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The sun breathes.
There is a familiar ache within him, coming from somewhere he thought would’ve seared away long ago, burnt away by the Coreflames that warm the inside of his flesh. Though, he supposes little has gone his way before.
Why is it still here? The organs that made up the insides of his body were losing their purpose, slowly melting away into a liquid gold with every few cycles. The ambrosia that keeps him alive, keeps him moving. Yet it hasn’t taken away any of those parts yet, as much as he laments their presence.
A sickening reminder of what his body is, of what he ultimately is.
He remembers dealing with this… biological phenomenon often. Of course he does. A curse that can’t help but not leave yet, clinging onto the flesh he knows will eventually become the wax that burns for a brighter dawn.
Blood drips from beneath him.
He feels his useless stomach lurch.
There isn't much that visibly affects him. Every death of the Chrysos Heirs sends a surge of hatred (whether directed to himself or to the world), firewood to a roaring flame. Every cycle wears him down, exhaustion pulling at his legs and begging so sweetly for him to give up.
Yet, just this and he’s already nauseous. How can he bear the world if he can’t even handle his own body? How can he be able to shoulder everyone’s wishes when he can’t even move past this one issue?
Khaslana wonders if his body would ever listen to him. If he can call on the Coreflames to tear his body apart, to transcend mortality and burn eternally, then why can’t he escape this? He is no woman, but there is so little he can do when this damned vessel continues to insist that he is.
He feels the warm fluid trickle down his legs and resists the urge to gag. There wouldn’t be anything to throw up anyway, or maybe more of his blood would replace what was supposed to be in his gut. He’s not sure anymore.
Closing his eyes, he presses his hand gently against his flesh. The twisting sensation from underneath twitches his lips into a frown. There’s a part of him that thinks about plunging his hand deep inside him to tear out the unneeded organs, the unwanted parts of his body that cause him distress that he shouldn’t be feeling in the first place.
A tug in his pelvis and he digs his fingers deep. It couldn’t hurt as much as the flames that have been searing through his veins for tens of thousands of years.
It would be so easy. Khaslana is more than acquainted with the concept of taking things after all. He’s ripped the scorching Coreflames out from family the Chrysos Heirs to the point that even the action is an instinctive thing.
A quick plunge and—
‘No.’ He grits his teeth and pulls his hand away. What if the wound didn’t heal immediately? What if ripping out that organ messed with his stability? Any damage to his already decaying vessel could risk everything he and Cyrene had worked so hard for. Not yet, not when he can burn for longer than this.
Khaslana can endure this. He has to endure this. For the sake of everyone, he can't possibly be failing just because he is feeling uncomfortable with his body. What right does he have to almost jeopardize the entire plan because the flesh that accompanies his journey doesn’t feel correct?
Even if the body will never be what he wants to see in the mirror. That dream had long been gone from the moment he stepped into the unending cycles. He knows he mustn’t regret, for his decisions mean everything now, but he can’t help the thought of a what-if from lingering in the back of his mind when he sees his reflection.
There is a woman staring at him. There is a man.
There is–
He remembers when he met Aglaea and Lady Tribbie all those cycles ago, before everything had started and he realised the truth of the world they lived in. Cyrene’s quiet explanation as she held his hand, the contact warm enough to comfort him when he felt like they would reject him.
When he grew up and met other Chrysos Heirs, there was always a flicker of confusion on their faces when he spoke. He couldn’t blame them, but it always ended up making him feel small. A tiny voice in his head that whispered “They’re all happy with their bodies. Why can’t you be?” making him grasp a little tighter to the clothing Aglaea had sewed for him. It always hugged his chest since then, even when the days grew long.
He was a girl. He is a man.
Working out helped. It’s easier to be perceived the way he wanted to be. Yet occasionally, there would be a person who looked at him in a way that made his skin crawl, a whisper they thought he couldn't hear. If he’s with a fellow Chrysos Heir, they would sometimes glare or speak up.
It’s soothing, to be believed.
Khaslana doesn’t have that luxury anymore. He is little more than a monster to the eyes of the Chrysos Heirs from the cycles after the first. That only became more apparent with every cycle that passed. Perhaps he wasn’t even a man to them, no more than a skinwalker compared to the Phainon they dearly cared for.
If only, he had asked Hyacine, or Professor Anaxa about surgery then. He couldn’t afford vulnerability before, he most definitely can’t now either. There is not a choice here. There hasn’t been one for him for a long time.
His foolishness has led him here, aching from his own actions. He must go on, even if the person staring at him appears too much like a lady, even if his body burns now and will for evermore. Even if one day, he will meet the eyes of his never-to-be comrades and their gaze will reflect the deteriorating corpse of a woman.
The idea of that hurts, but he can’t be any more selfish than he already is.
He dips his trembling hand into the water and the woman disappears.
Khaslana must get himself together. The cramps will lessen and they will get better. The blood will cease eventually and it will stop. He must keep going, he must. There is no one to comfort him if he has to spend time clutching his stomach because it hurts and begs him to realise he can never escape being a woman, never, never . There will be no one to card their fingers through his hair, whispering soft reassurances while he whimpers and murmurs apologies for bothering them (please don't leave).
There won’t be anyone like that. He won’t expect there to be ever again, either.
Resentment towards his vessel is an easy thing. When he sits bleeding all over the ground, utterly alone, he feels revolted. Every pulse and throb haunts his body, yet he can't bring himself to move. There's not a mote of panic when he knows nobody will find him here.
At the very least, he won’t have to see familiar faces looking at him in mortification. He might not have much dignity left, but he’d like them to not see him like this. How strange, for him to still care about what they would think of him when their opinions have soured significantly since Dawnmaker has started to take each of their lives one by one.
It’s so ironic, he could laugh. It’s choked down before it could come up. Enough, he needs to focus on recovering from this loathsome state of being.
And when he’s ready once more, he’ll drag this awful body back up. To retrieve the Coreflames, take them from the Chrysos Heirs and find a way to a new dawn. As many times as it takes, even if this shell becomes nigh unrecognisable even to himself.
For the sake of a tomorrow, he– she– Khaslana–
The sun bleeds.