Archive of Our Own

Amphoreus has ushered in a new dawn.

These words endlessly echo within the liminal boundaries of the Exotale, spoken through the joyous cheers of trumpets and song. The endless cycles have finally come to an end, and tragedy no longer looms over Amphoreus. Even those lost to death have returned once more.

For an ending so wondrous, it seems only natural that everyone would be happy.

But reality is rarely so simple.

Phainon of Aedes Elysiae does not look like a man at peace. Anaxa may have only one eye, but he does not need two to notice that something is different with his most brilliant former student.

Dark circles clump beneath Phainon’s sky-blue eyes. Those irises, once bright as sunlight, have lost much of their vitality, and even his smiles no longer reach as high as they once did.

The changes are subtle, but enough to worry the heirs.

Everyone has tried to help in their own ways. Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon spend more time playing with him alongside the other children of Aedes Elysiae. Mydeimos bickers with him more often and finds ways to lengthen their daily spars. Castorice, now able to touch, has her embraces lingering longer before they part. Even the cold Goldweaver’s voice brims with gentleness when talking to him nowadays.

Still, none of it seems to work.

Perhaps that is to be expected. Though the Eternal Page that they now reside in is a paradise free from ruin, traces of grief and fear remain. These are the only flaws left in a space that otherwise seems perfect.

Within this picturesque tale, no one has yet acknowledged the unpleasant truth: that pain can persist in such a flawless page. That even in the confines of paper and ink, countless scars still stretch deep beneath every flowery line.

But who is Anaxagoras, if not the one who delves into what everyone is too uncomfortable to say?

Nothing can erase the torment that thirty-three million cycles have carved into the land of Amphoreus and its people. The Chrysos Heirs may have regained the ones they’ve once lost, but grief does not simply vanish because the ending turned out merciful.

Yet here they are, all learning how to heal while stranded in an idyllic purgatory—a strange limbo where they simply have nothing to do but wait for their world to materialize. The seeds their sacrifices have sown have already begun to sprout, but no one knows how long it will take for them to fully bloom. Even if the Trailblazer and their companions have pledged their mission to make Amphoreus part of the cosmos, a nebula can take thousands—perhaps even millions—of years to form.

It’s strange to move without purpose. Anaxa doesn’t like it. 

Now that he has uncovered the truth of this world, it is only natural that he wishes to aim higher and learn the same for what lies outside Amphoreus. With all his idle time, he’s already filled up hundreds of scrolls with theories regarding the Aeons and their Paths. Unfortunately, there’s only so much he can do when contact from beyond the sky has been completely cut off once again.

The things he would do and the truths he would unfurl once they’re finally free to roam beyond Aquila’s domain…

“—axy? Anaxagoras!”

The flinch that runs through Anaxa’s shoulders is more intense than he expects, snapping him out of his musings.

“Ah. I apologize, Sister.” He clears his throat. “You were saying?”

Diotima studies him with narrowed eyes—the kind of look where it’s as if she can see through his very soul. While he has nothing to hide, something about it still sends an inexplicable shiver down his spine, so he averts his gaze to the open view in front of them instead.

The Sunlit Garden is designed to be a paradigm of beauty. A sea of pink petals swims in the thick-set trees above, matching the rosy hue painted across the sky. A gentle sun looms at its heart, illuminating the azure grass blades that glitter beneath their feet. For once, this light comes not from the majesty of Kephale, but from a sun that no longer scorches.

A flawless scene pulled straight from the pages of an epic tale. It’s precisely why Anaxa finds it so uncanny.

“Forget what I was saying. Is there something on your mind?” Diotima asks, though the certainty in her tone tells Anaxa that dodging will be useless. “You’ve been zoning out a lot today.”

“A Sage does not ‘zone out.’”

“Well, this Sage just did. Care to explain?”

Anaxa’s lips purse without him realizing. The sound of her voice still draws goosebumps on his arms. About five sunrises have passed since the defeat of Irontomb and their manifestation into the Exotale, yet it’s still just as strange that his dear sister is beside him, alive and well.

He’s happy, of course. Who wouldn’t be, having a lost loved one return? With how comfortably they’ve been conversing over the past week, it’s almost as if nothing between them has changed. As if no distance or time had ever separated them at all.

But does it erase the fact that Anaxa has gotten far more used to the lifetimes of losing her, missing her, and grieving her, more than living and laughing with her?

It doesn’t.

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” he murmurs, his gaze never leaving the sky. “How…perfect everything seems now.”

Diotima hums. “Yet somehow still so wrong?”

“Indeed.”

A dainty hand rises to sweep some of the wind-ruffled bangs away from his face. It’s warm and familiar, but also still so disconcerting. Sister always did this when he was a child, whenever he was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice anything mussing up his appearance.

He’s missed it dearly.

Yet, cruelly, he has already learned too well how to live without it.

“‘Strange’ may even be too mild a word for all of this,” Diotima agrees, her voice soft as a lullaby. “Do you know what it’s like to awaken in an era long after your own death? And to see your baby brother suddenly so grown, too.”

“Hah, don’t remind me. It’s absurd.”

She laughs. “Exactly. But at least we’re all safe now, aren’t we?”

“We are.” Anaxa finally faces her, his expression softening once their gazes meet. “Though it should never have taken this much for us to reach such peace.”

Thoughts like these inevitably fill his mind now that they’re at this peaceful impasse. These days, the scholars of the Grove often speak of teleology—the belief that all things happen for a reason, that every path leads toward some greater purpose. Yet he finds himself unable to agree with this particular path. Could even a perfect ending truly justify every cruel, jagged road that had led them here? They should have never suffered through any of it in the first place.

Especially the person who had to bear it all from the very beginning.

Perhaps this is how grief settles within the mind of a scholar: not as tears, but as bitterness. Anger toward the callous fate Amphoreus had endured for countless millennia.

Diotima cups his cheek, wistfulness swimming in her magenta eyes as her thumb brushes over his eyepatch. Much time has passed, yet she still hasn’t forgiven what he did to himself just to see her one more time. “You keep thinking these things because of him, too, don't you?”

He follows her pointed gaze to see what exactly she is looking at. Or who.

Past the towering Terravox and the twin sisters of Death stands a cluster of three, two of them bearing that same head of conspicuous, messy snow-white hair.

It’s Phainon talking with his parents. They must be teasing him about something, because he laughs while sheepishly scratching the back of his head. The bright tone carries clearly across the garden, yet Anaxa knows instantly that it is forced. Weak and tired. The sound churns his gut and prickles his skin.

He tears his gaze away with a huff. “And why would you assume that?”

“Because I have eyes,” Diotima replies. “You keep watching him whenever he’s here, and when you do, you look…worried.”

Anaxa scoffs under his breath and crosses his arms. “All of Amphoreus is going through this one way or another. It would be foolish to assume one person alone is responsible for my thoughts.”

Diotima lifts an eyebrow, not looking convinced at all. “You never shy away from the truth, Naxy. Why now?”

Anaxa tells himself not to look again, since doing so would only prove her right. Yet his eye drifts back to Phainon all the same.

Even from across the garden, Phainon notices him and offers a lighthearted wave. But almost immediately, he breaks eye contact, as though uneasy to lie beneath Anaxa’s sharp and assessing gaze for too long.

A crease settles between Anaxa’s eyebrows. In all these lifetimes, Phainon has seldom avoided him like that so openly.

His lips form a bitter smile. “Even scholars are not free from hypocrisy.”

∞

Unlike the perpetual dawn that bathes the lands of Okhema, the Exotale lives in both day and night.

It makes sense, doesn’t it? Just as every tale has its beginning and ending, its world also shifts accordingly to carry time forward. Morning yields to evening, just as light gives way to dark.

Good, Anaxa can’t help but think. Places where the sun never sets are a headache. That’s what he’s always detested about the Eternal Holy City.

The darkness is appreciated; not only for the lack of light, but also the lack of people. Curtain-Fall Hour has rendered the public spaces quiet and still, thanks to everyone seeking respite in their lodgings after another long day in this artificial paradise.

All except him and a certain someone.

How does he know? Through the art of deduction, of course. With how sleep-deprived Phainon looks, he must be spending his nights somewhere. And Anaxa knows his former student well enough—active on his feet as he is—to easily conclude that he wouldn’t simply waste away on his bed.

The sound of Anaxa’s footsteps echoes across the empty corridors of the Slumbering Courtyard. They come light and swift, barely making any noise against the violet grass. 

With no remnants of sunlight peeking through the stained-glass windows, the desolate path is eerie. Quite difficult to see in, too. When he turns the corner, he nearly trips over one of the many tree branches that wind along the edges of the hall.

Anaxa clicks his tongue in irritation and keeps his gaze forward, continuing his search for that familiar head of white hair. The reason he even embarked on this impromptu trip still eludes him, but what is a man to do when he can’t sleep?

Fine. Sister’s right; he is worried. He will no longer dance around it. The Blasphemer may scorn the Titans, but he still has some remnants of a heart. Anyone would be bothered if the student they’ve taught to shine like the dawn suddenly fakes such radiance so blatantly.

And, though he is loath to admit it, perhaps this new era of peace has also made him softer than before.

Observation has its limits, and watching Phainon from a distance does little for either of them. Anaxa does not deal with passivity—he excels by tackling matters head-on. Only then can he help, as he always does whenever any student of his is in need. 

Phainon should be around here somewhere…

He wasn’t by the Dome of the Stars. It’s a regrettable discovery, given the ridiculous amount of stairs that it took to confirm it. He wasn’t by the courtyard’s fountain, either. That leaves only one other place.

As expected, Anaxa turns out to be correct when the path opens back into the Sunlit Garden. 

A hunched figure sits on the edge of the marble floor, pants rolled up to his knees. His legs dip into the shallow ring of water that surrounds him, while his shoes sit abandoned by the side.

Phainon. 

He aimlessly skips some pebbles into the water one by one, each plop loud enough that it reaches Anaxa’s ears.

Plop, plop, plop, plop…

So this is where he stays.

“Can’t sleep?” Anaxa asks as he approaches.

Normally, the meek, bright Phainon he knows would jolt in surprise at the sound of his voice. He’d spin around with a sheepish smile on his face, greeting Anaxa with his signature boyish enthusiasm.

The Phainon before him doesn’t even turn around.

Did he recognize Anaxa by the sound of his footsteps, as light as they were? What else had he been forced to learn, cycle after cycle, in pursuit of the Coreflames?

The cold weight in his gut grows at the thought. Of course, after enough death and tragedy, surprise itself becomes a luxury.

“Hey, Professor.” Phainon’s voice comes out quiet and dull, laden with lethargy. It bears little resemblance to the forced laughter Anaxa had heard during the Lucid Hour, bright in the company of his parents.

So this is what he’s like when he no longer forces a facade. At least, in Anaxa’s presence, he no longer bothers to pretend—likely because he knows Anaxa would see through it regardless.

As Anaxa draws closer, all he sees is Phainon’s white fringe hanging low over his eyes. Phainon often squares his shoulders, ensuring his posture carries strength and pride. He doesn’t slouch like this. Never like this. 

“Avoiding the question, are you?” Anaxa asks, though his tone carries little real reproach.

“Hah…not exactly.” 

Another pebble skips across the water. Plop, plop, plop. Phainon absentmindedly watches it sink, caught somewhere between thought and nothing at all. “It’s just obvious you already know the answer. Why else would you be here?”

Tsk. At the very least, that glib tongue of his has not changed. It’s just as effective at deflection as it is at debate. 

Anaxa gestures toward the space next to him. “May I?”

“Of course.”

He plops down without ceremony and makes himself comfortable in a cross-legged position, keeping his legs near so they don’t reach the water.

Only a breath separates their shoulders, but Phainon neither shies away nor leans closer. For once, he does nothing at all.

“Wonderful view at this hour,” Anaxa remarks, the words sounding out of place even to himself. He usually doesn’t engage in such sappy chatter, but anything to break the ice would be ideal.

The night sky looks stunning, so it’s not a stretch. Countless stars scatter across it, their shine reflected in the crystal waters below, while a cool breeze gently stirs his hair and caresses his cheeks. For someone who’s spent the majority of his lives toiling over his research and experiments indoors, the beauty brings a foreign sense of awe.

Phainon hums. “It is.”

Anaxa glances at him. He isn’t even looking at the sky. 

He’s too distracted staring at the water below. Phainon’s reflection mirrors every trace of misery carved across his face; frustration tightens his jaw and deepens the furrow between his eyebrows by the second.

Anaxa knows that look well. The mind spirals fastest when given its own image to scrutinize, turning every regret and shortcoming into another reason to tear oneself apart.

So he does the first thing that comes to mind, extending his legs and dropping them into the water with an obnoxiously loud splash!

The reflection shatters and droplets splash onto Phainon’s face.

“Ah, Professor…” Phainon blinks hard, surprise cutting cleanly through his haze. He turns to look at him, his eyes flicking downward with concern. “Your shoes…”

Now that his face is more visible, Anaxa can’t help but frown. Titans, his eyebags have gotten even more sunken.

Anaxa looks down at his soaked feet and scoffs. “I’ve carved my heart out at least a million times. Do you really expect me to care about my shoes?”

“Hah, right.” Phainon smiles weakly. Avoiding his gaze once again, he leans over and rests his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. “I’m okay. You should get some rest.” His hands completely contradict his words, restless as he twiddles his thumbs.

“And you?” Anaxa tilts his head at the mannerism. “Surely you intend to follow your own advice.”

“Maybe not tonight,” Phainon murmurs. Upon seeing Anaxa’s questioning glance, he looks him in the eye and flashes a grin. “Mom and Dad cooked a mini-feast earlier, filled with all the Aedes Elysiae delicacies. The smoked venison was great, but heavy on the stomach. And I might have overdone it on the honey suncakes. Sugar’s probably digging into my system right now. I wouldn’t be able to sleep even if I tried.”

The way he says everything so smoothly, complemented by the sunny smile Amphoreus has come to know and love, could fool almost everyone.

Not Anaxa, of course.

What a smooth-tongued liar.

Anaxa crosses his arms, his expression flat and unimpressed at his last-minute attempt to lie. “If you’re waiting for me to buy that and leave, you’ll be waiting a long time.”

The fake smile on Phainon’s lips falters, but at least the flimsy laugh that tumbles out sounds more genuine this time. “Is it that obvious?”

“I’ve taught you for years, have I not? Nearly every cycle.” He doesn’t miss the flinch that runs through Phainon’s body at the word. It’s subtle, but nothing escapes Anaxa’s eye—especially anything from his students.

“And thanks to those cycles,” he continues, “you must know by heart that I don’t waste my time with half-truths.”

“Ah, the Anaxa I know is still so difficult to fool…” Phainon’s smile returns, though it comes out more sad than playful. “Sorry, Professor.”

And the Phainon he knows is as exasperating as ever, always apologizing even when he doesn’t need to.

Anaxa glances down at his own legs and mindlessly sloshes them around in the cold water. “Keeping up such pretenses in front of me is a waste of energy and time, Phainon. You can keep pretending, or you can speak your mind like I’ve taught you to. Pick one.”

Silence fills the space between them. Were his words blunt? Perhaps. But their offer is clear.

He doesn’t try to meet Phainon’s gaze or see his expression. Doing so would only pressure him, which would defeat the point. Anaxa continues to watch his own reflection instead, listening to the steady rhythm of the nearby chimeras’ snores.

It’s peaceful, though the evident turmoil that exudes from the man beside him seems like anything but.

After who knows how long, Phainon sighs and wearily rubs a hand over his forehead.

“I’ve been having dreams,” he mumbles. “Vivid ones. I always wake up in a panic, thinking I’m trapped in those endless cycles all over again.” His fingers press harshly against his temples, grip firm with frustration. “They won’t stop no matter what I do.”

“Nightmares, hm…” Anaxa leans back on his hands, his eye drifting to the sky. “It would be more of a surprise if you didn’t have any.”

Phainon’s gaze snaps toward him. “Do you get them, too?”

“Occasionally, yes.”

“Do you…get scared?”

“Who wouldn’t?” Anaxa cocks his head sideways to meet his curious stare. “That is their intended purpose. Feeling ashamed that your body is functioning the way it should be would be foolish.”

Phainon sighs, dragging a hand through his disheveled locks. “I know. It’s just…I’m supposed to be happy right now. And I am, truly. My parents are here, and everyone I love is safe and sound.” His expression twists with vexation as a bitter laugh slips out. “So why am I still like this? Everyone keeps trying to help me, but all I’m doing is making them worry more. I don’t want to burden anyone anymore. I can’t.”

The crease between Anaxa’s eyebrows deepens. “That’s why you’ve been keeping to yourself?”

Phainon sends him a remorseful glance, though with his jaded, droopy eyes, it comes out more exhausted than anything. “Yes.”

Of course. Old habits are not so easily cast aside, especially not a selflessness worn so deeply it has become part of one’s very nature. Even if Phainon truly wished to change and heal, the ways he had lived through countless lifetimes could not simply disappear overnight.

A sigh leaves Anaxa’s lips as he shakes his head, fixing himself back upright. “When was the last time you slept?”

“Well…” Phainon sucks in a breath and averts his gaze. “Four days ago.”

The corners of Anaxa’s lips tighten into a grimace. Amphoreus ushered in a new dawn five days ago. For the majority of their celebrations, Phainon hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep. No wonder he looks so exhausted.

What’s surprising is how no immediate urge to scold rises on his tongue—likely because it would be awfully hypocritical.

“The longest I’ve gone without sleep was six days.”

The gasp that follows is loud enough to shoo some of the nearby nymph bugs away. “Professor!”

“Yes, yes, I’ve gotten enough of that from Hyacine.” He blithely waves a hand in dismissal. “It was on the day of the Annual Grove Symposium during one of your senior years. Collapsed hours before I was meant to give my speech on my new research. If not for the Twilight Courtyard’s expertise, I would have plunged into the River of Souls right there.”

“I didn’t know about that.” Phainon frowns. “Please take better care of yourself this time, Anaxa…”

“While you shouldn’t?” he retorts, crossing his arms. “This is our last life, and our bodies are no longer protected by the scepter’s simulations. All the more reason that you shouldn’t wait until you reach six days.”

“I don’t know, it’s easier said than done.” A hand comes up to rub at his eyes. “I’ve tried to sleep, but it’s just…” The words die on Phainon’s tongue, but the sentiment is obvious enough. It’s scary. Frightening. Avoidance is often the more appealing option when the alternative is reliving endless anguish over and over again.

Anaxa understands, of course. He always will.

Either for warmth or for comfort, Phainon’s arms loosely wrap around himself as he finally looks up. His eyes lock onto a stray pink petal that drifts past.

“When I was a kid, I used to skip stones into the river like this a lot with Cyrene,” he murmurs. “We did it whenever we felt sad or mad about something. In my case, it was always after Miss Pythias scolded me for not paying attention in class. Cyrene cheered me up and made me laugh so easily every time, like I was never crying to begin with.”

“You miss her,” Anaxa says. It doesn’t come out as a question.

With his arm sweeping in a wide arc, Phainon hurls the last pebble in his hands with excessive force. “I do.”

The rock doesn’t even skid across the water anymore; it misses its target entirely and flings into one of the bushes. The force launches a part of Phainon’s blue-gold cape into the water unnoticed.

“This place…” he continues, tone softer as he watches another pink petal fall, “it’s so…pink. She would’ve loved it. Sometimes, I find myself thinking that it looks too much like a dream. Everything’s stunning, like…it’s too perfect to last.”

Anaxa reaches out, lifting the damp edge of the cape and wringing out the water. “And you fear that it won’t.”

“Mhm.” Phainon nods softly. His smile—if it even counts as one—comes out fragile at best. “I get scared that one day, after I fall asleep…” His voice turns so soft that Anaxa barely hears the rest, “I’ll wake up to find myself back to where I started.”

Anaxa’s hands slowly cease their movement as a frown settles on his face.

A hero’s pain does not vanish just because the story has reached its ending, does it?

No one should be burdened with emotions this heavy, least of all the very person who has already carried such deathly weight on his shoulders.

If Anaxa could just do something…

A potion to induce sleepiness? Codependency could become a problem. Hysilens’s siren song to help soothe the mind? He doesn’t know enough about it; he’ll ask more when he encounters her during the next banquet. A contraption that can ease the mind and suppress nightmares? Possible, but where can he get the materials to devise that?

One idea brings his hand to his chin in contemplation. “Would companionship help?”

Phainon blinks, his attention snapping toward him. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Companionship, like, sleeping with someone else?”

“With me, yes.”

“I, well…” Surprise flickers across his features. “I’ve never really considered it. But it sounds…nice. Better than being alone.”

That’s all the confirmation Anaxa needs. “So it may work if you try.”

“Wait, you’re serious? Professor, I—” Phainon hesitates, shooting him a worried glance. “Are you sure? I might be asking too much. I don’t want to trouble you—”

“Nonsense. This proposal is mine.” Anaxa rises to his feet, bending slightly and using his hands to dislodge the water from his trousers and shoes. “Come, unless your goal is to rival my own insomnia. I may have been your professor, but you need not follow in my footsteps so faithfully.”

Phainon’s teeth graze his lower lip as his eyes dart around. Hesitation dances in his expression, flickering between restraint and the simple, human want for rest.

But that is precisely what he claims he is trying to learn, is it not? How to want things for himself without shame and guilt on the line, and how to hope and dream outside the rigorous chains of duty.

It isn’t until their eyes meet again that the apprehension in his features slowly fades, replaced with a small and hopeful smile. “Alright…I’ll try my best.”

∞

The scent of vanilla is strong in Phainon’s house. There’s a certain coziness within these walls that Anaxa’s abode fails to have.

All the Chrysos Heirs reside in similar quarters within the Eternal Page, so there’s little that distinguishes this one at first glance—minus the plethora of antiques that line the walls and tables.

The queen-sized bed before Anaxa is identical to the one in his own home, though the sheets here are far more tidy; that much is certain. It’s unclear whether it’s from Phainon’s effort to clean or their severe lack of use.

Once the bedroom door clicks shut, Phainon sets Dawnmaker carefully in the corner. “Make yourself comfortable, Professor. I’ll get you some clothes.”

“Thank you.” Anaxa barely notices the words leave his mouth as he eyes the weapon with a frown. Had he been carrying that around all this time? Even Anaxa’s pistol has seen less use as of late, left to gather dust in his study.

While waiting, he takes off his capelet and folds it neatly on top of the nightstand. The cool night air clings instantly to his bare shoulders. He slips his hair tie off next, fingers running idly through mint-green strands until they fall in soft waves down his back.

An antique at the corner of the room catches his attention: a tall, cream-colored porcelain vase with brass handles, its hourglass form adorned with intricate sun motifs.

It’s charming that Phainon’s penchant for collection and appraisal persists even after all this time. Perhaps Anaxa should ask him more about it one day to learn a thing or two, since his own barren house is in dire need of decoration. They have all the time in the world now to care for such trivialities, after all.

From the next room comes the faint clatter of metal and leather. It must be Phainon unbuckling all those ridiculous accessories—the pauldron, cape, wrist guards, and all those endless leather straps. Even if he doesn’t need it anymore, he still refuses to shed the armor from his everyday attire.

How deeply has the paranoia etched itself into his bones, now that his shoulders no longer have to bear the weight of the world?

Phainon emerges seconds later in a simpler getup: his usual fitted black v-neck and gray trousers, with a similar pair folded neatly in his arms.

“Here you go, Anaxa.” He hands them over, then loops his belt into a neat circle and sets it on top of the dresser. A hand comes up to sheepishly fiddle with the choker wrapped around his neck. “Sorry, I tried to find something smaller, but I think this will still be too big…”

Anaxa glances at the pile of clothes and hums. “They’ll suffice.”

Minutes later, he lies on Phainon’s bed, dressed in garments that are at least two—perhaps three—sizes too big for him. He’s made a half-hearted attempt to keep the shirt on both shoulders, but to no avail—the most it can do is flimsily hang on to one, revealing a large chunk of his collarbone and glowing chest cavity at the mercy of the cool breeze.

No matter, he thinks, trying to ignore the slight shiver that follows. He’s endured far worse.

Beside him lies Phainon, who watches him with a smile. “You can hog all the blankets. I don’t think my clothes are doing a good job at keeping you warm.”

“We can share.” Anaxa hands him the other half. “I require very little space to begin with.”

“Okay.” Phainon settles himself more snugly into the comforters, mirroring Anaxa’s position by lying flat on his back. Given the bed’s limited width, their shoulders touch. It’s not a disadvantage at all; the shared body heat thankfully does wonders against the cold air.

Phainon turns his head to face him. “It feels kind of silly.” He laughs softly. “Even after everything we’ve been through, I’m still nervous about sharing a bed with my professor, huh?”

An amused huff leaves Anaxa’s lips. At least Phainon is at ease enough to return to his usual ridiculous quips. “Relax. A frail scholar such as myself won’t bite.”

“Hah, you and I both know that’s not true. But…that’s not what I’m nervous about.” Beneath the golden lamplight, the flush on Phainon’s cheeks deepens into a soft pink.

Anaxa squints, unsure if it’s the low lighting doing tricks on his vision. Ah, the troubles of having only one eye.

He’s not a fool. He knows, of course, that across countless Eternal Recurrences, Phainon has harbored feelings for him. Feelings that have been reciprocated by Anaxa just as unconditionally, in the same way dusk always follows every dawn. 

But all those lives they’ve lived never held space for such untimely luxuries. Not when prophecy constantly bound them with its chains, and not when every cycle crumbled into the same inevitable ruin. Love was never a constant, nor a possibility when in the throes of death and tragedy.

Now, however…

Does Phainon still feel the same? And can those feelings endure here in this new life, now free from everything that once restrained them?

Who knows? Anaxa thinks with a sigh. They have plenty of time to figure it out—an excess of it, for once. It all need not be resolved tonight.

“I’ll be here,” he reassures instead. It’s a graceful sidestep, at least. “If anything occurs later, I will handle it in stride like I always do.”

Phainon smiles, shaking his head as he looks up at the ceiling. “Thank you, Professor. So I’ll just…try to sleep, then?”

“I would hope so. Most things begin with an attempt.”

“An attempt, huh?” He chuckles. “You make it sound so easy.”

“That was my intention,” Anaxa says. “With that said, you may request anything from me if it helps you sleep easier. Otherwise, my presence would be quite pointless.”

“Got it. Well…here we go, then.”

The lamp turns off with a sharp click, shrouding the room in darkness. 

“Good night, Professor.”

“Good night, Phainon.”

Anaxa’s gaze catches on the moonlight peeking through the curtains, casting the room in a silver glow. His eyelids don’t feel heavy at all despite the hour. On normal nights, he’d be hunched over his desk right about now, poring over tomes or research papers, passing out in a slump at his desk only when he physically can’t continue anymore.

How ironic. Here he is, concerned over Phainon’s lack of rest, when he himself fares no better.

The hour passes in silence and darkness. It’s relatively peaceful, if not for the occasional quakes of the bed frame as Phainon turns once, twice, thrice, again, then again, then again. Each shift in movement grows more restless until it becomes too blatant to ignore.

“Anaxa?” Phainon asks after a while, hesitation slithering through his voice once more.

“Yes?”

“Can I…hold your hand?”

“Of course.” Anaxa reaches over, lacing their fingers together without a second thought. It’s a peculiar feeling: slender fingers slotting perfectly against broad knuckles, cool skin settling against a strong, warm palm. So mismatched, yet so fitting all the same.

“Thank you,” Phainon murmurs, thumb brushing lightly over his own. “It helps, knowing you’re here.”

“Mhm. No need to explain yourself.”

“Okay.”

The warmth between their joined hands spreads through Anaxa’s limbs until it envelops his body whole, completely abating the night’s chill. It’s admittedly comforting. Anaxa never knew holding a hand could feel this warm. 

He finds himself tracing circles over Phainon’s knuckle without realizing, his touch as light as a feather. For something he’s seldom done, it feels surprisingly natural.

Another minute passes, now thankfully with less tossing and turning.

“My heart’s beating kinda fast,” Phainon blurts out of the blue. “Can you feel it?”

Anaxa can. It’s a faint but steady rhythm, pulsing through their intertwined fingers. Out of curiosity, his thumb presses over Phainon’s wrist. The contact amplifies his erratic pulse even further until it practically reverberates against his fingertip.

Thump thump thump thump thump thump thump—

He smiles. All because they’re holding hands? “You’ll get used to it. Just close your eyes.”

“Haha, alright.”

Surprisingly, Phainon’s unruliness finally ceases after that. The bed no longer shifts beneath them. How effective.

When Anaxa sneaks a glance, Phainon’s eyes have shut, with those long, white lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. There’s a slight furrow to his eyebrows from how focused he is on trying to sleep, like he’s trying very hard to do exactly as he was told.

The sight elicits another small smile from Anaxa. Even after all this time, Phainon still follows his instructions with passionate determination.

Anaxa closes his own eye to mirror it.

He’s forgotten the last time he’s been so close to someone like this. Has he ever? Their shoulders press together completely now, no longer brushing by chance. Their chests rise and fall in sync, and their fingers stay intertwined. Hearing each breath dance in tandem with his own feels almost uncanny, as if they’re one and the same.

The closest instance that he can think of is when he fused himself into Lycurgus’s mind, which fails to be an adequate comparison. Even with all the priceless, copious amounts of information about the universe that he’d learned that time, it was also terribly suffocating to be in such a hostile environment.

This one feels…nice.

By coincidence, Phainon chooses that moment to let out a satisfied hum. “This is nice.” The words come out a bit slurred. Sleep must be beginning to take its hold. “Thank you, Professor. For everything.”

Anaxa keeps his eye closed. “I have yet to do anything substantial.”

“You have,” Phainon corrects in a murmur. “More than you can remember. You may not recall all those cycles, but I do. Crystal clear.”

He scoffs. “And what makes you so certain that I don’t? It sounds like you’re underestimating my mind.”

“I would never.” A soft, breathy laugh fills the air. “But the burden of memory has always been the Deliverer’s alone to bear. At least…it should have been.”

Anaxa’s eye slowly opens, his lips pressing into a thin line. 

That title still leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He has never had good encounters with it, seeing how it clings to Phainon more than his own name, and reduces him to little more than a vessel for the world’s hopes and burdens.

If there is one thing he has always detested and rebelled against, it is the arrogance of a world that believes it can decide what someone must become. It’s why he’s never bowed to the Titans or prophecy alike, and why he wears the disdainful brand of a heretic with pride.

For all the adversities it took to reach this ending, Anaxa hopes the reward is simple: that this new life will allow Phainon to live for himself instead of endlessly living for everyone else.

The gentle squeeze Phainon gives to Anaxa’s hand promptly snaps him out of his thoughts. “It’s alright, you’ve always guided me through it,” he reassures softly. “There isn’t a single cycle where you called me that.”

Anaxa sighs. “Because only fools rely on something so shallow. If they cannot see a person out of their title, that is their wit’s failure. Not yours.”

Phainon laughs again, the sound so soft it pools into Anaxa’s chest like honey. He turns to give him a smile—small in size, yet one of the most genuine ones Anaxa has seen. “Thank you.”

The sincerity that oozes from his voice robs Anaxa’s throat of a reply. Why would he thank Anaxa over something so devastatingly simple?

Phainon faces the ceiling again, his eyes drooping back shut. 

“Maybe that’s why I’ve always felt so safe around you…” he mumbles after a while, the words slurring one after another. “You always understand me so easily…”

Anaxa shakes his head fondly. He’s definitely close to slumber, if all that nonsense that keeps spewing out of his mouth is anything to go by. “Do I, now?”

“Definitely.” The warmth in Phainon’s voice is softer than any embrace. “Anaxa…I was thinking…when it's possible…”

“Yes?”

“...Would you want to visit Aedes Elysiae with me?”

The flutter that breaches Anaxa’s stomach almost feels fiercer than a punch. The image of wheat fields washed gold beneath the sun, warm wind moving through endless grass, and Phainon standing in the middle of it all, smiling brighter than the dawn itself…

Of course, is what he would say at this moment, if he did not possess the pinnacle of restraint. It would be an honor.

But not tonight. The last thing Phainon needs is to be jolted awake again by excitement.

“Go to sleep, Phainon,” he whispers instead, curbing the fondness in his own voice as best as he can. He doesn’t, however, stop his hand from squeezing Phainon’s just a little bit tighter, and his thumb from sweeping gently across his knuckle.

“Mhm.”

Silence finally engulfs the room. Phainon’s chest rises and falls at a slower pace, just as the tension in his body loosens. Even asleep, his hand remains firmly intertwined with Anaxa’s in a protective clasp, completely unwilling to part.

The rational part of Anaxa’s mind insists he remain still, which isn’t that difficult, considering the position they’re in is incredibly comfortable. The resolve lasts for about five minutes, until the stubborn part of him wins and he carefully turns to his side.

Sometime during sleep, Phainon’s head gradually lolled toward him. From this angle, Anaxa can see his face more clearly: neither fatigue nor distress mars his expression anymore, and his lips have slightly parted open to let out little puffs of air.

He looks peaceful. Angelic, even. It sends a rush of relief into Anaxa’s gut. Without really thinking, he lifts a hand to gently sweep away some of the fringe that had gotten over Phainon’s eyes, if only to make the peacefulness last just a little bit longer.

He doesn’t try to sleep after that—perhaps because there’s something about this rare moment of serenity in the companionship of another that tells him to savor it. All he does is watch the faux moon through the curtains, breathing in the scent of bergamot and clove leaf from the sheets, the pillows, and most strongly from the man sleeping beside him. It’s lulling enough that he doesn’t notice his eye gradually drooping shut, surrendering to sleep.

Perhaps this little set-up of theirs is just as soothing to him as it is to Phainon.

It’s when he’s seconds away from fully dozing off that he hears the sound of a pained grunt.

Anaxa’s eye flutters open in an instant. He shoots upright just as the bed rattles, a wince hurling through him from the sudden movement.

Phainon writhes in pain as another grunt slips past his gritted teeth. His face is contorted with discomfort, eyebrows scrunched and fists clenched so hard around the bedsheets that small rips have cut into the cloth. Sweat runs in rapid streaks down his temples, soaking his pillow and the collar of his shirt.

Sounds spill from his lips between ragged breaths: broken words and sentences, too unintelligible to make out, all except for one.

“...axa.”

Anaxa’s blood runs cold.

No matter. This was expected. Anaxa prepared himself for this the moment he offered to stay.

Carefully, he reaches for Phainon’s shoulder.

It fails because Anaxa jerks away, hissing at the heat that instantly scalds his hand. Phainon’s skin…burns. Not from fever or normal body heat, but an innate fire that can only blaze from the fumes of pure, unadulterated rage. It casts the room into a boiling sauna and flings the acrid scent of smoke into the air, constricting his throat.

Anaxa grabs him again. “Phainon, wake up.”

The dream that has locked Phainon into its grasp is stubborn. Phainon’s breathing turns even more shallow and strained with each passing second, each pained breath clashing against the beats of Anaxa’s pounding heart.

“...xa…”

“...ease…”

“...orry…”

It takes several more attempts before the nightmare finally shatters. Phainon launches upright with a strained gasp, eyes blown wide open as he desperately drags air into his lungs.

The relief in Anaxa’s chest dies the second he gets a proper look at him.

Phainon’s eyes are completely clouded over, unable to focus on him—or on anything, caught in the thin line between memory and reality. What’s more disturbing is how they seem to be…glitching. They violently switch back and forth between two distinct colors, which drops a cold, heavy weight down Anaxa’s gut.

Bright cyan.

Molten gold.

Cyan.

Gold.

Cyan.

Gold.

It’s terrifying.

“Phainon.” He tries again, sharper this time. “Phainon, look at me.”

Nothing. Even if those eyes flicker and flash so harshly, their hollowness almost makes them seem not human at all.

With no other choice, Anaxa leans in until barely any space remains between them, cupping Phainon’s face firmly despite the burn. “Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”

The name cuts swiftly through the dark, said so firmly that it nearly echoes across the room. Memories of all the lifetimes he’s spoken that name flash through his mind: in the Grove’s lecture halls, in battles against the black tide, in the golden heart of the wheat fields, and on the cusp of execution by the black-robed swordmaster.

Can Phainon remember them all, too?

The answer comes in those eyes. Slowly, the flickering stops and the molten amber fades, leaving only blue as awareness seeps back into Phainon’s gaze. His expression crumples instantly as he doubles over, gasping for breath.

Anaxa reaches out to steady him—but a hand snaps around his wrist with inhuman strength, firm enough to bruise bone. If it were anyone else, the speed and instinct would make the hairs on his arms rise. 

But not Phainon. Never.

“Phainon—agh—” He winces. “It’s me.”

Phainon’s head snaps up. “A-Anaxa?” His iron grip vanishes so abruptly he nearly recoils. The suffocating heat in the room ebbs away, allowing air to finally return to Anaxa’s lungs.

Panic overtakes Phainon’s expression as he grabs Anaxa by the shoulders, eyes darting frantically across his face. The fear burning in his irises quells into confusion, then guilt upon seeing the burns on his palms, then relief so violent his lower lip quivers.

Before Anaxa can respond, Phainon’s hands are suddenly everywhere—cupping his cheeks, checking his chest, his heart—confirming over and over that he’s intact. The accidental brushing of his fingertips over Anaxa’s chest cavity draws a flinch.

Is he checking if he’s wounded?

“Phainon.” It takes him a considerable amount of strength to keep those flying hands still. “Phainon, please. I’m okay—”

The reassurance barely leaves his lips before Phainon tackles him into an embrace, the force so strong it knocks all the air out of his chest. 

Anaxa’s body goes rigid with surprise, arms frozen in place.

“Anaxa…” Phainon whispers, burying his face in the crook of his neck. After a deep inhale, the tension in his body finally gives way, and he melts completely. “I’m sorry…”

Only then does Anaxa register the dampness soaking into his shoulder.

He’s crying.

It feels wrong. Each shaky breath comes out quiet, yet laden with pain and regret so heavy that it trickles into the self-inflicted wounds of Anaxa’s own heart.

It’s when Phainon’s body trembles with a sob, and when those breaths gasp for air, that Anaxa’s mind finally snaps out of it and remembers how to move. He hurries to return the embrace, one of his hands coming up to cradle the back of Phainon’s head.

For the first time, the sharp-tongued, quick-witted Anaxagoras doesn’t know what to say. His mind feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, just as his limbs feel heavy with lead.

Perhaps because he knows he’s the cause of this nightmare. 

It doesn’t take much to put two and two together. Anaxa’s presence tonight must have influenced Phainon’s dreams, causing him to relive a cycle where he had to take the Reason Coreflame by force. 

Was it the very first one, perhaps? When he led Khaslana into the Luminary Throne, only to be confronted by Cifera. The precursor to millions more instances of bloodshed and destruction, all ending in the same tragic, devastating way.

Waking up to find Anaxa unharmed after having to relive everything so vividly…no wonder Phainon broke down.

Anaxa breathes out a soft sigh, his arms wrapping around Phainon a bit more tightly, and just a bit more protectively.

Phainon must have been so lonely like this, with no one else to share these burdens with but himself.

In every Second Flame-Chase journey, destiny had a habit of writing them in such a way that Anaxa was often the first to depart. Whether it’s thanks to his experiments, his relentless pursuit of truth, or his willingness to trust his pupils with his life, he was always among the earliest to meet his end.

It’s what makes him realize one thing: he has never witnessed Phainon grieve. He has never seen him cry—at least, not like this.

How could he, when he was always the first to go? In every cycle where he had either been executed for blasphemy or killed for his Coreflame, his deaths were often quick. Painless. Mercifully instantaneous.

Never slow enough for him to witness who mourned him after. Never long enough to see whether Phainon cried. If he had ever seen this before—this paralyzing, heart-wrenching grief—he would have remembered it forever.

But now, he knows. And in all its cruelty, he realizes that there are times when knowledge can become more harrowing than ignorance.

Isn’t it cruel that one person was destined to bear this much grief? Losses are a constant on the Flame-Chase Journey. Phainon must have scorned that phrase so much.

The room churns with a heaviness that drags ruthlessly on Anaxa’s bones. It must not even come close to what Phainon is feeling—to the repressed emotions from thirty-three million cycles of torment. With all the commotion that came from the defeat of Irontomb, all the celebration and excitement, Phainon mustn’t have had the chance yet to shed his grievances without inhibition. Now all that pent-up pain and rage spill out at once, through every tear that burns hot against Anaxa’s shoulder.

Anaxa would be a liar if he said it didn’t hurt him. His own heart feels like it’s been wrapped in a vice, clenching sorrowfully with every broken, fragile breath that leaves Phainon’s lips. Empathy has never been the strongest suit for a scholar like him, so this territory feels unfamiliar in a way few things ever do. 

But Phainon needs something. Someone.

So in that moment, Anaxa does what he has always done best as a scholar:

He tells the truth.

“I’m here,” he whispers, the softness in his voice something he didn’t even know he was capable of. “I’m safe. I’m not going anywhere.”

With how hard Phainon struggles to catch his breath, it would be a miracle if he heard any of it.

Still, Anaxa continues, his hand rubbing slow circles over the small of Phainon’s back. “Worry not, my dear Phainon. We’re all safe now.” For once, the affection in his voice tumbles out without restraint. “A new dawn has finally come. You’re free.”

That one word shatters the dam completely, causing an even harder sob to wrack through Phainon’s shoulders.

Freedom…how long has he longed for such a simple thing?

Anaxa swallows hard, but it’s not enough to ignore the pang that digs into his ribs. “You can live as you wish now, do all those mundane little things you never had the chance to do, and chase a new dream all for yourself. Want things simply because you want them.” His other hand pats the back of his head softly. “Your life is now all yours. A blank slate with the most infinite potential.”

The grip around Anaxa’s body tightens. Good. He’s listening.

“You’ve done well,” he murmurs. “So well.” The reassurances spill out of his mouth so naturally, as if they’ve been waiting eons for this moment.

“I’m proud of you,” he whispers, though this one comes out too quiet even for himself. “I have always been. But you already know that, don’t you?”

Phainon nods, but his body only trembles harder.

Anaxa’s eye closes in frustration. “I’m sorry.” The words feel foreign on his tongue, but are also the truest ones he can offer.

He’s a scholar. One of the brightest that the Grove of Epiphany has seen. Logic has always been a weapon in his arsenal—a tool to formulate solutions for problems or articulate guidance seeded from reason and wisdom. Those are supposed to be his strengths, so why can’t he think his way out of this one?

For once, knowledge feels insufficient. Even with all his brilliance, he still cannot think his way around a person’s grief, despite promising himself he would on the day he lost his sister.

Eventually, the tears stop—not because Phainon has truly calmed down, but because there’s none left to shed. He weakly pulls away and rests his forehead against Anaxa’s shoulder, his eyes half-closed and his chest heaving.

It’s clear he hasn’t cried like this in a long, long time. It’s as cathartic for him as it is draining.

Anaxa gently brushes the damp strands of hair away from his eyes. “Can I get you some water?”

Phainon only gives a feeble shake to his head, his arms tightening around him instinctively. Shame exudes from his hunched figure so palpably that it curdles the already-heavy atmosphere.

“It’s okay, I won’t go.” One of his hands rises to cup Phainon’s cheek, thumb brushing over his tear-stained cheekbone. “It’s okay.”

Phainon leans into the touch before he can stop himself, eyes squeezing shut with frustration. “I’m s-sorry, Anaxa,” he croaks. What exactly he’s apologizing for is a mystery.

“Don’t speak.” His voice comes out firm. Only the Titans know what other ridiculous apologies he’ll spit out next. “There’s nothing here I need to pardon.”

Phainon reluctantly nods, though it’s too halfhearted to seem like he agrees with it.

Anaxa loses track of how long they stay like that. He can only tell it’s been long enough when Phainon inadvertently dozes off again from exhaustion, his head nearly slipping off Anaxa’s shoulder if not for Anaxa’s hands steadying him in place. The moment it happens, Phainon jerks awake in panic.

Anaxa gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Go to sleep, Phainon. I’ll stay.”

Phainon gives another shake of his head, this time more adamant. “But—” He coughs and sniffles, his voice bitter and shredded raw. “Another dream will come. I know it will.”

“Then I’ll guide you through it,” he says firmly. “That’s what we’ve always done, haven’t we?”

Because throughout all these lifetimes—through every lesson, every failure, and every moment shared in between, Anaxa has always stood in front of Phainon as reason and truth: a guiding light through the dark, waiting for Phainon to follow until he eventually surpasses him. It’s what he’ll continue to do even until the very end.

Slowly, Phainon lifts his head and finally meets his gaze again. His eyes drift across Anaxa’s face with reverence laid bare, trying to memorize the confidence and certainty held within his expression.

“Okay,” he whispers.

Anaxa carefully guides them both down toward the bed, where they lie face-to-face.

At this angle, the moonlight spills across Phainon’s features so clearly. It only makes the ache in Anaxa’s chest throb harder.

The brilliant blue in Phainon’s puffy eyes is completely offset by how bloodshot they have become. Mixed with his ashen, clammy skin, the sight shoots a lance straight into Anaxa’s ribs. He looks so tired.

This is the most vulnerable Anaxa has ever seen him. It’s the side that Phainon tries his best not to let anyone see.

Until tonight.

Normally, Anaxa would say something to fill the silence. Something loaded with a bit of snark, laced with bluntness and wit. But he can’t bring himself to. His throat feels awfully tight despite not being the one who cried.

All he does is lift his thumb to wipe away the lingering tear stains on Phainon’s cheeks. Each swipe is gentle, yet firm enough to ground.

When he tries to pull his hand away, Phainon keeps it in place by gripping his wrist. The movement is careful not to hurt, but still just as desperate. Nothing is said aloud, yet the plea brimming within his bloodshot eyes is clear enough to etch itself into Anaxa’s heavy heart.

Don’t let go.

Never, is what Anaxa would say, if only his voice would cooperate enough to say it.

It’s strange how fast time passes when staring into someone’s eyes. It’s even stranger how Phainon’s eyes look so enchanting against the moonlight, gleaming brighter than the ruby embedded in Anaxa’s hand.

Phainon never looks away. His gaze moves slowly across Anaxa’s face, heavy with wistfulness and unspoken words, clear with the longing to do a hundred things at once. Apologize again. Memorize this moment. Stay just a little closer.

Anaxa doesn’t need to hear it to open his arms. “Come.”

Without a second spared, Phainon buries his head against Anaxa’s chest like it’s home.

Anaxa runs his fingers through those messy, soft white strands. “Good night, Phainon,” he whispers.

“…Good night, Anaxa.”

He hopes his weak, erratic heartbeat is enough to lull Phainon to sleep.

∞

Eventually, Phainon drifts. The warm body curled within Anaxa’s embrace finally succumbs to exhaustion.

Anaxa stays awake.

The flame that has kept Phainon moving ever since Irontomb’s fall has finally burned itself out. That is the only reason sleep managed to claim him now. Not peace, nor comfort, but complete depletion. It’s far from an ideal conclusion, but healing was never something that arrived at once.

Everything about this moment feels intimate. He can feel the slow rise and fall of Phainon’s chest and smell the scent of bergamot that clings to his hair and skin. Most of all, Anaxa can feel the immense vulnerability entrusted to him with such terrifying trust.

He hopes Phainon meant what he said earlier—that Anaxa makes him feel safe. If his presence tonight eased even a fraction of that anguish, then perhaps every one of those thirty-three million cycles amounted to something after all.

He stares at the sleeping figure in his embrace, allowing himself a small smile at the feeling of Phainon’s unruly hair tickling his nose. Before he can think better of it, he presses a careful kiss to the crown of Phainon’s head. Another one follows on his forehead, this one lingering a second longer before he pulls away. It is, perhaps, the gentlest touch Anaxagoras has ever given in all his lives.

The beginnings of dawn soon announce their return through the curtains, painting the room in a radiant, golden glow.

It’s bright, majestic, and promising. It reminds him a little too much of someone else.

Amphoreus’ hero. The Deliverer. The man who is now immortalized through countless forms of songs and poetry for his deeds.

Those titles don’t matter. None of them encapsulate the man asleep in his arms—the brilliant student Anaxa has always admired most. The one with far too much kindness in his heart, and the one who continued to endure long after anyone else would have shattered.

The one who trusted him enough to fall apart.

Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.

With the rise of a new dawn, the dusk it leaves behind will be but a memory. And even should the darkness return, as it always does, another new day will inevitably take its place.

All they have to do is wait for the seeds planted in this new life to finally bloom.

And if another nightmare comes, Anaxa will be there to guide him through it.