The Saintess beams back and stands up with a small huff.
“I’ll grab some bandages to replace the ones you wet, just wait a moment!” she says. She hops over to the adjacent room with a skip in her step.
Phainon waits for the respective door to click shut before he glances down at his chest. His spill from earlier had indeed wet some bandages strewn around his torso – in his waking, he hadn’t even noticed them. It strikes him, then, that Hyacine had taken great care in tending to all of his wounds.
His chest, once scabbing and gnashed, feel tight, but clean under the pristine white cloth. He notices that his trousers are replaced with a newer pair, and his hands, clenched in the bed sheets still, are washed of scrapes and blood. He hadn’t realised how long he had neglected his body until he saw its visage unmarred by the marks of his journey.
Slowly, Phainon unclenches his fists, seeing colour seep back into his knuckles. He breathes deeply and gathers himself.
He feels embarrassment slowly creep up his face. Somewhere, lost in his desperation and obsession, he had forgotten his dignity. He’s slightly mortified at having shown the Saintess such flaws.
He swings his legs over the bed and tests his weight on the ground. Hyacine had told him to rest, but the weakness in his body is bearable. It would be more humiliating for him to lie and sleep the day away like a baby. He will leave once she’s back, as it would be rude to disappear without thanks, after all she’s done.
Phainon patiently waits seated until he hears the door open again. When he glances up, he sees Hyacine humming as she swings the door open with her hip. Hurriedly, he runs to hold it open for her, as she comes in with bundles of bandages and medications gathered in her arms. She gasps as she sees him standing above her.
“Th-Thank you very much, Phainon! But patients must remain seated!” she says, hurriedly trying to get out of his way.
Flustered by her care, Phainon almost drops the door on himself. “Um, actually, Miss Hyacine, I feel fine!” he says. He grabs some bandages from her arms. “Your healing magic is magnificent! Your talent is really as unmatched as they say.”
Hyacine ducks her head, looking at the ground and hiding her face. “Ah, I still have much to learn! I’m grateful to be given this position of Saintess, but sometimes I really…”
Then she turns to him, wide-eyed. “No! I see what you’re trying to do!” she says, appalled. “You will be staying here to rest for the day, Phainon!”
Phainon tilts his head and smiles, uneager to give up though he was outed. “I’m not quite sure what you’re hinting at, Miss Hyacine. I really am fine!”
Hyacine stores the medicines in the cabinet before she takes the bandages from him.
“You are prescribed rest, Phainon!” she gestures to the bed. “Now, sit!”
Discouraged, Phainon does as he’s told.
“Don’t pout,” Hyacine says, as she prepares a salve and alcohol. “This is for your wellbeing.”
She gently unwraps his wet bandages and replaces them with deft, quick hands. Phainon watches as she gently presses over his old wounds with the grass-smelling salve.
“You had left it…untreated for so long,” she begins, softly. Phainon almost has to lean in to hear her. “It hasn’t healed properly. I tried my best but…”
“It will scar,” she finishes. Her eyes are solemn.
Phainon’s heart aches for this girl who seems to care so much for him, a stranger she had met today. Does her empathy extend so altruistically to everyone? Does it hurt her, too?
“It’s alright, Miss Hyacine,” he replies. “I knew it would. Thank you for your help regardless.”
Hyacine finishes the bandages in silence. Then she stands to wash her hands in the basin across from him.
“Though I can’t force you to stay,” she says. “I advise you to rest here, even if until tomorrow.”
Phainon is embarrassed enough as it is, being shown his own recklessness, then implored to rest endlessly by the Saintess herself. He agrees, only because he feels like he would be more of a bother protesting.
“Thank you again,” Phainon says. He contemplates on the heaviness of the atmosphere. “Um, a favour, if you would?”
As expected, Hyacine perks up. “Yes? What do you need, Phainon?” she asks.
He grins at her sheepishly and rubs the back of his head. “Could you extend my thanks to the two who helped me as well? I’m afraid I scared them quite a bit, but they were courageous and kind,” he says.
Hyacine beams, nodding eagerly. “Of course! I’m sure they would love to hear that you’re recovering well, too!” She waves as she disappears down the hall.
Alone in the room, Phainon sighs and slouches down into the sheets. He glances at the sun, its golden rays turning into amber. Unable to shake his restlessness, he leans over and collects his satchel, peering into its open contents.
Within lies the Coreflame of Janus, its dim glow a cruel reminder of his fate.