Chapter Text
The Era Nova was finally….here. No, that wasn't quite so accurate. Everything has simply, well, 𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦. The Eternal Recurrences, the Prophecy, the Flame Chase, 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨.
Cyrene was…wrong. So was the Theoros and everything they've ever fought for. There was no outlander from beyond the sky to save Amphoreus where Phainon and Cyrene, being but strings of data bound to this 𝘭𝘪𝘦 of a world, had failed. Simultaneously, Irontomb - and the Scepter that nurtured it - have also been deactivated due to some technical error or the like. Perhaps the contradictory data or the sheer volume of information consisting primarily of unquantifiable values had short-circuited that hideous machine. Khaslana doesn't quite know.
Cyrene would have though. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 was the one who had gone into the core of the Scepter and seen its database. 𝘚𝘩𝘦 was the one who had studied it, in that ‘Great Tomb of the Nameless Titan’ as she had called it. Cyrene was the one who 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 had the answers and the wits to outsmart a devious mastermind like that Antikytheran. All Phainon ever had was the fury of 400 million coreflames igniting his power - incinerating him to cinders - as he destroyed and 𝘳𝘶𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘦𝘷𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥.
So, Phainon had never gone there. That accursed place where Cyrene had to lose 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 over and over again. He couldn't bear to see her offer what made her 𝘩𝘦𝘳. He mourned that there was nothing 𝘭𝘦𝘧𝘵 of her to mourn. Her body became kindling to the Eternal Recurrences and her memories an offering to 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘈𝘦𝘰𝘯, the one she said lay behind Oronyx. Often had she invited him for a visit. Yet, the feeling of overwhelming helplessness at the sight of that Scepter - the source of all their suffering - and his own powerlessness before it had deterred him. But now, he wished he had accepted her offer - just to have one more memory of her. Cyrene had always been all about making the best memories when one can. Perhaps, she had known something. Perhaps, she had known that if she didn't leave her mark in the world - a brand in the shape of her in Khaslana's very 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 - when she could, she'd never get another chance again. Because Cyrene 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦. And she took all the love from Phainon's world with her.
Phainon took a deep breath, he felt that his lungs only ever inhaled acrid smoke these days, as the phantom taste of ash lingered on his tongue. He blinked his dull blue eyes open, seeing the monochromatic world he called his home. All he could see was….peace. The kind that he had never truly seen even before those hellish cycles had begun. And how could he have? Even back then, the Prophecy and the tyranny of the maddened Titans loomed over them all. There was no peace to be had in a world forged by the Destruction's ruinous blessings. So, it was only natural for peace to finally grace these lands now that those 𝘈𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘴 have stopped watching over Amphoreus and that Theoros has accepted his failure and left his creations to their own piteous fate.
No, not all of THEM have left yet. Phainon could still feel THEIR lingering gaze on occasion and he knew THEY were simply keeping an eye on one of THEIR Lord Ravagers. He wondered if THEY found his misery amusing? Or, were THEY just as indifferent to his sorrows as THEY are to all matters of the cosmos that doesn't pertain to the concept THEY embody? No, perhaps THEIR intention doesn't truly matter. All he knows is that it was THEIR devastating touch that had initiated this farce and, regardless of how impossible it might seem, he will never bow to THEM. That is all his fury can amount to these days.
Khaslana looked around, not quite certain as to his location. He was currently in some nondescript city that had always fallen victim to the Black Tide in every cycle and so, he had never quite seen it before. It looked…lovely. Like a beautiful dream. Like a colorful masterpiece on a canvas that has yet to be tainted by the blood that dyed Khaslana's very being a brilliant gold as though painting him as the disgusting 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘳 he was. He walked to an unlit corner, yet to be illuminated by the sun - a 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭 sun - even at Action Hour (perhaps owing to the odd, overarching roofs above) and used the familiar incendiary power of millions of coreflames of Passage to return to Okhema.
Phainon exited the Gate, stepping foot into the city of Okhema. He stared at the unfamiliar yet nostalgic sight. Was this their goal, he wondered, when the first Flame Chase Journey was initiated? A peaceful city where the citizens could walk serenely, where young mothers didn't have to scare their children into staying within the safe confines of the city, where the people didn't occasionally glance apprehensively at the Dawn Device - wondering when it, too, will forsake them like the Titans had - and, when venturing beyond the borders didn't spell immediate death. If so, perhaps he could come to understand them - who had the choice to lead a campaign against the gods and ensure the coming of a brighter future. (Unlike Phainon and Cyrene who were forced to partake in this blood-stained campaign just to create the possibility of a tomorrow for them. And the cosmos too, now that he thought about it. Irontomb wasn't a threat merely to Amphoreus)
Phainon simply stood by, content to be but an observer, as he gazed at the distinctly familiar yet entirely different faces of the passersby. Each person he saw felt vaguely familiar - in much the same way as a descendant resembles an ancestor - and wondered if he had known them. Perhaps he truly had known their descendants. Or perhaps, they were all but one soul who simply came back in a different body - just a little off from the one they had been laid to rest in but moments prior - and suffered in their own version of those Eternal Recurrences. He shook his head to rid his mind of such macabre thoughts. 𝘏𝘦 would never wish something quite as awful as 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 on 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘰𝘯𝘦. Such an idle musing….doesn't become him. Besides, he should probably move on now.
So Phainon, who had been standing hidden in the corner, made to step out and leave these bustling streets. However, fortune doesn't seem to have favored him for he comes to the notice of one of many familiar faces - who seemed to be walking leisurely, to purchase groceries, perhaps? It came as no surprise to him that the woman simply froze. He contemplated whether to simply cut his losses and open a Gate to some desolate wilderness just to spare himself the farce. However, he couldn't afford to create a discrepancy; any logical vulnerabilities in their cognition could have dire consequences. After all, the Coreflames - and the golden-blooded Chrysos Heirs who waged wars to reclaim them and usurp the Titan's authority - no longer exist. So, naturally, a man who is decidedly not a Priest of Janus should not be capable of using their power with such ease.
It would take some time to get accustomed to, Khaslana thought ruefully, as the woman stammered a reverent greeting to him and stared at him until he acknowledged it with a polite nod before scuttling away. This was much the way Khaslana’s interactions with the general populace have gone these days. And he couldn't quite fault the citizens for it either. This was just another price to be paid for the beautiful ̶l̶i̶e 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘭𝘥 they live in now.
For the Titans and the Prophecy to be gone, much needed to change in the logic of the world to accommodate the gaps of memory. The Titans are still an object of worship, Phainon had discovered since he first ended up in this unfamiliar Era, but they no longer 𝘦𝘹𝘪𝘴𝘵. It was merely their lingering traces, the ocean of raw power left in their wake, that formed the core of their world's faiths. The corrosive Black Tide and the threat of the maddened Titans, too, no longer persist in their consciousness. As such, the people never knew of the sorrows they had once experienced and the fear they had once cowered under. However, perhaps as a big mockery from the world itself, Phainon couldn't simply fade into non-existence too. 𝘕𝘰, the memory of him had to be 𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘥 into the minds of every single Amphorean to ever be. All they recall is a man - his hair the color of freshly fallen snow, eyes the color of the brilliant sky, a golden Kephale ring etched into his pupils - and the fact that he had saved Amphoreus from great peril. And, even more than that, was the feeling of respect branded into their very ̶𝘤𝘰𝘥𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭. The same feeling that 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 them to be nigh reverent towards him in spite of their blatant skepticism at the events seared into their very being.
Of course, not all the citizens simply accepted the events that had supposedly occurred. The memories of over 30 million cycles, no mortal could possibly bear them. Could conceivably recall a memory of their own death and 𝘯𝘰𝘵 have it affect their psyche irreversibly. And so, they 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 recall. Yet, memories can't be destroyed - not entirely at least - as he recalls Cyrene telling him once. And so, they are simply 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘥, for the lack of a better term. Hidden in the deepest corners of their minds, where they won't ever feel its existence. The only things that allude to it is the legend of Phainon they recall. So, really, it's not surprising that there are many who are skeptical. Many who feel a distinct discrepancy in the events of their history - 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘰𝘸𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 - and leave to seek an answer. Most of them, well, they don't ever come back and the few that do, do so as 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴. They return insane - lost, broken. Khaslana always suspected that the memories of a cycle or two bled into their mind and overwhelmed them. (It's hard to distinguish between reality and nightmare when you've felt for yourself how it feels to have your life drain out of you. Phainon would know.)
So, the simple truth is, none of these people know him, 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘗𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘯. All they know is a hero of legends come to life, a Nameless Hero who was meant to be immortalised in the history books. And that's where the complication arises. 𝘏𝘦 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥. 𝘗𝘩𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘰𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥, so he can't just be a footnote in a page or the price for peace. The citizens simply don't know how to treat a hero, who has supposedly saved them from a plight they'd never known to even exist, and Phainon can't begrudge them for it. After all, the most glorious hero is a martyr who offered his life as kindling for the fate of the world. No one needs a living Savior. There's no purpose to be had in a life like his without some larger-than-life goal for which they could place him on a pedestal. (P̶e̶r̶h̶a̶p̶s ̶P̶h̶a̶i̶n̶o̶n ̶s̶h̶o̶u̶l̶d'̶v̶e ̶b̶e̶e̶n ̶t̶h̶e ̶o̶n̶e ̶t̶o ̶d̶i̶e. C̶y̶r̶e̶n̶e ̶w̶o̶u̶l̶d ̶h̶a̶v̶e ̶b̶e̶l̶o̶n̶g̶e̶d ̶i̶n ̶a w̶o̶r̶l̶d ̶l̶i̶k̶e ̶t̶h̶i̶s, h̶e ̶̶j̶u̶s̶t 𝘬n̶e𝘸.)
Yet, Phainon must live on. For 𝘩𝘦𝘳, if nothing else. After all, he wasn't the only one destined to become a legend in a page of Amphoreus’ Saga of Heroes. Except, Cyrene didn't even get that, did she? The day Phainon ceases to be - just like the bonds they had forged over the trials spanning billions of years - she, too, will cease to exist. And unlike Khaslana, who will still be recorded in the annals of history as a Savior - no matter how undeserving he might be of such a title - Cyrene would never have the same luxury. (She was their true hero, after all. The martyr who gave everything she had for the fate of the world. The one who 𝘥𝘪𝘥𝘯'𝘵 return alive. Not like Phainon.)
So, Phainon shall endeavor to never allow that to happen. Never will that beautiful soul called Cyrene be forgotten in some corner of Time. He has lived through 30 million cycles, forged his body through the fury of millions of Coreflames, baptized his veins with the golden blood of Destruction and fought relentlessly against their very destiny. No matter how 𝘧𝘶𝘵𝘪𝘭𝘦 their struggles might've seemed to that Theoros, he knows and so does Cyrene, that it was worth it. Their suffering, their deaths, their ruined dreams - it was all for Amphoreus. Their planet. Their home. Phainon knows that, were Cyrene here, she would encourage him to keep moving forward, to turn the page and write another eternal saga - of a 𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘤𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘭 Amphoreus - and to see the beauty of their world on her behalf.
And yes, Phainon agreed with the sentiment. It's been 4 years since Phainon woke up in this unfamiliar Era. At the end of the previous cycle - just when he had been about to begin his journey anew and offer up 𝗵𝗶𝘀 bloody legacy to his other self, 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 when the ceremonial blade had kissed his skin before it would 𝘱𝘭𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘦 𝘪𝘯 and bathe his future in the golden blood of 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗶𝗿 past - there had been an error in the simulation. Even Lycurgus had been caught off-guard so it had certainly not been the fruit of his devious machinations. And after that error, Khaslana's memories became….fragmented. Well, more than they already were on account of his cognitive dissonance from the accumulated damage across the cycles. He merely recalled a short, clipped conversation with Cyrene that took place in some obscure corner in Time. Something about the Scepter breaking down and how Irontomb's progression had rapidly retracted until it reached the negatives before it simply collapsed into innumerable fragments. He had barely caught something about a different manner of reset and a timeline difference before he had been abruptly thrusted out of the space.
He had come to in an unfamiliar place - a sizable city to the extreme north of Styxia, as he had later come to know - and had waited for Cyrene's arrival. There was an odd rift in space, the same one from which he himself had been ejected. He had felt… lost, and more than a little perplexed at the odd turn of events. So, he had simply waited in front of that rift. (Like an abandoned dog waiting for a master that will never return)
He waited. Even as he felt the sands of time slip through the gaps of his fingers. Quints turned to hours and hours turned to days, then weeks and 𝘮𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘩𝘴. Yet, Cyrene never returned. Yet, Phainon waited. Perhaps some part of him, someplace deep within him that always knows the harsher truths but preferred to spend even but a moment more in the embrace of a blissful 𝘭𝘪𝘦, knew that she won't come back. And his fears proved true when, after the glaring sun of the Month of Cultivation had given way to the peace of the Month of Freedom and then to the frigid harshness of the Month of Mourning, the rift simply….ceased to be. Like his home in Aedes Elysiae. Like his dreams when they had first found out the cruel truth of their very existence. Like 𝘩𝘪𝘮𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 when he had first steeled his heart to 𝘮𝘶𝘳𝘥𝘦𝘳 his friends just to give them a chance at a 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 tomorrow.
Some distant part of him had simply felt numb - too accustomed to losing the ones he holds dear. But another part of him, a more dominant one, raged in sorrow at the loss. Because he 𝘬𝘯𝘦𝘸, he knew in his heart that… this was it. There were no more chances. This was what they had fought for. This was the Era Nova that they had yearned for. An Era Nova that doesn't have a place for Cyrene. (An Era Nova that had no place for two souls forcibly chosen by beings beyond their understanding.)
And, well, that was it. Phainon had raged and sobbed and 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘥. Then, he had moved on. (What else could he 𝘥𝘰?) Phainon has always walked a lonesome path - one damp with the golden blood of his fellow Heirs, littered with their corpses as far as the eye can see and forged atop the noble ambitions of every Amphorean who had died too young and full of regrets.
“Losses are a constant in the Flame Chase Journey, where life itself holds little value.”
Lady Aglaea had told him as such, once. And truly, none can understand it better than Phainon. Phainon, who had always yearned to hoist the flag of triumph even atop a mound created of his own broken corpses. His body has always been the kindling and his golden blood the fuel to ignite the blaze of the Flame Chase. (But must losses still be the norm for him in a world bereft of the Titans and the Prophecy and the 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘺𝘴𝘰𝘴 𝘏𝘦𝘪𝘳𝘴?)
If over 30 million cycles of anguish couldn't break his will, he won't allow this hurdle to either. Unless he sees it for himself, he refuses to believe that Cyrene doesn't exist anymore. That is the vow he had made, a vow to make good on their broken promise from ages ago. He had once promised to Cyrene that they would reach Era Nova, together, and bring peace and hope to their homeland. He has broken it once now. He refuses to do so again.