Archive of Our Own

A first

This has never happened before, and the unfamiliarity of it all fills him with dread.

He has spent countless cycles repeating the same actions and words, creating a routine, but now, everything feels different, and he doesn’t know how to process the strange emotions swirling within him. All Anaxa is supposed to do is hand over the coreflame, something he has done in previous cycles without any issues.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice betraying him, showing a hint of vulnerability.

“You’ve experienced this moment many times, haven’t you?” Anaxa brushes a stray strand of hair from his vision with utmost care. “I hope all the other versions of me were just as gentle.”

No, he thinks, his heart aching, this is the first time. And I hope it'll be the last.

Anaxa’s slender fingers softly caress his cheek, the cool touch contrasting with his own burning skin. As layers of skin begin to peel away, revealing a blue starry void beneath, he pulls back instinctively, fearing the damage may go too deep.

All he desires is to grasp Anaxa’s hands into his own, to kiss them pleadingly and offer solace, to seek forgiveness for any pain he might inflict. But that isn't possible.

“Do you pull away every time?” the sage asks, observing the shifting starry void beneath his own skin.

His heart races as he meets Anaxa's unwavering gaze; the scholar appears unfazed that a part of him has just burned away, and yet his presence is filled with empathy. 

His pupils dart around, ready to flinch away if Anaxa approaches again. “You’ll burn, Professor,” he warns, his voice edged with an urgency born from concern.

Anaxa nods slightly, a look of understanding blooming in his eyes. “I’m aware,” he replies softly, casting his gaze toward the divine flame floating on its luminary throne. “You’ve already consumed so many of these flames.”

The weight of Anaxa’s words rests heavily in the air, and he can feel it crushing him. “I don’t care about the flamechase or the prophecy; the titans are irrelevant to me. And frankly, it’s hard to buy into what you say will happen when there is so little evidence to grasp,” he reveals, his honesty piercing through the tension.

Anaxa takes a step closer. “I haven’t even met the ‘you’ from this cycle,” the man continues, taking another step forward—instinctively, he takes two steps back, unable to bear the thought of what this means. “Yet you know so much about me, having once been my pupil; you don’t shut me out like so many others.”

“My body has long since become inhuman—through my own choices, no less,” Anaxa states firmly, planting his feet on the stone ground. “I already have my own grave.”

And deep down, he knows exactly what he means. He refuses to accept this.

He shakes his head fervently, frustration bubbling inside him as his teeth clenched tightly. “I will not. I cannot– I– Anaxa, I refuse,” he insists, his voice cracking under the weight of his emotions. If he were able to let them fall, tears would already be streaming down his cheeks in despair right now.

Anaxagoras hums softly, his gaze still locked onto him, as if he’s trying to peel away the layers of his pain, dismantling him piece by piece. “The savior in you resists because you fear losing me,” he muses gently, and the truth of those words hangs heavily between them. “But you won’t lose me. You never will. You’ve always had me.”

He clenches his fists, his nails digging painfully into his skin. “Please, just stop this. This– This doesn't even seem like you, I– You still have so much to accomplish, Anaxa.” pleading, his voice trembling with desperation.

Anaxagoras laughs—a full, melodious sound, a moment of lightness in the heaviness of the conversation. His eyes crinkle warmly, softening in a way that brings a flicker of comfort.

“But what’s the point if all my efforts are destined to be futile? You’ve already revealed the harsh truths about this world; the cycle will reset soon, won’t it?” he offers a bittersweet smile, so radiant it nearly breaks his heart. “Haha… I commend my own student for surpassing me in alchemical research.”

“I have nothing left to lose, and I’m certain you need this more than I do,” Anaxagoras reaches out, his arms open wide, inviting him in.

He lets out a pained laugh, as if thorns were tightening around his throat. “You truly are insane,” he begins, taking a small step forward despite the turmoil inside. “... And if this hurts?” he questions with tears pooling in his eyes, ready to spill over. It won’t matter if they fall; they'll evaporate before long.

Anaxagoras shakes his head, his expression unwavering. “It won’t hurt—it’s you.” it’s stated with an earnestness that breaks through the other's defenses. The weight of those words is too much to bear. He can almost feel bile creeping up his throat.

One more tentative step; he bites the inside of his cheek, feeling his chest tighten. The scent of mint grows stronger.

“How can you say that? You said it earlier— you’ve never even met the ‘me’ of this cycle,” he speaks, his voice barely rising above a whisper, like a gentle breeze rustling the leaves.

This time, Anaxagoras takes a step forward as if to bridge the distance they both feel. “That may be true,” the man holds his hands out, presenting them with sincerity. He can’t tear his gaze away from the now burned fingers, the blue void magnificent yet haunting. “But didn’t I also say you’ve always had me? That will never change.”

Slender, calloused hands await him, just as gentle as he remembers them to be. He'd never forget. 

Sensing his hesitation, Anaxagoras talks once more, “Don't be afraid; it's only me.”

And with that, he rushes into him, wrapping his arms around Anaxagoras's middle. He clutches at fabric and feels the wires treading through the scholar's corset. Tender hands cradle his nape and head, softly running through white hairs, as Khaslana buries his face into the other man's neck, breathing in the fading scent of mint.

“Anaxa, Anaxa, Anaxa,” he chants, not knowing whether to cling onto the professor like he's the last thing he'll ever hold—this much is true—or to hold him gently, as the most cherished being he knows. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry… Forgive me…”

He pulls both of them to the ground, his knees hitting the pavement, as he sets himself and what he's holding onto on one of the steps leading up to the throne. His tears fall, only to dissipate the moment they escape and creep onto his skin. He can no longer feel fingers carding through his hair.

A smooth voice comes from beside him, talking into his ear. “Stop apologizing for nothing, ■■■■■■■■,” it says in an attempt to soothe and alleviate the pain he feels right now. “You’re only trying to survive.”

And ■■■■■■■■ really wishes he could believe what the voice is telling him; he’s had blood stained on his hands for so long now, some being his own and others being of those he’s loved and lost. 

The voice, charming in its own way, almost shining, whispers to him once more: “May we meet again in the next cycle.”

The grip ■■■■■■■■ has on what he's holding loosens, and his arms curl into himself now, blue shimmery dust being all that's left. 

He doesn't exactly recall what he was doing just now—his eyes feel alight, stinging and burning from tears that disappear far too quickly. His gaze wanders, exploring the scene around him; the coreflame of Reason floats in its place on the luminary throne, haunting and disgustingly beautiful.

■■■■■■■■ pushes himself up from the steps, staggering towards it.

His vision blurs as he reaches for the Reason coreflame; it feels so oddly familiar. Of course, because he has done this countless times before… but also in the sense that he’s close to remembering something he’s forgotten.

The moment he touches its flares, ■■■■■■■■ blacks out.

Phainon wakes up.

He wakes up with heavy breathing and sweat all over. His palms are clammy and cold, and a dull ache pulses through his legs, which feel like they might give way beneath him if he attempts to stand—if he tries to get out of bed, then perhaps his knees will buckle, and he'll tumble to the ground.

Under orders from the others, Phainon had been confined to a specific room within Marmoreal Palace, where he was promptly told to rest. By that point, he had been awake for over twenty Entry hours.

They truly thought everything out. Phainon will give them that.

Outside the room, staff members dutifully rotated shifts; their assigned task was to guard the doors diligently, as told to them by Lady Trinnon, ensuring Phainon could not try to escape whatsoever. The balcony doors had been secured from the outside as well. Essentially, he was, annoyingly and effectively, imprisoned for not sleeping.

Though begrudgingly, he did in fact shut his eyes and lay his head to rest. 

Aglaea's death took a heavy toll on him and many others. He had bawled his eyes out the moment he concluded his speech to the people, declaring that he and the others would march for the Eye of Twilight to face Aquila and take the last needed coreflame: Sky.

Overcome with grief and haunted by guilt over failing to meet her expectations, Phainon plunged into her unfinished work. 

He worked tirelessly for hours, trying to live up to the expectations she sent for him, deeming himself unworthy otherwise, until Lady Tribbie and Lady Trinnon intervened—reprimanding, luring, and eventually trapping him in the guest room where he now resides.

It wasn't often that Phainon allowed himself to sleep. Sleep is not respite, nor is it a paradise where he may rest his limbs and breathe softly.

He is plagued with nightmares, the same every time. 

Nightmares of his loved ones succumbing to the black tide and him having to kill them for his safety, and those who hadn't been affected. He sees visions of the wondrous fields of gold he would constantly play in, being burned to ash, the sky red and vicious as it cries tears of blood.

They have never ceased, and he doubts they ever will. They haunt him, pulling at his hair and wrapping their hands around his neck, ready to snap it.

He sees a younger, more näive version of himself, wailing and shrieking as he swings his sword. Houses set ablaze, crops destroyed, waters muddied with crimson, trees with their soft yellow leaves, now lit into flames with hues of red and orange as well, burning everything.

The figure cloaked in tattered black clothes, piercing their wrecked sword into Cyrene's chest.

Phainon wants to throw up bile just thinking about it.

To distract himself, he would seek Mydeimos out for a spar or Castorice for a late-night talk until her own eyes grew heavy with sleep. During his time in the Grove, he would find his dear professor also awake in his laboratory.

He cannot go to any of them now.

They have all departed in one way or another; Mydei and Castorice are now fulfilling their duties of Strife and Death.

And Anaxa is dead.

He is dead, and Phainon couldn't do anything about it. He is dead, just like Aglaea and Trianne, and he couldn't do anything to help any of them.

The night Anaxa had returned to Okhema after escaping the Grove with the others, when the professor told him of his current state and limited time left, Phainon wanted to revive Kephale and kill them himself right then and there—an act so blasphemous that the gods would have no choice but to put him on death sentence as well.

He wanted to take Anaxa's hands into his, cradle them softly as his tears soaked his skin. He should have.

Yet all he could do was put up another farce, repressing his fury and anguish to only that of balled fists and a clenched jaw.

Anaxa had looked so unfairly beautiful in such a moment. Phainon would wrestle him back from the hands of Death if he could.

And speaking of Anaxa—

The visions Phainon had just awoken from were about him. He and someone else—someone who he doesn't recognize, yet they feel oddly familiar all the same.

While he's thankful his nightmares of Aedes Elysiae aren't what is haunting him at this moment, Phainon would be lying to himself if he said he wasn't equally as terrified of this dream.

Why Anaxa and why of him dying?

Phainon was present during the man's ‘execution’—his own self-performed death. A suicide, to say bluntly.

He remembers how he felt in that moment so vividly.

The crafted pauldron that sits on his right shoulder had felt heavier than ever before. He wanted to scratch it off of himself like a scab-wound, with his nails grating against its surface as a form of coping. His arms felt suffocated while covered in the garments he wears; stuffy and hot, despite the Vortex being cool.

He wished to leave so very desperately, afraid that he was bound to regurgitate all that he had eaten with each second.

“Anaxagoras, what you've done and still do to me,” Phainon says to no one in particular. There is no malice in his words—never toward his professor. His labored breathing comes to a more peaceful pace, slowing down and calming his body.

It worries him more than he assumes it should. To suddenly dream of something different than the usual you've been experiencing for years.

A knock pulls him out of his trance, and his view instantly lands on the door—his only way out.

Hyacine's head pops in, and all the confidence he had in trying to escape deflates immediately. There's zero chance he'd be able to get past her.

“Lady Tribbie sent me to check in on you,” she promptly closes the door, not before giving a quick nod in thanks to whoever is standing guard. “How do you feel?”

“Never been better.” he says instantly.

Hyacine stares him down as she walks closer to the bedside. “Be honest.”

Phainon inhales, “... A bit worse.”

Her eyebrows furrow as she sits down in the desk chair. “Okay, well, that was not the answer I expected… I expected you to feel a little better, not worse.”

Hyacine looks at him, expecting Phainon to continue with his words, which he notices… only to not know how to explain it all.

“I— Well, you know how— I dreamt of— Ugh…” Phainon buries his head into his hands, fingertips brushing against his scalp. “I don't know how to tell you without it being… weird.”

Hyacine hums, “Is it that kind of dream?” she asks him.

Phainon quickly looks back up, shaking his hands fervently. “Ah! No, no! Not weird in the sense that… It's like that. Weird in the sense that it was unusual.”

“I see,” Hyacine swings her legs back and forth on the chair. She nods for him to continue on.

“... Long story short, I dreamt of Professor Anaxa.”

Rather than a simple ‘ah’ or another ‘I see’ from the healer, she instead throws Phainon off completely.

Hyacine cocks her head to the side, staring him down earnestly. “Is that not normal for you?”

It's an honest question, of course—perhaps too confrontational for him to completely unpack in the moment.

“... Huh? No? I've really only ever dreamt of Aedes Elysiae,” he begins, twiddling his thumbs and feeling the blanket that lay over his legs. “Nothing good, but… Yeah.”

Hyacine makes a small sound of realization before muttering a quiet apology and shifting in the chair. “I had just assumed with the way you've always acted towards him that it was normal.”

Now this only makes Phainon even more confused.

“What do you mean? Did I act a certain way with him?? I thought I just acted like normal—”

She shakes her head, her twin drills bobbing from the movement. “Don't worry about it,” Hyacine reassures—though it doesn't feel that way. The woman mumbles something else, yet Phainon couldn't quite catch it.

“But anyway, I'm going to head out to the Grove soon with Little Ica. I had a few things to take care of in the bathhouse and bumped into Lady Tribbie, so that's why I'm here.”

The Grove?

At that, Phainon perks back up.

“For your ceremony, right? Before we head to the Eye of Twilight,” he begins, gripping his blanket fervently. “May I go with you, Hyacine?”

Half of him said it because he really doesn't want to be confined anymore, doing absolutely nothing, while everyone else is out and about.

… The other reason is that he'd like to see if there's anything left behind from when the black tide struck the area. He knows there are still archives left scattered about in the Library of Philia, as he was only recently there with the Trailblazer and Mem.

If Phainon isn't allowed to work on official affairs, he may as well look around the Grove for things that have to do with Anaxa. Perhaps, he’ll even find a clue to why he dreamt of him.

Hyacine eyes him suspiciously, pursing her lips into a fine line as she thinks. “... I wouldn't mind, but you'd have to check with Lady Tribbie and Lady Trinnon first,” she sighs and stands up, pushing the chair back into the desk. “Ica is with them now.”

Phainon nods and kicks the blanket off of him, getting out of the bed and already grabbing his regular clothing to change into quickly.

“I promise, Hyacine.”

Hyacine makes a sound in acknowledgement, “I'll let you change in peace then. I'll be waiting outside for you.”

No matter how many times he sets foot here again, it will, of course, never feel the same.

The Grove is eerily silent, save for the few black tide monsters roaming about.

Phainon had parted ways with Hyacine a little bit ago, telling her he'd like to head to the Library. She was reluctant to let him go, worried he might do something he wasn’t supposed to, but in the end, he won.

And Hyacine was entirely right.

He's not supposed to be doing this. Probably.

His feet take him to the Library of Philia. The beating sound of the giant overhead heart fills his ears as he steps into the area.

Much of the archives were either destroyed or taken to Okhema—very few books and scrolls remain on the now scorched shelves.

Phainon brushes his fingers across the spines of books, quickly reading their titles and skipping past them if unnecessary to his interests.

‘The How and Why of Training Your Muscles: Good Health 101’ is an interesting title, but not presently needed. So is ‘A Case Study of The Twelve Titans and Amphorean Religion’, but once again, unnecessary to his current goals.

He chuckles to himself, a bit pitifully, recognizing a few titles he had reserved and checked out from when he was still a student. It was oddly relieving to see them okay, despite it all.

Phainon stops his fingers on one of the spines; it reads ‘On Dreaming: The Psychological State and Oneirology; Why Do We Dream?’

Naturally, it's a thick book, which is expected for such a topic. He pulls it off the shelf and places it in his satchel for now. 

It seems that that was the only book on the topic, however, as the rest of the shelf containing things of similar studies had been burned away by the black tide. Just his luck.

He's about to leave the area but stops in his tracks when he sees a familiar shelf: books on the soul and human body—Phainon had often checked these out during his student days as well. Though Anaxa had usually told him they were useless, due to the authors of the books not being able to completely understand the concept of nousporism or the soul.

Phainon had argued that it was nice to see other perspectives on the subject, seeing as the concept of nousporism seemed to be indefinite and unbound to only one, much like one’s soul would be. Anaxa had agreed with him on that, but rather than saying why or explaining to Phainon why the books weren't reliable, he instead posed a question: 

“Then tell me, Phainon of Aedes Elysiae: if you were to read my soul, what do you think it might say?”

He had joked that Anaxa’s soul would tell him, “That’s another credit deduction for you,” much to Anaxa’s annoyance. The professor had clicked his tongue and lightly hit his head with a book before walking away.

Phainon really wishes he could give him a proper answer now.

“You were much kinder than people thought you to be—I should have told you that.” Phainon mutters as if Anaxa could hear him, putting the books into his satchel.

His feet begin to walk again, exiting the library with careful precision to not step on any debris. Phainon isn't sure if the heartbeat ringing in his ears is his or the one that hangs above anymore.

He walks a few corridors more, twisting and turning through the paths, until he reaches a room.

The door has been beaten off its hinges and hangs from the frame with what little strength it has left. Phainon gently moves it aside, stepping over some rumble and letting himself in.

He has been here many times before, when things weren't so rough.

Countless visits to this very laboratory, to pester Anaxa with questions he had, whether they were relevant to the lessons he taught or not. Countless times, he had gotten kicked out, as well, for being a, in Anaxa's words, nuisance and distraction.

Books are scattered on the floor, beaten and some burnt. The bookshelf isn't in good condition either, with a decent portion of it scratched and clawed at.

The dromas figurines Anaxa so dearly and preciously adored lay broken in pieces, their heads disconnected from the rest of their bodies, and the paint chipped off. It makes Phainon's heart ache.

The man carefully kneels, picking up some of the discarded bits and trying to piece them all back together, only for the dromas to crumble once more.

No matter.

Phainon moves on, scanning the rest of the room with his eyes.

There are shattered beakers and vials lying idly, just waiting to poke someone's feet. Many loose papers sleep soundly on the ground as well, with a few of them being caught underneath the professor's lab stool.

He stands, stepping towards the stool and moving it out of the way promptly. He picks up the loose sheets, flipping them over to view, only to feel sick the moment he reads the contents: unfinished experiment logs, detailing the processes of Anaxa and his habits of experimenting on himself, drawing his own Golden Blood to study and attempt to transmute. 

The latest log is dated only two weeks ago—around the time the Grove had experienced the Black Tide attack.

He opens drawers and file cabinets, no longer caring for any sense of propriety, despite the lab already being ransacked; a mental apology to Anaxa.

There are weighty Manila folders filled with heaps of paper, spilling out of their confines. Labeled with hasty handwriting and scribbled notes, Phainon carries them to the messy counter to open the files.

The oldest document is from four years ago. Phainon had graduated only three years ago. One sheet has writing even in the margins, detailing Anaxa's research into concocting a substance that will safely transform the Golden Blood into regular wine red.

“What the hell were you doing, Professor…” Phainon whispers.

It is certainly not the first time that Phainon has seen regarding risky experiments Anaxa performed. One instance almost caused him to be unable to walk for a good while.

He shoves the files into his satchel with the books he'd previously picked up, not wanting to read any more of it at the moment. He'll have to make his way back to Hyacine soon, lest she get worried and suspicious of his whereabouts.

Phainon's eyes scan the room, observing the mess. Nothing else of note stands out to him.

He's about to leave the lab, already walking to the door, when he stops himself and gathers the broken pieces of dromas into his hands again, being extra careful when putting them into his bag. Let's hope he can fix it when he gets back.

Phainon steps back over the unhinged door, back into the corridor, and briskly walks back to where he and Hyacine parted ways. 

The eerie quietness he'll truly never get used to now.

How did Aglaea feel when her senses went out? How did Anaxa feel when he pulled the coreflame from his chest? Does Mydei get lonely now that he's fighting by himself? Does Castorice ever miss the noise from Okhema? Do Lady Tribbie and Lady Trinnon notice it's quieter now?

All questions that Phainon would rather not have answered. He must not think about it now, lest he want to buckle over and cry.

Hyacine and what seems to be Dan Heng's voices get closer—he sees the two of them, along with Little Ica, talking.

Ice notices his return first, flying up to his chest and gently headbutting him.

“Phainon, it's good to see you,” Dan Heng greets him right off the bat. “You look better.”

He gives a small nod and a smile. “Thank you,” Phainon replies, scratching his neck. “Forgive me if I may have worried you.”

“I ran into Dannie here a little bit ago—he was able to use some of Phagousa's water to bring me to the Vortex of Genesis, so I could conclude my ceremony!” Hyacine beams up at them both. “What have you been doing, Phainon?”

The jackpot question.

He doesn't really want to say that he was snooping around their professor's laboratory.

“I looked through some of the books left behind in the Library of Philia—may as well have something to occupy myself with…” he admits, patting his bag lightly. “I'll be heading back to Okhema soon, so don't worry.”

That much is true, considering he did take books with him.

She eyes him suspiciously, likely already trying to form the missing bits he left out in her head, but doesn’t pry.

Hyacine clears her throat, changing the subject. “Dannie has decided to accompany me on the rest of my tasks—Ica, you can choose to stay with Phainon or come with us, okay?”

The little pegasus doots hearing her words and flies between the three of them, trying to decide where she wants to go. 

Phainon laughs softly at the sight. “I won't be upset if you choose them over me, Ica.”

She flies toward Hyacine and Dan Heng, confirming her decision, but not before giving Phainon one last headbutt to the chest.

“I'll see you all later, then? And please, stay safe.” Phainon says, refusing to take no for an answer.

Dan Heng nods firmly. “We promise—you stay safe, too.”

The journey back to Okhema is uneventful, much to Phainon’s content rather than dismay. He would rather not risk having anything happen. 

He walks the quiet streets of Marmoreal Market; there are fewer people out and about, as expected of the recent events. Those who do roam the streets and notice him give him a slight nod or bow with solemn expressions plastered to their faces.

His fists are clenched, his footsteps quick, and his movements anxious. 

Should anyone need anything from him, he won't hesitate to help. He wants to help in any way possible, despite Lady Tribbie ordering him not to do anything of the sort and to rest.

He needs to. Aglaea would have wanted that from him, devoting his time to helping the peace she so dearly wanted to protect. Phainon needs to prove that he is fit to lead—she has expectations for him that he has yet to meet.

For now, he'll have to revisit the baths; he’ll first check to see if any of the staff or Lady Tribbie and Lady Trinnon need assistance. Phainon is expecting them to say no. He’ll likely be sent back to the guest room once more, but it wouldn’t hurt to at least see.

The Council of Elders and that conniving Caenis are likely in such high spirits now that Aglaea is gone—Phainon knows they're the ones who schemed with the Cleaners. Anyone with pure vision and a good heart could see it.

He clutches the strap to his satchel bag as his feet carry him through the twists and turns that the market alleyways were designed with. It provides some shade from the ever-beating Okhema sun.

Normally, he can do just fine with it—just not today. He must look bizarre right now.

The pathway he trods forces him to step back into the sun, with no other way to avoid it. Phainon returns to the main streets, immediately greeted by a few citizens.

“Lord Phainon! Please let us know if there's anything we can do to be of help.” A man calls out to him, though Phainon can't put a finger on what his name was.

He nods promptly and continues on his way to the baths.

Only a couple of steps more, and someone calls out again. He can't make out what they're saying, but nods in acknowledgement all the same.

He's almost there—the staircase is in view.

It takes him over sixty steps to make it to the beginning of the stairs.

Phainon counts his steps as he walks upward: one, two, three, four, five, six.

A small figure stops him in his path up the stairs.

“–nowy? Snowyyy? Snowy!” 

He blinks a couple of times, resharpening his vision. “Lady Tribbie?” he responds.

She giggles, clapping her hands softly. “There you are! We've been calling out to you for a little bit now!” Tribbie motions with her hands, emphasizing movements. “Cinny let us know that you’d be coming back soon.”

“Are.. are you okay?” she asks him, hands clutched close to her chest—Tribbie had noticed him spacing out again. He can hear the shakiness in her words. 

“I’m okay, don’t worry,” Phainon quickly gives his reply, not wanting to worry her more than she may already be. “More importantly, is there anything you need help with? Anything I can do now?”

Tribbie firmly shakes her head no, “Nope, nope, nope! You’re not allowed to do anything to help us, Snowy,” her arms cross, and she stares up at him with a serious expression. “Need we remind you who exactly was the one working for twenty hours straight with no breaks?”

And of course, there it is—the answer he was already expecting.

“I see,” answers Phainon, finding it pointless now to argue against. “But please don’t think you have to do everything yourself.”

It hits him after he says it. The irony of it all. He watches as Tribbie furrows her eyebrows and purses her lips at his words.

Phainon sighs, “Right, right—that applies to me too…”

“You know where to find me, Lady Tribbie.” he tells her, moving aside and walking up the remaining steps. He'll have to recount them all. 

She doesn't say anything more, but watches as Phainon leaves. Her gaze on his back feels as though it would burn holes into the fabric he wears.

He makes his way back to the assigned guest room, greeted by staff members and citizens here and there. The staff guarding his door makes a quick apology before stepping aside to let him in—Phainon can tell she feels a bit awkward having to be the one to sit watch. 

The satchel is removed from his person and laid onto the desk. He pulls out the chair and takes a seat, immediately opening his bag and retrieving the book on dreams.

“Let's hope this explains at least something,” Phainon mutters to himself, viewing the table of contents and flipping to the necessary page number.

Ah, Phainon thinks to himself as he closes the book, despite being nowhere near finished.

Perhaps his dream of Anaxa was triggered because he witnessed his death in the Vortex of Genesis. 

But why Anaxa in particular? And in such an odd scenario… Why now, of all times, since the event occurred?

If he dwells too much on it right now, his head might just roll for good.

The man pushes the book away to make room for the various papers he shoved into his bag on the table. Some of them are neat and orderly, written without rush and perfectly eligible to read; others—not so much.

Phainon rubs the paper between his fingers, fidgeting with the material as a distraction while he attempts to stomach himself in preparation to read the contents of what appears to be a torn journal entry.

Anaxa's voice echoes in his head as he begins.

Phainon furrows his eyebrows, perhaps for the fiftieth time that day. 

He isn't a stranger to Anaxa's experiments by any means.

He experienced the man's epiphanies and week-long disappearances firsthand, of course. Often tasked with being someone to seek him out or check up on him whenever he'd leave, Phainon was also one of the only people to ever know what he was constantly doing at the time.

… Take that with a grain of salt, however. Nothing Anaxa did would ever properly be explained to him in detail. The professor was still ever elusive.

This entry had been written only just a couple of days prior to the Grove's fall—it seems the next one was the day of. Phainon feels his heart clench as he involuntarily tightens his grip on the continuing paper.

Phainon exhales a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He stares down at the written words with small newfound terror.

He already knows what became of Anaxa by this point.

The sage had become nothing but a limp corpse from the sheer force of trying to take the coreflame into his body. However, Phainon isn't sure how Anaxa came back to life or had the coreflame properly in him after that point.

Something else must have occurred.

Phainon pushes himself up and out from the desk, body feeling heavy, and discards himself of his coat and accessories, trying to let his skin breathe a bit.

He runs a hand through his hair, with his chest rising and falling faster than he wants it to, and sits on the bed, flopping back to stare at the ceiling. 

It's only Ascent hour from what Phainon assumes.

One of his hands came up to lay on his chest, palm flat against himself as if trying to halt the movements. This is his sign to stop reading—at least for now, perhaps.

His nails dig ever so slightly into the fabric of his shirt. Phainon maneuvers himself higher up the bed, laying his head onto the pillow.

His throat feels tight and dry, like he's about to cough up sand: one deep breath, two deep breaths.

Three, four, five, six.

Phainon's eyes close as he feels himself calming down. 

Sleep takes him instantly.

A second

Greenery fills his sight, lush against the bright blue backdrop that is the sky. Soft winds brush through his hair and kiss his face delicately.

Phainon scans his surroundings. He's in the Grove again. This time, it feels both more surprising and less surprising at once.

Stone-crafted gazebos stand proud before him, adorned with benches and shrubs. The paths leading up to them look the same as ever, as if none had ever ruined them. It is this that makes Phainon realize this version of the Grove is one that has yet to be destroyed. It tugs at his heartstrings a bit.

His boots clack against the intricate pavement as he walks to stand under one of the gazebos, just like he’d do when he was still a student. The leaves from the Sacred Tree already provide such nice shade from the beating sun, but the gazebos give it an extra loving touch. 

Phainon sits down slowly onto the stone bench, regarding his surroundings even more as he takes everything in.

It's only him here—there aren't any other people in sight. This observation makes him shiver ever so slightly.

A gentle tap on his shoulder pulls him out of his short-lived trance, making him almost jump out of his own skin.

“My, you were awfully reactive to that.”

Phainon’s eyes meet magenta-blue and a gold-adorned eyepatch.

“Anaxa.”

He’s dreaming of Anaxa again. Again.

Anaxa hums, taking a seat on the stone bench right next to the other man.

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae; what brings you here?” the former sage asks him, crossing his legs, propping an elbow onto his knee, and resting his chin in the palm of his hand.

Phainon looks at him wide-eyed and mouth ajar. “I– You– Well,” he isn't sure what to say.

Anaxa laughs, body vibrating from it all. It's a beautiful sound and just as melodious as Phainon remembered it to be. He burns the image of Anaxa in the moment into his mind instantly.

The Deliverer shifts his body to face Anaxa. “Say my name again,” he blurts out on impulse.

Laughter dies down, and in its place, confusion arises. He watches as Anaxa raises a curious eyebrow, then presses his lips into a thin line.

Phainon's right arm shoots up to scratch the back of his own head in embarrassment. “I mean, you don't have to. It's just that– well, I–”

“Phainon.”

Time seems to slow for him.

It almost feels like it has stopped for him and only him, entirely.

“Phainon,” Anaxa repeats.

“Hello,” Phainon responds. “That's me.”

A soft smile graces Anaxa's face. “Astute observation; that is you.”

He studies Anaxa like it's the last thing he'll ever know. The gentleness in his eye, the soft green of his hair, the endless blue that swirls inside his chest.

He breathes softly, “You're really right here,” Phainon comments, exhaling.

“Hmm? I've never left.”

An odd thing to say—Phainon certainly remembers watching the man before him rip the Reason coreflame from out of his own chest. He remembers how he felt that night: restless and antsy, trying to wash away the events that had happened to him prior.

Yet Phainon can't find it in him to correct Anaxa.

Anaxa gets up from his spot on the bench, stretching his arms and limbs just a bit, before holding a hand out to Phainon.

“Come,” the scholar tells him, “Let's take a walk, shall we?” and who is Phainon to say no to him?

His hand slips into Anaxa's—a perfect fit, really. Anaxa feels so real. 

He expected the other to instantly let go of their joined hands the moment he had gotten up… only Anaxa didn't. Instead, slender fingers interlock with his, tightening their grip.

Phainon feels he might just explode. He doesn't comment on it.

Anaxa guides them through the winding paths of the Grove; sunlight peaks through the trees, illuminating the scholar in soft natural glow. Phainon never takes his eyes off the man before him.

Before he knows it, they’ve made it to one of the upper levels of the Grove. Most notably, where the Nousporism school was located.

Rather than debris and burn marks, Phainon sees everything exactly like he remembered it to be. The stairs to the 

A wave of sadness instantly washes over him, feeling tears well up in his eyes—he halts in his place, bringing his free arm to rub away whatever salty tears may have escaped.

Anaxa had stopped in his place as well, being tugged back ever so slightly from Phainon's abrupt halt. The former sage turns, witnessing the other man's attempts to stop his waterworks.

“You do not have to wipe your eyes,” Anaxa's voice comes clear, as Phainon sniffles, “It is only me here—no one will judge.”

Phainon shakes his head, “No, no, I’m okay. Let’s keep going.”

The other stares at him for a brief moment, eye blank, before gently pulling him back along.

Anaxa chuckles, gazing at his old teaching podium. “I still very vividly remember your first day,” he tells Phainon. “How insufferable you were with your constant commentary.”

Gasping, Phainon briefly forgets his tears. “Hey, but I came to be one of your favorites in the end,” the man retorts playfully, to which Anaxa hums.

“Hmph, I suppose so,” Anaxa replies, feeling a slight squeeze from their joined hands.

They walk down the stone steps, shoes gently clacking against the pavement as the two of them make their way to the center of the Nousporism auditorium.

The auditorium is surrounded by tree branches and shrubs; lovely, alive plants lining the gloriously crafted columns that stand tall and proud in pattern around the seats.

Phainon had originally sat near the upper back, uncertain and skeptical if the school he had been reassigned to would be a better fit than his original choice. He had later migrated toward the front, intensely involved with much of the class's interactions. 

He'll be forever grateful to whoever finalized their decision to reassign him to the Nousporists.

A light breeze weaves its way through Anaxa's hair, making the scholar look even more sightly than before. A small, bittersweet smile can be seen on the man’s face as the two stroll through empty seats.

Phainon rubs his thumb delicately against Anaxa's skin, silent and comforting.

Anaxa says nothing.

They make it to the front, the podium in sight, along with a clean, untouched desk off to the left. This time, Anaxa lets go of Phainon's hand, leaving him behind as he walks up onto the raised platform and stands quietly.

“... Do you think everyone from the Nousporists made it out safely?” Phainon cuts through the silence, asking a daunting question.

“No,” Anaxa's response is immediate, “If they had, I wouldn't have had to give my condolences to their families.”

The hero feels himself suck in a breath, watching as Anaxa remains unmoving.

“It felt like betrayal coming back to life from Cerces's actions.” Anaxa's voice has no hint of vulnerability, nor does it let any pain seep through. “I led myself up to the throne room in selfishness, intending to take the coreflame in a last-ditch experiment attempt, and died in my selfishness.”

He laughs, self-deprecatingly, “To be brought back to life by the coreflame, while others dropped dead on the lower levels—” Anaxa sucks in a sharp breath, cutting himself off, and lightly clutching his own head. “Well, I suppose it does not matter now.”

Phainon involuntarily clenches his fists, feeling his nails dig into the leather of his gloves, providing only one layer of protection between his nails and his skin. It certainly isn’t the first time he has heard Anaxa talk about himself in such a way.

“You’re important too, Professor.”

Anaxa turns at that, staring Phainon in the eyes once more—that blank look in his lone eye comes back; Phainon can’t read him.

He looks up at Anaxa on the elevated platform, the man unmoving and still like before.

“That you say I am—but I am not more important than them.”

The scholar blinks, and it is as if light slowly comes back to his eye. He steps off the podium and carefully walks over to where Phainon stands instead. Phainon keeps his gaze on him the entire time, never once looking away.

“But you're still important, Anaxa,” Phainon tells him as the other man stands right in front of him now, magenta-blue looking up and reciprocating his gaze.

“■■■e ■■ ■o■, Phainon.”

He catches his breath as he blinks his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling of the guest room, and waking up in sweat once more.

Phainon grabs his teleslate from off the nightstand, turning the screen on to read the time; it's only Descent hour now. That means he wasn't asleep for very long. He'll still be able to shut his eyes tonight.

The thought of it feels foreign to him—looking forward to sleeping, of all things.

For one who was so fervently terrified of Hypnos taking him, it appears that he's gotten over his fears quite suddenly now.

Anaxa.

Phainon has dreamt of him twice now, rather than of Aedes Elysiae. He's not sure what it all means, yet he knows one thing for sure: he wishes to see Anaxa again.

He closes his eyes briefly, laying an arm over them. 

A beautiful figure marks their appearance in his mind. Light, minty green hair that is delicately put together and taken care of; clear-coated, polished nails, trimmed and manicured; rings that adorn slender fingers; a corset that wraps snugly around a lithe waist; a silky voice that calms him the moment he hears it…

It feels taboo. To be thinking of his former professor in such a way, and yet Phainon can’t seem to stop himself. It makes him feel dizzy and tight—inescapable, but alluring all the same.

Phainon abruptly sits, pushing himself up. The sweat coating his back makes his shirt stick to him uncomfortably.

“I should wash myself…” he says aloud to an empty room. Yes, perhaps this will rid him of the skin-crawling feeling he has.

Swinging his legs off the bed, Phainon stands up, stretching briefly before making his way to the closet and grabbing a clean towel to take with him to the washroom.

He feels too—

Well, he isn't sure what he's feeling right now, but he knows that if he makes his way down to the public baths, then he'll surely die.

Clean towel in hand, Phainon enters the room's private baths. 

He sets the towel on the sink counter, then moves to take his clothes off. He leaves his choker and other accessories on top of the towel—unclasping the choker from his neck feels much more oddly relieving now than done previously.

Calloused hands lift his shirt over his head and off of his sweaty body, tossing it into a basket for washing tomorrow. Phainon fidgets with his belt buckle, having it come undone, slithering out of the belt loops on his pants, and then places it with his accessories. Finally, his hands come to undo his pants, unbuttoning them in one swift motion, pulling the fly zipper down, and taking one leg out at a time, before putting it into the basket with his shirt.

He now stands in only his briefs, staring at himself in the mirror.

Golden ink marks its place on the side of his neck and near his collarbone. Scars he’s gained over the years litter his body in all sorts of places.

Phainon quickly looks away, reaching to start the water instead.

The water temperature shouldn't be too cold, nor should it be too hot. He wades his fingers around in the water that begins to pool, testing the feel while sitting on the ledge of the nicely tiled bath built into the walls.

Once nice enough, Phainon discards himself of his briefs and sinks in.

The water touches his skin; every crevice of his body. He lets himself soak, hoping the tightness in him will cease soon enough.

But it doesn't.

It doesn't, and Phainon truly feels as if he may lose it.

If anything, anything at all, he feels worse. As if it has gotten to a point where he wishes to rip all of his hair out and claw at the walls.

“Take a deep breath, why don't you?”

His head snaps up.

Sitting prettily, bare nude, on the ledge of the bath is Anaxa. Anaxa, Anaxa, Anaxa—

Phainon inhales—one, two, three—then exhales—four, five, six.

“Good boy,” Anaxa praises him.

He jitters at the comment, watching as Anaxa dips his feet into the water. The man rests his chin in the palm of his hand and places his elbow on his knees as he observes Phainon with a smile. His other arm lies gently over his lap, tapping lightly against his own skin.

“What's got you so troubled?”

Of course, Phainon doesn't have an answer to that. He can only watch Anaxa in awe—studying the way the void in his chest shimmers. The way his hair perfectly flows down his shoulders. The slender fingers that encapsulate a gorgeous face. The pretty light pink of his—

“It's rude to stare.”

The Deliverer snaps out of his trance. “Sorry– Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Anaxa tuts softly, “It seems you've got a bigger problem to deal with right now,” he motions with a flick of his fingers to beneath the water. Phainon follows his gaze and instantly gets even more embarrassed.

A charming laugh escapes Anaxa's cute lips, and it only makes Phainon wish he could dissipate into the water.

“Come on now—don't worry, I'll guide you.”

Sucking in a sharp breath, Phainon hesitates for a split second before grabbing hold of his member. He twitches in excitement.

Anaxa nods and hums along. “Stroke gently,” comes the first instruction. Naturally, Phainon does what he says. “Not too fast.”

He lets out a breathy moan, shifting in his place as he spreads his knees a bit further apart, hitting the walls of the bath in the process. Closing his eyes, Phainon tilts his head back to rest against the small ledge.

“How pent up are you, hm?” Phainon can practically hear the smirk in Anaxa’s sultry voice, making him bite his lower lip as he continues his slow back-and-forth motions.

“Anaxa, please,” Phainon grits out.

“Shhh,” hushes Anaxa. “Play with the head now. Remember: not too fast.”

He gives his member one more amazingly good stroke before inching his way up to cup the head of his dick, just like Anaxa said. His thumb presses down onto the slit, making him flinch.

Phainon curses, moving between rubbing circles back-and-forth on his head, and stroking the rest of his length.

If he bites down on his lip any more, it may just begin to bleed. “Anaxa– I want you to touch me too. Please, baby–”

“Are you close?” the scholar asks him. He nods obediently. “If you can cum when I say so, you'll get what you want.”

“When I reach one, okay?”

“Six,”

His strokes begin to speed up—Phainon covers his mouth with his free hand.

“Five,”

He imagines velvety walls, pulsing around him. Their warmth envelops him as thin arms come to wrap around his neck and shoulders.

“Four,”

He would hold their waist, rough hands against their soft skin, as they would kiss him and his worries away.

“Three,”

He feels tears roll down his face, leaning forward and watching as they drop and fade into the bath water.

“Two,”

Thumbs would wipe his tear marks softly—polished, manicured nails in his sight. He'd apologize for crying, only for them to tell him it's okay. Everything would be okay.

“One.”

Phainon comes, reaching his peak. He squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth while he heaves from ecstasy.

“Anaxa–” he opens his eyes, looking back up, only to find the spot on the bath ledge empty and Anaxa gone.

Phainon lolls his head backward once more, sitting in silent realization, as another tear rolls down from his left eye.

He should really clean up properly.

He's dressed in clean garments now, provided by Lady Tribbie from when she had sentenced him to confinement in this room. 

A comfy and fairly light himation dress that exposes his right shoulder and some of his chest adorns his body. His hair is still damp, but he doesn't touch it anymore.

Tapping the screen of his previously discarded teleslate, the time tells him it's late evening now—Parting hour.

Phainon is about to take a seat at the desk again when a knock stops him.

He answers the door, revealing Hyacine with a full tray of food in her hands and Little Ica hovering behind her. He'd almost forgotten food was a human necessity.

Stepping aside to let her in, Hyacine makes her way to the desk, setting the tray down.

“I had knocked earlier for lunch, but you were asleep,” she starts. “I'm glad you're getting rest now, but don't forget to eat, silly.”

Ica doots in agreement, pushing Phainon from behind towards the desk as Hyacine takes his hands and gently pulls him to sit.

“Thank you, really, Hyacine…”

The healer shakes her head, “Just you eating will be enough for me.”

Phainon looks at the piping hot bowl of lamb stifado, mouth watering as he swiftly prepares his utensils. Along with that, there is a small bowl of cut fruits and a glass of pomegranate juice. 

Castorice and Mydeimos. He wonders how the two of them are doing at the moment.

“I'll head out now, Phainon–” she's about to finish, just before Phainon placidly grabs her wrist.

“No, stay, please,” he pleads mildly. “If you don't mind, that is.”

Hyacine tilts her head, moving back over to sit on the bed. “Is something wrong?”

Phainon eats some of his food first, feeling warmth spread through his chest from the temperature. “I have… some things to share. And… I've come to a realization,” he admits, playing with the fabric of his himation.

“... Go on.”

Playing with his spoon, he clears his throat: “I've realized I have romantic feelings for Professor Anaxa.”

The man squeezes his eyes shut and purses his lips into a thin line, as if it would shield him from being perceived. But when he hears utter silence from Hyacine, he squints an eye open, only to see her staring at him completely deadpan.

Well, now he just feels silly.

“Aren't you going to say something?” Phainon questions her as he reverts to normal and taps his fingers against the desk.

Hyacine raises an eyebrow, “Say what? I already knew that.”

The Deliverer gapes, dumbfounded at her answer.

She scoffs lightly, “Oh, come on, everyone knows,” Hyacine states as if it were the most obvious thing in all of Amphoreus—obvious to all but Phainon, apparently. “If you'd like me to list some names, I'm more than willing. Even Ica knows.”

At that, Phainon whips his head around and instead gapes at Ica, who sits right next to the healer patiently. The little pegasus doots; he isn't sure if it's in agreement with Hyacine's words or mocking him.

“Ah, well, you finally realized—though, it's a bit late now…” she gets quieter towards the end of her words; Phainon doesn't blame her. “Ehem– how did you come to finally realize, that is?” Hyacine changes the mood lightning fast, picking up the conversation again.

Phainon scratches the back of his head, scooping more food onto his spoon in the process. Ah. Hm.

He'll skip over that part.

“... I had another dream about him earlier.”

His right knee begins to bob lightly under the desk. “It's hard to explain what this one was about, too. But, when I woke up, it felt like I was being burned alive.” Phainon says. “It… hit me when I stopped to calm down and think about it.”

Hyacine, nodding along to his words, crosses her arms. “I'm not sure what advice or words I could give you, but if your weird dreams persist, then tell me, okay?”

But that’s the thing: Phainon wishes to keep seeing him. Still, he gives Hyacine reassurance through one firm nod.

The woman stands up, smoothing her skirt ruffles back out and turning to Ica briefly before appointing her gaze back onto Phainon. “Don’t stay up too late!” she reprimands with a point of her index finger. “We’ll see you tomorrow, Phainon.”

He watches her and the little pegasus exit the room, quietly closing the door behind them. Turning back to the desk with papers still strewn about and books stacked, Phainon scoops another spoonful of his food into his mouth—only to find it's gone cold. He sighs, but finishes it all in a couple more bites anyway.

The cut fruits and pomegranate juice remain untouched on the desk as Phainon falls back into bed wordlessly.

He doesn't want to wait to sleep.

Phainon shuts his eyes.

A third

Once again, green greets him, rather than gold. Phainon feels his heart pound as he casts his gaze around.

He searches for soft green hair and dark clothing in what appears to be one of the Grove's training ground colosseums, a sturdy stone structure dedicated to the Helkolithist students and scholars who engage in physical practice and study.

And then—

In the audience stands, he spots Anaxa waving at him with a gentle wiggle of his fingers. The former sage approaches the protective stone wall, patiently waiting for Phainon as he makes his way toward his beloved professor.

“Hello again,” Anaxa greets him with a sly smile, his lone eye twinkling with familiarity. Phainon’s face widens into a gleeful grin upon seeing Anaxa once more.

“Anaxa,” Phainon softly murmurs, tilting his head up with a mixture of affection and excitement.

Anaxa leans against the wall, his long hair drifting in the breeze, strands catching the sunlight. “Well? Should I come to you, or will you come to me, Phainon?” he asks teasingly.

Phainon immediately shakes his head, determination in his eyes. “I'll come to you,” he asserts firmly, already in motion.

The Deliverer makes his way toward the stairwell, bouncing lightly with each step, and the muscles in his legs tense with anticipation. He reaches the top, turns the corner into the stands, and sees that Anaxa has taken a seat again—leaning back on his hands and gazing up at the clear blue sky dotted with soft, drifting clouds.

The lush trees from behind shade him just a bit from the side, lovingly basking him in a slight shadow.

Phainon pauses briefly to admire him—only for Anaxa's penetrating gaze to lock onto him instead, flickering with quiet intensity.

The scholar pats the seat next to him, motioning for Phainon to come closer with the curl of his hand. “Don't get shy now.” Anaxa teases.

He strides toward Anaxa, plopping into the seat pliantly, feeling eager and nervous all the same. 

“I can tell that you're excited—what for?” the man asks him, purely curious. Phainon thinks it couldn’t be more obvious as his cheeks flush from being bashful.

“To see you.”

Anaxa gives a small hmph, crossing his arms. “You can’t possibly find this more exciting than whatever else you have going on. We do not do much, Phainon.”

With a tilt of his head, Phainon asks him, “What else should we do? I mean, I feel satisfied just being here with you…” he admits and scratches the back of his head.

Anaxa grins cheekily. “Let’s spar,” he says plainly and dead serious. Phainon is instantly subverse to the idea, but really—who is he to deny him? Though that doesn’t mean he can’t push Anaxa towards other, less energy-excruciating activities—they could take another delightful walk again through the Grove—

Before he’s even able to retort, Anaxa grabs him by the hands, leading Phainon back to the way he just came. The man has no choice but to keep up with him, briskly descending the stairs to make sure he doesn’t accidentally trip and make a fool of himself.

They now stand in the center of the Helkolithist colosseum; Anaxa lets go of his hands, walking past him to face him parallel.

“I won’t go easy, and I expect you to be the same,” Anaxa summons his gun and ammunition with the flick of his wrist, filling the empty barrel with the orb. Albeit momentarily stunned in place, Phainon summons his greatsword, gripping it with conviction. 

Instantly, Anaxa disappears from in front of him, launching an attack from behind that almost touches Phainon, were he even a second later in his response. 

Bright green light bounces from wall to wall, to the floor, and back into the air, as Phainon runs to dodge. He can’t spot Anaxa amongst it all. Once confident enough in learning its repetition, Phainon swings his greatsword at a beam scorching towards him, effectively countering it back towards its previous direction.

He hears hearty laughter echoing throughout the colosseum—were it anybody else, Phainon may have felt fear chill through his body—but it’s Anaxa. It only riles him up.

The laughter continues, ringing through Phainon’s ears; he uses this to his advantage, following the source of the beautiful sound to its source and catching Anaxa in his act. 

The scholar’s crafted gun meets the edge of his greatsword, clashing with a boisterous sound. Many people underestimate Anaxa’s true strength from his lithe figure and appearance—the man himself even prefers to fight from a distance… and also actively tells others he is feeble—but it doesn’t mean he isn’t capable of also using his body more.

Anaxa grins, pushing against the greatsword and attempting to match Phainon’s physical prowess. However, the Deliverer surges forward, knocking Anaxa backwards and onto his back, winning their short face-off. The gun knocks out of Anaxa’s grip and slides against the floor away from his reach.

Phainon walks toward Anaxa, dragging the tip of his greatsword against the colosseum floor, leaving a dusty wake and an indent in his trail. 

When he reaches the other man, he points his greatsword at his neck, heaving from all the energy he just let go and matching Anaxa’s grin. 

“Do you yield, Professor?”

Another wondrous laugh from him, before saying: “I yield.”

Phainon’s gaze stays, observing how Anaxa’s long hair splays out beautifully beneath; it's messy and now unkempt, but Anaxa still looks heavenly with his smile and hands resting on his stomach as he looks back up at him.

He throws his weapon to the side and drops to his knees, hitting the dusty colosseum floor harder than he should have, moving to hover over the other—Anaxa makes no protest. 

Phainon's hands come to cup Anaxa's face delicately; he rubs his right thumb underneath the scholar's eyepatch, feeling the patch of cold skin. Despite the layers he wears and the sunlight glaring down on them, Anaxa’s skin remains cold.

It's the first he's noticing this—a small crack underneath Anaxa’s eyepatch.

His gaze travels from his hands that hold Anaxa’s face down to the other’s neck. Phainon’s hands move down ever so slightly.

“Is this how you want to reward yourself for winning?” Anaxa whispers.

The Deliverer's throat bobs as he swallows his saliva out of nervousness. He doesn't answer Anaxa's question, in his own mind, still, rather than being responsive.

It's only when Anaxa’s own hands touch him, cold against his own skin; one covers a hand he has cupping the man's face, while another wraps its fingers gently around his wrist.

“Anaxa…” he croaks out quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Gods, sorry, I’m sorry, let’s get up now,” Phainon quickly mutters, already moving off the scholar. “Did you get hurt?”

He offers a hand, to which Anaxa pushes himself up and off the ground with his palms; he silently takes it, clothes swishing with his movements. 

Shaking his head, he observes Phainon closely: the man refuses to look him in the eye, noticing this, and turns around promptly to retrieve his and Anaxa's discarded weapons.

“Phainon,” Anaxa calls him.

Phainon jerks his head back towards his direction instantly. “Yes? Are you okay?”

Anaxa nods, expressionless, making his way to the taller. “And what about you?” he asks, standing in front of Phainon, who is kneeling on the floor.

Their eyes finally meet each other—it's another one of those times where Phainon can't tell what the Anaxa is thinking.

There's a growing anxiety settling in his core, staring into Anaxa's seemingly now dull lone eye. It travels from the pit of his stomach, up to his throat, to which he breaks eye contact and looks down, to the sides, anywhere but at Anaxa. 

“I'm okay,” he finally replies, still unable to reciprocate his gaze. “Here—your gun.”

He offers it peacefully, standing to his full height once again. Anaxa never takes his view off him, following his every move.

Their hands brush against each other—Phainon feels the chill of Anaxa’s skin once more, accidentally flinching slightly.

“Does it feel bad?”

And at that, he looks at Anaxa's face again—still ever expressionless. “No, sorry, no– You–”

He watches as Anaxa smiles, just a bit, and it stops his words from falling out.

“I■ ■■l■ ■■ o■■■.”

He can’t hear what Anaxa said to him; everything flickers for a moment, space seemingly distorting and warping, walls of the colosseum melting, sky becoming a vibrant deep blue, Anaxa's figure bare and faceless, just for a moment—

Before everything cuts out completely.

Phainon has gotten used to this feeling by now: waking up in sweat. Even before his dreams of him began.

Phainon instantly scrambles out of bed, immediately trying to occupy himself with something else. He checks the time on his teleslate, the device telling him that it is barely Entry Hour.

He heaves a big sigh, running a hand through his hair before staring down at the untouched bowl of cut fruits and glass of pomegranate juice.

Taking the tray into his hands, Phainon walks over to the door, slipping on sandals and walking out.

The bathhouse is quiet—many are still asleep after all.

He takes his time walking through the empty hallways, giving minuscule greetings or nods here and there to the people who are awake.

One step, two steps, another nod.

Three steps, four steps, five, six.

His feet stop just before the boundary of the cafeteria and kitchen.

“...need to take precautions to protect Kephale's coreflame,” a voice speaks just outside a corridor to the left of him, about seven strides away.

Phainon rushes into the cafeteria, putting away his dishes and leaving his tray for the staff to take care of. His feet now carry him to that leftmost corridor, body moving on its own, to where he finds Lady Tribbie and Lady Trinnon working.

His presence is already spotted by Trinnon. “Snowy? What are you doing being up so early?” she asks, which makes Tribbie stop writing to look at him, too.

Phainon takes that as his cue to enter the open room. “Woke up from a dream I had—went to occupy myself with something else after that.” he keeps his words simple and his voice monotone, not up for saying much.

“Considering you’re here, we assume you heard some of our conversation?” Tribbie hops out of her chair, coming to his side and pulling him forward to their table to take a seat.

He nods. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” Phainon apologizes softly, sitting down in the offered chair.

“Don’t worry! Actually, you can be a part of our discussion now, considering you are who Agy chose to take her leadership duties,” Tribbie reassures him with a small smile and retreats to her own spot.

And that’s right. He is the Heirs’ new leader now.

But it truly does not feel like that at all. He’s done nothing but wallow in his emotions, while continuously finding himself in discord with problems he wishes he could control properly. Some leader he is.

“We were discussing arrangements we can make to safeguard the Worldbearing coreflame while you and the others head for the Eye of Twilight,” Trinnon initiates duty again, reverting the conversation to its original topic. 

“With De’s warning of the Flame Reaver becoming active again and the Council still at hand, we need to take all precautions.”

At the mention of Mydei, Phainon plays with the rolls the loose fabric of his clothing creates, rubbing it between his fingers as he feels anxiousness settling in the pit of his stomach once more.

“Has he sent any other messages since then? And what of Castorice, too?” he asks with worry, missing the presence of everyone who has left recently. Phainon makes a mental note to visit the Garden later; he’ll bring some trinkets from the market and an accessory or two with him.

Trinnon firmly shakes her head, much to Phainon’s already bubbling dismay. “No messages since then… And we’re unable to get confirmation on anything about Cassie since she now resides in the Nether Realm.”

“But if De does send another message, we’ll ask him about Cassie, too, okay? You’ll be the first to know.” 

He doesn’t say anything in response, but soundlessly accepts anyway. The two of them don’t pry him for a verbal answer either.

“We won't be enough to protect the coreflame if something happens,” Trinnon's voice trails into something more hushed. “With Agy gone, Okhema's security has gone down substantially. There's no telling what may occur if the Flame Reaver or Council were to make their move for Kephale's coreflame now.”

Tribbie, nodding along, gives her thoughts: “And with De and Cassie now dedicating themselves to their duties as demigods, along with you guys heading to the Eye of Twilight…”

She doesn't have to say any more. Phainon and Trinnon are already well aware of what she intends.

Phainon ponders hard: they'll need power to be able to take Aquila head-on. But it leaves Okhema in such a vulnerable position.

Maybe he could stay behind? To protect the city. But would he, Tribbie, and Trinnon be enough? He doesn't know.

He doesn't know, he doesn't know, he doesn't know what to do.

Truly, what does he know? Phainon's thoughts spiral, already sending himself into dismay and depreciation with how he believes he is unfit to lead.

His mind wanders to anything that could be of use in this predicament, until he lands on one thing.

Knowledge is also a power used to smite.

“What about Miss Cipher?” Phainon pipes up instantaneously, drawing the two demigods’ attention back on him. 

If they’re unable to defend the coreflame due to lack of prowess… Then they’ll distract and mislead instead.

Tribbie tilts her head. “Ciphy? What do you suggest we ask her to do?”

“Since we don’t exactly have the power to simultaneously fight Aquila and protect Okhema, we can instead draw the Flame Reaver’s attention elsewhere—make them believe the coreflame is in Miss Cipher’s possession rather than on Dawncloud.”

He continues, digging his nails into the palm of his hand. “Miss Cipher will be tasked with misleading. It seems right up her alley, being the Trickery demigod.”

Trinnon nods furiously, while Tribbie jumps up from her seat. “That’s it, Snowy!” both of them tell him.

Phainon feels a smile creeping up on his face, unwilling to stop it from blooming. To receive such recognition for solving his first roadblock as the newfound leader of the Chrysos Heirs—it makes him feel like he’s finally doing something right.

“Ah,” Trinnon interrupts their shared relief. “But how do you suppose we convince her? Ciphy, she… It’s complicated.”

No, he won’t have this crumble now.

“I’ll convince her myself soon,” Phainon reassures them. “I swear on it.”

Parting hour descends upon Amphoreus quicker than Phainon expects.

He isn’t truly keeping track of the time right now.

After having gone back to his room in the bathhouse and properly tidied himself up, donning his usual attire, he feels a sense of vigor surge back through him. To have a purpose and something to occupy himself with, finally, he walks the streets of Marmoreal Market, musing through vendors’ stocks for anything that catches his eye. He’ll have to hurry—many are starting to pack away now.

And bingo.

He spots some crafted trinkets and toys being sold by a vendor he's known for quite a while—Trianne had loved to share her own creations with the vendor, and the two of them had bonded over invention.

“Morning, Lord Phainon,” they greet him kindly, already standing up from their seat. “Anything you're interested in?”

Phainon hums in accordance. “The toy rocket ship here—it was Lady Trianne's idea, correct?”

“Yes, you'd be correct! I've been making a lot of them recently… To honor her memory in some way.” The vendor's words drift off quietly.

The Deliverer nods and opens his satchel to retrieve his payment. “I understand… If it's all right, I'd like to purchase one to place at her memorial in the Garden.”

At that, the vendor perks up again. “By all means—just take it, Lord Phainon! It's the least I can do.”

He disagrees, already trying to slip them the payment, only for them to shove it back into his satchel. “I insist, Lord Phainon,” they tell him sternly. “Please give her my most heartfelt apologies, too. She is dearly missed.”

Momentarily stunned, Phainon eventually puts away his pouch and takes the crafted wooden toy rocket from them.

“Of course. Please, take care of yourself.”

The vendor gives him a gentle smile just before he turns to keep wandering the market.

His next stall stop is run by a close friend and associate of Aglaea's. They were a source of her fine materials and fabrics that she used to create her beautiful pieces. The fabric he currently wears was sourced by them, even.

They greet him with a wave of their hand, fixing up a few displays. “Ah, Phainon—it's good to see you out and about again.”

“The sentiment is the same,” he tells them, looking around their stall. “Would you happen to have any gold jewelry? Like a bracelet, perhaps?”

The vendor almost instantly pulls out a small box containing a small gold bracelet; it is adorned with small gems all around.

“I've already heard your conversation with the youngster over there—this one is also on me.”

Phainon gapes, waving his hands frantically. “No way! Both of you, really–”

Stubborn as they've always been, they pull Phainon softly by the wrist and put the box into his satchel, closing it up. “Do tell her I say hello,” they give a pat on the shoulder with a bittersweet smile, before moving back to their stall.

Phainon feels his heartstrings tug. He nods and starts his journey back to the Palace, wanting to reach the Garden as soon as possible before the time dwindles to too late an hour.

He makes his way up the tall stairs leading into the bathhouse, clutching his satchel tight. His feet never stop, nor does anyone stop to greet him—they simply don’t notice him because of his swiftness.

The bathhouse is beginning to die down by now; people are heading home or back to their rooms. Curtain-fall hour is upon them, after all. Phainon makes a few more turns, up the winding paths that flow throughout the Palace, until he reaches the Garden of Life, greeted by sunlight once more, with Kephale’s looming figure in sight from a distance.

No one is here. But that’s okay, Phainon thinks to himself. 

He walks over to the small woven basket set out on one of the ledges—a white cloth covers the interior, and there sits a small sewing kit and a doll that resembles Trianne. Flowers and other gifts of all sorts have surrounded it over time, being left here by people who wanted to pay their respects.

Phainon kneels, opening his satchel and taking out the two items he had just received. He delicately places the wooden toy rocket right next to the doll, then carefully takes the gold bracelet from its box and sets it on top of the sewing kit. 

“I’m sorry—maybe I should have also gotten you two flowers like everyone else had,” Phainon speaks aloud, looking down at the basket wistfully. “I apologize if my gifts don’t seem like much.”

He can feel the heat of the Dawn Device blistering down on him from behind. Still, he remains unmoved.

Phainon takes a deep breath. “There’s a lot I wish to say– A lot I wish I could say,” he starts once more. “But to keep it short and simple: I think I’m doing okay. As a leader, I mean.”

“The two of you were a constant by my side—I would be lying to everyone if I said I’ve already moved on.” A pause. “But I’m doing my best, and everyone else is, too.”

The man rubs his hand against his kneecap, trying to ground himself in the moment.

“I won’t let you two down. See you tomorrow.”

And with that, Phainon departs back into the Palace, walking back the winding paths and to his room—his pace is slower this time—though significantly fewer due to the time, people notice him and greet him with smiles, to which he reciprocates.

He reaches the quarter in which his room is located; there is no longer anyone guarding the door, but he doesn’t mind that. Phainon retreats into the room, taking his satchel off his person and stripping and swapping his attire for something lighter.

He falls back onto the bed, adjusting his pillow, then shuts his eyes.

A fourth

It doesn’t surprise him this time—green foliage fills his view again.

Phainon looks around him patiently, observing his surroundings as he's done previously. What greets him this time is the sight of the Luminary Throne, in all its haunting glory.

He turns around on his heels, not wanting to trigger a nightmare by looking at the scene any longer. His feet lead him downwards, searching for the scent of mint and the familiar head of light green hair. 

Some of the small white dryad statues have been toppled over, broken into bits and pieces; it might be impossible to put them back together properly, were someone to try.

Along with that, as he continues his journey down, Phainon begins to notice scorch marks tainting things he knows were previously untouched before.

He wants to find Anaxa. He needs to find Anaxa.

It's as if something had rampaged through parts of the Grove, here and there, sporadically marking their destruction.

Phainon watches his steps, making sure not to step on any stray debris that lies about amongst the pathways.

He reaches the mid-level—

The middle level, which housed the schools and mainland studies, seems to be much more destroyed.

The once lively hangout spots, the walkways to each school, and the stone gazebos that once stood proud, now lie on their last legs, brandishing cuts and gashes from where they had been injured or completely defeated, losing all their limbs and lying to rest against the pavement. Burned leaves and vines, foliage shaken from their places amongst the trees, rest along with them, cradling everything in their last moments. 

It sends chills down his spine, quickening his pace. Phainon hopes they know they were loved. 

He needs to find Anaxa soon.

Phainon steps onto the old, creaky water wheel, slowly moving down to the lower level.

His heart races as he spots the now murky waters with barely visible bodies floating amongst its waters.

Bodies lay dormant and dead even in its waters, tainting the springs. The surface of the platform Phainon had gotten on had been grazed with fire, scratched at its grain painfully so. Marks litter its marvelous pattern, along with the red blood stains.

It takes a moment, but the water wheel ultimately continues its duty even if the thread attaching it to life is about to snap. Phainon arrives on the next floor, stepping off the platform softly—he looks back at the water wheel, the platform now floats back to the top painfully slowly, just as it was going down, as it bids him farewell with all the strength it has left. 

The Library of Philia is now in view: books and papers are scattered all about, pages torn from their homes, scrolls sprawled out across the stone ground. Bodies lay here as well, though none of their heads are visible. Phainon wants to throw up.

The heart above pulses, beating at its usual pace and reverberating through everything. It is loud and could make a child's ears ring if they were to hear it for the first time—it's what happened to Phainon the first time he set foot here.

The backside of a familiar figure stands before him, staring up at the heart; light green hair and the scent of mint.

“Anaxa.”

And Anaxa turns, looking at him—

His eye seems duller than before, and the crack Phainon had noticed last time now extends even further down the man's cheek.

Phainon walks to him slowly; he can't tell if the heartbeat he hears is his own or the heart pulsing above them anymore.

“... What happened? Why do you have–”

Like before, Anaxa merely grabs one of Phainon's hands, leading him away.

The path they walk leads back to the Luminary Throne; back up the higher levels. As Anaxa wordlessly holds his hand, Phainon tightens his grip and looks around him.

The gazebos stand proud again, as if no damage had ever been done to them. Trees, bushes, and ferns are alive and thriving once more. The pathway beneath their very feet is now spotless.

“What? But everything has just been–” been what? Phainon can't find the right word.

The water wheel is now in sight—it moves at its original pace, without any scorch marks. Even the waters below—the headless bodies that had originally floated amongst them are gone. The murkiness is no more; instead, in its place are crystal clear waters, adorned with lilypads and lotuses.

Phainon hesitantly follows Anaxa onto the water wheel, standing beside him as they go up a level.

Everything is now as it was before.

The two of them continue their journey upwards in silence—though Phainon wishes that wasn’t the case. He doesn’t know how to get his words out properly.

Just before they enter the Luminary Throne, Phainon yanks his hand out of Anaxa’s, halting in his steps. It makes Anaxa turn back, staring at Phainon blankly.

“I don’t understand, Anaxa. I don’t like– I don’t like whatever this is,” Phainon sputters, now clenching the hand Anaxa held into a fist. “How come you’re not saying anything? How come everything I saw when I went to find you is suddenly no more?”

Anaxa merely stares.

“Say something, for Gods’ sake!” Phainon’s voice is desperate now. He doesn’t yell out of anger, nor is it from malice.

It’s fear and worry. Confusion and distress.

Anaxa’s mouth finally opens. “Shouldn’t you know the answer to your question?” he asks the other man. There is a pregnant pause before he speaks again: “This is your ■■■■■, after all.”

My what? Phainon is even more puzzled now.

Anaxa takes three steps towards Phainon—Phainon takes three steps back.

“I see.” Anaxa says softly. “Phainon, imagine something you've done in the last few days. Close your eyes.”

Reluctantly, Phainon does what he says; what comes to his mind first is when he had been in the bath, partially because it involved Anaxa. His body seems to feel weightless for a moment—only for heaviness to build in his core and crush him down all at once.

“Open your eyes.”

When he does, his lower half is submerged in water. The tiles and patterns are familiar; the same his assigned guest room bathroom has. Everything is the same.

Phainon looks up, finding Anaxa nude and sitting on the bathtub ledge. He feels heat creep up his neck, unable to look away from the one before him.

Anaxa's body is littered in cracks. It isn't only just the one he had on his cheek.

Previously hidden by his clothes, there is a long crack extending from his neck, down to where the starry void in his chest resides. His legs and arms brandish similar cracks as well. Phainon's eyes trail down from Anaxa's chest, down to–

“It's rude to stare—haven't I told you that before?” comes Anaxa's low voice.

Phainon adjusts himself in the tub, water splashing about. “Right– Sorry, you have.” he looks away, staring at the tiles instead.

A hand gently holds his chin, pulling him back.

The Deliverer studies the cracks that crawl up and down Anaxa's body. He doesn't realize what's happening to him until his chest starts to heave and his heartbeat rapidly speeds up.

Anaxa readjusts his hands, caressing Phainon's cheeks. “You're okay,” he whispers.

Phainon fervently shakes his head, yet Anaxa's hands never peel off of him. “Anaxa, you– Your body– You're not even okay!”

He winces, gritting his teeth. Phainon doesn't mean to yell at him.

Anaxa, ever kind, does not comment on it. “You're okay, Phainon.”

Wet hands come to cover dry ones—Phainon isn't sure if he wants to hold them or pry them off of him.

His face is wet now, but much like everything else that has happened, Phainon can not tell if it's from his wet hands or tears streaking down his cheeks.

“Anaxa– Anaxa, tell me you're okay.”

Anaxa nods yes.

Phainon shakes his head no. “I need you to say it.”

“I'm okay, Phainon.”

And really, it is all he is able to put his faith in. His body continues to shake and he wants to scratch all of his skin off. Anaxa is okay.

Through blurry tears, he looks at the other man. Anaxa says something.

“■■■■■■■ ■■■■■v■ y■u.”

His eyes shoot open.

Phainon wakes to the view of the room again. His chest feels heavy, yet he can't remember why.

He grabs his teleslate for the time—it's late Ascent hour. He has slept for far too long now.

Phainon rushes out of bed, hastily pulling on his regular attire. He sends a quick text to Lady Tribbie, letting her know that he'll be searching for Miss Cipher now, then he's out the door.

Lady Trinnon had previously told him that it would be wise to search for Cipher loitering around Dawncloud; he would look there first.

The trip to Dawncloud isn't as time-consuming as one may think—Janus's passageways provide quick travel amongst large distances, saving Phainon much time.

He braces himself for the feel, zipping through and reaching his destination in mere minutes; only minutes, due to his walk from the Palace to Dawncloud's entry passage.

Many more Council members are lurking about here than down in the main city. Phainon will have to be careful of them and the Cleaners.

He tries not to draw too much attention to himself, moving swiftly amongst less crowded areas—he isn't like Miss Cipher with her abilities to move faster than one can blink.

Reaching the Forecourt and Demigod Council, there are even fewer people gathered here than in previous places. It's to be expected, as there aren't any current Council meetings being held.

In the distance, he spots a figure with cat-like ears and a tail, looking off into the distance and towards Kephale's statue. Bingo.

Despite finding her, as Lady Trinnon said he would here, he continues to move carefully, trying not to startle her, as she clearly seems to be in thought.

Though it doesn't last very long.

Cipher speaks to him, calling him out from his spot in hiding.

“...Are you really planning to just stand there forever?” she questions, turning to face him. “Honestly, sneaking around doesn't suit you, Deliverer.”

Phainon strides forward, making himself known. “Ahaha... I never thought I could slip past your sharp ears, Miss Cipher,” he replies honestly. “I just didn't think it'd be right to interrupt when you're obviously lost in thoughts.”

Her face grows smug, hearing his response.

“Hmph. Still as charming with your words as ever, boy. Your speech at the public baths wasn't half bad, I'll admit. It managed to touch my heart,” Cipher admits, hands on her hips. “Just a smidge.” she adds.

Phainon smiles at her words. “Thank you,” he means it from the heart. “I had a feeling back then that you were in the audience listening.”

“...Oh? And you didn't call me out on the spot? You waited all this time to tell me?”

He looks away from her briefly, sadness piling into his chest already. “Well... I thought you'd need some time to yourself... after she passed away.”

It was only recently, after all. No one is able to quickly get over their sorrows in a matter of days. No matter how fast Cipher may be, her woes will always be at her side as well.

He hears her sharply inhale and watches as she shifts on her legs, as if she were itching to run away.

Quietly, she whispers: “Hm. None of your business.” before reverting to a louder tone.

“Enough small talk. Tell me, what kind of trouble did you run into that you need me, the super-old-timer, to step in?” Cipher emphasizes the nickname, as if in mockery of herself.

He exhales a breath he wasn't aware he was holding—his worries of Cipher declining him have now faded.

“We've only met a couple of times, but you've always gone straight to business. I respect that about you, so I'll cut to the chase.”

“I assume you're aware that Aglaea has earned the support of the entire city for the Chrysos Heirs,” he begins, getting straight into detail. “Everyone believes that she died at the hands of Council members who are against the flamechase, and the citizens' fury has been dragging them out of the shadows one by one.”

His voice trembles amongst the boundary of regret, continuing. “But they didn't get everybody. To this day, we still haven't found Elder Caenis—the leader of the ‘Cleaners.’”

“Ah. I see,” the Trickery demigod jumps back in. “You're afraid she'll do something wild now that she's pushed into a corner, aren't you?”

He nods, confirming her suspicions. “Yes. I believe that Kephale's Coreflame would be the opposition's final trump card against the Heirs.”

“We're setting out to campaign against Aquila soon,” Phainon declares. “With the majority of remaining Chrysos Heirs gone, it'll be their best chance to strike…”

Cipher snickers, smirking when she hears him. “You think those desperate dogs will try to snatch the Coreflame while you're gone.” 

A pause. 

“So you want me to give them a nice long walk while you're away, right?” she hits the nail on the head instantly.

Amid all previous times Phainon has encountered her, she would always be able to pick up on things promptly and wage it to her own benefit. It's something he admires her for, in all of its useful glory.

“You see through everything once more, Miss Cipher.” Phainon compliments her, and to this, she grins. “I know exactly what you can do: God-like speed, perfect disguises, untraceable movements... And that most enigmatic authority of ‘Trickery.’”

“I have only one request. Please, use whatever tricks you need to protect Kephale's Coreflame, even if you have to deceive all else as well.”

Cipher falls silent as a neutral expression decorates her. Phainon watches the way she bites the inside of her cheek and balls her fists. His heartbeat seems to expedite at this, growing nervous anew.

“... Hey, Deliverer,” she finally speaks again. “Do you honestly think that there's no way I'll turn you down?”

“Do you even have any Plan Bs if I decide to nope out on this?”

It is exactly as he feared. Fear of rejection that Cipher wouldn't be willing to do something so risky. And he completely understands why—it isn't as if he's not afraid of it all either.

Guilt settles into him quicker than he would like. “When I had discussed this with Lady Tribbie and Lady Trinnon, it was certainly a possibility.”

Phainon tries to keep himself composed; he does not want to show any weakness from the faults of his shortcoming planning, hopes, and whims.

If he does, then what if Cipher truly did say no and flee? What would he do then?

“Miss Cipher, I'm very aware of what is being asked here—but no one can match you in terms of abilities regarding this matter.” he keeps his tone stern and professional, but knowing Cipher, she may have already seen through his façade. “I'm sure you're plenty aware of this, too.”

She scoffs, tearing herself away from his strong gaze. “What confidence. You talk as if you have everything in the palm of your hand... Hmph, so you did learn a thing or two from her. I'll give you that.”

Her golden heels tap against the ground as she adjusts herself. Cipher briefly looks toward the direction of Kephale and the Dawn Device—there's a glint in her eyes that Phainon can't decipher the meaning.

The Trickery demigod stares back at him again, making him startle only a bit; Phainon attempts to pretend it didn't happen.

“Then let me tell you something you might not know,” sighing, she puts her hands on her hips again. “That Flame Reaver—they've been watching Okhema very closely.”

He shakes his head. “I'm well aware of the Flame Reaver becoming active again. That had been another possibility discussed with Lady Tribbie and Lady Trinnon…”

Phainon's hands clench a bit. “Mydeimos had sent his message in warning. He fights in Kremnos's walls against the black tide as we speak.”

Cipher hums, tapping her fingers against her bodysuit corset. “That little prince, hm? And even Princess Homebody is doing her thing. Now it seems like I'm the lacking one. I'm supposed to be the elder, no?” she mutters to herself—Phainon doesn't comment on it.

The woman clicks her tongue, still drumming with her fingers. “So you are aware,” she draws on. “That lunatic may have lost their mind, but they’re no fool. They haven’t made their move yet, but it’s painfully obvious now.”

Phainon nods along, sensing that Cipher is on more agreeable terms now.

“Professor Anaxa once–”

He stops himself. Cipher raises an eyebrow in confusion.

Anaxa. 

His face must show all sorts of emotions right now, as he seems to hear Cipher trying to get his attention back—yet her voice drowns out as he loses himself in his overflowing thoughts.

Anaxa. That’s right. Phainon thinks.

He remembers Anaxa’s cracked and nude body before him. He remembers sitting in the bath sobbing uncontrollably. He remembers cold hands touching his skin.

Phainon takes a deep breath in attempts to calm himself in the moment. “Miss Cipher, I–”

Cipher looks undeniably frustrated at him; he can’t blame her at all. She waves him off rapidly, swishing her tail, and turning her back towards him.

“I got it, boy,” she reassures him. “Consider this a two-for-one deal. I’ll keep that lunatic entertained on top of protecting Kephale’s coreflame…” Cipher turns her head back, peering over his shoulder and meeting his shocked face. “You owe a big favor after this.”

Her eyes revert back onto Kephale and the Dawn Device, paying no more attention to him.

“You have my utmost gratitude, Miss Cipher,” thanking her with a now somewhat leveled tone, Phainon places a hand to his heart. “Please be careful.”

She laughs, a ringing sound for those in ear to hear.

“Don’t forget, Deliverer: there’s a fundamental truth in this world. ‘Cifera will always get the last laugh.’” her shoes clink on stone as she stretches. “I’ll do my job, so you,” as her coin flips into the air, “need to make sure that you don’t die before you pay me.”

And without another word, she catches the coin and disappears in a blink, one with the wind.

Phainon turns on his heels and runs.

He shuts the door behind him fast, already stripping his clothes and getting rid of his accessories. He doesn't bother properly putting on his himation dress.

Phainon shoves his satchel and teleslate onto the messy desk and hurriedly climbs into bed. He squeezes his eyes shut, not caring to adjust himself into comfort.

A fifth

What greets him this time isn't green—

It's white.

There is nothing. Nothing at all. All of it is a blank white.

Against the striking white, it isn't hard to find Anaxa. His dark clothes make for a stark contrast against the light.

It is eerie and makes Phainon fearful. He isn't scared of Anaxa—never, Anaxa. He is scared of what is to become of him.

Phainon strides forward, finding newfound confidence in himself despite the equally odd as before situation he finds himself in. 

He stops six steps away from the other.

From here, he sees that all the unhidden and hidden cracks alike have evolved, cracking Anaxa's skin even more.

Despite his confidence from a second ago, Phainon finds himself unable to properly articulate what he would like to say. He isn't even sure what it is regarding what he'd like to say.

“Hello,” Anaxa greets, smiling softly—his cracks have grown more prominent, more visible than before, expanding across his entire body. Phainon begins to pick at his nails. “Is something wrong?”

Everything is wrong.

He's hesitant to respond—for fear that something may happen and he won’t be able to do anything again.

“It’s nothing,” Phainon eventually settles on a reply, shaking his head briefly. He can't read Anaxa at all.

It's different from before; Phainon catches on to this quickly. Anaxa doesn't seem to be unresponsive, nor does he seem to be like how Phainon remembers.

“How… how have you been?” he starts up their conversation again. Anaxa hums, beginning to walk around slowly.

The man circles him once, then steps towards him, resting his head and hands gently against Phainon's chest.

It makes him freeze, unsure what to do, until Anaxa speaks again: “Aren't you going to hold me?”

Phainon gapes, feeling his hands get clammy. Eventually, his arms come to wrap around Anaxa's thin waist, locking him into place.

“I must say, I feel better now,” Anaxa laughs, curling into him. Phainon can only look down at the man in his arms. “I know you want to point it out—it's not as if it's a secret.”

His chest aches, and Phainon pulls both of them to the floor, dropping to their knees. “Anaxa, what in Kephale's name is happening to you?”

The smaller man scoffs and clicks his tongue. “Nothing new, I suppose.”

Phainon's hands grasp the fabric of Anaxa's clothes, trying to tighten his grip on him, as if he were to let go, then Anaxa would disappear.

He feels Anaxa shift, arms now wrapping around him and clutching his coat.

It scares him. Of course it does. This is something Phainon isn't aware of, if he can do anything about. Anaxa's body is seemingly in its last moments, and he can't do anything.

“You're breathing heavier,” Anaxa mutters, with an ear pushed up against his chest to listen to his heartbeat and feel the rise and fall. Light taps make their presence known on his back—a ticklish feeling, really. “Stop worrying so much.” 

How can Phainon not worry? Anaxa says it like it's the easiest thing in the world. All he has ever done recently is worry; he'll worry himself to his grave at this point.

Anaxa pushes himself off of Phainon a smidge, meeting his gaze. He grins, eyes crinkling and cheekbones moving. Phainon stares at him as if he were the most beautiful thing; the cracks that run down his face make no difference.

He is.

Phainon buries his face into green hair, inhaling mint and crushing Anaxa back into him. His fingers run through the soft strands, slowly inching up to the man's neck and massaging circles into the cold skin of Anaxa’s nape.

They hold each other in silence, bordering on unnerving and peaceful at the same time.

Phainon rests his chin on Anaxa's head, peering up slightly; his eyes look at blank white around them, unending and vast, terrifying in all of its glory. He looks back down at the figure in his arms, tightening his hold even more.

Anaxa talks, muffled by his face in Phainon's chest. “I have to go soon.”

Phainon isn't sure what that means.

He hears a quiet sound—it certainly isn't his heartbeat. It seems to be coming from Anaxa.

When he cups Anaxa's face, moving to get a better look, the cracks are actively getting bigger, revealing the void embedded into his body.

“Anaxa–”

Anaxa smiles. “That's me.”

“Honestly, you treat me as if I'm not a ■■■■■■■ of your ■■■■,” the figure in his arms teases. “I am not truly ■■■—only what you believed ■■■ to be.”

Phainon can feel himself shaking, unable to properly hear Anaxa.

“I don't understand, Anaxa, what are you–” he's cut off by a sound akin to porcelain breaking; Anaxa's fingers shatter into pieces, and the damage creeps upwards. Phainon hasn't understood anything.

Anaxa shakes his head—his arm breaks, leaking starry blue. “I think I'm certain of one thing, however: he did ■■■■ ■■■ ■■■.”

Even though he can't tell what Anaxa said, his heart begins to race. Not in the way that makes him feel bad—this feels good.

It makes him rush; makes his hands sweaty; makes him smile uncontrollably; such a sickly sweet feeling, as if butterflies and flowers inhabit his body, blooming and thriving. Anaxa, beautiful as ever, makes him feel this way.

Phainon is too caught up in his own emotions to notice that Anaxa's body fully cracks, breaking into a million tiny different pieces and leaving behind shimmering blue dust.

It stains the white beneath his knees, the white of his clothes, and his hands.

In my dreams, you love me back

Phainon ends up finding Anaxa’s grave easier than he had expected.

The man had talked about it within a few of his journal entries, mentioning his regular cleaning process of the headstone.

He comes to find it dirty and surrounded by now overgrown ferns and shrubs. Despite it being Anaxa's grave, there is no name inscribed into the rough stone, nor is it properly crafted like other graves and their headstones are. No one has taken care of it now that Anaxa is gone.

Phainon takes his satchel off his body, setting it aside with a small bouquet, and grabbing his tools from it. He wasn't able to bring much, but it will have to do. Anaxa deserves much better than a neglected, muddied rock.

He's careful with his motions, delicately trimming away the overgrown plants while making sure to cause no harm that would push them to their deaths. He plucks out weeds with his bare hands, dirt staining his skin, as he tosses them off to the side with the trimmed bits for later disposal.

The headstone itself is more like a rock that had just been found on the side of a path and deemed worthy enough for the role. Phainon won't be able to craft one—he has no skill in that.

But he would if he were able to.

Instead, he lightly brushes away dirt clumps that had made their place on it over time.

It begins to look in better shape now—no longer neglected. Phainon wipes his hands off and rummages back through his satchel.

He pulls out the broken pieces of the dromas figurine Anaxa had loved and kept in his laboratory, holding them in one palm, while the other retrieves the bouquet, carrying them over to the headstone.

Wordlessly, he places the dromas parts softly onto the ground and rests the bouquet of forget-me-nots against the stone.

It almost feels silly in a way—Phainon had never noticed Anaxa had already broken down his walls for him a long time ago. He had only ever been caught up with his own perception of man that he failed to realize Anaxa himself exhibited all he ever wanted anyway.

Now here he is, mourning the man he realized he loved too late because he was too selfish and absorbed in his own mind. If Phainon was given the chance, he would kneel before Anaxa like a devotee with their God to beg for his forgiveness. Perhaps he would bring Anaxa's knuckles to his lips and plant a kiss against perfect fingers.

It certainly isn’t much at all—

He places a hand over his heart, closing both his eyes and wishing for Anaxa to be well.

“Hah,” he breathes, imagining Anaxa by his side.

Phainon swears he hears contagious boisterous laughter; so carefree and melodious. A charming sound for all those with ears to hear. 

He imagines Anaxa undeniably happy—perhaps the man had just come to a viable conclusion and finished an experiment successfully—he would be a giggling, giddy mess, unable to keep to himself as he celebrates with Phainon on success.

He imagines Anaxa upset and angry—maybe, his hard work had been belittled by others—he tries not to let it all get to him, but Phainon has seen him throw himself into work more times than necessary because of this. 

He imagines Anaxa tired and fond—Phainon would find him in his laboratory after countless nights of his secluding himself from the world. He would bring Anaxa food and water, reprimanding him as usual for being the way he is. Anaxa would look up at him, barely being awake, yet rolling his eye, then thanking Phainon anyway.

He imagines him to be playful and teasing—remarks against him would come from Anaxa's lips during their mock debates. Phainon enjoyed being challenged and treated as an equal. He believes Anaxa did too.

Phainon reopens his eyes, being met with the view of the headstone and other things around it again. His heart aches at the sight instantly.

“I will keep our promise, Anaxa. There is no doubt about that,” he mutters sternly. “Rest well, and I'll see you soon—I won't make you wait any longer. We will see tomorrow come.”

Three final words are left unsaid as Phainon stands, grabs his satchel, and takes one final look at the grave before walking to leave.

The campaign against Aquila will commence tomorrow.

Phainon doesn't dream that night.