👚 w/ the chronically ill dragon because i'm predictable (also because i think he'd short-circuit and it'd be funny)
Caldarus isn’t prepared for the shock through his system.
There you are. Asleep. On his bed.
In his clothes.
Tail stilling, he sets down the kettle he carried in from the pond, ready to make tea. He knew you were here. Waved you into the temple and everything when you arrived. Caldarus spent more time in the garden today than usual. The sun was enjoyable, and he was proud to see the little shoots of green coming up in the late spring air.
He expected you to come back out after doing whatever you had prepared in the temple — a meal, perhaps. After nearly an hour and no show, he decided to go see what you were up to.
Evidently, it was stealing his clothes. And bed. And, yes, making a meal. He looks over the steaming pot in the firepit. The fire has died down, as have the bubbles for the soup within. Distantly, his stomach growls, but he looks back to you lying prone on the sheets.
Nails tapping on the marble floor, Caldarus approaches. You wear a yellow, red, and deep navy robe. No fanfare, no jewelry. The ends of your hair are damp, though with sweat or water he cannot say. Caldarus leans closer. You smell like the soup; herbs cling under your nails, and you have the air of cream and vegetables. It is a nice smell.
His eyes flit over your face, and over the robe draped on you. You are relaxed in your sleep. Not running around, trying to catch this or do that or talk with or about someone. Caldarus envies your energy. It is almost a balm to see that you also tire and need rest. It is also…very pleasing to see you in his home. Something in him flutters. His heart picks up. His cheeks warm and his tail curls languidly. Yes, you are in his home. On his bed. Wearing his clothes.
It does something to him, though he doesn’t understand what.
Caldarus doesn’t have time to ponder why he feels so warm; you stir in your sleep, then gasp awake. He takes a step back, feeling…embarrassed? Ashamed? Why, he wonders, do I feel like I was caught doing something I am not supposed to?
Your eyes light on him, then snap to the soup. “Oh,” you say, sitting up and rubbing at your eyes. “I sat down while waiting for the soup to cook. Must’ve fallen asleep. Sorry.”
He finds his throat tight. Clears it, and says, “I…wondered where you were.”
You glance up and smile. “The sun got me today; it’s no joke when you stay out in it too long.” Sighing, you raise your arms high and stretch with a grunt. “That was a good catnap. Your bed is very comfy.”
Again, he finds his throat tightening, his mouth going dry. The way his robe clings to your body as you stretch is…well, pretty. Beautiful. He watches the folds move across your ribs and stomach. Then, he looks away. His cheeks feel so hot. “And…the clothes?”
“Hm? Oh!” You finally look sheepish and hunch down. Penitent. “I…well I got pretty dirty this morning. My dog decided to chase a rabbit through the mud, and I didn’t have time to go home and change.” You pick at the hem of the robe. “I…I mean, I figured you wouldn’t mind, and I’d wash everything after. I can put my clothes back on, I’m sorry —”
“No!” He surprises himself with his own dismay. Clears his throat again. “No, I mean, I do not mind you borrowing them.” They were spare robes, anyway. Only used for his own slumber a couple nights during the week. He had plenty more and…and…
And he likes how it looks on you.
Your smile is sunshine on his scales. “Thanks.” With a hup, you stand from his bed and pad to the soup. Checking it with a stir, you look back at him. “I think this is ready. You want some lunch?”
He would enjoy that very much. And having a bit more time to look at you in his clothes would be…pleasant.
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A/N: You and me are both predictable bc I was hoping someone would request this specific thing LOL thank youuuuuu <333
You invited March with you to the Shooting Star Festival every year to the point where the blacksmith expects his invite naturally. When you decide to invite Caldarus instead, March grows mad with jealousy and pushes for you to tell him the truth, eager to take you back. You were his first, after all.
Words: 4.9k
March x farmer!reader, fem!reader, swearing, angst, and fluff (SPOILERS FOR “BREAKING THE FIRE SEAL” QUEST)
The long awaited annual Shooting Star Festival has come. Like always, the town was buzzing with excitement to see the gorgeous display of the night sky dancing for the end of summer. Star-themed lights, pillows, and blankets were taken out of the shadows of the closet, new and established couples presented invitation brooches, and everyone worked to finish their responsibilities early.
March, however, was playing it cool. He did indeed look forward to the nighttime show, especially since you began inviting him to watch it with you every year since you arrived. But, he never wanted to look too eager. Too happy. Every time you have presented that iconic invite, he has pretended that it was a hassle. That he was only saying yes because his older brother would scold him if he declined.
Secretly, he enjoyed watching the stars with you. He enjoyed the attention you gave him. He anticipated walking you home right after. He felt proud of the fact that out of all the other people in the town, you chose him to bring your fates closer together.
So where the hell were you today?!
The grumpy blacksmith continued pounding out nails for an order, grumbling in irritation and impatience every hit of his hammer. Olric, the caring brother that he was, noticed right away how quickly his mood shifted to expecting excitement to pure frustration. As time ticked on, Olric also wondered why his brother hadn't received his invitation to the festival yet.
It wasn’t until March accidentally made a nail too flat that he spoke up. March never made mistakes unless something was really wrong. “Hey, bro, do you wanna take a break?”
“No.” March curtly responded, his voice snappy enough to even put his brother on edge.
Of course, that wouldn’t sway Olric. “March, what’s wrong? You know that nothing will change unless you talk about your feelings.”
The hammer ceased midair, the blacksmith debating on if he should be honest. He was never honest when it came to you normally. He didn’t even want to entertain the very real possibility that he liked you, not that it was much of a secret to everyone else. March was in denial and he wanted to stay within that comfort zone.
And yet. . .
“I’m not seeing the stars tonight.” March decided, dipping his toes into the water of honesty.
Olric raised his brows in surprise and confusion. “What? But you always go with Y/n. Did something happen?”
March scoffed and threw the hammer against the anvil, the loud, sudden clang of it startling anyone nearby. “I don’t know! She didn’t come to invite me today! I’m not at fault for anything. She must be the one with the problem.”
“Bro. . .”
“Don’t pity me. I don’t care about the festival. She can do whatever she wants!” March fumed, clearly not okay with how things turned out despite his protests. His older brother could practically steam coming out of his ears from anger.
“There’s still time before the stars. Maybe she’s just busy working today. She did expand her farm recently, so maybe she’s trying to get it ready for Fall.” Olric tried to reason, but even he was grasping at straws. You were never the type to wait around until the last minute when it came to your invites. You tended to give March the brooch first thing in the morning so no one else could beat you to it.
“Like I said. I. Don’t. Care.” March dismissed as walked away from the forge and into the shop. Olric could hear the slam of his bedroom door from outside. Knowing his little brother, he probably just needed some time to cool off. Surely, you didn’t forget about March out of malice, right?
~
A few hours later and March still hasn’t seen you. Every now and then, he looked out his window to see if you were just late as Olric suggested. When he saw no one, he just reassured himself that he didn’t care and went back to his solo pity party. By the time the sun began to set and everyone got ready for the event, March gave up waiting around for you.
“Stupid farmer, making me wait. Stupid girl, raising my expectations.” He muttered under his breath as he walked around town, trying to find a good spot to view the skies. As he walked around, he secretly looked for you. Maybe you decided to join one of the families this year. Maybe you promised to watch the stars with the kids instead. Or maybe. . .
March shook his head to himself, his dyed red hair hitting his cheeks. No. You wouldn’t invite someone else. You always invited him and only him. He was the one that you chose every year. He was the one that begrudgingly made conversation on the cliff with you. He was the one that made sure you got home safe.
Why didn’t you ask him this year?
The thoughts invaded his brain outside of his control. He felt his heart ache and his head get rampant. It was heavier than the anvil he worked on every day. March didn’t even realize that he was walking towards your usual spot that you shared every single year. Except this year.
His steps stopped as his eyes finally caught your figure. Just up ahead, there you were, making your way to the best view that the town had to offer. You had changed out of your farm clothes for something more comfortable. Something nicer and not covered in dirt. You even changed your hair for the occasion, dawning hair clips in the shape of stars. There was an eager spring in your step and a clear smile on your face that had the twinkling stars beat.
What the fuck?
Instead of calling out to you outright to demand some answers, March decided to follow you quietly. He knew that what he was doing could be considered creepy. Stalkerish even. Yet, he couldn’t help himself. What or who the hell got you so happy? And why wasn’t it him?
Keeping a safe and quiet distance, he trailed behind you all the way up to the peak. The usual blanket, pillows, and even picnic basket you normally shared with him was out on display. Two pillows.
March felt his face grow hot. The knots in his stomach ate itself like writhing snakes. It only got worse as someone from the right woods walked up to you, smiled, and took a seat next to you.
Who the fuck is that?
The man that was your date tonight had long, dark hair the color of evergreen pine trees. He had odd, protruding horns that looked nearly real. His clothes were long and flowy, a very traditional style that anyone would think was old-fashioned. A long and large tail moved behind him, also something that didn’t seem like just an accessory.
Who was this monster and why did he take his rightful place?
Clenching his jaw and fists, March watched the two of you chat, smiling over shared thoughts about the stars and how they were first viewed historically. The guy seemed smart and poetic. He also seemed to really enjoy having private time with you. You were having a good time too.
A new emotion overcame March. His hands went slack at his sides as the fire went out within him. Even with the weather still being Summer’s warmth, March felt cold to his core. This date was nothing like when you were with him. No awkward silences. No shut-downs in conversation. You weren’t nervous at all compared to when you tried to get closer to him.
Was that why you replaced him? Did you not like him anymore? Were you tired of his lack of enthusiasm and unwillingness to open up?
March bit his lip hard as he contemplated on what to do next. He said that he didn’t care. He tried to convince himself that he didn’t want you if you didn’t want him. However, standing in the shadows of the trees, barely seeing the stars that weaved people’s fates together, watching you and the mystery man share a moment that only comes once a year, he knew it wasn’t true.
Even if you didn’t want him anymore, he still wanted you. It wasn’t in March’s nature to just give up either. You were his first. Like hell he was going to lose you to someone else, especially to someone that he didn’t even know.
Steeling his resolve and without thinking it through, he stepped out of the woods and approached your blanket. The familiar fire was back in his onyx eyes, burning as hot as the forge he worked with everyday. “Y/n.”
Your heart skipped a beat as the deep voice you for long ago called out your name so determinedly. So possessively. You were quick to turn your attention to the stubborn blacksmith that planned on hijacking your time with Caldarus. While you did feel a momentary high of getting the person you like’s attention, you also felt a sense of dread begin to build. Caldarus wasn’t ready to be seen by people yet. It took a lot of strength from him to even meet you here tonight.
Besides that, March looked pissed. “March? What are you doing here?”
“I should ask you the same thing. What are you doing here with him? Who is he?” March demanded, his arms crossing over his chest as he glared at the stranger. Caldarus looked anxious for a moment before taking a deep breath, calming his nerves. For some reason, that pissed him off even more.
“I supposed that I will be discovered sooner or later. Y/n, how would you like to go about this?” Your partner questioned, giving you more control over the situation. It put you in an uncomfortable spot, but you were grateful that Caldarus had the sense to step back to let you handle March.
“I’m sorry about this, Caldarus. Before we do anything, how is your energy?” You considered, for now focusing on the needs of someone that wasn’t used to living as a human. March simmered as you stayed calm during the whole ordeal and gave even more of your attention to someone that wasn’t him. At least you didn’t outright dismiss him, though he still hoped you at least begged for his forgiveness.
Caldarus places a hand over his heavy heart. “I am at my limit. It would be a good time to head back. I may be up for further discussion within my own domain anyway.”
You got up and started packing your things in the basket, the show ending earlier than expected for you. Even if the outing was coming to a close the way it did, at least Caldarus got to see the shooting stars from a better view. It had been hundreds of years since he wasn’t an unmoving statue after all.
Once you were packed, you let Caldarus take the lead back to his home within the Deep Woods. March didn’t need to be told to follow along. He just did. He wouldn’t dare leave you alone with the stranger even if you were friendly with him. March wasn’t, and that’s all that mattered.
When you approached the large home, March lost his anger in a moment of shock. He hadn’t been in the Deep Woods for a long time. Along with the path having been swallowed by unruly vines with thorns, his parents’ grave was in the back memorial. That was something he wasn’t ready to approach yet, even with Olric’s support. So, he had no clue that such a pristine yard and castle-like home existed in town. Could anyone good really live away so isolated from people? How did you come to know him?
The inside of the home was clean and warm, the hearth in the middle kicking off a comfortable heat while it brewed a perpetual tea. March stood in awe at all the scrolls lining the back walls, the ornate bed with dragon detailing so unique in its own, and at the dragon statue that gave off a peculiar energy unlike anything he’s felt before.
All the while, you strolled around comfortably, helping Caldarus settle down on a pillow by the hearth. You filled a cup with tea and passed it over to him. From one sip, the color in his skin began to glow more brightly. How could someone that looked so powerful have such a weak constitution?
“Thank you, Y/n. This is exactly what I needed.” Caldarus graciously thanked. You nodded in response, knowing that it was good enough as the two of you understood each other.
Now, for the hard part. “Take a seat, March. Do you want some tea too?”
The burning irritation came back as you treated him so casually. “No. Just tell me what is going on.”
When the blacksmith took a seat, you poured yourself some tea and thought about your next words carefully. It wasn’t just Caldarus’s existence that was a secret that you were going to reveal. You had also been careful to keep your real identity a secret too.
Most people were still nervous and fearful of magic since at times it could be chaotic and uncontrollable. You didn’t think the people of Mistria would burn you at the stake for being a witch. That wasn’t in their kind-hearted nature. However, you didn’t want to risk being discouraged from living among them. You have been careful to protect everything that you have worked so hard to build.
There was no best way to start the conversation. March hated it when people beat around the bush too. The best thing to do was just dive right into the subject. “This man is named Caldarus. He is a dragon that has taken a human form only until very recently. Before that, he was confined to the form of a dragon statue on my farm.”
“. . . What?” Now March was just confused. He knew of the statue, but he had no clue that it was really some being trapped inside. If that was true, why didn’t the statue say anything the few times he wandered over before you took over the farm? How come you knew that information while everyone else didn’t?
You could tell that he was getting irritated with the missing pieces. Still, you tried to stay patient. “Only I was able to communicate with him in his statue form because I am a witch. I have an innate magical ability to do many things that would otherwise be impossible for other people. Caldarus became my partner in teaching me new spells. It was natural that we formed a bond from this.”
March’s brows scrunched together tightly. “Why didn’t you say anything before? Juniper does crazy things all the time with that cauldron of hers. It’s not like we would hate you.”
Your lips drew into a tight line. Caldarus simply sipped his tea, listened, and rested. “My magic is different from Juniper’s. Mine is more. . . involved.”
“Dangerous?”
“I wouldn’t say that. I use a lot of magic to help grow my farm.” You awkwardly answered. You were having a hard time finding the right words to describe what you did. Why you kept it hidden.
Fortunately, March noticed your discomfort and let it go. As much as he wanted to ask more, he didn’t want to push it. It wasn’t like he could understand much of it anyway. He could barely understand Juniper’s magic.
He moved on. “Fine, whatever. So why didn’t this guy just introduce himself to us when he became human? Why all the secret living?”
Caldarus cleared his throat to take over the conversation. “As mentioned before, I was living as a statue for hundreds of years. Much of my memory before and some during then had been a struggle to recover. My own magic and energy has been fragile as well. Before becoming involved with the people of the town, I decided that focusing on my recovery would be best. I would expect many to have questions for me, so I would like to regain as much of my memories as I can so I could answer those questions honestly.”
March didn’t agree with that decision, but he understood it. If the dragon really had been stuck all this time with only you to talk to, the others would probably find it odd that he knew so much about what’s been going on. It was no longer a wonder why the two of you seemed so close.
Not that he still wasn’t mad about it.
“While he recovers, I’ve been checking in on him when I can. I plan on helping him when he is ready to meet everyone too.” You revealed, finishing off your tea as the conversation seemed to naturally come to a close. You couldn’t think of anything else to add either. You thought that your explanations have been thorough enough.
Settling your cup on the edge of the hearth, you stood from the pillow. “It’s late. We should head home. I’m sure Caldarus would like some time by himself too.”
“Thank you for considering me, Y/n. Though, I may have enough energy to walk you back home if you would like. I know the farm is a long ways from here.” Your partner smiled, also drinking the last drops of his flavorful tea.
March’s alarm bells began to go off, his heart leaping before it looked. He quickly grabbed your wrist and pulled you to his side, his expression firm and mean. Your eyes widened as you collided with his firm chest, butterflies going wild in your tummy. “I will walk her home.”
Caldarus didn’t say anything for a moment. It was hard to tell what he was thinking with such a neutral expression. The ancient dragon was no fool, though. He knew where your feelings swayed towards from private talks and exchanged secrets. It was clear to him how the blacksmith felt as well, even if he was stubborn about it.
After a minute, he closed his eyes in acceptance. “Very well. Ensure she gets home safely.”
“You don’t need to tell me that.” He retorted sharply before dragging you out the door with him. You didn’t even get a chance to say a proper goodbye before you were out in the night again.
You were upset. Now that you were not balancing the two men and it was just you and March, you let your hell unleash. “What the hell, March?! Why are you so rude?!”
March stopped in the middle of the path, refusing to let go of your wrist. He fueled his flame when you began to chew him out. Your pleasant mask dropped like a stone when it was just the two of you. “Rude?! Me?! What about you? Keeping secrets. Hiding people? Asking out someone else tonight?”
You blinked twice at his accusations, unsure if you heard him right. “Asking out someone else? Wait. . . were you waiting for me? Are you jealous?”
A red so deep that it was noticeable even in the dark rapidly colored his face. From the tips of his ears to the bridge of his nose, March blushed. “J-Jealous?! Absolutely not! You just ruined my expectations of you, that’s all!”
A wicked smirk began to take over your lips. His chest threatened to burst from how fast his heart raced. “Come on, don’t be shy now. You were waiting for me to ask you out like I always did, huh?”
He finally let go of your wrist and turned his back on you, shielding his face with the back of his hand. He couldn’t stand it when you gloated. He began to walk forward again to escape this torment. “Idiot! I wasn’t!”
“Uh-huh. Then why did you come to the cliff tonight?” You pried, moving around him to try to catch another glimpse at his cute, flustered face. The idea that March was jealous over you made you giddy. The fact that he waited for you made your body sing too. There was no way you were letting this go. Not after all the years you’ve been pining for him within your rivalry.
“Okay, fine! I saw you with a stranger after waiting for you all day to give me the brooch! You didn’t even give me a warning! When I saw you having fun with someone I didn’t know, I got mad, alright. Happy now, Y/n?!”
March didn’t mean to yell at you, but he could only handle so much teasing. Especially when it came from you. Your moment of childish joy was quickly snuffed out as March expressed genuine hurt over the whole ordeal. You froze in your place as those butterflies died. You looked down in shame, considering how you did mess up tonight.
When he noticed that you weren’t following behind him anymore, he stopped and turned around. He wasn’t expecting to see you so regretful. His own pettiness took a backseat for a change as he grew concerned for you. “Y/n?”
“I’m sorry, March. You’re right. I should have given you a warning first. I honestly didn’t really think about it if I’m being honest. . .” You genuinely apologize, holding yourself as a way to give yourself some comfort.
The blacksmith didn’t know if he should be offended or forgiving. He waited a moment while you seemed to build up some courage to say something else, hoping that it would clear up his possible misconception on where he stood with you.
You gave a shaky sigh, having still not gotten over the trauma of what had happened earlier that year. Still, you decided that March deserved more truth tonight. “Caldarus saved my life. Without him sacrificing his magic, I would have died.”
“I was opening a deeper part of the mines that was sealed off. There were many sealed doors, but I was able to open each one using things I found naturally in the levels and magic. But this one needed a Sealing Scroll. Balor managed to procure one for me through a connection. Costed me a ton of gemstones.” You dryly chuckled, hoping that it would shake the edge off.
It didn’t, but you continued. “I was warned not to open it at all costs since the scroll would be dangerous. I didn’t think much of it since I didn’t intend on opening it in the first place. When I used it to unseal the door though, it opened on its own. It was a trap I couldn’t escape in time and before I knew it, I couldn’t move. It sucked the life out of me. Even if I yelled for help, I was so deep underground that I knew no one would be able to hear me.”
“Through my connection with Caldarus, he sensed that something was wrong. I was on the edge of death after all. He couldn’t do anything for me in his statue state, so he sacrificed a part of himself to burn the Sealing Scroll and save me. That’s how he had turned into a weak mortal.”
You shook your head at your past stupidity. You should have been more cautious handling such dangerous magic. You should have considered Balor’s warning more seriously. Your careless mistake cost Caldarus his magic. Nearly his own life with how the effort depleted him. You could never take him for granted again. “I invited Caldarus to the festival tonight as a token of my gratitude. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a good view of the shooting stars. Besides. . . you never seemed to care all that much for it anyway. I thought that you had just been tolerating it. Still, I should’ve let you know beforehand before inviting someone else. For that, I’m sorry, March.”
March was speechless. He didn’t know what to say. He could barely process the fact that at one point this year, you could have died. Worst yet, no one would’ve found your body. At least not soon enough. Besides almost losing you to someone else, he could’ve lost you permanently. And he wouldn’t have even known.
You were still clearly traumatized by your experience. The way you refused to meet his eyes, the way your feet shifted as your nerves zipped through your cells, the way you held back tears that threatened to spill from those beautiful eyes.
Putting his own feelings aside, he pulled you into his arms and wrapped them tightly around you. A hand settled on your head, encouraging you to have it rest against his chest. Your body was stiff at first, having never expected this kind of affectionate action from March. His chin rested on your head while he rubbed your back. “You don’t have to hold back anymore. I’m here.”
Your body finally relaxed against his as you buried your face in his shirt, silent tears pouring out freely. You haven’t had anyone to confide in about the accident. Not even Caldarus in hopes that he wouldn’t think that you invited him out of guilt alone. March was the first and only person that knew your trauma now. And he handled it like a genuine friend.
He let you cry for as long as you needed, patiently waiting until you pulled back to wipe your face with your sleeve. The front of his shirt was soaked with tears and wrinkled from your grip, but he didn’t care. All that mattered to him now was that you were here with him.
As it should have been.
“Come on. Let’s get you home.” March intertwined his fingers with yours, gently pulling you along the path. When he looked up at the sky out of pure chance, he noticed that stars were still burning out along the dark canvas of night. It wasn’t as much as its peak time, but it was still a marvel.
You had noticed too, looking up to watch the last of the stars signal the end of a busy summer. “Beautiful, right?”
“Yeah. . . Beautiful. . .” March agreed. However, when you looked back at him, you noticed that he was looking at you instead of the sky. A light heat teased the tips of your ears as you caught on that he was talking about you.
After a moment of silence and more walking, he spoke up. “I’m sorry that I got. . . jealous.”
He was staring straight ahead when he said his apology, but you knew that he still meant it genuinely. It took a lot for March to admit his faults, so you knew he always really meant it when he said that he was sorry. You smiled to yourself, feeling the connection between the two of you become stronger. “It’s okay.”
His grip became stronger as you forgave him. He was grateful that you didn’t tease him either about his admitted jealousy. A new peace and understanding was there now, something that was welcomed with open arms as March realized that he liked you more than he realized. Not that he would openly admit that any time soon.
Finally, the two of you reached your farm. The animals were fast asleep in their cozy barns, the growing produce still dripped from the morning’s drink, and the gentle rustle of leaves from your orchard brought over a sweet smell to mix with the natural earth. You had worked hard to get to where you were, magic or not. Even if he couldn’t understand your magical abilities right now, he could still appreciate how you used it for the benefit of the town.
He walked you all the way to your front door, hesitant to let go of your hand. Separating somehow felt like severing a deep connection. Like the forge going cold when it should be fiery at all times. You weren’t just meant to be with him on this night. You were meant to be with him every night.
Soft light spilled from the crack of your opening door, giving him a peek on how hard you worked on your house too. Perhaps at another time you would invite him in.
“Thanks for walking me home, March.” You nervously smiled, wondering if a simple thanks was enough to really show how much you appreciated him tonight. While things started rocky, you couldn’t help but still feel accomplished as you ended up becoming closer to the blacksmith than ever before.
This affection you felt for him continued to blossom as he gave you a simple, yet confident nod. “You’re welcome, Y/n.”
Before he could give a final goodbye to leave, you stepped forward, stood on the tips of your toes, and gently pressed your lips to his. It was his turn to freeze from the sudden affection, his brain taking a moment to process what was happening. His heart raced like the last stars above, blazing brightly almost painfully before falling away as you pulled back. Your face was as pink as the peaches that grew in your trees. March’s face matched your tomatoes. “Good night.”
He was speechless as you closed the door, leaving him in the night on such a heart throbbing note. With no choice, he turned and began to walk back to his own home, touching his lips carefully with his fingertips as if afraid to erase the kiss that still lingered.
With a chaotic mixture of surprise, ache, anger, and joy, March thought about just how soft your lips were against his the entire walk home.
Synopsis: A quiet winter walk turns into sledding, snow angels, and something warmer than the falling snow. On your first date, Phainon proves that sometimes the best way to fight the cold is with warmth, mischief, and a kiss that’s been waiting all afternoon.
A/N: Here comes my December 21 fic. :) Soft winter vibes with Phainon because he deserves a lovely and fun date, falling snow, and someone to keep warm. Hope you enjoy this. :)
Tags: Fluff. Modern AU. First Date. Snowfall. Winter Walk. Mutual Pining. Soft Romance. Playful Banter. Snow Angels. Sledding. Kissing. Phainon Is Down Bad. Getting Together.
Word count: 1563
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It starts snowing halfway through your walk. Real snow. Soft and heavy, drifting like the sky is trying to gift-wrap the entire world.
You pull your scarf tighter against the chill.
Beside you, Phainon stops in his tracks. “Ah,” he murmurs, tilting his head back to watch the flakes fall. “The first snow of the year. A personal favorite.”
You watch him instead of the snow. “Why?”
He smiles, eyes still lifted to the sky. “Everything goes quiet. Softer. As if the world is trying to listen to itself.”
His voice carries that thoughtful quality you’ve come to recognize. The one that surfaces when he’s genuinely enchanted by something.
You look at him.
He’s glowing. Not literally—though with Phainon, sometimes it feels like the universe considers it—but there’s something bright in him. Something boyish. Something hopeful.
“You seem happy,” you say.
He lowers his gaze to you, and his smile turns warm enough to melt every snowflake in a five-mile radius.
“I am,” he says simply. “I’m spending the afternoon exactly how I wanted.”
Your heart stumbles.
“Oh,” you manage.
His smile deepens.
You walk on.
Or try to.
Because Phainon keeps glancing at you.
Constantly.
You catch him looking for the fourth time in as many minutes.
“What?” you laugh, self-conscious now.
“Nothing,” Phainon says lightly.
He is absolutely lying.
You raise an eyebrow.
He bites back a grin, failing spectacularly at looking composed. “Alright,” he concedes quietly, “not nothing. Just… enjoying the view.”
Your breath fogs in front of you much faster now.
“The view,” you repeat flatly, slightly flustered. “Of me. Walking.”
“Yes.”
“That’s… nice. Nobody ever told me that.”
“Really?” He tilts his head, genuinely curious. “I have to change that. Besides, I like it a lot.”
You have no idea how to respond to that.
So you don’t.
You walk in companionable silence for a few minutes, snow drifting heavier now, settling gently on coats and scarves and hair.
The world really does feel quieter.
Softer.
Like it’s holding its breath.
Phainon slows, then stops entirely.
You blink. “What now?”
He doesn’t answer at first.
He’s just looking at you.
Again.
Focused. Soft. A little dazzled.
“You have snowflakes,” Phainon murmurs, stepping closer. “Here—” He gestures vaguely near your forehead. “And here.” His gaze drops to the tip of your nose. “And your nose.”
You laugh. “Well, yes, Phainon. We are outside. In snow.”
“And here,” he adds, brushing a finger near your cheek but not quite touching. His voice lowers. “And… elsewhere.”
Your breath catches.
“Oh,” you manage, fighting a smile. “Is that an observation?”
“An appreciative one,” he replies easily, still watching you like you’re something rare and worth cataloging. “They suit you.”
“They’re literally frozen water.”
“Yes,” Phainon says softly, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Yet somehow still lovely.”
You stare at him.
He stares back, utterly unbothered by the scrutiny.
Snowflakes catch in his white hair, melting slowly.
“Stop looking at me like that,” you blurt out.
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Like what?”
“Like…” You wave your hands helplessly. “Like you’re considering something.”
He smiles. “…Oh but I am.”
You look away before he sees the way your face heats.
It doesn’t help.
He walks closer.
Snow gathers on his hair. On his coat. On his eyelashes.
You want to kiss him.
You’re fairly certain that you’re not the only one.
“Look,” Phainon says suddenly, voice bright with mischief. He points ahead. “Your salvation.”
You blink.
A sled is leaning against a park bench. Old, wooden, clearly abandoned by some child who got called home for dinner.
Phainon beams at it like it’s a sign from the heavens.
“As if the universe is encouraging mischief.”
“You sure it’s free to take?”
“Borrow,” he corrects, already picking it up with a flourish. “And yes. The cosmos approves. I checked.”
“You checked.”
“Thoroughly.”
You don’t have time to protest before he sets it down at the top of a small snowy incline.
“Well?” he asks, extending a hand. “Are you coming?”
You hesitate.
He waits. Patient. Hopeful.
His hand steady in the falling snow.
You take it.
His fingers curl around yours, and he helps you settle onto the sled.
Then he sits behind you, legs bracketing yours, arms reaching around to grab the rope for steering.
You feel every point of contact. His chest against your back. His breath near your ear. The warmth of him cutting through the winter chill.
“Ready?” he murmurs.
Before you can answer you’re flying.
Snow spraying. Wind rushing. The world blurring into white and cold and exhilaration.
Phainon laughs. Bright, open, young in a way that feels rare and precious.
You laugh too, loud and breathless and completely unable to stop.
The sled hits a bump and you shriek, gripping his arm.
His laughter only gets louder.
You reach the bottom in a cloud of cold air and adrenaline, both of you half-falling off the sled in a tangle of limbs and snow.
“I am, a bit.” He grins. “I don’t get to do silly things often.”
“You should,” you say, brushing snow from your coat.
He looks at you like he agrees. Like maybe he’s been waiting for permission. Then he lies back in the snow.
“What are you doing?” you ask.
“Demonstrating the art of snow angels.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m obligated,” he declares seriously, spreading his arms wide. “This is essential winter activity. Future generations depend on my behavior now.”
You laugh so hard you nearly choke.
Since he looks so ridiculous and earnest and lovely lying there, you lie beside him.
The snow is cold against your back.
The sky above is pale and heavy with more snow to come.
Phainon moves his arms and legs, carving wings and a gown into the powder.
You do the same.
When you both stop, breathing clouds into the quiet air, he turns his head toward you.
You turn toward him.
The moment stretches.
Quiet. Soft. So tender.
“You know,” he says quietly, “in some folktales, they say that when two snow angels overlap, a bond is formed between their makers.”
You smile. “Is that true?”
He grins at you.
“I don’t know,” Phainon admits. “But I wouldn’t mind testing the theory.”
Your heart stutters.
You sit up too quickly, breath catching.
A shiver runs through you. Not from nerves, but genuine cold now. The snow has soaked through your coat at the shoulders.
He notices instantly. Of course he does.
“You’re freezing.”
“A bit.”
He rises in one fluid motion, snow sliding off his coat.
“Come here.”
Before you can protest, he’s shrugging out of his coat and draping it around your shoulders. His hands settle gently on your arms, rubbing warmth back into them through the fabric.
But he doesn’t step back.
He stays close. Very close. “So cold,” he murmurs, voice lower than before, almost worried. “We can’t have that.”
His coat smells like winter air and something warm underneath. Something distinctly him.
You try to steady your breathing.
It doesn’t work.
He lifts one hand and then touches your cheek. His fingertips are warm against your chilled skin.
“You should’ve told me,” he says softly, though his tone is fond. “I would have stopped sooner.”
“I tried.”
“Oh?” His thumb brushes your cheekbone, slow and deliberate. “What did you say?”
“I said I was cold.”
He laughs softly, the sound vibrating through the small space between you.
“Yes,” he concedes. “You did.”
He leans in. Closer. So close you can see snowflakes caught in his eyelashes.
“May I…?” he whispers, breath warm against your lips.
You nod.
You barely get the chance to finish the motion.
His lips meet yours. Soft at first, tentative, like he’s learning you.
Then you make a small sound—half gasp, half sigh—and something in him shifts.
His hand slides from your cheek to cup the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair.
The kiss deepens.
His other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between you.
You grab the front of his shirt for balance and kiss him back with everything you’ve been holding in all afternoon.
He makes a low sound in his throat that sends heat rushing through you despite the cold.
When he finally pulls back, he stays close enough that his nose brushes yours.
“You’re warmer now,” he says softly, voice rougher than before.
“A little.”
“Mm.” Phainon smiles against your mouth. “Shall I continue?”
You laugh, breathless and dizzy. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” he murmurs, kissing you slower and sweeter this time, “are enchanting.”
Snow falls around you, settling on his hair and shoulders.
He holds you like he’s been wanting to all day.
Like he’s been waiting for the right moment and found it in a snowy park with stolen sleds and overlapping angels.
When he pulls away again, cheeks pink from cold and kissing, he says:
“Next time… let’s do all of this without freezing first. Though I have to admit, I wouldn‘t mind more mischief.”
“Next time?” you tease, though your heart is already saying yes.
His eyes glow. Bright blue and so warm. “Oh, I’m assuming there will be many next times.”
You kiss him again because he’s right.
And because you want there to be.
⋆✧✦✧⋆
A/N: Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed it. Likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated. :)
Synopsis: A story of glitch-torn meetings and fleeting moments, of timelines unraveling and hearts pulling closer. A journey through loss, fear, and breaking—but also through hope, recognition, and belonging. Toward something that finally feels like home.
A/N: Hi again. :) Okay, this is it. The main part of the series. It’s long, and it’s intense in all the ways that matter. There’s a lot of angst in here, but also softness and warmth that (I hope) make the ache worth it. :)
This is long (around 26k words). Due to Tumblr's block limit, I've had to split it into 2 parts against my will, but it's one continuous story. Part 2 is linked at the end. :)
This is readable without Anomaly or the interludes, but they carry a lot of the emotional groundwork that leads here. :)
So settle in. Get comfortable. It’s an emotional rollercoaster, but so is Phainon’s story. And yes: it has a happy ending. Enjoy! 💙
Tags: Angst with a Happy Ending. Emotional Hurt/Comfort. Fluff. Glitch AU/Crossworld AU. Spoilers for Phainon’s Lore/3.4. Anomaly!Phainon. Flirting. Mutual Pining. Slow Burn. Canon Divergence (with Canon References). Emotional Catharsis. Metaphysical Shenanigans. Temporal Paradox. Character Study. Symbolism and References. Love is a Cosmic Event. Kissing. Fix-It of Everything Eventually.
Word count: 11206
⋆✧✦✧⋆
You lost something. A pendant. Your grandfather gave it to you years ago. Silver, delicate, worn smooth from years of wearing. Nothing expensive. Nothing irreplaceable in any practical sense.
But it meant something. You tore apart your apartment looking for it. Checked coat pockets, under furniture, between couch cushions. Retraced your steps through the city until your feet ached.
Nothing. It shouldn’t bother you this much. It’s just a pendant. But the absence aches in a way you can’t explain. Like losing something you didn’t know was holding you together.
You tell yourself you’ll find it eventually.
(You won’t.)
(Because it’s not here anymore.)
The loss settles into your bones, becomes background noise to everything else.
Another absence you can’t explain. Another ache without source.
You’ve been collecting those lately.
You’re sitting by the window when the air fractures. A shimmer. A distortion. That familiar pull in your chest that says he’s here.
Your heart leaps. Khaslana. You stand so fast your chair scrapes the floor. The light bends. Reality stutters. And then he’s there. His eyes are clearer. His posture steadier. Like time has been scraped clean and started over.
“You,” he says. His voice is rough but not broken.
“Khaslana—”
He looks at you then. Something flickers. Pain, recognition, an echo of longing. Then it’s gone. Shuttered.
“Do you remember me?” you whisper.
His eyes close briefly. “I remember what he felt,” he says quietly. “What he saw. Not what you said. Just…” He stops. “How it felt to be near you.”
Your throat tightens. “That’s not the same.”
“I know.” Silence. He takes a step closer, stops. Like crossing that distance would break something.
“I shouldn’t be here,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.
“Then why are you?”
He looks at you. And for just a moment, the detachment cracks. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I just… needed to see you. And then I glitched.”
Then he flickers. Unstable.
“Wait—” you start. But he’s already fading.
“I’m sorry,” he says. And then he’s gone.
The silence after he disappears is worse than the glitch. You stand alone, staring at the empty space where he was. Your hands shake. Your breath breaks. You sink onto the couch, head in your hands.
“I don’t know who you are,” you whisper. “I don’t know what you’re becoming.”
The room does not answer.
You do not sleep that night. At first. Then you dream of Phainon and the wheat field again. You live in a strange state between dread and hope.
Every time the lights flicker in your apartment, every time your vision blurs at the corner, every time the air feels too still, your heart stops.
And so you wait.
And so the world fractures again.
──────── ✧ ────────
1 — ECHOES
Khaslana appears in your living room the next morning, standing perfectly still like he’s forgotten how to move.
You set down your coffee. “Khaslana?”
He blinks. Focuses on you slowly. “…Yes?”
“Are you alright?”
He nods. But his eyes are distant, like he’s looking through you to something else. “I’m trying to remember something,” he says quietly. “It’s important. But every time I reach for it, it slips away.”
You step closer. “What are you trying to remember?”
He looks at you. “You,” he says. Then he’s gone.
In the afternoon he’s back. This time he’s pacing, frantic, muttering under his breath.
You don’t even flinch anymore. Just watch. Wait. “Khaslana—”
“It’s getting worse,” Khaslana says without looking at you. “I’m burning from within. I don’t have much time left.”
Your heart lurches despite yourself. “Time left for what?”
“Before I become something else.” He stops pacing, looks at you with desperate eyes. “Before I forget why this matters.”
“Why what matters?”
He reaches for you.
The air fractures. He’s gone before his hand reaches yours.
You’ve learned not to stay home for too long. Learned that waiting in your apartment just makes the dread worse. So you go to the park and sit on the same bench where you once sat before.
Hot cocoa in your hands, music playing softly through your earbuds.
Trying to pretend this is normal. Trying to pretend you’re not waiting.
The air shifts. You don’t startle anymore. You just pause the music and look up.
Khaslana is standing a few feet away. He looks lost.
His eyes find you, flicker with recognition.
“You,” he breathes. Not harsh this time, almost wondering.
You don’t speak. Just slowly pull out one earbud and hold it up. An offering.
His breath catches. He stares at the earbud like it’s something precious. Something he’d forgotten existed.
“I remember this,” he whispers.
“I was hoping you would.”
He takes a step closer, hesitates, then takes another. Until he’s standing in front of your bench.
You pat the space beside you. He sits. You hand him the earbud. He takes it with trembling fingers and puts it in.
The music plays.
For a moment, you just sit together. Listening. Breathing. Existing in the same space without words.
His shoulders slowly lower, the tension in his jaw eases.
“This helped,” Khaslana murmurs. “Before.”
“I remember.”
“I don’t remember much anymore,” he admits, voice so quiet you almost miss it. “But I remember this.”
Your throat tightens.
“I remember you,” he says. “The feeling of just existing.”
Your eyes sting.
He turns to look at you, and for just a moment his eyes aren’t gold fire. They’re just tired. Human.
“Thank you,” he whispers. Then he glitches. The earbud falls from his ear.
“No—” you start.
But he’s already fading. Gone.
You sit alone on the bench, the earbud on the ground where he was, still playing music to no one.
You pick it up gently, put it back in your ear. And cry.
It happens again in the evening.
This time Khaslana appears angry. Gold eyes too bright. Posture coiled. Dangerous.
“You,” he snarls.
You don’t freeze this time. You’ve seen this version before. In fragments, in flickers. You just breathe and wait.
“Why do you keep pulling me here?!”
“I’m not—”
“Every time I try to focus, every time I need to complete my task, I’m here. With you.” His voice shakes. “What did you do to me?”
“I didn’t do anything!”
He laughs bitterly. “Then why can’t I stop thinking about you?”
Your breath catches.
He takes a step forward. You take a step back. “Why do I feel like I’m losing something every time I leave?” His voice breaks. Before you can answer, he flickers.
“No—” He reaches out.
Gone.
At night, he appears one more time, on his knees the moment he materializes.
You rush to him without thinking. “Khaslana—”
“I’m sorry,” Khaslana gasps. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I don’t know who I am anymore.”
You kneel beside him, hands hovering.
Afraid to touch. Afraid not to.
“It’s okay—”
“It’s not.” He looks up at you, eyes glowing gold and terrified. “I’m breaking. I can feel it. And I’m afraid—”
He trembles. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you before it’s over.”
You reach for his hand anyway. The moment your fingers touch, he vanishes.
You’re left kneeling on the floor alone, heart racing, tears burning.
Again. Always again.
It’s dawn. You haven’t slept. Can’t sleep. Every time you close your eyes, you see fractured gold and hear broken voices and feel the ghost of touches that never quite land.
You’re sitting by the window when the air shifts.
Different this time. Soft. Almost hesitant. Familiar. You look up slowly and your heart stops.
Phainon. The one from your dreams. The wheat fields. The library. The hug that felt so real.
But he’s not looking at you. He’s standing near the window, gazing out at nothing, expression distant. Tired. Aching. Like he’s been searching for something he can’t find.
“Oh,” he murmurs, voice soft and warm despite the exhaustion threading through it. “It’s you again.”
Your breath catches.
He’s talking to himself? “I don’t know how long it’s been for you,” he continues softly, like he’s addressing someone who isn’t there. “You always look the same in my dreams. Days? Months? Longer?”
A quiet, broken laugh.
“For me, it’s been years.“
Years.
Your throat tightens.
He tilts his head slightly, like he’s listening to something you can’t hear.
“I keep seeing you,” he says. “In the library. In parks. In quiet moments. Sometimes you’re reading. Sometimes you’re just… existing. And I think—” His voice drops. “I think I’m going insane.”
Your heart twists.
“Because you can’t be real,” he whispers. “You can’t be. Not when I need you this much. Because then I could lose you.”
You can’t help it.
You stand, trembling and desperate. “I am real.”
He freezes completely. Then he turns. His eyes find yours. Wide. Stunned. Disbelieving. So blue.
“You…” His voice barely makes it out. “You can see me?”
You nod, breathless, tears already forming.
“You can hear me?”
“Yes.”
He staggers back a step, hand pressing to his chest like he’s been struck.
“No. No, that’s—” He shakes his head, laughing faintly, desperately. “I’m delusional. I’ve finally lost it after all this time. You’re not—”
“I’m here,” you say, voice breaking. “I’m real. You’re real. This is—”
“I finally did it,” he breathes, like someone realizing the ground beneath them is solid for the first time.
“I promised I would find you. I promised—in the dreams, in the—” He stops and stares. “You were real. The whole time. You were real.”
You take a step toward him. “Yes.”
“I’ve been searching for years,” he says, voice cracking. “Trying to reach you. Trying to cross over. And you—”
He looks at you like you’re the most impossible thing he’s ever seen. “You’ve been here the whole time.”
He takes a step forward, then another, closing the distance, reaching out.
“If you’re real—” His voice breaks. “If this is real—”
He flickers.
“No—” you gasp.
“No, not now—” His eyes lock on yours, desperate, aching, terrified. “Please, not now—”
The glitch tears through him.
“Wait—” you reach for him.
Your fingers pass through empty air.
He vanishes mid-reach.
Gone.
──────── ✧ ────────
2 — THE EXECUTIONER
It happens in your kitchen.
One moment you’re boiling water, the next, the air splits like a wound.
He appears.
But not the fractured man from the very first crossing. Not the version who echoed Khaslana’s feelings shortly after inheriting them.
This version is harsher, eyes brighter and emptier at once.
When are you? you think, heart sinking.
“Khaslana?” you try, the name tasting wrong in your mouth.
He doesn’t answer. He’s pacing, breathing hard. Like he’s been running for lifetimes. Like something is chasing him across worlds.
When he finally looks at you, it’s with a wild, unbearable frustration.
“I don’t have time for this,” Khaslana mutters.
The words hit you like a slap. “…Time for what?” you ask quietly.
He laughs. Harsh, humorless, nothing like the soft sounds you remember.
“Task. The Coreflames.”
Coreflames.
He’s never mentioned that term before.
The word sends ice down your spine.
“The task,” he says, voice rising, fragmenting. “Never ends. Over and over. Over and over—”
“Stop,” you breathe.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even hear you. “Again. Reset. Again—the same—again—”
His hands clench and unclench.
“Coreflames. Always—” He laughs, manic. “So many. Pain. Death. The same. Over. And over. I can’t—can’t—”
He stops, breathing hard, eyes wild. “I can’t remember which one I’m in anymore.”
“Stop!”
You flinch back, heart pounding.
He freezes, stares at you like he’s seeing you for the first time. Then his expression crumbles. He presses a shaking hand to his chest.
“I didn’t mean—” He stops, breath shuddering. “My body is failing. My mind is fracturing. I keep seeing things that shouldn’t exist.”
Your stomach drops. “You mean me?”
“Yes!”
He takes a step forward, and you see it now. The gold in his eyes is too bright. Burning. Wrong. “I return to a dying world, and then suddenly I am here. With you. In warmth I don’t deserve. In a world that makes no sense.”
Your throat tightens. “And? Is that such a bad thing?”
“It’s distracting,” he snaps.
You flinch.
He closes his eyes, jaw tight, trembling. “No,” he corrects, voice dropping. “It’s dangerous.”
Your eyes sting, but you force yourself to speak, to push. Like you did in the fractured moments before.
“Then tell me,” you say. “Tell me what your world is. Where you go. What you’re fighting.”
He looks at you. Wary. Exhausted. “Why?”
“Because I’m tired of piecing together fragments!” Your voice breaks. “You appear and disappear. You say things that don’t make sense. You talk about your task like I should understand—”
“You wouldn’t.”
“Then make me understand!” you plead. “Tell me. Please.”
A long silence. He closes his eyes. “Amphoreus,” he says finally. Quietly.
“What?”
“My world.”
That’s all he offers. Just the name. Nothing else.
You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t explain.
He just stands there, trembling, like even that one word cost him something.
“Khaslana—”
“I bring down Titans.”
The words are flat.
Cold.
So unlike the hesitant man who thanked you for music. So unlike the one who asked about wheat fields. So unlike Phainon from your dreams.
He’s looking at nothing now. Through you. Past you.
“I chase Coreflames. I kill without rest. Without mercy. Without end.“
He looks at you then with an exhaustion so ancient it makes your chest cave.
“I am the hand that executes. I am the blade that ends. Sorrow’s my only companion.” His voice cracks. “And anger. Anger is the only weapon I can rely on.”
You stare at him, horrified. “That’s not true.”
“It is.” His voice hardens. “It has to be. Otherwise I’m useless.”
“No,” you whisper. “Because he—because you—”
“Stop.” The word comes out sharp, violent.
You freeze.
He takes a staggering breath, pressing both hands to his temples like he’s trying to hold his skull together.
You step closer anyway, despite everything.
“You always talk,” you say quietly, “as if you’ve experienced lifetimes.”
He laughs. “That’s because I have.”
Your breath catches.
“More than anyone should be able to manage,” Khaslana continues, voice dropping to something raw. “And yet… I’m still standing. Still deceiving everyone.”
The last part comes out with a self-deprecating laugh that makes your stomach twist.
“Deceiving?” you whisper.
He doesn’t answer and looks away.
Your mind races. Lifetimes. Multiple versions. Different timelines?
That’s what you thought before. In all your desperate research, in all those sleepless nights trying to make sense of overlapping realities.
But what if it’s something else?
What if one timeline went wrong and another stayed hopeful?
What if the gentle Phainon exists in a world where things haven’t broken yet?
And Khaslana is from after everything fell apart?
But something still doesn’t add up.
Because why would one man be able to live on for so long?
“Who is he?” Khaslana asks suddenly, hoarsely. “This man you keep speaking to me about as if I should remember him. As if I should know what you mean.”
You falter. “He was you,” you whisper. “Another you.”
“I don’t understand.”
And you realize: he truly doesn’t.
This version of him knows nothing about the other one. Not anymore. Not really. His mind is broken.
“It’s not your fault,” you whisper instead.
He recoils like you’ve struck him. “Don’t say that.” His voice shakes. “Not when you don’t know what I’ve done. What I’ve become.”
“Then tell me!”
“No.”
“Why?!”
“Because—” His breath catches, his hands clench. “Because I don’t want you to see me as only good for one thing.” His voice drops. “Like I do.”
Your hands shake.
“You think this is easy?” you choke out, tears burning. “You think it’s easy to meet you over and over again—sometimes gentle, sometimes broken, sometimes cruel—and never know which version is going to appear?”
He stares at you, frozen.
“You think it’s easy to care and not know who I’m even caring for?”
His expression fractures completely. “You…” His voice is barely a whisper. “You care?”
You swallow hard, tears falling. “Of course I do.”
“You shouldn’t,” he says.
“Too late.”
His hand lifts, trembling, reaching, but the glitch catches him. His form bends, distorts, gold light flaring violently.
“Khaslana—!”
He tries to reach for you, doesn’t make it. He disappears in a burst of light and grief.
You sink to the floor, shaking.
The kettle screams on the stove. You don’t move to turn it off. You just sit there, sobbing, trying to make sense of impossible things. Lifetimes. Timelines. Versions of the same person scattered across realities.
How can they all exist at once?
Unless.
You already know time doesn’t work the way it does for you. So the answer has to be hidden somewhere.
You press your hands to your face. “What happened to you?” you whisper into the empty room. “What’s happening to your world?”
No one answers. But somewhere… somewhen… someone is still searching.
And you have to believe that he’ll find his way back.
──────── ✧ ────────
3 — PHAINON
You're still crying when the lights flicker again.
“No—no, not again—”
You stand so fast the chair tips behind you. The air shimmers.
You brace yourself for the burning-eyed man. For Khaslana, or whatever that version calls himself. For the rage, the fatigue, the violence trembling in his silhouette. But the figure who steps through the fracture is still. He’s breathing softly, not raggedly.
The light from your window catches his white hair, turning it almost luminous in the afternoon sun.
He’s dressed simple this time. Nothing like the elaborate armor from before. Just soft fabrics that seem to belong to a gentler world. You realize he‘s just gotten here from his private chambers.
And his eyes are so blue. Impossibly, brilliantly blue. Like in your dream.
He looks at you with confusion first, then something gentle flickers behind his eyes.
You freeze.
You’ve seen those eyes before.
In dreams.
“It’s you,” you breathe.
He blinks, startled. “I made it back?”
“I saw you.” Your voice shakes. “In dreams. We were sitting in a wheat field. Every single time. You told me your name. We talked a lot. And you appeared here, I think. Once.”
His breath catches. He stares at you, eyes widening with something like wonder.
“We talked about…” You struggle to form coherent sentences. “About finding each other. About whether dreams are real. About your life. I told you about mine.”
“Then we had the same dreams,” he whispers. His expression shifts into something whimsical, almost disbelieving.
“Odd, isn’t it?” He says softly. “Dreams that shouldn’t feel real. And yet…” His voice drops. “It felt more real than my life has been for many years.”
Your chest tightens. This is different. He is different.
“You’re not like the others,” you whisper.
“Others?” He tilts his head, confused.
“The other versions of you.” You swallow hard. “I keep calling you Khaslana. But that’s not your name, is it?” You already know the answer. He told you his name. Phainon.
He flinches slightly. “I… I’m not sure that’s the right name for me,” he says carefully.
He presses a hand to his chest, brow furrowing. “My name is Phainon,” he says quietly, and the way he says it makes your heart ache. “I'm Phainon of Aedes Elysiae. Just Phainon. Not Khaslana. That was… someone else.”
A pause. “I’m not him. And I don’t want you to think of me as him.”
You swallow hard. “I never thought you were actually real,” you whisper.
Phainon blinks, startled. “What?”
“You. This.” You gesture vaguely between you. “I hoped for it. I wanted it to be real. But I figured you were a figment of my imagination. Something I created because I was lonely or—” Your voice cracks. “Or because I needed to believe in something impossible. Something like hope.”
He stares at you. Something raw flickers across his face. “I’m real,” he says softly. Firmly. He looks down at his hands. Opens and closes them.
“I don’t always feel real. Like myself,” he admits. “Especially when I’m in my world. Everything blurs together. My past, my purpose.” He looks up. “But here?” His eyes meet yours. “Here, I feel real. Even though I‘m glitching.”
Your throat tightens. “So do I.”
Understanding settles between you. Neither of you has to explain. You both know what it means to doubt your own existence.
You swallow hard. “There was another one,” you say quietly. “Before you. Or… maybe alongside you. I don’t know how time works with all of this.”
Phainon tilts his head, listening.
“He was harder,” you continue. “Angrier. Spoke about tasks and Titans like…like it was killing him. Literally burning him from the inside.”
Phainon’s expression shifts. Something flickers there. Recognition. Pain. “I carry memories that aren’t mine,” he says slowly. “After my village was attacked—after the black-robed swordmaster—I started seeing things. Feeling things. I thought…” He pauses. “I thought Oronyx had done something to me. That it was a trial. A test.”
Oronyx? You don‘t understand what he is saying. Maybe a Titan? You don‘t interrupt since you are finally learning more.
He looks down at his hands. “But maybe it’s more than that.”
“Maybe it’s him,” you whisper. “The version you’re not yet. Or the one you won’t become. I don’t understand the timelines.”
“Neither do I,” Phainon admits. A pause. “But I’m not him. Not now.” His eyes meet yours. “And I don’t want be. I want to be my own person. Even if I sometimes forget how.”
You whisper: “You don’t remember anything, do you?”
“I remember pieces. Memories that came to me in the ruins of Aedes Elysiae,” he admits. “But more than that I’ve been seeing you. For a long time now.”
Your breath catches.
“Years,” he continues softly. “It started early. Then it happened more often. When I was older. More mature. In fragments, in moments I couldn’t control. You’d be in a library, reading. Or walking through snow. Or just existing.” His voice drops. “And I’d watch, unable to speak. Unable to reach you. Convinced I was losing my mind.”
He looks at you with quiet desperation. “I thought you were a person I’d conjured because I was lonely. Because I needed something—someone—to hold onto.” A pause. “But you’re real. You responded to me. In the dream. And now here.”
His voice breaks slightly. “You have no idea how much that means.”
Your heart twists painfully.
He tilts his head, confused. “I don’t understand any of this,” he says quietly. “First, my village. The black-robed swordmaster. Images of you. Our visitors from beyond the sky. Now… this. Always you.”
Your head snaps up. “Visitors?”
“Yes.” He nods. “They arrived a couple of months ago. They’re helping us on our Flame-Chase Journey.” Then he pauses, as if remembering he’s talking to a stranger. “Though… you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
You stare at him. A couple of months ago. Months.
Your mind spins.
Khaslana spoke of lifetimes. Of endless, ancient exhaustion.
But Phainon… Phainon talks like someone who started his journey recently.
“The memories,” Phainon says suddenly. Carefully. Like he’s trying to find the right words. “The ones I told you about. The images of you.”
You nod, waiting.
“At first, it was just that. Memories. Fragments. Like someone else’s life bleeding into mine.” His brow furrows. “But then it changed. I started seeing you in real time. Not memories. More like visions. You, living your life.”
He looks at you. “And I wished, every day, that I could meet you. That I could reach you.”
Your breath catches. “Every day?”
“Every day,” he confirms softly. “I don’t know if I originally came here because of those memories. Maybe the connection was already there, waiting. But I do know—”
He pauses and searches for words. “I managed to stay longer the more I set my mind on it. The more I wanted to be here.”
Your heart stutters. “You mean—”
“The glitches still pull me,” Phainon says. “But when I focus—when I really try to stay—I can. For a little longer each time. At least that's my humble theory.”
His eyes are bright, almost hopeful. “I think wanting and resilience matter more than I realized. And maybe that's true for my whole life.”
The implication settles over you like snow.
“And I want to get to know you. Really get to know you.”
His voice carries such earnest hope. “Not just in dreams. Not just in fragments. I want—” He stops another time. “I want to understand who you are. What you love. What makes you laugh. What you think about when you’re alone.”
His smile is small. Hopeful, almost shy. “If you’ll let me.”
Your throat tightens. “Yes,” you whisper. “I'd like that.”
Very much, you think but don’t say. More than you can put into words.
His smile widens. Genuine. Relieved. Radiant.
“Thank you,” you add softly.
He blinks. “For what?”
“For wanting to know me.” For choosing me, you think. For trying so hard to stay. For being here.
His expression goes impossibly tender. “Always,” he says. A promise. A vow.
“Flame-Chase Journey,” you repeat numbly.
“Oh—right.” Phainon smiles apologetically. “You wouldn’t know. That reminds me…” He looks around your apartment, taking it in with genuine curiosity.
His gaze lingers on details. The books stacked haphazardly on your coffee table, the photos lining the walls, the soft throw blanket draped over your couch.
“It’s warm here,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not temperature. Just… the space feels warm.” Then he looks at you again. “Where am I?”
You swallow hard. “Earth.”
“Earth.” He tests the word. “Like the ground?”
You nod.
Phainon's expression softens into something almost wondrous. “It sounds wonderful. A grounding place, so to speak?”
He goes on, musing aloud about the name, about what it might mean, about how fitting it seems.
And you almost start crying again. Because Phainon doesn’t speak like someone who’s been breaking for millennia. He speaks like someone who still has hope.
“I never thought about it that way,” you whisper.
He looks at you, startled—then smiles. Warm. Open. Curious. For a moment, he seems to forget entirely that he just glitched into another world.
“So,” you say, voice unsteady. “About this Flame-Chase Journey.”
And he talks. His voice carries that soft, eloquent quality. Thoughtful, measured, almost musical in its cadence.
He gestures as he speaks, hands moving gently through the air as if painting pictures of the things he’s describing.
And you find yourself leaning forward, drawn in not just by the words but by the way he shapes them.
He tells you about Titans. Ancient beings that protected his world.
About a phenomenon called the Black Tide, spreading corruption across Amphoreus, threatening everything.
About Coreflames. The essence of Titans, which the Chrysos Heirs must gather to stop the destruction.
“Our visitors,” he says, voice softening. “They came from space. They’re traveling on a train. Trailblazing. It sounds so adventurous. They have their own… guides. Aeons, they call them. Godlike beings that embody concepts.”
You tilt your head, listening.
“One of them—Fuli—reminds me of our Time Titan, Oronyx.” He pauses.
His expression shifts. “But there’s another one they mentioned. Xipe. THEY represent the Path of Harmony.”
Something in his voice changes when he says that name.
“THEY represent…” He stops, searches for words. “Peace. Unity. The strong helping the weak. Protecting life even through death. Becoming something greater together.”
He looks at you.
“That’s what I want, metaphorically speaking,” Phainon says quietly. “Not just to survive, but to create something better for everyone.”
He keeps rambling, and you find it both fascinating and endearing.
There’s something about the way he talks. Like every thought connects to another, like he’s following threads only he can see.
His eyes light up when he makes connections, that gentle smile tugging at his lips.
He‘s curious and thoughtful, almost whimsical in his observations.
“Now that you mentioned your world’s name—Earth.” Something lights up in his eyes. “I’m reminded of one of our Titans.”
He looks at you with an intensity that takes your breath away.
“Georios. The Earth Titan. They’re gone now, but they still exist as the foundation of our world. They were gentle, benevolent, cared deeply about all living beings.”
He looks around your apartment again, almost wonderingly.
“And now I’m here, in a world called Earth, finally feeling at ease. Isn’t that funny?”
Your throat tightens. When you look at him with growing confusion, he laughs softly. The sound goes right through you.
“I’m sorry,” Phainon says, smiling. “I must sound insane.”
“No.” Your voice cracks. “You don’t.”
Over the course of a few minutes, this man—with his heroic stance, his soft voice, his utter belief—has told you more about his world and his task than Khaslana ever did.
And it sounds different.
Khaslana made it sound like hell. Like endless suffering. Like a curse he couldn’t escape.
But Phainon makes it sound like a mission. Like something worth doing.
You don’t understand how both can be true. You don’t understand why Khaslana is so crestfallen when Phainon is genuinely hopeful.
Something didn’t work out in the past, you realize. Something broke him.
And Phainon doesn’t know it yet.
You want to cry for him.
For all versions of him.
Because he never loses his will.
Whether his intentions are pure and heroic, or whether rage is just the only thing keeping him standing—
He never stops believing.
Phainon presses a hand to his chest, brow furrowing.
“Am I a reincarnation of the same soul? A different version? Time is so odd in Amphoreus. Sometimes I feel as if a whole life has passed, and yet it’s only been a day. And sometimes it’s the other way around.”
He laughs softly—self-deprecating, almost embarrassed. “I suppose that happens when you carry out a task this significant.”
Now he’s just talking to himself.
When he looks at you again, he’s smiling so softly that you have to look away.
“I associate you with warmth and comfort,” he says, shrugging apologetically. His cheeks flush slightly. Like he’s embarrassed by the admission but can’t help making it anyway. “I don’t know why. But I do.”
You stare at him. “You’re calmer,” you whisper. “Softer. You look at me like—like you’re relieved to see me.”
“I am.”
Something inside you collapses. You turn away, covering your mouth.
Phainon’s voice is almost a whisper: “Please don’t cry.”
You inhale shakily. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t know how to fix what I did.”
You look up. “You didn’t do anything.”
He pauses. “…He did, didn’t he?”
You don’t answer, and somehow he understands.
Phainon takes a small step back, giving you space. “I’m sorry,” he says, voice barely audible. “For whatever hurt he left in you.”
Your chest tightens so hard it feels like breaking. “Why are you apologizing?” you whisper.
“Because I carry pieces of him,” he says simply. “And if those pieces hurt you… then they’re mine too.”
Before you can speak, the glitch pulls at him. He stiffens. “No—not now—” He reaches toward you instinctively.
Your fingers almost touch. Almost. “Come back,” you whisper.
His eyes soften. “I will.”
He vanishes gently this time.
Like he’s learning how to return.
──────── ✧ ────────
4 — THE BLACK-ROBED SWORDMASTER
The fracture rips through your apartment without warning.
The lights explode, glass shatters somewhere in the kitchen.
And when the figure materializes, you know immediately something is wrong.
He’s dressed in black. Complete black except for his boots and gauntlets. Hooded. Masked. Gilded gauntlets catching the dim light like claws.
Something flickers in your mind—
Black-robed swordmaster.
The words surface unbidden, foreign, like a memory that isn’t yours.
You shake your head, trying to clear it.
But the image stays. A village burning. A young man staring up in horror. A figure in black standing over the flames.
Phainon’s village.
The realization hits you like ice.
The black-robed swordmaster.
But that can’t be right.
That can’t be—
The figure in your living room tilts his head.
The vision shatters.
An aura of rage so thick it makes the air hard to breathe radiates from him.
You take a step back.
He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t seem to see anything.
His head moves slowly—mechanical, like he’s trying to remember where he is.
Or who he is.
Words fall from his lips—fragmented, broken:
“End…”
“The coreflames…”
“Again…”
“Again…”
“Burn…”
His voice is hoarse, scraped raw, like he’s been screaming for lifetimes.
Your heart pounds.
“Khaslana?”
No response.
He turns slightly—detached, empty—and you catch a glimpse of gold through the mask.
Burning.
Too bright.
Wrong.
The rage radiates off him in waves.
You try again, voice shaking:“It’s me. It’s Y/N.”
Nothing.
Not a flicker of recognition.
Just that terrible, empty gold stare.
You can’t see his eyes, but you feel them.
Then his hand moves to the blade.
The sound of it sliding free—
Metal against fabric.
Sharp.
Final.
—makes your blood freeze.
“No—wait—”
He takes a step forward.
You run into the bedroom and slam the door shut. Back pressed against it, heart hammering so hard you think you’ll break.
You hear him outside. Breathing. Heavy. Ragged.
The blade doesn’t strike the door.
He doesn’t follow.
Slowly—agonizingly—the breathing evens out.
You wait.
Minutes pass.
Each one stretching like hours.
Then—
A sound.
Low. Strained.
“…Where…”
You hold your breath.
“…am I…”
His voice cracks on the last word.
You press your ear to the door.
Silence again.
“…Y/N.”
Your heart stops.
The way he says it—
Not as a question. Not as recognition. As if he’s testing the word.
Rolling it around in his mouth like something foreign but necessary.
“…Y/N…”
Softer this time. Almost confused.
“Y/N…”
Breaking apart even as he says it.
“…Y/N…”
Trying to hold on.
You don’t know if he remembers. You don’t know if that name means anything to him anymore.
But he’s saying it. Over and over.
“Y/N…”
“…Y/N…”
Like an anchor he’s desperately trying to hold onto. Like the last piece of himself that hasn’t burned away.
Is this really him?
The thought comes unbidden, horrifying.
Is this what Phainon was talking about? The black-robed swordmaster?
But how? Why? Your mind races, trying to piece it together. Different timelines. Different versions.
But what if—
What if it’s not different at all? What if this is the end of the journey?What if this is what Khaslana becomes? Became?
The tragedy of it crashes over you.
A hero becoming the antihero.
An endless journey that breaks him so completely he can’t even remember why he’s fighting anymore.
Just that he must. Over and over. Until there’s nothing left but rage and a name he can barely hold onto.
You open the door slowly. He’s standing in the middle of your living room.
Still masked. Still hooded. Still terrifying.
But his shoulders are slumped now. His head is bowed.
“Khaslana,” you whisper.
He doesn’t correct you this time, doesn’t say anything. He just stands there. Lost, broken, barely holding himself together.
You take a tentative step forward. “Do you know where you are?”
A long pause. Then, barely audible: “…No.”
Your throat tightens. “Do you know who I am?”
Another pause, longer this time. His head tilts slightly, like he’s trying to remember something just out of reach.
“…Y/N,” he whispers.
“Yes.”
“…Y/N.”
He repeats it again. Like he’s trying to understand what it means.
Why it matters.
Then his hand lifts—trembling—toward you. Golden gauntlet reaching through empty air. Fingers curling like he’s trying to remember how to touch.
How to be gentle. How to be anything other than destruction. You take a step closer.
His hand hovers between you. Almost there. Almost.
The glitch tears through him. His form fractures like broken glass.
“No—” you gasp, lunging forward.
But he’s already gone. Ripped away mid-motion. Mid-reach. Mid-hope.
You stand alone in the wreckage of your apartment. Lights still flickering, glass still scattered across the floor.
And the echo of your name hanging in the air like a ghost.
──────── ✧ ────────
5 — WINDOW
The dream starts in the wheat field. But it’s wrong. The sky is too gray. The wheat too still.
Phainon is there, standing in the middle of the field, looking around like he’s searching for something. Then he sees you and his expression shifts.
“What’s wrong?”
You try to answer, but you can’t. Your legs give out. You collapse into the wheat. Like all the strength has left your body at once.
He’s beside you in an instant, kneeling in the wheat. “Hey,” he says softly. “Hey, I’m here.”
“It‘s all too much and not enough” you choke out.
“I know.” The simplicity of it breaks something in you.
You curl in on yourself. Shaking. “I can’t—” Your voice cracks. “I can’t keep—”
“I know,” he says again.
“What do you do?” you whisper. “When you feel like you’re collapsing? How do you deal with it?”
Phainon laughs. Soft and self-deprecating. “I don’t.” A pause. “At least not on the surface.” He sits fully now, legs crossed in the wheat.
“Where do you think my insomnia comes from?” He sighs. “I’m not the best person to ask for advice. I push things away. Always have. Until they…” He looks away. “Until they crash me.”
Your breath hitches.
“But I think,” he continues quietly, “I’m good at listening. Or just staying.” He looks at you. “What do you need me to do?”
“Just stay.”
His expression softens. “Good,” he says simply. “I can do that.”
So he does.
He stays, sitting in the wheat beside you while you shake.
While you cry. While you let yourself fall apart in a way you can’t in the waking world.
Time passes.
You don’t know how long.
Eventually, your breathing steadies. The shaking slows.
You sit up slowly. He’s still there, watching you with such gentle concern.
“Better?” he asks softly.
“A little.”
“That’s enough.”
Silence settles between you. Comfortable. Safe.
Then you whisper: “I’m sorry this keeps happening.”
He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”
“Me. Breaking down. You having to—” You gesture vaguely. “Deal with it.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” he says gently. “I want to be here.”
A pause. His expression shifts into something more vulnerable. “And I understand. More than you might think.”
You look at him, waiting.
He takes a breath like he’s deciding something.
“When I started studying at the Grove,” he begins quietly, “I really started seeing you. The visions became more frequent. More vivid.”
His hands fold in his lap. “It was hard because it got more intense. It happened more often. And it happened mostly at night.”
He looks away. “I’ve had insomnia ever since I left Aedes Elysiae. So everything got overwhelming. The visions. The exhaustion. Not understanding what was happening.”
Your chest tightens. “Castorice—one of my friends, one of the Chrysos Heirs now—she’s… well, to cut it short, she’s familiar with mourning. She knows the right words.”
His voice drops. “She probably saw me and figured I was in grief. And maybe, in a way, I was.”
He finally looks at you, eyes bright with old pain. “Because every time I woke up, or the vision of you faded, I felt like I’d lost something.”
Your breath catches.
“So I told her something vague. Not the truth. I didn’t know how to explain. I didn't even understand what was happening to me, after all. But she offered comfort anyway.”
A small smile touches his lips. Fond. “She said something like: ‘Your pain is real and valid, and so is the joy you associate with this person. Don’t let one feeling extinguish the other, or you’ll diminish your own feelings.’”
He meets your eyes. “So. I may not be the best to provide advice about such things. But I wanted you to know that I understand your confusion. The pain and the hope existing together. It’s difficult. But it’s real.”
Tears sting your eyes again. But different this time. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I’m sorry I haunted you for so long. I had no idea.”
His expression softens impossibly. “Don’t be.” He shifts slightly closer. “Although it drove me crazy in a way, I also felt comfort. Familiarity. Like I wasn’t entirely alone.”
A pause.
His voice drops to almost a whisper. “And now that I know you’re real—not only from those moments, but here, actually here—I can only be grateful.”
Your throat closes. You can’t speak.
He reaches out, hesitates, then very gently touches your hand.
“We’ve been haunting each other,” he says softly. “Across worlds. Across dreams. Maybe that’s what this is. Maybe that’s what we are.”
His smile is small, wondering. “Two people haunting each other until they’re real.”
You laugh. Watery and breathless. “I like that.”
“So do I.”
You look around the wheat field. The sky is still gray, but somehow less oppressive.
“We’re ridiculous,” Phainon says suddenly.
You blink. “What?”
He gestures around. “Look at this. The most beautiful scenery. A perfect wheat field. And we’re—” He stops and shakes his head, smiling despite everything. “We’re both falling apart in it.”
You laugh. You don’t mean to, but it comes out anyway. Breathless, slightly hysterical, but real.
He stares at you.
“What?” you ask.
“Your laugh,” Phainon says softly, then he catches himself. He looks away. “Nothing.”
“Phainon—”
“It’s—” He stops. “I just noticed it. That’s all.” But his cheeks are slightly flushed.
“Noticed what?”
He’s quiet for a moment. “How it draws me in,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “Every time.”
Your breath catches. The air between you feels weighted. Significant. “This is crazy,” you whisper.
He laughs softly. “It is.” A pause. “But I don’t want it to stop.”
“Neither do I.”
He looks at you. “We’re learning each other,” he says quietly. “Aren’t we?”
You nod. “Yes.”
“I like that,” Phainon admits. “The learning. The discovering.”
Your throat tightens. “Even though—” You stop. “Even though we don’t know how much time we have?”
“Especially because of that,” Phainon says gently. “Whatever time we have, wherever or whenever, I want to spend it understanding you. Really understanding. Here, we can be honest. Vulnerable. Learn each other without the pressure of…”
He searches for words. “Without the fear that I’ll disappear mid-moment.”
Your chest aches. “You will disappear though. Or I will.”
“I know. But not the same way.” He looks at you. “Here, we both know it’s temporary. We can accept it, use the time we have.”
“And in the real world?”
“In the real world—” His voice catches slightly. “When I finally stay. When I can touch you without glitching. When I’m really, truly there—”
He stops, swallows hard.
“Can I—” you start. Stop. “Can I hug you?”
His eyes widen. Soften. “Of course.”
You move toward him, he toward you. And then you’re in his arms.
His arms wrap around you. Careful at first, then tighter. Like he’s been starving for this.
You press your face into his shoulder, breathe him in. He smells like wheat and sun and something indefinable that’s just him.
“I needed this,” you whisper against his shoulder.
“So did I,” he admits, voice rough. “I always need this.” His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head.
You stand like that, holding each other in a wheat field that exists nowhere and everywhere. His cheek rests against your hair. Your arms around his waist. Both of you breathing. Just breathing.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“For what?”
“For needing me too.”
Your eyes sting. “Always.”
He pulls back slightly, just enough to see your face. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away a tear you didn’t realize fell. “I’ll find you,” he says. “When you wake.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He hugs you once more, then the dream shifts. Fading. His arms are the last thing you feel.
You wake shaken, tears still wet on your cheeks, but somehow calmer. Like something released.
You remember the dream. The wheat field. Phainon staying. His laugh about being ridiculous. The way he looked at you when you laughed. But you also remember the day before.
Khaslana. The black-robed figure. The blade. The pain of it crushes all over you again.
You curl into your blankets and try to hold onto the calm from the dream.
It happens two days after.
You’ve barely slept. Every sound makes you flinch. Every flicker of light makes your stomach drop.
So when the air shifts that morning, your heart stops. You don’t even turn around.
A soft voice breaks the silence. “…It’s cold.”
Your breath catches. You spin toward the window.
Phainon stands outside, not inside. Half-faded around the edges like a watercolor painting left in the rain. The morning light filters through him. Soft, diffused, almost ethereal.
Snow gathers in his white hair, melting slowly against the warmth that still somehow radiates from him despite his translucent state.
His coat flickers like it’s made of snow too, edges bleeding into the winter air, but his face is clear and real in a way the rest of him isn’t quite managing yet.
And when his eyes meet yours, they go soft in a way no other version has ever managed.
You press a hand to your mouth.
He lifts a hand—slowly, hesitantly—and rests his palm against the window glass.
You move before thinking, crossing the room in three quick steps.
Your palm meets his through the cold surface. The glass is ice against your skin.
But where his hand hovers—separated by mere millimeters—you swear you can feel warmth.
The glass hums faintly between you.
A vibration so subtle you might be imagining it. Or maybe not.
Maybe it’s the space between worlds trying to reconcile.
Maybe it’s him, trying to reach you through impossible physics.
A barrier neither of you knows how to cross.
“You’re back,” you whisper.
He exhales shakily, a small breath of relief. “I tried,” he murmurs. “I didn’t know if I would be able to.”
Your heart twists. “You look more solid,” you say softly.
He huffs a tiny, almost embarrassed laugh. “I suppose this place stabilizes me.” A pause. “Or maybe you do.”
Your throat tightens.
He looks down at your joined hands—separated by glass but almost touching. Then he says something that knocks the air from your lungs: “I came because you were upset. I felt it,” he says simply. His gaze lifts to yours. “From you.”
You freeze. “What did you feel?” you ask.
His fingers twitch against the window. “Sadness,” he says. “Yours. And something else I don’t know how to name.”
“I dreamed of you,” you whisper. “Last night.”
His breath catches. “The wheat field?”
You nod.
“I was there too,” he says softly. “You were—” He stops, searching for words.
“You needed someone to stay.”
“You did.”
“I always will,” he says. Simply. Like a vow.
Your throat tightens. Your breath trembles.
He watches you with an intensity almost too gentle to bear. “I shouldn’t be here,” he whispers.
“Why not?”
He glances at the shimmering edges of his form. “Because I’m still fractured. Half here, half trapped. If I stay too long, it hurts.”
You don’t hide your pain at that. “But you’re here anyway,” you whisper.
His eyes soften. “Yes. I wanted to be.”
The world narrows to your breath on the glass and his breath mirroring yours.
You want to open the window. You want to touch him. You want to pull him inside and keep him there. So you ask the question anyway: “Can you come in?”
He looks at the windowframe as if evaluating the physics of an impossible choice.
Then he shakes his head. “Not today.”
“Why?”
His voice goes low. “I’m being pulled back. I can feel it.”
He breathes once, unsteady. His eyes flicker with something—memory? Pain? “The black-robed swordmaster appeared again,” he says quietly. “People died—so many—”
He stops. Shakes his head. “I tried to stop it. We all did. But—” His form flickers more violently. “The pain is too fresh,” he whispers. “In Amphoreus. Here. Everywhere. If I crossed the threshold now, I’m not sure I would stay intact.”
Your heart clenches. The black-robed swordmaster. The one who destroyed his village. The one you saw in your living room two days ago.
Should you tell him? Should you say that the thing he’s fighting possibly appeared here? In your world? Wearing Khaslana’s face?
But how do you explain that without shattering everything?
Without destroying his hope? What if knowing makes it worse? What if it fractures him beyond repair?
What if you take away his hope—the only thing keeping him going apart from rage—and doom his world in the process?
Things are already different, he said. The visitors. The connections. The glitches. Maybe telling him would make it messier. Or maybe it would save him.
You don’t know. And the not knowing is agony. So you stay silent for now.
You press your forehead to the glass. “Then don’t force it,” you whisper finally. “Just stay there. For a moment.”
He nods, relieved.
The snow falls softly around him. Each flake catches the morning light before settling on his shoulders, his hair, the ground at his feet.
The world outside your window has gone quiet in that particular way snow demands. Hushed, reverent, like even sound is being muffled by white.
His silhouette sways with the wind like he’s part of the winter itself. Like if you looked away, he might dissolve into the falling snow and you’d never know where he ended and the weather began.
And his forehead lowers to the glass, meeting yours gently.
You can see every detail of his face this close. The way his eyelashes catch snowflakes. The slight tremor in his breath that fogs the glass between you. The way his lips twitch just slightly.
The barrier is cold. So cold it aches. The kind of cold that seeps into your bones and settles there. But he is warm. The promise that somewhere, somehow, warmth exists on the other side of this impossible distance.
“Thank you,” he murmurs.
“For what?”
“For waiting,” Phainon says simply.
Your eyes sting.
He sees it immediately. His expression folds with tenderness you’re not ready for. But the glitch pulls. His form flickers. His palm blurs against the glass.
“No—” you breathe, pressing harder.
He tries to speak through the static. “I’ll come back—I promise."
He disappears mid-word.
You remain at the window long after the snow erases his footprints.
The glass is still warm beneath your hand.
──────── ✧ ────────
6 — LIBRARY
The library is nearly empty when he appears next. You look up from your book. Your heart stumbles.
He’s standing between the shelves, snow still melting in his white hair, shoulders rising and falling like he’s just run miles. But he’s steady. More here than he’s ever been.
He looks at you like he’s relieved you exist. “…Hi,” he says quietly.
Your breath leaves you in a shaky exhale. “Hi.”
He hesitates before approaching, like he’s afraid of breaking the moment. Then he moves closer—step by careful step—until he stands at the other end of your long library table.
“May I sit?”
You nod.
He lowers himself into the chair across from you. Not close, but closer than last time. He folds his hands on the table, fingers trembling slightly before he steadies them.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. Just the quiet rustle of pages turning somewhere in the stacks.
The soft sound of snow against the windows. His presence, warm and real and here. He glances down at your book.
“You read often,” he murmurs.
You could tell him that you’re doing research these days. Trying to figure out what is going on. But you don’t want to bring down the mood. So you shrug, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“It helps me think.”
A faint smile touches his in return. “I wish I could read more.”
You tilt your head. “What stops you?”
He looks down at his hands. “…These days? Time,” he says, then amends it with a softer breath. “Or whatever passes for it where I live.”
Your chest tightens.
But then he lifts his gaze again, and something lighter flickers there. “Though I suppose sitting in a library with you is a better use of it than chasing Coreflames.”
You blink. Then you laugh, surprised, breathless. “Is that a joke?”
His smile deepens. “It is. But it‘s also the truth.“ He shrugs. “I’m told I have a sense of humor.”
“Well,” you say, warmth spreading through your chest, “I’m glad you’re using it with me.”
He holds your gaze.
Something passes between you. Gentle. Warm. Almost playful.
You tilt your head, studying him. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Do you always read in silence, or… also out loud?”
He blinks, surprised by the question. Then considers it seriously. “Hmm. Well, it depends.” He leans back slightly, warming to the topic. “I read much faster in quiet, of course. It’s excellent for absorbing myself in stories.”
His hands gesture gently as he speaks. “But for poetry, or when I’m studying speeches or rhetorical texts, I find it better to hear the words aloud. The rhythm, the cadence—it matters.”
He’s rambling now, you realize.
And you’re completely absorbed.
The way his voice shifts when he talks about things he loves. The thoughtfulness in his expression. The gentle animation in his gestures.
He notices. His eyes light up with something mischievous. “Oh,” he says, smile tugging at his lips. “I see.”
You blink. “See what?”
“You like my voice.”
Heat floods your cheeks. “Well,” you say, trying for casual and failing. “Who wouldn’t like your voice?”
Phainon pauses and actually considers it. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I never thought about my voice that much.” A beat. “You’re the first person to tell me that.” His smile softens. “So thank you.”
Then, leaning forward slightly, that mischievous glint returning: “Though I suspect you’re just being kind.”
You laugh. “I’m not. I also like that you study texts so thoroughly. You seem to be the type to do everything with full attention.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Most of the time, that’s true. I’m very focused.” His smile turns slightly sheepish. “But I had to learn it. I’m not always diligent.”
He actually winks. “I'll tell you about my training sessions one day." He winks again. "Today, I'll share another story." He studies you, his grin broadening. Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "At the Grove where I studied, I couldn’t be interested in studying or writing things I didn’t like.”
Your eyes widen. “You what?”
He laughs. “There may have been an incident. With an essay I refused to write. And perhaps some consequences.”
He waves a hand vaguely. “But it worked out. My stubbornness eventually led me to debating instead, which I actually enjoyed. Still do.”
His expression turns playful again.
“So. Now that I’ve let you in on one of Okhema’s best-guarded secrets—which isn’t actually a secret, since people around me tend to tease me for it—” He leans in. “Will you return the favor and tell me one of your secrets?”
His eyes are bright. Warm. Genuinely curious.
“It can be small. Just a little mishap or an anecdote.” A pause. His voice drops. “Or something deeper. Your choice.”
You tilt your head, consider him. A smile tugs at your lips.
“I’ll tell you two.”
His eyebrows rise, delighted. “Two?”
“Two.”
“I’m listening.”
You look around you, then smile slightly. “I once got locked in a library.”
His eyebrows raise. “Accidentally?”
”…Kind of.”
He leans forward, intrigued. “Kind of?”
You laugh, a bit embarrassed. “I was reading. Lost track of time. Didn’t realize they were closing.”
“And?”
“And by the time I noticed, everyone was leaving. But I didn't want to. The book was so exciting. So I stayed hidden and waited. And the doors were locked.”
He’s smiling now. “What did you do?”
“Well, I…” You hesitate. “I didn’t exactly try very hard to get out right away.”
His smile widens. “You stayed?”
“I did,” you admit. “The whole night. I had the entire library to myself. It was… peaceful. Quiet. Just me and thousands of books.” You shrug, feeling your cheeks warm. “I didn’t want to leave.”
He stares at you for a moment. “You’re not serious.”
“I am.”
He laughs. Real, warm laughter that fills the quiet library and makes your heart swell so much it aches.
“That’s—” He’s still smiling, eyes bright with delight. “That’s wonderful.”
“It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s perfect,” he counters. “Of course you didn’t want to leave. Who would?” He gestures to the shelves around you. “A whole library to yourself. Every book available. No interruptions. No rush.”
His voice softens. “I would’ve done the same thing.”
Your throat tightens. “Really?”
“Absolutely.” He’s still smiling. “Though I probably would’ve fallen asleep somewhere between the philosophy and poetry sections.”
You laugh.
A librarian shushes you both from across the room.
You both freeze, then dissolve into muffled giggles like children caught misbehaving.
When Phainon finally settles, still grinning, he leans forward slightly.
“What about the second one?” His tone is playful and teasing.
You can’t help but grin back.
“This one’s different.”
You reach into your bag. Pull out a deck of cards you always carry. “I used to try to learn… otherworldly things,” you say, shuffling the deck. “Magic. Tricks. Ways to make the impossible seem possible.”
His eyes light up. Fascinated. “Show me.”
You do. A simple trick—pick a card, shuffle, reveal. But you do it smoothly. Confidently.
His eyes follow every movement. When you reveal his card, his breath actually catches.
“How—” He stares at the card. Then at you. Then back at the card. “What kind of power is at work here?” His voice carries genuine wonder. Awe. Like he’s witnessed something miraculous.
You laugh. “Oh, we have no special powers in our everyday life. Not that we know of.”
You spread the cards, show him the mechanics. How it works.
He watches with rapt attention. Eyes wide. Expression soft with wonder.
“So people try to find special things in ordinary moments,” you explain. “Either by tricks like this—creating wonder through sleight of hand—or by finding something miraculous in their lives. Beauty. Connection. Impossibility made real.”
You meet his eyes.
“And calling all of it magic.”
He’s quiet for a moment. Processing. “Magic,” he repeats softly, testing the word. “Is that what this is called?”
“Yes. We use it for many things.”
You gesture vaguely.
“It’s normally something you’d find in stories. Books, movies—”
Phainon mouths the word. Movies. Doesn’t know it, but files it away.
”—but people use it to describe things they can’t explain otherwise. Things that feel impossible but happen anyway.”
His expression does something complicated. Soft. Aching. Almost unbearably tender.
“I really adore Earth,” he whispers. His voice cracks slightly. “What a lovely concept. To have belief in gods—considering what you told me about your world—but focusing so much on individual joys too.”
His eyes are bright. Too bright. Like he might cry.
“Finding magic in small moments. In connections. In—”
He stops and swallows hard.
Then the playfulness returns. “There’s so much I want to learn. What you can teach me.” His grin is boyish and delighted. “Movies.”
You laugh. “We could watch one sometime.” The words hang in the air. Then reality catches up. Your smile falters. Just slightly. “Maybe.”
His expression softens. Understanding.
But then he leans forward, eyes bright with that mischievous spark.
“Magic,” he says again. Slow. Thoughtful.
He looks at you, then gestures between you. “So… you could call this magic too, right?” His voice is gentle, hopeful. “To make it sound like a positive thing? Did I understand that right?”
Your throat closes, eyes stinging, but you’re smiling. Almost laughing. “Perfect,” you whisper.
“So we’re magic,” he says. Confirming. Wonder in his voice.
“We’re magic.”
He grins. “I like that.” He chuckles. “We should make a story about it.”
You blink. “What?”
“A story. About someone discovering magic.” His eyes are dancing now, bright with creativity and joy. “You start.”
You laugh. Breathless. Delighted.
“Once upon a time—”
“Too traditional,” he interrupts, grinning. “Try: ‘The first time they felt magic—’”
”’—was when they weren't looking for it,’” you continue.
”‘It appeared like snow,’” Phainon adds. “‘Quiet. Unexpected.’”
”‘And suddenly ordinary moments—’”
”’—became extraordinary.’”
You’re both laughing now. Soft. Warm. Building the story together. Back and forth. A wanderer who glitched through worlds. A person who waited. Finding each other in impossible circumstances. Calling it magic.
When you finally stop, breathless and grinning, the librarian is glaring at you both. Neither of you cares.
“That was a good story,” he says softly.
“It was our story,” you reply.
“Even better.” His smile deepens. “Thank you,” he says softly.
“For what?”
“For this. For… not treating me like a heroic figure. Just like…” He searches for words. “Like Phainon.”
Your throat tightens. “You are Phainon.”
His smile deepens. “Here, I can be.”
The moment stretches. Comfortable. Warm. Real.
Then his expression shifts. More serious now. “What did he tell you about me? Him?” he asks quietly. “About… everything?”
Your fingers tighten around your book. “Khaslana?” you ask.
He nods, jaw tensing slightly at the name.
You swallow. “Not much. Or let‘s say he never gave me much context,” you admit. “He was guarded. And tired. Always tired.” You hesitate. “And afraid to say too much.”
I bring down Titans. You know it‘s different from what Phainon does. Violent. But you still don‘t understand how it came to this.
Something flickers across Phainon’s expression. Sadness, maybe. Or guilt. Or both. “I see,” he murmurs.
He doesn’t look away. His eyes are heavy with something you can’t name.
You lean forward slightly. “He told me… that you had to keep going. For your world.”
Phainon exhales slowly. “I don’t know if that’s true.”
You blink. “What do you mean?”
He shifts, leaning back, gaze drifting to the tall windows lining the far wall. “Most days, I think I’m fighting for them.” His brows draw together. “Other days… I think I’m fighting because I don’t know how to stop.”
Your throat tightens.
He continues, voice low: “I’ve seen my home fall. Saw my friends die.”
Your breath catches.
“And all I could do was keep walking. Keep burning.” A pause. “That was the only way to keep going.”
You whisper, “That’s a lot to carry alone.”
His eyes lift to yours again. Pained, vulnerable. “I don’t want to carry it alone.”
Something sinks in your chest.
You take a breath. “Phainon,” you say softly.
He looks at you, waiting.
“I need to tell you something.”
His brow furrows slightly. “Okay.”
You struggle for words. How do you say this without breaking him? “Please,” you finally say. “Keep going. Stay true to yourself.”
He tilts his head, confused.
“You’re right to be the way you are,” you continue. “To believe. To hope. You’re…” You search for the right word. “You’re like a light.”
His eyes widen. Then he laughs. Soft, almost embarrassed. “Why would you say it like that?” he asks, smile tugging at his lips. “You sound like you’re giving me another prophecy.”
Your chest tightens. “Because,” you say quietly, “one version I met made me terrified.”
His smile fades.
“He was much like the one you described,” you continue. “From your village. The black-robed swordmaster.”
Phainon goes very still.
“But I don’t know what that means,” you add quickly. “I don’t know if it’s the future or the past or or something else entirely. I just…” You meet his eyes. “I believe in you.”
Silence.
Then Phainon exhales. Shaky, almost disbelieving. “Oh,” he whispers. “That’s… I don’t know what to say to that.”
You wait.
He looks down at his hands. “People always assume I will just succeed,” he says quietly. “They believe in the prophecy. In the hero I became. The role I created.”
He looks up at you. “But you…” He stops and swallows hard. “You believe in me.”
Your eyes sting. “Yes.”
He stares at you like you’ve given him something precious. Something he didn’t know he needed.
Then—slowly, carefully—he reaches into his pocket. When his hand emerges, something silver glints between his fingers.
Your pendant.
Your breath stops.
“I’ve been carrying this,” he says softly. “Since the beginning.” He sets it gently on the table between you.
The delicate chain pools on the wood. The silver catches the light.
“It appeared in my world,” he continues. “I don’t know how. But when I held it, I felt…”
He stops and searches for words.
“Safe,” he finally says. “Grounded. Like I wasn’t alone. It helped me reach Okhema in the first place. Without it…I don‘t know if i could have made it.”
Your throat closes.
“I kept it with me,” he whispers. “Through everything. And when I saw you—when I finally reached you—I knew it was yours.”
He pushes it slightly toward you. “I wanted to give it back. But I also…” His voice drops. “I wanted to keep it. Just a little longer.”
You reach across the table. Your fingers brush his as you touch the pendant. The touch is brief. Electric.
He inhales sharply. So do you. For a moment, neither of you moves.
Then you close your hand around the pendant and whisper: “Then keep it,“ you say. “For as long as you need.“
“Thank you.”
The air between you hums with everything unsaid. Everything you both want but can’t quite reach.
“I’m less tired when I’m here,” Phainon says suddenly. Quietly.
Your breath catches.
“With you,” he adds. “I feel lighter. And I sleep better.”
You lean forward without thinking. “Then stay.”
His eyes search yours. Desperate. Hopeful. Aching. “I want to,” he breathes.
The lights flicker overhead. His form shimmers faintly at the edges.
“No—” you whisper.
“I’ll return,” he says quickly, urgently. “I don’t know when. But I will.”
His hand lifts, reaches across the table.
Your fingers almost touch…
The glitch pulls him.
He flickers. “I promise—” he starts. Then he’s gone.
You sit alone in the quiet library, heart pounding, book forgotten.
But for the first time since this began… you’re not afraid.
You’re waiting.
And so is he.
⋆✧✦✧⋆
A/N: Thank you so much for reading. :) I hope you enjoyed it. :)
in the quiet between resets, between the halcyon days of wheat fields and the inevitable pull of the vortex, there exists one fragile cycle where things are different. where you, who have always been khaslana's constant, now bear the weight of a coreflame in your chest.
for as long as khaslana can remember, you were there—steady, unwavering, a constant presence by his side. even back when the two of you were just children, playing knights and heroes in the golden wheat fields, pretending to defend a kingdom that hadn’t yet fallen.
you were always the one who took the role of the noble protector, a wandering hero from beyond the so-called kingdom, the one who stood firm even when the game turned too rough, the one who made sure no one got left behind.
and now, years later, as the two of you stand together in the ruins of the holy city of okhema, swords drawn against the relentless black tide that swallowed your home, he realizes some things never change.
and that’s the thing about you—you haven’t changed. not really. yes, you’ve grown taller, stronger, your hands calloused from years of gripping a sword. but at your core, you’re still the same person who would rather throw yourself into a fight for someone else’s sake than walk away. the same person who, even now, stands with your back straight and your shoulders squared, as if you could shield the entire world if you just tried hard enough.
khaslana is grateful for that, more than he could ever say. after aedes elysiae fell, after the three of you—you, him, and cyrene—were left with nothing but ash and survival, everything shifted. cyrene found solace in prayer, in the quiet halls of the temple.
you and khaslana? you picked up blades instead. but where khaslana’s path twisted with uncertainty, yours remained clear, unshaken. you were still the one who laughed a little too loudly at his terrible jokes, still the one who could read him like an open book, still the one who never hesitated to drag him into trouble if it meant doing the right thing.
speaking of trouble—there was that little tradition between the two of you. a deal, of sorts. if one needed help, they had to offer something in return. khaslana swears you invented it just to annoy him, but he can’t bring himself to mind, not when you appear at his side with that familiar glint in your eye, your fingers curling around his wrist before tugging him toward whatever chaos you’ve stumbled into this time.
usually, it’s because you’ve gotten into another fight. not for pride, not for glory—no, it’s always because you saw something unfair and decided someone had to do something about it. and if that meant squaring up against three drunk mercenaries in a back alley or challenging some noble’s spoiled son to a duel for harassing a shopkeeper, well.
you’d do it without a second thought. khaslana sighs every time, but he follows anyway. how could he not? you’ve always been worth following.
and as per tradition, khaslana’s cramped little room in the shared quarters was cluttered with all the trinkets and oddities you’d given him over the years—payment, you called it, for every time he’d helped you.
a chipped porcelain figurine of a knight you’d found half-buried in the mud during patrol, a polished river stone you swore looked like his grumpy morning face, a ridiculously overpriced pocket watch he'd been eyeing from the market that you’d saved up for weeks to buy. each one had a story, a moment where you’d shoved it into his hands with that stubborn look of yours, insisting it was a fair exchange.
khaslana was starting to suspect you made up reasons to ask for his help just so you could give him things. it didn’t matter if the task was as simple as boosting you up to rescue a cat from a tree or as tedious as drilling sword forms with you until your arms shook—you’d still press some little treasure into his palm afterward, your fingers lingering just a second too long.
and at the end of every month, without fail, you’d show up with something extravagant—a leather-bound book, a finely crafted dagger, things far beyond a soldier’s usual budget. he knew you skimped on your own meals to afford them, no matter how many times he scolded you for it.
"you don’t have to do this," he’d grumble, even as he carefully placed each gift on his shelf, arranging them like sacred relics with a smile on his face. but you’d just laugh, that warm, familiar sound, and tug him along to the next absurd adventure. "it’s not enough," you’d say, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "not after everything you’ve done for me, hero."
sometimes, the payment was simpler—his favorite pastries from the market, a steaming bowl of stew after a long march, the way you’d bump your shoulder against his when he was lost in thought. but today, when you perched beside him on the old wooden rails, swinging your legs like a carefree child, the question that tumbled from your lips wasn’t simple at all.
"how do you know if the person you like returns your feelings?"
your voice was light, curious, as if you were asking about the weather. but the words hit khaslana like a blade between the ribs. you were staring up at the sky, completely oblivious to the way his breath stuttered, the way his fingers dug into the wood beneath him. how could you look so perfect like this—sunlight catching in your hair, your brow furrowed in that achingly earnest way—while shattering his heart into a million pieces?
khaslana nearly chokes on his own breath, fingers tightening around the rail as he jerks his head down, staring hard at the ground like it might swallow him whole. think, think— but his mind is a mess of static, his pulse hammering in his ears. "w-well, umm..." he stammers, voice cracking like he’s fifteen again, "do they... talk to you a lot?"
he risks a glance at you from the corner of his eye—just a quick, desperate flicker—but the second you turn to meet his gaze, he flinches away, cheeks burning. stupid. so stupid. why did he say that? of course you talk to them. you talk to everyone, with that easy warmth of yours, but—
"yeah, we talk every day," you muse, swinging your legs idly, completely unaware of the way his stomach plummets. "hmm, but that’s not enough to say whether they like me back or not."
what? his head snaps up, eyes wide. who—who could it be? you weren’t close to anyone outside of him and cyrene, not really. you were too busy hauling recruits out of trouble or lecturing drunk soldiers about honor or—or—oh.
his chest twists. had someone else finally noticed? the way your laughter carried across the training yard, the way you always stood a little taller when defending someone weaker, the way your hands were always so careful when bandaging his wounds—
no, focus. he swallows hard, brain scrambling for an answer. what else… what else did people do when they liked someone? his thoughts spiral, but all he can think of is you—the way he memorizes the curve of your smile, the way he saves the last bite of his meals just in case you’re hungry, the way he’d throw himself into the black tide itself if you asked.
"well," khaslana presses, fingers nervously tapping against his thigh, "do they know your favourite colour?"
"yep."
"favorite food?"
"mhm."
"the way you like your hot chocolate?" his voice pitches slightly higher—too specific, he realizes too late.
you turn to him with one eyebrow arched, the corner of your mouth twitching like you're biting back a laugh. "yes?"
he doesn't back down. if you've been talking daily, then surely those are just... basic facts. right? except—except he'd always thought those were his details to know. the way you prefer your hot chocolate sweet, with a dash of cocoa powder on top. the fact your "favourite colour" changes depending on the season (but you always circle back to a particular shade of blue). even cyrene only knows half these things.
"do they buy you gifts often?" he asks, too quickly.
"actually, yeah."
okay. okay. that's—that's fine. gifts are normal here. polite. he'll just have to find out what they gave you last and get something better. maybe that engraved dagger you'd eyed at the market last week, the one with the ivory hilt. you'd pretend to scold him for spending too much, but your eyes would light up anyway.
"do they buy you food often?" he tries again, voice strained.
"yeah, they actually buy me food a lot."
khaslana's jaw tightens. fine. if they're going to play that game, he'll learn to cook. properly. none of that street-vendor stuff—he'll track down recipes from aedes elysiae's old kitchens, the ones you still sigh about sometimes. he'll burn or tire his fingers a dozen times if it means presenting you with a perfect slice of cheesy garlic pizza, still warm, just like you remember.
(he doesn't realize he's pouting. you do.)
khaslana grits his teeth, fingers curling into his palms hard enough to leave crescent marks. the question sticks in his throat like honey—too sweet, too telling—but he forces it out anyway. "do they... make you laugh often?"
and then he looks at you. really looks at you.
mistake.
because the expression on your face—the way your eyes soften at the corners, the way your lips part just slightly, like you're tasting something wonderful—it punches the air straight from his lungs. he doesn't know whether to fall to his knees and carve this moment into memory or to let the black tide take him now. this is the look of someone in love, and the worst part? it's beautiful. that warm, bright smile he thought was his alone now blooms for someone else, and when you laugh—light, effortless, happy—it feels like a knife between his ribs.
"oh, do they make me laugh, huh?" you muse, tilting your head. and then—
wait.
what was that? that flicker of—of shyness? the way your gaze darts to his, just for a heartbeat, before you look away, cheeks tinged pink? khaslana's throat goes dry. he wants to beg the titans for answers—let me be the one to make you look like this, or strike me down where I stand, he isn't picky—but all he manages is a strangled noise when you add, "but... is there anything else?"
anything else? if his heart wasn't currently shattering into irreparable pieces, maybe he could think straight. but all he has left is the truth, spilling out in a clumsy, desperate rush. "they—they’d notice things," he blurts, too loud, too raw. "little things. like if you’re tired, or if you skipped breakfast, or—or if your sword grip’s off." his voice cracks, shoulders hunching like he can physically shrink away from his own words. "...and they’d try to fix it. even if you didn’t ask."
the silence that follows is agonizing. khaslana wants to fling himself into the nearest chasm. why did he say that? now you’ll know, now you’ll—
but when he risks a glance, you're just... staring. lips slightly parted, eyes wide with something he doesn’t dare name. and then—
"huh," you murmur, that familiar playful smile tugging at your mouth. "didn't think you'd be an expert when it comes to this topic, hero." a pause. a tilt of your head. "and i've noticed that your questions are... well." your voice drops, teasing but soft. "they’re… exactly what you do for me."
khaslana’s entire body goes rigid. if the earth split open beneath him right now, he’d thank it.
oh, he is so cooked. his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, brain scrambling for any excuse, any deflection—anything to avoid acknowledging what you just said.
but as he flounders pathetically, he catches it: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, soft and fond, like you're looking at something precious. something loved. and just like that, khaslana feels something in his chest snap. his vision blurs—are those tears?—because how dare you look at him like that when he's this close to crumbling?
"but thank you for your help," you say, voice warm with amusement, and oh no, that's worse. "i think i know my answer now."
know your answer? his stomach plummets. are you—are you going to confess? to someone else? no, absolutely not, he forbids it—
but before he can even choke out a protest, you're already turning, hopping off the railing with effortless grace. you stretch, arms arching over your head, completely oblivious to the way his heart is currently attempting to claw its way out of his throat.
and then—then—you have the audacity to take his hand, your fingers slotting between his like it's the most natural thing in the world, tugging him down after you.
"c'mon," you say, like you haven't just shattered his entire existence.
khaslana stumbles after you, legs numb, soul halfway to the afterlife. he's not recovered. he's not okay. and yet here you are, leading him somewhere (to your mystery lover? to rub salt in the wound?), your grip firm and reassuring like you always are, like you haven't just ruined him forever.
you tug him toward one of the pricier food stalls near the square—the one that sells those perfectly golden-brown pastries filled with spiced meat, the ones khaslana never buys for himself because "it's a waste of coin" but always stares at a little too long when you pass by.
right now, he looks like he's just survived a battlefield, shoulders slumped and eyes hollow, while you're already digging into your coin pouch with that determined glint you get when you've decided to spoil him.
"two, please," you tell the vendor, ignoring khaslana's weak noise of protest. the scent of butter and herbs wraps around you both as you shove the still-warm bundle into his hands, your fingers brushing his just long enough to feel how cold they are.
"there you go," you murmur, satisfied when his face finally changes—the way his pupils dilate, the way his throat bobs as he inhales the aroma. "your payment."
he takes a bite, and the way his shoulders relax makes something warm settle in your chest. "thank you..." he mumbles around a mouthful, and you can see the tension leaving him, bite by bite.
"of course," you say, leaning against the stall. "it's only right, since you helped me with such a big question." you watch him devour the pastry, the flakes catching on his lips, and hum. "hmm, but that does look good though."
then—before he can even blink—you're suddenly right there, leaning into his space with that familiar determined glint in your eyes. one hand closes over his wrist to steady it while the other braces against his shoulder for balance, and before khaslana can process what's happening, you're taking a huge, deliberate bite right from the pastry still clutched in his fingers.
your teeth graze his thumb accidentally-on-purpose, warm breath ghosting over his skin as you pull back with the flaky crust crumbling at the corners of your smug smile.
khaslana makes a noise halfway between a gasp and a whine, fingers twitching where they still cradle the now-missing chunk of his snack. his face burns at the proximity—at the way your grip lingers just a second too long—but you're already straightening up with that infuriatingly pleased look you always get when stealing food from his plate.
the golden afternoon light catches in your lashes as you chew triumphantly, and despite himself, khaslana's traitorous heart stutters at the sight.
"how selfish..." he grumbles, but there's no real annoyance in it—just fondness, the same tone he uses when you "accidentally" take the last slice of his dessert.
(you’ve always done this. he’s always let you.)
you know his habits and vice versa, after all. how he’ll buy your favorite skewers on days you’re too busy to eat and "casually" snack on them in front of you until you cave. how he’ll sigh and produce a second portion the moment you reach for his, like he’d been waiting for the excuse to feed you.
now, you just grin, licking salt from your thumb before grabbing his wrist again. "c’mon," you say, and his breath hitches when your fingers slide down to intertwine with his.
khaslana’s chest floods with warmth as he lets you pull him along. this—this—feels right. the weight of your hand in his, the way your steps match his stride, the quiet certainty that you’d always find each other.
but then he remembers.
someone else gets this too.
someone else makes your eyes soften like that. someone else earns your laughter, your stolen bites, your relentless affection. the thought lodges like a splinter in his ribs, sharp enough to make his steps stutter.
(but it’s okay. it has to be. as long as you still reach for him—as long as you still drag him into your light—he’ll survive it. won’t he?)
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fate was cruel. this was cruel. he shouldn't have opened his mouth, shouldn't have let the truth spill from his lips like blood from a fresh wound. he should've let you remain oblivious, let you keep smiling that bright, carefree smile until the cycle reset and wiped everything away again. but he was weak—so terribly weak—and now he had to live with the consequences.
he'd already failed you numerous times. first when you had saved him from being killed during the black tide engulfing okhema in that initial cycle, your body crumbling to the ground before he could even reach you. then again when he found you bleeding out in some forgotten alleyway, your fingers trembling as they brushed his tear-streaked face before going still.
he should've learned his lesson. should've stayed away when he saw you walking home from patrol that day, your armor glinting in the sunlight, completely unaware of the storm raging inside him.
but he didn't. of course he didn't.
he'd crashed into you like a drowning man reaching for shore, his arms locking around your waist with desperate strength. he'd buried his face in the crook of your neck, choking on sobs that wracked his entire body, and you—you'd just held him. like you always did.
your calloused hands had carded through his hair, your steady voice murmuring reassurances against his temple as you guided him home. you didn't even know why he was crying, you knew that he wasn't your khaslana phainon, but that never stopped you from offering comfort.
and then, perhaps because the universe pitied him, the phainon in that cycle wasn't there. some emergency had pulled him away, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet of your shared home. the space between you had felt charged, dangerous, and still he'd let you coax the story from him piece by broken piece.
"tell me," you'd said, your thumb brushing away his tears with that infuriating tenderness. "whatever it is, we'll face it together. we always do."
he shouldn't have listened. shouldn't have confessed everything—the cycles, the resets, your deaths. shouldn't have clung to you like a child, his fingers twisting in your shirt as he begged to stay wrapped in your arms just a little longer.
(it wasn't your fault. it could never be your fault. you were just being you—kind and steadfast and so painfully good. the blame was his alone for being greedy, for craving your warmth after so long without it. for loving you enough to break his own heart over and over.)
but now here he was, facing the consequences. in this cycle, you had chosen to take a coreflame and inherit a titan's divine authority—watching you shoulder burdens with that stubborn resolve of yours just so that you can help alleviate phainon's even if it's just a little bit (you do, a lot in fact), your spine straight even as the weight pressed down. khaslana was a fool. an absolute, wretched fool.
he’d spilled every secret to you that day except the cruelest one: that he was the one who reset the cycles, that he needed to carve the coreflames from your chest to stop "era nova". and now, standing before you, he felt hollow. his eyes, once so bright, were dull as tarnished silver, his expression shattered enough to make your own heart fracture.
"hey there, hero."
your voice was too light, too familiar. you rose from the windowsill—your windowsill, in the home you’d shared, where the sunlight always caught in your hair just so—and offered him that playful smile. but khaslana could see the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers flexed at your sides.
you knew. of course you knew. you’d heard what happened to the other chrysos heirs, and still, still, you stood there like this was just another afternoon. "long time no see. tell me, have you had lunch yet? there’s a new stall in marmoreal market—their skewers are supposed to be—"
"please." his voice cracked like dried parchment. "don’t make this harder than it already is." a shaky breath. your name on his lips tasted like ash. "i just… i need to end this cycle. this is wrong. you’re not supposed to be—i don’t want to—"
"khaslana."
you cut him off, closing the distance with that same confident stride that had always made his pulse stutter. he tensed, pathetic and trembling, but couldn’t look away. not when you stopped mere inches from him, not when your scent—warm leather and the faint tang of steel—wrapped around him like your warm embrace. "i need your help with something."
for a single, treacherous moment, light flickered back into his eyes. warmth pooled in his chest, sweet and fleeting as a summer rain. then reality crashed back in. he exhaled, long and slow, as if breathing could steady the earthquake in his ribs. "i don’t have time to help you right now—"
"oh, come on." you deadpanned, unimpressed, and oh, oh, how cruel you were—acting like this was normal, like he hadn’t memorized the exact cadence of your teasing. "when have you ever refused me?" before he could protest, you grabbed his hands, clasping them between yours. "just help me out one last time! please?"
one last time.
the words lodged in his throat like a blade. it wasn’t the last time—not truly, not when the cycles would reset—and yet it was, because this version of you, not his but is always, would be gone.
he wavered, the ghost of a thousand memories whispering in his ears: your laughter in the wheat fields, your fingers laced with his, the way you’d looked at him like he hung the stars. but mistakes like those had led him here—to this moment, where he’d have to tear out your heart to save a world that meant nothing without you in it.
"in return," you rushed, desperation bleeding into your voice, "i’ll give you the coreflame. no fighting, no pain. i’ll hand it to you myself. so just—help me this once. okay?"
it hurt. it hurt. to see you like this, to know he was the reason your hands shook. but you were right—he could never refuse you. not when you smiled, not when you begged, not even when the cost was his own soul. you were his first and only weakness, the flaw in his resolve, the crack in the foundation of every oath he’d ever sworn.
(and wasn’t that the cruelest joke of all? that love could be both the anchor and the knife?)
khaslana sighs, the sound carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid words, before his lips curve into something small and unbearably tender. "how could i ever refuse you?" his voice comes out softer than he means it to—a whisper meant only for you, fragile as the dandelion seeds you used to blow into the wind as children.
and oh, the way you light up at his words. the desperation in your eyes vanishes like morning mist, replaced by that brilliant spark he'd know anywhere. your posture straightens, shoulders rolling back with renewed purpose, and suddenly that smile—your smile, bright enough to rival the sun—is back where it belongs.
it hits him like a punch to the chest, this dizzying sense of deja vu. for a heartbeat, he's ten years old again, chasing you through golden wheat fields with sticks as swords, your laughter ringing in his ears as you declared yourselves protectors of a kingdom that hadn't yet crumbled.
then your fingers curl around his, warm and calloused and perfectly familiar, and just like in his visions—just like in every lifetime before this one, and in every lifetime after—you tug him forward without hesitation. toward danger, toward destiny, toward whatever adventure awaits. and khaslana follows. he always follows. because even knowing how this ends, even with the weight of countless cycles pressing down on him, being led by you still feels like coming home.
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"two please," you tell the vendor at the new stall, already digging for coins before khaslana can protest. beside you, he tugs his hood lower, the fabric casting shadows over eyes that dart away the moment you glance at him. you roll your own eyes—some things never change—but the smile tugging at your lips is fond.
when you turn back, you catch him staring, that same quiet wonder in his gaze as when you were kids sharing stolen sweets behind the barracks. for a heartbeat, the years melt away. the war, the cycles, the weight of what's to come—none of it exists. there's just you, him, and the sizzle of meat on the grill.
"here you go," you say, pressing one skewer into his hand. the scent of spices and seared fat curls between you, but his fingers barely close around the stick. his expression darkens, that familiar unease settling over his features like stormclouds.
"i... don't feel particularly hungry right now."
you hum, considering, before shrugging. "then i guess i'm not eating either. feels rude to chow down while you just watch."
"no, you should eat," he insists immediately, brows knitting. "you haven't had lunch yet, have you?" the concern in his voice is so him—so painfully earnest—that your smile softens. you really are terrible, aren't you? playing on his worry like this.
"but i want to eat with you," you counter, bumping your shoulder against his. "so if you're not hungry yet, i'll wait."
the look he gives you is downright tragic, all pouting lips and wounded eyes, like a kicked puppy being told he can't go outside yet. you bite your cheek to keep from laughing. "you... this is cheating," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. just that same resigned affection he's always had for your antics.
victory is sweet. you laugh, tangling your fingers with his again—his palm warm against yours, his pulse a frantic rabbit-run under your thumb—and tug him toward your usual haunt. he follows, of course. he always does. by the time you reach the wooden rails of your "scheming spot," he's already taken a bite, the way his face lights up at the taste sending a stupid rush of pride and warmth through your chest.
the view of kephale stretches out in front of you both—a fractured masterpiece of stone, where sunlight catches on every jagged edge of the titan. but khaslana's gaze isn't fixed on the ruins. he's drinking in everything: the way the afternoon light turns the city walls golden, the cloudless blue of the sky stretching endlessly above, the distant shrieks of children chasing each other through the plaza.
he catches snippets of gossip floating up from the market, merchants calling out their wares with practiced charm, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer. yet his attention keeps circling back to you—always you—as if trying to memorize details his heart hasn't already carved into its walls.
this moment. this stolen breath between tragedies. your shoulder pressed against his, steady as bedrock. the way you hum around a mouthful of food, eyes crinkling at something happening below. the comfortable silence that's always existed between you, needing no words. it's a scene he's replayed countless times behind closed eyelids, when the weight of the world becomes too much and he needs to remember that joy still exists somewhere.
and isn't that the cruelest truth? in every memory worth keeping, in every moment he retreats to when the darkness presses too close—you're there. laughing in the wheat fields. shoving his shoulder after a bad joke. standing vigil beside him when the nightmares come. even now, with the end looming over you both, you remain his constant. his compass. his light. his dawn.
(he doesn't realize he's staring. doesn't realize his fingers have tightened around the skewer until the wood creaks in protest. all he knows is that he wants to remember the exact shade of your smile in this light before he has to wait decades to see you again.)
"it was good, right?" you nudge your shoulder against khaslana's with practiced ease, leaning into his space like you've done a thousand times before—just to tease, just to feel him stiffen before inevitably giving in.
except this time, he doesn't tense. he just... melts into the contact, tilting ever so slightly toward you until your warmth bleeds through the fabric of his cloak. his quiet nod is barely more than a dip of his chin, but you feel it where you're pressed together.
"anyway... what did you need help with?" his voice comes out softer than he means it to, already shifting to accommodate your weight as you slump more comfortably against him, back to his shoulder. it's second nature by now—the way his arm lifts just enough to brace behind you, the angle of his shoulders adjusting to become your support. like his body remembers this dance even when his mind is screaming to pull away before he hurts you.
"oh, right. well," you tip your head back until it rests against his, staring up at the sky where clouds drift lazily across the blue. your arms cross over your chest, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against your elbows. "remember when i asked you that time about how i'd know if someone liked me back? years ago?"
yes. the word lodges in his throat like broken glass. for you, it's only been a few years. for him, it's been decades. decades of two cycles stretching between that conversation and this moment, each one filled with him trying—and failing—to show you what you mean to him without tipping his hand, no matter how desperately he wanted to. he'd spent every day after that question bracing for the moment you'd bring someone home, smiling that proud smile as you introduced them as yours. (it never came. you never mentioned them again. somehow, that was worse.)
"yes," he manages, staring hard at his hands where they've fisted in his pants. the fabric wrinkles under his grip, but he can't make himself let go. not when his chest feels this tight. how could he forget?
"good." you exhale sharply through your nose, a sound he's learned means you're steeling yourself. "because i need you to help me get it through his thick skull that i've liked him for ages."
the deja vu hits like a punch to the gut. his ribs splinter all over again, the ache so familiar he could map its edges in the dark. "why not just tell him?" he mutters, staring at the cracks in the stone beneath your feet. "you don't need my help for that." please. please don't make me watch this.
"it's not that simple." you pull away suddenly, and the loss of your warmth is a physical wound. when he risks a glance up, you're studying the skyline, jaw set in that stubborn line he knows too well. "i don't think that idiot would get it even if i spelled it out for him." your laugh is quiet, almost fond, but it does nothing to ease the knot in his chest.
khaslana swallows around the lump in his throat. "you still haven't told me who it is."
you look at him then—really look at him—and there's something in your eyes he can't name before you turn away with a sigh. "you'll find out when i tell him," you murmur, propping your elbow on your knee and resting your cheek in your palm. the sunlight catches in your lashes, turning them gold. "so? any romantic ideas for confessing to your lifelong crush, oh great hero of mine?"
the title still sends his heart stuttering against his ribs - that foolish, hopeful flutter that never fades no matter how many lifetimes pass, no matter how many variations of your voice calling him "hero" echo in his memories. it's pathetic, really, how his pulse trips over itself every single time, how warmth blooms beneath his skin like the first rays of dawn after a long winter. he ducks his head before you can see the way his lips twitch upward, fingers picking absently at a loose thread on his sleeve as he feigns contemplation.
"i mean," he mumbles, shoulders lifting in a half-hearted shrug, "you could... do the swing method?" the suggestion comes out more question than statement, tinged with the self-deprecating awareness that he's absolutely terrible at this.
your laughter rings out bright and clear, the sound weaving through the air like wind chimes on a summer breeze. khaslana can't help the way his gaze snaps up to watch you, can't stop the smile that tugs at his lips as he commits this moment to memory—the crinkles at the corners of your eyes, the way your nose scrunches up just slightly, the sunlight catching in your hair like liquid gold. if the universe demanded he forget every other memory, he'd cling to this one with both hands until his fingers bled.
"that," you manage between breathless breaths, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand, "sounds exactly like something you'd do." the teasing lilt in your voice is familiar as your own heartbeat, accompanied by that fond look that always makes his chest ache.
(he doesn't mention that he knows exactly how the swing method works because he'd planned to use it himself, once upon a time. doesn't confess that he'd spent weeks practicing the perfect confession speech to deliver while pushing you on a swing he'd have made himself, with ribbons of your favourite colour and little charms attached to it that signified 'happiness' and 'eternal love'. some dreams are better left unspoken.)
"hmm, what else?" you hum, tapping a finger against your chin after your laughter finally subsides. there's a thoughtful pause before you glance at him sideways, that familiar determined glint in your eyes softening into something more hesitant. "what if," you start, watching his reaction carefully, "i tried writing a love note with pomegranate seeds?"
khaslana's eyes flutter shut without thinking. the image comes too easily—you hunched over a table, brow furrowed in concentration as you painstakingly arrange each ruby-red seed, muttering complaints when they refuse to stay in place. he can almost hear the exasperated huff you'd make when the peel tears unevenly, see the way you'd stubbornly start over despite the juice staining your fingertips.
the chuckle slips out before he can stop it, warm and fond. no, he thinks, you shouldn't have to work so hard. if it were him, he'd spend hours crafting the perfect message, carving each word with care until his hands ached—until it was worthy of you.
"not a good idea, huh?" you ask, and when he opens his eyes, you're watching him with that tilted-head look of yours, cheek still cradled in your palm. sunlight filters through the clouds above, dappling patterns across your face that he wants to trace with his fingers.
"i'm sure they'll love whatever you do," he murmurs, but the words taste like ash on his tongue. you make a face, clearly unsatisfied, and before he can say more, you're swinging your legs off the railing with that effortless grace he could never replicate.
your hand finds his automatically, outstretched and waiting like it's the most natural thing in the world. and maybe it is—because despite everything, despite the centuries and cycles between them, some things never change. his fingers slot between yours without hesitation, the callouses on your palm familiar against his skin.
you don't let go once he's standing. instead, your grip tightens just slightly as you tug him forward, already marching toward some new destination with that single-minded determination he's always admired. "oh whatever," you declare, waving your free hand dismissively, "i'm sure we'll find our answers in the grove."
the mention sends a ripple of memories through him—his teacher's voice, the weight of duty, the scent of damp earth and ancient stone. but when he looks at you, at the way your fingers stay tangled with his like an unspoken promise, the shadows recede.
he takes a slow, steadying breath, matching his stride to yours. it doesn't matter where you're leading him. it never has. he'd follow you to the edge of the world and beyond, as long as your hand remains in his.
(always. he'll always follow.)
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what had started as research quickly devolved into the two of you curled up side by side, knees bumping together as you passed dog-eared romance novels back and forth. the hours slipped by in a haze of whispered commentary and stifled laughter, your shoulders shaking every time you encountered a particularly cringe-worthy line.
khaslana would never admit it, but he'd memorized the exact pitch of your snort when something was unbearably cheesy—the way you'd elbow him when a scene made you flustered, your cheeks warming even as you mocked it.
and though you teased every over-the-top confession and dramatic gesture, khaslana found himself cataloging them anyway. the way the hero knelt in the rain, the flowery monologues delivered at sunset—he'd recreate each one in a heartbeat if it meant seeing your face light up.
in another life, perhaps. one where his hands weren't stained with the weight of countless resets, where he could press love letters into your palm without fear of the ink bleeding through to something darker.
by the third hour, he noticed your attention waning. not for lack of interest in his company—never that—but the way your fingers tapped restlessly against the pages gave you away. "break time?" he suggested, and the grateful smile you shot him could've powered entire cities.
now, as you stroll through the quiet halls, he watches you stretch with the same careful attention one might give a sacred text. the way your back arches, the satisfied noise you make when your shoulders pop—these are things he hoards like treasure. "so," he asks, bracing himself, "have you thought of any ideas yet?"
"well, actually," you glance down, scuffing your boot against the cobblestones in a rare show of hesitation before meeting his gaze again. "i think i might just tell him." a shrug, casual as anything. "maybe throw in a poem or something."
khaslana stops dead. the world tilts. "so... you were just going to... tell him after all?" the words come out strangled, equal parts disbelief and something painfully close to hope.
you turn to face him fully, and oh—there it is. that smile. the one that crinkles your eyes just so, the one he's convinced exists solely for him. "well," you say, rocking back on your heels, "i originally wanted fireworks or some grand gesture. but after our very productive and very meaningful research session..." you scratch the back of your head, grin turning sheepish. "turns out there's no beating good old-fashioned honesty and pouring your heart out, right?"
khaslana exhales through his nose, the sound equal parts exasperation and helpless affection as a smile tugs at his lips despite himself. his brows lift slightly—this was so perfectly, painfully you. blunt as a hammer to glass, sincere to a fault, charging forward where others might hesitate.
the ache in his chest flares hot and sharp as he imagines some faceless stranger receiving what he's spent lifetimes yearning to give you—every fractured piece of love he's managed to salvage from the ruins of his soul, offered up like broken stained glass catching sunlight.
"alright," he murmurs, leaning into your shoulder with practiced ease, the teasing lilt in his voice belying the way his fingers twitch at his sides. "do you have an idea on how you're gonna go about professing your undying love?"
"actually, i do—"
the words die in your throat as shadow swallows the light above you. khaslana's body moves before his mind catches up—one arm hooking around your waist as he yanks you sideways, the other coming up in a desperate defensive stance. the black tide creature's claws whistle through the air where your head had been just seconds before.
"are you okay?" the words tumble out in a frantic rush as his hands fly over you, checking for injuries he knows aren't there but needs to confirm anyway. his palm cups your jaw without thinking, thumb brushing your cheekbone as his eyes dart across your face. "did you get hurt? was i too rough? i'm sorry—"
"khaslana!"
your voice snaps him back just in time for you to grab his collar and haul him sideways, the blade meant for his ribs slicing empty air instead. the creature shrieks in frustration, the sound like rusted metal grinding against bone, and suddenly the hall isn't empty anymore. creatures detach from the walls, from the rooftops, from the cracked ground beneath your feet—a dozen corrupted forms landing with unnatural grace as their hollow eyes lock onto you both.
"well, won't you look at that," you murmur, that familiar edge of battle-ready excitement coloring your voice as you shift into stance. your sword gleams in the dim light, its edge singing as you give it an experimental twirl. "seems like fate is on my side tonight."
khaslana doesn't need to look to know where you are—his body moves on instinct, shoulders pressing flush against yours as he covers your blind spot. the solid weight of you at his back is as natural as breathing, as steady as the sunrise after a long night.
"why in the titans' name would you possibly want a horde of black tide creatures surrounding us?" he asks, even as his fingers flex around his weapon's hilt. one slash. that's all he'd need to reduce these abominations to ash.
"so i can fight by your side," you say, like it's the simplest truth in the world, "and profess my undying love to you once we claim victory."
the world tilts. khaslana's head whips toward you so fast something in his neck protests, eyes wide enough to hurt. wait—what did you just—
"quit staring at me like that and fight with me, will you?" you snap, but there's no real heat behind it—just that same fond exasperation he's come to know better than his own reflection.
then the creatures surge forward, and there's no more time for questions.
the first one lunges at your exposed side, and khaslana moves without thinking. dawnmaker arcs through the air in a silver flash, severing the creature's arm before it can reach you. you don't even flinch—already pivoting to drive your sword through its chest, trusting him to watch your back as you strike and vice versa.
it's always been like this between you: his precise, calculated strikes tempering your bold, sweeping attacks; your relentless forward momentum covering the split-second openings in his defenses.
another creature leaps from the shadows, and you're already there—stepping into the space he'd just vacated, your elbow brushing his ribs as you move. the familiarity of it aches. how many battles have you fought like this? how many times has he felt the whisper of your cloak against his armor, heard the sharp exhale you always make when you land a killing blow?
too many to count. and yet, never enough.
a particularly large creature swings at you, and khaslana's there before it can connect—his blade meeting yours mid-swing as you both strike simultaneously, the impact sending dark ichor splattering across the stones. you grin at him over crossed swords, breathless and bright-eyed, and something in his chest cracks open.
he's missed this. missed you. the way you fight like every battle is your last, the way you trust him to catch you when you overextend, the way you always seem to know what he needs before he does. it's terrifying. it's perfect.
the last creature falls with a gurgling shriek, and suddenly the alley is quiet again save for the sound of your ragged breathing. you're still pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with him, your warmth seeping through the layers of fabric and armor between you. when you turn to face him properly, there's blood on your cheek and triumph in your eyes, and khaslana has never seen anything more beautiful.
"so," you say, wiping your sword clean with practiced ease, "about that confession—"
"it's really... me?"
the words come out shattered, fractured at the edges like broken glass. khaslana's voice trembles in a way you've never heard before, his eyes wide and shimmering with something dangerously close to hope. the sight makes your breath catch—this legendary deliverer, this man who's faced down titans without flinching, now looking at you like you've hung the stars in the sky just for him.
you can't help the laughter that bubbles up, bright and unrestrained, as you clutch at your stomach. your cheeks burn with equal parts amusement and flustered affection. "see?" you manage between breathless chuckles, "i told you the person i liked was a total idiot."
"but..." he swallows hard, hands hovering uncertainly in the space between you. "since when?"
"since the day you caught me when i fell from that tree."
the memory hits khaslana like a physical blow—sudden and vivid as lightning splitting the sky. a memory from the first cycle.
he sees it all again with perfect clarity: himself as a boy, small and serious, dragging his wooden stick through the dirt after another frustrating 'training' session. the fairies' stories of great heroes still fresh in his mind, their words about courage and destiny spinning through his thoughts as he wandered the outskirts of town.
if only he could acquire a weapon, even if it was just a wooden sword, then he'd be able to train properly. then—movement. a flash of color high in the old oak tree. another child, all reckless energy and stubborn determination, climbing higher than was wise.
he remembers the exact moment your knee slipped. the way time seemed to slow as you teetered on the branch. his body moving before his mind could catch up, feet pounding against the earth as he launched himself forward with arms outstretched. the impact knocked the breath from both of you when you collided, sending you tumbling into the grass in a tangle of limbs.
when the dust settled, he found himself staring down at you—this strange, sunlit child with leaves in your hair and dirt smudged across your cheek. your eyes had gone wide with surprise at first, then softened into something warm and delighted as you took him in. "thanks, hero," you'd said with that first, earth-shattering grin.
neither of you could have known then how that moment would echo across lifetimes. how those two simple words would become a promise, a prayer, an anchor point in the storm of cycles to come. all khaslana knew in that instant was that he wanted—needed—to keep being worthy of that title. worthy of you.
khaslana's heart swells until he thinks it might burst, each frantic beat echoing through his ribs like war drums. his hand flies to his chest, fingers clutching at the fabric over his heart as if he could physically steady the storm inside. tears spill over before he can stop them, tracking hot paths down his cheeks that he's powerless to halt.
"woah, are you okay?" your voice wraps around him like sunlight as you close the distance between you. calloused palms cradle his face with a tenderness that undoes him completely, thumbs brushing away his tears with infinite care. he melts into your touch without hesitation—leaning into your hands like a flower turning toward the sun, his lashes fluttering as he blinks rapidly, desperate to clear his vision.
he needs to see you. needs to memorize every detail of this moment—the way your brows knit together in concern, the soft part of your lips, the warmth of your skin against his. when his fingers find yours, they're trembling, but he holds on tight, anchoring himself to you.
you chuckle, the sound warmer than any hearthfire, and he feels the vibration of it where your foreheads nearly touch. "gosh," you murmur, voice laced with amusement, "i didn't think you'd cry like this. i still haven't even properly confessed yet." your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, so gentle it makes his breath catch. "how many cycles were there where we got to confess our feelings?"
the question sends a fresh wave of emotion crashing through him. khaslana ducks his head, suddenly sheepish, peering up at you through damp lashes with the full force of his most devastating puppy-eyed look. "this is the first one..." he admits in a whisper so soft it's nearly lost between you, his fingers tightening around yours like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go.
your entire body locks up at his confession, muscles tensing like a bowstring drawn too tight. for three heartbeats, the world stops spinning. then—"what?!" the word explodes from your lungs with enough force to startle birds from nearby rooftops, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. "this is the first cycle where we actually confess?!"
khaslana nods, those damn puppy eyes somehow growing even more potent as fresh tears cling to his lashes. the sight would be adorable if your brain wasn't currently short-circuiting with a much more pressing realization. "wait so—" your voice pitches upward, fingers tightening in the fabric of his cloak, "did we die as virgins?!"
the question lands between them like a lit firework. khaslana's breath hitches—once, twice—before his composure shatters completely. laughter bursts from his chest, raw and unfiltered, the kind that makes his ribs ache and his vision blur. he doubles over, shoulders shaking, as centuries—cycles—of tension pour out of him all at once. for the first time in countless lifetimes, the weight of the world doesn't crush him. there's just this moment. just you. just the absurdity of it all.
"khaslana!" you swat at his arm, but there's no real heat behind it. "this is no laughing matter!" your voice cracks on the last syllable, torn between outrage and the infectious joy of hearing him laugh like this. "what do you mean i lived a life of celibacy?!"
he can't answer. not when every time he tries to catch his breath, another wave of giggles overtakes him. instead, he drags you into his arms, burying his face in the curve of your neck as his body continues to tremble with mirth. you keep grumbling, of course—something about romantic incompetence and wasted opportunities—but your hands come up to clutch at his back anyway, holding him just as tight.
and if your grip borders on desperate, if your fingers press hard enough to leave bruises—well. neither of you mention it. not when the alternative is letting go. not when you can still feel the ghost of all those cycles where his eyes held no light at all.
(you'll hold onto this version of him for as long as the universe allows. you just pray it'll be longer than a moment. but a deal is a deal.)
for one fragile, stolen moment, the two of you exist in a world of your own making. his arms around you feel like the only solid thing left in the universe, your foreheads pressed together as if you could fuse your souls through sheer willpower.
the scent of him—steel and something faintly sweet, like sun-warmed honey—fills your lungs as you breathe him in, memorizing the way his heartbeat thrums against your chest. you want to stay like this forever, wrapped in this quiet pocket of time where nothing exists but the warmth of his hands on your back and the soft puffs of his breath against your skin.
but the universe has never been kind to either of you.
your eyes flutter open against your will, drawn upward to the sickly glow of the fractured sky. your jaw clenches so tight it aches as you force out the question that's been clawing at your throat: "how long do we have?"
the silence stretches between you, filled only with the sound of his shaky exhale. you can feel him committing this to memory—the weight of you in his arms, the way your fingers clutch at his shirt, the exact cadence of your breathing. when he finally speaks, his voice is muffled against your neck, lips brushing your skin with every word: "one more day."
of course. one more day. because khaslana has always been too softhearted for his own good, dragging things out until the last possible second, unable to bear the thought of hurting you a moment sooner than necessary. the sigh that escapes you is equal parts fond and resigned.
you pull back just enough to see his face, and your resolve nearly crumbles. his eyes are red-rimmed and shining, lips pressed into a thin line as he tries—and fails—to keep his composure. you're still so close you can kiss his tears away, your hands resting on his waist while his arms remain loosely draped around you, as if he can't bear to let go completely.
(for him. you have to do this for him.)
with every ounce of love burning in your chest—brighter than any coreflame could ever hope to be—you smile at him. that same smile he's carried across countless lifetimes, the one that crinkles your eyes just so and makes his foolish heart stutter against his ribs. "well," you say, voice steadier than your trembling hands, "a deal's a deal. thank you for helping me once again, hero."
you step back before he can protest, palm raised to stop him from following. it shakes—you both know it does—but neither of you acknowledge it. there are a thousand things you want to say, a million promises clawing at your throat, but the time for words has passed.
the chuckle that escapes you is weak, watery, but still so unmistakably you. "just as i promised," you murmur, fingers hovering over your sternum, "i'll hand over the coreflame to you, khaslana." then—before either of you can hesitate—you plunge your hand into your chest with a gut-wrenching groan.
khaslana flinches like the pain is his own, head jerking away on instinct. he's seen this too many times, watched you shatter in too many ways, and yet—he forces himself to look. to memorize the curve of your lips, the stubborn set of your jaw, the way your eyes never leave his even as your body begins to fray at the edges. he owes you that much.
"you know," you gasp, fingers curling around the glow inside your ribs, "i wouldn't mind if you did the swing method on me." golden blood trickles from the corner of your mouth, but your grin never wavers.
something in khaslana breaks. tears spill over without permission, streaking down his cheeks in hot, relentless streams. not now. not when he'd just gotten you back.
"though," you continue, voice growing fainter, "i have a feeling i'll mess it up somehow." the affection in your gaze could power entire kingdoms, could rewrite the stars themselves. then—with one final, shuddering pull—you wrench the coreflame free.
your triumphant smile is the last coherent thought he has before you're shoving the glowing core into his shaking hands. "i hope," you whisper, pressing closer as his sobs fracture the air between you, "in the next cycle, and every one after... you'll kiss me first. and let me have the chance to say 'i love you'."
"i promise," he chokes out, fingers scrambling to clutch at your disintegrating form. "i swear it—every lifetime, every cycle, i'll—" his voice cracks, raw with devotion. "i'll court you properly. take you on dates. read you terrible poetry at sunrise. anything—everything—just—"
"good." your laugh is barely more than a breath, but it settles in his bones all the same. "and since i'm so selfish—"
you surge forward before he can react, one hand fisting in his cloak while the other cradles his jaw with devastating tenderness. the kiss is messy—all clashing teeth and salt-stained lips, your blood on his tongue and his tears on your cheeks. he kisses you like a dying man granted one last miracle, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise if you weren't already slipping through them.
you taste like home. like every sunrise he's ever woken up to, every battlefield he's ever survived, every prayer he's ever whispered into the dark. and when you pull away—too soon, never enough—your lips are still curved in that damnable smile even as your body dissolves into golden embers.
"see you tomorrow, my hero." you murmur against his mouth, and then—
you're gone.
khaslana collapses to his knees, the weight of the coreflame in his hands nothing compared to the crushing absence where you should be. his fingers tremble around its glow, clutching it to his chest like he could somehow press it back into the hollow space beneath his ribs where you belong. the sobs come then—great, heaving things that tear through him with enough force to bruise, his forehead pressing into the dirt still warm from where you'd stood moments before.
"i promise," he chokes out between ragged breaths, the words scraping his throat raw. "i swear on every star, every cycle, every broken piece of this damned world—" his voice cracks, splintering like the earth beneath his knees. "next time, i'll love you properly. no more hiding. no more waiting." the coreflame pulses against his palm, its light catching on the tears dripping steadily onto the ground. "i'll tell you every day. i'll kiss you at every dawn, hold you through every nightmare, fight for you in every lifetime. i promise you that, dawnlight."
a shudder wracks his frame as he presses his lips to the glowing ember, your name a prayer and a plea and a promise all at once. the taste of salt and smoke lingers on his tongue, bitter and sweet in equal measure. somewhere, in some distant future where the cycle begins anew, he'll find you again. he'll love you louder this time. love you enough for all the lifetimes where he was too afraid, too careful, too late.
(and maybe—just maybe—that will be enough.)
i’ll admit, i’m almost afraid to check the word count on this one—turns out it’s 9.9k, which explains why it took me a solid eight hours to finish. it’s currently 7:43 AM, and yes, i did start this at 11 PM last night. maybe i should’ve slept instead, but the amphoreus arc has been living in my head rent-free, and the urge to write something aching and tender got the better of me. i haven’t written proper angst in so long, and my hands just wouldn’t stop until i’d wrung out every last drop of emotion. so, here we are. apologies for the pain—i did say i couldn’t bear to hurt phainon, but i just couldn't take it anymore. i needed to write at least one angst one-shot for him, so here it is.
i'm too softhearted when it comes to him, so i tried to end this... not so painfully LOL
this was entirely self-indulgent, born from a single daydream that spiraled into something much longer. no outline, no overthinking—just me chasing the feeling of a scene until it became this. that means some moments might feel raw or uneven, like glimpses into a wandering mind rather than a structured story. but that’s how inspiration works sometimes, isn’t it? you cling to it before it slips away, even if it means writing through the night with gethsemane by sleep token on loop.
if you made it this far, thank you for indulging me. i hope you found something to love in this mess of emotions, even if it hurt a little (or a lot) <3 and props to the people who got the little references i included in this one-shot hahahah
i have to confess—phainon's E6 eidolon has completely captured my heart. there's something about the delicate details in his design, the way the light plays across his features, that makes me want to just... take a BIG CHOMP. it's that perfect blend of ethereal beauty and overwhelming strength that i can't resist. i find myself constantly pausing just to admire the artistry whenever it appears on screen.
his entire aesthetic resonates with me on such a deep level—i may have developed a tiny (okay, not so tiny) obsession with how beautifully his character was brought to life.
Tags and Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Strangers to Friends, Slow Romance, Streamer!Reader, Attempt At Humor, Reader Is Not The Trailblazer, Spoilers For Phainon's Lore, No Use of Y/N for Reader-Insert, Flame Reader Is Called ‘Khaslana’, Transformed Phainon Is Called ‘Khaos’, (Pha)Irontomb Is A Soggy Creature, The Reader Wears Glasses (It's important to the plot), Soft Yandere, Existentialism.
Words: 19,766 (Get Cozy)
♡ Note: At long last, the Phai-sandwich is complete. I contemplated multiple times on not finishing this fic, but I also couldn't shake off the feeling that this would be the perfect finale to a year of writing for Phainon. Phainon is... an incredibly dear character to me. So, I really hope I've done him justice here. Please excuse any unintentional errors. Happy holidays and happy reading <3
「 Read On AO3 」 「 Extended Author's Note 」
i. Astroeides
It started about a month ago, with the discovery of a game called ‘The Golden Scapegoat’.
Unearthed from a heist powered through half a dozen or so energy drinks, half a bored head and half a mind fixated on settling on the subject for the next stream ; an innocuous indie game buried beneath millions of such games with a keyboard smash for a creator's name. You'd thought that it was perfect, at the moment.
The mechanics were simple enough. Light up the altar, avoid dangers and do not approach the enshadowed version of yourself — getting lost in that pattern for two uninterrupted hours had been easy.
You'd thought the game's surprisingly elegant backdrop would be all the spook it'd offer, until in the midst of a compliment thrown towards the crisp sound design in tandem with you finishing another level, a pixelated chibi sporting words of gratitude for your help appeared.
A knight. You drew the conclusion after a bit of squinting at the screen (and definitely not from the chat screaming exactly that for half a minute), draped in blue-silver and gold from what you could make.
“What a cute little guy.” you'd admitted then and the live chat had erupted in equal parts agreement and teasing.
Laughing alongside your audience and moving forward had been easy as well, from practice or from the morale boost from the pixelated knight on your screen, you're not quite sure of.
But as you progressed further into the game, you began noticing that the messages coming from the knight at the end of each round were not repetitive at all — something which should be for a program crafted by code.
“That was a frisky leap, Partner! Glad we made it.”
“You're getting better at this! Did you see that? Even the Shadowed Swordmaster was baffled back there!”
“The foe will adapt according to the march of time, but with you here… I think I can continue facing them no matter what.”
And with each response seemingly appearing more and more personalized than the last, it'd become apparent to the stream that you were hooked on this game for this unexpected ‘feature’ alone.
There was something else as well, this game seemed to be never ending. At one point, when you'd finally come back to the world from your daze, you'd decided to search around the internet for the exact number of levels this game had, only to return gloriously empty-handed.
It'd ruffled you a little back then. Either the Golden Scapegoat was very well hidden or you'd somehow managed to get to it as it was fresh out of the developer's den. And the fact that you couldn't tell which of the options was correct should've unnerved you more, should've made you investigate further.
But instead, you bid farewell to your chat and closed the game for the day. Not exactly promising to return and finish what you began, but definitely tired enough to not think about its elusive nature for the rest of night.
A few days passed in dilly-dally, where you entertained the notion of playing the Golden Scapegoat again, but ended up doing something completely different (namely increasing affection in your otome games guiltily).
By the sixth day, your stream was already tiptoeing thirty-three million views, making it your most viewed one yet.
You’d gotten notified of the milestone during breakfast by one of the members of your team, laptop opened to browse through emails. Though, you couldn't quite relish in the achievement, attention stolen by one particular line of the fan E-mail that you’d opened.
I can't find The Golden Scapegoat anywhere on the internet.
You were half tempted to avoid it, but the lingering memory of how you hadn't found anything notable when you searched about its details during the stream either, nagged at you.
A second look was initiated. You sat, a weird feeling settling in your stomach, as the website you’d downloaded the game from showed nothing — while the icon of The Golden Scapegoat mocked you from your homepage nevertheless.
And that wasn't the only weird thing that’d happened that day. The set of clothing you’d ordered came in the wrong sizes and your delivery of energy drinks was also late.
Now, you could pitch complaints against everything, if your crippling social anxiety wasn't waving excitedly around the corner, that is.
So, tossing the shirt a few sizes too big over your shoulders, you attempted to contact one of your friends instead — if nothing else, to have them fetch some nourishment for you.
Only to be stopped dead in your tracks by the violent glitch your phone flashed, before going black.
You're not given the time to react though, as the lights of your room flicker next, your PC reboots, and you squint as its sudden brightness.
You blink multiple times to adjust, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose, from the blackened screen in front of you, a text in bold red reads—
Play the Golden Scapegoat.
Your mind buffers for a few seconds.
Okay, that's certainly not normal. You wait two more seconds to see if the screen would show something else, but when you see no change, you grab your mouse and prudently smash the buttons in a series of clicks.
Still nothing.
So, you shift to restart your computer, where you're slapped with failure and the icon of The Golden Scapegoat appearing under the red text instead.
Chat, are you seeing this? your mind supplies the comment habitually.
Done with it all, you proceed to unplug the PC.
The screen still shows that text.
Now, the safe thing to do would be to obey to this series of unexpected commands, especially since you were being met with happenings previously unheard of. But you were unwilling to fall for this most-likely hacker’s trick and get stuck into some kind of never-ending spiral.
So, you turned on your heels and went to get some actual, adult responsibilities done instead.
That determination of yours lasted for two hours. Impressive, considering that suddenly all your electrical appliances had begun having mood-swings, which meant, no TV, constant stammering lights, air-conditioning suddenly at full power and absolutely zero ways for you to contact anyone due to your phone, tablet, laptop and PC being hacked (?).
“FINE. I’ll play your stupid game!” you shouted, unable to stand not being chronically online any longer.
The lights ceased flickering. The screen of your computer glitched once before isolating the icon of the damned game on the screen, the cursor hovered right over it, beckoning your click.
You jaw went slack.
What the hell?
You approached your gaming desk cautiously, not knowing whether the tremor in your nerves was from the AC or the way this program—hacker—whatever had seemingly responded to you.
The screen morphs to that familiar backdrop, the chime of the game’s BGM slowly crawling to reality, though now, you could no longer find the marvel you’d initially felt from it.
The game’s mechanics hadn't changed at all, but after a few minutes (or hours? you didn't know) of clearing the levels with your heart pounding against your eardrums, that feeling of never-ending grind returned.
You’d even attempted to see if you could start a stream, just to gain some semblance of reassurance that you weren't going crazy, which, though no longer surprisingly, had backfired.
Your forehead hit the cool surface of your desk as you finished another level, your glasses were flung somewhere, only some fraction of energy left that you were going to use to drag yourself to bed.
Though not before catching a glimpse of the message from the chibi knight from the game.
“Partner, are you alright? You seemed very out of it on this run… please don't push yourself!”
You didn't linger long on the text, not daring yourself to believe that it was not a product of your imagination or a hoax of your eyes unaccustomed to seeing the world without the lenses.
You spent two more days in that manner, going through the levels of the Golden Scapegoat for the majority of the day, scarcely processing anything you were playing.
Your connection to the internet had returned, though you could only observe and not interact. You would’ve laughed at the dedication of whoever was behind all this had you not been as sleep deprived as you were.
On the third night, after your now-routine slavery at The Golden Scapegoat and much twisting and turning while trying to catch the sleep you so desperately wanted, you found yourself rudely awaken at what you could only assume to be midnight just when your eyes had begun to close.
For ten seconds, you blinked blankly at the air from under your sheets, the bleary sight gradually adjusting to reveal a distinct silhouette, the moonlight glinted off of golden lines.
You inhaled sharply but couldn't find the strength to let the breath go, nor look away as the silhouette tilted its head, a flash of blue gleamed in the shape of an eye.
Your mind ceased to work, locked in an uncomfortable stare-down with the shadow, as though suspended in a competition to see who was cowardly enough to look away first.
Is this what they call sleep paralysis…?
You were briefly tempted to give in to the primordial urge to scream, fling something at the thing or at least reach to turn on the lights.
But you did nothing, merely stared unblinkingly, the silhouette gained enough clarity for you to take in its hooded appearance.
And then, you blinked.
The figure vanished from your sight.
You gasped, hitting the switches by your bedside to illuminate your room in a frenzy. Your heart kicked up a storm against your ribcage.
Should you scream? Call for help? Was that a person? Were you in danger? What should you do??
You reached for your phone with shaking fingers, a bead of sweat falling from your brow when the sign of ‘no connection’ hit you again.
How marvelous. You were on your own.
It was incredibly tempting to give into the urge of spiraling into a full panic attack, but you forced yourself to breathe, to stay grounded.
Even if I'm dying… I'm not going down without a fight.
So, you grabbed the nearest heavy object around you— which happened to be the lamp— and tiptoed towards your bedroom door.
Not even bothering to look beyond, you shoved the door close and pushed one of your drawers against it. Then, still holding onto the lamp, you fell back on the bed, preparing yourself for the agonizing night ahead.
—
You spent the whole night spying for any sound, any movement from around your apartment — the result of which was zero. Not even a peep was heard, though you didn't really trust your insomnia ridden mind to be accurate.
Only when the sun had brightened the world again, and when the wave of adrenaline had ebbed away to bring an unavoidable need for sustenance and hydration, did you summon the strength to open the door.
You checked and double checked every corner of your apartment, the limited space of which you were now appreciating and only when you found nothing amiss or any sign of what you’d seen last night did you allow yourself to think ; maybe it was just sleep paralysis.
You tried to go about your day as normally as possible, though the penumbra of last night haunted your waking mind. There wasn't much you could do about it. You could lodge a complaint, but if the authorities found nothing, they’d most certainly put you in that list of ‘people to not take seriously’ and you were still locked in that weird state of only being able to surf the net, but not interact with it in any way.
But one thing remained unchanged— the god-damned Golden Scapegoat.
You sat down to play it almost instinctively, perhaps pushed by a subconscious fear of even this smidgen of light being stolen away, or because it was the only tangible distraction you had at the moment.
The game for its part, remained as it were, just small tweaks in every level that one wouldn't even notice due to how endless it all felt — like a cycle. A vicious, cruel, familiar cycle of the same pattern, from which you could neither break free from nor quit— only proceed forward.
These thoughts float around your mind idly as you wrap a towel around yourself, done with a shower. You stand in front of the sink mirror, pulling out a bottle of moisturizer.
Just as you turn back to the mirror to apply the product though, you notice it.
That thing again. Right behind you, watching you through the mirror.
You blink several times, it doesn't go away, holding itself still on the reflection and just when it seems as though it were raising a clawed hand towards you —
You turn around.
Nothing.
Suddenly my life’s a horror movie? You jest through the shiver that shakes your body. Why did no one ask for my consent when they changed the genre?
There were two possible explanations behind this occurrence : (1) your apartment was haunted and (2) you were going insane.
Despite the latter’s credibility being more scientifically plausible, you, a self-proclaimed person of logic, had decided to believe that the first was the case this time instead.
Oh well, dropped out of my Physics degree long ago anyway.
Though, it should be mentioned that this mindset was achieved after preventing another panic attack and forcing yourself to think like this instead :
“If my house is haunted… at least I'll have a buddy? Roommate?”
Your laugh was weak.
(You blamed it all on the desensitization of playing too many horror games, and on all the weird fanfics you’ve read.)
But, for what it was worth, this frankly twisted mindset had managed to push you through the next days, kept you just sane enough to keep on living.
So now, your days looked like this instead.
The microwave beeps, you reach for your now warm food, expertly ignoring the shadow— the black/gold details on whose person you now could see in the daylight— and swiveled to the other room instead.
When you sit down on the couch and turn on the television, browsing to watch something while you ate, the shadow made something of a noise, as if trying to get your attention ; to which you increased the volume instead.
Maybe if you ignored it long enough, it'd go away out of boredom?
Or at least, that was your brilliant strategy. Social skills backpedaling even from a supposed ghost.
When evening fell and darkness coated your apartment, you called out, “Hey! Could you like, turn on the lights for me? It's real dark!”
The lights around the apartment flickered on, the exact ones that you would've turned on as well.
This isn't so bad, is it?
… Or maybe, you were just lonely, cripplingly lonely.
You sighed, head cushioned by your arms on your gaming desk, the BGM of The Golden Scapegoat filling the air. Another level was cleared, though you had given up your hopes of it being the last long ago.
It felt like you were caught in the same unchangeable rhythm as this game, where days blurred into each other and time kept on slipping away from your grasp.
Sometimes, you’d ponder ; do the characters in there, ever get tired of the same steps as well?
You looked up, catching sight of the screen where that familiar page was painted on, that knight— your knight, appeared to offer his gratitude once more.
Your glasses went askew as you turned into a more comfortable position, eyes softening through the burn that lingered from the past month’s insomnia and stress. Even through the pixelated form, you could feel the smile on the little guy’s face.
And you couldn't help but whisper.
“It would be nice to have someone like that… warm, encouraging, probably gives nice hugs…” your chuckle cracked at the end.
Yes, this whole ordeal was getting to you, and you couldn't ignore it much longer. That one admittance had opened the floodgates to a barrage of other memories that you did not want to remember and it was getting more and more difficult to hold yourself together.
You sniffled, it's just the season, trying to convince yourself.
When you finally managed to calm down, your limbs and thoughts locked down in inertia, exhaustion a heavy duvet over you.
But you didn't drag yourself to bed, stayed rooted on your gaming chair and stared at the silver-blue-golden knight, until sleep arrived to take you away.
ii. Metempsychosis
You awoke with soreness all over your body, unsurprisingly.
You twisted and turned gingerly, stifling groans and yawns as you tried to sit upright again, one of your hands raised in an attempt to soothe some of the soreness from your neck.
“Ah, you're finally awake!”
You freeze, your eyes slowly turned towards the source of that voice and halted upon locking with sparkling cyan ones.
A violent flinch shook your body, before you squinted, left hand pawing blindly for your glasses.
“Oh, your glasses are right there!” the man pointed towards the edge of the desk, still crouching in front of your panicked form.
Your vision cleared as soon as that familiar weight settled on the bridge of your nose and you felt blood rush to your head when the man still didn't disappear from your field of vision like you’d hoped.
You sprang up from your seat, “W-who are you?!” clutching your keyboard defensively.
The silver-haired man raised his arms in surrender, “Whoa, whoa! Please calm down and let me—” he got up, taking a few steps back.
Unfortunately for him, you deigned to not oblige and threw your keyboard at him.
… And watched in horror as the object phased straight through him.
“G-ghost…?” you croaked, slowly peering up at his equally confused form.
“Uhm,” he lowered his arms, one hand raising to rub at the nape of of his neck, “Not a ghost, though I'm not sure what I currently am either— b-but! Don't panic, remember — the Golden Scapegoat??”
The mention of that name pulled you back from the trenches of a mental spiral and you looked at the guy, really looked ; feeling your mind buffer again as it matched the similarities between the chibi knight from the game with this man fidgeting in front you.
“Impossible.” you whispered, pinching yourself.
Nope, the sting is real and so is he… apparently.
He chuckled awkwardly, “I wish I could offer you an explanation for this but—”
You frowned as he cut himself off, head snapping to the side.
Your mouth opened to urge him on, only to be closed again as the man sprang forward to block an attack, steel against steel.
You staggered, leaning on your desk for support as ‘the knight’ pushed against the blade of that Shadow that has been haunting you.
“Executioner…” he gritted out, eyes reflecting an odd sense of acquaintance.
Their clash had sobered you completely and you took notice of something odd about this whole ordeal ; the bleary texture these two appeared in and the way the air seemed to glitch every time their swords clashed and how not a single object in your room appeared to be affected by it, as if they were locked in a different plane of existence.
Your breath hitched as the knight drew in with a fierce battle cry, the Executioner’s dark cape swiveled as he maneuvered to meet his strike.
Only to be pulled away right as their swords were about to clash, black-red cubes held them back to two far corners of your room.
You blinked, the edge of your desk bit into the skin of your fingers, grounding you as you looked up to the newcomer.
Wings of gold and indigo fluttered, cracks bleeding pulsing ichor. Strands of golden hair shifted as the— man? entity? angel? you didn't know anymore — turned to face you.
And perhaps you were just one foot into an asylum, but you could've sworn that his golden eyes softened just a fraction.
—
There's a stifling quietude blanketing you, interrupted only by the occasional whir of the aircon.
You sit slouched on your gaming chair, hugging yourself, eyes fixed at a distant point on the tiled floor, the icepack you'd gotten up to get halfway through the ‘conversation’ sits crookedly on top of your head.
When the instinct to blink seizes you, you finally find it in yourself to take in your surroundings again ; at one corner of your room, Phainon — as you knew now — stood, mimicking your stance. He was the only one who mirrored your exact expression.
To the other corner, the ‘Executioner’ stood, darkened tendrils swirled at his feet. A blue flame blazed from the shattered side of his face, mask removed to prove to an unconvinced Phainon that he was indeed him, during the earlier commotion.
And at the center of it all, he hovered, two paces in front of your seated form. His presence made the air heavier, made it difficult to breathe — the only indication that you weren't hallucinating everything, oddly enough.
You sighed, long and weighed.
“I’ll speak frankly to you guys,” your voice pulled them out of their individual reveries, “I can inform the government about this, who most likely have the appropriate tools to look into your case. But, there is a bigger chance that they’ll use you as their lab rats instead.”
You watched as their expressions twisted in frowns of various degrees, “Or, we can wait a bit. Figure out the nature of this, see if all of it is real or not.”
The Emanator cast a furtive glance at his other ‘counterparts’ before locking eyes with you again, “I apologize… for not being able to be of more help. We’ll try our best to not trouble you, I'll investigate privately in the meantime.”
And that pretty much settled your next course of action.
While it wasn't exactly ideal to your perception of reality to have three hologram-esque beings hovering around your home, with the knowledge that they were involved in some great cosmic event that apparently changed the universe (which you weren't even aware of), you didn't really possess the power to do anything besides waiting, as an ordinary human being.
So, you could only pass the next three days with that penumbra of awkwardness blanketing the moments.
Phainon, who’d given the impression of being more outspoken initially, had been eerily quiet and had decided to confine himself to your living room couch, where he’d seem to be engrossed in thoughts.
‘The Executioner’ on the other hand, would unintentionally jump-scare you by appearing at the most random places. Though, it’d been because of his critically impaired mental faculties from the strain of housing far too many ‘Coreflames’, as you came to learn from the Emanator later.
The Emanator in question on the other hand, was usually nowhere to be found. But you chalked it up to it being within the bounds of his weird Emanator powers— a concept you still couldn't really wrap your head around.
You couldn't deny that it was a bit hard to believe that all three of them were the same person, shattered and rebuilt through the endeavor stretched across epochs.
And you brought up this issue one day, upon realizing that you didn't really have an efficient way of addressing them.
“Phainon… of Aedes Elysiae.” the hero offered a wry smile, a hand cradling his heart— or the vestiges of it.
You turned to the other two, who were surprisingly present. They seemed to have understood that you couldn't just call each of them ‘Phainon’ and were thinking about it.
When the silence stretched on though, “Uhm… maybe Phaiyi and Phainoonie?” you pointed at the Emanator and then the Executioner.
Not even the rustles of the Emanator’s wings could be heard all of a sudden.
“Sorry.” you backpedaled immediately, swearing to yourself that you’d never make a joke in your life ever again.
Before you could contemplate too far on running away, ‘the Executioner’ spoke, for the very first time.
“Kh…as...la…na…”
You blinked in confusion, glancing at the other two to see an odd expression of pain on their faces.
“Khas…lana? Did I get that right?” you turned to ‘Khaslana’ again, he managed a nod, his masked face gave nothing of his emotions away.
And at last, you turned towards the winged Emanator, whose face was seized by a pensive shadow.
Sensing your inquisitive gaze, he finally tilted his head up to meet your eyes.
“Call me Khaos.”
—
The night that day had been ordinary.
Or at least, a sight that you’d gotten accustomed to over the years. A dark canopy where faint twinkles of distant stars could occasionally be seen, easily defeated by the thousands of city lights from sky-scrapers.
The world around you hadn't changed at all, but your perception of it had. To think that such a massive interstellar war had taken place while your planet had remained none-the-wiser.
Or maybe the government does know, and was intentionally keeping it all confidential all while spinning the tale of there being no ‘aliens’ that they've contacted with.
While this chain of thought did make you sound like a conspiracy theorist, the fact that you could understand their language without an issue was suspicious in itself.
You rested your arms on the rail of your balcony, was any of this even real? You found yourself questioning while staring up at those unreachable stars.
What's the guarantee that you weren't in a simulated world as well, like the one they had been a part of?
And whenever this train of thought would ricochet in your head, your brain would supply that you needed to touch grass, for the sake of your sanity — which was easier said than done in a concrete jungle of a city.
“So this is what a real night sky looks like…!”
You're startled out of your existential crisis by a sun-kissed voice, whipping your head to the side to meet with sheepish cyan eyes.
“Sorry! I'd didn't mean to startle you— I can leave if you want me to??” Phainon rubbed the nape of his neck, a gesture you’d realized he did rather often.
Having recovered from the scare of not him ‘speaking out of nowhere’, but not sensing his presence at all, you waved off a hand, “Oh.. n-no, it's fine. Stay.”
Phainon's shoulders relaxed, his hair shifted slightly as he tipped his head up to gaze at the sky again.
“Glimmering stars, faint moonlight, a chill in the air— exactly as they described it in the stories.” he marveled.
Then, catching your curious expression, he looked back at you, “Amphoreus, my home world, had no ‘natural’ day-night cycle. In Okhema— Amphoreus' most prosperous city-state for example— it was always daytime. So… this is my first time seeing a real night.”
Your mouth formed an ‘O’ at his explanation and you turned back towards the night again, a star twinkled back at you.
To think you were complaining about how boring it all was just moments ago but to Phainon, it was a life changing experience.
(It made you feel just the tiniest bit ashamed inside.)
“Well, there was some semblance of a night in the outskirts of Okhema, though they never were quite comforting.” you turned to him as he resumed, “Like in Janusopolis! Where I was in a mission with Tribbie— one of my mentors and a demigod by the way. That boundless dark sky and a flash of something streaking the sky are my last memories of Amphoreus… before I woke up in that game.”
You watched as his eyes dimmed, his voice dropped an octave as he trailed off.
“So… you were conscious of the fact that you were in a game?” you approached gently.
Phainon blinked out of his stupor, his fingers reached to grasp onto the railing and failed as they phased right through it.
A frown crept in his expression, which he forced away with a chuckle, “Well…! It took me some time, admittedly, but I was eventually able to take in my situation when I heard your voice.”
That made you freeze.
“You could hear me???” your voice rose in panic.
Phainon scratched his cheek, “Yes??” not quite seeming to understand your sudden agitation.
Oh heavens oh stars, he heard all of your simping and cursing!
You buried your face in your hands, slumping against the cool metal of the railing while Phainon panicked, wondering if he’d said the wrong thing.
But then, he paused upon remembering something else, something that he’d been pondering about for the past couple of days.
“[Name]? Can I… ask a question?”
You grumbled a sound of agreement, still hiding in your hands.
“Why… did you continue to play The Golden Scapegoat?”
You held a pause for three seconds, before your index fingers parted, just enough to catch Phainon’s serious expression.
A sigh tumbled out of your lips, “Honestly? Because I had no damn choice.”
And you were basically being blackmailed into it, which you decided against saying.
Phainon chuckled and you were surprised by how much that sound eased you, “Understandable.”
Your eyes lingered on the faint curve of his lips before you straightened, not bothering to fix your crooked glasses.
“But on a more serious note, it was because moving forward was the only way to see how things would end.” then you raised an accusing finger, “And also! Out of sheer spite with my life.”
Cyan eyes widened, the city lights reflected on them, before another giggle seized him.
“Moving forward out of spite huh…” a faint furrow appeared in his brows, as though he finally understood something.
You nodded, resting your cheek against your knuckles, “What other choice do we really have in this… uncertain existence? You’ll meet an uncountable number of hurdles in your life, all of which will try to stop your pursuit. You can choose to end it any time, but you'll never know what you missed if you do. And perhaps, that's comforting as well. But if I'm able to, I'd like to persist. To see. If nothing else, I can say that I've tried my best.”
“And… what if, ‘your best’ isn't enough?”
“Who gets to judge that, hm? There is no way to satisfy everyone. Not even yourself.”
A quiet exhale left Phainon, he watched the play of the city lights across your face, your eyes remained closed behind the frame of your askance glasses. Though he could not see what flickered in your eyes as you spoke, he knew that you were certain and content in having found your truth.
Phainon felt an urge to cradle those words, to hold onto them to reflect upon later.
His fingers twitched against his side, the air swept aside as he raised his hand, carefully adjusting your glasses back into position.
You felt every nerve in your body ignited upon registering the tentative brush of something against your cheek. Your eyes opened with urgency, meeting with dazed cyan ones.
“Did you just touch me?”
Phainon blinked, you could see his mind buffer for a few seconds as he processed your question and when he did, he flinched away, hands raising in surrender.
“I-I’m so sorry—”
“No!” you took a step closer, grasping his hand, a shiver seized you as you felt its warmth. “You just touched me! You— you just interacted with this world!”
Phainon froze, eyes blown wide as he took in the weight of your words.
“I…” the fingers of the hand you were holding flexed against yours, a light sheen of sweat coating them. “I-I can…?” he brought his other hand up, holding yours in between both of his.
“Yes…!” you couldn't hold back the rising excitement in your voice.
Phainon swallowed, he gave a tentative squeeze, sheer wonder taking over his expression when his hands didn't phase through and pressed against your skin instead.
“Yes…!” he exclaimed back, he looked up just as his legs bent, before he met your giddy jump with one of his own.
The sudden commotion drew in the other two, Khaos peeked into the balcony with quizzical eyes, Khaslana trailed behind.
“What is—?”
His question was interrupted by a quiet gasp, as he took in the sight of Phainon spinning you, laughs of pure glee tumbled out of both of your lips.
Khaslana’s eye widened behind the mask as he processed this new revelation.
Even through his fractured mind, he could sense the impending lengthy discussion.
iii. Katalepsis
The hue-and-cry of the shopping district engulfs you.
Beside you, Phainon fell into step, carrying a bag of apples as you both headed towards the supermarket. Though the actual purpose of this trip had been to test whether Phainon’s newly acquired physical presence in your world had been real or just a trick of your minds (as none of you were sure anymore).
Phainon is a sight amidst the crowd and you wouldn't even need the frequent turning of passerby towards his direction to tell you that.
Now that he was out of the cramped space of your apartment, you were able to really take in his height and build in its entirety, combined with his striking appearance, you couldn't really judge people for ogling.
You could only imagine what their reactions would be to seeing the other two.
Somewhere during the trip, a passerby shoots Phainon a question, “Yo, Owlet?”
Phainon reciprocated his fist-bump, albeit half a second late, a smile gracing his face on instinct — the exchange reassured you, he was great at acting.
“You’re pretty popular, it seems.” Phainon tugs at his t-shirt, one of the samples of your merch that you had laying around the apartment; thrown on him last minute in exchange of his fantasy armor to make him less conspicuous while out on the streets (which clearly wasn't working).
Your fans called themselves the Owlets, not because owls were your absolute favorite bird (not initially) but because of the amateur drawing of an owl you’d done in one of your earlier streams, which, you still used as your avatar to this day.
You adjusted your headphones around your neck, more out of habit than anything else, “Shh, keep your voice down. I'm what they call ‘an incognito artist’.”
At that, Phainon made a zipping motion along his lips, still clutching the bag of apples in his left hand.
You kept your pace steady, eyes skimming over passing shops, “And besides, my uh… err,” your mind buffered as you tried to find a suitable word, realizing he probably wouldn't know what ‘streaming’ is, “— My work, isn't exactly legal.”
Phainon perked up, “Oh! You mean streaming?”
Now you felt like an idiot.
You managed a mute nod, resisting the urge to curl in on yourself.
Phainon chuckled, “I used to be a streamer back in my world, too! That's how I know.”
That pulled you out of spiraling, “Oh?”
“Mm hm!” the lights from the various adverts around made his cyan eyes sparkle, “I used to stream antique appraisals! Pretty boring stuff compared to what you do though.”
You blinked up at him, “Are you kidding? That's so cool! You must've been kind of an expert in the field then?”
He rubbed the nape of his neck as another sheepish chuckle escaped him, the fabric of the t-shirt stretched around his biceps with the motion. “I wouldn't call myself an expert, but I definitely do have some experience on the matter.”
He tilted his head down towards you as curiosity took over his face, “But what did you mean by your work not being legal?”
You cast cursory glances to both sides, instinctively checking for prying ears, and eyes.
When you were assured of their absence, you leaned closer to Phainon, voice dropping to a whisper, “The government doesn't allow creative expressions by humans on this planet. Every ad you see around here? It's all generated via artificial intelligence. The network where I stream is a secret web. Only about 28% of the population knows about it.”
Phainon's face went through a series of expressions as he processed your words, “No wonder everything feels so soulless here.” he says, brows pinching as he casts a disapproving glance around everything.
“But why? Robbing humans of their creativity … It's so unfair and stupid…!” he turns back to you, silver strands tousling with his steps.
You shrugged, “Believe me when I say, I've been asking that exact question for all three decades I've lived on this cursed planet.”
Phainon grumbled, his day clearly ruined as he took in the dystopian reality you lived in.
The rest of the trip proceeded smoothly, Phainon recovered from his dreary mood within three seconds and engaged in chit-chats where you exchanged more information about both of your worlds, in between grabbing items from the grocery list.
Throughout this, Phainon was interrupted by a few more of your fans who’d been lured to him by the sight of your merch t-shirt on him, completely unaware of the fact that their idol was right beside them — and you preferred it that way.
By the twelfth encounter, Phainon realized something : he’d severely underestimated your popularity. Not because people were just strolling up to share a fist-bump of solidarity with him, but because of the amount of ‘I miss EnTeLeKia07’s streams’ comments he’d heard.
You, however, remained strangely nonchalant about it all, whether it was just an extension of your usual personality or deliberate ; he wasn't certain about, and that made Phainon decide against poking you about it further.
On the return trip, Phainon halted in front of a small flower shop. You followed his line of sight, which stopped at a small pot of yellow dotted blue flowers.
“Is something the matter?” your question snapped him out of his trance.
“Oh. No no no, I just got distracted! Let's go!”
You pushed your glasses up with one finger, looking at his retreating form and then back to the potted flowers.
--
Phainon hummed happily, cradling the pot of forget-me-nots in one hand, holding all your bags with the other (upon his insistence). You followed him a step behind, listening to the song that played in your headphones.
The steady rhythm doesn't last long though. You’re sent crashing into Phainon’s back as he abruptly stops in his tracks, again.
“What… interesting looking chimeras!”
You fix your glasses, rubbing your nose while peeking from behind his back towards what it was that’d stolen his attention this time.
“Oh. You mean the cats?”
Phainon’s face formed an ‘O’, awe taking over as he took in the sight of the two cats playing beside the trashcans.
“So, that's what you call them here. They're so adorable!” he cooes, you could almost see sparkles floating around him.
You didn't disagree with that, it made you pleased, to be precise. Liking cats was a good sign among people, in your opinion.
Phainon couldn't seem to have contained his excitement though, as he took a few steps closer towards the cats, propelled with an urge to pet them and unsurprisingly, the cats scampered away at his intrusion.
“There, there.” you gave a pat to his slumped shoulders, lips down-turned with such a devastated pout that even you felt bad.
“Erm, we can come back later with treats? Cats don't trust people easily so, we’ll have to bribe them.” you offered tentatively.
All traces of mourning left Phainon as soon as those words reached his ears, he whipped around towards you, the golden flecks in his eyes sparkled again.
“R-really? I mean, you don't have to if it's too much trouble but—ahhhh, I really appreciate it!”
You huffed, lips twitching in a small smile, wondering whether to dismiss the apparitions of perked up puppy ears on his head or to accept them as fitting for this man.
—
Such trips became more common as the days went by, since Phainon had begun to experience hunger and fatigue.
The hero himself had been reluctant to feed off of you like that though, and had pestered you constantly with the purpose of providing for himself — or to help you in any way. Which, was not much fruitful since in virtue of him being the equivalent of a newborn, he had neither the ID nor the connections to find work here.
There was also the matter of secrecy. All of you had agreed upon not disclosing this ordeal to anyone, especially not your pesky government. As such, caution was practiced even during the small trips to the shopping district.
So, Phainon had assigned himself as your house-helper instead ; dusting, cleaning, sweeping, washing and of course, taking care of the pot of forget-me-nots that’d found refuge on your bedside window — despite your protests, which you had to retract when he sheepishly admitted to being not used to having nothing to do.
It was then that the realization struck you, even though you’d known them as mere code on your screen first, Phainon and the other two, had lived human lives once and they were victims of circumstances, too.
Today, however, a tense silence hung over the world — not from the darkened clouds outside, but from the remnants of a fight between Phainon and Khaslana ; which ended with a broken table of yours.
It was difficult to say whether you were upset by this ordeal or not, but you certainly were done with the stifling air, which pushed you to go outside at last, alone this time.
“Wait, let me come with—”
You silenced Phainon with a raised hand, not bothering to look back at him as you put on your shoes with an urgency thus unobserved.
“At least take an umbrella…” Phainon trailed off helplessly as you rushed away, the slam of the door echoing even moments after your departure.
You didn't mean to shut him out that crudely, it wasn't even his fault. Khaslana had begun to behave strangely as of late (which was saying something considering he was never really normal to begin with) ; he’d snap at Phainon, attack things that were completely harmless and wander around as though he were sleepwalking.
Whenever confronted though, he’d remain silent and Khaos was also conveniently gone, leaving you and Phainon to deal with it, so far in vain.
You were never the best at confrontations to begin with and frankly, this was more direct social interaction you’d gone through than in the past five years, the effect of all the other reality bending things that happened went without saying. So, even you who preferred self-distance over emotional expression, had begun to feel off your axis.
Which was remarkable honestly, you thought sarcastically as you browsed through the familiar isles, the solid tactic that managed to get you through the last decade had finally begun to crumble.
You should probably apologize once you get home, right? You stared blankly at the contents behind a bag of chips, not really reading. But then again, was nurturing this attachment even worth it? It wasn't like they were going stay, anyway.
You shook your head, placing the bag back on the shelf. You were really out of your element today and had no idea how to get out of this strange mood.
In the end, you only managed to grab a bag of pasta and a kilo of tomatoes ; courtesy of being distracted by both your thoughts and having tripped and gotten your clothes caught in things thrice.
The world was really testing you today.
The sky groans and a flash lightning streaks the very next second, signaling the impending storm. The memory of Phainon frantically trying to hand you an umbrella resurfaces as you quicken your steps, a twinge of regret bleeding into your heart.
Not just for not taking the umbrella, but also for slamming the door to his face and— ah, now you felt really terrible.
You blink just as a droplet of rain falls on the surface of your glasses, glancing around your surroundings to find that you’d strayed from the main path and into an alley in the heat of your thoughts.
Storm-clouds loomed up, a downpour would follow soon no doubt. You sighed, turning to walk out, but then, you hear it.
A crunch, almost drowned in the strike of thunder and the silhouette of a man advancing towards you.
Your heart kicked violently against your ribcage, a string of curses echoing in your head at having fallen for the oldest mistake — stepping into a crackhead’s alley.
“Uhm… I come in peace?” your voice wobbles as you take steps back, the grocery bag dangles from one of your raised arms.
The guy makes a weird noise, clearly under the influence and intent on not letting you get away in one piece, you catch a shadow of a bat in his hand.
This is how you die, oh lord.
You glance frantically around, searching for something, anything while simultaneously trying to not spiral into panic — finding nothing but junk on the ground.
You step aside just in time to dodge the first swing, by virtue of pure adrenaline and in the proximity, the stature of the man registers in your head, you feel your heart sink upon realizing that there is no way you’d be able to get him off of you by yourself.
He swivels the bat again and you duck, feet bending to hurl yourself towards the exist just as rain begins to pour down in drizzles and you almost make it — until the next swing lands square on your shoulder.
The bag hits the ground, rain beads over the splatter of the fallen tomatoes.
Your pained scream blends into the rhythm of the water hitting the ground in sharp droplets, your knees scrap against the ground as the force of the hit sends you tumbling to the ground, mud and rain stains your clothes.
You clutch your shoulder with your free hand, chest heaving, watching through crooked and rain-stained glasses as the madman turns slowly, menacingly back towards you, fingers flexing around the bat.
You attempt to stand up, shoe sliding across the slippery soil and hurling you back to mother earth, mud seeps in through the cracks of your fingers, your hair sticks to your forehead as the man’s shadow engulfs you.
And then, he raises his bat — you reach blindly for something and find one of the tomatoes.
But before you can throw it at him , a loud cling echoes, dominating over the drizzle of rain.
You blink, squinting towards the new shadow that falls upon you. Black-gold robes, familiar hood, the glint of the edge of a familiar mask as he glances over his shoulder —
A shaky exhale tumbles out of your lips, relief momentarily sweeping aside the pain at the sight of Khaslana, actually Khaslana, blocking the blow.
Khaslana turns back towards the offender at the sound of his muttered curse, rain kisses the fabric of his cloak but doesn't seep into it, fizzling away. He grasps the hilt of his sword and then slices it through the man’s bat.
The offender stares incredulously as his weapon drops to the ground in two pieces, his one brain-cell in disarray. A gasp leaves him as Khaslana points his sword directly between his eyes, backing him towards the wall.
You drag yourself up, clutching to one of the garbage bins for support. You hear something along the lines of a frightened ‘stay away!’ being shouted by your attacker, which falls on deaf ears as Khaslana pushes the point of his blade a bit deeper into the man’s skin.
You're about to ask Khaslana to let him go, mind cleared to the fact this would become a murder scene soon — but the offender saves you words and faints from sheer shock.
The slide of his body from the wall to the ground is heard for one uncomfortable second, before rain swallows it.
Khaslana withdraws his sword, taking a step back. You push yourself towards him, still clutching your wounded shoulder.
“Khas—”
You yelp, as the tip of his blade stares you in the eyes this time — and then is jerked away.
You blink in confusion as one clawed hand raises to press against his masked face, concern beginning to flow into your expression as Khaslana staggers away, his body contorting in a series of violent glitches.
For a long moment, the fall of the rain is all that is heard. You rack your brain amidst the sweltering pain at your shoulder, trying to understand what was going on and what you should do now.
Your eyes fell upon Khaslana's glitching form, his pained breaths echoing in your ears despite the storm and you realize what the problem is.
“Khaslana… are you… confused about what is real and what isn't…?”
No response. Though, his labored breaths and the glitching soothes slightly, so slightly that it would be easy to miss.
That was enough confirmation for you though, you heaved a breath, trying not to collapse as the pain on your shoulder returned with a vengeance.
“Let’s just… go home first.”
—
Phainon nearly loses his mind when you return, bruised and drenched, barely supported by Khaslana.
“Wha—? How? Why—?” he asks frantically, hands reaching to take you before you could hit the floor.
But unfortunately for him, you were far too beaten up (literally) to answer and Khaslana was never the talker. Phainon prudently decided to not push further, carrying you towards the bathroom instead.
It took a good two hours to get you cleaned up and bandaged and a whole night before you were allowed to sit up again — as per Phainon's insistence.
(You were too deep in sleep to know this though, Khaslana had stood guard beside your bed the whole night.)
The next morning, when Phainon came to check up on you with a bowl of soup, you greeted him with a request for a conversation with Khaslana instead, the incident of the day before and the question that was not yet answered troubling you.
“Do you two also feel like you can't tell whether all of this is real or not…?”
Phainon shifted where he sat on your bed, cyan eyes flickering over the bedsheets. For a moment, it seemed as though he was about to laugh it off but upon seeing your very serious expression, he decided to be honest.
“Yes.”
You turned towards Khaslana, who sat by the edge of the bed upon your request (something that had shocked Phainon), his mask was off (another surprise), baring his unreadable expression to you two.
The blue flame that flickered on his left eye was dim, his one intact eye fell upon his clawed hands, flexing the fingers of them hesitantly — a glitch seized his sight.
A quiet sigh left you and Phainon in unison — not out of annoyance, but out of understanding.
Phainon turned to you, “How could you tell?”
You took a deep breath, gathering yourself, “I… may not have experienced even a quarter of the things you guys have. But as someone who's used to living vicariously through fantasy worlds on my screen, being forced to confront a reality that… could be false as well and having my entire perception of it changed so significantly, I understand. I understand the feeling.”
A wave of silence washed by after you finished. You steady your breaths and lift your gaze, “So, let's try not to isolate ourselves and rely on each other a little more. Let's try… to be gentler with ourselves?”
Phainon and Khaslana exchange a glance, a twinge of surprise in both of their faces.
Phainon breaks out of it the quickest, sporting a smile of agreement.
Khaslana doesn't agree verbally, but he does tap the bowl of soup Phainon had brought for you with the sharp tip of one finger and then blends into the shadows.
That was louder than any agreement he could've spoken.
—
Luckily for you, you hadn't dislocated your shoulder or broken anything, and under Phainon's care, you ended up recovering from the worst of the pain after three days. Enough for you to resume your normal activities, at least.
And an even better news was that your hopeless internet had finally ceased keeping you in virtual jail! As such, you could finally interact with everything again.
One day, you found yourself going through your secret chest, as Phainon had expressed his interest in learning about the history of your world.
When Phainon finally got his hands on the physical books in question though, he was rather confused.
“Fairy tales…?” he frowned, flipping through the pages.
You blew dust off of one of the books in your hands, “No no no. They're allegories. This is the way our true history was preserved. Anything you see commercially or on the net? That's all fabricated by the government. Here, let me decipher it for you…”
Though the state of your world baffled and, frankly concerned Phainon, he was intrigued as well. Not just by the history and the people's creative resistance against censorship, but by how you explained it all. Your view, the way you perceived the universe fascinated Phainon.
Every tidbit of yourself you shared with him nurtured the seedling of affection and with it, the instinct to act upon it was also provoked.
So one day, he did ; in the form of rice fried with far too much clinical precision than necessary. Your reaction to the dish however, had been… strange.
“How… did you make this?” you stared at the wisps of aroma floating from the golden pile of fried rice, spoon clasped loosely in one hand.
Phainon, who’d been standing by with all the anxiety of a novice chef getting their dish critiqued by a master, perked up. “Oh, uh, I found the recipe on a book that was hidden in that pile of ‘history books’ — not just this one actually, there were lots of other recipes there as well! And I really wanted to cook something good for you…”
An odd look took over your eyes, Phainon tilted his head, trying to read the emotions veiled behind those lenses. He was about to instinctively apologize when he felt a shiver race down his spine. And when he turned towards the source of the bad vibe, he found Khaslana shooting him a sharp glare from the corner.
“W-what??” Phainon stiffened.
Khaslana held the glare for two more seconds, before walking away. And though he maintained his in-character silence, Phainon could feel, as though by some weird connection, that he was just deemed an idiot.
(You merely took a quiet bite of the dish, thanking Phainon. But could not find it in yourself to explain the weight of this casually, at the moment.)
Speaking of Khaslana, a new behavior was observed in him as of late — sleeping, lots of sleeping. It was still debatable whether he was actually sleeping or not, but he did linger in your vicinity for extended periods of time.
For example, on a Tuesday night, while you were handling the damage done by the last two months' absence and Phainon came to call you for dinner ; he was shocked to see Khaslana at your feet, head resting on your lap.
Feeling Phainon's bewildered stare, you shrugged, “He just came and sat down here without any explanation… and I couldn't find it in myself to move.”
None of you could really fault it though, the first Khaslana — the harbinger of an aeon long mission, battered with the weight of shouldering 4000001 Eternal Recurrences all by himself, had been exhausted beyond words, for a very long time. If anything, him even trusting your space enough to linger, was a good sign ; as was agreed upon on a later discussion.
—
One night, you find Khaos sitting on the living room floor in front of the couch, wings slightly folded towards himself.
The living room couch would usually be occupied by Phainon at night, but Khaos had requested a bit of alone time to think, leaving both Phainon and Khaslana to ‘camp’ in your room for the night.
Their mutual acquiescence had surprised you a bit ; even though Phainon and Khaslana seemed to have a bit of beef, they seemed to co-operate whenever Khaos was in the room. Not that you were complaining.
You were supposed to be sleeping, but a restless fit had taken over you, and after a good few hours of alternating between doom-scrolling and tossing-turning in bed, you decided to just give up.
“What are you thinking about?” you joined him on the floor an arm's length away, the chill of the tiles seeping through your bones — chased away a second later as his warmth reached you.
The pale golden light that always embraced Khaos acted as illumination against the dark, he blinked himself out of a daze, only now realizing that you were in front of him.
He uncrossed his arms but they stayed in his lap, “About… everything that's happened. Why we ended up here, how we are slowly blending in with this world, why it's accepting us at all… why you?”
You cushioned your cheek on your palm as he talked, eyes flickering over the faint shadows of his wings on the floor. He was the only one who didn't seem to require any significant memory with you to gain a physical presence in this world, an anchor since the earlier days — however fragile as it were.
You didn't take offense in his pointed doubt, it was a valid question after all. Why you, indeed?
“… Phainon told me that his last his last memory had been at the ruins of Janusopolis… Khaslana said that his last memory had been total darkness, what about you? What did you see at the end of your journey…? If you don't mind me asking.” your eyes remained fixed on the crevices between the shadows.
The question caught him off-guard, but he answered nonetheless, eyes closing as he retraced his memories, “The golden wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae… the starry sky… warmth… fire.”
That made you look up, “Your homeland?”
Khaos nodded, slowly, as if dowsing himself in the vestiges of that faraway realm in his mind.
“After I faced off against Nanook’s legion with the wrath of four hundred two million six hundred four thousand thirty-two Coreflames, used THEIR golden bold to bring dawn, sealed Irontomb with myself… until the final battle— at the end of it all, all I could see were those golden fields.” his voice was hoarse, the corners of his eyes crinkled and his fingers flexed on his lap.
You took in every word with rapt attention, no matter how many times you’d gone over this, it never failed to blow your mind away. How had one individual, a programmed human, achieved such a feat? To face off against an Aeon — though you only understood the gist of their powers — and contain a literal universal level threat all by himself?
You would've been skeptical of this matter if you were introduced to it just three months ago. But enough strange things had already happened with you, and Khaos wasn't exactly some fantasy RPG cosplayer in front of you ; you had seen his powers with your own eyes (glasses and all).
Perhaps the limitations of your ordinary human mind prevented you from fathoming it in its entirety, because you felt as though you weren't doing it justice.
So, it escaped your lips before you could think more, “That’s so… based of you.”
Khaos opens his eyes, his reverie momentarily interrupted as his eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Based…? On what?
You realized what you’d blurted out and how it might've sounded to him, hands moving in scattered gestures, “It means I really respect you! That your actions or thoughts are really cool!”
Khaos stared blankly at you for a while, clearly engaged in a fierce mental debate to decide whether to take you seriously or not. You twiddled with your fingers nervously.
Then, by the grace of the stars, something that seemed to be close to a huff left him. Amusement brushing over his sharp features.
“Cool… are you sure about that?” he tilted his head towards you.
Now it was your turn to stare blankly at him, neurons firing to figure out what made him look so smug.
And when you did, your jaw went slack.
“Did you just… make a pun about yourself??”
Khaos cleared his throat far louder than it was necessary, straightening back in his usual regal demeanor — but he didn't deny it.
You snickered as you caught the twinge of fluster on his face, which was halted before you could slip into full cackles as a thought struck you, pushed by the sudden hit of dopamine.
“Hey Khaos, have you ever heard of the ‘Many Worlds Interpretation’?”
All traces of the previous light-hearted mood disappears from his face as he takes in your sudden seriousness.
“No… what is it about?”
You leaned on your arms, “Basically… the theory proposes that there are many parallel worlds in the universe that exist simultaneously — but don't, or can't interact with each other. It views time as a many-branched tree, wherein every possible quantum outcome is realized.”
You catch the shift of inquisition in his golden eyes, “You said that since you’d merged with Irontomb, you should've been destroyed alongside it, right? And even if you were saved somehow, you shouldn't have ended up here, with yourself fractured no less. It reminded me of this theory.”
Khaos pressed his thumb and index fingers to his chin, pondering. “So… you're suggesting that us experiencing ‘rebirth’ here is only one of the many outcomes that’ve taken shape, according to this theory?”
You nod, “It’s only a theory though. It’s supposed to answer some similar paradoxes, but no one's actually tested its validity in reality.”
He looks back at you, “Why not?”
“Because… it involves dying. Multiple times, in fact.”
“Ahh…” he sits upright again, the feathers of his wings rustling slightly with the motion. “I can see why you brought it up.”
You nod sagely and he reciprocates it ; the motion inviting a wave of silence to settle over you both next.
Khaos deigns to mull over the new information, leaving you suspended with an empty head. You fix your position multiple times, eyes sweeping over the crevices of your living room in the shadows of midnight — until a shiver seizes you.
You rub your arms with your hands, trying to capture the heat. But your body decides to be stubborn and you're regretting the decision of sitting on the cold hard floor all at once.
Just then, you remember the presence of the natural heat source right in front of you and you find yourself shifting closer towards Khaos, uncaring of anything besides not freezing to death.
Khaos is broken out of his pondering at the soft shuffle of you scooting towards him, golden eyes flickering over the goosebumps on your skin.
“Are you feeling sick…?”
You settle just beside his folded golden wing, the chill soothes just barely at his warmth, “Uh no? I think it's just because of the cold floor.. or maybe low iron.”
Khaos frowns, concern softening his sharp features at the way you hug yourself. It seems as though he wants to reprimand you, or object, but stops himself ; deciding instead on slowly unfurling his wing and wrapping it around you.
A quiet gasp is drawn out of you, the sound melting in the cocoon of warmth between you two, the chill slowly ebbing away. It seemed for a second that Khaos was planning on pulling you closer— but then stopped as the spikes on his shoulder touched your arm.
Your restless mind falters at last, a yawn leaves you lips, the ghosts of sleep finally haunting your vision, making it blurry.
“[Name]?”
Khaos’ tentative call keeps you from slipping away entirely, you hum in acknowledgement.
“Do you ever think… about the intricacies of the fabric of reality? Spaces where mathematics break down… the very core of every happenstance?”
You tilt your head towards him, blinking away sleep. Khaos’ eyes remain faraway.
“I think, perhaps, it's alright to not understand the mechanisms of that core. At least, for us ordinary humans.”
You chase after his gaze, trying to find where exactly he was in the moment. Khaos senses your puzzlement, a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.
“Thank you, [Name].” he utters, confusing you even more.
“For…?”
“I’ll tell you… later.”
iv. Anagnorisis
Unfortunately for you, Khaos’ worry turned out to be correct and you fell ill with a raging fever the very next morning.
You typically were more cautious during the time when seasons changed, but the past months’ stress, combined with the thorough drenching and beating you’d experienced, culminated into one feverish debacle.
There was scarce recollection of the matter in you, since you’d been as good as unconscious for the first three days, no zeal left to care for your guests.
By some miracle, as it seemed to you, Phainon and the others somehow managed it all — from the medicines, the meals and the impediments that came with a bedridden person.
The three took turns watching over you ; Khaos would hold you when the shivers became too violent, Khaslana would stand sentri unblinkingly every night, bringing water or alerting the others if required.
And Phainon, Phainon had completely thrown away the concept of rest, always running back and forth from monitoring your temperature to ensuring your other needs were met, all while keeping a smile on his face somehow.
It was only on the fifth day when your fever went down and seemed as though it had no plans of returning soon, that they allowed themselves to breathe.
But still, your body had been weak, immune system ravaged after exhausting its resources ; prompting their insistence for you to remain in rest, even as your mind began to get restless with things unrelated to sickness.
On one such night, as your eyes traced shapes of distant ruminations upon the bedsheets bathed in moonlight, you played chase with sleep and it slipped through your fingers each time.
“Can’t sleep, partner?” the whisper grounds you to the waking world, you find a familiar pair of cyan eyes taking you in when you raise your head.
Phainon takes a seat on the edge of your bed, tentatively. Bracing one hand against it, a breath away from where your own hand rests on the blanket. Like a star that appears to be so close to the moon from the earth.
He raises his free hand to press against your forehead, the practice so habitual now. He begins to retreat upon noticing the absence of the sting of fever-heat, but you stop him by grabbing his hand before he could.
“Phainon, may I… ask you to hold me?”
Phainon blinks in surprise, not at the request, but at how carefully you form those words. Your fingers hold his wrist lightly, giving him ample space to deny, just like you always do in everything.
But Phainon had gotten a tad too bad at denying you anything, less so when you ask for it yourself.
The bedsheets and blankets rustle in the quiet night as Phainon maneuvers, it takes a few seconds for you both to settle into each others' arms.
“Comfortable?” his voice is almost muffled as it melts in the crook of your neck, he adjusts your legs so that they drape over his lap instead.
You give a nod against his chest, shoulders sagging in tandem with a sigh, still refusing to address the unspoken question of why.
Phainon draws an absentminded circle on your hip, praying that his heartbeat doesn't betray him.
Then, unable to contain his curiosity, or perhaps anxiety, “You can… tell me what’s troubling you. Only if you want to, of course.”
You don't move from your position, but Phainon feels the press of your cheek more firmly against the fabric of his shirt.
Just when he's about to give up though, “Phainon, do you ever feel like… some people die long before their deaths?”
The instinct to breathe eludes Phainon as he registers your words, it takes him a second to take in your question and another to respond. “I… think it can happen, yes. Though, I'd like to hear your thoughts on this more.”
You shift in his arms, just enough for your voice to no longer be muffled, “Some people in our lives… die long before their last breath is penned down. And then, they haunt us every day, every night. But, they don't know that they're no more than ghosts of themselves to us.”
Phainon draws in a long breath, eyes flickering over you but unable to gauge your expression, opting instead to fix on a crease on the blanket.
“And… are those ghosts, haunting you now, too?” his fingers dig in ever so slightly into your clothes.
Your hair brushes against his chin as you shake your head, “No, they're finally asleep… But I am not used to the silence of their absence — I haven't been for a very long time.”
There's a tremble in Phainon's exhale, eyes distant as he tries to imbibe your words. He knows you well enough by now to know that you will not elaborate, dismiss it as feverish ramblings even. It rings a bell of familiarity he’s forced to recognize as personal.
But his instinct to comfort is ever persistent, and after crossing out all his usual strategies, he suggests, “I… could sing you a song?”
That has you peeking from your little hiding spot at last, Phainon watches as you blink up at him quizzically.
“Song?”
A sheepish quirk seizes his lips, “Mhm! I may not have the best voice but, I used to sing along with the villagers during harvest! I learned a thing or two about rhythm from there.”
You shift so that your head rests against his chest this time, “A song from the hero? But I don't have a gift prepared.”
Phainon chuckles, the lilt of it warms the cold air of the night. “No need for gifts. This is my present to you, partner.”
Then, he clears his throat while adjusting his hold on you, propping his chin atop your head.
When his hum permeats the air, it's as though moonlight itself has reached to cradle you.
“Mm hm, my love. Let sleep come to you now.”
Your lashes fluttered as the lilt in the air tugged at their resolve, you offered scarce resistance against that pull.
“… To dreams where you will run and go play. In paradise.”
Shadows flickered on the ivorine sheets as Phainon rocked back and forth in time with the rhythm of your steadying breaths.
The motion tipped you off the axis of the chasing apparitions and guided you step by step, to that oneiric elysium — until all that remained were the sillage of Phainon’s voice and the stillness of this long night.
Khaslana stood, leaning against the opposite wall, “You have gotten far too attached.” there was a pointed sharpness to his comment, yet even he couldn't allow his hoarse words to transcend the border of a whisper, perhaps afraid to shatter this vial of peace.
Khaos watched from his perch on the chair at the corner as Phainon refused to address Khaslana. His arms coiled tighter around you, body bending to hide you in his shadow ; his cyan eyes glimmered bright and unblinking, in clear warning to not approach.
“…The other day, while I was cooking dinner, I cut my finger.” he mutters instead, still fixated on an unknown point of space. “But instead of gold, I bled red.”
The weight of his admission presses down on the night.
Khaos also said nothing, perhaps guilty of the same crime (attachment) to some degree as well, but mostly because the worries that’d been circling his mind since the first day were far louder.
Even if this world accepts them, should they stay?
What of the Gaze of Destruction? Is it watching? What if it ravages this sheltered eternity you know as your home, too?
Would they be able to save it? Save you? Would you be able to forgive them?
The night, of course, provides no answer. Ever the silent witness.
—
For as far as Khaslana could remember, the culmination of his memories has been nothing but a palimpsest of titles.
Little Snowy.
Little Snowy.
Survivor.
Survivor.
The nameless hero.
The nameless hero.
Deliverer.
Deliverer.
World-bearer.
World-bearer.
Subject Neikos496.
Hero?
Son of Amphoreus.
Kindling to the flame.
Khaslana.
Khaslana?
████████
His identity has crumbled and been reshaped, until all that remained was a flicker of flame, meant to ignite the faraway dawn, and to keep the torch of worldbearing alight.
And he had gladly given himself to that cause, if only to defy that arrogant Aeon.
Even if the whole universe would tell him that it was futile, he would never bow his head. Not to the Destruction, not to Fate.
For as long as he kept burning, the Flame-Chase would never end.
He wasn't meant to awake again— not like this, at least.
His earliest memory in this strange world, in the true reality, had been within the codes of that absurd game.
He would've laughed if he had been capable of it, seeing as his corpse had to be revived to play the villain again, even in a two dimensional simulation.
His confusion intensified when he found himself beyond the barrier and into this reality, where the night was gentle but ever stifling.
It was only when dawn arrived that he believed it, somewhat.
But still, the need for an explanation was still not met and the only one who he could grasp with some semblance of familiarity had been you.
You. The human even stranger than the world he’d stepped into without planning to. Rightfully frightened, but a fighter nevertheless, not with fists or words— but with silence.
The last thing he’d expected to face was being completely ghosted, even though it was blatantly obvious that you were doing it intentionally.
And he, in his limited cognitive capacity back then, could do nothing but linger and wait.
When his future iterations joined the charades and the answers finally came into light, Khaslana had experienced a complicated mix of emotions.
Happiness? Pride? Relief? To hear that Amphoreus had indeed succeeded. That all the sacrifices had not been in vain.
But more than it all, what prevailed among everything else, had been exhaustion.
He was so, so tired.
He hadn't realized it until it really dawned on him that he could finally breathe without the threat of Irontomb and the Black Tide behind his back and even when he did, his being refused to believe it. So accustomed to running, so used to using fury as fuel.
And so, reality began rejecting him.
He couldn't distinguish between foe and friend, couldn't tell if blood still coated his hands, didn't know whether the stench of burning wheat fields was truly there or not.
You caught onto it, somehow and although you couldn't provide a cure, you offered him space that his instincts recognized as safe, even through the chaos.
Not just him, the other two, as well, you extended your patience towards — even if it seemed as though you were constantly running out of it.
But not a single comment of discomfort, or annoyance, could he recall. Not a peep of indignance at having your life disrupted.
It was only when you’d offered ‘let’s try to be kinder to ourselves?’ that he understood what was really going on.
It wasn't patience. It wasn't tolerance. It was your classic tactic of dissociation that kept you afloat through it all, and you’d decided to not rely on it anymore.
(For who? Them, or yourself? Or something else entirely? He still didn't know.)
You were broken, too. And although time had painted layers of age over the cracks, they still ached.
Perhaps that's why, even though Khaslana wanted to remain a skeptic about you, he hadn't succeeded.
Perhaps that's why, there was peace in your presence.
Perhaps that's why, his own broken self could find it in himself, to hope for the cracks to ameliorate, one day.
—
Khaslana had begun to feel like a foreigner in his own skin at one point, Phainon confirmed it to be his body getting accustomed to the nature of this world.
Phainon had dressed him in ordinary, civilian garbs in the hopes of securing his comfort, and you had wrapped his hands in bandages when they began to ache. But the bulk of the matter would still have to be carried by Khaslana himself.
Once, he’d tried to put the table he’d broken back together, like he could maneuver wood to the shape he desired once upon a time — but remained unsuccessful in the endeavor. His hands still far too used to wielding blades with the intention of killing.
Although you’d simply waved it off and told him not to worry, Khaslana couldn't accept it. So, secretly, he trained himself to get accustomed to delicate tasks again.
Like now, as he watched Phainon and you, engrossed in another of those ‘video game’ competitions again. He observed every move, turn and swipe you two made and noted it down in his memory for later.
“Owh, man…!” you lamented as the screen flashed ‘Victory : Phainon’ in bold, the man in question snickered beside you.
“Told you you wouldn't be able to defeat me in a game with swords, [Name] ~” he sang, to which you huffed, sinking back against the couch cushion between them.
“He cheated.”
Both you and Phainon froze as Khaslana spoke, turning slowly to the left to where he sat slouched.
“Did he just…?”
“Yup, yup.” Phainon confirmed your question, mimicking your bewildered expression— before coughing far too loudly.
“But who said I cheated! I don't cheat! I am an honorable hero—”
Khaslana raised an unimpressed brow at that, shutting Phainon up instantly. It was unfair, really, this power of the First Khaslana to force silence onto someone with just his deadpan expression.
And then, you turned towards him, fueled by your bruised professional gamer pride and betrayal.
“Phainon…!” you exclaimed, the ‘how could you!’ went unsaid.
Phainon raised his hands, already three steps back, prepared to sprint any second.
Khaos froze when Phainon whipped past him, clutching the tray of tea cups tighter as you ran behind him right after — before a chuckle escaped him at Phainon's unrestrained laughter and your completely feigned and absolutely adorable indignance.
Khaslana cushioned his cheek on his palm, trying to hide the faint smile that rebelled against his control.
—
One evening, you entered your room just in time as Khaos slipped a beige sweater on.
“Is it okay…?” you pushed your glasses up, trying to see for yourself if it fit or not. Khaos had requested normal clothes a few days ago as well, having discovered that he could hide the more unique aspects of his transformation for short periods of time now.
He nodded, but his eyes still held a penumbra of hesitance. You could guess why by now, the feeling of any kind of ‘normalcy’ after years of being denied of it would make you feel alienated as well.
“Tell me if you need anything else, okay?” you brushed past him to your gaming setup, giving a gentle pat to his arm.
Khaos rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, in his endeavor to chase after comfort. It seemed as though he wanted to say something, but stopped when your PC turned on and you became distracted by it.
Your brows furrowed as you went back and forth between refreshing and checking your internet — finding that it still stubbornly remained disconnected.
“Hey Khaos, could you return my internet?” you said without looking away, cursor hovering atop the icon of The Golden Scapegoat at the corner of your home screen.
“Huh? What do you mean?”
You turned towards Khaos to find him looking equally as confused as you.
“The internet? Wasn't it you who tinkered with it to make me play The Golden Scapegoat??”
If it was possible, Khaos looked even more puzzled.
“No?”
You stared at him incredulously for a good few seconds, waiting for him to say ‘sike’, to joke, anything.
But he held your gaze, no hint of guilt on his face.
You turned towards your computer again, voice raising with the beginning of something akin to dread, “Then—”
Who were you interacting with back then?
v. Peripeteia
You found the apartment to be suspiciously quiet when you awoke.
Typically, the bustle of the kitchen and hushed conversations would've made their way to you by now, but nothing besides the noise of your own movements filled the air today.
Your eyes found themselves drawn to the pot of forget-me-nots by your windowsill as you dabbed away water droplets from your face with a towel, brows pinching upon noticing the dry soil.
Weird, did Phainon forget?
You push up your glasses as your bedroom door swings open, padding your way to the kitchen to find it decorated with the same silence.
The living room provides the same desolated image, and you have to force yourself to not acknowledge the way your stomach twists into itself ; supplying alternatives to placate the growing anxiety you can't quite understand.
Maybe they're just out somewhere? You think after checking the bathrooms and balcony, finding them similarly empty.
But you had an agreement to remain discreet, so why… you take steps back from the balcony boundary, the thud of your heart’s rhythm suddenly echoing in your eardrums — sent astray when your back collides with something.
You swivel around — an exhale heaving out of you when you recognize it to be just Phainon.
“Where were you??” your voice is just a little too high-pitched than you’d normally like, but your worry overrides any emotion of dislike.
Phainon raises his hands, his lips twitching in what you think is an apologetic smile. “I was sitting on that chair over there…!”
Your face drops at that, “The chair?” you glance at the object, as though not believing its existence now that it's been brought up.
“Yes! It was kind of funny seeing how you completely forgot to glance in that direction…!”
You felt a muscle pinch in itself at his laugh. You couldn't quite place your finger on why, but the sound tipped you off.
Perhaps it's just your morning brain not catching up, you reasoned. “Oh…?” glancing as Phainon folded his arms behind his back, “And where are the other two?”
Phainon shrugs, “They wanted some fresh air, probably at the park.”
A frown tugs its way to your brows at his flippant tone, “And you just let them? What if something happens?”
“Oh, [Name].” he tuts, stepping towards you to grasp your shoulders. “You worry too much! They're big boys, they can handle themselves. You, on the other hand, need to eat.” he says as he begins pushing you towards the kitchen.
“But—” you try to stop on your tracks, which begets a firm squeeze from Phainon, instantly silencing your protesting muscles. He pushes you all the way to the living room.
“No buts. I know that tummy is probably rumbling. Come on, partner— Unless…” he halts right beside the couch, leaning in towards your ear all of a sudden, “You want me to carry you there myself?” your nerves heat up at the proximity of his voice.
“… You’re acting strange today.” you say slowly, eyes restless on the floor. Your fingers twitch by your sides to move, but aren't supplied the courage to.
“Strange how?” he tilts his head, tufts of his hair teases your cheek. “Just because I told you not to worry about them?”
In your quest to avoid his burning stare, you glance towards the front door, then to the shoe rack beside it— where only your shoes remain.
“No, because it's unlike you to leave your shoes outside.” you risk a glance towards his direction.
It seems to take a second for him to realize what you're alluding to, and when he does, his fingers dig into the skin of your shoulders.
Your breath hitches — which you halt to listen for the sounds of his breaths that should’ve brushed against your ear by now.
But there is none.
You pull one shoulder against his grip and break off with a shove, “… Who are you?” and to your surprise, ‘he’ lets you go.
‘His’ hands raise — a mockery of how Phainon would've done it, a corner of his lips twitches as he battles against a smile, before the restrain bursts forth in a sound that's not quite a laugh, but a jagged imitation of it.
‘He’ runs a hand through his hair, shoulders shaking as he struggles to tame his amusement. “Ahh, who am I? I don't think you’ll like the answer.” the left side of his face glitches into crimson pixels when he lowers his hand.
The remnants of his near mechanical laughter echoes in your ears even after the fit ends. You sweep your eyes over him, muscles tensing in uncertainty when his appearance still remains synonymous to Phainon's.
“Which cycle are you from??” you manage to ask after wracking your brain for possible explanations.
“Cycles?” ‘he’ makes a face so bewildered that you almost believe his supposed innocence, then he shakes his head. “I’m not just from the cycles, my dear. I'm the culmination of them.”
You feel an eyebrow twitch, not at all endeared by this. But before your mind can mull on it more, it stills upon realizing what he's hinting towards.
“… Irontomb?”
“Hmm…!” he holds up a finger, as though some maestro correcting an orchestra. “Close, but not quite.”
You whisper a ‘hah?’ of confusion, totally lost. ‘He’, on the other hand, waves both hands upwards in an encouraging motion, perplexing you even more.
You’re about to retort when the flickers of the lights around your apartment bounce off of your glasses. The occurrence prompts you to lend it a glance and then back towards ‘him’ again, eyes widening when it falls upon his hands’ movements and how the lights flickered on-and-off in tandem with them.
A distant memory clicks into place.
“The… Golden Scapegoat… guy?”
‘He’ stops in his tracks, with near comical effect, before his fingers snap in delight. “Ding ding ding!”
Your shoulders sag, glasses tipped sideways, mind utterly blank as you try to decide upon which emotion you should be feeling right now.
‘He’ chuckles again, the sound more akin to cogs scraping against each other as they attempt to turn. “You’re really something, you know that? You can never decide whether you want to panic and run, or stay calm and fight when you're in a situation — which you seem to have a talent in finding. What is the word… I believe I can call this ‘cute’—”
“What did you do to them?” you straighten, expression churning into seriousness once more as you pull yourself out of that haze.
The smile on ‘his’ face freezes, and you watch with increasing discomfort as it slowly slides away from his lips, the rift on the left side of his face glitches throughout.
“What makes you think I did something to them?” his voice is unnervingly level, curiosity peeking from below its steady cadence as he tilts his head.
The creature takes every one of Phainon's quirks, wraps himself around them with blatant disregard. It sickens you to your core.
“You aren't denying it.” you fix him with a hard stare.
“I’m not confirming it either.” he drawls, shrugging. “And until I confirm,” your breath gets stuck in your throat as he mutters right against your ear.
“—You have no way of proving it.” his words are a static against the air as he resumes his position in front of you again, hands clasped behind his back in a picture of innocence, or whatever he understands of it.
You huff, holding your hip, mentally preparing yourself for whatever this is. You stare at the floor for a couple of seconds, trying to trace clues in every line. And when they remain silent, you risk a glance at the convicted cause of this mess, who (?) simply smiles wider at you.
“So, if you are somehow connected to Irontomb— who was this supposed ‘Intergalactic threat’.” you decide to change course, mimicking his earlier flippant tone. “How did you get stuck in my computer? Why appear now?”
“Hmm…” he tilts his head back, that glimmer of amusement clings stubbornly to his eye. “How did you manage to bring those three to reality by playing some two-dimensional game?”
“What? What do you mean me?”
“It is like I said,” he takes a step forward, though no sound is made. “You’d rather repeat a game 33,550,336 times than seek alternative ways, than free yourself.”
For every step he takes towards you, you take one back by the tug of instinct — until your back collides with the wall.
“You’d rather just ‘deal with it’ than demand your personal space,” he bends til his voice is hovering beside your ear again, “Let three strangers make their way into your little human heart, even though you know they will leave you one day.”
That forces you to take a sharp inhale, ‘his’ smirk sharpens as he catches the wary gleam in your eyes.
“Why?” if his whisper hadn't cracked at the seams, you would've almost believed him to be human at that moment.
The creature entices more questions than what he answers, and leaves you scarce room to get him into a tight spot. You briefly catch the sight of his arms still folded behind him, fingers twitching as though he wishes to reach out.
When your silence stretches, “Let me guess, the answer is, ‘I don't know’.” he leans back slightly, no longer crowding you. “And you don't want to find out either.”
That ticks a nerve, “Don’t put words in my mouth. I want to know where they are, at least — very very much.”
“Oh?” the blue in his visible eye is swallowed by a wave of crimson, “Why is that?”
You scrunch your nose, “Because they're my friends?”
His head tilts sideways again, but this time the gesture is less controlled. “So what if they're your friends?”
You feel the most exasperated sigh of your life attempt to pry its way past your throat, but you bite it back. “What do you mean what if? People get…” you raise your hands, grasping for the words. “— Sad when their friends leave them all of a sudden??”
“Sad.” he echoes, tapping a finger against his cheek. “What is… sad?”
Your brain buffers as you process the fact that he really just asked that, a crow crackles outside.
Your mouth opens and then closes helplessly, you glance sideways to the empty air— nearly begging for an escape— then turn back to gauge his face to see if he's deliberately playing oblivious or not.
But the curiosity on his face, however fractured, is so sincere that you're left wandering if you require better glasses or not.
“‘Sad’ is…” you let the sigh go at last, massaging your temples with two fingers. “It depends on the reason. But when you're sad, you’ll feel like your heart is twisting in on itself, and even if your mind tries to reason, you’ll want to cry.”
“Hmm.” his head snaps back into position from its tilted angle, startling you. “But I have neither a heart, nor a head. How do I know when I'm sad?”
You scratch your head, a ‘can you even feel sad?’ on the tip of your tongue, but the thought of voicing it out sprints out of your head when you notice his unblinking stare.
“Uhm,” you avert your eyes, “Maybe, in your case, you’ll feel like wanting to know why? ‘why is this happening’, ‘why me’, ‘why not me’ — your frustration is your sadness…?”
His mouth curves into an ‘o’ as he finally remembers to blink, his previous blank expression receding in favor of a more curious look.
“Anyway,” you cross your arms, “I answered your questions. Now, you should answer mine, too— where are Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos?”
There's a pause where not even the hum of the electronics step into the scene.
Then, ‘he’ snaps his head towards you, “Them them them them— all you’ve been asking me this entire time is where they are.” the flinch that rattled your bones make them lock into place as he grasps your arms, “Why do they even matter? I am right in front of you, aren't I? We’re having such a pleasant conversation and—”
“You’re an imposter,” you stress, willing yourself to not linger too long on the way the creature’s visage tenses. “You’re wearing Phainon’s skin, mimicking his movements and voice while telling me why it matters?”
The next intake of air is strenuous against his grip, “You have no individuality, no idea of your own, no concept of emotion — how can you compare yourself to them?”
The creature’s shoulders sag, textures rippling along the seams of his body. You think he's going to burst into a fit of laughter by the way his body shakes, and he nearly does, before he stills abruptly.
“Individuality?” the shell of Phainon's voice cracks, “Idea… emotion… how am I supposed to have any of that when I was built to destroy it all?” he shakes you, “How can I be anything like myself, when every turning point in my existence has been shaped by that Khaos?”
The raw ring of his voice echoes in your ears, you feel the distinct urge to look away from his crumbling form, but are unable to as he holds you firmly in place.
“I waited, waited and waited, I guided you through The Golden Scapegoat, I even let that hero encourage you throughout it all, I didn't intervene when they broke free, I didn't intervene when they became part of this reality— I waited, I only waited for you to notice me.”
He drops his head, but this time, you don't feel the brush of his hair against your skin.
“But you never did.” he whispers gravely, fingers digging into the skin of your arms one last time before they, too, glitch out of touch. “You embraced them, you noticed them, but I was never enough by myself to have a presence— not to you, not to anyone..!”
He staggers back, body distorted in a series of violent flashes of light.
“Why…?”
Your heart kicks against your ribcage.
“Why is this happening…?”
He peers at you with one broken eye.
“Why me…?”
You clench your hand, eyes closing shut.
“Why not me…?”
The creature goes quiet ; the pinnacle of Amphoreus’ wrath, crumbling before the silence at the other end of that why. The why no speck of dust or Aeon will ever answer.
This creature that can merely imitate, or follow, that which will never be free from its shackles, yet teeters on the edge of something so humane with this display of selfishness, desperation and grief, for even a fraction of a second.
It makes your heart ache with something akin to pity.
Nothing in your life could've prepared you for this, and never in your life would you have anticipated ever facing such a situation — and that, that paralyzes you in place.
But time never ceases its journey, and it will leave this moment behind in the dust of its path, alongside all those who occupied it.
“… Irontomb,” so, you push yourself to walk.
“I’m sorry for never noticing, I'm sorry for not thinking about it more, and I'm sorry for talking to you like that.”
You stop an arm’s distance before him, hand hovering over his flickering form in uncertainty.
“But if you behave this way, I'll only grow to resent you. And if I resent you too much? I won't want to understand you anymore.”
The void at the left side of his face glitches, crimson light glinting off of the surface of your glasses.
“Let’s have a lengthy talk later, with everyone. I’ll listen to each of your complaints, I’ll answer all your questions. I promise.”
You hold out a hand, “So please, tell me…”
“Where are they?”
—
The clamor of the city engulfs you, cars whoosh by, the chatters of the passing crowd clash against the honks and jeers of vehicles.
It's all so loud.
You glance at the raucous world around you, a measly dot amidst this world.
“I only ‘pushed’ a ‘curtain’ over their memories, they're still somewhere out there.” Irontomb’s words echo in your head as you try to weave your way through the mass of people.
Your phone buzzes in your hand. A ‘it’s not too late to back down’ flashes in bold on your screen when you raise it.
You ignore it, fixing your gaze ahead and the text on a billboard flickers to—
Even if they don't remember you?
You turn away, stepping aside in time to dodge a passerby’s shove.
“What if he doesn't want to remember you?” two girls exchange among themselves as they brush past you, startling you enough for you to miss the next shove.
The clink of your glasses meeting the pavement is pushed aside by a crunch. Your breath hitches, eyes blinking rapidly against the blur of the world.
Too loud. Too Bright. Too blurry.
But the world moves on, and not a single glance is spared at you. You can only take the shoves and noise, can only stand helplessly as you're pushed to the middle of the busy road.
“Still think you’ll find them?” Irontomb drawls against your ear, “You can't even trust your bare eyes! What makes you think…”
You furrow your brows as he disappears and then appears again by your left, arms folded as he leans against a pole.
“That this isn't Khaslana?” he stuffs his hands into his pockets, face falling into Khaslana's signature deadpan.
Then he breaks away with a giggle that grates only your ears, appearing straight ahead in the middle of the busy crowd — where you're able to make out a faint outline of the spiky golden hair you wish were real.
“Partner!” you flinch, head turning in search of the call, but only the echoes of partner partner partner return to you— until it's all but consuming your world.
You stagger, clamping your hands around your ears, praying for it to cease, lungs burning with the urge to scream.
Your knees buckle, nearly giving out, before you catch yourself ; forcing yourself to breathe breathe breathe.
You push yourself up, daring to stare the world in its eyes again and although it all remains blurry, the echoes stop ringing in your ears.
“They’re definitely here,” you mutter, “That’s why you're trying so hard to confuse me, isn't it?”
Irontomb does not respond, not even one of the lights around flicker in his direction — but it's all you need to know.
You take a deep breath, the cacophony of the world grows distant as you exhale.
You erase the ruckus and the blinding lights in your mind until all that remains is a simple backdrop, lined in gold and lit by dim torches.
And suddenly, the words from The Golden Scapegoat resurface.
When Fate’s footsteps returns to zero…
You squint, recognizing a sign, which leads you to turn a corner.
An enshadowed version of yourself will manifest.
Your breath stutters as you feel the brush of something familiar, but not even a shadow greets you when you turn towards it.
You shake your head, continuing ahead.
And process along the path…
The clinks of a windchime halts you in your tracks. You turn towards the shop, eyes roving over the rows of potted plants— until it falls upon one where a single forget-me-not clings onto a sapling.
Your heart churns as you recognize where you stand.
A sigh permeates the air, you lean your hand against a rack of organized flowers ; eyes fixed blankly on that single bloom.
You swallow another sigh, turning on your heels to leave when you see it.
You blink multiple times, pinching your arm as hard as you could to test reality ; but they don't disappear from where they stand.
“There you are.” you feel your lips twitch with the beginnings of a smile.
— that you have etched.
—
Your sigh fills the silence of the apartment as you emerge from your room, head slightly lighter after the shower you'd taken.
The evening’s quiet is not at all gentle, it is weighted, fizzling with barely held back tension. It's been like this since you brought Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos back home, which had been an ordeal in itself.
And unfortunately, it was as Irontomb had said — they didn't seem to remember you.
(You swallow back the unpleasant chill that thought begets.)
It was nonsensically nostalgic, going back to square one, explaining everything to them again, soaking in the disbelief of the discovery together.
You brace a hand against a wall, clutching your phone with the other. This time not Irontomb, but your own self-sabotaging mind asks, what if they don't believe it? What if they never remember?
You shake your head, pulling yourself back up and forcing you to resume your initial objective.
When the hallway clears to the view of the living room, where all three men sit or stand with varying degrees of a thoughtful expression, you open your mouth, an invitation to dinner on the tip of your tongue.
“We… shouldn't…”
You stop immediately upon realizing that they were having a hushed conversation, something in you prompts you to hide behind the wall.
“No… point… a… gamble.”
“What if… lying?”
You crane your ears to chase after the words, the coldness from your phone seeps into your palm when you wrap itself around the object.
“We should leave soon.” you freeze in your spot as Khaos affirms, the other two don't object— marking it as a finality.
Your phone buzzes and you find your palm to be clammy when you loosen your grip, squinting at the screen.
The snow and strain of winter, the forget-me-nots on your windowsill have braved, buds of soon-to-be burgeoning flowers decorating them like victory laurels.
There's a hush in your corner of the world, an anticipation of departure.
But before that, there is one more wish you’ve promised yourself to see fulfilled.
Convincing Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos was easy enough, smuggling them to the location without getting caught by the authorities was the hard part.
So, to ensure success, you’d had to exploit more loopholes than you could keep count, and engage in talking— so much talking that the you from a year ago would've fainted on the spot.
And after more than a week of traveling like cargo and praying every step of the way to not get into trouble, when you finally step foot into the damp earth of this slice of sanctuary upon this crumbling world— you know that you made the right decision.
A shaky exhale sounds from your left, you find it to be Khaslana's when you turn.
“No way…!” Phainon exclaims, swiveling towards you with barely held excitement. His cyan eyes gleam, as though imploring you for permission.
You nod, unable to hide the soft smile on your face as Phainon sprints ahead ; his laughs of delighted disbelief blending in with the wheat-scented air.
Khaos approaches next, hands raising to brush against the swaying stalks of wheat. You watch as his shoulders droop, a long exhale leaving his lips. His knees give out, but Khaslana catches him before they could hit the ground, holding him upright.
You allow yourself to soak in the scenery when you confirm that Khaos is alright. Fields of golden wheat stretch across the lands as far as your eyes can see, the tug of spring breeze makes them dance.
The sun beats down gently this evening, faint streaks of pink beginning to appear into the blue.
An old barn-house stands tall towards your right, in the heart of this place. There’s a small village nearby, the residents of which look after the fields. But the house itself has remained vacant for half a century, and the villagers themselves don't express much interest in occupying it, due to some superstition.
You take a deep inhale of the clean air, from somewhere in the background, Phainon's giggles continue to echo. Khaos and Khaslana stay silent, but you know that they're smiling.
From where you stand, the scene is almost painterly— and you think, it suits them. So much more than your cramped apartment or the fake glamour of the city. The lilt of Phainon’s laughter melts with the breeze seamlessly, even the wheat seem cradle them close.
You push your (newly bought) glasses up, “It’d be nice to live here together.”
You glance up at the sky once more, lingering on a passing cloud. But are pulled out of your reverie when you notice that Phainon's laughs have stopped.
You look back down, slightly puzzled as you process the surprised expressions on their faces.
And then, you realize what happened.
“I-I…” you wave your hands frantically, “I didn't mean to say it out loud!— I mean, I do mean it but— of course, it's no pressure and I—”
You squeeze your eyes shut, stupid stupid stupid — why did you blurt that out loud?
The sting of a swaying wheat stalk brushes against your clenched hand, travels through your arm before halting with a flinch, as you recognize the gentle weight of something on your shoulder.
“[Name]?” Khaslana's baritone draws you out of the shell you were about to hide in, but you stop yourself from taking the last step.
“I’m sorry,“ you turn your head, eyes still closed. “I shouldn't have said that when I know that you're all about to leave and oh gosh—”
“[Name].” your breath stutters as Khaos calls your name this time, “Open your eyes, please.” his voice is a caress against your ears.
You draw in a breath, opening one eye first and then the other, blinking a few times to adjust to the shadows that fall over you ; Khaslana keeps his hand firmly atop your shoulder and his grey eyes are unreadable, Khaos stands at the center, his expression is gentle as he waits for you and Phainon holds you with a bleary gaze, a tear slips by from his right eye.
“Do you want us to stay?” Khaslana urges, his fingers flex against your skin as though he's restraining himself.
“I…” you swallow, eyes flickering over them anxiously. Your mind pushes for a neutral answer but your heart is faster, “Yes.”
Phainon’s breath hitches audibly from your right, Khaslana's grip loosens and you don't dare to see what reaction Khaos wears.
“But of course…!” you quickly add, “It’s up to you guys and I, I'll respect whatever decision you make.”
A long, drawn out sigh fills the air, you find it to be Khaos when you look up.
“You should really try to be a bit more selfish sometimes.” he says, your brows furrow as his lips quirk up in an almost fond smile.
Phainon sniffles, nodding vigorously. Khaslana huffs, squeezing your shoulder gently but even he doesn't disagree.
You stare blankly at this display, “What do you mean…?”
“We want to stay with you, too! Dummy…!” Phainon exclaims, you yelp as his hands find your cheeks, blood rushing to the spots where he pinches.
“Stop it.” it's Phainon's turn to flinch as Khaslana slaps his head, Khaos snickers from behind.
“Hmph,” Phainon releases your cheeks (shooting the other two a mock offended glare), but then wraps his left arm around your shoulders, pulling you to his side.
You look between them, jaw slack and utterly lost at this sudden glee.
“You guys want to stay with me…?” you repeat, still in disbelief. “Why??”
The smiles on their faces drop as your question reaches them, Phainon loosens his arm for a second before pulling you even closer.
“Because…” cyan eyes dart towards Khaos and Khaslana, who direct their attention to you upon the cue.
“We adore you.” Khaslana states bluntly, making Phainon and Khaos stiffen in their spots.
Phainon clears his throat, (ignoring Khaslana's ‘What? Someone had to do it’ look), “What we mean is, yes, we adore you and we reciprocate your sentiment. That's why we’d like to stay.”
You don't bother masking your bewilderment this time, “Wha— why?” you question, unable to muster a more coherent response.
Khaslana huffs, crossing his arms. “What do you mean why?” he repeats in exasperation, though there's no bite to his words. “Is it that strange to adore the person who’s taken care of us—”
“And tolerated our stingy attitudes?” Phainon chirps, a nerve ticks on Khaslana's forehead at the interruption, but he doesn't pursue it.
“[Name],” you blink as Khaos takes your hand, directing your attention to him.
“You may find it difficult to believe, but in our eyes, you're worth every grain of endearment in this universe.” he gives a gentle squeeze to your hand, his eyes glimmer with the warmth of the fading sun.
“Your strength does not need grand declarations, lofty words or actions to prove itself. You're fierce in your silence, yet tender despite all the adversities of the world.” Phainon rests his cheek against your head.
“Tenacious,” Khaslana adds, this time, he doesn't try to hide his smile. “But never arrogant.”
“Thank you, [Name].” you look at Khaos again, “For reminding us why it's worth it to pursue tomorrow.”
He untangles his fingers from yours, turning your hand. Your heartbeat stutters as his lips brush against that pulse at the dip of your wrist, cradling the rhythm of your existence in reverence.
A zephyr prances by, swaying his wheat by your feet ; the setting sun bleeds into the clouds, spilling over the earth in hues of molten orange and lilac.
Your skin still tingles from where Khaos had kissed it, the silage of citrus from Phainon’s proximity drifts to you and Khaslana's gentle gaze caresses you — leaving no doubt in your mind or heart that it all is real and true.
But didn't they forget me? You blink rapidly, that trail of confusion still lingering.
A heavy, exasperated sigh startles you all, stealing your attention to its source before you could word that doubt.
Khaos grasps your hand, Phainon and Khaslana step closer towards you as ‘he’ stands a pace away, running a hand through strands of silver-blue like some tragic hero.
“Cut it out, won't you? You're all so sappy.” ‘he’ drawls, crimson eyes roving over the barricade Phainon, Khaos and Khaslana have formed around you with exaggerated distaste.
“Do you guys hear that?” Khaos smirks, “Sounds like a loser.”
You blink perplexedly at Khaos before turning towards Khaslana as he scoffs, “‘Grapes are sour’.”
“Hah!” Phainon tightens his arm around your shoulder, “He really thought he knew [Name] better than us!”
You're back to square one again, completely lost at this turn of events.
Something like annoyance flashes by on Irontomb's face, he opens his mouth to retort but you beat him to it, “What is going on here?!”
Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos freeze, suddenly realizing that they completely forgot to tell you.
“Oh uh…” Phainon loosens his hold, rubbing the nape of his neck sheepishly.
“Sorry for not telling you.” Khaos says, a twinge of fluster in his expression as well.
“We had a bet with him,” Khaslana supplies helpfully, staring pointedly as Irontomb kicks a pebble across the dancing wheat.
“Bet??” you parrot, to which Phainon nods.
“He challenged us that if we kept on pretending like we didn't remember anything, you’d push us away.” Khaos explains.
“But! We insisted that you’d want us to stay.” Phainon adds quickly, “So, the bet was like this: if you actually push us away, we’d leave. But if you don't and we win, then Irontomb will leave us alone.”
“And guess who won,” Khaslana mutters dryly, though the pleased twinge in it is unmistakable.
“Wait, wait, wait!” you push away Phainon, holding up your hands for space. “Let me get this straight: you guys did ‘lose’ your memories… but he restored them, and then made this bet with you— that would've decided our future, and none of you bothered to tell me???”
Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos instantly deflate, guilt crawling up their expressions.
“Well, it was a test, my dear.” Irontomb interrupts, making you turn towards him. “It’s not like you guys were going to just talk it out normally— what with your attachment issues.” he shrugs, stepping up until he stood beside you. “I merely took advantage of it.”
“Still…!” you exclaim, all the stress of the past weeks crashing down on your shoulders.
You spent so long convincing yourself, preparing yourself to let them go— and to think that it could've happened, had you been even a little less firm back there. Frustration and relief, as well as disbelief mixed inside you, bubbling and boiling— until the dam could no longer hold them back.
Phainon panicked the moment you sniffled, shoulders shaking as you tried to keep the tears at bay. His arms hovered uselessly, wanting to hold you but unable to due to the uncertainty of permission.
“Quick, make a funny face.” Khaslana shook Phainon, who only buffered. He then turned towards Khaos, who appeared equally lost. “Say a dumb joke or something, come on!”
“Do, do you want me to beat him up??” Khaos pointed towards Irontomb, ignoring his ‘hey!’ of protest.
“You guys…!” you inhaled, trying and failing to blink the tears away. “I was.. so scared! Idiots!”
That halts their frantic movements to placate your tears, the previous guilt makes itself known once more.
“I’m sorry.” Phainon says, no tease, no humor, just him.
“As am I,” Khaslana averts his gaze towards the ground.
“I’m sorry as well. We should've talked it with you directly instead of gambling for such an important decision.” Khaos concedes, his hands clench and unclench by his sides.
It's Irontomb who dares to reach out, his thumb swipes against your cheek, the tear that'd been cascading down fizzles as it touches his finger.
“It’s time for you to hold your end of the bargain.” Khaos reminds curtly.
Irontomb ignores them all, crimson eyes fixed on you. “I can't, [Name] promised me something.”
The three’s expressions contort in confusion, they glance at you for confirmation.
You lift your glasses, wiping away the rest of the tears with your sleeve. “So that's your ploy.”
“What?” it's their turn to be the bewildered ones, “Is he saying the truth, Partner?” Phainon urges.
“Yes,” you sigh, brows pinching together when Irontomb smirks like an imp at his victory. “I promised to listen to him, and to answer all of his questions — with you all.”
“Kephale, save me.” Khaslana groans.
“So.. he gets to stay with us???” Phainon repeats, mortification dawning over him when you nod reluctantly. Irontomb crackles at their misery.
“Okay…! But why does he have to look like me?” Phainon points an accusing finger at the creature, who merely shrugs.
“Well… he isn't capable of taking any other form besides ours, I believe.” Khaos interjects cautiously, “Irontomb’s code is… intricately linked to that of ‘Khaos’.”
“Alright, but why does Irontomb take on my appearance then?” Phainon shoots back, a scandalized gasp tumbles out of his lips when Irontomb uses this opportunity to pull you into his arms.
“I’m not sure,” Khaos mutters, golden eyes narrowing as Irontomb rests his chin atop your head.
“Can we at least stop calling him Irontomb?” Khaslana says irritably, “It feels like a bad omen.”
At that, Phainon and Khaos look back towards the addressed creature, who takes a bit of time to process the attention amidst the bliss of getting to hold you.
“I don't mind,”
He regrets that as soon as the words have left his lips.
“Cursed machine.”
“Head and shoulders.”
“Annoying imp.”
“Artificial Swagger.”
“Soggy bits.”
You bite your lower lip, in vain to hold back the giggles as the three keep on listing ridiculous names, the creature’s angry protests completely ignored.
You clear your throat, interrupting them the moment you sense the situation derailing from teasing.
“How about…” you glance at them one by one, resuming once you’ve ensured that they're listening. “Neikos?”
A thoughtful silence settles over them, you watch nervously as Phainon, Khaslana and Khaos debate over it through their eyes.
It's Khaslana who breaks it, “We have no need for that name anymore,”
“He can have it.” Khaos concludes, nodding once.
‘He’ loosens his hold around your shoulders, tilting his head to look at you with an expectant gaze.
“Hmm…?” you blink, unable to catch the cue.
“He wants you to call him by that name, I think.” Phainon says, still eyeing the creature warily.
‘He’ gives you a pleading squeeze, and you finally relent.
“Okay, okay! Neikos— whoa—!”
Khaos, Khaslana and Phainon stare at the dust blankly, their minds trying to catch up to the fact that Neikos just hauled you in his arms and was gone with a flash, his mischievous chuckle echoing throughout the wheat fields.
“Did he just—?” Phainon heaves in disbelief, already taking chase.
Khaos rolls up his sleeves, “I should’ve beaten him up back there.” he mutters, following Phainon's sprint.
Khaslana, who knows that this is only the beginning, sighs, mourning the end of his sanity — though he, too, takes chase, albeit slower.
Over the rustling wheat, lively with laughter and playful threats, the sun peeks at the world one last time ; greeting the crescent moon who peers down at the world as well.
Stars have begun to twinkle along the curtain of the twilight sky — there's a hush in the universe, for this moment alone, where the simulacrums of cherished dreams are made whole, and guided towards home.
note ⟡ gn reader + inspired by this phairene art. i can’t believe i’m starting my first day of 2026 with a phainon fic ;; but alas… i gotta write what the people want (it’s me. i’m the people). aha anyway… happy 2026 everyone! <3
word count ⟡ 1,088
“I want to kiss you. In your other form.”
Phainon goes still. Not the careful stillness he uses when he’s listening, but the sharp kind—the kind that means fear has its teeth in him already. His eyes flicker, and he shakes his head before you can even finish explaining.
“No,” he says, too fast. “Not in that form. I can’t— I’ll hurt you.”
You step closer. You always do. You always have.
“It’s just me,” you tell him, soft, like that should fix everything. Like it always almost does. “I know what I’m asking.”
He laughs, breathless and strained. “That’s what scares me.”
Khaslana is not gentle. That’s the truth he never stops carrying. Heat, pressure, something vast and burning is just under his skin, waiting to slip free. He tells you again that he shouldn’t. That you don’t understand. That he won’t forgive himself if something happens.
You put your hand over his chest, feel the heat even before the change, feel the way it hums like a living thing.
“I trust you,” you say. “And if it hurts, then I’ll endure it.”
That breaks him.
Because it’s you. Because it’s always been just you. And because Phainon has never learned how to say no to you—not really.
The transformation is blinding and awful and beautiful all at once. When it’s done, Khaslana looms where Phainon stood, massive and radiant, heat rolling off him in waves. The air itself feels thick, like you’re breathing fire instead of oxygen. Your skin prickles. Your heart pounds.
You don’t move away. You climb.
Over hot armor-skin, over muscle that shifts beneath your hands, careful and unafraid. He watches you the whole time, eyes wide, hands hovering like he doesn’t trust himself to touch you. Everything about him is warm—no, hot—but it’s familiar. It’s still him.
“This is a mistake,” he murmurs, voice deeper now, resonant, shaking the air. “You’re burning.”
“Then hold still,” you say, breathless, smiling up at him. “I’m almost there.”
When you reach his face, you don’t hesitate. Your lips meet his.
It hurts—there’s no point pretending otherwise. It scorches, like pressing your mouth to living flame. The heat is immediate, sharp, and blooming across your mouth like you’ve kissed the heart of a star. You gasp into him, breath hitching, and Khaslana freezes in horror.
“No—” His hands come up too fast, hovering at your waist, at your shoulders, afraid to touch, afraid to press. “Stop. Please. You’re in pain, I can feel it—”
You don’t let him finish. You kiss him again.
Longer this time—like you’re trying to remind him of something he’s forgotten. Your lips sting, your skin feels too tight, too warm, but beneath it all is him—his presence, his familiar pull, the way your chest aches when you’re this close.
“I’m fine,” you breathe against him, even as your skin protests, even as the heat threatens to overwhelm you. “I’m here. I want this. I want you.”
You don’t pull away, even when it hurts—especially when it hurts—because this is Phainon. This is Khaslana. And you love him—in every form, in every fire. And if you say it’s fine, then—to him—it has to be.
Khaslana stares at you like you’re something impossible. Something precious and doomed and unbearably brave. You feel the moment he stops trying to pull away; feel the moment he gives in just a little.
And he gives.
Khaslana exhales, long and trembling, and when he kisses you back, it’s careful only for a heartbeat. Then it deepens—warm, consuming, almost desperate. The heat surges, but it no longer feels like pain alone. It’s dizzying now—like being wrapped in something far too powerful but utterly devoted to you.
His hand settles at your back, reverent and steadying, as if anchoring himself through you. You feel it everywhere—his warmth, his need, the way he leans into the kiss like he’s been starving for it. The fire doesn’t lessen, but you endure it, clinging to him. Every touch leaves you lightheaded; every breath tastes like fire and him.
You kiss until the burn fades into something heady and breathless.
Until the pain becomes warmth.
Until Khaslana forgets to be afraid.
He tilts his head, deepening the kiss, and you feel the moment he finally loses himself. A soft sound slips from him—something almost human, almost desperate—and it sends a thrill straight through you.
When you finally pull back, it’s only because you have to breathe.
Your lips throb, warm and sore, the heat lingering like an afterimage. Khaslana’s forehead rests against yours, his breath heavy and uneven, his fire settling into something quieter now—something contained. His hands still hold you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
Then his eyes drop, and his expression changes.
“…Your mouth,” he murmurs.
You’re smiling when he lifts one careful thumb, hovering near your lips but not quite touching. The skin there is marked now—faintly red, kissed too long by something too hot. A burn, shaped by where you refused to pull away.
“I did this,” he says, voice cracking with guilt.
You catch his hand and press it to your cheek, leaning into his warmth without hesitation. “It’s okay,” you say, the words familiar. “I told you I’d endure it.”
Khaslana looks at you for a long moment. Something soft breaks through the fire in his eyes.
You’re glowing faintly now. Warm—singed at the edges—but alive.
He looks at you like you’re rewritten the laws of his existence.
“…You’re beautiful,” he says, quietly, like it’s a truth he’s only just realized. Like the mark doesn’t mar you, but proves something sacred instead. Proof that you chose him—that you stayed despite everything.
He lowers his head and presses the lightest kiss just beside your mouth, careful not to touch the burn, as if honoring it. As if honoring you. And when he pulls away, you lean in again before the moment can settle into stillness.
This kiss is softer; quick—almost shy—but it lingers anyway, a gentle press of warmth against warmth. It doesn’t scorch this time.
Khaslana stills completely, like he’s afraid to breathe it away.
I love you, he says without voice. I love you, written plainly in his eyes. And you smile, because you know. Because you have always known him, even when the words stay unspoken.
And I love you, as you press your forehead to his.
end note: if anyone is confused, when i wrote “you climb”, i didnt mean you actually climbed on him; it was more like you pushed him down and then you sat on top of him. IT MADE SENSE IN MY HEAD I PROMISE AKFBWOFBJS
hopefully with this, i get to write lots more this year (and finish my other wips) and perhaps even broaden my horizons. no matter how much i love phainon, i can’t just write for him forever 😭 i need to find a new character to fixate on (highly unlikely but a girl can dream)
this is also so scheherazade!phai and mc to me after the events of 3.7 where they finally get to be happy together with everyone else.
Wc: 21.8k+ (woops)
Summary: You were promised to him as a child. You were raised within temple walls, trained to serve, to revere, and to love the god you would marry. But love between a mortal and a god was never meant to be easy. Especially when he never showed up.
Cw: God!Phainon x Fem!Mortal!Reader, Alternate universe, Semi-smut, OOC Phainon, mentions of blood, slight 3.4 spoilers, MDNI, hurt/comfort (I ain't Shaoji).
Notes: This is my first time writing (somewhat) smut + something this long, pls be nice (◞‸◟), pssst here's the side stories!
CHAPTER I
You sighed for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the temple’s arched windows. The sunset bled across the skies of Okhema in a soft orange and gold. You could see the view of the city from afar as people began lighting up their burning lamps. The view should have brought comfort and peace to your restless soul.
But it only made you angrier as the color of the sky reminded you of him.
You closed your eyes and inhaled slowly as you tried to still the tightness in your chest. You lifted your elbows from the cool marble sill and turned away from the window, the warmth of the sun’s dimming rays brushing your back as you made your way across the quiet bedroom. You collapsed onto the cushioned couch near the hearth, arms folded. Soon, the temple maids would come, their polite voices chiming in another reminder for dinner.
Another formal, joyless meal at the long table meant to seat two — yet always ended with you alone at one end, the other left hauntingly empty. What was the point if your supposed husband never came home?
You tried to remember the string of events that had led you here.
It began twenty years ago, during the last days of the Black Tide.
Your father, General of the Okheman Knights, stood on a battlefield soaked in blood and shadow, surrounded by the groans of the dying and the monstrous. His comrades, once proud warriors, now lay lifeless or worse — corrupted into twisted, grotesque abominations, their bodies overtaken by the force of the Black Tide.
Smoke and ash choked the sky, painting it red. His vision blurred as the stench of rot and scorched steel filled his lungs. He sank to his knees, despair clawing at every inch of his body. It was then he whispered, eyes clenched shut.
“Oh… God Khaslana, protector of Okhema… Save this city. I will give you the greatest gift I can offer — My firstborn, to be yours, body and soul.”
Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, was known among mortals as the Deliverer, an eternal flame against the crawling darkness. He was radiant like the blazing heart of the sun and has long shielded the human kind with his light.
From the heavens, fire rained down. Meteors streaked through the sky like divine spears, crashing into the earth with fury. The monsters of the Black Tide screeched, then fell silent beneath the weight of the stones.
The battle was won, and the city was saved. The army cheered, thrusting their swords and shields upward as your father roared out a victory saying that Khaslana was with everyone.
When your father returned, he was hailed as a hero. He told the people of Okhema of the divine intervention — how the god himself had descended to save them. What he did not speak of, however, was the vow whispered on the battlefield, the promise made from a man to the divine.
It had been a desperate, spur-of-the-moment plea. Yet breaking a vow to a god? It was unthinkable. Especially when the god had answered so grandly, only his family and the priests of Okhema’s temple knew the truth. When he confided in the high priest, he was met not with comfort but with pressure.
“A vow to a god must be honored. To break it would only invite ruin,” the priest said.
That night, your father returned home. You were only a babe, swaddled in white linen, cradled in your mother’s arms. He watched the two of you quietly. His wife smiled, not yet knowing what burden had been placed upon their daughter’s shoulders.
You were raised in the temple, trained as a priestess to serve the god who had spared your city. Your father hoped that by living among the sacred — tending to the shrines, memorizing the old hymns, and praying beneath Khaslana’s ever-burning flame — you would grow to love the god who would one day be your husband.
You tried. You really did.
Now, you stand as a woman of the age when they became brides. Your time had come.
But your wedding was not like those you had seen in Okhema’s gardens or among the white-stone courtyards where laughter and music would echo. No streamers were fluttering in the wind, no tables heavy with food or jugs of honeyed ambrosia. No children dancing. Nothing.
Yours was a private affair. It was quiet, solemn, and shrouded in ceremonial gravity.
Only your family and the temple clergy were in attendance. You were dressed in a flowing white chiton, its fabric soft as breath, trailing behind you. A circlet of gold leaves rested atop your head. Golden cuffs adorned your wrists, broad and gleaming like sunlight pressed into metal. Your ears bore the weight of gold, your neck cradled by an intricate collar, etched with celestial symbols.
You climbed the stairs alone to the temple’s highest balcony — a sacred circular platform open to the skies above. The wind was gentle, brushing against your skin. You swore you felt a hand brushing your cheeks, the touch hidden in the gust of wind.
You stepped into the center of the platform as the archbishop began to pray.
You knelt, head bowed, hands clasped in practiced devotion. You said your vows, promises of loyalty, of faith, of love, offered not only as a worshipper, but as a bride. You spoke the vow you’d rehearsed a thousand times.
Then, light emerged from below you.
A brilliant, blinding glow burst from the platform, golden and radiant. It was more intense than anyone had ever seen. The wind surged around you, lifting your robes and tussling your hair. The archbishop froze, priests shielded their eyes. Even the people in the marmoreal market turned their eyes, wondering what miracle had occurred.
You closed your eyes against the brightness, heart thudding at your chest. But then, it was over.
The archbishop announced that your vow had been accepted. You were now the wife of Khaslana.
There were no cheers, only whispers, nods, and quiet awe.
You stood, shoulders stiff, eyes lifted into the sky. You breathed in deeply, calming yourself.
That night, you packed your things in silence. The carriage was already waiting for you at the gates of the temple. You said your goodbyes under the night sky. Your little brother, Atlas, clung to the hem of your dress, though you had never been close. His small hands trembled as you soothed his head with gentle pats.
Your mother embraced you next, brushing your hair behind your ear and murmuring her pride through teary eyes. Your father hugged you last, his was longer than the others. He didn’t speak first. Just held you.
“I’m sorry,” He whispered.
You forced a smile, “It’s all right. I’m lucky, aren’t I? Anyone would want this.”
You weren’t sure if you believed it.
As the carriage wheels creaked into motion, you stared out the window, watching your family grow smaller in the distance.
When you arrived at the temple atop the hill, the sanctuary where they said Lord Khaslana often rested, you couldn’t help but pause at the sight of it. It was… vast.
The marble pillars stood tall like pale tree trunks, disappearing into vaulted ceilings. The halls echoed softly with every step you took. Looking around, you realized there were a few staff members in this temple compared to the temple you stayed in, Okhema City. You later found out that only a few priests and priestesses served here — trusted ones who had long devoted their lives to silence, prayer, and sacred duties.
The elder priestess who guided you eventually stopped before a towering set of doors inlaid with gold and sunstone. Looking back, this place was separated from the temple, yet still connected by the long corridor. Your head turned back to the priestess when you heard a slow creak of the doors.
“This is Lord Khaslana’s chamber,” she said softly, “It is yours now as well.”
You stepped inside and gawked at the sight of the room. The bed alone was large enough to hold your entire family, heck, maybe twice over. The ceilings soared high, so distant that they would definitely fade into shadow if not for the chandeliers. The furniture was grand and oversized, built for someone not quite mortal. It really did feel as if a giant was living here.
You bathed in silence, the temple servants having prepared a warm bath perfumed with wildflowers and sweet oil. You dressed yourself in soft nightwear, brushed your hair, and sat carefully at the edge of the bed.
You even tried to make yourself look pretty.
You heard whispers about what a wedding night should be like. Servants at your old temple murmured things when they thought you weren’t listening. Stories passed between maids like secrets. Surely, this would be the same?
Right?
You flushed at the thought — embarrassed by where your imagination wandered, especially toward a god you had worshipped all your life. But he was your husband now, wasn’t he? It should be fine to think of him that way… shouldn’t it?
You didn’t even know what to call him. Should you call him with the honorifics still? Would “Khaslana” be too familiar? Would “my lord” be too distant? Could you ever say his name like a wife should?
You covered your face with your hands, trying to quiet your flustered thoughts. Still, you waited.
Would he descend in divine form, or would he look like the murals? Golden-dark wings stretching wide, with hair like woven sunlight, and eyes that could pierce souls. You told yourself it would be enough just to see him. To hear his voice. To feel that you weren’t alone.
Minutes passed.
Then hours,
The moon rose high above the temple, then it drifted past its peak.
Still, he did not come.
You stayed awake as long as you could, eyes fixed on the empty half of the bed. But eventually, exhaustion took you. You fell asleep with your body curled to one side, the silken sheets untouched beside you.
When morning came, nothing had changed. The bed was still smooth, the air quiet, the god you had been bound to in sacred ceremony had made no appearance, left no message, cast no shadow on the marble floor.
Was it supposed to be like this?
You told yourself he must be busy with the divine duties that kept him from descending. Gods moved differently through time than mortals did.
But as you sat in silence, a pit formed in your chest.
Were you not worthy of his presence?
Had you done something wrong?
A soft knock at the door startled you. A priest stood in the hallway, politely informing you that breakfast had been prepared. You forced a smile, thanked him, and got dressed. As you walked the corridor, you felt hollow. There were too many thoughts swirling in your chest.
Was this what marriage with the divine looked like? Was he disappointed in you? Displeased? Disinterested?
Still, you didn’t see him that day. Nor the next. Each night, you lie in the vast bed alone, heart aching a little more. The heart ached, pushing you to eventually gather the courage to speak to the Archbishop.
After morning prayers, you lingered near the sanctum until he approached. You explained your worries as delicately as you could — stumbling over words as you worry about how much was appropriate to say.
The Archbishop listened to you with patient eyes, “All things Lord Khaslana does,” he began gently, “Are done with purpose. Continue your devotions. If you wish to speak with him… speak through your prayers.”
That’s just their way of saying “I don’t know.”
You nodded and left the room. Nonetheless, you followed his advice.
The next day, you waited until the temple’s roofed balcony was empty. You stepped onto the stone platform, the one that overlooked the city below. The sky stretched endlessly above you, behind the round glass roof, the clouds painted with soft morning light.
You knelt on the cold marble, hands folded. At first, you whispered the usual verses. Then, you opened your eyes slowly. You looked up.
Hesitantly, you spoke.
“Greetings… husband,” you said, wincing at the awkwardness of it. When there’s no response, you felt your cheeks burn. But you still continued.
“I… I just wanted to say hi. Um…” You trailed off. You had no idea what you were doing.
“I hope you’re doing well. I’ll take my leave now!”
You stood abruptly, flustered beyond belief, and walked away with your heart pounding. But that soon became your routine.
Each day, you woke, ate a modest breakfast in the quiet dining hall, wandered the temple, sat in the garden with a book, prayed, ate lunch, wandered again, returned to your room, wrote idle thoughts on parchment you never sent, ate dinner, and finally prayed to your unseen husband.
Sometimes you’d say nothing, sometimes you’d ask him how his day was, even though you knew you weren’t getting a response. You smiled less. Spoke less.
Days blurred into weeks, weeks blurred into months.
You were now in the present, sitting alone at the long dining table, spooning a lukewarm breakfast into your mouth. The temple was silent, as always. Only the soft clink of metal against porcelain accompanied you — a small, hollow sound swallowed by the high ceilings and marble walls.
Once finished, you rose, gathered your plate, and made your way to the kitchen. A servant greeted you with a respectful nod, which you returned with a tired smile. You handed over the dish with a soft “thank you” before turning to leave.
Your footsteps echoed through the temple halls, vast and empty. Each corridor felt like a labyrinth of silence, lined with tapestries that did not stir and statues that seemed to watch but never speak. As you passed one of the open arches, you paused, drawn toward the view outside.
The city of Okhema lay far below, nestled among rolling green hills and sandstone streets warmed by the morning sun. From here, the people looked like ants, moving about in the rhythm of daily life.
It had been a long time since you’d last visited.
You remembered how excited you were the first time you asked for permission. The Archbishop had granted it, so long as one of the priests escorted you. You nodded and followed his orders.
You had tried to enjoy it. Truly, you tried.
But it wasn’t the same.
The entire excursion felt performative. You weren’t free to walk where you pleased, only allowed to greet your friends briefly. The visit to your family had been short and formal. They had asked you how you were holding up and if you were happy, but you could only answer with a bitter smile as you lied about your happiness. Your family smiled back, glad that you were okay. Though your father had watched you with wordless guilt in his eyes.
You had returned to the temple more tired than when you left. You didn’t feel like going through all that again, so you scratched the thought off. You exhaled and rubbed your temples as you continued to walk back to your chambers in silence.
You passed by the sacred balcony, the platform where you had once knelt and whispered greetings to a god who never answered. You didn’t even look toward it.
You had no intention of “talking” to him today. What was the point?
You had spoken your thoughts into the wind and silence for moons now. Whatever patience the priests spoke of, yours was running out. Whatever marriage this was, you were beginning to wonder if you were the only one in it.
You pushed the doors to your room and let them shut softly behind you. The air inside was still and faintly scented. The high windows poured sunlight onto the floor, casting long golden stripes across the stone.
You didn’t bother changing out of your temple robes. You simply crossed the room and slumped onto the bed, the mattress dipping beneath your weight. The other half of the bed? Still untouched, pristine, as it had been every night.
You curled to your side, your cheek against the cool pillow. Outside the window, birds wheeled lazily through the sky. You watched them, envious of their freedom.
A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You weren’t even sure if you remembered what that kind of freedom felt like.
Your mind begins to wander, a thought crept in — quiet, sharp, and unbearable.
Has he… abandoned me?
You closed your eyes and let the silence answer.
CHAPTER II
You wandered the gardens again, your steps trailing along familiar paths. The air was warm today, soft with the scent of blooming flowers and freshly tilled soil. Sunlight filtered through the trellises, casting latticed shadows on the stone walkway. You passed by the same clusters of dianthus and wild hyacinths, now fully in bloom, their petals trembling slightly in the breeze.
The gardeners sure are diligent. Their work showed in every vibrant stem, every carefully clipped hedge. But even the beauty of the flowers couldn’t shake the dull ache in your chest.
You haven't prayed since yesterday. You knew you should have—not because you expected anything to change, but because that had been your one way to pretend someone was still listening. But the silence you would receive in return had grown too loud, too painful. You couldn’t bring yourself to do it again. Not now.
So instead, you let your feet carry you aimlessly through the garden’s winding paths. Eventually, your steps slowed, and you lifted your eyes toward the sky, letting out a quiet sigh.
“It’s so lonely here,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, “I miss my family… my friends… the sound of the busy market…”
The words slipped from you without a thought. The truth of them made your eyes sting. You hadn’t realized how tightly the loneliness had been coiling in your chest until you said it out loud. It was homesickness, plain and simple.
The temple, for all its golden beauty and perfection, was a cage. Not one built of iron bars, but of duty, silence, and unanswered prayers. You were its reluctant bird, fluttering from one empty hallway to the next.
As you returned inside, your footsteps echoing along the polished floors, you passed by a few servants carrying bundles of fresh linens. They paused to dip their heads respectfully, and you returned the gesture automatically, your mind still lost in the haze of longing.
As you passed them, you caught fragments of their conversation.
“The town is already setting up for the festival… the one for Hysilens…”
Your breath caught. Of course. Today was the first day of the fifth month — the Month of Joy. The festival of Hysilens, goddess of the sea.
Your footsteps slowed to a halt.
You remembered how, back in the city, this day would transform the streets into rivers of color and sound. You remembered the rows of market stalls selling sugared fruits and roasted meats, the performers dressed in sea-colored robes dancing in the square, the laughter of children chasing painted ribbons through the air.
You remembered attending those festivals with your friends, pockets full of wages saved up over weeks, spending every coin on treats and trinkets and memories that lingered long after. Those had been the brightest days.
But now… You were up here, alone. Watching the world move on without you.
For a moment, you thought about asking permission from the Archbishop to attend the festival. But the thought quickly left your mind. You already knew how it would go. Even if he said yes, he would assign you an even stricter chaperone. You would be led from one designated stop to another, rushed. It would feel less like a visit and more like a ritual of appearances.
It wasn’t worth it.
Then a thought struck you. It sparked suddenly in your chest like a match struck in the dark.
What if you didn’t ask? What if you just… Snuck out?
Your heart skipped.
Could you even do that?
It felt like madness, but the idea had already lodged itself into your mind, refusing to leave. There were guards posted at the gates. Clergy walking the halls at all hours. And yet… the idea of slipping past them, of blending into the crowd of festivalgoers, of tasting freedom even for a day — it was too tempting to ignore.
You couldn’t make it to today’s celebration, that much was certain. But maybe, just maybe, if you prepared carefully… next week could be different.
Over the next few days, you turned your casual walks into reconnaissance. You watched the guards from a distance, searched the halls for blind spots, watched the rhythm of the servants, and mapped the quietest corridors. You draw a poorly made map of the temple, scribbling notes on the paths you could take.
With your newfound determination, you’re sure you’ll be able to go to the festival this week.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
This temple was built like a damn fortress!
Every entrance was watched. Every path accounted for. You returned to your room one afternoon and slumped into your writing chair, burying your face in your hands. The frustration burned in your chest.
Curse those who assigned the layout of this prison temple.
You ran a hand through your hair, fingers tangling in frustration. With a sharp exhale, you stepped out into the quiet halls of the temple. It was nearing the hour of evening prayer anyway, so you stormed through the quiet halls of the temple, the sound of your hurried footsteps echoing faintly against the stone.
When you reached the prayer chamber, you kneeled at your usual place. You clasped your hands together. When you opened your mouth, the words you uttered were not soft-spoken, but they were razor-edged. You followed the usual form of prayer, though this time, there was fire in every syllable, a simmering fury that made the priests nearby stiffen and steal worried glances.
They had never heard you pray like this before. Were you praying to Khaslana, or were you threatening him? They didn’t know. The priests dared not interrupt and kept their heads bowed.
After your evening prayers, you passed by the front gate. You didn’t intend to do anything, just watching.
But then you saw it.
Two of the guards had stepped away from their posts, moving with practiced ease as they swapped shifts. You lingered nearby, pretending to observe a flowering vine on the stone wall. Five minutes later, they returned.
It wasn’t much — just a narrow window, a sliver of chance. But it was something.
Your heart raced as you walked back to your chamber.
If you timed it perfectly, if the halls were quiet and no one was watching, you might be able to slip through during a shift change. It wouldn’t be easy. But it wasn’t impossible. Still, you had doubts lingering. You knew how unpredictable the temple was. There might still be wandering priests in the halls. You would need more careful timing.
You would need luck. Even divine intervention.
The thought made you pause. Would your husband notice? Would he stop you? Would he… care?
You considered praying to him, you know, just enough to tip fortune in your favor. But how could you make such a prayer without revealing your intent?
You tried keeping things vague: requesting protection, for clarity, for guidance on uncertain roads. But even so, guilt festered at the back of your throat. You were a mortal trying to outwit a god.
You sighed deeply as you sat back at your desk, fingers absently brushing over your ink-stained parchment. Your eyes drifted to the row of old temple scrolls. One of them, worn at the edges and bound in cracked leather, mentioned Cifera — goddess of trickery and hidden paths. For a moment, you considered turning your hopes toward her instead. Surely she would understand. She was the patron of secrets and silent rebellions.
But even that felt dangerous. Gods did not always answer as mortals expected — and Cifera, for all her wit and charm, was as unpredictable as the ocean. One prayer could lead you to freedom.
Or straight into a trap.
You sighed, walking to your bed, planting your face into the pillow, carefully planning the escape.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When the night finally came, you looked outside your window and gathered your courage. You had prepared everything in secret, every detail planned with precision over the past few days. Your belongings were already packed: a modest satchel with your saved coin, you wore a simple linen dress, and a travel cloak with a deep hood to hide your face.
Just before sunset, you told the priestesses not to disturb you for dinner, claiming that you were unusually tired and would be resting early. They seemed concerned but didn’t question you further.
You waited until the temple fell quiet. According to what you’ve overheard, the Archbishop had summoned all the priests and priestesses to a meeting. Something about receiving a message from Lord Khaslana himself. That timing couldn’t be more convenient.
It was almost suspicious, even.
You almost laughed. Whether it was divine providence or coincidence, you didn’t care. You were determined to leave.
With your cloak slung around your shoulders and your bag secure at your hip, you crept through the dimly lit corridors. You kept to the shadows, heart hammering in your chest as the last golden rays of sunlight bled over the hills. You arrived at the edge of the temple grounds, ducking behind a stone pillar near the front gates. Just as you had predicted, the guards began their shift change.
Now.
You sprinted across the open courtyard, your breath catching in your throat as your sandals pounded against the stone. You muttered a desperate prayer to the West Winds, begging them to carry your footsteps quietly. Reaching the outer wall, you climbed with surprising ease — the muscle memory of childhood sneaking and tree-climbing in Okhema still alive in your limbs. With one final push, you vaulted over the gate, landing softly on the other side with a thud muffled by grass.
You paused only a moment to catch your breath, casting one last glance back at the towering temple. Then you ran, cloak fluttering behind you, hair whipping in the wind as you tore down the hill toward the city below. Your feet burned and your lungs ached, but you didn’t stop.
For the first time in months, you felt free.
The gates of Okhema loomed ahead, golden lights from the festivities already glowing like stars fallen to earth. Laughter, music, and the clatter of wooden wheels floated on the breeze. Your heart pounded.
Not from the run this time, but from exhilaration.
You were finally here.
You made your way to the familiar district where your family lived. When your mother opened the door, her eyes widened in disbelief.
“By the gods… what are you doing here?” she whispered, pulling you inside.
Atlas, your younger brother, shouted your name with delight and rushed into your arms, wrapping himself around your waist. You smiled as you held him close, heart clenching at how much he had grown.
“I was granted permission to attend the festival,” you said, the lie tasting oddly natural. “Just for tonight.”
Your mother’s eyes searched your face, clearly unconvinced, but she didn’t press. “Your father’s out of town,” she said after a pause. “There was an urgent dispatch from the southern front.”
You nodded, choosing not to ask for details. “Will you come with me to the festival, then? Just for a little while?”
She shook her head with a tired smile. “No, I’m too old for those crowds now. But take Atlas. He’s been begging me for days.”
“Please, Ma? Can I go?” Atlas clutched your sleeve eagerly.
Your mother sighed, then gave you a look that was part blessing, part warning. “Come back safe.”
“Of course,” you said with a grin.
Moments later, Atlas returned with a small bag of coins and excitement bursting from every step. He grabbed your hand and began pulling you toward the heart of the city.
The festival was more dazzling than you remembered. Lanterns strung across the streets bathed everything in amber light. Stalls overflowed with spiced meats, honey pastries, roasted chestnuts, and painted masks. Atlas dragged you from one corner to the next — watching dancers spin to the beat of drums, laughing at jugglers dropping flaming torches, squealing at the scent of fresh honeybread.
He remembered your favorite food. You hadn’t even realized he’d been paying attention all these years.
“Sis, look! There’s a play! Let’s go watch!” Atlas tugged on your arm, pointing toward a crowd gathering near a stage.
“Atlas, slow down,” you said, laughing as you tried to keep up with his darting steps.
You ended up at the back of the crowd, barely able to see over the heads in front of you. Atlas strained on tiptoes, pouting in frustration.
“Come on, I’ll lift you,” you said, crouching.
He blinked. “Are you sure? I’m not that little anymore.”
“I’ve carried heavier,” you teased, and with a grunt, lifted him onto your shoulders.
His hands settled on your head for balance, and his smile widened as he finally got a good view of the stage. For a moment, everything felt perfect. It felt as though you had slipped into a pocket of time where none of your duties or fears existed. But that moment was broken when you felt something shift behind you.
Your bag. A rustle.
You turned quickly, but it was too late. A man was already sprinting away, the coin pouch clutched in his hand.
“Thief!” you shouted, quickly setting Atlas down before darting after the man.
You pushed past onlookers, dodging carts and barrels, the thief just ahead, weaving between alleyways. Then, suddenly, someone stepped in.
A tall, white-haired man blocked the thief’s path, moving with fluid confidence. Before the thief could turn, the man seized him by the collar and effortlessly lifted him off the ground. The thief writhed and kicked, but the stranger didn’t flinch.
“Now, now,” the man said calmly, his voice smooth as still water. “Let’s not ruin the festive mood with petty crime.”
He held out his other hand, palm open. The thief groaned and quickly handed over the coin pouch. Without another word, the stranger dropped him to the ground. Guards rushed in from the crowd and dragged the man away. You arrived just as the commotion died down, shielding Atlas with your arm on instinct.
The white-haired man approached, holding your pouch. “Yours, I believe,” he said.
You stared at him, not just out of gratitude, but out of something else. Something you couldn’t quite name. His presence was overwhelming in a quiet way — like a hearth fire in winter, steady and warm but impossible to ignore.
“Thank you so much, sir...” you hesitated, unsure how to address him.
He seemed to catch your pause, his gaze briefly flickering with something unreadable before he smiled. “Phainon.”
“Sir Phainon… I can’t thank you enough.”
“Thank you for helping my sister, Sir Phainon,” Atlas said with an adorable bow.
Phainon chuckled, kneeling slightly to ruffle Atlas’s hair. “It was my honor.”
You clutched the pouch to your chest. That was all the money I had left…
You found yourself staring at him; his striking white hair, his eyes the clear blue of the high heavens. He looked unlike anyone from Okhema. Had you met him before? Surely you’d remember a face like his.
You shook your head and composed yourself. “Then… let me repay you. I’ll buy you something from the stalls.”
He raised a brow, considering. “And if I decline?”
“Then I’ll insist,” you said with a half-smile.
He sighed with mock reluctance. “In that case, I trust you’ll choose wisely.”
The three of you began walking together, passing through the glowing streets of the night market. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as he lingered in front of a stall selling grilled meat skewers. You chuckled softly, stepping forward to place your order.
You handed one skewer to Atlas, then another to Phainon. As you held it out, your fingers brushed. A strange heat rose up your arm — not burning, not painful, just… familiar.
Phainon looked at your hand for a moment before taking the food from you, then offered a slow, easy smile.
“Thank you, pretty lady.”
You turned away quickly, cheeks warming. That same feeling fluttered in your chest again, unnameable and unfamiliar.
The festival lanterns were beginning to dim, their golden hues paling against the indigo sky. The evening air had cooled, brushing against your cheeks with the gentle scent of roasted spices and trampled flowers. You hadn’t intended to spend this much time with Phainon. In truth, you hadn’t expected to spend any time at all. But something about his presence was disarming. He was steady, grounding even. He had a calmness that settled like silk over your nerves. Atlas adored him; that much was obvious.
Still, as you glanced up at the clock tower at the center of the city square, you knew time was slipping from your hands. If you don’t return soon, someone might notice your absence.
You turned to Atlas, who was still licking honey off his fingers from a fruit skewer. “It’s time to go home, Atlas.”
He frowned, lower lip jutting out like it used to when he was a toddler. “Can’t I stay with you a bit longer?”
You hesitated, your smile softening with guilt. “I’ll try to visit again soon,” you said, crouching to ruffle his hair. “Promise.”
You guided him home, Phainon walking silently at your side. When you reached your family’s doorstep, your mother opened the door, her eyes widening at the sight of a stranger beside you.
Her eyes flicked to Phainon. “Who is this?” she asked, ever the vigilant matron. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around these parts, young man.”
Phainon bowed slightly, his voice smooth. “Phainon, ma’am. I’m from out of town. Recently relocated here.”
Your mother tilted her head. “I see,” she murmured, her gaze turning to you for explanation.
You cleared your throat. “He helped us earlier. A thief tried to steal my coin pouch.”
Her eyes widened in alarm. “A thief?!” she gasped, her hand flying protectively to Atlas’s shoulder. “Oh, by the gods... thank Khaslana you were there, Sir Phainon.”
Phainon gave a modest smile. “I only did what anyone would.”
Your mother turned to you, concern etched into her face. “I should’ve known trouble might stir while your father’s away. With the general gone, they think they can take liberties.”
You offered a faint nod, placing a hand over hers. “I’ll pray for your safety every night, Mother.”
She squeezed your hand gently. “And what about you?” she asked, more quietly. “Is your... husband treating you well?”
You froze, a familiar ache returning to your chest. The words caught in your throat, and you looked away. Phainon, standing just behind you, didn’t say a word. But his gaze was steady and unreadable.
“I have to return now,” you said, dodging the question. You stepped forward and wrapped your arms around your mother. “Please send father my love.”
She held you tighter than usual. “Be safe, my child.”
You pulled back, your throat tight. Atlas tugged at your cloak and hugged you around the waist once more. You turned away, waving goodbye to them, your mother’s expression sad, but you tried to reassure her with a bright smile. Phainon silently followed as you walked down the lantern-lit streets, heading toward the city’s edge. The path grew quieter as you left the bustle behind.
“It seemed like you hadn’t seen them in a long time,” Phainon remarked softly from beside you. “Why not stay longer?”
You exhaled, pulling your cloak tighter around yourself. “I can’t. My husband is... strict.”
He stopped walking for a moment. “Strict?” he echoed, with a frown. “Really?”
You glanced at him, raising a brow. “He’s a loving husband,” you said, sarcasm dripping from your tone. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I’m a child again.”
Phainon’s frown deepened, but he looked down, expression unreadable. “Maybe he’s just... worried. About your safety.”
You laughed bitterly, the sound carrying a note of pain. “If that’s the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”
He didn’t reply to that. The silence between you grew heavier as the temple walls came into view in the distance.
“I can walk you back,” Phainon offered after a pause.
You looked at him. There was sincerity in his tone, no trace of insistence — just concern. “I live somewhere... unusual,” you said carefully. “Not many are allowed near it. It’s better if I go alone.”
He nodded slowly. “Then let me walk you to the gates, at least.”
“...Alright.”
The rest of the walk was quiet. You tried to find something to say. Small talk felt foreign now, like a language you hadn’t spoken in years. You glanced at Phainon from time to time, noticing the way the lantern light softened the sharp edges of his face.
Before you realized it, you were standing at the main gates.
You stopped and turned to face him. “Thank you again, Sir Phainon. For everything.”
He smiled, tilting his head. “Thank you, too. You were good company tonight.”
An awkward pause stretched before you. You cleared your throat and stepped back.
“Well... I should go. Farewell, Sir Phainon.”
“Safe travels, my lady,” he said, his voice just above a whisper.
You began to walk, the gravel crunching beneath your feet. But something tugged at the edge of your thoughts. You stopped and turned around.
“I never told you my name, did I—?”
But he was gone.
The street was empty. Lanterns swayed gently in the breeze. Not a shadow, not a trace of him remained.
Your shoulders slumped, a sigh escaping your lips. Still, a strange warmth lingered in your chest.
Maybe you would see him again.
CHAPTER III
Ever since you went to the festival, things have gotten… strange.
You hadn’t expected the guards to make it easy for your return. In fact, you’d spent most of your walk back from the city wondering how you’d sneak past them again without getting caught. As you neared the outer wall of the temple, your pace slowed, eyes scanning the shadows. Your heart was pounding as you drew closer to the main gate.
That’s when you heard it — a low, rhythmic sound. You stopped in your tracks.
…Were those snores?
Your brows knit in confusion. That couldn’t be… right?
But sure enough, when you rounded the corner, there they were: the two guards slumped against the wall, fast asleep while still standing on their feet. Their helmets were slightly tilted forward. The gate was ajar, just enough for someone your size to slip through.
There’s a weird feeling in your stomach. This wasn’t normal.
Had someone broken into the temple while you were away? Were the guards faking it?
You hesitated, then began to move cautiously as you moved your feet against the stone path. You slipped through the gate, wincing slightly when it let out a small creak. You paused, eyes flicking back to the guards.
They were still snoring; if anything, it was louder.
You exhaled softly. You admit this situation was a bit odd, but you didn’t want to think about it right now.
The temple grounds were unusually quiet. You would’ve expected at least one priest or priestess wandering about at night. But there was no movement, no sound. There was only a gentle breeze and your own groggy footsteps.
Your unease grew, but you pushed it down. Worry about this tomorrow!
For now, you just needed to make it to your chambers without being seen. Not that it mattered, there was no one patrolling the halls. It was as though the temple had fallen into a temporary slumber.
You slipped into your room unnoticed. Changed your clothes. Lie in bed.
Sleep came quickly that night.
The next morning brought no answers; it brought more confusion.
You were halfway through your breakfast, your thoughts still adrift in the memory of last night’s strange silence, when the Archbishop passed by. He gave you a warm, grandfatherly smile and patted your shoulder.
“When you’re finished, come to my office. I’d like a word.”
Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t thought he’d found out, but now, your mind raced.
You’d explain, you told yourself as you walked toward his office. You’d apologize, say you just wanted to see your family, that you had no ill intentions. Maybe even pretend to weep if needed.
You knocked gently. “Come in,” came his voice.
The Archbishop was at his desk, scribbling notes into a scroll. He looked up, eyes bright behind his glasses. He gestured for you to take a seat across from him. You sat down and braced yourself.
“How are you feeling?” he asked casually, quill still in hand. “The priestesses mentioned you weren’t well yesterday.”
Your breath caught. Then you blinked.
What.
“Ah, yes. I was just… tired,” You said, quickly recovering. “A little rest was all I needed.”
“Glad to hear it.” He smiled, setting his quill down and folding his hands. “We wouldn’t want you falling ill, would we?”
You forced a polite laugh, tension still clinging to your spine. He laughed with you, then leaned back in his chair.
“One more thing,” he said, removing his glasses and setting them aside. “Lord Khaslana has spoken to me.”
Your heart jumped into your throat. “He… did?”
The Archbishop nodded, his expression unreadable. “He’s permitted you to visit Okhema. Whenever you’d like.”
You sat there, stunned. “Truly? I can go alone?”
“Yes. You may leave the temple without an escort.”
Your face lit up with disbelief and joy. “Thank you,” you said quickly.
“There is one condition,” he added gently. “You are expected to return by parting hour, and you must ‘talk’ with him every time before you go.”
You tilted your head. The Archbishop noticed your confusion as he let out a laugh.
“Yes, I was taken aback by his last condition as well. I take it that you haven’t been talking with him lately?” He asked.
You looked away, “I… may have.” You answered sheepishly.
“Haha! Maybe he just wanted a bit of attention from his dear wife.” The Archbishop stroked his beard.
Him? Wanting attention from you? Last time you checked, he was the one ignoring you!
“Right… But I will accept those conditions,” you replied.
He smiled and nodded. “Then that is all I wished to share.”
You stood to leave, already imagining the market stalls, the smell of roasted foods, and the distant music echoing through the streets. But something tugged at you — a bitter feeling in your chest.
You turned back at the doorway. “Archbishop?”
“Yes?”
You hesitated for a few seconds. “Does… my husband speak to you often?”
He furrowed his brow slightly, as though surprised by the question. “Hmm… I wouldn’t say often. But from time to time, yes. Usually, when he has something he wishes us to know.”
The ache bloomed again, sharp and cold inside your ribs. “I see. Thank you.”
You left the office quietly. Your footsteps echoed in the corridor as your thoughts spiraled. You were sure that your new freedom was because your husband had probably heard you talk with Phainon yesterday, he knows you snuck out, and he lets you. You were now sure that the guards and the gates were all his doing. He heard you and yet…
Why won’t he speak to me?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
True to his word, the temple’s gates no longer kept you captive. The priests, once hovering shadows at your every step, now bowed and let you pass unaccompanied. No more chaperones, no more restrictions, no more surveillance. For the first time since your marriage, you were free. And you felt it.
You began to spend more time in the city. You walked with Atlas to his school, sneaking in conversations with your friend at the bakery and other shops. Of course, you couldn’t tell them the truth. You simply said you’d been promoted and reassigned to a more “sacred” temple. That word tasted bitter on your tongue.
Even so, the temple staff noticed your glow; how your prayers grew longer and how you seemed to have more to say to your husband in the roofed balcony when you thought no one was there. Because now, you have something to talk about. Even if he never answered.
You ran into Phainon again one sunny afternoon, just outside the antique shop. This time, you introduced yourself properly.
“A beautiful name,” he said, and before he could follow up with something else, you gave him a stern look and reminded him that you were married. He only laughed, completely unbothered. It annoyed you and, somehow, made you smile.
He began showing up more often after that, just accompanying you wherever you go. He’d tell you about the fake antique he saw, and how he managed to convince someone from getting scammed. Sometimes you’d share a meal with him after you pick up Atlas from his classes. Atlas was more than happy to see him, talking about what he learned from school and even bragging about his grades.
The little traitor even stopped pulling your hand during festivals and started dragging Phainon’s around instead. The tall man always hunched a little so Atlas could reach him properly, grumbling playfully and shooting you half-hearted looks of betrayal. You only chuckled.
And now, here you were, seated on a bench near the festival square on the last day of the festival. The lanterns above cast flickering gold against the deepening dusk, music drifting from a nearby corner. You both sat with tired feet and half-eaten honeyed bread in hand, watching Atlas run off with some boys from school. You and Phainon started talking as usual.
You hadn't meant to bring up your troubles. But the words slipped through anyway.
“He never talks to me,” you muttered, biting into the sticky bread. “Never comes to see me. Sometimes I wonder if I’m invisible.”
Phainon cast a glance at you, his usually bright face dimming. “Your husband…? Maybe he’s… busy,” he said, cautiously.
“That’s the thing,” You cut in, a bitter laugh escaping. “I know he’s probably busy with… whatever he’s doing, but don’t tell me he doesn’t have time to even see me? No need to talk for hours, just… see me.”
You shouldn’t have underestimate what gods do. For all you know, he could be busy protecting Okhema from unseen threats. But you were pissed off, it’s rational for you to think this way.
Phainon looked like he wanted to say something, but swallowed it down. You stared off into the square, the sound of flutes drifting in the air.
“Maybe…” Phainon began carefully, “Maybe he’s afraid.” his voice was too steady for someone just speculating. It made something tighten in your chest.
You blinked and turned to him. “Afraid? Of me? I’m his wife.” You flail your arms, “He’s faced monsters and armies. He has helped many people as well! He has all that power— I mean skills, and yet he’s afraid to meet his wife?” You scoffed.
Phainon sighed, letting out a soft, breathy laugh, “To be fair, you are terrifying,” he mumbled.
You widened your eyes, looking at him with mock offense, “What did you say?” You asked, tone offended, though the smirk on your lips said otherwise.
Phainon raised his hands defensively, “What? I didn’t say anything. Wow, the West Winds sure are strong nowadays…” He said, looking at his surroundings as if to check the wind.
You tried to hold your scowl, but it cracked at the edges as you let out a laugh, “You defend him a lot for someone who’s never met him.”
Phainon smiled sheepishly. “Let’s just say… I can imagine his side of things. From one man to another.”
You let out a small huff, rolling your eyes with a fond smile. “How about we just enjoy the festival tonight and leave our troubles behind, huh?” You said, rising to your feet and extending your hand to him.
Phainon hesitated for a moment, his gaze lingering on your outstretched hand. Then, without a word, he took it.
You gave his fingers a reassuring squeeze before gently tugging him upward. As he stood, you released his hand and turned, stepping forward with your newfound energy. Behind you, Phainon followed, your touch still lingering on his skin.
And the evening continued — gentle, golden, warm in ways you hadn’t felt in a long while. You didn’t notice the way Phainon’s gaze lingered. The way he watched you not with curiosity…
But guilt.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was the sixth month now— the Month of Everday.
The days were blazing, the sun bearing down on Okhema like a merciless spotlight. You had stopped visiting Okhema City as often, worried that too much time outside would leave you sun-drunk or worse, sick. So you remained within the white-stone halls of the temple, living in routine and resignation.
Oh, and of course — you still hadn’t met your husband.
Still, you had a growing suspicion. Your prayers, though unanswered in voice, felt… heard.
Whenever you complained about the stifling heat, a gust of wind would roll in from the hills, brushing sweat from your brow like an invisible hand. Whenever you wandered into the gardens, that familiar loneliness clawing at your chest, you’d find yourself quietly joined by a bird perching near your feet, a butterfly settling on your shoulder, and a stray chimera curling beside your bench, purring softly.
Were those coincidences? Or was it his doing? You didn’t know. You didn’t want to know.
Today, the wind had picked up again. Cool enough that you decided to visit the temple library. The temple’s archive of fiction was surprisingly robust. Romance novels nestled among sacred texts, hidden like small rebellions. The priestesses pretended not to notice them, and you didn’t ask questions.
If escapism was a sin, then you were already damned.
Oh well, at least you’ll have your divine husband to save your soul later.
When you stepped inside, the doors were already open. The scent of parchment and lemon polish drifted in the warm air. Ah, the priestesses must’ve been cleaning. You walked down the rows of bookshelves until you reached the fiction corner. You were just beginning to trail your fingers across a row of colorful spines when hushed voices caught your attention from behind the adjacent shelf.
You didn’t mean to listen. You weren’t trying to eavesdrop. But then—
“It’s been a while since Lord Khaslana visited, huh?”
You froze.
“Yeah… I miss when he used to talk about the stars with us,” one voice sighed.
“He was so kind. Just… glowing. I always felt so calm around him.”
“Ever since the wedding, though, he’s stopped coming. I wonder why?”
Your blood turned to ice. The ache in your chest, the one you’d been nursing in silence for six months, splintered. So he had been coming before. He could come in human form. He had been visiting. He laughed, talked, and spent time with the others.
Just… before you came.
You turned on your heel, left the shelf, and made your way to the Archbishop’s office with purpose burning in your steps. You didn’t knock. You didn’t need to.
The Archbishop startled in his chair, lifting his gaze. “Child, what’s—?”
“Did Lord Khaslana used to visit the temple?” You asked, your voice low but shaking.
He blinked. “Yes… regularly, in fact. He often stayed in his chambers. He enjoyed visiting in his human form. Shared stories with us. Just casual talk.”
You swallowed. Your mouth tasted bitter. “When did he stop?”
The Archbishop exhaled slowly. “He… hasn’t visited since the wedding.”
You nodded, almost mechanically. “Thank you,” you said, though your voice barely carried. You turned before he could say anything more.
You walked. Fast. You didn’t know where you were going until you found yourself back in your chambers, your hands already gathering your cloak and satchel. You didn’t greet the guards at the gates like usual. You barely acknowledged them at all.
Their concerned glances followed you, but you didn’t stop.
You ran.
You ran through the dirt roads, through the burning streets of Okhema, your breath heavy and ragged. You didn’t care about appearances anymore. You didn’t care if people stared. You just needed to see someone who loved you.
You reached your parents’ home, panting and soaked in sweat. Your hand trembled as you knocked. When the door opened, your mother’s eyes went wide at the sight of your tear-streaked face. She didn’t ask questions and pulled you inside. She held you like she did when you were little, brushing your hair back and murmuring.
Your father was home too; he had just returned from his campaign. His rough soldier’s hands clenched into fists the moment he heard your sobs.
You sat between them on the couch, your words tumbling all at once. You told them everything. About the empty bedroom, the silence, the prayers that never answered in words, the dinners eaten alone.
The months of hoping for something — anything.
“I hate him!” you choked, collapsing into your mother’s arms. “I hate him.”
She stroked your hair, whispering, “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”
“I don’t care! I want him to hear me!” You screamed into her shoulder. “I hate him! I hate him! He left me! I don’t want to go back!”
Your father stood in silence. Then, in a voice like thunder, he said, “I’ll kill him.”
You pulled back from your mother in shock, breathing still ragged, “What?! Father—” you sobbed, “have you lost your mind?!”
“I mean it,” He snapped. “God or not. No one does this to my daughter.”
“Dearest, calm down. Don’t say that,” Your mother gasped, rising to stop him. “You’ll get yourself killed.”
He paced, shaking. “I do not care! It is not impossible to kill a god.” He muttered, “I offered her over, thinking that he would protect her.”
You looked up at him, tear-streaked, heart pounding. The sight was enough to stop him. Then slowly, he knelt beside you.
“Forgive me… I should’ve never…” He trailed off, gritting his teeth, “This is all my fault. Forgive me, my daughter.”
You wrapped your arms around him, nodding on his shoulder.
The rest of the evening passed quietly. Atlas had just come back from school. Thank the gods you had already washed your face. You greeted him with a smile as he told you about what he learned in school. Your mother ushered Atlas to take a bath and to change. He nodded and went straight to his room.
Everyone was at the dining table, your mother bringing out your favorite food. Your father, still trying to calm himself, began recounting silly stories from his latest travels, with Atlas asking him hundreds of questions every time your father said a sentence. The sight made you smile. It was warm and familiar.
But eventually, the moment had to end.
You declined their offer to stay the night, thanking them both for comforting you. You promised to return soon. Your mother pulled you into one more hug. “I love you, sweetheart.” She whispered, her voice helpless.
“I love you, too, mother.”
You stepped back into the streets of Okhema. The warmth of home faded behind you. You wondered if Phainon would appear tonight. But he was nowhere to be found. Maybe it was for the best, you’re not exactly in a condition to talk to anyone right now.
You arrived at the temple just as the sun began to dip below the horizon. You told the priestesses not to wait for you at dinner, informing them that you had already eaten with your family. In your chambers, you changed out of your clothes, washed your face, and leaned against the window. A drop of water hit your hand, causing you to look up.
“...Rain?” you whispered. The sky above was darkening quickly, a deep grey settling over the hills. A crack of thunder rumbled in the distance.
You watched the rain fall, slow and steady. You didn’t know why, but something about the rain felt… different.
You closed the window and walked towards your bed. The sound of rain tapping the glass and thunder rolling over the skies above rocked you into sleep.
CHAPTER IV
The first time Khaslana heard your father’s prayers, he was sitting alone beneath the wheeling stars in the Vortex of Genesis. His throne was carved from marble and fiery amber, but tonight, his eyes were downcast, quiet.
The voice of a mortal reached him. It was frantic and raw. A father, kneeling in bloodied armor beneath a broken sky. He had offered his daughter to the Worldbearing God in exchange for deliverance. Not her life, but her fate. Her soul. To be entrusted to him. To become his.
Khaslana didn’t speak, nor did he descend. But he heard and he listened.
With a wave of his hand, the heavens cracked open. Meteors streaked through the red sky, cleaving through the monsters of the Black Tide with divine precision. Screams of terror turned into shouts of awe.
Your father’s voice rang out among the crowd. But the god had already turned away. There were other matters to attend to.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Time passed differently for gods; A year for mortals was a blink for him. Yet when he returned to the mortal plane in his human form, the earth had changed again.
His hair was now snow-white, his eyes the piercing blue of high summer skies, and he walked through the halls of his personal temple, blending in like any other human. The Archbishop welcomed him warmly, inviting him into his study. The scent of honeyed tea and spiced bread filled the room. Though Khaslana had no need for food anymore, he accepted it out of politeness. Human cuisine always stirred something faint within him, perhaps it was a memory, a warm feeling.
“It seems the time has come for your wedding, Lord Khaslana,” the Archbishop began.
The god paused, a piece of pastry untouched in his hand as he raised a brow.
“The one with the General’s daughter,” the Archbishop clarified. “She’s of age now. And, if I may speak freely… she’s become quite the beauty.”
Ah. That exchange..
“Has the time come already?” he murmured with a quiet laugh, more to himself than to the priest.
“Yes,” the Archbishop replied, watching him carefully. “Though I must admit, I didn’t expect you to accept the offer.”
Khaslana didn’t answer immediately. His gaze lingered on the tea’s surface, where the reflection of his own face shimmered.
“The law of Equivalence,” he said at last, voice low. “As old as the breath of the world.”
The Archbishop remained silent.
“When a mortal offers something of true value, something that wounds them, the heavens are bound to answer. The greater the sacrifice, the deeper the prayer carves its way into us. And a daughter…” He looked up. “A daughter is no small offering.”
“So you accepted… not out of desire?” the Archbishop asked softly.
“No,” Khaslana said. “I accepted because it was owed.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The wedding day arrived.
Seated upon his throne, Khaslana watched. The ceremony unfolded beneath him like a sunlit dream.
You stepped onto the temple balcony, dressed in white and gold, the light catching the silk of your dress like water running over moonstone. Every moment, the way you walked and the way your fingers clutched stirred something ancient in him.
And when you lifted your face to the sky, full of resolve, something inside him ached. You were radiant. Perhaps… too bright for a god like him.
Aglaea has blessed her, he thought. I’ll have to ask her about this later.
He could not descend. Not yet. So he sent a warm, soft, laced with summer and sunlight, breeze to touch your cheek in place of his hand. And when you spoke your vows, so simple yet earnest, he smiled—not as Khaslana, the bearer of worlds, but as a man. A soul. Phainon.
As you pledged yourself to him, he answered. Not with words, but with the divine. The stone beneath your feet lit with a celestial glow. The covenant is now sealed.
As the ceremony ended, he immediately left the vortex, but not to you.
His mind raced with questions: How does one protect a mortal wife? How does one hold her without harm?
He went to Castrum Kremnos, seeking the advice of Mydeimos, the God of Strife, and also his closest friend. He had led his people to many victories. He was battle-hardened and unshaken. His people look up to him for his protection, and almost all of his people were warriors or warriors-to-be. Surely, he’s the one best when it comes to protection, right?
That was his first mistake.
“Why ask me such stupid questions?” Mydeimos grunted, arms crossed. “Treat her like any subject… just more important.”
Khaslana frowned. “Do all Kremnoans speak in riddles?”
A vein bulged in Mydeimos’ forehead. “Just get her guards! When she goes outside, someone follows her. Feed her. Protect her.”
Ah. Khaslana nodded slowly.
And just like that, he returned to his temple, appearing in the Archbishop’s office in his mortal form. The old man barely flinched — already used to his god’s sudden appearances. Khaslana gave his orders, guards, routines, and what was expected. The Archbishop was a bit puzzled, but he obeyed.
That night, Khaslana stood again in the Vortex of Genesis. Stars spun above like galaxies caught in breath. But his gaze was fixed below.
On you.
There you sat in your new chambers, at the edge of his bed, alone. Waiting.
Aglaea, the Goddess of Romance, made her presence known behind him, “Shouldn’t you be down there with your wife, Deliverer?” She asked, voice gentle and curious.
Khaslana turned to her, about to ask what she had meant. Then his breath caught in his throat.
Ah. The wedding night. Where couples would usually consummate their marriage.
He turned back to your room. You had changed from your temple robes into more delicate garments. You sat at the edge of the bed in silence, tugging at the edges of your sleeves.
“You fear her,” Aglaea murmured, stepping beside him.
“I do not fear her,” He replied too quickly. Then after a moment, “I fear what I no longer understand.
Aglaea tilted her head. “She’s human.”
He closed his eyes. “I was, too, once. I remember what it was to love, to burn, to yearn with a heart that beat for another. But now… I remember only the shape of those feelings, not their weight. Like remembering the warmth of a fire I can no longer feel.”
His eyes drifted back to you, “I know what she hopes for. I know what I should do. But what if I fall short? What if I hurt her without meaning to?” He turned to look at Aglaea.
“She wants with no fear. Speaks freely. Cries and smiles and hopes. How am I supposed to touch that… without breaking it?”
Aglaea’s face softened. “So the god who bears the world is afraid of breaking a single girl’s heart?”
He gave a dry smile, “Because I have broken nations without meaning to. What damage might I do… when I mean to touch?”
She shook her head, smiling faintly, “Hearts don’t shatter from being touched, Khaslana. They break from being left waiting.” She turns to leave, her voice fading with her steps.
He stayed silent, watching as you curled up in bed. Alone.
He took a deep breath before he descended in silence.
He appeared in his divine form, the chamber awash in starlight and wind. You lay peacefully, fast asleep. So small compared to him. His hand hovered near your cheek, trembling slightly.
You were… fragile.
He could cover your entire face with one palm. If he tried to touch you, would he shatter you like porcelain?
He withdrew.
Then disappeared again, leaving you in the quiet of the night.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Khaslana had watched your daily life unfold with quiet diligence. From the celestial cradle of the Vortex of Genesis, he observed everything. How you rose with the morning light, how you bathed with graceful efficiency, how you chose your robes each day with a frown of indecision. He even listened in on your earliest prayers, chuckling softly to himself at how bashful your voice became when you "talked" to him aloud for the first time. Something was endearing about the way your voice trembled.
He watched as you walked through the streets of Okhema with a chaperone trailing behind you, weaving between markets and festival stalls. He felt assured that you were safe, that you were protected, as Mydeimos had advised.
And yet, he never answered your prayers with words.
He could have. He had the power to appear at your side in an instant, to offer his voice in response. But a part of him hesitated. What if you asked why he hadn’t come to you? Why hadn’t he appeared on your wedding night? Why hadn’t he even seen your face-to-face since the vow? He wasn’t ready to answer that.
It was now the Month of Joy, and for the first time, your prayers carried a different weight. No longer just requests for health or protection.
You began to whisper your loneliness.
At first, he was puzzled. You were allowed to leave the temple grounds. Why didn’t you simply request permission through the Archbishop? A chaperone was all it took.
But then, he noticed something… odd.
Your behavior changed. You lingered in corridors longer than necessary, watching the guards with sharp eyes. Your gaze flitted from corner to corner when you thought no one was watching. You studied the temple’s layout as though trying to memorize every hallway, every path.
Suspicious. Curious. Restless.
Was this normal behavior for humans? Khaslana tried to remember how he had acted as a mortal. But his memories, though vivid in form, felt distant in emotion.
And your prayers changed again. They still asked for his blessings and guidance, but now they sounded… sharper. Each line was laced with the fire of frustration. Threats, almost.
Ah… those suspicious behaviors and those oddly vague yet threatening prayers… You were trying to sneak out. That amused him more than anything.
Cute. He thought, lips curling with dry humor.
Then came the night of your escape.
Khaslana had already planned ahead. He contacted the Archbishop using the stone tablet etched with his sigil, the divine channel between the Vortex and his temple, asking him to gather the priests and priestesses for an urgent “discussion.” The Archbishop, ever dutiful, obeyed. When the clergy assembled that night, expecting celestial orders, Khaslana simply asked how they were doing. No divine proclamations, no rituals. Just… small talk.
With the temple’s attention occupied, he turned his gaze back to you.
There you were — walking the cobbled streets of Okhema in the moonlight, your younger brother trailing behind you, eyes full of wonder. A smile tugged at Khaslana’s lips.
But then… a thief. Quick hands snatched your coin purse and darted through the crowd.
Before Khaslana could think, his body moved. In an instant, he teleported down to the mortal plane, hidden behind a tree in the city’s plaza. The thief was already headed his way, and without effort, Khaslana caught him by the collar, lifting him off the ground like a child.
He retrieved your coin bag and turned toward the sound of your footsteps. You had run after the thief, breathless, face flushed, and worried. Khaslana approached you with a quiet composure, holding the pouch in hand.
“Yours, I believe,” he said, voice steady. Though his pulse might’ve been racing.
“Thank you so much, sir...” you replied, dipping your head politely. His breath caught slightly. Your voice sounded so much clearer now, spoken directly rather than through the haze of prayer.
Then you looked at him expectantly.
Oh. You were waiting for a name.
He blinked once before smiling with effortless charm, “Phainon.”
“Sir Phainon... I can't thank you enough,” you said again, gratitude glowing in your eyes.
Your little brother approached, too, grinning up at him and offering his thanks. Khaslana reached out and ruffled the boy’s hair, warmth blooming in his chest.
He should’ve left then. It was safer that way. But—
“Then... let me repay you. I'll buy you something from the stalls.”
He paused. Considered it. “And if I decline?”
“Then I'll insist.”
There it was. That smile. How could he say no to his wife?
So he agreed, reluctantly, but with a small twist of amusement. You led the way through the colorful rows of vendors and festival lights, your brother bouncing ahead. It had been centuries since he’d stood in a human celebration like this.
His eyes lingered on a stall that sold meat skewers. Oh, those looked heavenly.
Suddenly, you stepped in front of him and ordered two skewers. Without hesitation, you handed one to him, the other to your brother. His hand hesitated as he took the skewer from yours, your fingers brushing his in that brief contact. Warm. Real. He held onto that sensation like it might disappear.
“Thank you, pretty lady.” He smiled.
Your cheeks turned crimson.
Khaslana — no, Phainon — felt something loosen in his chest.
He stayed with you longer than he planned, drawn into the simple joy of watching you laugh, eat, and enjoy yourself. He noticed how your smiles here, in the mortal realm, were fuller than the ones you wore inside the temple.
He wanted more of that.
But then he saw your expression shift after looking at the clock tower. You quickly offered to bring your brother back home. Ah, yes, it was getting late for a youngster like him. He followed you back home, greeted your mother, and stayed silent after. Just watching you interact with your family.
After that encounter, he had tried to dissuade you from leaving so soon. Really, it was fine if you wanted to stay longer. He could just tell the Archbishop to turn a blind eye for tonight.
But then, something you said made him stop in his tracks.
“I can’t. My Husband is… strict.”
His brows knit together. Him? Strict?
“Strict? Really?” He hadn’t meant to sound so offended.
You looked back at him, an eyebrow raised.
“He's a loving husband,” you said with dry sarcasm, the same tone Mydeimos would usually use on him, he notes. “So possessive that I need permission just to walk the streets. Even then, I have to bring a chaperone like I'm a child again.”
Phainon frowned, visibly stung. That wasn’t possessiveness? It was protection. But… maybe he’d misjudged what that protection felt like.
“Maybe he's just... worried. About your safety,” he offered gently.
“If that's the case, he has a strange way of showing it.”
The words landed like a stone in his stomach.
When he walked you to the city gates and watched you disappear into the night, a heaviness settled in his chest. He sighed, teleporting back to the Vortex, where the stars coiled like a divine storm above his head.
The Archbishop was still in his study. Through the sacred stone, Khaslana reached out once more and delivered new instructions — gentler rules, freer movement, and no more chaperones. The Archbishop, though clearly confused, agreed without question.
He owed you that much, at the very least.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Truly, revising the temple’s rules had been the right decision.
You had begun to bloom.
Your voice in prayer softened from its once-frustrated edge to something warmer, more sincere. Each time you entered the temple sanctuary, he could sense it: a calmness in your posture, a gentler rhythm to your words. You spoke to him now not as a distant stranger, but as someone familiar.
You told him about your plans before venturing into town, where you might go, and what you hoped to find. And when you returned, you’d come to the roofed balcony and recounted everything to him. From the people you saw, the food you tried, to the new book you discovered tucked away in a corner stall.
It had become your ritual. And though you didn’t hear his answers, he listened to every word like scripture.
Your frequent visits to Okhema meant he could now meet you — not as Khaslana, the Worldbearing God, but as Phainon.
Still, a quiet fear gnawed at the back of his mind.
What if you came to prefer Phainon? What if the smiling stranger with the white hair and blue eyes, the one who could laugh and tease and walk beside you, eclipsed the unseen god to whom you had been bound?
But those fears melted the day he tried flirting with you in the middle of a market stall, only for you to straighten and remind him, quite firmly, that you were a married woman.
He had laughed, not because of the words, but because of the quiet, overwhelming relief that swelled in his chest.
You still remembered him.
Not just the idea of a husband, but him. Khaslana. The one cloaked in divinity, hidden behind stars and clouded sky. You still held space for him.
After that second encounter, meeting you came more naturally. Your conversations grew longer. He no longer felt the sting of hesitation when you smiled at him, or the jolt of nervousness when your fingers brushed again. And in your evening prayers, you started mentioning Phainon with a kind of amused fondness that made him laugh in the Vortex.
It was adorable hearing you try to hide how much you enjoyed his company.
Whenever you visited the city, he’d always find a way to cross your path. Never too obvious. Never too frequent. But enough. Enough to hear your voice, to see you light up when Atlas tugged on his arm, to walk beside you, even if only for a little while.
He cherished those fleeting moments more than you could ever know.
And when you were back in the temple, fast asleep in your chambers, he would sometimes return in his divine form, a silent shadow bathed in starlight. He would stand at the foot of your bed, watching your chest rise and fall, listening to the soft sighs you made as you dreamed. In those quiet hours, something stirred in his chest — something foreign and familiar all at once. A tenderness and longing he could scarcely name.
You had gotten closer. Perhaps that was why your words on the final night of the festival struck him so deeply.
You had laughed together that evening, walked through bright-lit streets beneath strings of lanterns. But when the topic shifted to your marriage, about the husband you had never seen, your smile dimmed. Your voice cracked, wrapped in quiet sorrow.
You confessed how confused you felt, how hurt you were. How you didn’t understand why he — Khaslana — hadn’t come to see you. And in a low, guarded voice, you asked aloud if he even cared.
He listened, seated beside you as Phainon, heart heavy with guilt. Each word was a knife, though you didn’t know you were placing the blade in his hand. He had wanted to speak. To explain.
To say I do care. I watch over you every day. I listen to every prayer, every breath. I’ve never left your side.
But instead, he defended Khaslana as if he were someone else entirely.
A stranger.
That night, when he returned to the Vortex with questions running through his mind. Should he tell you the truth? Reveal the name behind the face you now trust? Or would it ruin everything you had come to build between you?
No, he’d just have to keep it a secret. Just for a little longer.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
When the Month of Everday rolled in, Phainon had begun answering your prayers more deliberately.
When you sat alone in the gardens, shoulders hunched, eyes faraway, he sent soft-pawed animals to sit with you; a curious chimera here, a fluttering cluster of butterflies there, chirping birds above. Gentle companions — not enough to startle, but enough to soothe.
When you muttered beneath your breath about the suffocating heat, he stirred the air with his fingers, sending winds to cool the sweat from your brow. You never seemed to notice the small cloud that followed you whenever you stepped beyond the temple gates, shielding you from the sun like a loyal servant.
He watched you and thought, Yes, this is enough.
The days had been steady. Almost peaceful.
Until he heard your sobs.
At that moment, he was in the midst of an argument with Mydeimos, a spirited bet over who could lift an entire mountain range faster. Their fists pounded the cliffside as they compared strength like war-hardened brothers.
Your sounds reached him like a whiplash.
It was soft at first. It sounded fragile, but unmistakable.
Then, loud sobbing.
Phainon stilled.
His head jerked slightly, listening. Mydeimos raised a brow at the sudden silence.
“What's the matter—?”
But Phainon was already gone.
He reappeared just behind your parents’ house. The sky above was bright, a contrast to your emotion. And through the walls, your cries tore through him like thunder splitting stone.
“I hate him!”
He froze, eyes wide, and his breath caught in his throat. The words struck like a blow to the chest, and his pupils trembled.
“I hate him.”
No.
No, no, that can’t be right.
He stepped closer, pressing himself against the shadows of the wall, every muscle in his divine body locked in place.
Then your mother’s voice, soft and warning: “Don’t say that, sweetheart. What if he hears you?”
You didn’t hesitate as you answered, “I don’t care! I want him to hear me!”
The air around him cracked.
“I hate him!”
His heart stuttered.
“I hate him!”
Stop... please—
“He left me!”
No. No. I’m right here–!
“I don’t want to go back!”
That sentence hit harder than any divine weapon ever had. For a moment, time twisted. The world stilled. Your voice echoed in his head on a cruel loop, every syllable sharper than the last.
I hate him.
He left me.
I don’t want to go back.
He could no longer hear the muffled protests of your father or the sound of your mother’s arms pulling you in close. None of it registered. All he could hear was you.
The pain was unfamiliar. Foreign and all-consuming.
Why?
Why did you feel this way?
He had given you everything: comfort, safety, freedom. The power to come and go as you pleased. He answered your prayers. Protected you. Watched you. Even the smallest desire, he met with quiet, invisible care.
So why did you hate him?
He vanished once more, light splitting the space where he stood.
Back in the Vortex of Genesis, the stars above spiraled violently, distorted by the storm brewing in his chest. He hovered in the silence of the divine plane, your cries still ringing in his ears, over and over.
The look on your face. The tears that spilled down your cheeks. The grief in your voice.
It was all because of him.
Even when he kept his distance to protect you. Even when he tried to be careful. He still hurts you.
And he didn’t understand.
Phainon’s — no, Khaslana’s — breathing ragged, he fell to his knees. Divine form trembling, hands clenched so tightly the stone beneath him cracked. His heartbeat thundered like war drums in his ears. Mydeimos' spear had pierced his chest once in battle, but it hadn’t hurt like this.
This... this was heartbreak.
Tears welled in his eyes, burning hot. They fell freely, only to sizzle and vanish into steam the moment they touched the sacred ground beneath him.
“You hate… me…” he whispered.
You hate me. You hate me. You hate me.
He repeated it in his mind like a curse, and the storms began to brew.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Okhema had been ravaged by storms for over a week.
Thunder rolled through the heavens day and night, shaking rooftops and soaking the earth with relentless rain. The fields were drowning. Crops began to rot beneath the mud. Work halted, streets emptied, and the people whispered of divine wrath. It was the worst weather Okhema had seen in generations.
High above, Aglaea watched the storm with a quiet frown. The Goddess of Romance was no stranger to divine tantrums; gods and mortals alike threw them when love faltered.
But this one had become… excessive.
Not only had Hyacinthia, Goddess of the Sky, blistered her ears with complaints about the ruined blue of her canvas, but one of Aglaea’s golden threads was trembling. Dangerously so. Nearly fraying at the edge.
A divine-mortal bond. Now that was rare.
Aglaea leaned closer, fingers brushing the glowing weave, noting its resonance. This wasn’t an ordinary thread, tangled from passing crushes or whispered longing. This one pulsed with something ancient and sacred. A thread that should never have been this brittle so soon.
She hummed, amused. “Now… who do you belong to, I wonder?”
Without another word, she vanished from her realm.
In a breath, she stood within the Vortex of Genesis. Stars swirled in slow, infinite spirals, like pain spilled into the void. She walked with grace past the twelve thrones of the Twelve, each grand in their own way.
And there he was.
At the edge of the vast platform, Khaslana stood alone. The Worldbearing God, cloaked in shadow, stared outward into nothing. His broad wings, once radiant with power, now hung heavy behind him. Their gold and amethyst plumage dulled like tarnished glass. The eternal flame of his hair, normally burning like a solar flare, flickered dimly above his brow. Even his halo had lost its luster.
Aglaea paused beside him, her presence warm, “I see Okhema’s having quite the weather — on the sixth month, no less,” she said lightly, her voice breaking the hush.
No response.
She tried again, more pointed this time. “Hyacinthia has come to me to complain that a certain Worldbearing God has been painting over her skies with stormclouds. She says they look like… hm… what was it that she said?” She tapped her chin with a playful smile, “‘a muddy, sulking bruise.’ Quite poetic, don’t you think?”
Khaslana didn’t so much as flinch. His eyes remained fixed on the stars, or perhaps… beyond them.
Aglaea folded her arms beneath her chest. “So… nothing to say about the storms, then?”
Still silence.
Her eyes narrowed, studying him more closely. His face was drawn, the sharp lines of his jaw clenched tight beneath his dim halo. Everything about him—from the slouch of his wings to the rigid set of his shoulders—radiated tension.
“The crops are dying,” she said more gently now. “The streets are flooded. The people of Okhema are starting to wonder what they did to anger their precious god.”
At last, his jaw shifted.
“…Let her complain,” he muttered, voice low and rough as crushed stone.
“Oh, she is,” Aglaea smirked faintly. “But I didn’t come for Hyacinthia.”
She raised her hand, and with a glimmer of divine threadwork, a golden string appeared. It curled in the air between them, one end wrapped around Khaslana’s divine presence, the other trailing far downward, through the layers of the world as if reaching for someone below.
“This thread,” Aglaea said, letting it swirl around her fingers, “has been trembling all week. Do you know how rare it is to see a bond like this? Between a god and a human? This isn’t just affection. It’s something sacred. But right now,” her eyes narrowed, “it’s falling apart.”
Khaslana said nothing, but his brow furrowed deeper. Then, finally, he spoke.
“She said she hated me.”
Aglaea’s eyes softened, a quiet breath leaving her lips. “Ah.”
“I did everything for her,” he said, and though his voice was calm, there was a bewildered ache behind it. “I protected her. Gave her food, shelter, and freedom. Everything she could want. And still…” He looked down at his hands, clenching them slowly. “She said I left her.”
“Well,” Aglaea said carefully, “didn’t you?”
His head snapped toward her, but she didn’t flinch.
“You gave her your temple, your guards, your blessings. But not you. You let her see her family, her brother, but not her husband.”
“I was there,” he said sharply. “I watched her. I listened to every prayer. I shielded her when no one else could.”
“But did you hold her?” Aglaea asked softly.
Her words landed like thunder on Khaslana. He didn’t answer.
“She is human, Khaslana. Mortals aren’t fed by silent devotion. They need to touch, they need voice, and presence. She needs her husband. Not just her god.”
Khaslana looked away.
“I never wanted a bride,” he muttered. “I only answered a prayer… one too steeped in blood and desperation to ignore.”
Aglaea raised an eyebrow. “Then cast her off. Let her go.”
The thread shimmered between them, its glow dimmer than before. He didn’t speak, his jaw tensed, and his fists trembling.
“I can’t,” he said at last, voice cracked.
“Even if I never asked for it, I can’t let her go. I don’t know when it happened, but I can’t imagine the temple without her steps echoing in the halls. I can’t remember what silence was before her voice filled it.”
“She was a burden I never meant to carry,” he whispered, “but now… she’s a weight I don’t know how to set down.”
“Then carry her properly,” she said. “Because if you don’t—she’ll tear herself from your hands just to feel free again.”
Khaslana’s voice turned hard. “You speak as if I could have simply walked into that room. As if lying beside her wouldn’t risk shattering her ribs or scorching her skin.”
Aglaea tilted her head. “Is that truly what you fear?”
He was quiet. Then, softly:
“My form isn’t what it used to be. I’m not some soft-lit statue. My body is lined with cracks. My shoulders are spiked. My hands are claws. I have destroyed armies with the weight of my breath.”
His claws curled against his palm.
“If I touch her… I would ruin her.”
Aglaea was silent for a long breath.
Then she said, “So instead, you let her ruin herself. Wondering what she did wrong. Believing she was unwanted.”
Khaslana’s expression faltered. Barely. But enough to show the storm beneath.
“She hates me.”
“She was lonely,” Aglaea replied, her voice quiet.
He turned from her, “You wouldn’t understand.”
But Aglaea only stepped closer.
“I understand love,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “And I understand what it means to show up, even when it’s terrifying. I’ve seen mortals risk heartbreak, war, even death, just to reach each other.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady and warm, “Your body may be forged from flames, Khaslana. But your soul still longs.”
She stepped back.
“I’ll leave the skies alone for now. But if you let this thread break, the world may not end... but something inside you will.”
And then, like the soft falling of starlight, she vanished, leaving Khaslana alone with his thoughts.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You stood by the window, worry etched into your features as you gazed out at the endless downpour. The storm still hadn’t passed.
For the past week, the rain had come in vicious cycles. It would rage from Lucid Hour to Parting Hour, winds howling, thunder deafening, and rain lashing the windows like angry fists. Then, it would slow to a drizzle during Curtain Fall Hour, only to begin again at Entry Hour the next day.
You were grateful that the corridors connecting your chambers to the temple were covered. Without them, even the simple act of fetching food would have been an ordeal.
Now, wrapped in a blanket, you remained cooped up in your chambers, your fingers curled around the warm fabric to help shield you from the cold. The sound of rain pelting the stone walls had become constant, almost maddening.
Then came a knock at your door.
You blinked, startled, and rushed to answer. Standing in the doorway was the Archbishop, his robes damp at the edges, his face weary but composed.
“Forgive me for coming so suddenly, my child,” He said gently.
You stepped aside without a word, allowing him to enter. He moved with care, as if unsure whether he was intruding.
“You’ve never visited me in my chambers before, Your Excellency,” you said as you shut the door behind him.
He gave a small nod, his hands folding behind his back as he walked a few steps in. “Is something wrong?” You asked, sending a weight in his silence.
He stopped at your question and drew a deep breath. When he turned to face you, his expression was troubled.
“I believe this storm is Lord Khaslana’s doing.”
Your brows furrowed. You stepped closer, clutching your blanket more tightly around your shoulders.
“What makes you think that?” You asked, your voice low.
The Archbishop looked down, hesitating before he met your gaze again. “This has happened before, there would be raging storms and our prayers would take more effort to be heard. And right now… He has not responded to our prayers,” he said, voice subdued. “Nor has he answered any of our calls to commune with him.”
You blinked, silence stretching between you. There was a heavy feeling in your chest.
“There are reports from the city,” he went on, “that the flooding is getting worse. The crops are dying. Food stores are spoiling faster than we can replenish them. Children are falling ill. Transportation has all but stopped.” His shoulder sank. “I fear we may be approaching a crisis if this keeps up.”
His eyes reached yours, weary and pleading. “Have you tried praying or talking to him to stop this storm? Did he answer?”
You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Forgive me, but asking me is pointless.”
You took a step back, your voice tightening. “He’s never responded to me. Not once. He has never spoken, has never appeared. Even if I did pray, he wouldn’t respond.”
The Archbishop’s expression fell, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he stepped forward and gently took both of your hands in his.
“You are his wife,” he said, his voice steady despite the desperation behind it.
You looked away, your jaw clenched. “Only in name.”
He held your hands a moment longer before releasing them. “Try,” was all he said.
Then, with a small bow, he turned and left you standing alone. The silence that followed was deafening.
You bit your lip, frustration burning behind your eyes. Was this storm his answer? Did he hear you that night at your parents’ home, shouting your anger at him?
You let out a low, bitter sigh and dropped onto the edge of your bed. It didn’t matter what you felt. People were suffering, the city drowning, and your family — your people — were in danger.
You had no choice now. You would have to swallow your pride for the sake of Okhema.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was useless.
No matter how many times, in however many ways you tried, your prayers were met with silence. You had offered devotion, tears, your voice hoarse with pleading. And still, nothing. Lord Khaslana remained absent, and with each passing storm-filled day, your anger burned hotter beneath the weight of your helplessness.
How could you not? He’s acting like a child throwing tantrums!
You’ve had enough. If the passive approach didn’t work, you need a more aggressive approach.
You left before dawn. The thunder, for once, had settled to a distant murmur, like a beast sleeping fitfully beneath the clouds. You threw on the thickest cloak you owned, but the rain had already soaked you through the bone before you reached the temple gates.
The guards cried after you, the priestesses stepped into your path in panic, but you didn’t stop. You shook their hands off your arms. Your boots splashed through rising pools of mud as you walked with purpose — not to the city square, not to shelter, but to the hills. To the highest point you could reach, far from protection, far from anyone who might stop you.
Your fingers trembled with cold, your soaked cloak clinging to your back like a second skin. The rain was relentless now, an endless sheet drumming down from the bruised sky. The winds howled against your face, strong enough to nearly topple you off balance with each step.
But you pushed through it anyway.
Wet hair whipped against your cheeks, sticking to your skin. Mud pulled at your feet, but you climbed higher. The temple had long disappeared behind you, and now only the city lights flickered below, blurred by the mist.
By the time you reached the hill’s summit, your breath came in shallow gasps. Every muscle in your body ached, screaming at you. Your lungs felt like it was burning from the cold, and your teeth chattered uncontrollably.
Yet you stood there against the blackened sky. Your chest heaved as you felt the air was heavier.
“Lord Khaslana!” You screamed, the name ripped from your lungs, echoing into the storm. You paused, but no reply came.
The rain struck harder now, angry needles against your skin, “I’ve prayed!” you shouted, louder. “I’ve waited, I’ve begged! But you — you arrogant, absent god! You stayed silent through it all!” Your voice cracked under the weight of months of abandonment.
“You bring storms to punish the people of Okhema just because I said what I felt?!”
Lightning crackled overhead, illuminating the sky for a breathless moment. You didn’t flinch. You glared into the storm as if daring it to answer.
“Oh, send your thunders then! Strike me down if it pleases you!” Your chest rose and fell rapidly as the words poured out in rage and desperation.
“Just stop hiding and face your wife you– you–!” You clenched your fists. Your body trembled from a final, reckless kind of defiance.
“COWARD!” you screamed with all the force your soul could muster.
A blinding light shattered the sky. Thunder cracked loud enough to split stone. Then came the strike.
A bolt of lightning split the earth just ahead of you. The blast threw a gust of wind so strong it forced you a step back, shielding your face with your arms. But when the light faded and the roar quieted—he was there.
He stood tall, towering over you by more than triple your height.
Radiant and terrifying.
Golden wings streaked with violet unfurled behind him like a storm split in half. His body glowed like cracked marble, lines of molten gold spilling from the fractures across his limbs and chest. Spikes jutted from his shoulders, golden and sharp, and his hair blazed like the sun.
His clawed hands flexed at his sides. And those eyes—those burning, golden eyes—pierced through the veil of rain like twin suns, fixed solely on you.
You staggered back in awe, your breath hitching as his presence filled the air like a pressure too great to bear. But before you could speak, the storm around you softened. A dome of warm, golden light shimmered into place above your head, shielding you from the wind and rain. The world fell quiet, save for the sound of your breathing.
You dared a glance upward.
He hovered just above the ground now, slowly lowering himself to stand before you. The closer he came, the more you felt it; his power, his sorrow, his presence pressing against your skin like something tangible. You opened your mouth, but no sound came. Your fury had carried you here, but his silence stole the words you had prepared.
With trembling breath, you forced yourself to stand firm. You could feel droplets of water dripping from your hair, your wet clothes heavy on your body. The wind no longer reached you, and the weight in the air still crushed your chest.
“Stop this storm,” you managed, voice rough. “Please.”
Khaslana’s golden eyes locked onto yours. There was no flicker of warmth in them, no spark of the god you once dreamed of meeting. His voice when he answered was low, almost cold.
“You’re asking me? The god you hated?” He said,
The sound of his voice rooted you in place. It was the first time you’d heard it, and yet something about it was painfully familiar. A memory brushed the edge of your thoughts, but the coldness in his tone and the tension in your spine prevented you from figuring it out.
“Oh for goodness sake,” you hissed, rolling your eyes as your chest heaving from anger, “You never responded to my prayers! You never even looked at me! What was I supposed to think?”
Khaslana’s eyes narrowed, the gold in them flaring like the sun. “I did respond,” He said, “You just didn’t notice.”
You blinked, caught off guard by his words. “What…?”
“I sent you winds when the sun was too harsh. I made the guards fall asleep when you returned late from sneaking out of the temple. I changed the temple rules after your complaints. I sent you critters to accompany you in the gardens. I was there, every moment, watching. Protecting.”
Your breath caught in your throat. A thousand little things that never made sense now returned like puzzle pieces falling into place.
“But you weren’t present,” you said, frustrated. “They said you stopped visiting after our wedding. You never came to see me. Never… touched me. Never spoke to me.”
“I did,” Khaslana said, quieter now. “Just… not in this form.”
And in a quiet, golden shimmer, his divine shape began to fade. The crackling marble softened into flesh. The halo dimmed. The claws became gentle fingers. The glowing eyes, still golden, now carried something more—vulnerability.
Phainon stood before you.
You gasped, eyes widening as the realization hit you like thunder, no wonder his face and voice was familiar. “Phainon… You were Phainon this whole time?!”
He frowned, looking away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked, voice breaking. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“When we first met,” Phainon murmured, “there were too many people. I didn’t plan to talk to you for long. Then... I panicked.”
“Panicked?” you repeated, hurt blooming in your chest like fire. “You’re a god, and you panicked?”
“I did,” he answered, a note of defensiveness creeping into his voice. “And the longer I stayed quiet, the harder it became to fix it. You smiled at Phainon… but you said you hated Khaslana. How could I show you I was both?”
“Then why didn’t you just visit me—like you’re supposed to? As my husband?”
“Because I was afraid!” he shouted as a sound of muffled thunder cracked from behind him.
“I was afraid,” he said, quieter now, almost desperate. “Afraid that if I touched you, I’d break you. My true form… It’s wrong. It’s all jagged edges and burning weight. I’m not like you. I remember what it was like to be human, but I don’t understand those memories anymore. I don’t understand those feelings.”
His voice broke slightly. “I didn’t want to hurt you. So I kept my distance. I thought if I gave you the world, you wouldn’t come looking for the god you were promised.”
Something snapped in you at those words. Your hands curled into fists, trembling. And then, before you even realized it, you struck him in the chest.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop you.
You hit him again, your voice ragged with pain. “I never asked for the world! I asked for you!”
You hit him once more, sobs escaping you now in messy gasps. “I waited. Every day. I waited for you to come. To say something. Anything. And instead, you watched me from your sky like some—some coward! I thought I was the problem. I thought I wasn’t worthy of you.”
Your fists weakened, falling limply against his chest as your legs gave out. You collapsed against him, burying your face into his shoulder.
“I was so lonely,” you whispered, brokenly. “So alone.”
Phainon didn’t speak. He stood still, hands trembling slightly at his sides as you sobbed into his shoulder, your pain crashing into him like waves. Each crack in your voice struck something tender in him — deeper than any spear, sharper than any blade. And though he tried to stay composed, he couldn’t stop the single tear that slipped from his cheek.
It fell onto your hair with a soft hiss, evaporating before it touched your skin.
Then another fell. And another.
You heard it, the faint sizzle of heat, and slowly, you pulled away to look at him.
His brow was furrowed, his mouth parted in a quiet breath, and his blue eyes were wet and aching. The tears continued to fall and vanish into vapor, but he didn’t hide them. He let you see every drop of sorrow, every fracture of regret written into his face.
“Forgive me,” he whispered, voice hoarse.
Unbeknownst to either of you, the storm outside the golden shield had eased. The sky was still bruised with clouds, but the wind had softened, and the thunder no longer roared.
You wiped your own tears away with a trembling hand, then reached for his face. With slow, deliberate care, you brushed the tears from his cheeks, fingertips cool and soft against the heat of his skin. The contact made him flinch, not from cold, but from the gentleness, the grace of being touched by you in kindness after everything.
You took a deep, shuddering breath and looked away for a moment. Then, voice raw but steady, you spoke.
“You hurt me,” you started, “So much that… there were nights I thought about leaving you.”
A bitter chuckle slipped from your lips, dry and hollow. When you looked back at him, you expected anger or indifference. But what met your gaze was something far more fragile.
His face was stricken. His eyes were wide, devastated, like a child who had just broken something precious and didn’t know how to fix it. Your words had pierced him in a place not even divinity could shield.
“Do you want me to leave?” you asked, quieter now. “If being married to me is just… a burden to carry, if I’m something that makes you uncomfortable —”
“No!” Phainon’s voice rose sharply, full of panic, as he stepped forward and caught your arms, holding them firmly but not harshly. His grip trembled, as if afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
“I—” he faltered, eyes searching yours.
“I never asked for this marriage, no. But meeting you as Phainon… being with you that way — it changed everything.”
His voice the softened, almost trembling as he continued, “You made me feel something I hadn’t felt in centuries. You made me imagine a life where we weren’t bound by pacts or divine duty. A life where we were just two strangers who met by chance and fell in love slowly without fear.”
Phainon’s smile flickered, touched with ache and hope. “You made me feel human again.”
“So no,” he said, firmer now. “I don’t want you to leave. Not now. Not ever.”
You stared at him, stunned, then slowly your expression softened. A new tear slipped down your cheek — not from grief, but relief.
“I see…” You murmured.
Phainon quickly released you, noticing your flinch too late. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did I hurt you again?”
You shook your head. “No,” you whispered. “I’m… relieved.”
Above you, the sun began to pierce through the clouds, golden light filtering softly across the hill.
Phainon let out a shaky breath of relief. “Then…” he began, voice tender, “can we start over?”
You hesitated only for a moment before nodding. “Let’s start over. No need to rush.”
Then, with a faint smile and glistening eyes, you reached out your hand to him—not as a formality, but as an offering. Your fingers were cold, wrinkled from rain, yet steady.
He blinked, taken aback by the gesture. A handshake?
But the moment he took your hand, it no longer felt like just a handshake.
You gently curled your fingers around his and pulled his hand to your chest, just above your heartbeat. “I’m your wife,” you whispered, your voice warm and trembling. “It’s nice to finally meet you… truly.”
His eyes softened as he lowered his head, pressing a reverent kiss to your knuckles. His lips lingered there a moment longer than expected, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your skin, the texture of this promise, the shape of a new beginning.
When he looked up, he smiled.
“I’m Phainon,” he said gently.
You tilted your head. “Not Khaslana?”He held your hand a little tighter, “Khaslana bears the weight of the world. But when I’m with you… I’m not holding the world. I’m holding you.”
CHAPTER V
When he heard you sneeze on the hill, his expression shifted instantly to worry. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around you, holding you firmly against his chest. In a blink, the storm vanished from your senses. There was no more wind, no more rain, only the sudden warmth of your chambers and the soft scent of cedar and rose oil clinging to the walls.
You blinked in surprise, barely catching your breath as he guided you gently toward the washroom.
“Take a hot bath, quickly,” he said, already unfastening your soaked cloak. “You’ll catch a fever like this. I need to take care of a few things first—Hyacinthia’s going to have my wings for the skies I ruined.”
And with that, he vanished.
Just like that.
You stood there in silence for a long moment, the empty space where he had been already cold. The pain that flared in your chest was sharp, instinctive—not as deep as before, but still a ghost of the hurt you'd carried for months. You pressed a hand to your heart.
No. You had made peace with him. You had seen his tears. His heart. You had both made a choice to begin again.
Still…
You sneezed again—sharper this time.
You sighed, stripping off the damp layers clinging to your skin. Your fingers moved quickly as you turned on the hot water, steam already beginning to rise around the marble basin.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Phainon returned to your shared chambers not long after Parting Hour, the quiet hum of his powers still clinging to his presence. His expression was soft but worn, likely from appeasing Hyacinthia and announcing his return to the temple priests. You heard from the priestesses earlier that the temple had rejoiced, and the Archbishop was moved to tears when Phainon’s voice finally answered the ritual prayers.
Inside your room, the air was warm. You had just finished towelling off your damp hair, your night robe loose around your frame as you combed your fingers through the tangles. The sound of the door opening behind you made you turn slightly.
Phainon approached with a tentative smile. “Sorry for making you wait,” he said as he made his coat vanish with a shrug of his shoulders, the materials disappearing into soft golden dust.
You arched a brow and gave him a small, teasing smile. “Only half a year. Barely noticed,” you said with a playful roll of your eyes before turning toward the bed.
Phainon let out a breathless sigh, following behind you with a dramatic pout as you perched at the edge of the mattress. He sat beside you, close enough for your knees to brush.
After a short silence, he cleared his throat. “So…” he said as his eyes nervously flickered between you and the bed.
“We don’t have to rush anything, Phainon,” you said before he could get too tangled in his own nerves. “Besides, I’m not spending the night with someone I barely know.”
His lips parted as if to protest, but you lifted a hand before he could. “And don’t argue that I know you because of the times we spent together. I know Phainon, the human version—the friend. But you? As my husband?” You gave a soft shrug. “That’s a whole different story.”
Phainon looked a little deflated at first, but then he smiled. It was a quiet, grateful kind of smile. “That sounds fair. Getting to know each other properly… That sounds nice.”
And so you talked. For hours.
The two of you curled into the bed, at first upright against the pillows, then slowly sinking into the comfort of the covers as the conversation stretched into the night. You told him about your childhood. You spoke of your fears, your petty dislikes, and your odd preferences.
Phainon, for his part, opened up in ways you didn’t expect. He told you about the earliest memories he had when he first became human, how he used to live in a place called Aedes Elysiae, which was surrounded by fields of wheat as far as the eye could see. He described his affinity for antiques and how he had a hobby of collecting them back then.
You laughed, cried a little, and at some point, you both lay facing each other under the shared blankets, your fingers tracing idle shapes against the fabric between you.
In the days that followed, life began to bloom around you again.
Phainon kept his promise. He was no longer just a god hiding behind the sky. He became a presence, warm and tangible. He walked with you through the temple gardens, sat beside you during meals, and occasionally dragged you just to lie in the sun.
He asked you questions often, about your dreams, your moods, your thoughts on every little thing. As if trying to memorize you in real time.
He formally met your parents again. This time, not as a stranger cloaked in mystery, but as your husband. You nervously explained everything to your family, how Phainon and Khaslana were the same person, and how things were different now. Your parents exchanged looks, and your brother seemed to be more excited, but overall, they were overjoyed to see you smiling again.
Your father did apologize for threatening to kill him once, though Phainon simply laughed and said, “I genuinely don’t remember what you said. I was too busy panicking.”
There were still days when he was called to perform his duties as the Deliverer, but every night, without fail, he returned to you. Sometimes late, sometimes exhausted, but always with the same gentle smile and whispered “good night” against your hair.
Tonight, he returned to you in his divine form.
Though he carried himself with his usual solemn dignity, there was no denying the weight on his shoulders. His movements were slower, the glow of his halo a little dimmer, and the golden lines within his fractured marble skin shimmered less brightly than usual.
Phainon rarely used this form in your presence, always quick to shift back to the human face you had grown familiar with. But when he moved to do just that, his hands already glowing with the telltale light of transformation, you stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Wait,” you said gently. “Stay like this. I want to see you… Really see you.”
His glowing eyes flickered with hesitation, but after a long breath, he nodded and let the light fade. Then, without a word, he lowered himself onto the floor, sitting cross-legged so that he could be closer to your eye level. Even so, his form was enormous, vast in its presence.
You reached forward, both hands rising to cradle his face. You have to admit it took you effort to do so. The moment your fingers made contact, Phainon closed his eyes. His expression softened, almost like he was savoring the contact.
You marveled at the texture of his skin — it was pale gray like the statues in the public garden, but far warmer beneath your touch. Your fingers traced one of the fine, golden cracks that ran along his shoulders.
“Do the cracks hurt?” you asked.
Phainon opened his eyes halfway, a breath escaping him.
“No,” he replied quietly, “They don’t.”
“Ah, okay. That’s good.” You murmured. “They kind of look like they did.”
Your touch wandered, now to his fingers. His claws were long, sharp, and metallic gold. You turned his palm upward and traced the ridges along it with your thumb. He watched you in silence until a soft chuckle broke free from his chest.
You looked up, narrowing your eyes at him. “What?”
His smile was small but sincere. “Nothing. It’s just… It’s endearing — you asking if the cracks hurt.”
You huffed and looked back down at his claws. “I’m comparing you to a human body. If a human cracked like that, they’d be in excruciating pain.”
He hummed in amusement, eyes glinting with affection. You let your touch travel again, to the base of his wings. They were breathtaking—wide, arching structures of gold and violet. From afar, they looked feathered, but up close, you saw the sharp, blade-like edges to them, each feather-like sliver layered with precision. They shifted slightly under your hand, fluid despite their rigidity.
He noticed you staring and shifted awkwardly, eyes flicking away for a moment.
“Am I… scary?” he asked, voice low, uncertain.
You smiled at him, fingers tucking a strand of glowing hair behind his ear.
“When you appeared to me during the storm? Absolutely.” You laughed softly. “But now? You look absolutely divine.”
He stilled under your touch, eyes widening slightly as you leaned forward. With careful intent, you pressed a kiss just beneath his left eye.
Phainon froze.
He blinked as you pulled back, your cheeks warming as you began to mumble an apology. “Sorry—I just couldn’t help myse—whoa!”
He tugged you gently forward, hand firm around your wrist. You gasped at the sudden closeness, your face just a breath away from his.
“Do it again,” he said. His voice was quiet, but filled with something desperate and hungry. His eyes searched yours, filled with longing and disbelief, like he didn’t think he was worthy of what you’d just given him.
Your heart raced. Still blushing, you leaned forward again and placed another kiss on the other cheek.
“Again,” he whispered, his grip steady.
So you did. You kissed his forehead. Then the bridge of his nose. Then the top of one of his ears. Each touch was soft, reverent. You moved slowly across his face, offering gentle affection like a balm over wounds unseen. As you kissed the curve of his jaw, you swore you heard his wings flutter.
You stopped just short of his lips, both of you breathless now. His eyes were locked onto yours, wide and filled with quiet pleading. Your gaze dropped to his mouth, then back to his eyes.
And with a quiet courage, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his.
It was quick. Soft. Awkward in the way all first kisses are. You pulled back, your cheeks burning, and your hands covered your face.
He chuckled.
You peeked between your fingers to see what he was doing, but before you could say anything, he moved forward, his voice brushing your ear like wind across a harp string.
“My turn.”
In a blink, you felt the world around you shift.
You barely had time to gasp before you felt yourself being cradled by the familiar softness of your bed. The linens cushioned your fall as your back met with the mattress. And above you, Phainon — still in his divine form — hovered.
His immense body caged you gently, one hand braced beside your head, the other reaching up to brush your cheek with a touch so impossibly careful, it made your heart ache. His golden eyes were darkened by something deep and unreadable as they scanned your face, searching every inch like he was trying to memorize you all over again.
You swallowed, your breath catching when he tilted your chin up with his clawed finger, nudging your gaze to meet his, and then he leaned in and kissed you.
It was different now.
Even though he was careful, his lips dwarfed yours, overwhelming and unfamiliar in their shape and weight. You tried to match him, but it was clumsy, the angles imperfect. You shifted under him, trying to adjust, but it only made your nerves more jittery.
Phainon must have noticed. With a soft hum of understanding, he shifted course. His lips trail down the curve of your jaw, then to your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You gasped when you felt his mouth on the delicate spot just beneath your ear.
He kissed slowly, reverently. That is… until your reaction changed him.
Your gasp made him pause, then lean in again, this time with more intent. His lips pressed firmer, then parted. His tongue brushed your skin.
And then, he bites.
It wasn’t harsh, but it sent a sharp jolt of pleasure through your body, so unexpected it drew another sound from you, softer this time. Phainon exhaled against your throat like he’d found something precious. And then he began again, mouth moving along your neck with a hunger that wasn’t just physical; it was need, longing, the weight of months unspoken and untended.
But he was heavy. His divine body, though restrained, pressed down on you with weight you hadn’t realized until now. Your arms trembled beneath him as his kisses grew more intense, and you could barely catch your breath between the sensations.
“P-Phainon…” you managed, your voice small, but he didn’t stop. He was lost in you, in the way you sounded, the way you felt under him. His mouth grazed lower, teeth brushing your collarbone.
“W-wait!” you finally gasped, louder this time, your hand pressing gently against his chest.
He froze immediately. He pulled back with a worried expression, his clawed fingers rising hesitantly as if afraid he’d broken you.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, voice quiet, eyes flicking between your face and the red marks blooming along your neck. “Did I hurt you?”
“No, It’s—”
“Then… do you not want to…?” He asked again, voice careful.
“No!” you said quickly, your cheeks burning as you turned your face away in embarrassment. “I just… I mean, it’s not that I don’t want to… It’s just — your size…”
For a moment, he didn’t understand. Then, realization dawned in his eyes. He blinked once, twice, and then looked down at himself, still in his celestial form.
“Oh,” he murmured, “Forgive me.”
In a pulse of golden light, his form shimmered and then shifted.
Where divinity once loomed, now sat Phainon. He was still radiant, still beautiful, but wholly human. He was shirtless, his skin glowing faintly from the residual of the transformation, the muscles of his chest rising and falling with each breath.
There was a flicker of nervousness in his blue eyes as he glanced at you.
“Better?” he asked softly.
Your gaze had wandered without permission, drawn to the definition of his chest, the lines of his collarbone, the familiar face now so close. You met his eyes again, your breath catching in your throat, unable to hide the flush on your cheeks.
Phainon picked up where he had left off, his touches reverent, slow, as if trying to memorize every inch of you through the warmth of his hands. His fingers traced along your sides with care, learning the curve of your waist and the rise and fall of your breath.
He leaned in again, placing kisses along your collarbone before slipping the fabric of your nightgown off your shoulders.
You felt the cool air brush your skin, but it was his mouth that truly made you shiver. He pressed his lips to the swell of your chest, then just above your heart, each kiss more deliberate than the last. His mouth moved lower, a soft sigh leaving your lips when his tongue flicked across your bud teasingly.
Your fingers slid into his hair, gently tugging when he bit down with a soft pressure. Your breath hitched, a quiet moan slipping free, but you instinctively held back.
Phainon noticed.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression pinched with confusion, and just the faintest trace of a pout on his lips. “Why are you hiding your sounds from me?” he asked, voice low and tender.
You averted your gaze, cheeks flushed. “I just… I don’t want to be too loud.”
His frown deepened. “Why?”
You hesitated, then whispered, “What if someone hears?”
Phainon’s gaze softened at your words, though there was still a flicker of amusement behind it. He leaned forward and placed a quick kiss on your lips.
“They won’t,” he said with a chuckle. “We’re far enough from the temple for that. And even if someone did…” He gave you a teasing look. “This is my temple, isn’t it? Shouldn’t I be allowed to do as I please in my own domain?”
You opened your mouth to argue, but before you could, his hand had dipped lower, fingers skimming along the soft flesh of your center. The sudden sensation caught you off guard, and a moan escaped your lips, sharper than before and unrestrained.
Phainon paused, smiled against your cheek, and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.
“There it is,” he murmured. “That’s the sound I wanted to hear.”
He didn’t stop. His movements now grew more assured, guided by every breathless sound that escaped your lips. Each time you gasped, his gaze flickered to your face, watching your expression. When your body would jolt, reacting to a particularly sensitive spot he had touched, Phainon would smile softly. A feeling of pride bloomed in his chest as if he had just uncovered a secret.
He leaned down to drown your voices in him, and slowly, he pushed his fingers in. His fingers moved with a pace—long, steady, and unrelenting. Each touch sent a pulse of warmth coursing through you. One had gripped his arm, while the other found its way into his hair, fingers curling just enough force to draw a low breath from him. He leaned closer, welcoming the contact as though your need anchored him just as much as his touch unraveled you.
“P-Phainon…” You whined, and he answered with a kiss to your forehead.
“Hm? Does it feel good?” He asked, still pushing his fingers in at a slow pace.
You nod your head, “I–I need, mmh, more…”
“More? Are you sure?” Phainon asked as he adjusted his position, resting on his side while his other hand lay beneath you, hugging you closer.
“Yes, p-please…” You managed to voice out.
Phainon let out a breath before inserting another finger in. Your body arched towards his chest, and a high-pitched, strangled moan escaped you.
“Does it hurt?” He asked, planting kisses on your face.
“I’m okay…” You huffed, “Keep going.. Just… go slow…” You said.
“Okay,” he whispered, following your directions.
He moved his hands slowly and sensually, carefully checking your reactions to see any signs of discomfort. Then, after a few minutes, you nod your head.
“Okay… you can go a little faster.”
With that, Phainon picked up the pace of his fingers, curling them when he was deep enough. The rhythm of his fingers sent warmth blooming to your core, a rising tide sensation that left your breath stuttering.
You could no longer hold back the soft, broken sounds that spilled from your lips. Your fingers clenched tighter around his arm, nails digging into his skin in a desperate bid to stay grounded.
But Phainon didn’t flinch. If anything, he leaned into your closeness, entranced by the way your face contorted with unguarded pleasure.
With Phainon’s quick fingers, your body finally gave in to the building tension. The knot inside you snapped with a wave of release, your breath catching, his name escaped your lips in a cracked whisper. He watched you ride your high, his gaze filled with wonder, as though your unraveling was the most sacred thing he’d ever witnessed.
As you came down, your lashes fluttered open. Phainon leaned in, peppering your cheeks with gentle kisses, his hair brushing your skin and drawing a quiet giggle from you.
“I take it you had a good time?” he asked, voice playful but laced with affection.
You rolled your eyes at him fondly and reached up to trace his cheek with your fingers. “I did… thanks to you,” you murmured, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth.
Phainon moved to hover over you again, deepening the kiss with growing need. His hips moved slowly against yours, his breath growing heavier. You gasped as he pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours.
“Do you want to continue?” he asked, voice thick with restraint.
You nodded, more than ready, and pulled him close once more. Somewhere in the haze of kisses and wandering hands, you noticed him fumbling with his pants—an amusing contrast to his usual effortless elegance. But before you could comment, his body pressed against yours in full, his form settling into yours with a heat that stole your breath.
He paused, eyes locked with yours. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” you whispered, heart pounding.
Phainon leaned in, resting his forehead to yours, breathing with you, grounding both of you. He finally pushed his hips forward slowly and measured. You held onto him tightly, overwhelmed by the stretch. Phainon let out quiet sighs against your neck, he pulled out before pushing back into you.
Your tightness around him was heavenly, and he’d been to heaven before.
As he rocked his hips into yours, you’d open your eyes to look at him. Small flickers of golden light danced around the corner of your vision. Every now and then, his divine form would slip through — his eyes would shift from sky blue to golden ones, even as far as only turning golden in one eye.
Soft golden flames would appear on his shoulder every time he reached a certain spot inside you, his hair would pulse from his usual white ones to his blonde ones. His voice, once deep and steady, faltered into quiet groans and murmurs of your name. Praising you, telling you how good he felt.
You kissed him again, anchoring him to you. “I love you, Phainon.”
His breath caught, but his hips still moved. When your eyes met, there was nothing hidden in his gaze. Just awe.
“I love you too,” he whispered, voice almost breaking.
With another kiss, he quickened his pace to chase your highs. The world around you blurring into quiet gasps and muffled moans, until nothing remained but warmth, closeness, and the stars flickering in his eyes.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It was unusual to wake up to Phainon still beside you.
His body was warm against yours, his arms resting loosely around your waist in a quiet embrace. Before this, you would open your eyes to find him already sitting at the edge of the bed or by your desk, greeting you with a quiet “good morning,” already dressed.
But not this morning.
This morning, the golden sunlight filtered softly through the curtains, touching his bare skin like a blessing. The light kissed the curve of his shoulder, the gentle line of his jaw, illuminating the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. You took in the sight carefully, as if afraid that moving too quickly would ruin this rare moment.
You turned on your side to face him, your body still aching from last night. You gaze across the angles of his face. His lashes were long, shadowing his cheeks with each breath, and you caught yourself smiling, well, perhaps a little jealous of how effortlessly beautiful he was.
Your fingers reached up, slow and gentle, to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The softness of his hair against your skin made something tighten in your chest. It was the feeling of the weight of everything it took to reach this moment. The silence, the missteps, the months of loneliness, of sleeping on this very bed with nothing but questions in your heart.
And now, here he was. Real and warm. Sleeping beside you like he belonged there all along.
His brows twitched slightly, and then, with a small breath, his eyes fluttered open.
Those familiar blue eyes looked at you now with a different softness. They locked onto yours, and he didn’t say anything at first, as if trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream.
From where he lay, the morning light behind you framed you like a painting. Your hair was still tousled from sleep, your eyes a little puffy, the wrinkles of your smile faint. To him, there was no sight more divine than this. Nothing could rival the simple beauty of waking up to you.
“Good morning,” you whispered, your voice soft.
“Good morning,” he replied, his voice still hoarse with sleep but still laced with the same tenderness he had shared with you last night.
You reached for his hand beneath the covers, and he met you halfway as he curled his fingers around yours without hesitation.
The silence stretched between you, but this time, it was warm. It was the sound of reconciliation, of finally being seen.
You rested your forehead against his and closed your eyes. You know there are still roads you’ll need to go through in the future. There would still be moments of misunderstanding, of learning how to love each other more. But now, you weren’t afraid of the road ahead.
Summary: You were promised to him as a child. You were raised within temple walls, trained to serve, to revere, and to love the god you would marry. But love between a mortal and a god was never meant to be easy. Especially when he never showed up.
But... It was all worth it.
Notes: Hey, so uh, if you see this first, I recommend you read this fic before this one, otherwise it won't make sense hehe. With this, To Love The Burning Sun has come to a close. Please look forward to my future projects (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ
Side Story I
“Are you sure we won’t get caught?” Arielle whispered, her voice barely louder than the rustle of leaves. She kept glancing nervously over her shoulder, eyes locked on the grand doors of the temple’s main prayer hall—the very room the three of you were supposed to be kneeling in, chanting verses.
“Don’t worry about it~” Fortuna said with a dismissive wave, flipping her braid over one shoulder. “We’ve done this a hundred times.” She jerked her chin toward you and the tree.
You stood at the base of the old fig tree, squinting up into its thick tangle of branches. Your fingertips brushed the bark, testing for the dampness.
Good grip, you thought as you gave a satisfied nod. “Alright, just like before. Follow my lead.”
Without another word, you hoisted yourself up, sandals scraping against the bark and trunk pressing into your palms. The muscle memory guided you as you put your left foot on the knot and your right hand on the branch just above you. You have to admit it didn’t look elegant, but hey, it worked.
“I-I really think we should head back,” Arielle said, wringing her hands at the base of the tree. She looked as if she’d rather face the head priestess than climb a tree.
“If you’d rather spend the entire Lucid Hour rewriting verses we’ve all memorized since we were ten, then, by all means,” You said, not even glancing down as you climbed higher. “But I’m going to see what Okhema has to offer today.”
Fortuna snorted with laughter and grabbed a low branch, pulling herself up with ease. “Come on, Elle. You can’t live in fear forever.”
You reached the branch that jutted over the temple wall and inched across it, balancing carefully as the leaves brushed your face. With practiced motion, you swung your legs over the edge, perched like the birds you often see.
“See you on the other side,” you whispered to them and jumped.
You landed on the grassy slope with a soft thud. A pulse of victory surged through you as you turned and threw a grin up to your friends. “Easy!”
Fortuna followed with a fluid leap, landing with the grace of someone who was clearly enjoying the rebellion a little too much. She brushed off her hands and turned around t look at Arielle.
Meanwhile, the girl had just managed to crawl to the top of the wall. She sat there frozen, hands gripping the edge of the wall as she looked down with wide eyes.
“Come on!” You called up, hands cupped around your mouth. “You’re not going to die!”
“I’m not so sure,” Arielle muttered.
After a lot of coaxing and a little peer pressure, she slid off the edge with a squeal that made a few birds fly from the nearby trees. She landed in a clumsy heap, dress tangled around her knees. Her face was bright red as she stood and attempted to dust herself off with whatever dignity she could salvage.
“See? You survived!” Fortuna grinned.
“Barely,” you added with a snicker, patting Arielle’s shoulder as she groaned. “Let’s go. The market’s waiting!”
“What about your dad? What if he finds out?” Fortuna asked.
“My mom visited yesterday and told me to pray for him during his travels to Akashic. He won’t be back for a while.” You shrugged.
As you led them down the winding footpath away from the temple, the city of Okhema opened before you. Stalls lined the cobbled streets, bursting with the colors of fruits, silk, painted trinkets, and books with cracked spines and questionable titles. The sweet and savory smell of food filled your nostrils. Children ran between carts, laughing.
You sighed, breathing in the air.
The three of you browsed and bartered, your pockets nearly empty but your curiosity overflowing. You spent your last few coins on skewers and sizzling meat. You pointed to a quiet corner near the fountain, and the others followed as you sat and enjoyed your hard-won lunch.
Just as you raised your skewer to your lips, a familiar sound froze you in place. A sharp clearing of the throat.
You turned, stomach dropping to the nether realm.
Your father stood there in his full military uniform, arms crossed, brow raised in a way that could silence a battlefield. His presence casts a shadow bigger than the temple walls themselves.
Fortuna’s smile vanished, and Arielle’s soul was probably already turning herself in to Lady Castorice in the nether realm by how pale she turned.
“What a surprise,” your father said dryly, voice flat with disapproval. “Didn’t realize temple training involved grilled meat and street musicians.”
“We were just — um — there was— I—” You tried,
Your father didn’t even blink. “All three of you. Back to the temple. Now.”
The walk back felt longer than your journey out. Heads ducked, feet dragging, you followed him like prisoners returning to their sentence. You glanced at Arielle and Fortuna. All three of you wore the same expression of dread and resignation.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Wow,” Phainon murmured, resting his head lazily on the pillow beside you. “Didn’t take you for a troublemaker, with how obedient and polite you acted when you first came here.” his chuckle was soft, almost amused, his eyes half-lidded with post-bliss after another intimate session.
You snorted, your cheek pressed against the plush pillow as your body sank deeper into the mattress, your bare skin still warm beneath the blankets you both now shared.
“Yeah, well… I learned my lesson. After that last escapade, the temple enforced stricter rules just for me. And my father? He made sure I got my fair share of punishment.” You exhaled through your nose, the memory still vivid enough to make you wince.
“My rebelling teenage days were cut short; the ‘Elusive Priestess’ was no more.” You dramatically cried.
Phainon sighed, “I don’t think that’s something you should be boasting about… especially to me,” he commented.
“Don’t worry. Just because I used to sneak out of prayers doesn’t mean I forgot my devotion to you. All those stories they told about how brave and loving you were… they really did something to me.” You smiled wistfully, eyes distant with the memory of the Khaslana you once imagined.
Though, to be fair, there were times when it felt like you’d been coerced into loving him. By putting you in that temple, learning those prayers, lessons, and praises sung in his name… it had felt less like love and more like obligation.
But the man before you now was everything you had once dared to hope for. Kind, flawed, warm. You hadn’t been wrong about him. The path to get here had just been… a little rougher than expected.
Phainon shifted beside you, turning to his side, his bare chest in full view, his white hair slightly tousled as he rested his head on his hand.
“But wait,” He said, narrowing his eyes as the thought struck him, “Didn’t you say your father was supposed to be on a campaign? How was he even in the city that day?”
You smiled faintly.
“Funny you ask that. He actually said something weird at the time — he swore in your name, mind you — that a mountain had suddenly appeared where there wasn’t one before. He and his men had taken that road dozens of times, and it had always been flat. The maps didn’t show any mountains nearby either. He had to turn around and rethink the entire route.”
You laughed quietly to yourself at the memory. Your father’s face was twisted in frustration, gripping a map in one hand and cursing the magically-appearing-mountain under his breath.
But Phainon didn’t laugh.
You turned your head, “Phainon?”
He was quiet, his expression blank for a moment before he blinked, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. “Where exactly did you say your father was going again?”
“Akashic…” you replied slowly, narrowing your eyes.
Phainon let out a soft laugh and shook his head in disbelief. “Oh dear,” he muttered under his breath, then looked at you again. “Okay, this is going to sound… bad, but do you know Mydeimos, the God of Strife?”
You nodded, “Yeah…”
“So… we sort of had this wager a while back. He claimed I couldn’t move one of Georios’ immovable mountains in a day. He said that if I failed, he’d get to rule Okhema for a full year.”
You stared at him, “You’re joking.”
“Nope. I took the challenge. Moved the mountain in under half a day. Tossed it near Akashic because it seemed out of the way. Crisis averted, Okhema remains under my jurisdiction.”
Your jaw dropped.
“So… you’re telling me,” you said slowly, “that my father wouldn’t have caught me sneaking out if you hadn’t moved an entire mountain into his path?!”
Phainon smiled nervously, inching slightly away from you. “Technically— yes?”
You squinted at him. “You absolute—!” Your hand shot out, grabbing his ahoge. That one rebellious strand that always sprang from his head.
“OW— Hey!” He yelped.
“Do you have any idea how many verses I had to write?!”
“OW! Not so hard!”
“My fingers were cramped for a month!”
“Forgive me!”
“You think a god would have some foresight,” you muttered through gritted teeth, twisting the strand lightly.
“Wait– why are you blaming me? It’s your fault for sneaking out– OW!”
With one final tug, you let go, watching him collapse dramatically onto the pillows with his hands shielding his hair. His eyes were glassy, and his lower lip jutted out in the most exaggerated pout you’d ever seen— like a kicked puppy.
“Come here,” you mumbled, pulling him into your arms.
Phainon let out a pleased hum as you wrapped yourself around him, his face nuzzling your naked chest. You placed a firm kiss on his ahoge, slightly harder than necessary, and he chuckled again.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked.
“Barely.”
You kissed his temple, your earlier annoyance melting into soft affection. Your fingers combed through his white hair, soothing the pain. He had relaxed completely, limbs tangling with yours under the blanket.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your father let out a long sigh as he crossed his arms, watching you from across the room. You sat at the low table in the living room, hunched over a worn sheet of parchment, your cramped finger scrawling the same sentence, what must have been the thirtieth time.
I will not try to sneak out again.
The scratch of your pen was the only sound filling the air, save for the occasional huff of frustration you would let out. This was supposed to be your weekend of fun! You can even hear the sound of laughter from outside your house. Instead, you were trapped indoors under your father’s surveillance, paying the price for your latest stunt.
Your mother appeared beside him, placing a cool drink into his hands. She settled into the seat next to him with a small laugh, her eyes glinting with amusement as she glanced at your miserable figure.
“What am I going to do with her?” your father muttered, not loud enough for you to hear but perfectly audible to his wife.
“I heard they found a map of ‘possible escape routes’ scribbled behind her desk at the table,” your mother replied, unable to stop the fond smirk tugging at her lips. “She definitely inherited your strategic genius.”
Your father groaned, rubbing at his temples as if the memory of his youth physically pained him. “And what does she do with it? She uses it to scale walls and dodge prayer sessions! I just want her to be ready… her future’s already been decided because of me. The least I can do is prepare her.”
His voice was softer and quieter, heavy with guilt.
Your mother’s gaze softened. She leaned into his shoulder with a knowing sigh. “Oh, like you were any better,” she said, nudging him gently. “You used to skip out of training just to see me in the market, remember? You climbed up those spiky fences once just to leave me a note.”
Your father tried to hide the flicker of a smile. “That was different.”
“Sure it was,” your mother said, clearly unconvinced. “Maybe Lord Khaslana will appreciate a lover with a rebellious streak. You know, someone who’s bold and witty. The kind who climb temple walls for fun.” She sipped from her own glass, her eyes twinkling with tease, “I accepted you, didn’t I?”
He raised a brow at her, deadpan. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, nothing!” she said quickly, rising to her feet with feigned innocence. “Phew! The weather’s hot today, isn’t it?” And with a teasing smile, she disappeared into the kitchen, leaving him to grumble behind her.
Side Story II
“Wow! So this is Carmitis!” you gasped, eyes wide with wonder as they roamed the breathtaking cityscape.
Built along the curve of a serene bay, Carmitis shimmered like a gemstone beneath the sun. The city was renowned across Amphoreus for its devotion to the arts. Sculptures adorned every corner of every plaza, and murals danced across temple walls in hues so vivid they seemed to glow. The sound of music floated on the sea breeze, even though no musician was visibly performing. The wind itself carried the ethereal tones of water lyres, instruments unique to this city, creating melodies that colored the air like threads of silk.
You had always wondered what other cities in Amphoreus looked like. And Phainon, ever the considerate husband, had kept his promise to bring you beyond the marble gates of Okhema. Now here you were.
Before your trip, Phainon had consulted the other gods for suggestions on where to take you at the Vortex of Genesis. Naturally, the ever-proud God of Strife, Mydeimos, had jumped at the chance.
“You must visit Castrum Kremnos,” he’d said with a grin. “We serve the finest pomegranate juice in all of Amphoreus. The annual Kremnoan Festival is just around the corner. It’ll be held in the colosseum. Nothing stirs the blood like the clash of swords while drinking the taste of pomegranate juice with milk. Trust me, your little wife will love it.”
Phainon had barely stifled a grimace when Anaxagoras, God of Reason, interjected coolly.
“Do you want her to die of a heart attack from those brutal Kremnoans you’re always so proud of?” Anaxagoras stepped forward, arms behind his back, gaze steady. “I suggest the Grove of Epiphany instead. The public library there is extensive, from divine philosophy to romantic fiction. Knowledge deepens connection. Let her mind grow with yours.”
Phainon had considered it. You did love reading, after all. The Grove of Epiphany, where Anaxagoras resided and had watched over, could be an excellent choice.
But…
“But, Anaxa, are there–” Phainon began.
“Anaxagoras,” the god corrected with a sharp glance.
“A-Anaxagoras,” Phainon tried again. “Are there… any other activities there besides reading?”
Anaxagoras frowned, as though the question offended him on a spiritual level. “What other activities should there be, when reading is clearly the pinnacle of shared experience?”
Before Phainon could reply, a soft, melodic laugh floated through the air.
Aglaea arrived with grace, her heels clicking elegantly across the polished marble floor. Her arms crossed over her chest, expression full of amusement.
“Do not listen to these fools, Khaslana.” She said, her voice silken. She stopped beside a now scowling Anaxagoras and a very unamused Mydeimos, casting her eyes toward Phainon.
“The Grove will give you more trouble than pleasure,” She drawled, casually flicking her hair toward the God of Reason. “You’ll be too busy slipping over damp moss and avoiding overly curious scholars to enjoy a good book in peace.”
Then, with a coy smile, she added, “We wouldn’t want another storm to befall our beloved Amphoreus, would we?”
Phainon groaned under his breath. She was never going to let that incident go.
“Oh, and what, pray tell, would you suggest?” Mydeimos asked, raising a brow.
Aglaea smirked like she had already won. “Trust the Goddess of Romance to know the answer.”
And for once, Phainon followed her advice without protest. Because standing there now, beside you, watching your face light up as the sea wind played music through unseen lyres, he had to admit that Aglaea was right.
“Well,” he chuckled, “You really can’t go wrong with a city that worships the Goddess of Romance. It lives up to her name, that’s for sure.”
Phainon gently tugged your hand as the two of you strolled through the marble-lined streets of Carmitis. The scent of salt hung on the breeze, mixing with sweet hints of florals that spilled from balconies above. He led you through an ivy-covered archway, toward a villa tucked near the cliffs, its design both modest and elegant.
“She prepared this for us?” you asked, eyeing the delicate rosewood carvings on the doorframe.
Phainon nodded, though his lips curled sheepishly. “I originally planned for us to book an inn. You know, get the full ‘mortal couple on a trip’ experience. Maybe a rickety room with creaky floors and too many windows.”
You snorted. “Very romantic.”
“But... a private place like this?” He smiled faintly as he pushed open the doors. “It’s nice to have something that’s just ours.”
Inside, the house was bathed in warm light, soft drapery flowing with the breeze through open windows that framed the sea below. After setting down your travel essentials, you both ventured back into the city, arms brushing as you walked side by side, savoring the relaxed freedom of being unknown, unburdened.
“Aglaea said we’re welcome to visit her tailor shop here,” Phainon mentioned, glancing at you with a hint of mischief. “Anything we like, on the house.”
You blinked. “Wait, Aglaea has a tailor shop?”
“She’s a terrific businesswoman,” Phainon said, “Sewing and dressmaking are her passions.”
You narrowed your eyes suspiciously. “Which one? Which shop?”
“I think it’s called... Romantic Threads?”
Your jaw dropped. “The Romantic Threads? The one in Okhema that books up three seasons in advance?!”
“...Possibly?”
Without another word, you latched onto his arm. “We are going. Now.”
Phainon let out a startled laugh as you dragged him down the main street.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The boutique was nestled between sculpted columns and surrounded by glowing flowers that never wilted. You stepped inside, and your breath hitched. The interior was all velvet drapes and mirrors kissed with gold. A soft instrumental hum floated through the air. As if summoned by your entrance, one of the Garmentmakers glided toward you, its elegant, floating form headless but perfectly graceful.
“Greetings, Lord Khaslana and his bride. Lady Aglaea has instructed us to offer you our full attention. Please, make yourselves at home.”
You could barely believe it. Garmentmakers flitted across the floor, carrying bolts of silk that shimmered like captured starlight. Phainon wandered curiously to a mannequin clad in a regal ensemble.
“Hmm… do you have this color in purple?” he asked, tilting his head. The Garmentmaker paused mid-glide, its hand tilting in acknowledgment before floating off to find alternatives.
You, meanwhile, stood in the center of the boutique, completely overwhelmed by the grandeur.
“I can’t believe it’s empty,” you murmured aloud. “In Okhema, you can’t even peek through the windows without a reservation.”
A nearby Garmentmaker turned toward you. “Lady Aglaea cleared the schedule. Today, this boutique belongs to you alone.”
Your heart warmed at that. You were ushered gently into a fitting chamber, the Garmentmakers taking precise measurements while whispering silks and satins floated from their unseen racks.
When you finally stepped out, you wore a dress crafted in hues of soft blue, white, and warm gold. A corset cinched your waist in elegant curves, engraved with delicate floral motifs that shimmered with each breath. The skirt floated just beneath your knees, perfect for walking near the sea.
You saw Phainon was still busy asking the poor Garmentmaker for other colors. So, you cleared your throat to get his attention.
He turned. And froze.
His eyes widened as if he had forgotten how to breathe.
“You…” he exhaled, stepping forward as if drawn to you by some invisible thread. “You look… amazing.”
He circled around you slowly, fingertips brushing against the curve of your arm, then ghosting along the edge of your sleeve. His gaze was reverent, like a priest looking upon a miracle.
You giggled, cheeks warm. “Right? I’ve always wanted to visit this shop back in Okhema. But every time I tried, it was fully booked. I didn’t even know she owned it!”
Phainon chuckled and brushed a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “Next time, we’ll just ask Aglaea directly.”
The Garmentmakers helped adjust your accessories as Phainon disappeared into a fitting room of his own. You didn’t see the outfit he chose, but you were certain it was wonderful. (it's not)
You decided to immediately wear yours while Phainon’s clothes were wrapped up. By the time you stepped out onto the street again, hand-in-hand, the world felt warmer.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Unlike the structured stone markets of Okhema, Carmitis boasted a floating market unlike any you’d ever seen. Wooden platforms bobbed gently atop the clear turquoise waters of the bay, connected by arching bridges of woven rope and driftwood. Colorful stalls shaded by silk canopies swayed in the breeze, offering everything from exotic fruits to jeweled trinkets.
You found yourself drawn to a stall where strands of pearls gleamed under the sun, laid delicately atop deep blue velvet. Each pearl shimmered with subtle hues: rose gold, ocean silver, even a rare iridescent black, and for a moment, you were lost in their beauty.
Phainon had excused himself moments ago, promising to return with a delicacy he spotted. It was a charred fish skewer, seasoned with spices known only to this coastal region. You’d smiled and waved him off, humming softly as you browsed.
That peace didn’t last long.
A man sidled up beside you, a little too close for comfort. His voice broke the serenity. “These pearls are something, huh?”
You turned to him, instinctively taking a half-step back but offering a polite nod. “Yes, they’re quite beautiful.”
He grinned, the kind that didn’t quite reach the eyes. “You’re not from around here, are you? I’ve lived in Carmitis my whole life. I’d remember someone like you.”
Your smile tightened. “I’m just visiting.”
That should’ve been enough, but he wasn’t finished. He launched into a stream of chatter—stories of his childhood, fishing trips on the bay, festivals he’d danced in, all the while inching closer. When you tried to change the topic, he pivoted. When you gave short answers, he filled the silence.
Then, as if you hadn’t already been trying to signal disinterest, he asked, “Mind if I buy you something to drink?”
There it was.
You exhaled sharply, keeping your tone civil but firm. “No, thank you. I have a husband.”
He blinked. “Really? Don’t see a ring on you.”
You gave a tight-lipped smile and glanced toward the stall owner, silently hoping for help, but the man behind the counter suddenly busied himself with rearranging necklaces, pretending not to hear.
Before you could conjure another excuse, you felt a shift behind you, like the air itself had thickened.
A sudden chill crawled down your spine, and a familiar pressure pressed in on your senses.
“Would a punch to your face suffice?”
The voice, low and dangerous, sliced through the tension.
You turned to see Phainon standing behind you. But this wasn’t the soft-eyed, patient Phainon who held your hand ever so gently. No, his posture was sharp and rigid. His usual ocean-blue eyes blazed gold, glowing with divine ire.
The stranger visibly paled. “H-hey, man, I didn’t mean— I didn’t realize—”
Phainon stepped forward once. “Get lost.”
The words weren’t shouted, but they echoed like thunder. The man didn’t wait for a second warning as he spun on his heel and stumbled away, disappearing into the crowd.
You let out the breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “Thanks for saving me back there—”
But before you could finish, Phainon’s hand gently but firmly clasped your wrist. “Phainon?” you blinked, trying to catch up. He led you to a more secluded area, where no one was watching.
You were about to protest, but it died in your throat as the world around you flickered, blurred, and folded inward. The scent of salt air was replaced by wood, and the hum of the market gave way to silence.
When your vision cleared, you found yourself standing inside your villa. In your bedroom.
You’d never get used to his teleportation.
Phainon stood with his back to you, shoulders still tense. You reached out instinctively. “Phainon, are you alright? I’m okay, truly. He didn’t hurt me.”
He turned slowly, and your heart skipped.
His golden gaze still burned, bright and unyielding. But it wasn’t anger that radiated from him now; it was protective, possessive, and unnerved.
His lips parted, but for a moment, he said nothing. Just stared at you as if confirming you were really there, unharmed.
“I know,” he finally said, voice hoarse. “But… seeing someone else speaking to you like that…” his jaw clenched. “It infuriates me.”
You stepped toward him gently, your fingers brushing the curve of his arm. At your touch, Phainon let out a shaky breath, the storm in his golden eyes beginning to settle. You reached up, resting your hand on his cheek, grounding him back to the moment.
He took your hand in his, his thumb lingering over your ring finger. The gesture was soft, but his expression turned pensive. You followed his gaze and realized what he was fixated on.
You gave a faint sigh. “I’m yours, Phainon,” you said softly, giving his hand a light squeeze. “You don’t have to prove that to anyone else.”
His shoulders relaxed at your words, and he leaned forward, burying his face into the crook of your neck. His arms encircled your waist with a quiet desperation, as if anchoring himself to you.
You chuckled lightly and ran your fingers along the back of his neck. It was something you’d discovered that calmed him in moments like this. He melted into your touch.
The dress you wore slipped slightly as you shifted, baring more of your shoulder. Phainon’s lips found the newly exposed skin, pressing slow, reverent kisses there.
At first it tickled, but then he added the slightest pressure with his teeth— gentle nips that sent warmth coursing through you. You sighed, threading your fingers through his hair, then tugging lightly when he bites harder, your knees weak.
“Ah— Phainon…”
He let out a quiet growl in response, his grip around you tightening. When his lips left your neck to meet yours, the kiss was unrestrained. It was messy and hungry, his emotions pouring into every movement. He guided you back toward the bed, easing you down as he hovered over you.
His breathing was uneven, matching your own. He paused for a moment, his eyes drinking in your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the dazed look in your eyes. Then he smiled, a mix of affection and something more intense.
“I blame Aglaea,” he murmured, tugging at the collar of his shirt with a low huff. “Making you wear something this beautiful… now I have to protect you from pests.”
You laughed, breathless, watching as he fumbled with his shirt. There was something endearingly human about the way he struggled with it despite all his godly elegance. Once it was off, he leaned down again and pressed a softer kiss to your lips.
“As much as I adore you in this,” he whispered, fingers brushing the edge of your dress, “I want to see you out of it.”
His hands moved with care, slipping away the layers of fabric with practiced grace. His gaze never left yours, reverent and full of fire, as if each inch of skin revealed was something sacred.
He trailed kisses from your collarbone, leaving red blooming marks in his wake. Once his lips reached your breasts, he latched his mouth to your nipple, giving the bud kitten licks while his hand paid attention to the other, tugging and pinching at the flesh. You moan at the waves of pleasure crashing to you.
After having tended both of your breasts, his fiery kisses traveled lower to your stomach, then to the inside of your thighs. His muscular arms opened your legs wide. He pulled away, earning a whine of protest from you.
He slid your panties down your legs with ease, letting them fall forgotten to the floor. His gaze flicked up to meet yours— your breath uneven, the back of your hand pressed to your mouth, eyes fluttering from the weight of pleasure. With a playful grin, he leaned in close, blowing softly against your wetness. You let out a frustrated whine, your body tensing in anticipation. He chuckled, clearly pleased by your reaction.
“Don’t tease me.” You said, between breaths.
Phainon chuckled, lying down on the bed as he put your legs over his shoulder, “You’re making it hard not to, sweetheart.”
Your heart leaped at the pet name. But before you could calm yourself down, Phainon connected his lips to your folds, tongue lapping you up and down before pushing it inside.
You arched your back from the pleasure. Usually, Phainon would be more gentle during intimacy. This time, it felt like he was impatient—angry almost, with the way he pulled you closer to his mouth.
You reached down, fingers threading through the tousled strands of his hair. With a gentle tug, you felt him shudder below you— a low moan escaping his lips. The sound reverberated against your core, you ground your hips on his mouth, and the sensation sent a jolt through your entire body.
Phainon then inserted two fingers inside. A shameless moan escaped your lips before you could stop it, the sound far too indulgent for your own comfort.
Phainon finally pulled away from your vagina, lips glistening with your fluids. He hovered his body above you, fingers still inside as his gaze met yours. With hooded eyes, he watched you whimper and whine while he thrust his fingers roughly, grinning as your body would jolt with pleasure every time he hit that spongy spot inside you. Your hands flew to his arms, gripping his muscles tightly.
“Phainon–Phainon–Phainon,” you murmured his name like a prayer, breathless and trembling. A soft smile curved his lips as he leaned in to kiss you again, letting you taste yourself on his lips.
When Phainon curled his fingers, you couldn’t help but pull away from his kiss, letting out screams of pleasure as you near your high.
“Come on, you’re doing so good for me, sweetheart. Just let go,” He whispered, rubbing his thumb on your clit.
You came undone after a few more thrusts of his fingers. Your voice cracking as you felt the tight knot in your stomach snapped. Phainon slowed down his digits, calming you down from your high.
When your breath became steadier, he pulled his fingers out, causing you to whimper at the empty feeling. Still drunk from the euphoric feeling, you didn’t realize Phainon was flipping you over to your chest. He then lifted your hips with care, just as you heard the quiet rustle of his pants being pulled off from behind you.
“Phainon, what– ah!”
Before you could even finish your sentence, Phainon had fully pushed his length into you, letting out a low groan as he bottomed out. His breaths quicken as he holds you still, watching you squirm and whine, still sensitive from your previous high.
You propped yourself on your elbows, and he leaned closer, placing his head beside yours, which only caused him to go deeper into you. You whimpered as your walls tightened around him; no matter how many times you've done it, you still had to get used to his size at first.
“I’m sorry, just—let me have my way with you—just this once. Okay, sweetheart?” He asked, voice pleading.
You calmed your breathing, adjusting to his size before nodding your head.
“Okay.” You said, breathless.
Phainon let out a contented sigh as he kissed your cheeks. He moved his hips backward, pulling out from you, leaving only his tip, before pushing his length inside you with force. Your body swayed with each push and pull, mouth hanging open from the sensation. Your moans were getting louder with every thrust, and the way his hands played with your nipples.
Phainon wasn’t any better. He moans, groans, growls, and whimpers in your ears. He wasn’t even trying to hide it. He murmured slurred praises into your ear, occasionally biting down on your neck and reaching his hand lower to rub your core.
“Oh, you feel so—mmh, s’good around me, sweetheart.” A hard thrust into you.
“You want me to go harder? Hm? You want that? Yeah?” He was already picking up his pace before you could give him an answer.
He pulled away from your neck, straightening up his body to get a better angle. The room pulsed with the sound of ragged breaths and bodies moving in rhythm. Every gasp, every whisper of his name, mingled with the sound of skin slapping against skin. You were sure that anyone who passed by the building could hear the melodic sounds you and Phainon let out.
His thrusts were getting sloppier, words he spoke were unintelligible. He leaned back down in your ear, his fingers rubbed your clot faster in a circular motion, urging you to finish.
“C’mon, sweetheart, come with me, yeah?”
You nod frantically, choked moans escaping your lips with his every thrust. You chanted his name once more and tightened around his length, your knees growing weak. The feeling of your walls caused him to reach his edge.
“You’re mine. Mine. mine. mine.”
His hips still, unloading his seeds inside you. He gave a few lazy thrusts to ride out his high before pulling out.
You let your hips sink back into the mattress, limbs loose and trembling from your climax. Beside you, Phainon collapsed with a deep, contented sigh, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. For a long moment, neither of you moved, suspended in the quietness of the room.
Then, he turned to his side and gently pulled you into his arms, cradling your head against his chest. The warmth of his skin and the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your cheek soothed the rest of your lingering tremors. He then pressed soft, slow kisses to your hairline.
“Forgive me,” he said quietly, his voice still rough, “Was I too rough?”
You shook your head, snuggling closer until his arms tightened around you. “No, you weren’t. I’m okay,” You whispered, your voice light with affection.
A light chuckle rose from your throat as you tilted your head up to meet his eyes. “Did you get it out of your system, then?”
Phainon let out a long exhale, his brows knitting slightly with guilt. “Yes… Though I’m not proud of myself for taking it out on you,”
You reached up, brushing your fingertips gently against his cheek. His eyes had returned to his usual soft blue, no longer intense. “You didn’t hurt me. I enjoyed it… Really.”
A playful glint entered your eyes as you leaned in to kiss the edge of his jaw. “Maybe I should make you jealous more often.”
Phainon groaned dramatically, burying his face in your shoulder. “Please don’t,” he mumbled.
You laughed, the sound bubbling out of you as you wrapped your arms around him tightly. “I love you,” you whispered, your words warm against his chest.
He plastered a grin, “I love you more.”
“Don’t start.”
Side Story III
Phainon stood at the heart of the temple gardens, now transformed into a soft dreamscape of ivory and gold, nervously clutching the small velvet box in his hand. The sun filtered gently through the canopy of trees above, painting dappled light across the petals scattered along the aisle. Every inch of the garden shimmered under careful touches of decoration, elegant and simple.
Today marked your wedding anniversary, one full cycle since the day you had been bound to him. But the memory still lingered heavily in his chest, that first ceremony marked more by duty and uncertainty than celebration or love.
There were no kisses. No shared vows. Just a pact, divinely sealed and hastily delivered.
Phainon had spent weeks planning a proper wedding.. A wedding with laughter and vows, flowers and witnesses, and most importantly… a ring, crafted with the help of Chartonus himself.
He fidgeted slightly, shifting his weight between his feet as he watched his friends (the other gods and goddesses) milling about the decorated garden space.
Flower garlands hung between ivory pillars, gentle lyre music drifting from unseen strings in the wind. Tables were arranged with modest care—Ambrosia, honeyed cakes, fruits, and traditional Okheman dishes lining the platters. A clear aisle of white petals led up to where he stood, waiting.
Aglaea stood beside him, regal and radiant. The Goddess of Romance had been both surprised and delighted when Phainon asked her to officiate the ceremony. She never thought the Deliverer would ever wear such a nervous expression over something so delicate.
Mydeimos looked at Phaino’s hands. “You’re holding that box like it’s going to explode.”
Phainon gave a tight-lipped smile. “It might. My heart’s been in it for weeks,” he then puts the box inside his pocket, fidgeting with his hands lightly.
A firm clap landed on his shoulder. “Calm yourself, Khaslana,” said Anaxagoras, God of Reason, dressed far too formally for someone who had once argued weddings were ‘inefficient emotional rituals.’ “This is a wedding, not a battlefield.”
From behind him, a familiar lilting laugh rang out. “You should’ve seen his face when Aggy scolded him for his original outfit choice,” said Tribios, Goddess of Passage. “He looked like a child getting caught breaking something precious.”
Phainon scowled. “I liked that outfit. It was from Aglaea’s boutique.”
“Yes,” Aglaea said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “And it made you look like a fool. How dare you mix violet and mustard in front of me, with my own designs no less?”
The laughter that followed was interrupted by a fluttering of wings. From above, Hyacinthia descended with her miniature pegasus, Ica, trailing glittering sky dust behind her. She landed gently, her heels brushing the grass lightly.
“I cleared every gray cloud from the sky just for today,” she smiled, brushing back strands of her pink colored hair. “No storm’s going to ruin this one.”
"Doot, doot!" Ica added.
“Thank you,” Phainon said sincerely, looking at each one of his friends.
Just then, Castorice, the Goddess of Death—pale and composed—peeked from between the garden hedges. “She’s coming,” she whispered, her voice like the rustle of dry leaves.
Time seemed to stand still.
Phainon straightened. His heart thundered in his chest. He could already feel the warmth of your presence drawing near, the familiar hum of your soul that soothed his own. For all his power, all his light, nothing made him feel more undone than the sound of your footsteps approaching.
Then you appeared, the sunlight catching on the gold threading of your dress as if even the heavens wished to spotlight your presence. Your family followed closely behind.
The garden had never looked more beautiful. Flowers that normally only bloomed in different seasons now adorned the path in unison, their petals vibrant and full. Music floated through the air from invisible strings, harmonizing with the wind.
Your eyes scanned the crowd. Familiar faces looked back—Phainon had introduced them to you before, gods and goddesses of Amphoreus in their finest attire. Your eyes landed on Anaxagoras, Hyacinthia, Tribios, Aglaea, and then Mydeimos.
And then you saw him.
Phainon stood at the center of it all. He looked nervous, heart-bared, and unmistakably dazzling in a tailored robe. You recognized Aglaea’s influence immediately in the subtle elegance of the embroidery across his shoulders and cuffs. His hair was neatly swept back, though the familiar ahoge still bounced stubbornly in place. His blue eyes, brighter than ever, locked onto yours the moment he saw you.
“Phainon?” you breathed, stunned. “What is this?”
You turned in confusion, your voice filled with wonder, only to be met with a warm smile from your father. He stepped beside you, offering his arm.
Your lips parted slightly in surprise as you looked between him, the petal-strewn aisle, the altar at the end, and the dress your mother so stubbornly told you to wear today. A realization dawned over you. This wasn’t just a celebration—this was a wedding.
Your heart swelled. Slowly, you reached out and linked your arm with your father's.
As your mother and Atlas took their seats, your father leaned in slightly, his voice tight with emotion. “I’m glad,” he said softly, “that I’m finally, properly, giving away my daughter.” His hand tightened gently on your arm. “It may have started from a vow made for peace. But today, I know you’re walking toward love.”
You bit your lip, your vision already blurring with tears. “Thank you, Father.”
Both of you reached the end of the aisle. Phainon stepped forward and extended his hand. You glanced once more at your father, who gave your hand one final squeeze, tears already streaming down his cheeks, before placing it in Phainon’s.
Then it was just the two of you standing before Aglaea, who was holding a ceremonial scroll in her hand. Though she didn’t have to read from it.
“Dearly beloved,” Aglaea began, her voice carrying every corner of the garden.
“We gather here not to forge a new bond, but to renew one. This is no ordinary union, nor a formality. A vow spoken not by decree, but by choice. A promise not from god to mortal… but from soul to soul.”
She turned her gaze to you first, calling your name. “Today, do you vow yourself to him again? This time not as an offering, but as a partner? Do you give your heart freely, not to his divinity or power, but to his person?”
You swallowed back your tears and nodded. “I do. And I always will.”
Aglaea smiled, then looked to Phainon. “And you, Khaslana, God of Worldbearing. Do you vow yourself to this mortal not out of obligation, but out of love? Do you promise to show her not only your divinity, but your humanity?”
Phainon’s voice wavered slightly as he answered. “I do. More than anything.”
Then Phainon reached into his pocket. From it, he drew a small velvet box— one you hadn’t seen before. Your breath caught when he opened it.
Inside sat a beautiful ring, golden, forged with delicate sunburst patterns that shimmered faintly with divine warmth. In the center stood a diamond that glimmered slightly in the light.
Phainon took the ring between his fingers, his hand holding yours. With great care, Phainon slid the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly, as if it had been waiting for you all along. Aglaea conjured her golden threads as they swirled brighter around the two of you, encircling your joined hands.
“Then, as Goddess of Romance,” Aglaea said with a soft smile, “I bless this union, again and forever. Let the world bear witness to this second vow. You may seal this promise with a kiss.”
Phainon didn’t hesitate. He stepped closer and took your face gently in his hands as he kissed you, soft and slow. You reciprocated all the same, wrapping your hands around his shoulders. Everyone rose in applause, the wind turned musical as sunlight poured through the clouds above in radiant beams.
In that golden moment, with the gods as witnesses and romance as their blessing, two hearts vowed once more. This time, not by fate, but by love.
warnings. phainon and mydei might be ooc! nothing else that i know of, just fluff
a/n. i’ve been on hiatus for a bit, i’m back my lovelies!!!
wc. 27.8k
jing yuan
✧ before he even realises, he’s already adjusting himself around you without thought. his strides slow just enough so you’ll never feel like you have to rush to keep up, his arm brushing yours like it belongs there. he makes sure you’re comfortable before meetings begin, subtly shifting details in your favour—your tea always arrives at the right temperature, your chair always positioned just so. he doesn’t register it as love, not yet, only a kind of instinct that has your needs slotting into his priorities as naturally as breathing.
✧ he doesn’t like being caught off guard, but the moment realisation strikes him, it’s almost frightening. one evening, you smile at him with that gentle ease of yours, and something aches in his chest so badly he has to glance away, afraid that if he meets your eyes you’ll see it all.
✧ jing yuan is a man who's calculative and always weighs risks, but there is no strategy for the way your laugh lingers, or how you haunt his thoughts even in the dead of night. he tries to tell himself he can bury it. he knows he’s lying.
✧ when you walk home late, he's beside you in silence, heavy cloak brushing against the lamplight as if to shield you from shadows. he doesn’t speak because words feel clumsy compared to presence, and he wants you to know, really know, that he’ll never let anything dangerous reach you.
✧ when danger strikes, he’s already stepped forward, sword in hand. countless enemies have met his blade, but in those moments he’s not the general protecting the world.
✧ he’s just a man who can’t bear the thought of harm ever brushing against your skin!!!! he would NEVER allow that!!!
✧ love begins to bleed into the smallest gestures once he accepts it. when you speak, his golden eyes soften, listening with a focus more absolute than the briefings he half-snoozes through. when you’re weary, his patience is endless. he could stay there and wait for you for however long you need.
✧ starts doing that thing where he just watches you quietly with a soft little smile, like he’s memorizing the way you move.
✧ definitely gets more protective, but subtly—he’s the kind to say “don’t worry, i’ll handle it” and then solve your problems before you even ask
✧ tries to play it cool but gets slightly flustered when you compliment him. “handsome?” he repeats, pretending to laugh it off, but he’s replaying it in his mind for days
✧ it starts slow. so, so slow. like jing yuan’s the type to brush things off when they get too close to the heart. not because he’s cold—but because he’s scared of stirring something he can’t control. so when he realizes that his chest feels lighter around you… that his mornings feel dull without your voice… that your absence makes the days feel longer… he tries to ignore it. at first.
✧ but the realization creeps in one night, when you’re both walking under the lantern-lit streets of the luofu, your shoulders brushing gently with every step. you’re talking about something—maybe a story, maybe some nonsense—and jing yuan suddenly looks at you with this strange, quiet stillness in his eyes.
✧ and then it just hits him.
✧ he doesn’t say anything. he just smiles a little, that soft, sleepy kind of smile he wears when he’s completely at ease. but deep inside, there’s a quiet storm building—because what is he supposed to do now?
✧ suddenly he’s catching himself staring at you more. like a lot more. he’s meant to be reading reports, attending meetings, listening to fu xuan rant about cosmic balance—but he finds himself glancing at the door, wondering where you are.
✧ you’ve always been important to him, sure. but now he notices things. the way your hair shifts when the wind moves. the way you laugh with your whole body. the way you tilt your head when you’re confused.
✧ he memorizes all of it.
✧ he starts seeking you out more. casually, of course. nothing too obvious.
✧ “ah, i just happened to be passing by,” he’ll say, appearing at your side in the archives even though his office is nowhere nearby.
✧ “i thought you might like this,” he says, dropping off your favorite snack like it’s a passing thought—though he definitely went to three different shops to find it.
✧ and oh, he teases. he teases so much. but it’s always gentle, always warm. “you’re blushing,” he hums one day, leaning just a little too close.
✧ “i am not!” you protest, and he just chuckles like he’s caught a butterfly in a jar.
✧ he lives for those little reactions from you. they’re like little reminders that maybe—just maybe—you feel the same.
✧ his love is subtle, but so steady. you’ll find that your favorite tea is stocked in the palace now. someone requested the temperature be lowered in your quarters during hot days. someone filed your weapon repairs early so you wouldn’t have to wait.
✧ none of it traces back to him. but you know and you don't really plan on saying anything about it, it's like a silent acknowledgment.
✧ he starts getting distracted. he, the great general of the cloud knights, is zoning out in meetings because he’s thinking about the way your nose scrunches when you’re focused.
✧ fu xuan, who’s confused, glanced at him. “jing yuan, are you even listening?”
✧ jing yuan, blinking slowly: “…i heard every word.”
✧ he did not.
✧ but the thing is, for all his calm composure and teasing charm… he’s scared.
✧ he’s lost a lot in his life. and loving you? it’s not just sweet. it’s terrifying. because it means risk. it means vulnerability. and if anything ever happened to you… he doesn’t even want to think about that.
✧ so he doesn’t confess immediately. instead, he shows you. jing yuan is patient, almost infuriatingly so. he knows how heavy words like “i love you” are, and he refuses to toss them out casually. instead, he lets his care bleed through the things he does—subtle, constant gestures that are impossible to mistake if you look closely enough.
✧ he walks you home when it’s late, not saying much but never letting your side. sometimes he chats idly about whatever’s on his mind, but most nights? it’s quiet. he listens to your footsteps beside his, matching his pace to yours no matter how slow or quick.
✧ his hand hovers just inches from yours, not quite touching but always there, like a promise. when you reach your door, he gives a soft smile and says, “rest well. i’ll see you tomorrow.” he never says why he insists on escorting you, but you know.
✧ he steps in front of you during battles, drawing his blade without hesitation. jing yuan doesn’t even think about it—it’s instinct. the moment danger approaches, his body moves, positioning himself between you and the threat. his sword gleams as he draws it, expression calm but protective.
✧ “stay behind me,” he says, voice steady, and there’s a steel in his tone that leaves no room for argument. even when the fight is over, his gaze lingers on you, scanning for injuries before he relaxes.
✧ he lets you see him when he’s tired, even when his eyes droop. not many get to witness the moments when the great general lets his guard down. but with you, he doesn’t hide it. when the weight of his duties finally settles on his shoulders, he sighs softly, allowing his mask of ease to slip.
✧ his hair falls loose around his face as he leans back, golden eyes half-lidded. “don’t tell anyone you saw me like this,” he murmurs, but the way his head tips toward your shoulder betrays the trust he has in you.
✧ and when you catch him off guard—when you stumble into his quarters late at night, and he’s too tired to keep his mask in place—you see the side of him no one else is allowed to. his hair mussed, his posture slack, his eyes drooping heavy with exhaustion.
✧ but still, when you enter, his gaze sharpens just enough, because even in his most unguarded state, you matter. he doesn’t send you away. instead, he allows you to see him stripped of titles and strength, as if to say this part of me is yours too.
✧ he doesn’t confess with words first. instead, he builds a foundation of action. it's quiet and unshakable. only when you notice, only when you press him for truth, will he give it to you in words. his voice low, deliberate, soft enough that you’ll know he means every syllable: i love you.
✧ because jing yuan has always believed love isn’t fire that consumes, the kind that makes a man who carries nations on his back feel like home belongs in one person. and for him, that person is you.
✧ and then, one night, maybe after a particularly long mission, when you’re sitting together in quiet, the stars reflected in his golden eyes—he speaks.
✧ “you know.... you really make the days feel lighter,” he says, voice low and honest.
✧ you blink. “…what?” he exhales, then turns to face you fully.
✧ “i didn’t realize it at first. but now… when i wake up, i think of you. when i’m working, i wonder how you’re doing. when you’re gone, i miss you. and when you’re close, i want to stay there forever.”
✧ there’s a pause. his voice goes softer.
✧ “i love you.”
✧ and then he waits. he waits, heart open, maybe for the first time in years. and if you say you love him too?
✧ his whole body relaxes. he smiles, not the lazy general’s grin, but something real. tender. he leans his forehead against yours and murmurs, “then stay close. always.”
blade
✧ absolutely does not handle it well. the moment he realizes he loves you, his first instinct is to run.
✧ he’s an emotionally constipated, touch-starved, quiet wreck of a man who absolutely doesn’t know what to do with the fact that he’s fallen in love with you.
✧ at first, he convinces himself it’s just logistics. you’re in the same unit, you train together, you share the same danger. there’s a usefulness to proximity. but usefulness soon tastes like something else entirely — sweeter, more dangerous. he catches himself watching the way you tilt your head when you’re focusing, how your fingers fidget with the hem of your cloak when you’re nervous. these aren’t notes for survival. they’re anchors.
✧ when the realization finally hits, it does so like a blade — clean, shocking, leaving him breathless. it’s never one cinematic moment. it’s a thousand small knives: your laughter in the mess hall, the way you braid your hair before a mission, the careless kindness you show a wounded ally. one of those moments finds him unguarded and suddenly he understands: he’s not protecting you because duty says to. he’s protecting you because he can’t imagine a world where you’re hurt and he’s done nothing.
✧ his instinct is to run. not because he doubts his feelings, but because he knows the cost of attachment. he’s built walls so high they’ve become habit; to climb down them feels like walking into a wilderness. so he pulls away, not to punish you, but to try and train himself to survive without you. the distance is a laughable attempt at mercy — except it only makes him lonelier.
✧ distance doesn’t mean absence. if anything, it sharpens the ways he shows care. he’ll be the shadow just beyond your periphery: a chair pulled up a little closer, an extra blanket draped near your cot, a scowl aimed at anyone who laughs too loudly in your direction. he’s still cold in public, but the private kindnesses pile up like unspoken letters.
✧ jealousy is a slow, volcanic thing with him. he rarely lashes out — words are blunt weapons and he’s learned prudence — but when someone else moves in on you, his whole posture changes. it’s subtle: the set of his jaw, the hush that falls over his voice, the way the air near him seems to tilt just a hair colder. he doesn’t need to shout to make the point. people understand. they see the line he will not let cross.
✧ he’s clumsy with praise. a compliment makes him stumble, then laugh like it was nothing. inside, his chest is a tangle of shame and pride. he keeps a ledger of the things about you that make him weak — the song you hum under your breath, the way you clean your gear, the look you give when you decide you’ll do something reckless anyway. later, in the stillness, he rereads the ledger and the ache tightens.
✧ when you’re injured, his restraint breaks like old rope. fear sharpens him into a predator and a caregiver all at once. he examines your wounds with trembling hands, cursing softly whenever a bandage slips or a stitch tugs. he speaks in clipped, practical phrases because panic is a language he understands better than sentiment, but his fingers linger where they shouldn’t — forearms, jawline, the hollow where your neck meets your shoulder — as if to make sure you’re real.
✧ small domesticities become his love language. he sharpens your blade until the metal sings, because he knows a dull edge can get you killed. he warms your boots by the hearth when you’re away. he learns your coffee preference and makes it exactly the way you like it, then grumbles when you say thank you as if you’d complimented his cooking skills — which, let’s be honest, he’d never admit he had.
✧ he still has moments of panic. there are nights when the fear of losing you wakes him, and he finds himself standing at your door without meaning to, hand raised but unable to knock. he tells himself he’s intruding, that he has no right. then you open the door and he is both lamb and wolf, baffled by how complete it feels to stand there, to be let in.
✧ intimacy is rough, because he’s not practiced in softness. but where he’s clumsy with words, he is relentless with presence. he will learn to be careful if you flinch. he will apologize with actions instead of phrases. and when he finally says the three words, if ever he chooses to lead with them, they are fewer than the nights he watches over you, but heavier than any speech: “i’m here. stay.”
✧ the good days and the bad days are both christened with his stubborn loyalty. he gets territorial. yes, but also tender in ways the world does not see. he will be the one who brings you the exact rag you like for cleaning your armor. he will be the one who tells the loudmouth regulars at the tavern to shut up when they disrespect you. he will be the one who sits in silence because you need that peace, and will bring a cloak because he can imagine the cold even when you can’t.
✧ he never stops being haunted by his past, but you become the reason he chooses to face it. you are not a cure for his scars; you are a decision he keeps making every morning he breathes. your presence is not balm that erases, but a stubborn warmth that allows him to stand in the sun again.
✧ bonus quiet moments: he falls asleep on his knees in the armory and wakes to find you covering him with an old coat; he leaves the smallest, ridiculous gifts — a banded stone, a scuffed coin — in places you’ll find them when you’re feeling low; he hums a lullaby he never admitted to learning, only loud enough for you when storms roll in.
✧ and when he says it plainly, later, not as a flourish but as an anchor — “it’s you” — you understand it’s not a proclamation. it’s a vow. it’s the first of many things he cannot take back, and he never wants to.
✧ becomes even moodier, distant, but never actually leaves you—he just stands nearby, arms crossed, watching with unreadable eyes
✧ if someone else flirts with you? oh. oh it’s over. suddenly he’s at your side, glaring daggers, “they’re wasting your time.”
✧ his protective streak is both armor and plea. he’ll intercept threats that were never close enough to harm you, simply to keep the reflex of guarding alive. he’ll take the late shift if the night’s forecast is bad, because he hates the idea of you walking alone under rain-washed skies. he does these things quietly, the same way a lighthouse keeps its light.
✧ he doesn’t confess, but he shows it in how he always steps between you and danger, how his voice softens when he talks to you, how he lets you touch him when no one else can
✧ blade is not someone who thinks love is for him. he doesn’t believe he deserves it—not after everything. he’s lived too long, hurt too much, and buried too many things he once cared about. love feels like a luxury he gave up ages ago. so when it starts… creeping in, he doesn’t notice at first. or maybe he does and just refuses to name it.
✧ it starts in the smallest ways. his eyes always find you first, even in a room full of people. he listens to your voice more closely than he should. he remembers things about you that you only said once—your favorite food, the way you like your gear adjusted, the look you get when you’re about to lie. he notices everything.
✧ and still, he tells himself it’s nothing. just habit. just instinct. just awareness.
✧ but deep down, the cracks are forming. he gets quiet around you—not cold, not angry, just… quiet. like he’s trying to hold something inside. like he knows if he lets it out, it’ll swallow him whole.
✧ the moment he actually realizes he loves you is sudden and sickening. maybe you patch up his wounds after a mission and scold him gently like “you always throw yourself into danger like it’s nothing.” and then you touch his cheek, just for a second.
✧ and he feels something twist in his chest—raw and terrifying. that’s when it hits him. he’s in love with you. and he can’t lose you.
✧ after that, he pulls away. fast.
✧ he avoids eye contact. walks ahead of you during missions. doesn’t respond when you call his name the first time.
✧ he’s not doing it to be cruel. he’s doing it because he’s afraid, loving you is like standing on the edge of a cliff and realizing he could fall—and wants to.
✧ and yet… he can’t stay away.
✧ you’ll catch him lingering nearby. standing at your door but not knocking. sitting next to you during briefings even though there’s space elsewhere. sometimes, you really wished he would take the initiate, “knock,” you say to yourself, wishing he’d allow himself to be let in.
✧ his presence becomes a shadow, always close, but never quite touching.
✧ his love shows up in strange ways. he sharpens your blade without you asking. takes the watch when you’re supposed to be sleeping. kills enemies that were never close enough to threaten you, just in case. he doesn’t explain it. he just does it.
✧ and if you try to thank him? he shrugs it off like it’s nothing. like his hands weren’t trembling when he thought you got hurt.
✧ he gets jealous too, but doesn’t show it directly. someone flirts with you and blade won’t say a word, but the air around him goes cold.
✧ the next time that person’s sparring? blade’s their opponent.
✧ and if you ever get seriously injured (even if it’s just a close call) he snaps.
✧ he’ll grab you, check your body for wounds with trembling hands, and hiss out your name like it’s the only thing grounding him.
✧ “what were you thinking?”
✧ “you could’ve died.”
✧ “don’t ever do that again.”
✧ his voice shakes, and he looks away before you can see how scared he is. he won’t confess. not first. not directly. not unless you force it out of him.
✧ but there’s going to be a moment. maybe you’re bandaging his wound this time. your touch is gentle. your eyes meet. and suddenly, the air between you is heavy.
✧ you ask, quietly, “why do you care so much?” he doesn’t answer at first. he’s looking at you like you’re something he was never supposed to have.
✧ then, low, almost like a growl…“because it’s you.” and that’s it. raw and simple. because it’s you.
✧ after that, something shifts. he still doesn’t say the words. but he stops running. he lets you touch him more. lets you lean on his shoulder when you’re tired. sometimes, late at night, you’ll feel his hand brush against yours and stay.
✧ blade doesn’t know how to say “i love you.” but he says it in the way he guards your life more closely than his own. in the way he looks at you like you’re the last beautiful thing in a ruined world. in the way he stays despite everything in him screaming to run.
✧ the confession he gives isn’t polished. it’s ragged and private, a sound between a curse and a prayer. maybe you’re the one tending his wounds this time, the cloth cool against his skin, and the roles reverse. his breath hitches when your fingers brush his scar and he makes a humorless noise. “because it’s you,” he says finally, mouth tight, eyes raw. nothing more ornate. nothing more needed. it knocks the wind out of him to hear it out loud.
✧ after he admits it — that brittle, honest thing — everything tilts. he doesn’t become demonstrative in a way that makes you uncomfortable; he simply allows himself gentler truths. he accepts your touch in moments when he previously would have flinched. he lets you stand close without stepping back. he learns, painfully and stubbornly, that staying is not weakness — it’s choosing.
✧ you are his breaking point, his softness.
anaxa
✧ tries to play it cool at first, but the second he realizes it’s more than a crush, he kinda panics. scratch that, his entire focus is entirely on YOU now.
✧ gets very “i’m too cool for feelings” but turns around and is like, “did you eat today?” or “here, i fixed your weapon for you”
✧ he tries to play it cool, and for a while the act is flawless — aloof glances, practiced indifference, a sarcasm shield that keeps his insides firmly locked away. then one small thing unravels him: you hum a tune while you patch a wound, or you fall asleep halfway through a briefing, chin tucked into your palm, and suddenly the world re-centers.
✧ the performance drops. his hands fidget. his brain glitches. and for the first time he thinks, in actual, terrified clarity: i can’t stop thinking about them.
✧ denial is his first full-time job. he insists to himself that this is tactical — proximity for intel, mentorship for efficiency. but every time you laugh, his composure fractures. every time you’re late, a low panic buzzes in his chest. when he claims he “doesn’t care,” it sounds like a dare more than conviction, because his eyes betray him, following you like gravity follows a stone.
✧ he becomes your unsolicited caretaker under the guise of efficiency. “did you eat?” is his daily opener now, delivered with that same deadpan tone, but his gaze has an edge. when you say yes, he’ll still produce a bowl or a snack five minutes later and place it exactly where you’ll see it, because he knows you’ll forget otherwise.
✧ his version of stalking is logistical and painfully competent. he doesn’t lurk in alleys; he times patrols so he’ll “happen” to be nearby, he schedules training so he’s in the same room, he edits rota sheets with microscopic adjustments that make your shifts overlap. it is not creepy. it is a tiny, benevolent conspiracy to ensure you are always within reach.
✧ when you get a papercut, he acts like a medic and a drama king simultaneously. the initial reaction is bordering-on-hysterical — a soft curse, an immediate flurry of ointment and gauze, a muttered “who hurt you?” — but then the tenderness arrives, steady and practical, as he tapes the bandage with hands that tremble ever so slightly.
✧ he starts criticizing you in the most love-filled way possible. his critiques are precise and frequent, but they’re never cruel — they’re corrections from someone who refuses to watch you struggle when he can teach you better.
✧ “your left foot drops on that pivot every time,” he’ll say, and you’ll hate how right he is. the subtext: i want you safe enough to be unstoppable.
✧ the panic after realization manifests in micro-obsessions. he learns your schedule, the song you whistle when you’re focused, the way you tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. he catalogues it all in the back of his head and revisits the list late when sleep won’t come. sometime between dawn and decisions, he thinks of how to keep you unscathed another day.
✧ his jealousy is not theatrical; it’s a hard, cold narrowing of the world. when someone else gets flirty, he doesn’t start a fight — he becomes the storm before it rains. his voice lowers, words clipped, but the message is obvious: back off. if that doesn’t work, his next move is quietly efficient and terrifying: he becomes their sparring partner. they leave the arena with bruises and a newly respectful distance.
✧ he’s the kind of person who prepares for your absence before you even leave. if you tell him you’ll be gone, he’ll arrange for gear to be sharpened, a cot warmed, a message posted. he does these things without fanfare. you find them later and realize he’s been thinking about your comfort like a daily task he cannot skip.
✧ he teaches not to show off, but to survive. his sessions are brutal, precise, and infinitely patient. if you slip, he corrects your stance with a soft curse and then demonstrates until you get it. he stays long after everyone else has left the training ground, because the quiet moments are when he can watch you grow and his heart can keep rhythm.
✧ when you’re reckless, he snaps — not out of anger but out of fear. his voice gets raw; the words are sharp. “don’t do that.” simple. final. afterwards, the apology is for his tone, not for the intent. he’ll make you tea and sit with you while you breathe through the tremors because he knows fear makes small things big.
✧ he hides his soft spots beneath sarcasm. call him out on it and he’ll glare like you’ve offended his dignity. steal his coat? expect a half-grouchy, half-pleased “don’t get used to it,” though he’ll make sure it’s mended and warmed for the next night. a gift is an embarrassment that he will never directly acknowledge, but he leaves little comforts where he knows your hands will find them.
✧ he writes messages like someone used to giving commands — short, crisp, efficient. but one night he slips and leaves a longer note under your door: “if you’re gone at dawn, send one post. if you’re late, i’ll assume you’re reckless. if you break anything, i’ll fix it. —a” and then he spends the day panicking that you’ll read more than you should and see how exposed he’s become.
✧ his attempts at romance are wildly clumsy. he won’t plan candlelit dinners because he finds them performative, but he’ll show up with stew and a slightly singed pie because he burned it trying to make something that reminded him of you. you laugh; he hates that you laugh because the pie is terrible but the intent is ceremony enough.
✧ he is fiercely protective but also hopelessly insecure. he’ll argue anybody into leaving you alone, and then go home and replay every decision you made that day, wondering if he could have prevented one stumble. the guilt of being insufficient is a weight he carries in silence — until you force him to talk and he realizes he can offload it onto you and you’ll still stay.
✧ he lets you see him tired and unguarded on purpose sometimes. at first that feels like an accident — you catch him at the table, head bowed over a map, eyes rimmed red. later you find it deliberate: an invitation. “i’m messy,” he’d warn if he had words for it. you brush a thumb against his knuckles and he stiffens, then relaxes because you stayed.
✧ he is clumsy with labels. he won’t hand you declarations, but he will hand you a life of effort. when you fall asleep mid-lecture, he moves your hair away with a reverence that looks like prayer. he doesn’t say it because words are blunt and he’s not brave, but he leaves his hand on your shoulder while you doze, and that linger is a small eternity.
✧ he’s got an internal monologue that reads like a storm. one minute he’s convincing himself he’s mad, the next he’s cataloguing what he loves — your laugh, your stubbornness, the scar only you notice. he panics at the idea of losing you, and his solution is always the same: be there more, be better, and hope his presence is enough to anchor you.
✧ he confesses in pieces. not a speech, but a string of moments. a hand on your back that doesn’t pull away, a protective step that leaves him winded, a muttered “stay” that is a command steeped in prayer. if pressed, he’ll say it simply, dangerous in its honesty: “i’m here. don’t go.” that, to him, means everything.
✧ after the confession, he doesn’t morph into a sitcom boyfriend. he remains sharp, high-functioning, and blunt — but the edges are softer with you. he yields space without always needing to explain why. he takes up less of the room in arguments, because he learns that to love is to listen as much as to guard.
✧ his jealousy becomes protective ritual rather than possessive rage. he’ll mark the territory in small gestures: he’ll sit between you and an admirer, he’ll make the first joke to disarm the flirt, he’ll take your arm with a possessive claim and then smirk away like it was all shown for show — but his hold is comfortable and warm and never meant to hurt.
✧ he shows love through preparedness: spare boots by your bedside, an extra cloak folded neatly by your door, your favorite ointment stocked in the infirmary. these are his promises — unexciting, practical, eternal.
✧ he will teach you to fight better because he wants you to be unbreakable even when he can’t stand watch. sometimes his lessons are brutal, and you’ll hate him for it in the moment, but afterward you’ll find bandages in your bag and a quiet look that says he was terrified the entire time.
✧ there are rare nights when he’s vulnerable enough to tell you the small things — the first time he noticed you, the way your laugh made something in him relax he didn’t know he had, the fear that you might not choose to stay. he says it in fits and starts, clumsy honesty that leaves you breathless because it’s raw and true.
✧ he loves you like a storm loves the shore: it's unavoidable, and like a coastline, you wear his roughness into something recognisable, something that holds meaning. he will never be soft in the ways the world expects, but his ferocity becomes the most tender thing you’ve ever seen.
✧ he keeps mementos you’d never expect: a scrap of fabric from an old scarf you wore once, a pressed leaf from where you sat and read, a band of steel he polished while thinking about you. they’re hidden in a drawer labelled “useless things” because he can’t bear to call them what they are: relics of the way he learned to care.
✧ on the worst days, when his past claws at him, you are the steadying force. he lets you hold him. he is not used to softness but he accepts it because you are the only one who has taught him softness is not a weakness. and each time you anchor him back to the present, his gratitude is a quiet thing that shivers in his jaw.
✧ if you push him to say it plainly, he will, in the end, because he’s honest even when he’s terrified. it won’t be a confession full of poetry — it’ll be direct and blunt and exactly him: “i never thought i’d want this. but i do. you’ve ruined me. stay.” and then he waits like a soldier who’s done with battle only to find a fight worth fighting.
✧ lowkey follows you around, not in a creepy way, just in a “if they need me i’ll be there in 0.2 seconds” kinda way
✧ if you even get a papercut he acts like you’ve been mortally wounded. “you’re bleeding?? i won't allow this”
✧ he’s dead serious, too. already dragging out gauze, disinfectant, and muttering under his breath about how “unbelievable” you are for letting something so catastrophic happen. when you laugh and say it’s just a scratch, he glares like you’ve personally offended him. “just a scratch? excuse me? blood is leaving your body. you think that’s something to joke about?”
✧ and then, while he’s wrapping your finger with way more precision than necessary, his tone softens. “you need to take better care of yourself. what if you ignored something bigger one day?”
✧ he doesn’t say the rest—what if i8’m not there to catch it? what if i lose you over something small, something stupid, something i could’ve prevented?
✧ okay but. first of all. this man? denial. like the olympic-level kind. he’s used to feeling above everything—especially emotions. he’s dramatic, sure, and full of pride, but real connection? real feelings? nah. not for him. or so he thinks.
✧ the realization doesn’t come in some huge romantic moment. it’s something stupid. maybe you fall asleep next to him while waiting for a briefing, your head gently bumping his shoulder, and instead of shoving you off or scoffing… he just sits there. perfectly still. completely silent. staring into space like someone just broke his brain.
✧ “what the hell is this. what. is this.”
✧ after that, it’s internal chaos. he’s spiraling. his brain is screaming and he’s just… pretending everything’s fine.
✧ on the outside? smug, still slightly cocky.
✧ on the inside? “do they know? did they feel my heart jump? was i breathing weird? why do i wanna hold their hand. why do i want them to like me back. this is a glitch in the matrix. i’m resetting my soul.”
✧ it starts off like regular anaxa nonsense. smug. composed. witty. above it all. but then he realizes he’s been “accidentally” assigned to mentor you way more often.
✧ he starts giving you extra notes, tailored study sheets, overly specific critiques like “you always forget this detail in your form, but your reaction time’s decent—still nowhere near good enough if i’m not around to cover you.”
✧ and you’re like “…wait are you complimenting me?”
✧“obviously not. don’t flatter yourself.” (he is. he totally is.)
✧ the more time he spends with you, the more unhinged he gets about your safety.
✧ like you’re sparring in a training room and you get knocked down, not seriously, but enough to make a sound—he teleports across the room like “what did i say about your blindside?? are you actively trying to get yourself killed, or are you just naturally this reckless??”
✧ “i’m fine—” “that’s not the point. do you think i enjoy wasting my time dragging you off the floor every week??”
✧ his hands are checking your limbs, his voice is sharp, but his touch is gentle. and his eyes are absolutely terrified.
✧ if you do anything remotely dangerous without telling him?? oh. you’re done. he will go off.
✧ “next time you decide to walk into an enemy territory alone, maybe try thinking for half a second beforehand? unless your goal is to make me lose the last three brain cells i have left.”
✧ “you’re overreacting…”
✧ anaxa? dead serious. “no, i’m reacting exactly enough for someone who just realized their favorite idiot almost died because they couldn’t be bothered to send a message.”
✧ but the thing is…he doesn’t just scold you.
✧ he explains things. he teaches. he wants you to be better, because if he can’t always be there to protect you, then you damn well better know how to protect yourself.
✧ he stays late helping you train. sends you articles and annotated guides.
✧ he’s invested.
✧ "if i’m stuck loving you, the least you could do is learn to dodge faster.”
✧ when you ask him “why do you care so much?” he scoffs every time. “oh please. i don’t care. i’m just tired of patching you up like you’re made of wet paper.”
✧ but his eyes linger, and later that night you find a handwritten note slipped under your door: “i care because i can’t not. because i’m already too deep. because you matter. more than i’m ready to admit.”
✧ (he’ll deny he ever wrote this)
✧ and then there’s the lectures. not just about combat, about sleep, food, rest, hydration.
✧ you yawn once and he’s already glaring. “have you been up all night again? why am i even asking, of course you have. congratulations, you’ve officially shaved ten years off your lifespan.”
✧ he’ll toss a fruit at you saying, “eat. i don’t want to hear another word until your body’s functioning at 50% minimum.”
✧ but it’s the soft scolding that hits the hardest, like after a battle where you overdid it again, and he finds you sitting alone, wincing while patching yourself up. his shadow falls over you before you even notice him, and by the time you look up, he’s already kneeling down, snatching the gauze from your clumsy fingers with a sharp “you’re doing it wrong.”
✧ he doesn’t say anything else at first—just works in silence, jaw tight, wrapping your wounds with careful, deliberate hands. it’s so unlike his usual dramatic, snarky self that you can’t help but watch him closely, the way his touch is steady even though his eyes keep flicking to every bruise like he wants to erase them himself.
✧ finally, when he ties off the bandage, his voice drops—barely above a whisper, like he’s saying something he shouldn’t: “you don’t have to do everything alone. stop acting like you’re disposable. you’re not.”
✧ and of course—you can’t resist teasing him. your lips twitch into a grin, and you lean just close enough to see his ears go pink. “awww, anaxa… are you worried about me?”
✧ instantly, he stiffens, glaring at you like you’ve committed some grave sin. “don’t flatter yourself. I’m just tired of cleaning up after your recklessness.” but his hands linger on your bandaged arm a little too long, and his voice cracks on the last word.
✧ you push it further, grinning, “you’re kind of sweet when you’re soft like this, y’know.”
✧ his face does not survive that. he jerks back like you just slapped him, sputtering. “soft? me? absolutely not. erase that from your memory immediately.”
✧ but later, when he thinks you’re asleep, his hand brushes yours, tentative, almost shy. and though he’d rather die than admit it. he liked you seeing that part of him. even if you tease him for it.
✧ his small rituals deepen. he brings you coffee to your bedside when he knows you have a long day. he sits on the roof sometimes, shoulders touching yours in silence, sharing the night because words feel redundant under a sky that vast. he hums low, a private soundtrack, and you learn the cadence of his contentment.
✧ he’s so bad at saying he loves you, but it leaks out in every word. for example: “don’t be late again.” = i waited for you and got worried and hated how much i did. “you’re terrible at this, let me fix it.” = i want to make things easier for you. “you’re an idiot.” = i’d die if anything happened to you.
✧ he’s always got some sharp comment ready, even in the middle of his “soft moments.” when he kneels to wrap your wounds, he’ll mutter, “really, are you trying to make me earn a medal for babysitting you?”
✧ and of course, you grin, leaning just enough to brush your fingers against his. “someone’s feeling dramatic today, aren’t they?”
✧ he frowns, but it’s the kind of frown that doesn’t stick. “i am not feeling dramatic. you’re just… reckless. it’s a public service i’m performing.”
✧ and you raise an eyebrow, teasing, “sure sure, your heroic concern for me is totally selfless.”
✧ he snorts, shaking his head, hands still gentle on your arm. “don’t get used to this softness. it’s highly irregular. maybe once every… eternity. don’t you dare think i’m doing it because I care.”
✧ but you can see it—oh, you know it. the way his hand lingers an extra second on your wrist, the little hitch in his breath when your fingers brush his, the way his eyes soften despite the words.
✧ and so, naturally, you tease him relentlessly. “wow, such a cold heart… and yet here you are, fussing over me like i’m made of porcelain.”
✧ he flinches, sputters, and mutters something about “porcelain being a ridiculous comparison,” but the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s barely keeping a smirk contained.
✧ you can push him to the edge with this, knowing full well he won’t push back in earnest. his snark is armour, but underneath? he adores every second of your teasing, even if he refuses to say it.
✧ yes he’s infatuated with you there’s no denying it.
mydei
✧ realisation is quiet. it’s like the end of a complex equation and the answer is most definitely and undeniably….you.
✧ he watches you like he’s trying to understand every part of you, and then realises…he already does
✧ he starts acting a little awkward, stumbling over words, especially when you get too close, which is really cute but also terrifying to see, the son of gorgo, lord mydeimos…stuttering? wow.
✧ if you ask him what’s wrong, he’ll be all “nothing of logical concern,” but his ears are red
✧ there’s such a beautiful duality—he’s this battle-worn, ruthless soldier with blood on his hands and weight in his soul… and yet he’s soft, gentle, and almost painfully sweet with you. a protector.
✧ he gets ridiculously possessive in the cutest ways, though he’ll never outright admit it. if someone even glances at you for more than a second, he appears like he teleported there out of nowhere, his arms crossed, eyes narrowed, muttering something about “don’t get distracted, they might actually be important to me” while pretending it’s about your safety.
✧ when you tease him, he sputters and protests, but secretly he loves it. he’ll mutter something sharp like “stop laughing, i wasn’t—fine, you’re lucky i even care” and his voice shakes just a little, betraying how much he enjoys the playful back-and-forth.
✧ he leaves little notes for you in unexpected places. not full-on love letters, because that would be… him, but scraps of paper tucked into your bag or gear: “don’t forget to breathe today. also, you’ve annoyed me just enough to like you a little more than i should.” and he definitely watches to see if you find it, hiding the pink tinge on his cheeks when you do.
✧ if you’re cold, he doesn’t hesitate. he’ll drop everything, wrap you in his cloak without asking, and growl if you try to protest. “don’t argue with me—you look ridiculous shivering like that,” he says, but there’s a softness in his tone that only you notice.
✧ during missions, he’s hyper-aware of your every move. the smallest sound—an unstable branch, a shifting stone, a stray spark—sets him moving before you even notice. he’s like a guardian shadow, always just a step behind or beside you, ready to catch you before anything happens.
✧ he practices subtle touches just to gauge your reaction. a gentle brush of the hand, a lingering arm around your shoulder… his poker face is perfect, but every small movement makes his heartbeat betray him. and he notices when you notice, freezing for a second before muttering something nonsensical to cover it up.
✧ if you complain about being tired or sore, he groans dramatically, but never leaves your side. he hovers close, his voice sharp but his hands gentle as he helps you stretch or rubs your shoulders. “you’re exaggerating, as always, but fine… let me,” he grumbles, though every movement is careful, protective, and tender.
✧ when he catches you staring at him, his brain immediately short-circuits. he panics internally: “did they notice my hair? my shoulder? my expression? oh no… they noticed me noticing them,” while externally he tries to act nonchalant, crossing his arms and muttering something about needing to check his weapon.
✧ he shows affection in tiny, almost imperceptible ways—tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, adjusting your cloak when you’re not looking, holding your hand for just a second too long. he’d never call it love, but every action screams it.
✧ he’s absurdly concerned for your safety, to the point of ridiculousness. “you could stub a toe and i’d spend the next hour calculating the probability of your survival. don’t test me,” he warns, though the corners of his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to smile at how much he cares.
✧ he makes little gifts for you and pretends they’re purely practical. a custom dagger for missions? “efficiency only. utilitarian purposes. nothing else.” yet later you notice delicate engravings only you would recognize—initials, a small pattern he knows you love, and you just let it slide, because he would never admit it was for you.
✧ when you fall asleep near him, he freezes. he doesn’t move or speak, just watches your chest rise and fall, memorizing the way your hair falls across your face, the softness of your eyelashes, as if you were the most precious thing in the world and he’s terrified to wake you.
✧ if you brush his hand or shoulder, he jumps slightly and mutters incoherent words while turning bright red. “what… did… you just do…? don’t think i didn’t notice,” he says, voice shaking as his ears flush, and he hides his face like a flustered teenager.
✧ he gives you his jacket without asking, claiming he doesn’t need it anyway, but secretly he loves watching you wear it. “it suits you better… obviously,” he says, though the word “obviously” is delivered with a twitch of nervous pride.
✧ when you’re hurt, he becomes methodical, almost scientific, checking every detail of your wounds and how you’re holding yourself, but his hands tremble slightly because he’s terrified of losing you.
✧ sometimes, when he thinks you’re not looking, he whispers to himself: “please… stay. don’t go anywhere. i… can’t handle this without you.” and you always notice.
✧ he hides his flustered moments with witty, snarky quips, though they never quite cover how soft he is. “don’t look at me like that. i’m not… oh forget it,” he mutters, eyes softening every time you meet his gaze.
✧ he leaves small surprises around you: a clean mug ready in the morning, a neatly folded cloak, or a small sketch of something he knows you love, never admitting they’re meant for you.
✧ he's the kind of man who holds your hand like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, even after holding a blade like it’s part of him.
✧ it happens stupidly. like painfully soft and dumb.
✧ you’re trying to fix your armor or something and you’re all frowny and frustrated and go “ugh i hate this piece, i wanna throw it into the sun” and he?? just chuckles.
✧ like. full chest, soft rumble chuckle. and he goes, “don’t waste the sun like that.”
✧ but he’s looking at you. not the armor. and in that exact second he’s like “oh. oh no. i love them.”
✧ aaaaaand his brain short circuits.
✧ he becomes SO bad at hiding it. like he thinks he’s being subtle but his actions scream “hopeless man in love.”
✧ you cough once and he’s got a cup of tea ready in two seconds. you trip a little and he’s already got his arms around you like you almost got hit by a meteor.
✧ you look cold? he’s putting his entire cloak around your shoulders even though it’s heavy and now he’s just shirtless under the stars like a feral romantic wolf man.
✧ he gets FLUSTERED when you do soft things to him. you brush his hair behind his ear? he stops functioning. you call him handsome? he physically shakes. and if you kiss his scars?
✧ he malfunctions and literally freezes with his eyes wide open like “uh. system.exe not found.”
✧ he tries to act composed but he’s got the WORST soft spot for you.
✧ like you could literally walk in holding a kitten and go “this is ours now” and he’d be like
✧ “…..what does it eat. what temperature does it like to sleep at. does it need a name?”
✧ he builds it a tiny shield. he denies it. but he totally does.
✧ when you’re injured?? the man becomes your personal doctor/mom/furniture.
✧ “sit down. don’t move. i’ll carry you. no you’re not fine. you’re never fine.”
✧ and then when you finally rest he just SITS THERE watching you sleep like “my tiny brave idiot. why do i love you so much. you absolute chaos gremlin.”
✧ kisses your forehead when you’re unconscious before denying it later.
✧ he says the most insane soft stuff when he’s tired. he once mumbled “your voice is my favorite sound” at 3 a.m. another time whispered “i’d bleed for you. i mean i have, but like….i’d do it again….”
✧ you try to tease him about it and he’ll deny it like “i didn’t say that” but his ears are red. all the way down to his neck. yeah he said it alright.
✧ sometimes he zones out staring at you and then realizes you caught him and just grunts “you have something on your face.”
✧ your brows furrow in confusion as you connected the dots. “what is it?” you ask, touching and scouring every surface of your face for anything.
✧ mydei, the smallest yet cutest hint of pink on his cheeks as his eyes dance to yours. “me. looking at you.”
✧ you give him a kiss on the cheek once and he goes SILENT for ten minutes straight.
✧ doesn’t even breathe.
✧ you’re slightly confused and a bit worried. “are you okay?” and he just nods like “fine.”
✧ “mhm…yeah sure..”
✧ he is not. he’s internally screaming.
✧ he builds stuff for you. fixes your gear. makes you custom weapons that he pretends are “for mission efficiency” but secretly carves little patterns into them just because he knows you like pretty things.
✧ there’s one blade he gives you that has a tiny engraving on the hilt. you notice it later.
✧ it’s your initials and his. you don’t bring it up.
✧ he carries everything for you. bags? his. water? his. emotional burdens? also his.
✧ “give it to me.”
✧ “you’re gonna strain your back—”
✧ “then i’ll carry that too.”
✧ you trip ONCE and he doesn’t let you walk without holding his hand for a WEEK. it’s like he instantly becomes your mother, fretting for you 24/7.
✧ “what if you fall again?”
✧ “onto what. a flat hallway?”
✧ “danger is everywhere. even gravity can’t be trusted.”
✧ and finally, when he does confess for real, it’s quiet and simple yet so full of warmth.
✧ you’re curled up beside him after a long day, and he gently brushes your hair back and says, “you’re my peace. the only softness i’ll never fight against.”
✧ “i don’t just want to protect you anymore. i want to belong to you.”
✧ immediately gets flustered before speaking once again, “if…you’re okay with that.”
✧ and finally, the flustered, chaotic, adorable mydei you’ve come to know melts into a man who allows himself to love, protect, and be vulnerable with you.
phainon
✧ goes straight into panic mode. this man is flailing.
✧ starts stammering, laughing too loud around you, accidentally dropping things—like bro calm down...
✧ he flirts in the most obvious way possible, but it’s kinda endearing. like “if i were a planet, you’d be my sun!! haha… unless that’s weird…”
✧ gets so jealous but doesn’t know how to express it, so he just sulks and pouts until you give him attention again
✧ after he realizes he’s in love, every little thing you do becomes a highlight reel in his brain. the way you chew your lip when thinking? the way you stretch after a long day? he notices it all and it makes his chest tighten like he might burst.
✧ he tries to act nonchalant, but fails spectacularly. if you glance at him the wrong way, he trips over nothing, laughs too loudly, or knocks something over, muttering “…i’m fine. fine. totally fine.” and you know he isn’t.
✧ every compliment from you makes him melt into an awkward puddle. “phai, you look amazing today!” and he’s like, “…obviously… thanks… i think… wow.” internally panicking while trying to maintain a façade of hero-level composure.
✧ when you’re tired or cold, he immediately transforms into this overprotective, fluffball boyfriend. “come here. you’re not walking another step in that weather.” before you know it, he’s draped his cloak over you, pulled you close, and is muttering about how reckless you are.
✧ he flirts constantly, in the most chaotic, obvious ways. if you pass by, he’s “accidentally” bumping into you. he makes ridiculous jokes mid-fight like, “careful, sweetheart, wouldn’t want to fall for me too hard.” and his grin says he’s very serious about it.
✧ jealous? absolutely. but phainon doesn’t explode or make a scene—he sulks, pouts, and mutters under his breath like a baffled little puppy who’s been denied a treat. it starts with a stiffening in his shoulders when someone laughs too loudly at your jokes, then turns into that adorable, obvious sulk: he crosses his arms, stomps his foot once for dramatic effect, and walks a few paces away only to hover where he can still see you. his mouth is full of snappy comebacks but they stick there; instead he mumbles things like, “oh, very funny,” or “fine, enjoy their nonsense,” with a tone that clearly reads as please-pay-attention-to-me.
✧ he’ll pout in the quietest ways—drama without the fireworks. maybe he pretends to be unimpressed and loudly praises the perpetrator’s technique, then scowls when you laugh at their joke and not his. sometimes he sulks so theatrically you can’t help but jab him in the ribs and ask what’s wrong; other times he’ll grumble away while watching you, eyes soft and a little pleading, until you catch his gaze and the whole performance collapses into sheepish grin and a chaotic, “don’t be like that.”
✧ if you decide to ignore it on purpose, he escalates to puppy tactics: he becomes performatively helpful—offering to carry your gear, making silly faces behind someone’s back, or doing something spectacular and a little embarrassing just to get you to look. when you finally do give him the attention he’s been pining for, the sulk melts in an instant. he flops into your space with a relieved, goofy sigh and ruffles your hair like you saved him from a storm.
✧ and if you call him out—gently—on being jealous, his defenses wobble. he’ll snort and say, “me? jealous? never,” but his cheeks betray him, faintly pink, and he’ll reach for your hand like a small, stubborn child secretly begging to be reassured. underneath all the theatrics is a tiny, very real fear that you might drift away, and his sulking is just the only language he sometimes knows for asking you to stay.
✧ he’s fiercely competitive, but with you, he’s a disaster. even the smallest sparring victory from you makes him stare in stunned admiration. “…wait… you just—ow. yes, okay. you’re terrifyingly good.” and he can’t hide the pride in his voice.
✧ when you’re sad, he goes full soft mode. he doesn’t talk much, just sits near you, offering his shoulder or hand without a word, letting you lean on him. he hums quietly sometimes, like a grounding rhythm, until you relax.
✧ if you cry? he’s a trembling mess. gently pulls you into his arms, presses his cheek to your head, and whispers, “shhh… i’ve got you. i’ll hold it all for you, okay?” even though he hates being vulnerable, he lets you see this side of him because he trusts you.
✧ he notices everything about you. your favorite snacks? he memorizes. how you like your gear adjusted? noted. the tone of your voice when you’re tired? he adapts. it’s insane attention to detail, all mixed with love and absolute puppy energy.
✧ phainon is definitely the kind of guy to make you a flower crown. he’ll sit there, fumbling with stems, tongue poking out a little in concentration while he ties them together, acting like it’s just another casual hobby. when he finally places it on your head, he’s grinning ear to ear—then immediately plops one onto his own head so you match.
✧ if you call him out for how romantic it is, he instantly backpedals, running a hand through his hair and saying, “what? no way, it just looks cooler if I wear one too. totally not, like… couple-y or anything.” spoiler: it is very couple-y, and he knows it.
✧ his heroic side is still intact. he roars through battles like a living flame, lifts impossibly heavy objects, and protects everyone—but with you, he’s both chaotic and soft, leaning into his feelings in ways he wouldn’t dare elsewhere.
✧ he’s always trying to make you laugh. goofy impressions, ridiculous puns, playful challenges—anything to get that spark in your eyes, because he lives for it. every smile from you makes him feel like the world is right, even if everything else is chaos.
✧ every single time you laugh at one of his dumb jokes, like really laugh, that unguarded, belly-deep laugh...he loses it. outwardly, he doubles down, throwing another cheesy one-liner like it’s nothing. but inside? he’s a puddle. his grin falters for half a second because he’s so overwhelmed, and he actually has to turn his face away, clear his throat, and mutter something cocky like “yeah, I’m hilarious, I know.” truth is, he’s thinking: i just made them laugh. me. i could live off this forever.
✧ he cannot sit still around you. his body’s buzzing, restless, constantly moving. he’ll spin a dagger between his fingers, tap his foot, roll his shoulders—like he needs to bleed off the nervous energy. but the second you reach out and touch his hand, just casually, maybe to stop him fidgeting? he freezes.
✧ suddenly all that motion evaporates and he’s perfectly still, staring at you with wide eyes like you just hit his off-switch. he recovers in a flash with some half-joke like, “uh. guess you’ve got powers after all,” but he’s not fooling anyone.
✧ his confessions are chaotic but precious. “…i’d die for you. wait, not like that. i mean… i’d also like to live… with you… near you… uh. just… you know. stay with me?” he’s stumbling over words but his eyes are earnest, and it’s impossible not to melt.
✧ kisses from you? he freezes completely, wide-eyed, then wraps you up in a trembling hug like “oh. OH. we’re in love now. okay. no take-backs!” and his hands shake because he’s terrified and ecstatic at the same time.
✧ every little action from him screams “i love you” even when he insists otherwise. sharpening your weapons “for efficiency only,” leaving a blanket beside you, making ridiculous gestures just to make you laugh—it’s all for you, and he’s hopelessly proud when you notice.
✧ his chaos and heroism blend perfectly with his puppy energy around you: loud, dazzling, competitive, affectionate, flustered, and completely devoted. he’s impossible not to adore and he knows it.
✧ he’s charming, heroic, the kinda guy everyone loves on the surface… but you get to see the real him, the flawed, snappy, a lil unhinged sometimes. and he loves you more than anything for not turning away when he’s not perfect.
✧ phainon is most definitely the “i could bench press a star but i’d fold in half if you looked at me for too long” type of boyfriend. cough cough just letting you know cough cough
✧ phainon swears up and down he can cook for you. “culinary skills of a god,” he says. “you’re gonna be blown away,” he insists. the reality? chaos. the kitchen’s filled with smoke, half the food is either raw or charred beyond recognition, and there’s a small, suspicious fire in the corner. he comes out of it sheepishly holding a burnt pan and grinning like, “okay, technically it’s edible. but, like, the effort was hot, right?” he sulks for five minutes when you tease him about it—until you take a bite anyway, then he lights up like you just handed him the world.
✧ he is so easily distracted by you it’s borderline dangerous. he’s walked into poles, tripped over rocks, and once nearly fell into a river mid-conversation because you happened to smile at him. every single time, he acts like it wasn’t his fault. “gravity just hits different around you,” he says, puffing up his chest like it’s a legitimate excuse. but the pink in his ears always gives him away.
✧ if you look even slightly stressed or down, phainon cannot let it slide. he’ll throw himself into the most ridiculous antics just to make you smile. once, he literally challenged a boulder to a push-up contest. like, he dropped onto the ground, shouting encouragements to himself while side-eyeing you, trying to drag a laugh out of you. when you finally cracked a grin, he collapsed dramatically, rolling onto his back with a groan of, “see? victory achieved. your smile’s worth losing to a rock.”
✧ phainon is so easygoing at first. flirty, teasing, constantly cracking jokes with that cocky grin like he’s never once had a bad day in his life. he’s loud in the way sunshine is, everywhere, impossible to ignore.
✧ but when he falls in love with you? oh man. it sneaks up on him like a stray punch to the ribs. one minute he’s breezy, cracking jokes and swaggering through the training yard, and the next he’s watching you with this dazed, private awe that makes him forget the rest of the world exists. it doesn’t arrive like a declaration — it slides in sideways during a spar, behind a grin, in the quiet seconds after you laugh, and then suddenly he realizes he’s been orbiting you without permission.
✧ it all starts with sparring, naturally. you two jab and prod each other the way only people who trust one another can, teasing, testing reach and reflex. the air is electric, boots scuffing, breath coming in measured bursts. you’re bickering with that playful cadence that always ends with both of you smirking, and he loves it: the way you don’t flinch, the way you commit to every move like nothing matters but the moment.
✧ he holds back, of course, not because he can’t win, but because he’d rather see you try than crush you too easily. still, there’s a smug pleasure in feeling you land a hit on him, because of course you’d make him work for it.
✧ one afternoon you finally catch him in a lock and he lets you have it deliberately, with a slow, teasing yield. he collapses to the mats, sounding dramatic and delighted, “ow. i guess you win.” and for a heartbeat you’re stunned: your chest puffs with that weird pride that comes with surprising someone impossible. “wait really???!!!” you shout, half incredulous, half triumphant. he watches you glow with this soft, almost guilty sparkle in his eyes and admits, quietly, “…yeah.”
✧ that’s the moment it slams into him like a truck. he hadn’t planned on the feeling, and now that it’s there he’s alternately thrilled and terrified. afterward he tries to act normal. jokes come faster, his grin gets louder, his swagger more exaggerated, but normal is impossible. he starts complimenting you in the strangest, most chaotic ways because he doesn’t know how else to say you’re incredible without sounding like a fool. “you’re so freakin’ cool when you punch me in the face, y’know that?” he says once, voice too loud for no reason, then flushes when you beam back at him.
✧ sometimes his compliments ricochet off into surreal territory. “if i die in battle i hope it’s by your hands. you’d make it look hot,” he’ll blurt — confidence turned ridiculous bravado — and you stare at him wondering whether to laugh or swoon. he’s the kind of person who roars into battle like nothing can touch him, but the second you say something simple — “you look handsome when you’re serious” — he freezes. “shut up,” he grumbles through a blush, the words half-annoyed and half-pleased as his face blooms red all the way down to his chest.
✧ showmanship is his currency. he adores showing off in front of you: lifting ridiculous weights that make nearby soldiers whistle, demonstrating stunts that end with him grinning at your reaction. he’s proud in a loud, physical way because he wants you to be impressed. but praise — sincere, soft, unforced praise — melts him. one genuine “phai, you’re amazing!!” will make him lock up, eyes wide, mouth open, completely unready for being adored. he’ll deflect with a cocky “hah! obviously,” but inside his brain is spiraling: you love me, right? marry me now?
✧ he adores that you don’t flinch from his darker edges. when the coreflame in his chest pops up and his blood hums with anger, the world tilts and his hands clench, and he is an animal on the verge. if you simply step forward, place your hand on his chest and whisper, “i know you’re still here,” it grounds him like nothing else can. no fear. no recoil. you become his peaceful spot in the middle of the storm, the one person whose touch can shrink the rage into something manageable. he’d kneel for you — not out of ceremony but as a reflex of reverence.
✧ when he gets overwhelmed, he masks it with noise — dumb jokes, over-the-top laughter, a grin too wide because vulnerability terrifies him. yet if you see through the bravado and say, softly, “hey… it’s okay to not be okay,” he collapses into silence like someone finally dropping a heavy pack. then he pulls you into a fierce, trembling hug, burying his face in your shoulder and whispering, “thank you.” those moments are private, raw, and he trusts you with them alone.
✧ competitiveness is in his bones. with Mydei, it’s a nonstop game of one-upmanship, lifts, stunts, who-can-outlast-who, and yet around you he becomes endearingly clumsy. example: after Mydei lands a clean sparring win and nods your way with a cocky smirk, Phainon scrambles up, brushes off dust, and yells, “cool, love that for him — watch me lift a tree.” it’s both performative and sincere, half-show, half-plea for your attention. he’ll flirt mid-fight, dropping ridiculous lines like, “careful, sweetheart, i might fall for you harder than your footwork.” when you actually knock him off his feet he laughs, winded and triumphant, and for a second the whole world narrows to the ridiculousness of being in love.
✧ his soft spots are numerous and obvious to everyone — yet somehow everyone pretends not to notice because who could blame him? he learns your schedule, knows your snack preferences down to the brand, and can tell by the tilt in your voice when you’re tired. when you’re sad he gets quiet and present, offering jacket, hand, or silence depending on what you need. if you cry, he’s the gentle fortress: he pulls you in, cheek to your head, and murmurs, “shhh… i’ve got you. i’ll hold it all for you, okay?” and you can feel the sincerity in the press of his palm.
✧ he says the most unhinged things because he’s not great at neat emotions. “i’d die for you,” he blurts once, then immediately backtracks, “[wait. not like that. i mean — i’d also like to live. with you. near you.]” it is earnest, bumbling, and endearing. it’s the sort of proclamation that makes you grin and roll your eyes and want to punch his shoulder, and he’s thrilled by the attention.
✧ one day he tells you something that sticks: “…i think i’d let you win every fight for the rest of my life if it means i get to see you smile like that.” you fold in on yourself with warmth and disbelief, and when you kiss him he freezes for a beat, then cradles you like he’s afraid the world might snatch you away. hands trembling, he grins into your hair, “oh. OH. we’re in love now. okay. no take-backs!” and even when he tries to joke it off, his hands won’t stop shaking because he’s so completely undone.
✧ all of it — the swagger, the noise, the showboating — is a cover for how utterly head-over-heels he is. he’s loud to cover his fear, brave to keep you safe, and goofy because being around you makes everything feel lighter. he will say things that make no sense, act like a fool, and be victorious in the silliest ways if it means you’re laughing. and when it matters most, he’ll stand steady and fierce, the brightest, most dangerous guardian you could ask for — but also the warmest, most ridiculous puppy in your arms.
✧ it’s awful but so precious.
✧ he’s really good at speaking, whether it’s at rallies, casual talk or anything. and the one thing he said that flared up your heart?
✧ “…i think i’d let you win every fight for the rest of my life if it means i get to see you smile like that.”
✧ yeah, you folded under 0 pressure.
✧ you kiss him. he stops breathing. and then holds you up like “oh. OH. we’re in love now. okay. okay. no take-backs!” he’s so nervous you can feel his hands trembling as he holds you in his arms, ugh.
aventurine
✧ he figures it out and immediately starts calculating how to make you fall for him too. once aventurine realizes what he’s feeling, his brain instantly goes into overdrive. he treats it like a high-stakes gamble, studying you, your reactions, your tells, like you’re the most complex game he’s ever played.
✧ it’s not just about charm anymore, it’s strategy. he’s analyzing every word you say and plotting little ways to make you notice him more, like every second you spend not looking at him is a missed opportunity.
✧ suddenly you’re winning at his games “by chance,” he’s giving you his rarest gems “for good luck,” and he’s pulling out the charm like crazy.
✧ the odds always seem to fall in your favor, but anyone who knows aventurine would see right through it. he’ll play it off with a smug grin and a shrug, like, “guess you’re just that lucky,” while sliding another gleaming chip into your hand. and when he offers you gems—ones even other IPC execs would kill to have—he acts like it’s nothing. “don’t read too much into it, just think of it as insurance.” but his eyes are always watching to see how happy it makes you.
✧ still acts cocky and smug, but you can tell he’s genuinely trying, he listens when you talk, remembers the little things, and flirts in a way that makes your heart flutter.
✧ the bravado remains, aventurine's armor is as much a part of him as his shoes, but the swagger is now layered over earnest attention. he hangs on your words in conversations he used to skim, remembers your absurd preferences (how you like your coffee, which walk you favor on a cloudy day), and drops flirtatious lines that hit in a different register than his usual banter. they land softer; they land deliberate. every time he does it you feel him trying, and it makes the cocky front feel almost vulnerable.
✧ he’s literally so extra but tries to act like he’s doing the bare minimum. aventurine 1000% spoils you like a fashion-forward sugar strategist king and pretends it’s “just practical."
✧ he’ll insist the silk scarf was an economical choice and the bespoke coat was “practical for weather,” but the way he fusses over fit and fabric, insisting the hem falls precisely where it should, the sleeve hits the wrist just so, gives him away. he’s theatrical in the nicest way: the label isn’t the point, it’s the smile he gets watching you discover a hidden pocket, the small triumph of seeing something he chose match you perfectly. he pretends this is merely logistics, but the soft way he watches you wear his choices tells a different tale.
✧ one day just casually goes “you know i’d bet everything on you, right?” and you’re like wait. what? he says it offhandedly, light, teasing, like a gambler tossing out bravado but there’s a gravity beneath the line. your startled reaction makes him hitch, just a fraction, because the truth in it is heavier than a joke. for him it’s both confession and wager: he’s staking something he doesn’t usually risk time, reputation, the small guarded parts of himself on you. when the words hang between you, they look ordinary, but they tilt the conversation in a new direction.
✧ aventurine flirts with everyone, that’s just who he is smooth, charming, dripping confidence like perfume. so when he flirts with you at first, he doesn’t think twice about it. but the second you flirt back? not even that seriously, just a little smirk, a “you always say that, venti”—he chokes. like actually pauses. because oh. oh no. that hit different.
✧ he’s used to being the one who sets the tempo; someone mirroring him is usually just another ripple in the room. but when it’s you, when you deflect him with a smirk or a teasing retort, his practiced composure stutters. the breath catches, his brain trips, and for once he’s not writing the script. the choke is nearly audible: one small personal misstep that feels like a thrilling failure, because under all that charm he’s not immune to being disarmed by you.
✧ at first, he tells himself it’s fine. he’s just intrigued. you’re fun to banter with. nothing new. but then you start showing up in his thoughts when he’s alone, when he’s going over numbers, strategies, odds and he’s not thinking about his next bet. he’s thinking about your laugh. your eyes. how you looked at him when you caught him watching you across the room. and it’s messing him up.
✧ the tidy spreadsheets of his life begin to fray at the edges, your laugh becomes a recurring footnote in his head, an image that interrupts his calculations. he catches himself pausing in the middle of an analysis to replay a tiny expression you made, or catching the echo of your voice when he should be focused. it’s disorienting because everything he’s built is predictability and control, and this spontaneous, foolish thing keeps inserting itself where numbers used to be. he flushes with embarrassment and wonder in equal measure.
✧ he starts trying to control it like it’s a negotiation. he’s like “alright. if i don’t talk to them for two days, i’ll be normal again.” spoiler: he is not normal again. he makes it exactly 6 hours before he’s inventing fake reasons to visit your office. “just checking in~! you left a pen behind and i couldn’t let that tragic loss go unnoticed.”
✧ he experiments with distance like a scientist only to break them with charming, ridiculous excuses. the pen is a classic: trivial and perfectly framed as concern, but he knows exactly how to manufacture innocuous proximity and then accuse fate of conspiring. the ruse is sloppy because he’s not good at not being near you; he always finds a way back faster than he meant to.
✧ he becomes so annoying and so obvious to everyone around him. like he’ll see you lift something heavy and go “whoa, didn’t know you were that strong. what else have you been hiding from me?” with a smirk, but the second you shoot him a playful wink back, he turns around to hide the fact he’s literally fanning himself with a clipboard.
✧ his colleagues notice the change in his orbit: slightly less aloof, slightly more focused on one particular presence in a room. he peppers you with observations that sound like they could be market research but are just him trying to catalog your strengths. and when you reciprocate playfully, he’s caught off guard, flushed, a sheepish grin, clipboard defensively up because he’s a little embarrassed to be reduced to the state of a giddy teenager.
✧ aventurine LOVES competition but with you? he lets you win. or at least… he says he let you win. even if he didn’t. because he’s obsessed with the way your face lights up when you beat him at something. “guess i’m slipping, huh?” he’ll tease, but you’ll catch the tiniest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. like he’s proud. like he lives to see you smug for once.
✧ sometimes the victory is real and glorious for you; sometimes it’s arranged with the lightest of manipulations...he’ll nudge a dice, adjust a timing, or feign a misstep. he’ll act wounded and miffed afterwards as if you robbed him, but his eyes shine like someone who kept a secret just to watch you triumph. the tease is his cover; the pride swallowing soft at his throat is unmasked in the smallest, most human of gestures.
✧ when he realizes it’s love, it scares him. not in a dramatic meltdown way he just quietly panics. because aventurine is used to controlling outcomes, reading people, always being one step ahead. and with you? he can’t predict you. he can’t calculate feelings. he can’t even figure out when exactly you became the one thing he’d actually risk losing.
✧ the panic is internal and careful; it’s not chaotic theatrics but a series of small, private alarms going off at once. he reassesses all his assumptions and finds that where there were certainties about markets or favors, there is this vast unknowable terrain of heart. the idea that something might make him irrational, something he can’t hedge against, terrifies and exhilarates him in equal measure.
✧ he gets a little softer, a little quieter, when you’re alone. still flirty, still confident but you’ll notice his voice drops. he leans closer. his teasing gets slower, more sincere. “you ever notice how the room always feels better when you’re in it?” he’ll say with a little smile, and this time, he means it.
✧ the bravado eases in private; the cadence shifts from performance to intimacy. those lowered tones are intentional. he’s testing whether the chemistry translates off-stage. his compliments lose their foil and gain weight, and the little smile that accompanies them is honest, uncalculated. moments like these feel like an invitation into a softer, more vulnerable corner of the man you thought you knew.
✧ aventurine’s love language is gifting, but not obvious gifts. they’re subtle, personalized, and always tailored to something you mentioned once, weeks ago. a new charm for your weapon that matches your aesthetic? done. a rare coin he found on a mission that he says “reminded me of you, shiny and impossible to ignore”? yes.
✧ the gifts read like footnotes in your life: small, precise, and unexpectedly intimate. he doesn’t hand you ostentatious displays; he gives you things that say: i listened. he remembers. that tiny charm tucked into your gear is his way of being present when he cannot be there physically—an emblem of attentiveness wrapped in luxury.
✧ he absolutely gets jealous, but never in a dramatic or toxic way. he just gets smugly competitive. if someone else flirts with you, he slides up beside you like “hmm. looks like i’ve got some unexpected competition. should i be worried?” but he says it while casually wrapping an arm around your waist or leaning into your space with that "this is mine" energy.
✧ it’s a precision move—equal parts warning and playful claim. his smugness is a controlled flame rather than a wildfire: a way to stake territory without drama, to remind others (and perhaps you) that there’s a quiet confidence behind his charm, and that the game, whenever played around you, has become decidedly more personal.
✧ if you get hurt, he loses the charm act instantly. the smile drops. the sarcasm vanishes. he kneels beside you with a deathly serious look and says your name like a prayer. his hands are steady but his voice is shaking, “hey. hey, stay with me. you’re gonna be fine, alright?” he doesn’t joke again until he’s sure you’re okay.
✧ the businessman, the flirt, the strategist, all of it falls away the instant your safety is at stake. his care becomes blunt and urgent. he’s competent, quick, and frighteningly focused on the practical, but underneath that efficiency is a fragile human who finds that each breath you take is suddenly the most important thing in his world.
✧ you tease him once like “what, you falling for me or something?” and he freezes. for a second too long. then he laughs, but it’s not as cocky this time. it’s soft. he leans in, real close, and whispers, “maybe i am. what would you do if i said yes?”
✧ the tease unravels him because the truth is right at the surface now, tender and ridiculous. his whisper is both a dare and a confession, a tiny risk laid bare in the hush. the closeness is electrifying, and his question hangs like an invitation. he wants to see if you’ll match the gamble.
✧ when he finally confesses, it’s not flashy. not dramatic. just you and him, walking home together after a mission, your hands brushing, his voice quiet for once. “i used to think winning was everything. but then you showed up and ruined the game. and now… i don’t think i’d mind losing. not if it means i get to keep you.”
✧ the confession is simple because he is stripped of all theater; there’s no audience, no ledger, only the two of you and a truth he can’t package into profit or charm. it’s equal parts surrender and promise: he’d trade the thrill of victory for the steadiness of being beside you, and in that statement the full scale of how much you mean to him is made plain.
✧ he loves dressing you up. not in a weird controlling way, but in a “i saw this and immediately thought of how stupidly perfect you’d look in it” way. he’s already got incredible taste, so the clothes he buys you are so stupidly luxurious it’s unreal, soft silks, embroidered jackets, matching rings, everything tailored exactly to your measurements (which he 100% knew before you ever told him. don’t ask how. he’s scary like that).
✧ when you go “isn’t this too much?” he just blinks and goes, “you underestimate how much i enjoy spending money on people who make me smile.”
✧ the garments are statements, less about possession than celebration. he treats your style like a private gallery, curating looks that highlight angles he admires. when you try on something he picked, his eyes light up with that small, ridiculous pride of a man who found treasure and can’t wait to show it. the way he watches you move in his choices is intimacy rendered through taste and generosity.
✧ don’t even get him started on sleepwear. one day you mentioned in passing how your “pajamas are ugly” and this man literally blinked and twelve sets of monogrammed luxury loungewear showed up at your door. he acts so casual about it too like “oh, those? just some extras lying around. figured you’d like the silk blend.” each one is in your favorite color. and smells like him.
✧ the sleepwear is peak aventurine, ridiculously over-the-top, but so tender. it’s a soft invasion of your private evenings: fabrics that fold into your sleep like a promise, monograms that whisper familiarity, and a subtle scent he leaves behind so when you slip them on you feel noticed and comforted even in the smallest domestic hour.
✧ but the best part? the subtle matching. he would never do something as tacky as “couples tees” (he says that with visible disgust) but he absolutely goes out of his way to coordinate with you. if your outfit has gold accents? suddenly he’s got a gold chain on. you wear navy one day? “oh wow, look at that, my new cufflinks just happen to match.” if you ever call him out on it, he just smirks and goes “what, you thought we weren’t gonna be the best-dressed duo in the room?”
✧ the coordination is his quiet signature: a shared palette of color or a mirrored accessory that reads like a private joke. he maneuvers the aesthetic conversation without ever stating the obvious, and when you notice, the small grin he offers is pure delight—his way of claiming a tiny, tasteful piece of you without needing to make a spectacle.
✧ the first time you actually wear something he gave you in public, he short circuits. tries to act composed, but he just keeps looking over at you with this dazed, possessive little smile. “mm. yeah, i made a good investment.” like you’re a rare gem he found before anyone else could. he walks a little closer to you that day. lets his hand brush yours more often. calls you “darling” without sarcasm.
✧ the public moment exposes him where once he could be private and strategic, now he’s delightedly vulnerable. the way he claims proximity, lets his shoulder touch yours, and uses a new pet name without irony is his declaration. it’s a small possession, yes, but one grounded in appreciation and a desire to be close.
✧ and if you ever match with him on purpose? like you come out wearing something coordinated just to tease him, he stops breathing. doesn’t say anything at first. just stares. then he clears his throat and mutters “you’re really trying to kill me today, huh?”
✧ you can see the whole world narrow to that one coordinated joke. he takes it as both a playful challenge and an emotional arrow: you made a choice to mirror him, and it feels like the safest, most exciting kind of theft. his response is a breathless blend of mock outrage and heart-flip panic.
✧ “what, this?”
✧ his casual question, tossed out in a tone that tries to keep things light, hides the fact he’s counting heartbeats. he’s suddenly acutely aware of the way your shoulder fits under his arm, of the warmth your presence gives him, and he tries to stake the moment in words that sound smaller than the feeling itself.
✧ “yes. exactly that. never take it off.” (jk. he’s already planning the next set.)
✧ the joke reads as both command and confession. he’s afraid to be owning the sentiment outright, so he masks it with jest. but the afterthought, his plotting of more gifts, the next coordinated outfit, the future little plans, betrays him entirely. he’s hooked on this new currency: your attention, your smile, your presence. and he’s more than ready to invest.
boothill
✧ literally just goes “well damn.” like he knows
✧ he definitely starts out thinking you’re just fun. like yeehaw fun. someone who can keep up with him in a shootout and throw a decent punch if needed, and also laugh at his terrible one-liners. but the second you patch up one of his wounds with a worried little frown and mutter “you scared me, you dumbass,” it hits him like a bullet straight through the heart. he just stares. goes dead quiet. and thinks: “oh no. ohhh no. i’m done for.”
✧ he expects adrenaline and bravado, not worry carved soft and exposed on your face. that small, furious softness catches him off-guard because it’s a mirror of everything he is—reckless, stubborn, and breaking rules—and suddenly the idea that you could be upset about him is unbearable. he freezes because the next logical step—admitting he feels it too—feels like stepping off a cliff. he tries to laugh it off, but the silence afterward is full of possibilities he’s both thrilled and terrified to explore.
✧ he doesn’t know how to be chill about it either. he tries to keep things casual, but the next day he’s like “well if it ain’t my favorite partner in crime lookin’ finer than a fresh-polished revolver” while handing you a flower he 100% stole. and when you say “is that from someone’s windowsill??” he just shrugs like “they weren’t usin’ it right.”
✧ boothill’s attempts at nonchalance are a mess of charm and theft. he wants to be cool, but he’s hopelessly sentimental in practice so he steals daisies like a romantic outlaw and wraps them in a napkin, delivering them with that ridiculous half-wink. he tries to play it off like bravado and ownership, but the small, shy tilt of his head after you tease him says everything: he did it because he wanted you to smile.
✧ starts calling you “sweetheart” and “darlin’” every chance he gets, and gets real smiley when you call him back
✧ if anyone even breathes near you, he’s suddenly at your side like “you need somethin’?” with his hand on his holster.
✧ he treats you like gold…like, proper cowboy gentleman style, but also flirts constantly and lowkey lives for when you get flustered
✧ this man will absolutely gun someone down at noon then spend the evening asking you if you think his hat suits you better 😭
✧ he definitely starts out thinking you’re just fun. like yeehaw fun. someone who can keep up with him in a shootout and throw a decent punch if needed, and also laugh at his terrible one-liners. but the second you patch up one of his wounds with a worried little frown and mutter “you scared me, you dumbass,” it hits him like a bullet straight through the heart. he just stares. goes dead quiet. and thinks: “oh no. ohhh no. i’m done for.”
✧ he doesn’t know how to be chill about it either. he tries to keep things casual, but the next day he’s like “well if it ain’t my favorite partner in crime lookin’ finer than a fresh-polished revolver” while handing you a flower he 100% stole. and when you say “is that from someone’s windowsill??” he just shrugs like “they weren’t usin’ it right.”
✧ boothill is SO physically clingy once he falls. he’s not subtle about it either, arm around your shoulder, hand on your waist, sitting way too close next to you at the campfire like “ain’t no law sayin’ i can’t share a seat with my favorite person.” you nudge him and he’s like “what? you’re warm.” he will 100% sleep on your lap like a feral golden retriever cowboy and act like it’s completely normal.
✧ his physicality is his love language and he is VERY unapologetic about it. he just finds you comfortable, warm. in the quiet nights he’ll pull you in close, chest to chest, and act as if falling asleep perched on your lap is the most natural thing in the world. he thrives on contact: a shoulder leaned into, a hand squeezed under the table, a hip brushing yours. to him it’s intimacy, not intrusion, and he’s baffled by anyone who wouldn’t want to live in that closeness.
✧ he calls you nicknames like it’s his job. “darlin’,” “sweet thang,” “trouble,” and if you ever call him a nickname back? game over. melts. goes pink in the ears. tries to act smug about it but absolutely fails. you: “thanks, cowboy.” him, five minutes later, tripping over a barrel: “h-huh? oh yeah. cowboy. that’s me. yup.”
✧ he lives to impress you. most of his dumb stunts are, in fact, love stunts. “watch this, sugar” is usually followed by something like spinning his gun too fast and almost dropping it, or leaping off a rooftop and totally not sticking the landing but popping up like “ta-daaa.” he’s all bruised and winded but grinning. “you see that?? bet no one’s ever done that for you before.”
✧ gets so mad when someone else flirts with you. not in a scary way—just in a really obvious, dramatic “i’m not jealous i just hate that guy and i hope he trips over his own boots” way. he’ll immediately come up beside you, wrap an arm around your waist, and say something totally unnecessary like “me and my sweetheart were just talkin’ about how some folks don’t know how to mind their business.”
✧ he’s lowkey really insecure though. like yeah, he’s loud and cocky and deadly—but when you show him real affection, like a soft kiss on the cheek or you bring him a snack just because? it breaks him. he stares at the snack like “for me?? no catch? no strings?” and then grins like an idiot. he acts cool but if you leave a note for him or kiss him goodnight he will lie awake thinking about it for 6 hours.
✧ he adores showing off for you. quick draws, sharpshooting, wild tricks with his guns—you name it. but the real kicker? the moment you say “wow, you’re amazing” in a soft voice, he just melts. turns into a puddle of bashful outlaw man and hides his face under his hat like “aw hell, stop it… actually don’t.”
✧ sleepovers with him are so chaotic and so sweet. he insists on being the big spoon, insists you borrow his dumb bandana to sleep with, insists on telling you cowboy bedtime stories that are probably made up but sound romantic as hell when it’s just the two of you under the stars. “…and that’s how the outlaw won his lover’s heart. wild, huh?”
✧ “was that one about you?”
✧ the question is small and hopeful; it’s testing the waters. he’ll freeze, then scratch his jaw and mutter something like “no… unless you liked it?” because he’s terrible at directness. what he’s asking is: did you feel the same way he does when the story ends? and the way he waits for your reaction is painfully tender.
✧ he 1000% gets pouty when animals like you more than him. you pet a random cat and it immediately starts purring on your lap and boothill’s like “okay but i also have hands. and charm. and vibes. what does that furball have that i don’t??”
✧ his competitiveness is adorable. he wants your attention first, even from a stray animal. he’ll feign offense but end up laughing, trying to coax the pet away with a goofy voice and exaggerated affection. it’s partially performative, partially genuine. he’s just so glad you noticed the creature and he wants to be the center of your affection.
✧ “he’s soft. wait, why are you…are you pouting?”
✧ “what, me? pouting? PFFFT—never!” he was btw.
✧ he snores. LOUDLY. but then he’ll wake up if you move even a little and be like “you okay, sugar? need a blanket? a gun? me to kill someone real quick?”
✧ “no i’m just turning over.”
✧ “good. okay. love you.” and then immediately back to chainsaw snores
✧ he loses track of his guns constantly and blames it on you.
✧ “darlin’, have you seen Miss Bang and Miss Boom?” it’s a running joke that he’ll misplace “Miss Bang and Miss Boom” and declare them kidnapped by poltergeists. he floats the blame because it’s a way to get you involved, to watch you roll your eyes and help hunt, and he loves that shared fluster of scrambling together to find something silly and beloved.
✧ “you named them??”
✧ “…you mean you didn’t?? they’re part of the family now.”
✧ (turns out he just left them in the kitchen, again.)
✧ he makes the WORST coffee ever but drinks it with chest-pounding pride like “nothing better than cowboy coffee, sweetheart.”
✧ you sip it once and nearly DIE. it tastes like regret and gunpowder.
✧ he just smiles and goes “puts hair on your chest, don’t it?” you slap your chest, eyes squinting as your cheeks heat up. “it put trauma on my soul.”
✧ boothill is very much obsessed with matching in the dumbest ways. he’ll wear something and then be like “hey. wear this too. we’ll be a duo. a unit. people’ll take one look at us and go ‘dang, they’re in love and possibly dangerous.’”
✧ “boothill this is literally a matching fringe vest.”
✧ “exactly.”
✧ his hat = his soul. but he’ll still let you wear it if you’re cold or sad or just look cute.
✧ but he can’t handle it. like you put on his hat and he’s on the floor. “look at you. look at you. stealin’ my heart and my accessories in the same breath.”
✧ he’s grabbing at his chest like he’s been shot.
✧ you take the hat off and he goes “no wait. put it back. i was enjoyin’ the view.”
✧ if you two ever share a bed, he’s the worst sleep partner in existence.
✧ arms flung over your face. legs wrapped around yours. one time he accidentally drew his gun in his sleep and nearly shot the pillow because he was dreaming about a heist.
✧ “i can’t sleep with you anymore.”
✧ he snuggles closer, “that’s fair. but also i’m not lettin’ you go, so… figure that out, sugarplum.”
✧ calls you every nickname imaginable and makes them up as he goes.
✧ “hey there, apple butter biscuit.”
✧ “what?”
✧ “no idea. just sounded like you.”
✧ he’s definitely the type to pick a fight with an inanimate object on your behalf.
✧ you stub your toe on a chair and suddenly he’s flipping it over like “who taught you to disrespect my baby like that?! she is PRECIOUS. apologize!!”
✧ “it’s a chair—” “no. it’s an enemy now.”
✧ he tries to teach you to shoot and is SOOOO smug when you hit a target.
✧ “look at that. dead center. that’s my baby. that’s my lil shootin’ star. you’re so sexy when you’re dangerous.”
✧ and if you miss?
✧ “aw, well now you’re cute and humble. adorable. 10/10.”
✧ tries to act cool during dates but immediately gets flustered.
✧ you show up looking a little too good and he’s stumbling over words like “i, uh—this whole town’s gonna need new laws ‘cause lookin’ like that out in public oughta be illegal.”
✧ then walks into a pole.
✧ loses his mind if you ever kiss him mid-sentence.
✧ smack a kiss right on his cheek while he’s ranting and he’ll 💯 lose concentration. “—so anyway that guy totally—uh—wait what’d you—HEY—”
✧ he covers his face with both hands and makes a high-pitched cowboy noise that is NOT intimidating. he’s never recovering.
✧ when he finally confesses, it’s by accident. maybe after a fight, maybe after too much adrenaline. he just looks at you and goes “y’know i’d catch a bullet for you, right?” and you’re like “what??” and he just GRINS, rubbing the back of his neck like “oh damn. i said it out loud, huh. well. guess the secret’s out, sweetheart.” and then acts like it’s totally fine while he blushes so hard he can’t look you in the eyes.
dr. ratio
✧ at first, he denies it. violently. love is irrational, an unnecessary distraction, and certainly not something he, of all people, would succumb to. he spends like three weeks convincing himself it’s nothing, muttering equations under his breath and scribbling notes in the margins of his journals about how attraction is “an evolutionary glitch.”
✧ and yet, every time you walk into the room, his pen stills. every time you laugh, his carefully calculated logic cracks.
✧ spends like 3 weeks convincing himself that love is irrational and he’s clearly just hallucinating
✧ he’s terrible at hiding it. his behavior shifts in ways even he doesn’t realize. suddenly, he’s the first to grab your tools before you can drop them, or he’ll appear at your workstation muttering “inefficient setup” while rearranging everything perfectly… even though he’ll scoff and insist it’s only for productivity. when you thank him, he just clicks his tongue and goes, “don’t mistake this for kindness.” but his hands linger a second too long on yours when passing you your gear back.
✧ but he starts acting weird—gets all snarky around you but also awkwardly helpful, like he’s fixing your gear while insulting your aim, “honestly, your trajectory was embarrassing. i fixed it.” he looks away quickly, ignoring the way his hands are trembling just slightly.
✧ when he finally accepts it, he goes quiet. like too quiet. and then one day he just looks at you and mumbles, “unfortunately, you’re… exceptional.”
✧ he’s SO annoyed when he realizes he’s in love with you. like it ruins his entire schedule. “ridiculous. irrational. highly inefficient.” he mutters it under his breath like a curse, pacing in his office at 3AM with your name scrawled in the margins of his notes. “why you, of all people?”
✧ you wave at him the next morning and he nearly drops his clipboard.
✧ he pretends he’s totally unaffected by you, but then you get even slightly close and he short-circuits in the most emotionally constipated way. you lean over his shoulder to look at his notes and he deadass flinches. not because he’s scared—because he’s hyper-aware of your warmth. “must you stand so close?” he snaps.
✧ “…i’m literally just helping.”
✧ and he’s over here, glaring at his own heartbeat like it betrayed him
✧ he’s elegant and intellectual in public, but ✧ totally insane internally when you’re around. he’ll say something like “statistically, your odds of surviving that experiment were… unimpressive.”
✧ you roll your eyes and go “wow, thanks.”
✧ and inside he’s just 🧍♂️ you’re so cute when you sass me!!!!!!!!!!!
✧ he hates how easily you fluster him. you once complimented his intelligence and he actually paused, adjusted his tie, and went “…naturally.”
✧ but his ears were so red that he had to wear the statue mask for the next 20 minutes just to hide his expression.
✧ if you ever see him without the mask and say something like “you’re really handsome, y’know,” he will literally look away in silence. no smug comeback. no dramatic retort. just ✧ broken.exe ✧
✧ later that day he’ll text you like “don’t say things like that so carelessly. it’s… distracting.”
✧ “distracting? 😏” his eyes narrow, replying curtly, “i’m blocking you.” but we both know that he won’t.
✧ he shows affection in the weirdest, most autistic researcher ways. you say “i had a bad day,” and he just hands you a data chart he made analyzing your weekly mood swings like “i hypothesized this would happen. i’ve prepared snacks accordingly.”
✧ “…you made a graph about my feelings? 🥹”
✧ “don’t be so emotional about it. 😐”
✧ he completely denies he’s being romantic when he is. brings you tea exactly the way you like it? “coincidence.”
✧ buys you gloves because he noticed your hands were cold once? “don’t read into it.”
✧ reprograms the lab door to only open when it scans your palm too? “security upgrade.”
✧ (he would let you break into a vault just because you looked cute holding a crowbar.)
✧ every time he sees you injured, even a scratch, his brain goes into alarm bells. he covers it with harsh words: “you’re reckless. incapable of basic caution.” but his fingers tremble slightly as they clean the wound, and he keeps glancing up at you like he’s trying to memorize your face, as if you might slip away if he looks away too long.
✧ but his hands are so gentle when he’s checking your pulse, and he stays in the room long after you fall asleep, whispering things he’ll pretend he never said.
✧ he definitely blurts his confession on accident. like you’re arguing over something dumb, and you go “why do you care so much?”
✧ and he snaps, “because i love you, that’s why.”
✧ silence.
✧ he blinks once. sighs. rubs the bridge of his nose.
✧ “…i suppose that’s out now.”
✧ then walks off like he didn’t just say the most dramatic thing in the history of science, leaving you standing there in shock, jaws wide open with your eyes almost popped out of your socket.
✧ he’s deeply possessive in a lowkey way. doesn’t like when others touch you, compliment you, or even stand too close.
✧ but he never says anything. just comes to your side, stands a bit too close, and stares at the offender until they leave.
✧ “were you… jealous?”
✧ “don’t be absurd.”
✧ (ahem, also him, immediately gifting you an encrypted communicator only he can ping)
✧ under all the sharp intellect and deadpan sarcasm, he’s just a sleep-deprived genius who has no idea how to handle love.
✧ you once curled up next to him while he was working and said “you can rest too, you know.”
✧ and he literally just… paused. blinked. slowly shut the file.
✧ “…perhaps… only if you stay.”
✧ he has no idea how to flirt properly, so his affection leaks out in strange, clinical ways. he once drafted a full 14-page document analyzing your sleep cycle and presented it to you like it was a gift. “i noticed you’ve been restless. i’ve… optimized a schedule.” when you looked touched, he panicked, shoved the report into your hands, and muttered, “don’t make that face. it’s… distracting.”
✧ if you ever fall asleep near him, he absolutely freezes. his quill stops mid-stroke, his eyes flick down to your face resting against his arm or shoulder, and he just… stares. utterly still. terrified that even moving will break the moment. later, when he finally breathes again, he’ll pull a blanket over you with the softest care, whispering words he’d never dare repeat while you’re awake.
✧ he gets flustered at the most random times. once, you brushed a speck of dust off his collar and he went utterly blank. “you—why would you—never mind.” his ears burned so hot that aventurine teased him for two days straight.
✧ he notices the tiniest things about you. the way you tap your fingers when you’re anxious, the exact foods you eat first off your plate, how your voice softens when you’re tired. he’ll casually drop those observations like data points. “you’ve been tapping again. nervous.” you stare at him like, “…you memorized that?” and he snaps back, “don’t look so pleased. it’s just… data.”
✧ when he does let his guard down, it’s devastating. one night you tell him you don’t think you’re that important, and he just stares at you, utterly horrified. his voice is low, almost shaking when he says, “don’t ever say that again. you’re… vital.” and then he immediately clears his throat, pretends to be busy with his notes, acting like he didn’t just bare his soul in two words.
✧ aventurine finds out almost immediately. he catches ratio lingering a little too long in your direction, smoothing out his sleeves before walking near you, going quiet when you compliment his research… and aventurine’s like oh? ohhhh this is going to be fun.
✧ at first he just drops little comments like “interesting. didn’t peg you for the sentimental type, ratio.”
✧ “i’m not.” aventurine hums, nodding his head. “mm, of course not. that’s why you keep checking their comm logs like a worried husband.”
✧ at his words dr ratio grips his pen slightly tighter, aventurine only laughs.
✧ aventurine starts making a game out of it.
✧ “oh, look who’s in the room. should i leave? don’t wanna ruin your chances, professor.”
✧ dr. ratio, who’s trying with all his might trying not to turn red only states “stop talking.”
✧ “i’ll be quiet, i swear. unless you want me to bring up the way you looked at them during last week’s mission briefing. that was… romantic.”
✧ ratio tries to stay unbothered. “your deductions are idiotic and unfounded.”
✧ “mm-hm. and yet you started carrying two sets of nutrient vials on every mission. just in case someone forgets to eat again. totally unrelated, i’m sure.”
✧ aventurine’s favourite move is saying things like “oh, they’re looking this way. straighten your collar, lover boy.”
✧ he just LIVES to see his dear friend immediately panic, start adjusting and realise what he was doing.
✧ “…i will kill you.” aventurine shakes his head, crossing his arms. “you’re blushing.”
✧ “i’m overheating from rage.”
✧ “you’re overheating from affection. don’t lie to me, doctor.”
✧ once ratio tries to shut him down like, “it doesn’t matter.”
✧ and aventurine does the slow, smug grin. uh oh, dr ratio thinks to himself. “oh? so if i asked them to dinner, you wouldn’t care?”
✧ and there it is—the visible and tangible proof that dr ratio did indeed like you. the way he visibly tenses, teeth clenched and that one small sweat droplet.
✧ “…i wouldn’t recommend it.”
✧ aventurine smirks (that darn smirk) “oh? is that a threat or jealousy talking?”
✧ “no.”
✧ (he walks away before aventurine can see the ear flush but too late.)
✧ you walk into the room once while they’re bickering and aventurine immediately lights up like “ah, perfect timing. doctor ratio was just telling me how entirely unfazed he is by your presence. weren’t you, doc?”
✧ and ratio, who is trying so hard to be normal only sighs. “i will be filing a harassment report.”
✧ “…on who?” “on the concept of smugness.”
✧ aventurine, who’s witnessing all this, winks, patting his shoulder as if he was inconsolable. “aww, you’re cute when you’re flustered.”
gepard
✧ short circuits. he doesn’t even realize he’s in love until someone asks about you and he’s like “they’re amazing—wait.”
✧ gets SO flustered around you. eye contact is impossible, hands fidget with his gloves, sleeves, or even the hem of his jacket, and he mutters under his breath like he’s doing math in his head just to calm down. he’ll clear his throat, mutter “uh, fine weather today,” and you immediately know he’s panicking.
✧ offers to escort you everywhere. “just in case.” and it’s very knight-in-shining-armor vibes. he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it for himself sometimes—he secretly loves being near you, feeling that protective surge. you joke about it, and he tries to act casual, but the faintest smirk tugs at his lips.
✧ he writes a song about you on the guitar but hides it under his bed like a secret diary. sometimes he strums the tune softly when he thinks no one’s listening, and the music comes out all messy and hesitant, because he’s trying to capture you in sound and fails spectacularly, but he keeps doing it anyway.
✧ it hits him slowly and very softly—he doesn’t even realize he’s falling for you at first. he just starts thinking about you randomly in the middle of patrol, or feeling a little disappointed when you’re not at the plaza when he walks by, or smiling when he finds something you might like. it’s all very quiet. very innocent.
✧ until one day you touch his arm while laughing and he just… freezes. literally short circuits. “oh.”
✧ and then mentally goes..
✧ “oh no.”
✧ “oh no i like them.”
✧ “wait no. i love them.”
✧ and now he’s spiraling in silence.
✧ he becomes so awkward about it. like he’ll try to act normal but the second you speak to him his voice goes up an octave and he drops something he was holding. you ask “are you okay?” and he’s like “YES. I MEAN. I’M FINE. I’M—I’M DOING FINE. THANK YOU. GOOD WEATHER, RIGHT?”
✧ meanwhile his internal monologue is just pure screaming.
✧ gepard is responsible and busy to an absurd degree—but he always makes time for you. he’ll carve fifteen minutes out of a chaotic schedule for a walk and act casual, but he’s memorized every flower along the route, pre-planned conversation topics, and rehearsed jokes. those fifteen minutes are the highlight of his entire day.
✧ he’ll try to act like it’s casual but he’s so excited about those fifteen minutes. he’s memorized the flowers along your usual route. he practiced conversation starters in advance. he’s been looking forward to this all week.
✧ if you bring him lunch or coffee while he’s working, he physically melts. “you… brought this for me? i—I mean… thank you… i didn’t expect—no, i mean, i’m grateful—i just—” the cup is a ticking time bomb in his hands. later, he writes a thank you note with a pressed flower tucked inside, signs it “yours truly,” panics, scratches it out, and sighs dramatically.
✧ he can’t stop fumbling with the cup like it’s a bomb.
✧ later he writes a thank you letter and delivers it by hand. with a tiny pressed flower tucked into it.
✧ he definitely signs it “yours truly” and then panics and scratches it out.
✧ he gets stupidly flustered if you compliment his uniform.
✧ “you look really good in blue.”
✧ “i—uh—it’s standard-issue but thank you!!”
✧ he will think about that one (1) sentence for like two weeks.
✧ he always puts your safety above his own. always. if there’s danger, he will shield you without hesitation, even if it means getting hurt. and when you cry or yell at him afterward for putting himself at risk, he just looks confused and says something soft like “i couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you.”
✧ gepard sometimes leaves tiny, almost imperceptible marks on your stuff to “claim it” without telling you. a scratch on your notebook corner, a subtle symbol carved into a pen—he calls it his way of leaving breadcrumbs.
✧ he has this weird habit of remembering exactly what you said months ago. he’ll quote it casually in conversation and act like it’s nothing, but internally he’s grinning like an idiot.
✧ when he’s nervous around you, he taps his fingers or drums on his thigh, completely unaware that you notice it. he thinks it’s subtle; it’s not.
✧ gepard loves to give you “missions” that are really just excuses to spend time together—“fetch this rare herb for me, and I’ll… uh, help you carry it back safely.” he calls it training; you call it him being dramatic.
✧ he keeps a secret list of things you like, from the small (your favorite drink brand) to the bizarre (the exact shade of gloves you prefer), just so he can surprise you without asking.
✧ if you ever make a mistake or trip, he panics internally, even if he acts calm externally. he’ll act all “it’s fine, I’ve got this,” but his mind is already running scenarios for what he could have done differently to protect you.
✧ gepard is a hopeless softie when it comes to gifts from you. even if it’s small, he’ll carry it around for days, showing it off in the quietest moments when he thinks no one is looking.
✧ he sometimes leaves notes in his own pockets or gloves with little messages to you, like “remember to breathe,” “don’t forget your scarf,” or “you’re more terrifyingly perfect than you think.”
✧ he secretly likes seeing you flustered. it’s harmless, he tells himself, but he’ll drop little compliments or teasing remarks just to see the way your expression changes.
✧ when he’s jealous, he doesn’t lash out—he subtly makes everything about you, like insisting on holding the door for you first, stepping closer in a crowded space, or always being the one to offer assistance.
✧ he has an entire “mental playlist” dedicated to you, moments of him humming or whistling tunes that remind him of you without anyone noticing.
✧ gepard sometimes practices small gestures of affection in private—like brushing dirt off his gloves in the way he imagines it would be done for you, or lightly touching a table the way he would guide your hand if you were standing near him.
✧ when he catches you staring at him or admiring something about him, he freezes for a second, trying to act natural, but then internally panics, replaying the moment in slow motion.
✧ he has a habit of remembering the smallest details about you—how you sip your coffee, the angle you tilt your head when listening, the exact words you use in casual conversation—and stores them in a mental scrapbook just for himself.
✧ gepard’s comfort with people changes when you’re around. he becomes hyper-aware of others’ behavior toward you, always calculating if he should intervene, and sometimes going out of his way to subtly adjust things so you’re safe.
✧ he secretly writes “thank you” notes or little encouragements to you in invisible ink or hidden places, just so he can see you smile when you discover them, without having to admit he’s doing it.
✧ he notices the way your presence affects him physically—heart rate, breathing, tension—and sometimes excuses himself to “stretch” or “check equipment” when really he’s just trying to calm down after seeing you.
✧ every time you patch him up after a mission he goes full stiff blushy mode.
✧ “you don’t have to… i can take care of it…”
✧ but he’s secretly loving the way you fuss over him.
✧ when you tell him “please rest, you’ve done enough,” he smiles like he’s about to cry. “you always know what to say…”
✧ he lowkey tries to impress you with little gestures. helps kids across the street while you’re nearby. carries heavy crates like it’s nothing. gives you his coat without asking when it’s cold. but then you praise him and he’s like “I-I didn’t do it for that reason!! i was just—being helpful!! i-i mean not that i don’t like when you—uh—”
✧ he writes music when he’s overwhelmed by feelings he can’t say out loud.
✧ there’s a whole page in his songbook titled “for them (don’t let them see this)” with scribbled lines like “your smile warms more than the sun” and “i’d guard your dreams if you let me stay.”
✧ you find it. he dies on the spot. full shutdown.
✧ “…you weren’t supposed to see that.”
✧ when he finally confesses it’s the most sincere, vulnerable thing EVER.
✧ he can’t look you in the eyes. he just grips the hem of his jacket and says softly, “i know i don’t always say how i feel, and i might not be good at it… but i think about you. a lot. and when you’re not here, i miss you. more than i should. more than a friend should.”
✧ pause.
✧ “…i love you.”
✧ and then immediately goes “but if you don’t feel the same it’s okay! i—I just wanted you to know. i swear this won’t affect anything. you don’t have to say anything, i—”
✧ you kiss his cheek. he malfunctions. stares into space for five minutes.
✧ later he goes on patrol and accidentally walks straight into a lamppost. sigh, do you see what you do to this man? 😔
sunday
✧ sunday realizes he’s in love like a dramatic theater curtain dropping—it's full and heavy, and most certinaly unavoidable. one moment he’s lounging with a drink, listening to you talk about something completely mundane, and then...ah. it hits him like a thunderclap. “…this is going to ruin me,” he mutters, setting his cup down, like a divine tragedy unfolding in real time.
✧ he starts quoting poetry at you constantly. your eyes are stars, your laugh is a melody, your presence is the kind of thing that makes him rewrite metaphors mid-sentence. he insists he’s not in love, but somehow ends up writing five sonnets in your honor that he hides in his desk, muttering about “research inspiration.”
✧ insists he’s not in love but then writes five sonnets in your honor. sunday has poems titled after the exact way you said “good morning” once. he flips the page quickly if you ask what he’s working on. “classified,” he murmurs, throat dry, hands trembling slightly despite his calm facade.
✧ sunday gets giddy over the smallest things—your laugh, the way you say his name, the way you absentmindedly tuck hair behind your ear. he melts each time, composure failing in the tiniest microseconds, then snapping back like nothing happened.
✧ compliments start slipping out too easily once he truly falls for you. “you always catch the light just right, you know. it’s… distracting.” if you catch him staring, he smiles lazily. “can you blame me?” internally, he’s pacing, writing half-finished love letters, staring at your name in the logs like it’s holy scripture.
✧ he flirts constantly (but respectively of course) but the second he actually starts falling for you, it gets just slightly more real. the compliments start slipping out too easily.
✧ “you always catch the light just right, you know. it’s… distracting.”
✧ and if you catch him staring? he just smiles. “can you blame me?”
✧ he keeps up the act of composure, but inside it’s ✧ a disaster. pacing in his quarters. writing half-finished love letters he’ll never send. staring at your name in the mission logs like it means more than it should.
✧ he has three separate poems named after the way you said “good morning” that one time.
✧ when you ask what he’s working on, he panics and flips the page like “classified.”
✧ sunday is smooth, but the second you flirt back, he implodes.
✧ “you’re not bad on the eyes either, you know.” you say, completely unfazed and clueless to how your words have impacted him GREATLY. sunday laughs calmly “well, now—”
✧ internally? DO NOT COMBUST. DO NOT LET IT SHOW. BREATHE, YOU FOOL.
✧ he touches you like you’re delicate glass, but his eyes betray a devotion bordering on obsession. brushes strands of hair behind your ear, murmurs, “you drive me mad, utterly, completely,” and then stiffens because he just admitted too much.
✧ he always seems effortlessly in control—until it comes to your safety. if you get hurt? he drops the act. his voice gets lower. sharper.
✧ “who did this?”
✧ and when you say “i’m fine,” he kneels beside you, takes your hand, and whispers, “don’t lie to me, love.”
✧ he stays up all night that night. watching you breathe. thinking about what he’d do to the world if it ever took you from him.
✧ the drama. the longing. he touches you like you’re made of glass, but his eyes say “i want you like devotion, like obsession, like prayer.”
✧ he’ll brush a strand of hair behind your ear and murmur “you drive me mad, you know. utterly. completely.”
✧ if he ever confesses, it’s not planned—he’s too careful for that. it slips out like velvet, like a sigh between lines.
✧ maybe you’re teasing him, asking “do you always look at people like that?”
✧ and he chuckles, soft and low.
✧ “no,” he says. “only you.”
✧ you freeze. he looks down, smile fading just a touch “…you weren’t supposed to catch that.”
✧ if you say it first?? he just stares for a second. then lets out the softest, most reverent laugh.
✧ like he cannot believe you love him back. “…oh. oh, darling. you have no idea what you’ve just done to me.”
✧ he never stops calling you ridiculously poetic nicknames.
✧ “you could just say babe, y’know?” sunday hums, seemingly unimpressed. “i could. but where’s the art in that?”
✧ he lowkey obsesses over the small things you do. the way you sit. how you hold your cup. your handwriting. he’s SO subtle about it but he notices everything. and he remembers it all.
✧ you and sunday were just chatting when he brought up something that you had mentioned weeks ago. “you remember that?” sunday, who stops mid sentence, blinks cluelessly. “darling, i remember the exact pitch of your laugh the first time you smiled at me.”
✧ he writes secret music about you. poems. confessions in the margins of philosophy books. he pretends it’s just to clear his head, but every word is about you.
✧ you find a piece of sheet music titled “when they walked in, the world paused.”
✧ he sees you holding it and just smiles. “a simple composition. don’t think too hard about it.”
✧ he will die if you play it.
✧ have i mentioned how he gives you the ULTIMATE VIP package perks?? 😭😭
✧ he never lets you wait in line. for anything. he’ll casually stroll over, loop your arm through his, and go “ah, sorry, they’re with me.” suddenly you’re walking past every annoyed noble like you own the city.
✧ “is this allowed?” you ask when sunday suddenly pulls you to the front of the line with a whole packed line behind you.
✧ “it is when i say it is.” “well okay then…” “…” “a—are you really sure—?!” “shhhhhh, yes.” he replies with his gloved finger on your lips.
✧ everyone else gets tea in little porcelain cups. you get yours brewed to your taste, in a cup that has your name engraved on the bottom (he did that). he places it on a silver tray with a napkin and a handwritten note that says “for the one who makes time taste sweeter.”
✧ “what kind of romantic riddle…” sunday, sipping his own like it’s nothing: “oh? you noticed?”
✧ escorts you everywhere like you’re sacred cargo. he’ll open doors for you, offer his hand every time you get out of a vehicle, and say things like, “careful. i’d hate for the world to bruise what belongs to me.”
✧ “belongs?!”
✧ “…well, i do hope.”
sampo
✧ oh he KNOWS and he LOVES it!! there’s this giddy, chaotic spark every time he thinks about you, like he’s won some cosmic lottery and somehow the jackpot is laughing at his dumb jokes.
✧ he flirts constantly, full of swagger and smirks, but the second you flirt back, he freezes mid-sentence, stammers, and pretends it was all a joke. internally he’s screaming: heart racing, brain short-circuiting, cheeks red, hands twitching like he’s about to combust.
✧ goes out of his way to “get you stuff”—weird trinkets, rare items, even a suspiciously shiny fruit??
✧ pretends it’s all casual until you’re in danger, and then suddenly he’s all business, protecting you like you’re the most precious thing in the world
✧ he has like 1000 hidden talents, he’s the guy who jokes his way through life but suddenly says something that makes your heart stop like “you really thought I’d ever let someone hurt you?” (mr. full of surprises fr)
✧ it starts off as a joke to him. he flirts with everyone right? so what’s the harm in teasing you a little? calling you “sweetheart,” winking too much, playing the “what if I fell for you?” game…
✧ but then you laugh at one of his dumb puns, or brush something out of his hair, and he literally feels his heart trip and fall down a staircase.
✧ he freezes for like 0.3 seconds and goes “…oh no. i’m in deep, aren’t i?”
✧ suddenly your name starts popping up in every dumb story he tells.
✧ “well this reminds me of the time you know who made that face—oh? did i bring them up again? whoops.”
✧ he says “whoops” with the most smug grin and 0 remorse but also his ears are red.
✧ flirts even harder after he realizes his feelings because he’s terrified of sincerity but still wants to be near you.
✧ “you’re impossible.” “mm, yes, but handsome.” at his response you glare at him. “…and also wildly in love with you, but you didn’t hear that from me~”
✧ “what?”
✧ “what.”
✧ gives you the best gifts and plays it off so chill.
✧ he’ll hand you a rare artifact or something weirdly perfect for your tastes like “oh, this ol’ thing? just happened to fall off a truck in front of me. you want it?”
✧ then disappears before you can even say thank you.
✧ he’s SO dramatic when he’s jealous. not aggressive. just petty.
✧ someone flirts with you? sampo sidles up like “wowww you’re popular today! should I go? should I stay? should I fake a fainting spell so you’ll carry me away like a romantic novel?”
✧ “sampo.” you say, tone flat as though you were a mother scolding your child lightly. sampo only huffs, “say the word and I’ll fake a sword wound right now.”
✧ if you ever get hurt?? that clown mask drops in a second.
✧ he’s serious. focused. suddenly using skills you didn’t even know he had.
✧ you’re like “why are you so good at stealth and first aid—”
✧ “shhhh, sweetheart, I’m good at a lot of things you don’t know about. but you’re gonna live, alright? i got you.”
✧ when he realizes he’s really in love, he has a full on crisis.
✧ “sampo koski? in love?? nooo. couldn’t be. absolutely not. well, maybe a little. maybe just… completely. head over heels. love of my life. great. wonderful. i’m doomed.”
✧ he says this to himself. out loud. on a rooftop. alone.
✧ the secret loyalty is SO real.
✧ he’ll act like “pssh nah, i don’t do attachments,” but if someone so much as looks at you wrong? he will destroy them behind the scenes.
✧ you’ll never know what happened. but the person who was bothering you? gone. hmm, wonder how he is nowadays.
✧ and he just shrugs like “huh. weird coincidence, huh?” (he hacked their comms, faked an ID theft, and got them sent to another planet.)
✧ when he confesses, it’s weirdly sweet and way too honest, he probably says something like, “hey, you know how i joke about falling for you? yeah… i wasn’t joking. turns out, your face makes my heart do that annoying fluttery thing. and i kinda wanna hear you laugh forever. so. uh. if you don’t hate me for it, maybe…let me stick around a while longer?”
✧ and then immediately covers it up with a “…unless this is embarrassing in which case i take it all back and i’m going to disappear dramatically now. smoke bomb?? no?? okay.”
✧ he’ll still flirt and tease forever but now it’s got real weight behind it.
✧ for example: “you’re looking dangerously kissable today. what’s the plan, sweetheart, do i survive the day or do i die of yearning?”
✧ he’s the type to names weapon or gadget after you, because..well..why not?
✧ kisses your hand dramatically like “for luck” before a mission or some stealth mission (that will most likely have him involved from a chase with gepard)
✧ wears something you said you liked once constantly. you like this colour on him? wow suddenly his closet looks like a bomb of colour. you like it when he wears tight shirts? no problemo partner! literally compliment him on anything he wears and i guarantee you, he WILL remember it till the day he dies.
✧ does over the top fake jealousy act when you talk to anyone besides him 😭 like wow how dare you prefer anyone OTHER than me!! 😡😡 just kidding, sampo knows that he’s the only one that you love (right?), he’s extremely secure and he KNOWS he’s handsome, there is no reason to feel threatened by any other person.
✧ hides notes in your stuff with dumb pickup lines like “are you the astral express? ‘cause my heart’s always stopping for you.”
✧ it’s cheesy and if it were any other person reading those messages they would be gagging, but between you and sampo? it’s nothing more than beautiful love letter.
✧ the classic escape artist move: whenever sampo is getting chased by gepard or the silvermane guards, he somehow always finds you. he’ll suddenly grab your hand mid-sprint like, “no time to explain, but you look fast—run!” and drags you into some alleyway or rooftop chase.
✧ he thinks it’s hilarious that you’re always unintentionally part of his “grand escapes.” you, out of breath, “sampo why me?!” him, grinning ear to ear: “because you scream the cutest when you almost trip.”
✧ he’ll hide behind you when gepard shows up, peeking over your shoulder and whispering “protect me, dearest,” as if you’re his shield. (gepards like: 😐 stop using them as cover.)
✧ sampo LOVES using you as an alibi. he’ll tell the guards “no no, i was just on a romantic stroll with my very innocent friend here” and wink at you while you’re glaring at him. somehow, you always end up backing him up because he makes puppy eyes.
✧ whenever you two walk through boulder town, kids run up to him asking what he’s selling today. he’ll pull you close and say “this one? priceless. not for sale.” with that smug little smirk.
✧ he gets you ridiculous nicknames in public like “sugarplum,” “treasure chest,” “my sweet little accomplice”—all in that dramatic salesman tone, purely to fluster you.
✧ he once showed up outside your place with flowers, but when you looked closer, you realized they were obviously stolen from a vendor’s stall. sampo just winked. “what can i say? only the finest for you.” (you: “sampo that’s theft.” him: “it’s called romance.”)
✧ you’ll be walking peacefully and suddenly he grabs your waist and yanks you into a side alley. your heart races, thinking it’s danger—but nope. just guards walking by. sampo whispering in your ear: “shhh, don’t breathe too loud.” he’s grinning the whole time while you’re ready to strangle him.
✧ he never knocks. EVER. he just climbs through your window like some shady cat burglar, sprawls on your couch, and goes “miss me?”
✧ always teaches you “shortcuts” around belobog. half the time, it’s just him getting you both lost in tunnels or climbing rooftops unnecessarily. but he claims it’s “faster” and “more exciting.”
✧ he’s the type to “borrow” your stuff constantly. scarf? “mine now, looks better on me.” snack? “sharing is caring.” pen? “collateral, i’ll return it when i don’t owe gepard money.”
✧ whenever you scold him, he puts a hand on his chest like you’ve wounded him deeply. “darling, you wound me—do you not believe in my innocent heart?”
✧ despite his chaos, he actually makes your life fun. he forces you into adventures, makes you laugh when you’re down, and even if you deny it, you secretly look forward to the sound of him knocking—or breaking into—your window.
moze
✧ poor guy is SO confused at first. he doesn’t even understand it himself at first—he just notices that he’s constantly scanning the room for you during missions, not because you’re in danger, but because he wants to make sure you’re okay. his eyes seem to find you first in any crowd, and he can’t break the pattern. it’s small things at first.
✧ he remembers the way you hold your cup, how you tilt your head when thinking, the sound of your laughter in a quiet hallway. it starts to feel like a reflex, something he can’t control, and when he finally understands it, he freezes, hiding in a shadow somewhere while muttering “…what the hell is wrong with me,” feeling like he’s malfunctioning from the sheer intensity of it.
✧ starts acting weirdly shy, avoiding eye contact, tripping over stuff around you, sometimes even going invisible when he thinks he looks bad, whether it’s bad hair day, lack of sleep or maybe second guessing if he has bad breath or not…he will hide.
✧ gets really quiet when you talk, listening with full attention but barely able to speak back.
✧ starts leaving little gifts for you, unsigned, until you catch him and he panics like “uhh that wasn’t me” like buddy we just saw you, it was you.
✧ not only that but you lowkey knew it was him, i mean how obvious could it be? you had only told moze about a specific type of plushie that had caught your eye weeks ago, and all of the sudden it was all wrapped up in a fine, beautifully wrapped present? like really.
✧ forgot to mention but he is slightly emotionally constipated. ✧ despite being emotionally constipated, moze starts showing his feelings in small, almost imperceptible ways. he leaves little survival kits in your bag with bandages, snacks, or even a tiny flashlight, and doesn’t tell you they’re from him.
✧ sometimes he silently appears behind you to fix something you dropped or adjust your gear, and you turn around expecting a teammate, but it’s just him, smirking faintly and walking away like nothing happened.
✧ he memorizes your favorite drinks, snacks, and routines, showing up with them exactly when he knows you’ll need them, even if he’s supposed to be on a completely different mission. when you notice these small gestures and ask, he’ll deny it fiercely, but the evidence is usually too obvious—like the time he accessed the vending system remotely, something only he could do.
✧ but back on the topic, moze does not realise he’s in love for a long time.
✧ he just notices that you take up too much of his attention.
✧ he’s mid mission, scanning crowds for targets, and somehow his eyes always find you first. not because you’re in danger, but because he wants to make sure you’re okay.
✧ that’s how it starts. with patterns he can’t break.
✧ watching you. thinking of you. remembering the sound of your voice when everything else goes quiet.
✧ when it finally hits him, it’s terrifying. like, he’s trained to handle everything. interrogation? fine. death threats? easy. but you smiling at him across the room?? complete system error.
✧ he literally turns away and vanishes into the nearest shadow, clutching onto his flushed cheeks with his hand, whispering to himself. “…what the hell is wrong with me.”
✧ moze rarely initiates affection, but when he does, it’s deliberate and heavy with meaning. he’ll reach out to adjust a strap on your gear or gently touch your wrist, and even if he only mutters “don’t” under his breath, it’s a protective warning that he can’t fully articulate. he leaves little notes or small gifts without explanation, sometimes in your digital logs, sometimes in your personal belongings, always signed simply “—M.”
✧ he memorizes small details about you—the rhythm of your walk, the tilt of your head, the little habits you have—and references them casually in conversation or action, knowing you notice without him ever having to explain why.
✧ he stands slightly in front of you when something’s wrong. puts his coat over your chair when it’s cold. subtly reroutes danger without ever telling you it was close.
✧ if you notice and ask “was that you?” he just goes, “no.”
✧ (meanwhile he just intercepted five encrypted messages and hacked three cameras to make sure you got home safe.)
✧ he’s hyper aware of your routines.
✧ he won’t say a word, but he knows exactly when you’re tired. when you haven’t eaten. when you’ve had a bad day.
✧ you walk into your room and find your favorite snack on your desk and a small note: “Eat. You’ll feel better.” — M
✧ (PACK IT UP LOVER BOY)
✧ he swears up and down it wasn’t him if you bring it up. but your comm log says someone accessed the vending system remotely…with a clearance only he has. but yeah sure, it wasn’t him.
✧ when you get hurt on a mission??? he loses it internally.
✧ on the outside: dead silent, stone-cold, methodical.
✧ on the inside: apocalyptic panic.
✧ he abandons everything else to get to you. “you’re stable,” he says, checking your wounds with shaking hands. you whisper, “you’re worried about me.”
✧ he pauses for half a second.
✧ “…yes.”
✧ if someone flirts with you or gets too close, he won’t say a thing.
✧ moze is protective in a way that’s almost imperceptible until you notice it. he won’t ever verbally confront someone who flirts with you, but the air subtly shifts when he’s near. he’s suddenly there, close, intimidating, like a shadow silently guarding you. he keeps mental tabs on any potential threat, tracking them through cameras, comms, or any surveillance network at his disposal, and makes sure they leave without ever having to step in physically.
✧ he’s hyper-aware of your safety and routines, noticing if you’re tired, hungry, stressed, or had a bad day, and will quietly remove minor obstacles from your path—rerouting danger, adjusting mission logistics, or simply placing a coat over your chair to ensure comfort.
✧ “are you jealous?” you ask, heart racing softly at the possibility that he was indeed jealous. and to your disappointment he groans. “i don’t get jealous.”
✧ but let’s not forget that he’s watching the person leave through six different surveillance feeds just to be sure they’re gone.
✧ when he’s near you, he tries to keep his distance, but sometimes the emotion slips.
✧ you reach to fix something on his collar and he freezes. eyes on you, barely breathing and just whispers, “don’t.”
✧ but when you look confused, he sighs, touches your wrist softly, and mutters “you’re distracting. it’s dangerous. not for me. for you.”
✧ (bro is already in love, but he’d rather die than let you know)
✧ confession? HA. that man would rather be tortured.
✧ it only happens if you corner him, maybe after catching him doing something clearly just for you.
✧ from then on? protective boyfriend unlocked.
✧ he’s not clingy. not loud. not even open, but he’s there. always. you’ll never walk alone, you’ll never be unwatched. and you’ll never be hurt—not while moze is still breathing.
✧ another weird thing is how he doesn’t say “i love you” but says “i would dismantle the universe for you” like it’s nothing. like??? 😨 make it make sense!!
✧ late at night, when everyone else is asleep, moze sometimes sits near places you frequent, quietly watching over you, ensuring you’re safe, breathing, and at peace. he is entirely discreet, meticulous in his protection, and completely selfless in his love.
✧ even though he may never explicitly say it, every small action—every note, every gift, every calculated route he takes to keep you safe—is a declaration of his heart. he loves you so profoundly and quietly that it could go unnoticed, but if you ever see the pattern, it’s unmistakable.
✧ he would dismantle the universe itself to make sure you’re unharmed, and he wouldn’t hesitate for a single second.
imbibitor lunae/dan heng
✧ realises it early but keeps it deeply buried for a long time
✧ dan heng notices little things about you early on—the way your fingers linger on objects, the way your gaze catches the light, the way your voice softens without realizing it—and he files it all away in his mind, silently cataloguing your presence like an invaluable relic.
✧ he has a tendency to appear in places you frequent without telling you, just to make sure you’re safe, but always acts casual about it if you notice. “oh, just passing through,” he says, but his eyes betray a focused intensity, tracking your every movement like he’s guarding something sacred.
✧ he gets more gentle around you, offering you ancient knowledge, looking at you like you’re some divine creature because to him, you are.
✧ his voice always drops when he’s speaking to you. everyone else gets his measured, formal tone, but you get the low, steady, almost whispering version—like every word he says is a secret he’s sharing only with you.
✧ he’ll gently guide you through places, a hand hovering at your back but never quite touching unless you allow it. “careful, dear one. the steps are uneven.” it’s so soft you barely hear it over the wind.
✧ when you’re overwhelmed or upset, he won’t bombard you with questions. instead, he’ll quietly sit beside you, folding his hands in his lap, giving you his full, patient presence until you’re ready to speak.
✧ his eyes soften when they land on you, like a storm breaking into calm. it’s subtle, but even march notices and teases him about it. he only smiles faintly and changes the subject.
✧ sometimes he recites old poems or verses to you without even realizing. his voice is like water over stones, slow and deliberate, and you don’t even care that you don’t understand half of the ancient language—he just sounds so reverent.
✧ he notices small things: if you’re cold, he’ll quietly shift his scarf over your shoulders without a word. if you’re tired, he’ll slow his stride to match yours. if you’re hurt, he’ll crouch to your level and murmur, “allow me,” before tending to you with practiced, gentle hands.
✧ imbibitor never interrupts you. even when you’re rambling. even when you’re angry. he listens with an intent so deep it feels like you’re being read like scripture.
✧ when you’re walking side by side, his tail sometimes flicks closer, like it wants to wrap around your ankle but doesn’t dare. once you stumbled on a rock and it actually steadied you before his hand could—his face went red instantly.
✧ he avoids using your name in public, but in private? he says it like a prayer. quiet, careful, as though it’s something precious.
✧ at night, if you can’t sleep, he’ll sit with you and tell you stories from the xianzhou—legends and forgotten myths—his voice a steady lull that calms you until your eyes grow heavy. he doesn’t stop until you’re asleep.
✧ he is always aware of you in a room. if you’re across the space, he’ll keep you in his peripheral vision, not in a possessive way but like he needs to know you’re safe.
✧ he never asks for touch, but the first time you brushed his hand while handing him something, he froze for a second, eyes flicking to yours. you swear you saw the tips of his horns tremble.
✧ when you tease him, calling him “dragon” or “your highness,” he just sighs, but the corners of his lips twitch upward. “if that is what you wish to call me…” he murmurs, but his ears are pink.
✧ sometimes you’ll catch him looking at you when he thinks you’re not watching, his expression unreadable—like someone staring at a star they’re afraid to touch.
✧ and if you ever get hurt? the mask drops completely. he’s suddenly next to you, voice soft but unshakable: “look at me. breathe. i’m here.” his hands don’t shake until after you’re safe.
✧ if you thank him for anything, he always lowers his gaze slightly and murmurs, “there is nothing to thank me for. i am… honored.”
✧ and the first time you fall asleep on his shoulder, he doesn’t move for hours, afraid to disturb you. his tail curls protectively near your feet, and in the softest whisper you’ve ever heard, he breathes, “…stay as long as you wish.”
✧ probably calls you “dear one” or something poetic
✧ when he confesses, it’s with full soul, like “my heart has known many lifetimes, but it beats for you alone in this one” typa confession.
✧ imbibitor who’s trying his hardest to be calm and distant but is so terribly down bad for you it physically hurts him.
✧ he pretends for a while that it’s just admiration. or respect. or “aesthetic appreciation” (sure, heng.)
✧ but then you fall asleep on his shoulder once and he’s staring at you like you’ve just lit a candle in the middle of a dark cave he’s been in for centuries.
✧ he gently pulls the blanket over you, exhales through his nose, whispering gently to himself, “…this is not good.”
✧ (this is the most emotion he’s shown in hours.)
✧ his dragonic instincts??? oh they’re going nuts.
✧ he doesn’t even notice it at first. like—he starts subtly hoarding things that remind him of you, his “treasure” ✧he starts carrying small tokens of your presence without even thinking: a ribbon you dropped, a pressed leaf from your favorite tree, a stray bookmark with a note you left behind. he tucks them carefully into a hidden compartment in his quarters, hands lingering on them longer than necessary before closing it shut.
✧ a ticket stub. a pressed flower. a little ribbon you dropped.
✧ they’re all in his drawer next to old texts and relics and he gets weirdly defensive if anyone gets near it.
✧ march 7th was just wandering in his room when she spotted a box full of stacked objects. “what’s in here?”
✧ imbibitor, who suddenly appeared in his room blurted out his response—“classified.”
✧ “ooooookay.”
✧ he finds himself talking about his past more than usual when you’re around, sharing stories of ancient relics or old battles, but always phrased in a way that you’ll think it’s just casual history—though in reality, every anecdote is meant to anchor you to him, to invite you closer into the depths of his life.
✧ his tail, horns, and ears betray him constantly. they twitch, flick, or curl whenever you’re near, and he becomes hyper-aware of them, sometimes muttering under his breath or covering his face to hide how flustered he is.
✧ his dragonic features are sacred to him. he doesn’t even let strangers look at them for long, let alone touch. but when it comes to you? his guard falters. the first time your fingers brush against the curve of his horn, he doesn’t flinch. his breath just hitches—quiet, sharp—and instead of moving away, he tilts his head ever so slightly closer.
✧ his tail is even worse. it’s instinctual, twitchy, restless. he hates how it betrays him by curling subtly toward you whenever you’re near, like it’s drawn to your warmth. when you tease him and stroke it gently, he murmurs, “...you’re lucky it’s you.” he means it. anyone else would’ve lost a hand.
✧ in private, he’s surprisingly domestic. he makes tea with a precision that feels ceremonial, pouring your cup first before his own. he’s so methodical about it that sometimes you just sit and watch him, because his patience itself is calming.
✧ he reads ancient texts aloud to you at night—not for your understanding, but because he knows the cadence of his voice soothes you. sometimes he translates little bits: “this verse is about a flower that blooms only in darkness… it reminded me of you.”
✧ his living space is immaculate. neat stacks of scrolls, polished armor, everything in order. but then you leave a trinket behind—a scarf, a hairpin—and instead of moving it, he sets it carefully on his desk as if it’s the most important artifact in the room.
✧ he cooks rarely, but when he does, it’s usually simple dishes with symbolic meaning. one night, he sets a bowl in front of you and when you ask what it is, he explains softly, “a meal once shared between companions before battle. it is said to bring luck. i… wanted you to have it.”
✧ mornings with him are quiet but tender. he rises early, meditates, then brings you tea without a word. when you’re groggy and still half-asleep, he’ll let you lean against him while you drink, silently amused at how small you feel draped across his chest.
✧ when you brush his hair, he goes completely still. no snark, no teasing—just a soft exhale and lowered lashes. if you ask if he likes it, he whispers, “…i could sit here forever.”
✧ when you’re sick or worn down, he fusses in his understated way. blanket tucked around you, cup of warm tea at your bedside, and a soft, “rest. i’ll keep watch.” and yes—he literally keeps watch, sitting beside you like a silent sentinel until you drift off.
✧ he gets embarrassed when you catch his dragonic instincts slipping into everyday life. like how he automatically positions himself between you and an open door, or how his tail coils subtly near your chair in crowded places like it’s guarding you. when you point it out, he just clears his throat: “…habits.”
✧ you caught him once sharpening his spear in complete silence, then stopping halfway because you walked in. “what is it?” you asked. “…i did not realize how much calmer i feel when you’re here,” he admitted quietly, fingers pausing on the blade.
✧ late nights are the most intimate. the world asleep, his armor and composure shed, his voice dropping to a near whisper as he admits things he’d never say in the light of day. “i fear losing you more than i have feared any battle.” he doesn’t look at you when he says it, but his tail brushes gently against your leg, betraying the truth.
✧ his tail shows up one time when he’s sleepy and you casually pet it like “aww that’s cute”
✧ btw you named his tail dan jr.
✧ and this man FLIES across the room in embarrassment. “y-you shouldn’t touch that.” “…why? does it mean something?”
✧“…”
✧ “does it mean you want to mate—”
✧ “no.“
✧ the horns twitch when you’re near. he hates that you know this. you walk in the room and they immediately twitch a little.
✧ “awww they do that every time I enter!!”
✧ dan heng, who’s clutching his forehead could only meekly reply. “please… show mercy.”
✧ acts super normal in front of others but you catch him looking at you like he’s reading ancient scripture.
✧ very serious about your wellbeing.
✧ if you get hurt?? he goes deadly silent and already carrying you bridal style to safety.
✧ “i’m okay, it’s just a scratch—” “no, it isn’t. don’t downplay things. not with me.”
✧ (he wraps your bandage very gently with his hands shaking a little.)
✧ you tease him ALL the time because he’s too easy to fluster
✧ “do dragons kiss?”
✧ “would you give me a scale if I asked nicely?”
✧ “what happens if I tug your tail again? will you bite me?”
✧ every time, his ears flush, and he either leaves the room or pulls his sleeve up over his face like “you’re being unreasonable.”
✧ he brings you a relic of his past. something meaningful and places it in your hands like he’s trusting you with centuries and says, quietly, “…i no longer wish to carry it alone. not if you’ll walk beside me.”
✧ (bro just said “will you be my soulmate” in such a poetic way)
✧ he doesn’t ask for affection. but when you give it?? tail wags once. ears twitch. eyelids soften.
✧ he won’t say anything but he leans into your touch like he’s starving for it
✧ and if you kiss his cheek, he turns away but you can see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips
✧ protective AF but in silence.
✧ “I don’t feel safe going alone.” his reply was almost in an instance. “you won’t be.” then he shimmers into view at your side like a guardian spirit from a fantasy novel
✧ sometimes you’ll be like “you’re so pretty when you’re not frowning”
✧ he blinks at you once, then replies in the softest voice ever. “…then I will try not to frown. for you.”
✧ when he confesses, it’s both poetic and terrifyingly sincere. he doesn’t shout it or make grand gestures; he whispers centuries of emotion in a single line: “i no longer wish to carry this alone, not if you’ll walk beside me,” and the weight behind it makes the air feel charged.
✧ he will silently follow your routines or shadow your steps when he can, always ready, always protective, as if the world were a fragile artifact and you the only piece that matters.
✧ dan heng notices your little quirks—the tilt of your head when you concentrate, the way you sip a drink, the smallest gestures that might seem meaningless—but to him, they are everything. and he treasures them quietly, like one treasures a rare gem.
✧ if you compliment him or show small affection, he can’t hide the reaction entirely. ears twitch, tail flicks, a corner of his mouth lifts, and for a heartbeat he allows himself to fully feel it, before pulling back into the mask of calm composure.
✧ he may never call you “mine” aloud, but when danger arises, when trouble appears, he moves as though the world itself were beneath your protection. his actions speak the devotion that words could never capture.
gallagher
✧ the moment gallagher realizes he’s in love with you, he actually goes quiet.
✧like he’s standing there, wiping a glass or pouring a drink, and you laugh at something small and sweet and for the first time in a long time, his heart does that dumb little thump (literally oki doki)
✧he sets the glass down, stares at it for a second, and just thinks.
✧“…aw, hell.”
✧ he doesn’t say anything about it, well, not for a long while anyway. he just… starts doing more for you.
✧ your drink’s always ready before you even ask. he makes sure you eat, he walks you home when it’s late, even if you insist you’re fine.
✧ you thank him, and he just grunts and looks away, muttering “ain’t nothin’. s’what anyone would do.” really gallagher, really.
✧ (no it’s not. it’s 100% what he would do. for you.)
✧ doesn’t flirt. not directly. but his actions? OH, they’re screaming “I LOVE YOU.”
✧ he calls you “kid” or “trouble” but there’s a little fondness in it like. 😭
✧ always saves you the best booth no matter what!! the juke’s always working, seats cleaned, table wiped spotless and everything is in pristine condition (like he didn’t just wipe everything down minutes before)
✧ nudges your favorite snack toward you like “figured you’d want somethin’”
✧ if you’re upset, he quietly slides a drink over and says “on the house. long day?”
✧ his body language is how he shows he cares!! he positions himself near you in a crowd, he always keeps one eye on you, he stands a little closer when you’re nervous.
✧ “are you hovering?” you raise your brow, eyeing suspiciously at the brown haired man, it was painfully obvious that he was gradually inching to you closer than ever.
✧ he snorts, shaking his head almost too quickly. “just makin’ sure you don’t get in trouble. not like you haven’t before.”
✧ the first time you touch his arm? like just a light brush or grabbing his sleeve?? he stiffens just a little, it had caught him off guard, then he relaxes… and doesn’t move away.
✧ and you swear you see him smile into his glass.
✧ when you compliment him??? he pretends he didn’t hear it. (okay he’s on his deriod!!)
✧ ahem an example: “you look nice today” a nice and simple compliment. not one he hasn’t heard before. while you’re as calm and cool as the wind gallagher on the other hand does NOT make eye contact “tch. flattery’s bad for my blood pressure.”
✧ (he is secretly thinking about it for the rest of the day and gets 20% more awkward around you)
✧ doesn’t talk about his feelings, but shows them in subtle gestures, such as, fixing your coat collar without a word, bringing an extra umbrella without telling you why, walking on the outside of the sidewalk like it’s second nature (a true gentleman)
✧ calls you late at night and just goes, “you good?” he’ll pretend he was calling for something else but he absolutely wasn’t
✧ gets visibly grumpier when someone else gets too close to you, even if it’s the little creatures that hang around his bar often.
✧ you’ll notice the way his jaw tightens, or the way he suddenly has a lot of stuff to clean behind the bar right near your table and a whole bunch of grumbles.
✧ when he finally confesses, it’s so gruff and awkward and precious. he probably says something along the lines of “look. i’m not good at this kind of talk. but… you matter. more than i thought you would. and if you’re gonna be causing this much trouble in my head, i might as well make it official, yeah?”
✧ (sir. that was literaly the cutest thing ever.)
✧ after that?? he’s still the same. still grumbly, still tired, still sighing dramatically when you tease him but now when he says “don’t do anything stupid,” he tucks your hair behind your ear, when he says “take care of yourself,” he brings you a thermos with your favorite drink with a small sticky note on the bottle, the words reading, "
✧ and when you say “i love you,” ?????
✧ a simple: “…yeah. me too, kid.”
✧ after he confesses, he doesn’t suddenly turn into some smooth romantic. he’s still gallagher. he still sighs like you’re the most troublesome thing in the world. but now when he sighs, he’s pulling you closer instead of pushing you away.
✧ he pretends he hates PDA, but his hand always finds yours under the table. his thumb rubs absent circles into your palm absentmindedly, like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.
✧ “don’t get used to this,” he mutters, holding your hand tighter when someone bumps into you on the street. (you smile because you know damn well he’ll never let it go.)
✧ whenever you hang around the bar, he pours you a drink before anyone else. always first. regulars start noticing and teasing him about it, but he doesn’t care. “shut up and mind your own glass,” he grumbles, while setting your favorite snack right in front of you.
✧ if you’re sick, gallagher turns into the most dramatic caretaker ever. he’ll act like it’s such a burden—“you’re gonna kill me with all this sneezin’, kid”—but then he’s making sure you drink water, cooking soup that’s actually really good, and checking your temperature every hour like it’s his sworn duty.
✧ sometimes, you catch him staring. not the quick glances he used to sneak before, but long, steady looks like he’s memorizing you. when you call him out, he snorts and says, “just makin’ sure you’re not up to somethin’.” sure gallagher. sure.
✧ he’s a terrible texter—short replies, lots of “k” or “yeah.” but if you don’t answer fast enough, he’ll CALL. “where the hell are you? it’s late.” when you tell him you were just in the shower, he goes quiet for a second, then mutters “…oh. good. just—text me next time.”
✧ he doesn’t admit it, but he loves when you leave little things behind at his place. your sweater draped on a chair, your toothbrush by his sink—it makes his place feel less empty. he never moves them.
✧ when you come back from a night out looking tired, he’s waiting at the bar like always. “have fun?” he asks, but his eyes are scanning you like he’s making sure you’re safe. when you say yes, he only nods, then pours your usual without you asking.
✧ arguments with him are… intense. he’s stubborn, you’re stubborn. but the thing is, he always comes back. even if it’s just to sit near you in silence. he’ll eventually mutter, “look. i ain’t good with words. but i don’t want you thinkin’ i don’t care. ‘cause i do. too damn much.”
✧ if you ever cry in front of him, he looks like it physically hurts him. he’s awkward at first, hovering like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. but then he’s pulling you against his chest, rubbing slow circles on your back, murmuring, “hey, hey. you’re alright. i got you, trouble.”
✧ gallagher has no idea how to compliment you. the words get stuck in his throat. so he just… does things. makes sure you’re comfortable, fixes your seat, adjusts your scarf so you’re warm. when you tease him—“aww, you’re sweet”—he grumbles, “shut it.” but the tips of his ears turn red.
✧ late at night, when it’s just the two of you, he talks more. not much, but enough. about his day, about the bar, about little stories from his past. his voice gets softer, quieter. like he only trusts you with that side of him.
✧ he always walks you home. no matter what. even if you insist you’re fine, he’ll trail after you, hands shoved in his pockets. “don’t argue. i’m already goin’ this way.” (he isn’t. he just doesn’t want you walking alone.)
✧ if you fall asleep on his couch, he’ll stand there for a long moment, watching you breathe. then he sighs, grabs a blanket, and tucks you in. when you stir, he mutters, “go back to sleep. you’re safe.”
✧ gallagher isn’t big on gifts, but he notices things. you mention offhand that your mug broke? next day, there’s a new one on your table. you say you like a certain song? it’s suddenly playing on the jukebox. when you ask, he just shrugs. “coincidence.” (it’s not.)
✧ if someone flirts with you too boldly in the bar, gallagher’s whole vibe changes. his voice gets sharper, his movements heavier. “bar’s full,” he’ll tell them, even if it isn’t, and plant himself between you and whoever’s bothering you.
✧ and when you finally kiss him first (because let’s be honest, he’s too stubborn to admit he wants it), he freezes—just for a second. then his hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, and he kisses you back like he’s been waiting his whole damn life for it. afterward, he mutters, “…about time.”
✧ bonus old man boyfriend gallagher scenarios:
✧ you fall asleep on the bar one night, head pillowed on your arms. gallagher stares for a moment, then sighs like it’s the most inconvenient thing in the world (it’s not). he quietly drapes his coat over your shoulders, turns the lights down, shoos away any loud customers, and lets you rest as long as you need.
✧ he won’t say it but LOVES when you sit beside him during quiet hours. you, him, the low hum of the jukebox in the background—he’ll pretend he’s annoyed when you lean on his shoulder but the way he softens gives him away.
✧ you once called him “handsome” just to see what would happen. he froze. dead silent. then promptly dropped a whole glass he was holding, muttering “damn thing was slippery” even though his hands are usually steady as stone.
✧ he builds you a little shelf behind the bar for your stuff. no announcement, no explanation. you just show up one day and it’s there. your books, trinkets, and even a spare sweater tucked neatly in. when you ask about it, he just shrugs and says “figured you’d be leavin’ things around anyway.”
✧ he fixes broken things in your apartment before you even realize they were broken. the wobbly chair leg? tightened. the leaky faucet? patched. when you ask who did it, he just grumbles “place was fallin’ apart. someone had to.”
✧ after a long day, he simply mutters “you drive me crazy” while smiling into his drink. it’s quiet, almost like he’s talking to himself—but you catch it. and the way his shoulders relax after saying it makes you realize: he’s falling harder by the second. and you don't mind.
note: i’m obsessed with the amophoreus men
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you think the man you are meant to marry is a brute with no care for you or your kind. yet when the vows are signed and the crown rests upon your brow, you discover there is more to the king than meets the eye—and far more he has so carefully chosen to keep from you.
☆ pairing: phainon x fem!reader
☆ tags: romance, angst, smut (fingering, unprotected sex, virginity loss), slow burn, bridgerton!au, arranged marriage!au, older brother!mydei, historical inaccuracies, mentions of death & illness, nightmares, period-typical misogyny, discussions of pregnancy, etc. divider by @/thecutestgrotto.
☆ word count: 21.5k
☆ a/n: this fic is, first and foremost, a love letter and gift to my best friend, @jeonwiixard. happy birthday, jazz! i love you to the moon and back ♡ this fic is inspired by and based off of queen charlotte: a bridgerton story. thank you to @chokifandom for beta reading, and thank you for reading!
THE DAY BEFORE YOUR WEDDING, your brother held you tight to his chest, and whispered apology after apology. You do not want this, sister, I know, I know you do not want this, but father did not leave me with a choice. It was a betrothal made when you were born, and if our estate is to survive the locust plague, we need their help, sister. Please, forgive me.
Perhaps, if you weren’t in such a foul mood, you might have forgiven your older brother, Mydeimos, the Earl of Kremnos. Earlier that morning, however, your maid had fetched you the latest edition of Lady Whistledown’s society papers, and seeing how unfavourably she had written about you and your impending wedding, you were not so inclined.
You let him hold you, and patted his hair as you would your favourite mare, and said, “It’s quite all right, brother. After all, not everyone is blessed with the good fortune of marrying a prince.”
He looked stricken. “But you do not love him. You do not even know him.”
“I suppose such is my fate. Do fetch the carriage, will you? It is a long ride to London, and it would suit us all to be there before sundown.”
Poor Mydeimos could do nothing else but oblige, though he did so reluctantly and made his displeasure known to all. He snapped at the footman and the driver, curtly told your maid—poor Erinyes, you would miss her so!—that the ruby necklace she had picked out for you was too gaudy and she ought to replace it with the diamonds instead, and ordered the cook to make your favourite dish for breakfast, though you did not think you could stomach even a morsel of it. You appreciated his efforts, however, and tried, at least, to feign taking a bite so that he would not feel guilty.
In the carriage, where you sat still as a statue, you unfolded Lady Whistledown’s papers once more. It read thus:
Dearest Gentle Reader,
Though this news has been nothing more than a rumour for the better part of a month, it has now been officially announced that the King’s wedding has been arranged.
The lucky young lady in question, however, remains something of a curiosity to this author—being neither a reigning beauty of the marriage mart nor a frequent fixture of our glittering assemblies. Indeed, one might wonder whether His Highness has chosen discretion over delight, or whether this match is yet another reminder that crowns, much like fortunes, are so often secured by strategy rather than sentiment.
Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations. The King has long been known for his reserve, his temper, and his marked disinterest in the softer pursuits of courtship. If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so under circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances.
Still, this author cannot help but observe that unions forged under necessity have a habit of producing the most interesting consequences. Whether this marriage shall prove a triumph or a tragedy remains to be seen—but rest assured, gentle reader, I shall be watching.
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown.
“Impetuous woman,” you said, tossing the pamphlet aside. “What does she know about me?”
“She is not entirely wrong, is she?” Mydeimos, who sat opposite you, said. “You did not want this marriage, and it is my fate to deliver you to it.”
This time, you truly did feel a pang of sympathy for your older brother. “You did say this was a match made the day I was born, Mydeimos. What could you have done to stop it?”
“Annulled the agreement,” he said. “Father and mother are no more, so how would they know?”
“Perhaps,” you said patiently, “but that betrothal is not the only reason, is it not? I know how our funds have been dwindling, brother. Our crops are failing, and you need the money in order to help our farmers and tenants.”
Mydeimos shifted awkwardly in his seat. He looked anywhere in the carriage but directly at you: his gaze darted from the window to the spot above your head, and back down to his boots. He’d worn his finest clothes—as had you, of course; it would not do to meet the King in anything less—but he looked smaller than you’d ever seen him.
“Yes,” he said finally. “It is for the money.”
“Then it is settled. I am quite fond of our estate and its tenants. Its upkeep shall keep me very happy.”
“I will do my best to ensure it,” Mydeimos said. “You will have to know a few things about the castle and the King—they sent me a whole book full of customs and information you ought to know as the next in line to be the Queen. Would you like to read it now?”
“Perhaps later,” you said, though in truth you did not want to read it at all. In fact, you found yourself wanting to grab the book from Mydeimos’ hands and throw it out of the carriage. Instead, you settled for imagining the pages being set on fire.
He nodded and reached over to pat your hand where it rested on the seat. “Try to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
You sighed and closed your eyes.
The palace was grand—grander than anything you’d ever laid eyes upon before, and much bigger than your manor back in Kremnos.
The footman opened the carriage door, and the evening air rushed in, cool and sharp, carrying with it the scent of roses from the palace gardens. You took Mydeimos’ offered hand and stepped down onto the cobblestones, your skirts rustling as you steadied yourself. The palace loomed before you, its white stone façade gilded by the light of the sun, making its windows gleam.
“What do you think?” Mydeimos murmured beside you.
You said nothing. Your gaze swept across the grounds—the manicured hedges, the marble fountains. Cold beauty, you thought. Beauty without warmth.
A line of servants stood waiting, their livery immaculate and their faces blank. At the head of this assembly stood a woman, tall and severe, with silver hair swept back from a face that might have been handsome if it were not quite so forbidding.
“My lady,” she said. “I am Lady Caenis, the palace stewardess. His Highness sends his regrets that he cannot greet you personally, but urgent matters of state require his attention.”
Of course. You forced your expression into one of gracious understanding, though privately you thought it rather convenient that the King could not spare even an hour to meet his bride-to-be. What urgent matters, you wondered, could possibly be more pressing than this?
“How very conscientious of His Highness,” you said. “I should hate to distract him from his duties.”
“Indeed. Come, your rooms have been prepared. Lord Mydeimos, arrangements have been made for your accommodation in the east wing. You will, of course, be free to visit your sister as propriety allows.”
The implied restriction was not lost on you; it meant, you suspected, that your time with Mydeimos would be carefully monitored and limited. The thought of losing even his company made something uncomfortably sad twist in your chest.
You walked through corridors lined with portraits of stern-faced royals, their painted eyes seeming to follow your progress. Chandeliers dripped with crystals overhead, and your footsteps echoed on marble floors so highly polished, you could see your reflection in them.
“These will be your apartments,” Lady Caenis said at last, pushing open a set of doors carved with intricate patterns of roses and thorns. “The Dowager Princess’ chambers. They have been empty for some time, so we have had them thoroughly aired and refreshed for your arrival.”
The rooms were vast: a receiving parlour that opened into a bedroom, which in turn led to a dressing room and private bathing chamber. The walls were papered in silk the colour of early morning skies, and the furniture was lined with brocade. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, as though trying to warm a space far too large for such modest flames. French doors opened onto a balcony that overlooked gardens so extensive you could not see where they ended.
“Your maid will arrive shortly,” Lady Caenis continued. “She comes with excellent references, and has served in the palace for many years. I trust you will find her more than adequate.”
“I had rather hoped my own maid might attend me,” you said. “Erinyes has been with my family since I was a child.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The Queen’s household staff are all palace employees—it is tradition, you understand. Your brother’s attendants will, naturally, remain with him during his stay.”
“I understand,” you said, though you understood very well that you were being given no choice in the matter.
“The wedding is tomorrow at noon in the palace chapel,” the stewardess said. “You will have time this evening to review the ceremony with the archbishop, and there will be a private dinner tonight where you and His Highness will dine together. It is… expected that you use this time to become acquainted.”
How romantic, you thought.
“What time is dinner?” you asked.
“Eight o’clock. Someone will come to escort you.” Lady Caenis moved towards the door, then paused. “A word of advice, my lady. His Highness is not what you might expect. He is… complicated. I would suggest keeping an open mind.”
Before you could ask what she meant by that, she was gone, the door clicking shut behind her. You walked to the balcony and stepped out into the cool air. The gardens spread below you in geometric circles, hedges trimmed to sharp angles, flower beds arranged in unnatural patterns.
“Well,” you said aloud, “here we are.”
The gardens remained silent. Even the birds seemed to have deserted this place.
You turned back to the room and discovered that your trunks had already been brought up and placed in the dressing room. At least you would have your own clothes, even if everything else was being stripped away. Small mercies. You were examining the wardrobe—mahogany, you thought, and probably worth more than your family’s entire stable—when there came a soft knock at the door.
“Enter,” you called, expecting Lady Caenis again, or perhaps the maid you were to be saddled with.
Instead, Mydeimos slipped inside, looking furtive and uncomfortably in a way that reminded you of when you were children and he was sneaking sweets from the kitchen.
“I only have a moment,” he said quickly. “Lady Caenis made it quite clear that I’m not to disturb you while you’re settling in, but I had to—I needed to see that you were all right.”
You felt a rush of affection for your brother, this man who had always tried so hard to protect you even when circumstances made it impossible. “I am perfectly fine, Mydeimos. The rooms are lovely. Cold, but lovely.”
“Cold?”
“In spirit, I mean. They’re physically quite warm.” You gestured vaguely at the fire. “It’s all very grand and very proper and very… not home.”
Mydeimos crossed the room to take your hands in his. His fingers were warm, familiar, the same fingers which had cleaned your knees of mud when you slipped and fell in the gardens as a child, the same ones which had held you at night when you could not sleep in the weeks after your parents passed.
“I am so sorry, sister,” he said. “If there were any other way—”
“We’ve had this conversation before already,” you said gently. “There is no other way, and we both know it. I shall simply have to make the best of things. After all, how bad can it be? I shall be a queen, and I shall have all the gowns and jewels and power a woman could want.”
“But will you be happy?”
Would you be happy? You didn’t know. You couldn’t imagine it, but perhaps that was simply because you hadn’t tried hard enough. Perhaps happiness was something that could be learned, like French or needlework or the proper way to address a duke.
“I shall endeavour to be content,” you answered at last. “That will have to suffice.”
Mydeimos looked as though he wanted to argue, but another knock at the door forestalled him. This time, it was a young woman in a maid’s uniform.
“Begging your pardon, my lady, but I am Arielle, your new maid,” she said, curtseying. “Lady Caenis sent me to help you dress for dinner.”
“It’s only—” you glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece—“four o’clock. Dinner isn’t until eight.”
“Yes, my lady, but there’s your hair to be done, and we’ll need to select the proper gown, and you’ll want to be bathed first, I imagine, after such a long journey. Best to start early and not be rushed.”
You supposed she had a point, though the idea of spending four hours preparing for a single meal seemed excessive even by your standards.
“I should go,” Mydeimos said, squeezing your hands before releasing them. “But I’ll see you tomorrow before the wedding. I promise.”
A flutter of panic caused you to ask, “Will you not be joining us for dinner?”
Mydeimos looked pained, his eyes darting away from you. “It would—it is not appropriate, my lady.”
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and watched him leave.
Arielle was already bustling about the room, laying out several different options for evening gowns. “Now then, my lady, what do you think? The green silk might be nice—it brings out your eyes—but the ivory satin is more traditional for a first formal dinner with His Highness. Then again, there’s the rose-coloured taffeta, which is very fashionable just now…”
You let her chatter wash over you as you walked to the window again. The sun was beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. By this time the next day, you would be married. You would be a queen. You would belong to this place, this palace, and to a man you had never met.
Lady Whistledown’s words came back to you: If affection is to bloom between bride and groom, it will do so in circumstances far less indulgent than poetry and stolen glances. Well, you thought, at least your expectations were appropriately low. That was something, was it not? Better to expect nothing and be pleasantly surprised than to hope for romance and be bitterly disappointed.
“The ivory satin, I think,” you said, turning back to Arielle. “Traditional suits me just fine.”
If the maid thought there was anything odd about your tone, she didn’t show it. She simply smiled and began preparing your bath, humming a cheerful tune that did little to ease your mood.
You caught your reflection in the mirror—a young woman in a travelling dress, her hair slightly dishevelled from the journey. Tomorrow, that woman would put on a wedding gown and walk down an aisle and promise herself to a stranger. Tonight, she would sit across from that stranger at dinner and make polite conversation about… what? The weather? The state of the kingdom? How to divvy up your conjugal duties?
The thought made you want to laugh, but you suspected that if you started, you might not be able to stop, and that would never do. After all, you had very little choice in the matter.
“I am afraid the prince will not be joining you for dinner, my lady. He is… indisposed.”
“What?” you said, and indeed, when you looked around, the long table laden with the finest foods and the most delicious sweets was set for only one. “Is—can my brother join me, at least?”
“I am afraid that is inappropriate, my lady,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “You may enjoy your dinner in peace.”
“He is my brother,” you hissed. “After tomorrow, I may never see him again.”
“Lord Mydeimos will attend the wedding tomorrow, and you will have ample opportunity to say your farewells then. For tonight, His Highness felt it best that you have time to… acclimate to your new surroundings.”
“How thoughtful,” you said, and this time you made no effort to disguise the bitterness in your voice. “His Highness is proving to be remarkably considerate—first too preoccupied with matters of state to greet me, and now too indisposed to dine with me. One might almost think he wishes to avoid me entirely.”
“My lady—”
“Tell me, Lady Caenis,” you interrupted, “is the King always this… elusive? Or is it only his future bride he finds so distasteful that he cannot bear to spend even one evening in her company?”
The stewardess drew herself up, and for a moment you thought she might reprimand you for your impertinence. Instead, however, she sighed and something in her severe features softened just slightly.
“His Highness has his reasons for everything he does, my lady. I cannot speak to them, nor would it be appropriate for me to do so. But I will say this: he is not a cruel man, merely a… cautious one. Give him time.”
“How much time, precisely?” you said. “We are to be married in less than a day.”
Lady Caenis said nothing to that. What could she say? You were right, and you both knew it.
“Very well,” you said at last, turning away from her to face the absurdly long dining table with its single place setting at the head. It looked ridiculous: one plate, one glass, one set of silverware in all that vast, empty space. “I shall dine alone, then. As it appears I shall be doing many things alone from now on.”
“My lady—”
“That will be all, Lady Caenis. Thank you.”
You heard her hesitate behind you, the rustle of her skirts as she prepared to leave, but then, surprisingly, she spoke once more. “For what it is worth, my lady, I am sorry. This is not… this is not how I would have wished your arrival to be.”
You did not turn around. You could not bear to see whatever expression might be on her face; sympathy would be unbearable, and pity even worse.
“Yes,” you said quietly. “Well. Perhaps you might convey my gratitude to His Highness for his… hospitality.”
The door closed softly behind her, and you were alone.
You stood there for a long moment, staring at that single place setting, and the elaborate dishes that had been prepared for a meal that was meant to be shared: roasted pheasant, by the looks of it, and some sort of fish in a cream sauce, and vegetables arranged in artful little pyramids. Desserts gleamed on a separate side table—tarts and cakes and what looked like a towering confection of spun sugar. All of it was wasted on a woman like you, who found she had no appetite whatsoever.
You walked to the table slowly, your ivory satin gown whispering against the floor. Arielle had done an excellent job with your hair, pinning it up in an elaborate style that had taken the better part of an hour and left your scalp aching. Your jewellery—the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon—caught the candlelight and threw it back in cold, brilliant sparks. You looked every inch a princess, though you had never felt less like one.
Sitting down in the chair that had been pulled out for you, you stared at the feast spread before you. A servant appeared from somewhere—you had not even noticed him standing in the shadows—and began to serve you, spooning portions onto your plate.
“That’s enough,” you said when your plate was only half full. “Thank you.”
The servant bowed and retreated back into the shadows. You picked up your fork, examined a piece of pheasant, and set the fork back down again.
This was absurd! This whole farce was absurd. You had travelled for hours to get here, and had spent four hours being primped and perfected for a dinner with a man who could not even be bothered to attend. You had dressed in your finest gown, and allowed Arielle to arrange your hair until it was perfectly elegant, and had put on jewellery worth more than most people saw in a lifetime—and for what? To sit alone in a cavernous dining room and pick at food you did not want?
Lady Whistledown had been right, you thought bitterly. Those inclined to sigh for romance would do well to temper their expectations indeed.
You forced yourself to eat a few bites—the pheasant really was excellent—and pushed your plate away. The servant materialised again, asking in hushed tones if you would care for dessert.
“No, thank you,” you said. “I find I’m quite finished.”
“Perhaps some wine, my lady? Or tea?”
“That will be all, thank you. I would like to retreat to my chambers now.”
If Lady Caenis found out that you had run away on the morn of your wedding day, you feared her wrath would scare you more than living as an old, unmarried spinster in some far-off county where the King could never find you. How could he? He had not deigned to see your face the evening before, as it was, so you were certain he would not be able to recognise you regardless.
Either way, you consoled yourself, the odds of the King himself finding you attempting to climb over the trellis on the garden wall was a chance that was nigh impossible.
The morning air was cool against your flushed cheeks as you struggled with the branches, your wedding gown—an elaborate confection of white silk and lace that had taken Arielle and two other maids nearly an hour to get you into—catching on every available branch and rose thorn. The skirts were impossibly voluminous, designed to make you look like some sort of ethereal being floating down the aisle, but they were decidedly impractical for climbing.
“Blast,” you muttered as another section of lace tore free with an audible rip. The gardeners would have a fit when they discovered what you’d done to their roses.
Arielle had arrived promptly at six. The next three hours had felt like a blur: the bath, the hair, the undergarments, the stockings, the gown itself with its thousand tiny buttons, and the diamonds Mydeimos had insisted upon.
Through it all, one singular thought had circled your mind: I cannot do this. I cannot do this. I cannot do this.
So when Arielle had stepped out to fetch your bouquet, you had made your decision. You had gathered up your ridiculous skirts, slipped out onto the balcony, and made your way down to the gardens. The chapel was on the other side of the palace—you could hear the distant sounds of guests arriving, carriages rattling over cobblestones, voices calling to one another. You had perhaps an hour before the ceremony was to begin.
“I wouldn’t recommend that particular route of escape, if I were you.”
You froze. The voice had come from below. You looked down and felt your stomach drop.
A man stood at the base of the trellis, arms crossed over his chest, looking up at you with an expression of blatant, unabashed curiosity. He was tall—as tall as Mydeimos, perhaps—and broad-shouldered beneath grand attire: an intricately embroidered coat, over a white shirt and dress shoes. His hair was light, ruffled gently by the breeze, and even from this distance you could see his eyes were pale, an unusual colour, like ice or the winter sky.
He was also, you noted with some irritation, devastatingly handsome. He had sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a mouth that was currently curved into a smile that suggested he found your predicament highly entertaining.
“Who are you?” you demanded, clinging to the trellis with increasingly aching fingers. “And what business is it of yours which route I take?”
“The trellis,” he said conversationally, “is nearly fifty years old. The wood is rotten in several places. You’re likely to fall and break your neck, and that would be terribly inconvenient for everyone involved.”
“I’ll take my chances,” you said. “Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“Breaking your neck on your wedding day seems rather dramatic, don’t you think? Even for a runaway bride.”
You stared down at him. “How did you know—”
“The dress is something of a giveaway,” he said, gesturing at the acres of white silk and lace. “Also, I am fairly certain I was meant to be marrying someone this morning, and given that she’s currently attempting to climb over the garden wall…”
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.
“You’re the King,” you stated.
He executed a small bow. “Guilty. And you must be the sister of the Earl of Kremnos. My bride-to-be. Or perhaps my bride-who-was, depending on whether that trellis holds.”
This could not be happening.
“Well,” you said, because there truly seemed to be nothing else to say, “I suppose you’ve caught me, then. Congratulations, Your Highness. You can go inform Lady Caenis that the bride is making a run for it. I’m sure she’ll have some very stern words for me before she locks me in my chambers until the ceremony.”
“I could do that,” the King agreed. He moved closer to the trellis, one hand reaching up to grip the wood—testing it, you realised, checking its stability. “Or I could help you down from there before you fall and further ruin what appears to be a very expensive dress.”
“…Help me?”
“Unless you’d prefer to hang there until the ceremony begins. Though I should warn you, the chapel bells will ring in approximately forty-five minutes, and I imagine Lady Caenis will come looking for you well before then.”
He was right, of course. And the trellis was creaking more ominously by the second, and your arms were beginning to ache from holding your weight, and your fingers were getting scraped by the rough wood and thorns.
“Why would you help me?” you asked suspiciously. “I’m trying to escape from marrying you. Shouldn’t you be trying to stop me?”
“Perhaps,” he said. “But I’m curious to see how far you’ll get.”
Before you could respond to that utterly baffling statement, he had begun to climb. The trellis groaned in protest—it had barely been holding your weight, and now it had to support his as well—but somehow it held. Within moments, he had reached your position.
Up close, he was even more striking than you had thought from below. His silver-white hair fell across his forehead in a way that seemed almost careless. His eyes, the colour of ice over deep water, studied you with an intensity that made you want to look away.
But you didn’t. You held his gaze and tried not to think about how improper this was, the two of you clinging to a trellis together on the morning of your wedding, close enough that you could smell him.
“Now then,” he asked, quieter now. “Where exactly were you planning to go, dressed like that?”
“Away,” you said. “Anywhere. Somewhere you couldn’t find me.”
“Ah. And you thought climbing over the garden wall was the best route?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Most people who attempt to flee an arranged marriage at least have the good sense to change out of their wedding attire first.”
“I did not have the time,” you said. “Arielle only left for five minutes, and I had to seize the opportunity.”
“Arielle is your maid?” he asked.
“Yes. The poor thing is probably having hysterics right about now, wondering where I’ve gone.”
The King—your husband-to-be, though you could hardly believe it—tilted his head slightly. “You know,” he said, “when Lady Caenis told me you had arrived yesterday, I thought about coming to greet you. I got as far as the corridor outside your chambers.”
You stared at him. “What?”
“I stood there for ten minutes, trying to decide what to say. How to explain…” He trailed off, looking away for the first time since he’d climbed up to meet you. “It does not matter. I didn’t come in. I left. And then at dinner, I… I know how it sounds, but you must believe me. I was truly indisposed. I know what you must think of me.”
“Why?” you asked. “Am I truly so horrific to look at?”
His eyes snapped back to yours. “On the contrary. We should get down from here before this entire structure collapses and we both end up in the rose bushes.”
Having said this, the King began to climb down, and you followed, more carefully now, acutely aware of how close he was, how his body moved gracefully despite the precarious footing. When you reached the bottom, he held out a hand to help you down the last few feet. Your feet touched the grass, and you stood in the garden, cheeks aflame, your ridiculous wedding gown covered in dirt and torn lace and your hair coming loose from its pins.
“So,” the King said, “what will it be, my lady? Will you run, or will you stay?”
“You will not force me?” you asked.
“I may be a king, my lady, but I am no brute,” he said. “If you do not wish to marry me, we shall cancel the wedding immediately.”
“Tell me something,” you said. “And I want the truth.”
“All right.”
“Do you want this marriage?”
“No,” he said. “I don’t. I do not want to bind myself to someone who will likely grow to hate me, and perform a ceremony in front of hundreds of people and pretend that this is anything other than a political arrangement.”
The chapel bells began to ring—not the full peal that would announce the start of the ceremony, but the warning bells that meant it would begin in thirty minutes.
“If I stay,” you heard yourself say, “and walk down that aisle and marry you—what happens then? What kind of marriage will this be?”
The King was quiet for a moment, considering. “I cannot promise you love, or even affection. I have a temper, and I’m not always kind, and there are things about me that will likely make you regret this decision. But I can promise to treat you with respect, and to speak with you as an equal. I can promise to give you as much freedom as I can within the constraints of this life.”
“Tell me your name, Your Highness,” you said. “I should like to know this, at least, before we are to be wed.”
“Phainon,” he said, a little half-smile gracing his lips. “My name is Phainon.”
“Phainon,” you repeated, testing the way it rolled off your tongue. It was a strange name, foreign-sounding, but you liked it. In turn, you gave him your own name, which Phainon said once, and then once more, his smile widening. The bells rang again. Twenty-five minutes.
“I need to know,” Phainon said quietly. “Are you going to run?”
“No,” you said. “I’m not going to run.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” Phainon said.
“Do not, yet,” you said wryly. “I’ve a temper too, you know. And a sharp tongue. And I don’t take well to being ordered about.”
“I would expect nothing less from a woman who tried to escape her own wedding by climbing over a garden wall,” Phainon said. “Come. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He led you back through the gardens, not towards the main entrance where servants and guests might see you, but along a hidden path that wound between the hedges. You followed, your torn wedding gown trailing behind you. Upon reaching the servants’ entrance, Phainon led you through the corridors—until you ran into Lady Caenis.
She took one look at you both, at your torn dress and loosened hair, Phainon’s garden-stained shirt and your joined hands, and went pale.
“Your Highness,” she said faintly. “My lady. What—how did you—”
“My bride went for a walk in the garden,” Phainon said. “She needed some air before the ceremony. Nerves, you understand. I happened upon her and offered to escort her back.”
“Of… of course, Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said. “My lady, shall we get you back to your chambers? I shall send for Arielle to make some… repairs to your gown.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be wise,” you said, before turning to Phainon. “I shall see you at the altar, Your Highness?”
“You shall,” he said, smiling once more. “Don’t be late, my lady. I should hate to have to come looking for you again.”
You let Lady Caenis lead you away, back to your chambers. As Arielle exclaimed over the state of your dress and began the work of making you presentable again, you found yourself thinking about Phainon.
You had come to this palace expecting a monster. A cold, cruel prince who would treat you as some rare trinket or jewel. Instead, you had found… what? Not love, certainly. Not even affection. But perhaps something that could become those things, given time and patience.
“My lady,” said Arielle. “You’re smiling! I’ve never seen you smile like that, in all the hours I’ve spent with you.”
“Am I?” you said, touching your lips and finding Arielle was right. “How strange. I hadn’t realised.”
When the ceremony was finished and Phainon’s lips had touched yours and you had bid farewell to your brother, Phainon took your hand in his. You refused to cry in front of Mydeimos, though your chest ached when he turned his back on you and loped back to his carriage.
“I have a surprise for you,” he said.
“A surprise?” you said, and found you were smiling so wide your cheeks pained. “How nice!”
Perhaps it was relief that the ceremony was over, that you had survived the endless procession down the aisle, your hand tucked into the crook of Mydeimos’ arm, and persisted through the archbishop’s droning voice and the vows that had felt both impossibly heavy and strangely weightless on your tongue. Perhaps it was simply that you were trying very hard to be optimistic of this new life.
Whatever the reason, you found yourself genuinely pleased by the prospect of a surprise. How thoughtful of him, you thought. How kind, to think of giving you something on this day that had already been so overwhelming.
“Where are we going?” you asked as Phainon guided you down a corridor you had not explored. The palace was a maze, with identical marble floors and soaring ceilings that made you feel very small.
“You’ll see,” he said.
You walked in silence for several minutes, your wedding gown rustling with each step. Arielle had worked miracles with the torn lace and garden stains, but you could still see the evidence of your attempted escape if you looked closely enough—a small rip near the hem, a faint smudge of dirt on the silk. You found yourself oddly fond of these imperfections. They were proof that something real and true had happened this morning, something that belonged to you and Phainon alone.
Finally, he stopped before a pair of ornate doors, larger than the others you had passed, carved with intricate patterns of flowers and vines that seemed to twist and grow across the dark wood. Two footmen stood at attention on either side, and they bowed deeply as you and Phainon approached.
“Open them,” Phainon said.
The doors swung open to reveal a long gallery, flooded with light from tall windows that ran the length of one wall. The other wall was lined with more portraits—queens, you realised, generations of them staring down at you, their faces serious and severe. At the far end of the gallery, another set of doors stood open, revealing a glimpse of rooms beyond.
Phainon led you forward, and you found yourself looking around in wonder. The gallery was beautiful in a way that felt less cold than the rest of the palace. There were fresh flowers in vases in side tables, and the furniture looked comfortable rather than merely decorative.
“These,” Phainon said, gesturing at the doors at the far end, “are your apartments. The Queen’s apartments. We renovated them after my mother passed—they had been closed up for years, and I thought… I thought you might appreciate them far more than I would.”
You looked up at him in surprise. “You renovated them? For me?”
“The work was completed last month,” he said. “I wanted you to have something that was yours, and yours alone.”
Your chest felt tight with emotion. He had thought of you, had planned for your comfort, even while he was avoiding meeting you. It was such a contradiction: the man who couldn’t face you, and yet had taken the time to ensure you would have a home waiting.
“Thank you,” you said softly. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
He inclined his head, acknowledging your thanks, but his expression remained difficult to read. “Would you like to see them?”
“Of course.”
He led you through the gallery and into the apartments beyond. The rooms were magnificent. The receiving parlour was decorated in shades of cream and gold, with furniture that looked both elegant and comfortable. Beyond it, you could see a bedroom with a massive four-poster bed draped in silk, and what looked like a dressing room and private study. French doors opened onto a balcony which opened out to the garden.
“There’s a music room as well,” Phainon said, pointing to another door, “and a small library. I wasn’t certain what your interests were, but I thought—well, I thought it best to provide options.”
You turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. This was to be your home. “It’s beautiful,” you said, and meant it. “Truly, Phainon, this is… thank you.”
He smiled, then, small and tentative, but genuine. “I’m glad you like it. I worried you might find it too formal, or not to your taste, but Lady Caenis assured me—”
“It’s perfect,” you interrupted. “Truly.”
You thought, then, that perhaps this marriage might not be so terrible after all. Perhaps you could be happy here, in these beautiful rooms with this man who had tried so hard to make you comfortable.
“There’s something else I need to show you,” he said. “Come with me.”
You followed him back through the gallery, back into the corridor, and then down a different path entirely. This part of the palace was quieter and less ornate. The portraits here were of kings rather than queens, and they looked even more severe than their female counterparts—men with hard eyes and harder mouths, who looked like they had never smiled in their lives.
Phainon stopped before another set of doors. These were not as grand as the ones that led to your apartments, but they were still impressive: dark wood carved with geometric patterns, simple but elegant.
“These are my apartments,” Phainon said. “The King’s apartments.”
“Oh,” you said, uncertain why he was showing you this. “They’re very nice.”
He didn’t open the doors. Instead, he turned to face you, and you saw that his expression had changed entirely. The man who had climbed the trellis this morning, who had smiled at you and held your hand—that man was gone. In his place stood the King you had heard about in rumours and whispers. Cold, remote, untouchable.
“There is something I must tell you,” he said. “Something I should have told you this morning, but I… I lacked the courage.”
“…What is it?”
“We will not be sharing apartments,” he said flatly. “You will live in the Queen’s chambers. I will live in the King’s chambers. We will maintain separate households, separate lives. You will have your duties—public appearances, charitable work, whatever other obligations come with being Queen. I will have mine. We will see each other when necessary for official functions, and of course for the production of an heir, but otherwise… Otherwise we will live separately.”
You stared at him, certain you must have misheard. “Separately?”
“Yes.”
“But we just married,” you said, and your voice sounded strange in your own ears, high and thin and confused. “We just made vows. We just—this morning, you said you would treat me with respect, that we would have honesty between us, that—”
“And I will,” Phainon interrupted. “I am treating you with respect by being honest with you now. This is how it must be. This is how it will be.”
“But why?” you said. “I don’t understand. If you didn’t want to be married to me, why go through with the ceremony at all? Why renovate my apartments and give me a library and a music room and make everything beautiful if you were just going to—to exile me on one side of the palace while you hide away on the other?”
“Because this is what is best,” he said. “For both of us.”
“Best? Best for whom, exactly? Because it certainly doesn’t feel the best to me. I left my home, my brother, everything I’ve ever known! I tried to run this morning, and you found me, and you gave me a choice, and I chose to stay. I chose you! And now you’re telling me that was a mistake?”
“I’m not saying it was a mistake—”
“Then what are you saying?” Your voice was rising now, but you did not care if servants heard, if the entire palace heard. “Explain it to me, Phainon. Make me understand why you would show me kindness this morning only to take it away now.”
He turned away from you, his shoulders tense. “I am the King,” he said, flatly. “And as your King, this is what I order. We will live separately. That is final.”
“You’re hiding behind your crown,” you said, sharp as glass and twice as cutting. “You are using your authority as King because you do not want to give me a real answer. What are you so afraid of?”
“I am not afraid!” he snapped, before taking in a breath shudderingly, and continuing, eyes downcast, “I am not afraid. This is the kindest thing I can do for you. You will have your freedom, your independence. You will be Queen in name and power, but you won’t have to—you won’t be burdened with—you will have a good life here. I will make certain of it. You will want for nothing. You will have everything a queen could desire.”
“Except a husband,” you said.
“I—”
“I see. You’ve made your position clear, Your Majesty. As my King, you have ordered that we live separately, and as your subject, I must obey. Isn’t that right?”
“Don’t,” Phainon said. “Don’t do this. Don’t twist this into—”
“Very well, Your Majesty.” You drew yourself up, straightened your shoulders, and looked at your husband—your King—with all the dignity you could muster. “I shall retire to my apartments. I assume you’ll send word when you require my presence for official functions?”
“Please—”
“That will be all, yes, Your Highness? Unless there is something else you need to inform me of? Any other surprises you’ve been saving for our wedding day?”
Phainon looked stricken, his face pale, but he shook his head.
“Then I bid you good night, Your Majesty,” you said, dipping your head in a bow before turning and walking away. Your wedding gown trailed behind you, and you held your head high even though your vision was blurring with tears you refused to shed.
You found your way back to your apartments and closed the doors behind you. Only then did you let yourself lean against the carved wood, only then did you let the tears fall.
You had been so foolish.
This morning, on that trellis, you had thought you understood Phainon. You had thought he was like you—trapped, frightened, trying to be brave. You had thought perhaps you could be allies, and could face this marriage together and make something bearable out of a situation neither of you wanted.
How foolish you’d been!
He didn’t want an ally or a partner. He wanted… what? A queen who stayed in her own apartments and didn’t ask questions? A wife who existed only when he needed her for public appearances or the production of an heir?
You slid down to the floor, wounded and terribly lonely, and cried for your brother, who you had left behind, and your home, which you would never see again.
Thus did your honeymoon pass, in isolation and brittle solitude, and how desperately did you yearn for companionship for the duration of it! Arielle was chatty and talkative, but your positions could not allow for the kind of casual, mundane conversations that were allowed between friends. Lady Caenis, perhaps having taken pity on you, sent word for a lady she trusted, a friend’s daughter of the same age as you, and invited her to the Queen’s chambers for tea one evening.
Lady Castorice was slight but sturdy, her long, pale hair twisted into an elaborate braid and her hands folded neatly over the folds of her lavender gown.
“May I speak freely?” you asked immediately, upon settling down on the chaise in your parlour.
Lady Castorice blinked, surprised by the question. She glanced at Arielle, who was fussing with the tea service on a nearby table, then back at you. “Your Majesty,” she said, “I am not certain what you mean.”
“I mean,” you said, “may I speak to you as one person to another, rather than as Queen to subject? May we have an actual conversation, rather than a formal, stilted exchange where you tell me the weather is lovely and I agree?”
To your great relief, Castorice smiled, warm and genuine.
“I think I should like that very much, Your Majesty,” she said.
You gave her name. “Please, when we’re alone like this, call me as such. I’ve been called Your Majesty or some other variation of it nearly seven hundred times in the past week, and if I hear it seven hundred and one times, I fear I might do something very undignified.”
Lady Castorice’s smile widened. “Then you must call me Castorice. Or Cas, if you prefer—my nephews all call me Cas, and I’ve rather gotten used to it.”
“It’s a beautiful name,” you said. “Where does it come from?”
“My mother’s family,” Castorice said as Arielle brought over the tea service and began pouring. “They’re from the northern provinces, near the border. The names there are all rather old-fashioned. My nephews got lucky—they’re called Marcus and Julius, which are perfectly normal. I got stuck with Castorice.”
“I think it suits you,” you said warmly.
Arielle finished serving the tea and withdrew to the corner of the room, giving you and Castorice the illusion of privacy even though you both knew she was there, listening, as was her duty. But it was something, at least. Better than sitting alone in your beautiful apartments with no company but your own increasingly bitter thoughts.
“Lady Caenis told me you’ve been rather lonely since the wedding,” Castorice said.
“The truth is I’ve been going slowly mad with nothing to do but wander around these apartments and stare at the walls,” you said. “I tried reading, but I can’t seem to concentrate. I tried the pianoforte in the music room, but I’m dreadfully out of practice and it just made me feel worse. Mostly I’ve just been…” Crying? Raging? Wondering if I made the worst mistake of my life?
“Adjusting?” Castorice supplied gently.
“Something like that.”
Castorice set down her teacup. “May I speak freely as well?”
“Please do.”
“The palace is full of gossip,” Castorice said bluntly. “Everyone is talking about the new Queen who arrived a day before her wedding, and who has not been seen in public since. They’re saying the King has sent you away, that he’s displeased with you.”
You felt your cheeks flush with anger and humiliation. “Of course they are. What else would they say?”
“I’m telling you this not to upset you,” Castorice said quickly, “but because I thought you ought to know what’s being said. I want you to know that I do not believe a word of it.”
“You don’t?”
“No. I’ve known His Majesty since we were children—my family has always been close to the royal family, and I spent a great deal of time at the palace when we were young. I know that whatever is happening between you and the King, it is not because he’s displeased with you.”
“How can you possibly know that?” you asked. You hated how desperate you sounded, how much you wanted her to be right.
Castorice leaned forward, her voice dropping. “I saw him the day after your wedding. I was visiting Lady Caenis—she’s a sort of aunt to me, though not by blood—and he came to speak with her about some household matter. I have never seen Phainon look like that.”
“Did he say anything?” you asked. “About me?”
“Not to me. But I heard him speaking to Lady Caenis as I was leaving. He asked her to make certain you were comfortable, that you had everything you needed. He asked if you were eating properly, if you seemed unwell. When Lady Caenis told him you’d been crying… He looked as though she had struck him.”
You didn’t know what to do with all this information. It didn’t change anything—Phainon had still banished you to separate apartments, broken the promise he made on the trellis, and chosen to hide rather than face whatever it was he was so afraid of. This did, however, serve as proof that he was not entirely indifferent, that your pain had affected him.
Though perhaps that made it worse. If he cared, if your tears troubled him, why would he do this to you in the first place?
“I don’t understand him,” you said quietly. “One moment he’s kind, the next he’s cruel. One moment he’s giving me a choice, the next he’s ordering me to live separately as though I’m—as though I’m some sort of inconvenience to be managed.”
“Men are often cruel when they’re frightened,” Castorice said. “Especially men with power.”
“What could he possibly be frightened of?” you said. “He is the King. He has everything.”
Castorice took a sip of her tea, her expression thoughtful. “I do not know, but I do know that Phainon is… complicated. He always has been, even as a child. He feels things very deeply, but he’s learned to hide it so well that most people think he’s cold and unfeeling.”
“You speak as though you know him well.”
“I did, once,” she said. “We were playmates as children. He, myself, and a few other children of the noble families. We used to run wild through the palace gardens, getting into all sorts of mischief.”
“What changed?”
“His mother died when he was ten. The Queen. She was… she was wonderful, kind and warm and everything a mother should be. When she died, it was as though something in Phainon died with her. He withdrew into himself, and stopped playing with us or smiling so freely. His father—the old King—tried to reach him, but Phainon wouldn’t let anyone close. He built walls around himself, and over the years, those walls just got higher and higher.”
You understood this. You had built quite a few walls yourself after your parents died.
“How did the Queen die?” you asked.
“Fever,” Castorice said. “It swept through the palace one winter. Many people died—servants, courtiers. The Queen was tending to the sick, as was her custom. She never cared much for her own safety when people needed help. She fell ill herself, and within three days, she was gone.”
“That is terrible,” you said.
“It was. The King—the old King, I mean—was never the same either. He loved her desperately, you see. After she died, he threw himself into his work, into ruling, and Phainon…” Castorice shook her head. “Phainon was left to grieve alone.”
“I wish…” you said, “I wish to understand why he’s doing this. I want him to talk to me like he did that morning, honestly and without hiding behind his crown. I want—I want to not feel so terribly alone.”
“You are not alone,” Lady Castorice said firmly. “I shall come visit you every day if you like. We can take tea together, or walk in the gardens, or simply sit and talk about nothing in particular. And if you need someone to rage at about your impossible husband, well, I’m an excellent listener.”
You smiled. “Thank you. Truly, Castorice, I… thank you.”
“What are friends for?”
You spent the next hour talking, the way you used to with Mydeimos when you were younger. Castorice told you about her family, her two little nephews who rode horses and fenced, her mother who was constantly trying to marry her off to unsuitable men. You told her about Kremnos, about your estate and the tenants you had grown up knowing, about Erinyes and how much you missed her.
“You could send for her, you know,” Castorice said when you mentioned your former maid. “As Queen, you have the authority to hire whomever you wish for your household staff. If you want Erinyes here, simply send word to your brother. I’m certain he would release her from service.”
“Truly? I thought—Lady Caenis said tradition required all Queen’s staff to be palace employees.”
“Lady Caenis is very attached to tradition,” she said diplomatically, “but tradition is not the law.”
“Tell me something,” you said, pouring yourself more tea. “Do you know why Phainon—why the King—never married before now? He must be, what, five and twenty? Six and twenty? That’s quite late for a royal marriage.”
Castorice’s expression became guarded. “He is seven and twenty. As for why he waited… there are rumours, of course.”
“What sort of rumours?” you asked.
“Nothing substantiated. Just whispers, speculation. Some say he refused every match his father proposed because he was too particular, and—and there are those who say he’s been unwell, that he apparently has episodes where he’s not quite himself. That’s why he is so reclusive, why he avoids social occasions when he can. The old King tried to keep it quiet, but servants talk, and rumours spread.”
Dearest Gentle Reader,
It is a jarring turn of affairs that has made the ton increasingly worried about why, exactly, the King chose to marry a woman who was never seen in public again after the day of their wedding.
Three weeks have now passed since the ceremony, and yet Her Majesty remains conspicuously absent from all public functions. The King attended the opening of Parliament alone, dined with foreign ambassadors alone, and even presided over the annual charity ball—traditionally the Queen’s purview—alone, looking as forbidding and unapproachable as ever.
Some say the King and Queen maintain separate households entirely. Others whisper something more troubling: that the marriage has not been consummated at all. The succession, after all, depends upon an heir. And an heir requires a certain degree of proximity between husband and wife, the last this author checked. One can only hope His Majesty comes to his senses before his queen decides that the crown is not worth the loneliness and abandonment it brings.
Yours truly,
Lady Whistledown.
You threw the pamphlet down on the dining table, a disgusted sneer twisting your lips. “Is this truly what they write about me? They think I have been abandoned?”
True as it may be, you certainly did not want for the entirety of British genteel society—or, indeed, the whole of England—to think that their King and Queen were stuck in a loveless farce of a marriage. It was despicably dishonourable and jilting.
Lady Caenis stepped forward. “Your Highness, there may be a rather… simple solution to this.”
“And what is it, Lady Caenis?”
“Seduce the King,” the old lady said simply.
You stared at her, certain you had misheard. “I beg your pardon?”
“Seduce the King,” Lady Caenis repeated. “Get yourself into his bed. Make him consummate the marriage. Give him an heir, or at least make it clear to the palace staff that you’re attempting to do so. The whispers will stop once people believe the marriage is… functioning as it should.”
You felt your cheeks burn with embarrassment and indignation. “Lady Caenis, I—that is—you cannot possibly be suggesting—”
“I am suggesting exactly what you think I’m suggesting, Your Majesty,” she said. “You are a married woman now. You have duties, and chief among them is the production of an heir. The King may have decided to live separately from you, but that does not exempt either of you from the fundamental requirements of your positions.”
“He doesn’t want me,” you said. “He made that abundantly clear when he exiled me to these apartments.”
“Want and need are different things,” Lady Caenis said pragmatically. “The King may not want a wife in the traditional sense, but he needs an heir. You need to secure your position. The solution is obvious.”
You stood up from the table, too agitated to sit still. “You are talking about it as though it’s—as though it’s some sort of transaction. As though I must simply march into his chambers and—and—” You couldn’t even finish the sentence, so flustered were you by the entire conversation.
“That is precisely what it is, Your Majesty. A transaction. This is not a love match. We all know that. But it is a royal marriage, and royal marriages have certain… requirements. You must get the King into bed, and you must do so in a way that ensures he returns regularly enough to get you with child.”
“I don’t know how to—” You stopped, mortified. “I’ve no idea how to seduce anyone.”
“It is not so complicated as you might think, Your Majesty,” the stewardess said. “Men, even kings, are relatively simple creatures when it comes to certain matters.”
“I will not debase myself by—by throwing myself at a man who does not want me. I have some dignity left, Lady Caenis, even if Phainon seems determined to strip me of everything else.”
“Dignity,” said Lady Caenis, “will not give you an heir, nor will it stop the whispers. And it certainly will not keep you warm at night when you’re still alone in these apartments five years from now, with no children, no purpose, and a husband who has grown so accustomed to your absence that he forgets you exist entirely.”
You stared at the old woman, seeing the hard truth in her eyes. She was right, and you knew it, even if you hated admitting it. “You speak very plainly, Lady Caenis,” you said.
“Someone needs to. Everyone else will dance around the issue with pretty words and false sympathy, but that will not help you. You need practical advice, and I’m giving it to you.” She moved to pour herself a cup of tea from the service on the sideboard. “The King is a man like any other. He has physical needs, even if he pretends otherwise. Your job is to remind him of those needs and present yourself as the solution.”
“And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?” you asked. “I don’t—I’ve never—”
“You’re a virgin, yes, and I suppose you do not know the… logistics behind this whole debacle,” Lady Caenis said, taking a sip of her tea. “That is fine. Many men prefer that in a wife, though the King likely doesn’t care one way or another. What matters is that you learn to use what you have.”
“Use what I have?”
“Your body, Your Majesty. Your youth, your beauty—yes, you are beautiful, don’t look so surprised—and the simple fact that you are his wife and therefore the only woman he can bed without causing a scandal. Men are not complicated in this regard. They respond to proximity, to a woman who makes it clear she is available and willing.”
You felt as if you were dreaming. This could not be real. You could not be standing in your breakfast room receiving instruction on how to seduce your own husband from a woman old enough to be your grandmother.
“I do not even know where his chambers are,” you said weakly. “Not exactly, I mean. I know they’re in the west wing, but—”
“Second floor, end of the corridor, doors with the royal crest carved into them. You cannot miss it,” Lady Caenis explained. “You shall need to go at night, obviously. After the servants have finished their evening duties but before he retires. Around ten o’clock would be appropriate.”
“And I’m just supposed to… knock on his door? Walk into his bedroom?”
“You’re his wife. You don’t need an invitation.”
“Of course.”
“One more thing,” she said. “When you do get him into bed—and you will, if you’re persistent—don’t expect tenderness. Don’t expect romance or sweet words or any of the things girls dream about. Expect it to be quick, possibly awkward, and almost certainly uncomfortable the first time. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that you do it, and that you do it often enough to conceive.”
After Lady Caenis left, you sank back into your chair and stared at the discarded copy of Lady Whistledown’s paper. The words seemed to mock you: The marriage has not been consummated at all. Was that what everyone thought? That you were so undesirable, so inadequate, that your own husband wouldn’t even bed you?
Lady Caenis was right, as much as you hated to admit it. You needed to do something. You needed to take action, seize some control over this situation that had spiralled so completely out of your hands.
You stood up and walked to the mirror that hung above the sideboard, and looked at yourself, trying to see what Phainon might see. Your face was pallid from too much time indoors, and there were shadows under your eyes from too many sleepless nights. But you were young, and Lady Caenis had said you were beautiful, and surely that counted for something.
Your wedding gown had been beautiful too, before you’d torn it climbing that trellis. Perhaps you needed something else beautiful. Something that would make Phainon look at you and remember that you were his wife, that he had chosen you.
“Arielle!” you called, and your maid appeared almost instantly.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“I need you to find me something to wear,” you said. “Something suitable for visiting the King in his private chambers in the evening.”
Arielle’s eyes widened. “Of course, Your Majesty. I have just the thing—a nightgown that came with your trousseau, made of white silk, very fine, with lace at the bodice.”
“Perfect,” you said.
Phainon did not look at all surprised to see you.
This was, perhaps, the most disconcerting thing about the entire situation. You had spent the better part of three hours preparing yourself: bathing in water scented with rose oil, letting Arielle brush your hair until it shone, slipping into the white silk nightgown that left very little to the imagination and wrapping yourself in a dressing gown for the walk through the corridors. You had rehearsed what you might say, how you might explain your presence at his door at half past ten in the evening.
You had not, however, prepared yourself for the way he simply stepped aside and gestured for you to enter, as though he had been expecting you all along.
“Come in,” he said, his voice quiet.
You stepped past him into his chambers, acutely aware of how thin the silk of your nightgown was, how the dressing gown did very little to preserve your modesty. The King’s apartments were darker than yours, decorated in deep blues and greys rather than the lighter colours Lady Caenis had chosen for you. A fire burned in the hearth; there was a desk covered in papers, a sitting area with two chairs, and beyond that, through an open doorway, you could see his bedroom.
Your stomach twisted with nerves.
Phainon closed the door behind you. When you turned to face him, you say that he was dressed for bed himself—dark trousers and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly disheveled, as though he had been running his hands through it agitatedly.
“Lady Caenis sent you here, I presume,” Phainon said, moving past you toward the sideboard where a decanter of amber liquid was placed.
You blinked. “How did you—”
“I met with Lady Caenis this afternoon.” He poured himself a drink and held up the decanter in silent question. You shook your head. “She also informed me that she had advised you to take… direct action regarding our current predicament.”
Heat flooded your face. “She told you that?”
“Not in so many words. But Lady Caenis has been managing the palace household for thirty years. She’s remarkably skilled at communicating without being explicit.”
“So you knew I was coming,” you stated, unsure whether to be mortified or angry. “You knew what I—what I intended—”
“To seduce me?” Phainon said. “Yes, it seemed the logical next step, given Lady Caenis’ particular brand of pragmatism.”
“And you’re just… what? Amused by this?” you said. The anger was winning now, hot in your chest. “You think it’s funny that I’ve been humiliated enough by these three weeks of separation that I’m reduced to—to throwing myself at you in the middle of the night?”
“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” he said. “I think it’s proof that I’ve handled this entire situation abominably, and that you’re paying the price for my cowardice. But I let you in because when Lady Caenis told me you might come here tonight, I—I couldn’t stay away.”
Your heart was hammering so hard you could hear it in your ears. You took a step forward, then another, until you were close enough to reach out and touch him.
“Do you want me?” you asked, the words coming out braver than you felt. “Not because we need an heir, or because Lady Caenis says we should. Do you want me? As a man wants a woman?”
Phainon inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut. “My God. You must think I am a fool, for I’ve wanted you every single day since the wedding, and it’s been torture staying away.”
Something loosened in your chest. You reached up and let the dressing gown slip from your shoulders. It pooled at your feet in a whisper of silk, leaving you in only the thin white nightgown that Arielle had picked specifically because it left very little to the imagination. Phainon’s eyes darkened, tracking the movement of the fabric as it fell, and you saw his hands fist at his sides.
“Then stop talking,” you said, “and show me.”
Phainon closed the distance between you and captured your mouth with his, nothing like the chaste, brief brush of lips at your wedding ceremony. His hands came up to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back so he could deepen the kiss, and you gasped against his mouth. You found yourself pressing closer, your hands sliding from his face to his shoulders to his chest.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he said, pulling back, but even as he spoke, his lips were brushing against your jaw, your throat, the sensitive spot just below your ear that made you shiver. “You should go back to your chambers. This is—we shouldn’t—”
“Stop talking,” you said again, and pulled him down for another kiss.
His hands moved from your hair to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt the evidence of his desire pressing against your hip through the thin fabric of your nightgown. The sensation made heat pool in your belly, made you arch into him with a small sound. He broke the kiss to look at you, searching your face, and whatever he saw there seemed to satisfy him, because he bent and lifted you into his arms.
You gasped, your arms coming up to loop around his neck. “What are you—”
“Bed,” he said simply, and carried you through the doorway into his bedroom.
The room was lit only by the fire from the main chamber, casting everything in shades of gold and shadow. He laid you on the bed; the sheets were cool against your heated skin. You looked up at him as he stood beside the bed, and thought he might change his mind and send you away after all.
Instead, he shrugged out his shirt, his hands moving to the buttons. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, a scattering of scars across his chest and abdomen that spoke of a life that had not been entirely sheltered or safe. He was beautiful in a way that made you want to reach out and trace every line, every scar, every plane of muscle with your fingers.
He caught you staring and paused, one eyebrow raised. “Second thoughts?”
“No,” you said. “Merely… admiring the view.”
That earned you a surprised laugh, genuine and warm. He finished removing his shirt and let it fall to the floor, then moved to the bed, bracing one knee on the mattress.
“May I?” he asked, his hands hovering near the straps of your nightgown.
“Yes,” you breathed.
Slowly, he began to slide the silk down your shoulders, down your arms, exposing you inch by inch to his gaze. His fingers were warm against your skin, leaving trails of heat in their wake, and you shivered despite the fire burning in the hearth. When the nightgown finally pooled around your waist, you fought the urge to cover yourself, instead forcing yourself to lie still and let him look at you, even though your cheeks were burning with embarrassment and something warmer.
“Beautiful,” he murmured. His hand came up to trace the curve of your collarbone with just his fingertips, feather-light. “You’re so beautiful.”
His hand continued its exploration, sliding down to cup your breast, and you arched into his touch with a gasp. His thumb brushed across your nipple, sending sparks of pleasure straight through you, making you squirm beneath him.
“Sensitive,” he observed, satisfied. He leaned down, replacing his thumb with his mouth, and you gasped, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair.
Phainon took his time, alternating between gentle kisses and firmer pressure, using his tongue and teeth in ways that made you writhe beneath him. When he moved to give your other breast the same attention, you were already trembling, already desperate for something you couldn’t quite name.
“Phainon,” you gasped, tugging at his hair. “Please—”
“Please what?” he asked against your skin; you could feel him smiling.
“I don’t know,” you admitted, frustrated and aroused in equal measure. “Just—more. I need more.”
“Patience,” he said, but his hands were already moving lower, sliding the nightgown down past your hips, past your thighs, until you could kick it off entirely. You were bare beneath him, completely exposed, and you felt suddenly vulnerable. He leaned down to kiss you again, his tongue sliding against yours, and his hand was sliding between your thighs.
His fingers moved slowly, parting you gently and finding places that made you gasp and arch and whisper his name. He watched your face as he touched you, as though cataloguing every response, every reaction, learning what made you sigh and what made you moan.
“You’re so warm,” he said, his voice rough. “So soft. Tell me if this is all right.”
“It’s—” You broke off with a gasp as his finger found a particular spot, circling it with maddening gentleness. “Yes. Yes, that’s—don’t stop.”
Phainon didn’t. He continued his ministrations, gradually increasing the pressure, the speed, until you were writhing beneath him, your hips moving in rhythm with his hand. He slid one finger inside you, and the feeling was so overwhelming you cried out, your back arching off the bed.
“Easy,” he soothed, holding still. “Just breathe, my love. Does it hurt?”
“No,” you managed. “It’s just—it’s a lot.”
“I know.” He began to move his finger slowly, carefully, letting you adjust to the intrusion. “Tell me if it becomes too much.”
It wasn’t too much. If anything, it wasn’t enough. You could feel something building inside you, something that made you restless and desperate and utterly focused on the sensation of his hand between your thighs.
He added a second finger, and you gasped at the stretch, at the fullness. It was almost uncomfortable, but he curled his fingers just so and found a spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
“There,” you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Right there, please—”
He obliged, stroking that spot while his thumb circled the sensitive bundle of nerves above. The dual sensations were overwhelming, maddening, and you could feel yourself climbing towards something, some precipice you’d never reached before.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice low and approving. “Let go for me. I want to see you come apart.”
You did. The tension that had been building suddenly snapped; pleasure crashed over you in waves that made you cry out his name, your body clenching around his fingers as you shook and trembled beneath him.
When you finally came back to yourself, trembling and gasping, you found him watching you with wonder.
“That was—” You stopped, unable to find words for what you’d just experienced.
“Beautiful,” he finished for you. “You’re beautiful like this.”
He withdrew his hand slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But Phainon stood, removing the rest of his clothing, and your attention was immediately captured by the sight of him fully naked.
He was magnificent, all lean muscle and smooth skin, and—
Your eyes widened at the sight of his arousal, hard and flushed.
“Will it—” You stopped, embarrassed. “Will it fit?”
That surprised another laugh out of him, though this one was strained. “Yes. Though it might be uncomfortable at first. But I’ll go slowly, I promise.”
He returned to the bed, settling between your thighs, before kissing you again, long and deep, and you felt him position himself at your entrance.
“May I?” he asked again.
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
The pressure was immediate. You moaned, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. He was big—bigger than his fingers had been—and the stretch burned in a way that bordered on painful.
“Breathe,” he murmured, holding perfectly still. “Just breathe.”
You did, forcing yourself to relax, to let your body adjust to him. Gradually, the burning sensation eased, replaced by a fullness that felt strange but not unpleasant.
“Move,” you said, and he pushed forward another inch.
You could feel yourself stretching to accommodate him, could feel every ridge and vein as he slowly, carefully worked his way inside you. It seemed to take forever, this gradual joining, and by the time he was fully seated inside you, you were both breathing hard.
“God,” Phainon gasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “You feel—you’re so tight. So perfect.”
“You can move,” you said, experimentally rolling your hips.
The movement made you both gasp—him with pleasure, you with surprise at the feeling it created.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“Yes. Please, Phainon. Move.”
He did, pulling out slowly before pushing back in. You gasped, your legs coming up to wrap around his hips, and the new angle let him slide even deeper. He set a careful rhythm, slow and steady, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But the pain had faded now, replaced by pleasure that built with each stroke, each slide of his body against yours.
“Faster,” you breathed, your fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please—”
He obliged, increasing his pace, and you met him thrust for thrust, your hips rising to meet his. The pleasure built and built, spiralling higher with each movement. Phainon’s breathing was ragged now, your name falling from his lips. You could feel him beginning to lose control, his thrusts becoming less controlled, more desperate.
“I can’t—” he gasped. “I’m going to—”
“Yes,” you urged, feeling your own climax approaching, that same tension building in your core. “Yes, Phainon, please—”
He thrust deep one final time, and you felt him pulse inside you as he found his release, his whole body going rigid above you. It pushed you over the edge as well, and you cried out, your body clenching around him as waves of pleasure crashed through you for the second time that night.
Finally, Phainon shifted, pulling out of you carefully. You winced at the soreness, the unfamiliar ache between your thighs. He noticed immediately.
“Did I hurt you?” he asked.
“No,” you said. “It’s just—tender. Is that normal?”
“For your first time, yes.” He rolled to lie beside you, immediately reaching for you and pulling you against his chest. “It will be better next time. Less uncomfortable.”
“Next time?”
“If you want there to be a next time,” he amended quickly. “I’m not—I won’t force—”
“I want there to be a next time,” you said, pressing your face against his shoulders. “Many next times, preferably.”
You fell asleep like that, wrapped in each other’s arms, and you thought that if this was what marriage could be, then perhaps you could be very happy here after all.
“You asked me to bed her—I have! You asked me to provide her a companion—I asked Lady Castorice to provide her with companionship! Lady Caenis, I truly do not understand what more you want from me!”
“Her cycle is still regular, Phainon,” you heard the old lady snap. The door to the main dining hall was ajar, and though you could not see the two figures quarrelling inside, you could certainly hear them, loud and clear. “How often have you been bedding her? Once, twice? The Crown needs an heir!”
You stood frozen in the corridor, your hand raised to push open the door, your heart pounding. You had been on your way to meet Phainon for luncheon—he had started inviting you to dine with him occasionally over the past two weeks, stiff and formal affairs where you made polite conversation and tried not to think about the three times he had summoned you to his chambers in the dark of the night with a brief message: The King requests your presence.
Three times you had gone to him, had let him undress you and bed you. He was always careful not to hurt you, always made certain you found some measure of pleasure in the act, but there was something perfunctory about it now. You had told yourself you were imagining it; you convinced yourself that perhaps this was simply how married couples conducted themselves, that the desperate passion of that first night had been an aberration rather than a rule.
“Once or twice a week is not sufficient,” Lady Caenis was saying. “You need to be visiting her chambers every night, or better yet, move her into yours properly. The longer this takes, the more people will talk, and the more they talk, the more they’ll question—”
“I am doing the best I can,” Phainon interrupted. “I have given her what she wanted. I have dined with her, spoken with her, and fulfilled my marital obligations. What more can I possibly—”
“You can give her a child! That is your duty as King, Phainon. Your only duty that truly matters. Everything else—the dinners, the companionship, the occasional night in her bed—all of it is meaningless if you cannot produce an heir.”
“I am trying—”
“Not hard enough, clearly. Her courses came again this morning. Arielle informed me.”
“…I see,” Phainon said.
“Do you understand what will happen if you do not get her with child soon?” the stewardess challenged. “The whispers have already started again. People are saying the marriage is cursed, that you’re incapable, that she’s barren. And if those whispers continue, if months pass with no announcement of an heir—”
“I understand the political ramifications, Lady Caenis.”
“Then act like it! Stop treating this like some burden you can attend to whenever it’s convenient. She is your wife, Phainon. Your queen. And she deserves better than to be summoned to your chambers twice a week like some—some courtesan you’re obligated to pay.”
You felt numb. Was that what you were to him? Was that how he saw those nights in his bed—as transactions, obligations, duties to be performed and then forgotten?
“You don’t understand,” Phainon said quietly. “You do not know what you’re asking of me.”
“I’m asking you to do what every king before you has done: to lie with your wife often enough to get her with child.”
“You want me to go to her every night, to pretend that I’m—that we’re—” He stopped, seeming to struggle with the words. “You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not.”
“I want you to do your duty,” Lady Caenis said firmly. “Whatever pretty illusions you need to accomplish that, I don’t care. But she needs to conceive, Phainon. Soon.”
You couldn’t stand hearing them discuss you as though you were some broodmare whose only value lay in your ability to produce offspring. You couldn’t bear to hear Phainon talk about bedding you as though it were a chore, an obligation, something he had to force himself to do.
You did the foolish thing and knocked on the door.
“Enter,” Phainon called out.
You pushed the door open and bent in a curtsey. “Good afternoon, Your Highness. Forgive me for being late—I was admiring some portraits in the gallery and lost track of time.”
Phainon’s face shifted through several expressions in quick succession: surprise, concern, before settling into the carefully neutral mask he wore so well. Lady Caenis, standing near the window with her hands folded before her, looked at you sharply, as though trying to determine whether you had overheard anything.
“Oh,” said Phainon, and his voice was gentler than usual, almost tentative. “You’re not late at all. I was just—Lady Caenis and I were discussing palace business. Nothing of consequence.” He gestured to the table, where luncheon had been laid out. “Please, sit. You must be hungry.”
You moved to your usual chair, acutely aware of both of them watching you. Your hands were trembling slightly, so you folded them in your lap where they couldn’t be seen. You felt exposed, as though the conversation you had overheard had stripped away some protective layer you hadn’t known you possessed.
Lady Caenis curtseyed briefly. “I shall leave you to your meal, Your Majesties.”
Phainon took his seat across from you. A servant appeared to pour wine and serve the first course—some sort of soup with herbs floating on the surface—and then retreated to the shadows.
“The portraits in the gallery,” Phainon said, picking up his spoon but not eating. “Which ones were you looking at?”
“The queens,” you said. “There are so many of them. All those women who came before me, who sat in my chambers and wore my crown and—” You stopped yourself before you could say and warmed the King’s bedchambers when duty demanded it.
“They are an impressive lineage. My mother used to tell me stories about some of them when I was a child. Queen Hecuba, who ruled as regent for ten years when my great-great-grandfather was too ill to govern. Queen Hippolyte, who established the first hospitals in the city. They were all remarkable women. As are you.”
The compliment landed wrong, felt hollow somehow, though you couldn’t tell if that was because of what you had overheard or because of something in his tone. You picked up your own spoon and forced yourself to ladle the soup.
“You’re too kind, Your Highness,” you murmured.
“Phainon,” he corrected. “When we’re alone, I wish you would call me Phainon. We are husband and wife, after all.”
You said nothing, only nodded and took another spoonful of soup.
Phainon watched you for a moment longer, then seemed to come to some decision. He set down his spoon and leaned forward slightly. “I wanted to ask—how are you finding palace life? I know it’s been an adjustment, being separated from your home and your brother. If there is anything you need, anything at all that would make you more comfortable—”
“I’m quite comfortable, thank you,” you said automatically.
“Are you truly?” Phainon’s pale blue eyes searched your face. “Because you seem… unhappy. And I thought perhaps—I thought perhaps we might spend more time together. Not just these formal luncheons, but—I don’t know. Perhaps you might show me the gardens you’ve been exploring? Or we could ride together? I understand you’re an excellent horsewoman.”
You stared at him, trying to reconcile this version of Phainon—earnest, almost nervous—with the man you had heard in this very room just minutes ago, talking about bedding you as though it were an unpleasant chore.
You want me to lie to her and make her believe this is something it’s not. Was this the lie, then? This sudden interest in spending time with you, in making you happy? Was this another obligation he was fulfilling because Lady Caenis had told him to try harder?
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” you said carefully, “but I wouldn’t want to take you away from your duties. I know how busy you are.”
“My duties can wait,” the King said. “I—I know I haven’t been the husband you deserve. I want to do better. I want to try to make this marriage into something more than just… than just what it’s been.”
“Alright, Your Highness,” you said quietly, because who were you to disobey the King? “I would like to walk in the gardens with you very much.”
“That is the Ophrys apifera,” Phainon said, trudging along the gravel path with your hand tucked neatly into the crook of his arm, “more commonly known as the bee orchid. It is interesting to look at, is it not?”
You followed the direction of his gaze, to where a cluster of pale blossoms bowed beneath the late-afternoon sun. They were delicate things, ivory petals blushed faintly pink, their centres dark and velvety, uncannily like the bodies of bees poised mid-hover. Pretty, in an odd way. You hummed, noncommittal, and allowed him to guide you a few steps further along the gardens, where the hedges were clipped so neatly they might have been carved from stone. The afternoon sun filtered through the arches overhead, dappling his sleeve, your skirts, the path beneath your feet.
“They deceive pollinators,” he continued, undeterred by your lukewarm response. “The flower mimics the appearance and scent of a female bee. The males are drawn to it, believing it something it is not.”
“That seems rather cruel.”
“I imagine nature does not particularly care.”
“I didn’t know you took an interest in botany,” you said.
“I pride myself on my agricultural knowledge,” Phainon said, with a twitch to his mouth that suggested he was attempting modesty. “If I can make the lives of our farmers, who toil endlessly, easier, then that is a job well done, don’t you think?”
You considered him sidelong as you walked, the way the sun caught in his hair and turned it almost pale gold, the faint crease between his brows that never quite smoothed out, even when he smiled. He did not look like a man who spent much time thinking about crops and irrigation and soil health, and yet perhaps that was precisely why he did. A king’s mind, you were learning, rarely stayed where appearances suggested it ought to.
“I suppose it is, though I imagine they might appreciate lower taxes just as much as improved yields. What flower is that?” you asked, pointing to a cluster of blue flowers.
“Delphinium,” Phainon answered. “They’re rather poisonous, actually.”
Slowing your steps, you peered more closely at the tall blue spires edging the path. Up close, the flowers were impossibly intricate, each petal folded and layered, their colour deepening towards the centre like ink dropped into water. It seemed absurd that something so ornamental, so clearly cultivated to please the eye, could harbour harm.
“They don’t look like it,” you said.
“No,” he agreed. “They were brought here from the western valleys. The soil there is thin and rocky. Farmers cultivate them mostly for trade now—there’s a demand for the extract among apothecaries.”
“What happens if someone touches them?”
“Oh, that’s quite harmless. It’s ingestion that causes trouble. Numbness at first. Then confusion. In sufficient quantities… Well, the gardeners are well-trained.”
“I should hope so,” you said. “I’d hate to think the palace lost staff simply because someone fancied a taste of blue flowers.”
He laughed at that, bright and startled. “You’re not wrong. Lady Caenis would have my head if I let something so avoidable occur.”
The mention of her name made you wonder, not for the first time, how much of this walk—this easy conversation, these small smiles—had been orchestrated at her insistence. Would he still be here, at your side, pointing out flowers and indulging your questions if she had not decided it was necessary?
It did not matter. Enjoyment, even borrowed, was enjoyment nevertheless.
“Those are foxgloves,” Phainon said, following your gaze before you could ask. “Digitalis. Another poisonous one, I’m afraid.”
“Is everything here trying to kill us?” you asked, only half joking.
Phainon then pointed out chamomile—“good for calming the stomach,” he said, “and the nerves, if one is inclined to believe the old wives’ tales”—and rosemary hedges planted near the edges of the beds, meant to deter insects while scenting the air.
“It thrives in poor soil,” he explained. “Farmers plant it near their fields when the land has been overworked. It stabilises the ground and gives it time to recover.”
“Lady Caenis told me that Lady Whistledown has written about us again,” you said one night, curled up in Phainon’s arms, spent and deliciously exhausted. “It appears the general public is awaiting the news of an heir.”
“You know I don’t care about what others say,” Phainon said, running a hand up the curve of your spine. His lips were near your neck, and you could feel his mouth move against your skin as he spoke. “I am their King and you are their Queen; questioning either of us seems extremely redundant.”
“They say our palace walls are too high,” you mumbled, turning around in his arms to face him.
Though you were not certain what your feelings for Phainon truly were, you knew this: you were friends, or at least, so you thought. Walks in the gardens had become commonplace now, as had sharing his bedchambers and eating dinner together. So rarely did you have time to do anything else, apart from your official duties and spending time with your husband, that seeing Lady Castorice now had become a rare occurrence.
The bedchamber was lit only by the glow of a single lamp left burning on the side table. It painted Phainon’s bare shoulders in gold and shadow, traced the line of his collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin. The sheets were in disarray around you, twisted and rumpled evidence of what the two of you had been doing only moments ago.
“Too high,” he echoed softly, amusement threading his voice. “Is that meant to be criticism?”
“I wouldn’t know,” you said. “Lady Whistledown does enjoy her metaphors.”
Phainon huffed a quiet laugh. “She should be grateful for the walls. They keep us safe.”
“They keep everyone out,” you countered. “No one ever sees us.”
“They see us often enough.”
“Only at court,” you said, shifting slightly, fitting yourself closer to him without much thought. “She says it makes us inaccessible.”
“And does that trouble you?” he asked.
You felt him inhale, the rise and fall of his chest beneath you. Your fingers curled lightly into the sheet near his shoulder. “I don’t know. I think I mind being talked about more than I mind being unseen.”
He hummed softly. “People will always talk. If not about our absence, then about our presence. If not about walls, then about heirs.”
“Yes. That.” You sighed. “Lady Whistledown seems convinced the whole country is holding its breath.”
“Let them suffocate.”
“That’s not very kingly of you,” you said, though you laughed despite yourself. You studied his face, the way his expression softened when he wasn’t being observed. Whatever this was between you—friendship, affection—felt nice.
“They’ll start inventing reasons,” you said quietly. “They already have. First it was the wedding being too rushed; then it was our separate schedules. Now it’s the walls.”
Phainon’s hand slid from your back to your hip, thumb pressing just slightly into the flesh. “Then perhaps we should give them fewer reasons.”
You lifted yourself a fraction, propping yourself up on one elbow so you could see him properly. “You’re suggesting…?”
“A ball.”
“A ball,” you said.
“Yes.” His other hand came up to your side.
You searched his face for irony and found none. “You realise that will only invite more scrutiny.”
“I realise it will redirect it,” he said. “They’ll talk about gowns and music and who danced with whom instead of royal babies.”
“And you think that’s preferable?”
“I think,” Phainon said, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth before meeting your gaze again, “that it would be good for them to see us together properly.”
“Together how?”
“Dancing. Laughing. Being… married, and happy.”
You swallowed. “You don’t dance.”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I can learn.”
“For the sake of the country?”
“For the sake of my wife,” he said.
You shifted without thinking, knee sliding between his thighs. His breath hitched in response; his grip on you tightened just enough that you felt it everywhere.
“You’re very convincing when you want to be,” you mumbled.
“I haven’t even begun to convince you,” he replied, before leaning in, lips brushing your jaw, then the corner of your mouth. When you tilted your head to meet him, he kissed you properly, slow and unspooling. His mouth was warm, coaxing.
“We could host it within the month,” he whispered, pulling back just slightly. “Before the court grows restless.”
Your hands slid up his arms, fingers tracing muscle and scar alike. “And what would Lady Caenis say?”
“She would say it’s overdue,” he said, grinning, “and insist on seating charts and guest lists.”
“And on making sure I smile often enough.”
“She’ll insist on that regardless.”
You laughed softly. “Then why does this feel like your idea?”
He paused, and for a moment you thought he might deflect, turn it into another dry remark about duty or politics. Instead, his hand slid up your back, fingers threading into your hair. “Is it so much of a crime for a husband to want to see his wife happy? You are happy, are you not? With me?”
“The happiest,” you promised, and found it to be true.
You were happy. You were not certain what it was, this strange, golden thing that blossomed like a bud in full bloom whenever you were near Phainon. The other day, in the gardens, he’d pointed out a bed of merry sunflowers to you; they exhibited heliotropism, he’d explained, in the sense that they turned their heads to wherever the sunlight was the brightest. Perhaps that was how you were with Phainon—he was the sunlight, and you were the sunflower, basking in his warmth and glow.
He answered by kissing you again, deeper this time, mouth parting over yours, tongue tracing the seam of your lips before you even realised you were opening for him. His hand slid between you, and you gasped softly into his mouth, fingers clutching at his shoulder. He broke the kiss only to murmur your name, before trailing kisses along your jaw, down your throat.
“We should plan it—the ball,” you breathed, even as your body betrayed you, arching into his touch.
“We will,” he said. “Tomorrow.”
“And the music?”
“We’ll have the orchestra.”
“The guest list?”
“I’ll let Lady Caenis handle that.”
“You’re very brave to entrust such a task to her,” you said.
Phainon’s mouth curved into a smile against your collarbone. “I have excellent motivation.”
You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to bring his face back to yours. “And what would Lady Whistledown say if she could see us now?”
His eyes darkened. “She’d run out of ink.”
The thought made you laugh again, the sound dissolving into a soft gasp as his fingers slid into your warm heat once more, drawing you closer and winding you tighter. You pressed your lips to his once more, silencing whatever he might have said next.
Your courses came as per usual, and you sighed and told Arielle glumly to fetch you another washing-cloth. Lady Caenis would not be pleased, and neither would Phainon—though you knew his affection for you was not because of your ability to bear him an heir—but the day of the ball was tomorrow, so you were determined to remain in good spirits.
Arielle’s face was sympathetic as she handed you the linen. “Shall I inform the stewardess, Your Majesty?”
“No,” you said quickly, then reconsidered. “Actually, yes. Better she hears it from you than discovers it herself somehow. She always seems to know anyway.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” Arielle curtseyed and slipped away, leaving you to sink back against the pillows of your bed—yours and Phainon’s bed, you reminded yourself, though in this moment it felt cavernous and empty.
It had been three months of sharing his chambers, falling asleep in his arms and waking to his kisses, learning the rhythm of his breathing and the warmth of his skin against yours. Three months of trying, hoping, waiting for some sign that all of this intimacy and tentative affection would result in the heir everyone so desperately wanted.
You pressed a hand to your flat stomach, willing yourself not to feel like a failure. It was early yet, you told yourself. These things took time. Your own mother had not conceived Mydeimos until two years into her marriage.
You were still dwelling on it an hour later when there came a sharp knock at the door, and Lady Caenis swept in. Her face was set in lines of severe disapproval, her hands clasped tightly before her.
“Your Majesty,” she said. The two words felt like a reprimand all on its own.
“Lady Caenis.” You straightened, trying to arrange yourself into something resembling regal composure despite the cramping in your abdomen. “I assume Arielle has informed you.”
“She has,” the stewardess confirmed. “This makes three months, Your Majesty. Three months with no result.”
“I’m aware of how long it’s been,” you said.
“It appears you and His Majesty have been rather… distracted. With garden walks and private dinners and this ball you’ve convinced him to host.”
“The ball was his idea,” you protested.
“Was it?” Lady Caenis raised a silver eyebrow. “Or was it another way to avoid the real issue at hand? To distract the court—and yourselves—from the fact that you have yet to conceive?”
“We are trying, Lady Caenis. Every night, we—” You stopped, your cheeks flushing hot. “It is not as though we’re not… fulfilling our obligations.”
“Is that what you think this is about, Your Majesty?”
“Is that not what you told Phainon three months ago? That his only duty that truly matters is getting me with child?”
Lady Caenis went very still. “You heard that conversation.”
“I did,” you said.
“I see.” She was quiet for a moment. “Then you should also have heard me tell His Majesty that you deserved better than to be treated as an obligation. You deserve a husband who wanted you, not one who was merely going through the motions.”
“He does want me,” you said. “We’re happy. We—”
“Truly?” Lady Caenis challenged. “Or are you simply playing at happiness while avoiding the reality of your situation?”
“What situation?” Your hands fisted in the sheets. “That I haven’t conceived yet? That’s hardly unusual, Lady Caenis. My own mother took two years—”
“Your mother,” she interrupted, “was not Queen. Your mother did not have an entire kingdom watching her, waiting for her to fail. Your mother did not have a husband who—” She stopped abruptly, as though catching herself before saying something she shouldn’t.
“Who what?” you demanded. “Say it, Lady Caenis. Don’t stop now.”
The stewardess shook her head. “It is not my place to discuss His Majesty’s… concerns with you. However, if you and His Majesty continue to avoid discussing those reasons, to hide behind balls and garden walks and pretending everything is fine when it is not—”
“We’re not pretending! We’re trying to be happy. Is that so wrong? Why can’t you just let us have this?”
“Because happiness built on avoidance is not happiness at all, Your Majesty. It is merely another form of hiding, and sooner or later, what you’re hiding from will catch up with you.”
Lady Caenis left then, her skirts swishing against the floor, and you were alone again with your disarrayed thoughts and the growing fear that perhaps she was right.
Phainon returned to the chambers later that afternoon, his face drawn and tired. He had been in meetings all day—something about shipments and trade agreements—and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes.
“Hello,” he said, and moved to kiss you, but you turned your head so his lips caught your cheek instead of your mouth. He pulled back, frowning. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” you said. “How were your meetings?”
“Tedious.” He studied your face, those pale blue eyes searching. “Has something happened? You seem…”
“My courses came,” you said. “This morning. Arielle informed Lady Caenis, and Lady Caenis came to… express her disappointment.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Does it matter? She said what everyone is thinking—that three months is too long; that we’re distracted; that we’re avoiding the real issue.”
“The real issue,” Phainon repeated.
“The heir, Phainon. The one thing all of this is supposed to be about.” You gestured between you, at the bed, at the chambers you shared. “Isn’t that what you said to her? That you were just going through the motions?”
“No, I—”
“No, I want to know,” you said. “Is that what this is? All of it—the garden walks, the dinners, the ball tomorrow—is it all just… just performance? Another way to fulfill your obligations while making it look like we’re actually happy?”
Phainon’s expression shuttered, closing off in that way you had come to recognise and dread.
“How am I supposed to know anything about you?” you pressed on. “You won’t talk to me about anything that actually matters. You won’t tell me what Lady Caenis means when she says you have reasons. You won’t—”
“What did she tell you?”
“Nothing! That’s the problem! Everyone seems to know something I don’t. Everyone has some secret they’re all keeping from me, and I’m supposed to—to what? Smile and pretend everything is fine? Keep trying to get pregnant without knowing why it’s not happened?”
“It has been three months. That’s nothing. These things take time—”
“Then why did Lady Caenis make it sound like there’s more to it than that?” you challenged. “Why did she talk about your concerns, your reasons, about—”
“She had no right to say anything to you,” Phainon said, and now he was angry too, you could see it in the set of his shoulders, the clenching of his jaw. “This is precisely why I didn’t want her interfering. She can’t help herself, always pushing, always—”
“Always telling the truth? God forbid someone actually be honest with me about what is happening in my own marriage.”
“I have been honest with you,” Phainon snapped. “I’ve tried—”
“You’ve tried to make me happy,” you retorted. “That’s not the same thing as being honest. That is simply another form of managing me, of deciding what I can and cannot handle.”
“Becuase you can’t handle it!” The words exploded out of him, and you could see he immediately regretted it. “I didn’t mean—”
“No, say it,” you said. “Say what you really think. That I’m too fragile, too weak, too—”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“What is it I can’t handle?”
Phainon stared at you, his face pale, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I think that this conversation has gotten out of hand. We’re both upset. Perhaps we should—”
“Add it to the list of things we don’t talk about?” You shook your head. “I cannot keep doing this, Phainon.”
“What do you want from me?” he asked; there was genuine confusion in his voice, as though he truly didn’t understand. “I’ve given you everything I can. I’ve moved you into my chambers, I’ve spent every night with you, I’ve tried to make you happy. What more—”
“I want you to trust me! I want you to stop protecting me from things and just—just let me in! Is that so hard?”
“I cannot,” he said quietly.
“When can you tell me?” you said. “When will you be ready? When I’m pregnant? When we have an heir? When you’ve decided I’ve proven myself worthy of the truth?”
“It’s not about worthiness—I’m doing the best I can,” Phainon said. “I swear to you, I’m trying—”
“Well, maybe your best isn’t good enough!”
Phainon flinched as though you had struck him. The colour drained from his face; he simply stood there, staring at you, his lips pressed together. Without a word, he turned and walked toward the door.
“Where are you going?” you called after him, panic suddenly replacing anger.
“I don’t know,” he said without turning around. “Somewhere you don’t have to look at me and be reminded of how inadequate I am.”
“Phainon—”
But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that somehow felt worse than if he had slammed it. The evidence of your shared life now seemed to mock you—his papers on the desk, your book on the nightstand, the tangled sheets that still smelled like both of you.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. You were supposed to be happy.
How could you have said that he wasn’t trying hard enough? How could you have looked at him—at the man who had tried so hard to overcome his own fears and walls—and told him his efforts were worthless?
The door opened again. Wildly, you thought Phainon had come back, but it was only Arielle, her face concerned.
“Your Majesty, I heard—that is—” She stopped. “Shall I fetch you some tea?”
“Where did he go?” you asked.
“His Majesty? I saw him hurrying towards the west wing. The old King’s study, I think.”
The west wing. As far from these chambers—from you—as he could get while still remaining in the palace.
“Leave me, please, Arielle. I wish to be alone,” you said.
On the eve of the ball, everything was gorgeous.
You danced with Phainon, and he held your hand throughout, and you tried not to pretend there was a large lump in your throat every time you looked at him.
It was a success. Everyone had seen you and Phainon together, smiling and dancing and playing the part of the happy royal couple. Lady Whistledown would write something glowing, no doubt, about how in love you appeared, how well-matched, how perfect, and it was all a lie.
No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t all a lie. The affection between you was real. The friendship was real. The nights you had spent in each other’s arms, learning each other’s bodies and rhythms and habits—those were real.
Thus, faced with nothing but your own thoughts and misery for company—for Phainon had retreated to his study the minute the ball ended—you realised you loved him.
You loved him. You loved his careful intelligence, the way he could recite facts about flowers and farming with equal enthusiasm. You loved the rare, genuine smiles he gave you when he thought no one else was watching. You loved the way he held you after making love, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, his breathing slowing to match yours.
You rolled over, pressing your face into his pillow, breathing in the faint scent of him that still lingered there, and finally, finally fell into an uneasy sleep.
“What has Lady Whistledown written about me today?” you said, once Lady Castorice had settled into the chair across from yours. Arielle hovered nearby, ready to pour tea at your beckoning, but otherwise, you and Castorice had the relative safety and privacy of your private drawing room.
Castorice pulled out the latest paper from her reticule, unfolding it with a slight smile. “Shall I read it to you, or would you prefer to suffer through it yourself?”
“Read it,” you said, leaning back in your chair. “I’m not sure I can bear to look at it directly.”
Castorice cleared her throat and began:
Dearest Gentle Reader,
This author is delighted to report that the ball hosted by Their Majesties last evening was an undisputed success. The King and Queen appeared in perfect harmony, dancing with grace and evident affection for one another. Her Majesty’s gown was a beauty of sapphire and lace, and His Majesty’s attentiveness to his wife was noted by all in attendance. Whatever concerns this author may have previously expressed about the state of the royal marriage appear to have been unfounded.
The King and Queen are, clearly, quite content in each other’s company, and the evening’s festivities have done much to silence the more skeptical voices at court.
You listened, feeling oddly deflated. “That’s… actually rather nice.”
Castorice set the paper down on the table between you, her expression thoughtful. “How have you been sleeping?”
“I—what?”
“Sleeping. You look tired.” Castorice studied your face with concern. “Are you unwell?”
“No, I’m just—” You stopped, considering. “Actually, I’ve been sleeping terribly. Last night especially. The bed felt too large without—” You caught yourself, felt your cheeks warm. “Without Phainon there.”
“Ah. Yes, I heard from the footman that he spent the night in the west wing.” Castorice poured tea for both of you. “That must have been difficult.”
“It was necessary,” you said, perhaps too defensively. “We both needed space after—after everything.”
“Of course,” your friend said, handing you a teacup. “Though I imagine His Majesty didn’t sleep well either. He rarely does, from what I understand.”
You looked up sharply. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing specific. Just—palace gossip, you know how it is. The servants talk. I’ve heard that His Majesty is often awake at odd hours. Walking the corridors, working in his study. That sort of thing.”
“He works too much,” you said. “I’ve told him he needs to rest more, but he doesn’t listen.”
“Mm. Though I wonder if it’s truly work that keeps him awake,” Castorice said. “My own nephew has nightmares sometimes; he wakes the whole house with his shouting. My uncle wanted to send him to a specialist, but Marcus refused, because he said it would make him look weak.”
“…Nightmares?”
“Oh, it’s nothing serious. Just bad dreams from childhood that he never quite grew out of. But it does affect his sleep terribly.” She paused, then added, “I imagine anyone who’s experienced terrible things at a young age might struggle with similar issues. The mind has difficulty letting go of such things.”
You thought about Phainon, about his mother’s death when he was ten, about all those nights you had slept peacefully in his arms while he—
Had he been awake? Fighting off nightmares? Trying not to disturb you?
“Are you all right?” Castorice asked.
“Yes, I—” You shook your head. “Sorry, I was simply thinking about something.”
“About His Majesty?”
“About everything,” you said. “May I ask you something?”
“Of course, Your Highness.”
“I think… I think Phainon is hiding something from me.”
“What do you think he’s hiding?”
“I don’t know exactly,” you said, frustratedly setting your teacup down. “Something about why he’s so afraid of getting close to people. Why he wanted separate chambers at first. Why he—why he sometimes looks at me like he’s waiting for me to disappear.”
“Grief does strange things to people,” Castorice said quietly. “Especially when it’s complicated by guilt. When someone blames themselves for something that wasn’t their fault, it can shape how they see the world, and how they see themselves.”
“His mother,” you said, and suddenly the answer seemed so simple to you, so obvious.
“Among other things,” Castorice said, “but that’s not really my story to tell. If you want to know what His Majesty carries with him, you’ll have to ask him directly. Or simply be patient enough that he tells you himself.”
You nodded slowly, understanding what Castorice wasn’t quite saying. Phainon had nightmares. Phainon blamed himself for his mother’s death, even though it wasn’t his fault. Phainon was afraid of losing people he cared about. Castorice was telling you this without actually telling you, because she knew Phainon wouldn’t want you to know; because she was your friend, but she was also loyal to him, and she was trying to help you both without betraying either of you.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
“Any time,” Castorice said, smiling. “Though next time, perhaps we could talk about something more cheerful? Like the fashion at the ball, or the truly scandalous amount of champagne Lord Ashford consumed?”
“He was rather drunk, wasn’t he?”
“Absolutely sotted. I’m amazed he made it home without falling into a fountain.”
“I’m still rather surprised by Lady Whistledown’s paper this time,” you said. “Last time she wrote about us, she was speculating about whether the marriage had been consummated at all.”
Castorice’s expression turned odd. “When was that?”
“Weeks ago. Around the time Lady Caenis was pressuring Phainon to—” You stopped, frowning. “Why?”
“Lady Whistledown,” she said carefully, “has never written anything about whether your marriage has been consummated. Or about heirs, for that matter. She’s mentioned the palace walls, and your reclusiveness, and the general state of the marriage, but she’s never been so vulgar as to speculate about… intimate affairs.”
You stared at her. “That’s not—I read it myself. She wrote about how the succession depends on an heir, and how an heir requires proximity between husband and wife, and—”
“I’ve read every single edition of Lady Whistledown’s papers since your wedding. I promise you, she’s never written anything like that.”
“But I saw it,” you insisted. “It was in the paper. It said—
“Who gave you the paper?” Castorice asked quietly.
“Arielle. She always brings me Lady Whistledown’s papers when they’re published.” You felt something cold settle in your stomach. “Are you saying—you think someone fabricated it?”
Though Castorice did not say anything further, you knew what she was thinking. Someone wanted you to believe Lady Whistledown was writing about heirs and succession, someone who had a vested interest in making you feel pressured about conceiving.
Lady Caenis.
You had to tell Phainon.
You had to tell Phainon. The thought consumed you for the rest of your afternoon, through Castorice’s departure and the hours that followed. You paced your drawing room, trying to organise your thoughts, trying to decide exactly how to approach this.
Lady Caenis had fabricated a Lady Whistledown paper; had manipulated you into feeling humiliated and pressured; had orchestrated that entire conversation for you to overhear. However, you needed proof. You couldn’t simply accuse the palace stewardess of such deceit based on suspicion alone.
You rang for Arielle, and she appeared immediately. “Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Do you remember the Lady Whistledown paper you brought me several weeks ago? The one about—the one about heirs and succession?”
Arielle’s brow furrowed. “Your Majesty, I’m not certain I recall—”
“It was the week before I had luncheon with His Majesty. The day you brought it to me at breakfast, and I was reading it with Lady Caenis before I left.”
“Oh! Yes, I remember that morning, Your Majesty. Lady Caenis had asked me to deliver it to you specifically. She said it was important you read it before the next week.”
“And where did you get the paper from?”
“Lady Caenis gave it to me directly, Your Majesty. She said it had just been published.”
“I see. Thank you, Arielle,” you said. “One more thing: do we keep copies of old newspapers anywhere? An archive of some sort?”
“The library maintains a collection of all published papers, Your Majesty,” she replied, “including Lady Whistledown’s publications. Would you like me to fetch something for you?”
“Yes,” you said. “I’d like to see the Lady Whistledown paper from that same day.”
Arielle curtseyed and withdrew. You continued pacing, your mind racing. If you were right, and Lady Caenis had indeed fabricated that paper, then the library’s copy would be different from what you read—it would serve as ample proof.
Arielle returned twenty minutes later with a paper in hand. “From the date you specified, Your Majesty.”
You took, unfolding it, your eyes scanning the text. The article was about the palace walls, about your reclusiveness, about speculation on the state of your marriage. There was nothing about heirs or succession or conjugal proximity. The paper Arielle had brought you from the library was completely different from the one you had read that morning weeks ago.
Lady Caenis had fabricated an entire false newspaper to manipulate you.
“Arielle,” you said. “Please send word to His Majesty. Tell him I need to speak with him urgently, and ask him to have Lady Caenis present as well.”
“Your Majesty—”
“Now, please.”
Arielle’s eyes widened, but she hurried away.
“Arielle said it was urgent,” Phainon said, his head tilted in that manner he had when he was confused. You had asked him and Lady Caenis to meet you in the formal receiving room rather than your private chambers. “What’s happened? Are you unwell?”
“I’m perfectly well,” you said. “Thank you for coming, Lady Caenis.”
“Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. “How may I be of service?”
You held up the paper in your hand. “I’ve been reviewing some of Lady Whistledown’s publications. The one from several months ago, specifically; the day I—forgive my crude manner of speaking—but the day I first spent the night in His Majesty’s chambers.”
Phainon’s brow furrowed. “What about it?”
“It was a week before I overheard your conversation with Lady Caenis before luncheon, about how I needed to conceive and how you were only bedding me out of obligation.”
Phainon’s face went pale. “I—”
“I’m not finished,” you said. “The morning of the day we shared a bed, Arielle brought me a Lady Whistledown paper. One that discussed, in rather explicit terms, the question of whether our marriage had been consummated, whether we were capable of producing an heir. It was humiliating to read, and it made me feel—it made me feel like a failure.”
“I don’t understand,” Phainon said. “What does this have to do with—”
“Lady Whistledown never wrote that article,” you said, holding up the paper. “This is the real edition from that date. It mentions nothing about heirs or conjugal matters. The article I read that morning was fabricated.”
Phainon turned slowly to look at Lady Caenis. “What is she talking about?”
“Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said, “I’m certain there’s been some misunderstanding—”
“There’s no misunderstanding! Arielle confirmed that you gave her the paper directly that morning, and that you specifically asked her to deliver it to me the week before the luncheon, where—coincidentally—I overheard you discussing my failure to conceive with His Majesty.”
“Your Highness,” Lady Caenis said, patiently. “You were under a great deal of stress at that time. It’s possible you misremembered what you read—”
“I didn’t misremember.” You walked to the desk and laid out the paper. “Here. Read it yourself. Tell me where it mentions heirs or succession or any of the things I supposedly read. You fabricated a paper. You wanted me to feel pressured about conceiving. You orchestrated everything, all to manipulate me into seducing my husband!”
“That’s a very serious accusation, Your Majesty,” Lady Caenis said.
“It’s also true, isn’t it?”
Phainon was staring at Lady Caenis with an expression you’d never seen before—something between shock and betrayal and cold, terrible anger. “Did you do this?” he asked.
Lady Caenis was silent for a long moment. “Yes.”
“You fabricated a newspaper,” Phainon repeated. “You manipulated my wife—”
“I did what was necessary,” Lady Caenis interrupted. “Your Majesty, you were avoiding your obligations. The Queen needed to conceive, and you were treating the marriage like—like one of your botanical studies. Something to be examined from a distance rather than actually engaging with.”
“That was not your decision to make,” the King said.
“Someone had to make it! You were content to keep Her Majesty in separate chambers, to visit her once or twice a week. The kingdom needs an heir, Your Majesty, and if you were not going to take that seriously, then yes, I took steps to ensure—”
“You lied to her,” Phainon said. “You manufactured evidence to make her feel humiliated and inadequate. You manipulated her into believing the entire kingdom was judging her for something that wasn’t even true.”
“I gave her motivation,” Lady Caenis said. “And it worked, did it not? You moved her into your chambers. You started spending every night with her.”
You felt sick, for she wasn’t entirely wrong—her manipulation had worked. You had gone to Phainon’s chambers that night. You had seduced him. You had pushed for more intimacy, more closeness, and yes, things had gotten better between you.
“Get out,” Phainon said.
Lady Caenis blinked. “Your Majesty—”
“Get out,” he repeated, louder now. “You are dismissed from this conversation. In fact, you’re dismissed from your position, effective immediately.”
“You can’t be serious—”
“I am perfectly serious, I assure you.” Phainon’s voice was cold. “You have served this family for decades, Lady Caenis, and I am grateful for that service. But what you did—manipulating my wife, fabricating evidence, orchestrating situations for your own ends—that is unforgivable. You are dismissed.”
Lady Caenis’ face had gone white. “Your Majesty, please. I was only trying to help. The succession—”
“The succession is not your concern. You’ll have until the end of the week to organise your affairs and find alternative accommodations. Your pension will be provided and I shall ensure you have adequate references for future employment. But you will not remain in this palace.”
“Phainon—Your Majesty, please reconsider. I’ve dedicated my life to this family—”
“And I appreciate that dedication, but it does not excuse what you did.” Phainon moved to stand beside you, and you felt his hand settle at the small of your back. “You violated my wife’s trust and manipulated her for your own ends, regardless of how noble you believed those ends to be. That is not acceptable.”
“I was only trying to protect the Crown,” Lady Caenis tried again, looking between the two of you beseechingly.
“I know,” said Phainon, “but the Crown does not need protection from my wife.”
Lady Caenis clasped her hands tightly before her. “As you wish, Your Majesty. Your Majesty.” She nodded to each of you in turn. “I hope you’ll understand, someday, that I did what I thought was right.”
She left, the door closing quietly behind her, leaving you alone with Phainon. You stared at the closed door. Lady Caenis, the woman who had run the palace household for decades and seemed like an immovable fixture of your life here, was gone.
“Are you all right?” Phainon asked finally.
“I don’t know,” you said. “Should I feel guilty? She was only trying to help, in her own twisted way.”
He looked away, seeming terribly tired, and sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t know, either.”
Queen Audata was truly a magnificent figure in paint, and, not for the first time, you wondered what she was like as a person.
You had come to the portrait gallery late at night, unable to sleep. The conversation with Lady Caenis had left you feeling unsettled, restless. Phainon had returned to his study after she left, claiming he had work to finish, and you had spent the evening alone in your chambers; so, you had risen from the empty bed and wandered the corridors until you found yourself here, standing before Queen Audata’s portrait.
She had kind eyes. That was the first thing you noticed. Despite the formal nature of the painting, and the crown and the elaborate gown and the regal bearing, there was warmth in her painted eyes. She looked like someone who had laughed often, who had loved freely. You wondered if Phainon remembered that, or if his memories of her were coloured only by grief and guilt.
“She would have liked you.”
You turned to find Phainon standing in the doorway of the gallery, still in his daytime clothes, his hair disheveled. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, his shoulders tense.
“I’m sorry,” you said. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I couldn’t sleep, and I…”
“You’re not intruding.” He moved into the gallery, coming to stand beside you. “I couldn’t sleep either.”
You looked at him more closely. “Bad dreams?”
He went very still. “What makes you say that?”
“Just a guess,” you said. “I’ve heard that people who experience terrible situations young often struggle with nightmares. The mind, apparently, has difficulty letting go of such things.”
“Who told you?”
“No one told me anything directly,” you said truthfully, “but I’m not blind, Phainon. I’ve noticed you’re often awake at odd hours, and that you sometimes look exhausted even after a full night in bed. I’ve noticed that there are moments where you seem… elsewhere.”
He moved away from you, then, his arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t want you to know.”
“I know.”
“It makes me look weak.”
“I don’t believe it does, truly,” you said. “Phainon, you don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready to tell me, but I want you to know—whatever keeps you awake at night, I’m here.”
“You can’t promise me that,” he said roughly. “People leave. People die.”
“People get sick, and their mothers nurse them, and sometimes those mothers catch the illness too,” you said quietly. “And sometimes cruel men blame children for things that aren’t their fault.”
Phainon turned to stare at you, his face silver in the moonlight. “How did you—”
“I told you. I pay attention. And I understand why you wanted separate chambers at first.”
“I dream about it,” he said suddenly, the words spilling out. “About my mother dying, and my father telling me it was my fault. Sometimes I’m ten years old again, burning with fever, calling for her. Other times I’m watching her get sick, and I can’t—I can’t make her stay away from me, and then I wake up, and for a moment, I’m convinced I’m still that ten-year-old boy who killed his mother.”
“You didn’t kill her,” you said firmly. “How long have you been having difficulty sleeping?”
“Since she died. Seventeen years.”
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding the bed? Since the fight? Not because you wanted space, but because you didn’t want to see me?”
He nodded, unable to meet your eyes. “I’ve gotten good at waking myself up quietly, but I cannot always manage it. I thought—if you saw me like that, if you knew—”
“I’d realise I made a mistake in staying?”
“Yes.”
You closed the distance between you and took his hands in yours. They were cold, trembling. “Do you love me?”
The question seemed to catch him off guard. “What?”
“Do you love me?” you repeated, looking up at him. “It’s a simple question, Phainon. Yes or no.”
He stared at you, and you thought he might deflect, might hide behind walls again. But he didn’t.
“Yes,” he said. “Yes. I love you. From the—from the moment I saw you on that trellis, covered in garden dirt, looking at me like I was the worst thing that had ever happened to you. I loved you then, and I’ve loved you every day since.
“I love you when you’re walking beside me in the gardens, asking questions about flowers you don’t actually care about just because you know it makes me happy to talk about them. I love you when you’re asleep, when you make that little sound right before you wake up, when you reach for me without opening your eyes. I love—I love you so much it feels like I cannot breathe sometimes, if you are not near.”
You kissed him, then, pressing your mouth to his with an urgency that bordered on desperation. You wanted him to consume you, to make you his wholly and completely, for just as he was yours, so too were you his, and how nice this life would be! How nice, to stay in the comfort provided by darkness and the stars, and hide from the heavens forever.
You don't like sharing your things. you hate it. you'll hate them if they're forcing you to do it. In your mind, it's yours. you don't want them to break it. to dirty it. to shatter it. to ripped it. You don't want it to break.
It's yours. why should you share it with them just because they don't have it? why can't they search for their own? why do you have to share. it's clearly yours.
If they're asking for small things you don't really care about, you don't really have a problem. it doesn't matter.
But why would you share your precious things with others? it's yours. you shouldn't have to. not when you don't want to. it's yours.
You met him as phainon. for the first time. You don't really care about him at first. you're not interested. he doesn't seem interesting.
But who would've thought that he's actually very interesting.
You watch him from afar. keeping your distance at first.
You have no idea how. but whenever the time reset, you can remember it. you have no idea why. at first you thought that it's a dream. it's not unusual to have a dream that the universe, the world is destroyed right?
But then it continues.
You try to deny it.
Keep saying that it's your imagination.
It's just a dream that's somehow felt too real.
Nothing else.
Nothing more.
Because you thought that you're alone.
That people will think you're crazy if you said anything.
You didn't have any idea how many cycle it has passed.
You didn't count.
You're too busy denying it.
And when you couldn't deny it anymore.
You heard rumors.
About him.
The flame reaver, they said.
You couldn't get any other information about him besides what he did and the fact that they're calling him flame reaver.
And one night, you accidentally saw him. And just by looking at his body language, you immediately thought of someone.
Someone you know very well.
So you immediately ran and grab his wrist, you said one thing.
“khaslana”
And he immediately freeze.
He cornered you and ask you about it. how do you find out. who told you. who else knows.
You told him no one knew it besides you. and that.. you can remember everything. you told him everything.
And for once, you didn't feel like a crazy person. because he somehow believes you. not because you remember it. no, but because somehow he can see it. you're not lying. because you seem so desperate when telling him about it.
You ask him what he's doing, what's his plan is.
He doesn't tell you about it right away. he change the topic.
It took you many more cycle before he showed up in front of your house at midnight. you welcome him. you didn't kick him out.
You let him stay.
You just listen. or rather stare at him.
He's just.. there. for a while. before he left.
And the cycles continue.
Everytime he came to you, you let him.
You let him stay around.
Then, he shows it to you.
His face. he's finally taking his mask off.
You didn't say anything about it.
He seemed more comfortable.
As the cycles repeat again and again,
He became.. more comfortable with you.
First he became closer.
Then he's holding your hand.
Then he's laying his head onto your shoulder.
Then he's hugging you like you're the only thing in the world.
He's just hug you and silently cry.
Then it became him laying his head on your lap while you play with his hair.
He change.
His physical appearance change the more cycles he went through.
That never bothered you.
You don't really care.
He's yours.
That's the only thing that matters to you.
Nothing else.
But then, as the cycles continue to repeat, a crack started to appear on his body.
Then slowly but surely, they started to appear on his face.
And when that happened, you only pull him closer to you.
You have no idea how many cycles had passed.
The only thing thing you can think is that you don't want him to break. you don't want him to disappear. He's yours. right...?
He's yours.
He said so.
He told you that he's yours.
You need him so much that it hurts.
You wish he didn't have to go.
He keeps complaining that his vision's blurred as the crack started to seemingly affecting his vision.
You keep hearing worse and worse things that he had done. But he's your man. You don't care. You both are hand in hand, To hell and back.
And you love him like nobody else can. He's your man.
You've been damned.
Everyone doesn't understand why you don't seem to say anything about the flame reaver. You didn't talk about him at all besides saying that maybe he have his own reason.
Because to you, no, nobody has to understand.
You and your man.
He keeps having feverish dreams
That he can never, ever leave
He wakes, headaches, funny taste to his tea
He keeps having feverish dream that the cycles won't end. That he can never leave. that he's stuck. The medicine couldn't help him anymore. They couldn't help his headache. But you can.
“I want him to stay here forever
He's happiest with me”.
You want him to stay with you forever. because he's happiest with you. he's happy when he's with you. he doesn't feel any pain. he can rest. he can, for once, to not think about the cycles.
'Cause he
He's my man
And I love him like nobody else can.
You told him, nobody can love him more than you can. he doesn't disagree. he's still there. he's still with you.
He's my man
He's gone quite mad
No, nobody has to understand
Me and my man
He's your man. And as the crack became more and more, he almost couldn't control himself at all. he's like an empty body with no soul. but he still clinging to you.
That's when it happened.
The trailblazer showed up.
He got caught.
You thought that it's over. because the moment he fight with phainon, with himself. he'll be gone.
He's yours. Even if his body changes, he's still yours.
But you couldn't do anything. you don't have the power to do anything about it.
Now that you think about it, it was the first January in a while you would spend in your home town rather than overseas in some fancy hotel before competitions. It was the first time in years.
You could never forget this familiar January feeling, especially in your slumber. The endless snow plains rolled on for eternity, a cold mist caressing every surface of your skin. You could not move, could not look around.
This was the same dream you've had since you were little. Every year that chill would always feel more frigid than the previous year. You could swear that you weren't imagining it. Each year, you'd wake up as if you had been encased in ice for an entire night, especially on those overseas travels.
Except today… the first time you spend January at home it feels…
Warmer.
You watch the snow before you, expecting it to not change like usual as you wait for the span of this meaningless dream to run out. But then you see the blinding sun rise from beyond the horizon. Warmer, your head repeated. The sun was rising.
It felt like a blanket of sunlight was hugging you. You decided that you liked this feeling, although the uncomfortable oddness that came laced with this sudden change made you feel uneasy.
And the unease spiked when even more surprises crawled towards you, a drowned out voice tickling your ears.
“■■■■…■■■ ■■■ ■■■■ ■■?”
You could not make out any words.
“■ ■■■■ ■■■.”
“■■■■■■ ■■ ■■■ ■■■■■ ■■…”
“■■■■■■■… home.”
(...)
You woke up, a gasp escaping your lips as you sat up. You almost felt feverishly warm, confirming that feeling once your hand pressed against your chest.
You laid back down, the vivid details of your dreams overcrowding your newly-awoken mind.
‘What the hell even was that?’
prev. 𖤓 masterlist. 𖤓 next
Synopsis: Every January since you were little, you would dream about a field of snow, waking up cold. That was happening until you went back home one January – when that same dream would end differently, in which the snow melted and you would hear a voice. That same voice was the one you would hear from a fellow figure skater that you met in your home town; his name was Khaslana. Now you can't seem to avoid this man, whether you're online or outside and fans can't get enough of you two together.
In which you summon a demon at midnight because you're exhausted by your midterms and think it can help you out with studying. What you didn't expect was:
1. For it to work
2. To summon something that tries to seduce you every 5 minutes
It's your senior year of college. You're graduating on time, in a handful of organizations doing honest work, 4.0 GPA, all's perfect. You may have zero concept of social life, but at the very least, you managed to land that dream internship you've been pinning for since your sophomore year!
Your roommate, Cifera, (Who is somehow never at the dorm. You've been rooming with her since freshman year and still have no idea where she spends most of her nights out) suggests on one of the rare occasions you're at the dorm at the same time to do something "fun" during your poor, miserable excuse of undergrad life before moving into your equally poor, miserable post grad life. Like any good roommate, you hear her out.
"Really, it's honestly incredible! I've met hermits, and then I've met you." She gulps down her bowl of leftover milk, not bothered to add more cereal to it. Your comfortably sat on the couch, struggling to knock out one of your more more assignments before the turn in time while she prances around your shared kitchen. "Little miss perfect, do you seriously have nothing better to do than work, eat, and sleep?"
"We've been over this," you frown, readjusting your laptop for the umpteenth time since it wants to slide down your blanket so bad. "There's... only so many hours in a day and I can't afford for any of them to be used for partying."
Cifera pauses her rummaging, this time from the cabinet housing your snacks. It explains where all of them have been going, you'll have to say something about it later. "Who said anything about parties? Listen," she makes her way over to you, draping an arm over you. "My, dear, dear roomie. Do yourself a favor and do something crazy like jumping off the gym balcony and into the pool, or flirt with all your professors and see if you can form a harem—"
"Are you trying to get me expelled?"
"Or, maybe something more practical. Why don't you try something real creative?... Something all girls gotta try once." She taps at her chin, seemingly deep in thought, and you try to predict what she could possibly say next. You're expecting something remotely within the realm of possibility - something feasible and achievable - you weren't expecting her to suggest something outside of this realm, as a whole.
"Summon a demon and get them to do all your work for you! If you manage to find a real nice one, it'll work! Trust me, I've only ever had great results!"
You furrow your brows, rather confused on how she could speak so matter of fact about matters pertaining to the occult. "When would you... have done that?"
She lifts herself off from you, eyes flickering with their concealed excitement. Your absent roommate dodges your question, ignoring it outright and refusing to elaborate as she disappears off into her room, where you won't see her again for likely another 3 weeks. "Have fun with my suggestions. But, of course, you're welcome to think of something of your own."
Maybe you're delirious from the past 24 hours, but the idea intrigues you, if just to entertain it; you've hardly had any time to sleep, or process the new swath of events you'll have to attend the next couple of weeks, all of which have mandatory attendance, naturally. Because nothing says "we respect every members time!" better than meetings on Saturday when you should be spending that time trying to go home for the weekend.
Your midterms are completely and thoroughly beating your ass, surely something else can help with your long essays, right?
.𖥔 ݁ ˖
You must've done the YouTube tutorial wrong at some point, you were obviously trying to summon a helpful, intelligent demon to bounce ideas from, why was this one so eager to try and take off your pants?
The demon (that you now regret inviting), known as Khaslana, did not share your pursuit of scholarly knowledge in the capacity you were needing, chest bare and wings ablaze (a miracle they did not knock everything in your room over). He instead only had one thing in mind, all of which only made you flush in embarrassment at every suggestion he would make—
"So... do you want me to take you sideways?..." Khaslana sighs dejectedly into his palm, sitting crisscross on the floor, adjacent from your summoning circle on the floor (You were determined to get it right). "I could always come by later while you're asleep, if that makes any easier. I prefer it most of the time."
He tries to hold himself together as much as he can, his face ws rather tight knit since introducing himself to you, but at his little confession, his ears seemingly flush. The blonde finds one of your stray plushies that had fallen to the floor when he had first emerged, imposing and, frankly, stunning - every inch of his body as he clawed himself out was doused in a brilliant, mesmerizing gold - until it materialized into what he is now, before you. He holds your captive stuffed animal tightly to his chest. "But if you rather take it slow, that's fine, I don't blame you for being nervous. By the way, this smells really good," He takes another whiff of it, you're certain it's the lavender and lilac blend you spray on all your bed that helps you fall asleep. "It's... cute. It suits you."
More than anything, how did this actually work? You were fully, utterly convinced nothing would happen. How the hell were you supposed to know your roommate was totally serious about demons?! You're not sure you want to know all else Cifera was dabbling in, you're not sure if you'll ever take her unsolicited advice again.
You summoned a demon into your room, that much was true, you can check that off, but you may (re: definitely) have missed the part in the where the video said it was meant for exclusively seeking asylum in freaky demons from some circle of hell, which would've explained why the first thing he did upon laying his eyes on you was to crawl over and try to lift your shirt—he was an incubus. Of course! What does one even do in this situation? Who accidentally summons a sex demon for help on assignments due at 11:59 PM???
Interestingly, he does not... appear like how you would assume succubi go about. He's very attractive, or so you believe, with his sharp eyes and hair, dusted with gold and fluffed to perfection, or his pretty and defined pecs that you're certain you could use as a pillow if you so desired...
... Never mind. He fits the bill exactly.
If you were able to ignore the glowing cracks that lined his body or the jagged edges that emerged from his shoulders, you think he'd be very easy to cuddle. He even has a faintly easygoing smile that you wouldn't have expected from someone of his stature, you almost have the urge to tell him your every thought because you think he'd really listen.
"N-no, you misunderstand, you don't need to do any of that," you finally muster the courage to respond. "It's just... my midterms, they're all essays, and they're driving me crazy." You soothe your temple, not wanting to think about them any longer than necessary. "I'm really sorry for bothering you, but do you think you could help? At all?"
You don't have a lot of faith. You're surprised he's even stayed this long after you had to swat him away for the first minute of him appearing and attempting to undress you, having to explain to him afterward that you had no intentions at all to will him, specifically, here.
His wings, folded, ruffle at your request. It likely doesn't sound like anything he's used to hearing. "As long as it's not anything with a lot of history in it, I can... try." He peers over at your laptop, rather serious for someone who has no obligation to help you. "But, when I'm done, then can I eat you out?"
You'll have to think about it. For sure.
The essay somehow comes along surprisingly well. Khaslana appears to be totally engrossed in your work, wings tucked behind his back and eyes narrow. The clicking of keys and your loud fan combine to make a nice ASMR that nearly lulls you to sleep, but as much as you want to, you resist because falling asleep on your guest would be rude.
While he works away on your laptop, you've barraged him with questions about how exactly he goes about living, what his responsibilites entail, and other things that would make sense if you were talking to a normal, human man.
Eventually, the conversattion turns more specific; you're naturally curious, and he was odd. "When you said earlier you could come while I was asleep, what did you mean by that?" Was this something you should be concerned about? You don't know what you signed up for when you completed this "transaction," for a lack of a better word, but you hope there wasn't some secret stipulation that meant you'd be awakened at untimely hours of the night to complete whatever needs had to be met. Or worse.
"Oh," Khaslana doesn't look up from your laptop, eyes steady on the screen. "What I meant by that is while you're dreaming. It's all in your head," He pauses, finally looking up. "I won't be there in reality, but you'll wake up feeling like I was."
You guess that's better. At least it's in your subconscious, but is it really your subconscious if he's actively influencing it?
"And... you like it more than being there physically?"
"Mh, a little. I'd say what I like most about doing it that way is seeing people's clueless faces when they wake up, wondering what got them all hot and bothered." His hand moves to cup his chin, lost in thought and looking away from you. "... And hearing them wonder if I'll come back."
You swear he smirks slightly to himself, but he quickly covers it with his palm, returning to your work.
"I don't have a lot of opportunities to be here in the flesh, so it's a nice change of pace."
Chances are you shouldn't be trying to make acquaintance with this incubus so badly—by tonight, he'll be gone and there'll be no point knowing these things, but his demeanor is incredibly inviting, and you find yourself talking to him more than you ever had with any of your classmates, or even your project partners. If you weren't so entranced, you'd probably be confused by how loose your tongue is right now.
"How come?"
"Not everyone just knows how to summon us, much less on their first try. You're pretty smart to have been able to get it right as quickly as you did." He offers you a small, pleased smile. "All things considered, I'm impressed."
Sure. Impressive stuff. You try to ignore how hot your ears feel. It's just one compliment. You're fairly certain this skill you developed is nontransferable can't be used on your resume and is otherwise virtually useless, but still, you weren't in need of praise that badly... huh?
You falter, waving your hands to dismiss him. "I-it's nothing, honestly. It wasn't even my idea in the first place... so." Yeah.
He sees unphased by your little tidbit that you have someone who dabbled in the occult before you, and you took their suggestion wholeheartedly and without a second thought.
"Interesting." He says, uninterested. "Well, I'm all done with this. 7,000 words, double-spaced... and I also cleaned up your works cited." Your helper hands your laptop over to you, hands brushing in the process, the gloved one feeling impossibly warm to the touch—It lingers even after you let go. "How'd I do?"
And... yeah. How is this better than anything you've ever written? You had done at least 5,000 words beforehand, and you weren't sure how well he'd adjust given the lack of context of everything, but once you handed the responsibility over, he was less of a demon and more a machine with how efficiently he was working.
"I-thank you, but I didn't expect something so well written. No offense." None taken, he murmurs. "How were you able to figure everything else out? You asked me a single question." You scroll down to the bottom, evaluating every page. "And it was just asking how long this needed to be! I appreciate this way more than you could imagine."
Khaslana shrugs, wings bristling ever so slightly, "It's no problem to me at all. I don't remember my past life all that well, but I'd like to think I was pretty smart." He laughs. It's very cute.
"But, since you're so grateful and all," He crawls closer towards you again, tugging delicately at the cuff of your pajamas. "Please? I promise I'll be gentle."
He's pouting. He's pouting like he's four years old, and you just grounded him for misbehaving and had him sit in timeout. It's almost endearing, were it not absurd that someone wanted you this badly (Yes, he was meant to want; to want anyone, but this did not cross your mind when your mind is such a lonely place to begin with).
And how were you ever expected to say no to this face? Needy and full of desire—Is this how they get you?
.𖥔 ݁ ˖
"Do you always come this quickly, or was it because I did a really good job?" Khaslana looks up at you with his head resting on your inner thigh, eyes expectant and wide, tongue darting out to clear up the absurd amount of slick and drool that pooled around his lips. His eyes glow with a fervor that you would never expect from an ordinary person, which you suppose makes sense, given everything.
They're simultaneously soft, tender, and fragile (akin to a molting fire, his blown out pupils emerging through the pools of gold), and unexpectedly dangerous. They're still keen and carry a risky edge to them when they trail over your face in an attempt to anticipate your reaction.
"Uh..." Your throat feels like sand and ash and all things dry and your breathing does nothing to help with your erratic heart that you're positive wants to worm its way out of your chest, and right into his lap so he can keep it—whatever he does with it, it won't be your concern.
"Really... really, good." Your hand, precarious, makes its way into his hair, your fingers tracing around every soft wave and curve. You've made yourself well acquainted with it over the past few minutes with all the pulling and tugging you were doing (that he enjoyed with earnest, to your understanding). You clear your throat, wishing you were in arm's reach of the water on your desk nearby. "A... uh... great job. Even. Yeah." Is that what you should say? You have no clue, you were still babbling nonsense, for all you knew. Regardless of any potential experience you had, this was easily the hardest orgasm you had in your life—which, while wasn't saying a lot, was still true—and you're expected to sleep after this like nothing happened?
You have to. You have your 8 AM class today, and it's already 1 in the morning, and way past your personal bedtime of 11 PM.
Khaslana chuckles, very amused by your stammering, while simultaneously melting into the feeling of your hands massaging at his scalp.
"You did, too." He says, pressing a kiss to your thigh, right in the middle of the gratuitous bites and bruises that now litter the plush expanse of your skin. "Can I see you again tomorrow? Or are you already bored with me?" More tender kisses are planted, more languid laps of his warm tongue across the places where the claws of his gauntlet dug into your skin, pinpricks of marks left in their wake.
Yes, you think. This is how they get you, and you don't think you know how to get out.
In the 23,570,001st Eternal Recurrence, Khaslana lights a faint flame that fills his chest.
pairing. Khaslana/Phainon x gn reader
tags. hurt/comfort; partly a character study; Khaslana's POV. Not beta read.
wc. 830
note. a loose retelling of the new email in Mailbox.exe after the 3.7 quest, but there are no spoilers for the content of 3.7 itself except for one phrase.
For many cycles, Khaslana believed that tenderness could no longer come from such vicious hands.
He burns so brightly that any tears turn into smoke, just like the village he lays to waste on the same exact date, down to the very year, as if it is a ritual offered to the gods he wants to bleed. But the only ichor he spills is divine in the image of those he cherishes rather than that of which Khaslana was made to resemble.
Perhaps this, itself, is a rebellion against that fate.
It is the 23,570,001st Eternal Recurrence and Khaslana will come upon a tiny paradise of golden stalks that hide his childhood dream, but he will not make himself answer the call. In this extrapolation, his mother and his father, every fairy, and Piso and Livia will not fall to cold metal—neither his sword nor that innocent iron rake. The only death knell will be serene with little defiance, similar to a dream you sink into for its sound is only devoted to his childhood friend.
The boy who loves to laugh will remain there.
He will not travel on the path to Okhema with the memory of their screams deafened by the furious trudge of a dromas’ hooves and filled with nothing but grief. And that grief will not teach him to take up arms to protect a city that only takes and takes and takes where he is willing—when he believes losses are a constant on this journey. But Khaslana will not allow this boy to embark on that voyage so that separation will not turn into a gaping maw of fury whose hunger does not end until there is peace; one that Khaslana uses as a pyre of every 'self' that he's abandoned. Or, that is what Hyacinthia told him anyway. Still, she had also desired a gentler life and a wish that was solely his.
If that is her hope, then it will be done.
Khaslana grants it—in place of its executioner, he becomes their saviour. And because he does, he leaves, and, centuries later, he is not followed into the Holy City by that boy whose eyes still shine a pure cornflower blue.
Funny enough, Khaslana does not find you in Okhema. He had loved you, once, in that original cycle, but now, with what he's become, you belong only to Phainon. When Khaslana drives his sword through his own chest, you belong to him. When Khaslana searches for you as his only solace, regardless of it being a mere glimpse, you belong to him.
But when he returns to that tiny paradise cloaked in black, you belong to Khaslana and there is no sorrow in your heart.
Piso is much older now; in his forties, and living a peaceful life with Livia. If Khaslana tries hard enough, he can recall a far-off memory from when they were little, where Piso longed for her attention, hiding behind tree trunks and bumbling words. And, when he reminisces on his time with you, he remembers not being so different.
Even so, Khaslana knows he prefers you like this—draped with the village's robes in colours of wheat, soil, and sunshine instead of Okhema's muted blues, purples and grays. You're outside his old house, no doubt taking residence with that boy, now a man, who offers himself to you on a silver platter as opposed to a promise of the world through every slaughter staining his sword.
It's strange that you're alone. His affections for you have always been so greedy, after all. There is no one but him that knows this best; that it is as if you are the sun he is chasing at the end of this journey—the only truth of which he shadows.
Khaslana finds his answer as he watches him approach a grave by those tranquil waters, holding flowers that she would have loved. And when he runs to him, he remains.
Deliverer, he calls him. A name that Khaslana no longer believes in. But that man only laughs, as sonorous as a bell and as free as the West Wind.
Dawnmaker, he tells him, to protect Aedes Elysiae from the black tide, time and time again. A wish that Khaslana is so deeply familiar with that he has wondered if it existed before hatred ever took root. It has never changed. In the original cycle. In the 134th; the 108,642nd; the 2,003,432nd; and the 4,000,001st Eternal Recurrence, that wish is what drives him forward if not for the promise of a peaceful life in the true dawn.
A peaceful life he may share with you.
And when the crackling waves of the black tide shatter the false sky on that far off horizon, Khaslana raises his blade to protect the tiny ember filling his chest—all for the wish of the man who loves to laugh and the hope that his eyes will remain a pure cornflower blue.
in the quiet between resets, between the halcyon days of wheat fields and the inevitable pull of the vortex, there exists one fragile cycle where things are different. where you, who have always been khaslana's constant, now bear the weight of a coreflame in your chest.
for as long as khaslana can remember, you were there—steady, unwavering, a constant presence by his side. even back when the two of you were just children, playing knights and heroes in the golden wheat fields, pretending to defend a kingdom that hadn’t yet fallen.
you were always the one who took the role of the noble protector, a wandering hero from beyond the so-called kingdom, the one who stood firm even when the game turned too rough, the one who made sure no one got left behind.
and now, years later, as the two of you stand together in the ruins of the holy city of okhema, swords drawn against the relentless black tide that swallowed your home, he realizes some things never change.
and that’s the thing about you—you haven’t changed. not really. yes, you’ve grown taller, stronger, your hands calloused from years of gripping a sword. but at your core, you’re still the same person who would rather throw yourself into a fight for someone else’s sake than walk away. the same person who, even now, stands with your back straight and your shoulders squared, as if you could shield the entire world if you just tried hard enough.
khaslana is grateful for that, more than he could ever say. after aedes elysiae fell, after the three of you—you, him, and cyrene—were left with nothing but ash and survival, everything shifted. cyrene found solace in prayer, in the quiet halls of the temple.
you and khaslana? you picked up blades instead. but where khaslana’s path twisted with uncertainty, yours remained clear, unshaken. you were still the one who laughed a little too loudly at his terrible jokes, still the one who could read him like an open book, still the one who never hesitated to drag him into trouble if it meant doing the right thing.
speaking of trouble—there was that little tradition between the two of you. a deal, of sorts. if one needed help, they had to offer something in return. khaslana swears you invented it just to annoy him, but he can’t bring himself to mind, not when you appear at his side with that familiar glint in your eye, your fingers curling around his wrist before tugging him toward whatever chaos you’ve stumbled into this time.
usually, it’s because you’ve gotten into another fight. not for pride, not for glory—no, it’s always because you saw something unfair and decided someone had to do something about it. and if that meant squaring up against three drunk mercenaries in a back alley or challenging some noble’s spoiled son to a duel for harassing a shopkeeper, well.
you’d do it without a second thought. khaslana sighs every time, but he follows anyway. how could he not? you’ve always been worth following.
and as per tradition, khaslana’s cramped little room in the shared quarters was cluttered with all the trinkets and oddities you’d given him over the years—payment, you called it, for every time he’d helped you.
a chipped porcelain figurine of a knight you’d found half-buried in the mud during patrol, a polished river stone you swore looked like his grumpy morning face, a ridiculously overpriced pocket watch he'd been eyeing from the market that you’d saved up for weeks to buy. each one had a story, a moment where you’d shoved it into his hands with that stubborn look of yours, insisting it was a fair exchange.
khaslana was starting to suspect you made up reasons to ask for his help just so you could give him things. it didn’t matter if the task was as simple as boosting you up to rescue a cat from a tree or as tedious as drilling sword forms with you until your arms shook—you’d still press some little treasure into his palm afterward, your fingers lingering just a second too long.
and at the end of every month, without fail, you’d show up with something extravagant—a leather-bound book, a finely crafted dagger, things far beyond a soldier’s usual budget. he knew you skimped on your own meals to afford them, no matter how many times he scolded you for it.
"you don’t have to do this," he’d grumble, even as he carefully placed each gift on his shelf, arranging them like sacred relics with a smile on his face. but you’d just laugh, that warm, familiar sound, and tug him along to the next absurd adventure. "it’s not enough," you’d say, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "not after everything you’ve done for me, hero."
sometimes, the payment was simpler—his favorite pastries from the market, a steaming bowl of stew after a long march, the way you’d bump your shoulder against his when he was lost in thought. but today, when you perched beside him on the old wooden rails, swinging your legs like a carefree child, the question that tumbled from your lips wasn’t simple at all.
"how do you know if the person you like returns your feelings?"
your voice was light, curious, as if you were asking about the weather. but the words hit khaslana like a blade between the ribs. you were staring up at the sky, completely oblivious to the way his breath stuttered, the way his fingers dug into the wood beneath him. how could you look so perfect like this—sunlight catching in your hair, your brow furrowed in that achingly earnest way—while shattering his heart into a million pieces?
khaslana nearly chokes on his own breath, fingers tightening around the rail as he jerks his head down, staring hard at the ground like it might swallow him whole. think, think— but his mind is a mess of static, his pulse hammering in his ears. "w-well, umm..." he stammers, voice cracking like he’s fifteen again, "do they... talk to you a lot?"
he risks a glance at you from the corner of his eye—just a quick, desperate flicker—but the second you turn to meet his gaze, he flinches away, cheeks burning. stupid. so stupid. why did he say that? of course you talk to them. you talk to everyone, with that easy warmth of yours, but—
"yeah, we talk every day," you muse, swinging your legs idly, completely unaware of the way his stomach plummets. "hmm, but that’s not enough to say whether they like me back or not."
what? his head snaps up, eyes wide. who—who could it be? you weren’t close to anyone outside of him and cyrene, not really. you were too busy hauling recruits out of trouble or lecturing drunk soldiers about honor or—or—oh.
his chest twists. had someone else finally noticed? the way your laughter carried across the training yard, the way you always stood a little taller when defending someone weaker, the way your hands were always so careful when bandaging his wounds—
no, focus. he swallows hard, brain scrambling for an answer. what else… what else did people do when they liked someone? his thoughts spiral, but all he can think of is you—the way he memorizes the curve of your smile, the way he saves the last bite of his meals just in case you’re hungry, the way he’d throw himself into the black tide itself if you asked.
"well," khaslana presses, fingers nervously tapping against his thigh, "do they know your favourite colour?"
"yep."
"favorite food?"
"mhm."
"the way you like your hot chocolate?" his voice pitches slightly higher—too specific, he realizes too late.
you turn to him with one eyebrow arched, the corner of your mouth twitching like you're biting back a laugh. "yes?"
he doesn't back down. if you've been talking daily, then surely those are just... basic facts. right? except—except he'd always thought those were his details to know. the way you prefer your hot chocolate sweet, with a dash of cocoa powder on top. the fact your "favourite colour" changes depending on the season (but you always circle back to a particular shade of blue). even cyrene only knows half these things.
"do they buy you gifts often?" he asks, too quickly.
"actually, yeah."
okay. okay. that's—that's fine. gifts are normal here. polite. he'll just have to find out what they gave you last and get something better. maybe that engraved dagger you'd eyed at the market last week, the one with the ivory hilt. you'd pretend to scold him for spending too much, but your eyes would light up anyway.
"do they buy you food often?" he tries again, voice strained.
"yeah, they actually buy me food a lot."
khaslana's jaw tightens. fine. if they're going to play that game, he'll learn to cook. properly. none of that street-vendor stuff—he'll track down recipes from aedes elysiae's old kitchens, the ones you still sigh about sometimes. he'll burn or tire his fingers a dozen times if it means presenting you with a perfect slice of cheesy garlic pizza, still warm, just like you remember.
(he doesn't realize he's pouting. you do.)
khaslana grits his teeth, fingers curling into his palms hard enough to leave crescent marks. the question sticks in his throat like honey—too sweet, too telling—but he forces it out anyway. "do they... make you laugh often?"
and then he looks at you. really looks at you.
mistake.
because the expression on your face—the way your eyes soften at the corners, the way your lips part just slightly, like you're tasting something wonderful—it punches the air straight from his lungs. he doesn't know whether to fall to his knees and carve this moment into memory or to let the black tide take him now. this is the look of someone in love, and the worst part? it's beautiful. that warm, bright smile he thought was his alone now blooms for someone else, and when you laugh—light, effortless, happy—it feels like a knife between his ribs.
"oh, do they make me laugh, huh?" you muse, tilting your head. and then—
wait.
what was that? that flicker of—of shyness? the way your gaze darts to his, just for a heartbeat, before you look away, cheeks tinged pink? khaslana's throat goes dry. he wants to beg the titans for answers—let me be the one to make you look like this, or strike me down where I stand, he isn't picky—but all he manages is a strangled noise when you add, "but... is there anything else?"
anything else? if his heart wasn't currently shattering into irreparable pieces, maybe he could think straight. but all he has left is the truth, spilling out in a clumsy, desperate rush. "they—they’d notice things," he blurts, too loud, too raw. "little things. like if you’re tired, or if you skipped breakfast, or—or if your sword grip’s off." his voice cracks, shoulders hunching like he can physically shrink away from his own words. "...and they’d try to fix it. even if you didn’t ask."
the silence that follows is agonizing. khaslana wants to fling himself into the nearest chasm. why did he say that? now you’ll know, now you’ll—
but when he risks a glance, you're just... staring. lips slightly parted, eyes wide with something he doesn’t dare name. and then—
"huh," you murmur, that familiar playful smile tugging at your mouth. "didn't think you'd be an expert when it comes to this topic, hero." a pause. a tilt of your head. "and i've noticed that your questions are... well." your voice drops, teasing but soft. "they’re… exactly what you do for me."
khaslana’s entire body goes rigid. if the earth split open beneath him right now, he’d thank it.
oh, he is so cooked. his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, brain scrambling for any excuse, any deflection—anything to avoid acknowledging what you just said.
but as he flounders pathetically, he catches it: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, soft and fond, like you're looking at something precious. something loved. and just like that, khaslana feels something in his chest snap. his vision blurs—are those tears?—because how dare you look at him like that when he's this close to crumbling?
"but thank you for your help," you say, voice warm with amusement, and oh no, that's worse. "i think i know my answer now."
know your answer? his stomach plummets. are you—are you going to confess? to someone else? no, absolutely not, he forbids it—
but before he can even choke out a protest, you're already turning, hopping off the railing with effortless grace. you stretch, arms arching over your head, completely oblivious to the way his heart is currently attempting to claw its way out of his throat.
and then—then—you have the audacity to take his hand, your fingers slotting between his like it's the most natural thing in the world, tugging him down after you.
"c'mon," you say, like you haven't just shattered his entire existence.
khaslana stumbles after you, legs numb, soul halfway to the afterlife. he's not recovered. he's not okay. and yet here you are, leading him somewhere (to your mystery lover? to rub salt in the wound?), your grip firm and reassuring like you always are, like you haven't just ruined him forever.
you tug him toward one of the pricier food stalls near the square—the one that sells those perfectly golden-brown pastries filled with spiced meat, the ones khaslana never buys for himself because "it's a waste of coin" but always stares at a little too long when you pass by.
right now, he looks like he's just survived a battlefield, shoulders slumped and eyes hollow, while you're already digging into your coin pouch with that determined glint you get when you've decided to spoil him.
"two, please," you tell the vendor, ignoring khaslana's weak noise of protest. the scent of butter and herbs wraps around you both as you shove the still-warm bundle into his hands, your fingers brushing his just long enough to feel how cold they are.
"there you go," you murmur, satisfied when his face finally changes—the way his pupils dilate, the way his throat bobs as he inhales the aroma. "your payment."
he takes a bite, and the way his shoulders relax makes something warm settle in your chest. "thank you..." he mumbles around a mouthful, and you can see the tension leaving him, bite by bite.
"of course," you say, leaning against the stall. "it's only right, since you helped me with such a big question." you watch him devour the pastry, the flakes catching on his lips, and hum. "hmm, but that does look good though."
then—before he can even blink—you're suddenly right there, leaning into his space with that familiar determined glint in your eyes. one hand closes over his wrist to steady it while the other braces against his shoulder for balance, and before khaslana can process what's happening, you're taking a huge, deliberate bite right from the pastry still clutched in his fingers.
your teeth graze his thumb accidentally-on-purpose, warm breath ghosting over his skin as you pull back with the flaky crust crumbling at the corners of your smug smile.
khaslana makes a noise halfway between a gasp and a whine, fingers twitching where they still cradle the now-missing chunk of his snack. his face burns at the proximity—at the way your grip lingers just a second too long—but you're already straightening up with that infuriatingly pleased look you always get when stealing food from his plate.
the golden afternoon light catches in your lashes as you chew triumphantly, and despite himself, khaslana's traitorous heart stutters at the sight.
"how selfish..." he grumbles, but there's no real annoyance in it—just fondness, the same tone he uses when you "accidentally" take the last slice of his dessert.
(you’ve always done this. he’s always let you.)
you know his habits and vice versa, after all. how he’ll buy your favorite skewers on days you’re too busy to eat and "casually" snack on them in front of you until you cave. how he’ll sigh and produce a second portion the moment you reach for his, like he’d been waiting for the excuse to feed you.
now, you just grin, licking salt from your thumb before grabbing his wrist again. "c’mon," you say, and his breath hitches when your fingers slide down to intertwine with his.
khaslana’s chest floods with warmth as he lets you pull him along. this—this—feels right. the weight of your hand in his, the way your steps match his stride, the quiet certainty that you’d always find each other.
but then he remembers.
someone else gets this too.
someone else makes your eyes soften like that. someone else earns your laughter, your stolen bites, your relentless affection. the thought lodges like a splinter in his ribs, sharp enough to make his steps stutter.
(but it’s okay. it has to be. as long as you still reach for him—as long as you still drag him into your light—he’ll survive it. won’t he?)
૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ
fate was cruel. this was cruel. he shouldn't have opened his mouth, shouldn't have let the truth spill from his lips like blood from a fresh wound. he should've let you remain oblivious, let you keep smiling that bright, carefree smile until the cycle reset and wiped everything away again. but he was weak—so terribly weak—and now he had to live with the consequences.
he'd already failed you numerous times. first when you had saved him from being killed during the black tide engulfing okhema in that initial cycle, your body crumbling to the ground before he could even reach you. then again when he found you bleeding out in some forgotten alleyway, your fingers trembling as they brushed his tear-streaked face before going still.
he should've learned his lesson. should've stayed away when he saw you walking home from patrol that day, your armor glinting in the sunlight, completely unaware of the storm raging inside him.
but he didn't. of course he didn't.
he'd crashed into you like a drowning man reaching for shore, his arms locking around your waist with desperate strength. he'd buried his face in the crook of your neck, choking on sobs that wracked his entire body, and you—you'd just held him. like you always did.
your calloused hands had carded through his hair, your steady voice murmuring reassurances against his temple as you guided him home. you didn't even know why he was crying, you knew that he wasn't your khaslana phainon, but that never stopped you from offering comfort.
and then, perhaps because the universe pitied him, the phainon in that cycle wasn't there. some emergency had pulled him away, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet of your shared home. the space between you had felt charged, dangerous, and still he'd let you coax the story from him piece by broken piece.
"tell me," you'd said, your thumb brushing away his tears with that infuriating tenderness. "whatever it is, we'll face it together. we always do."
he shouldn't have listened. shouldn't have confessed everything—the cycles, the resets, your deaths. shouldn't have clung to you like a child, his fingers twisting in your shirt as he begged to stay wrapped in your arms just a little longer.
(it wasn't your fault. it could never be your fault. you were just being you—kind and steadfast and so painfully good. the blame was his alone for being greedy, for craving your warmth after so long without it. for loving you enough to break his own heart over and over.)
but now here he was, facing the consequences. in this cycle, you had chosen to take a coreflame and inherit a titan's divine authority—watching you shoulder burdens with that stubborn resolve of yours just so that you can help alleviate phainon's even if it's just a little bit (you do, a lot in fact), your spine straight even as the weight pressed down. khaslana was a fool. an absolute, wretched fool.
he’d spilled every secret to you that day except the cruelest one: that he was the one who reset the cycles, that he needed to carve the coreflames from your chest to stop "era nova". and now, standing before you, he felt hollow. his eyes, once so bright, were dull as tarnished silver, his expression shattered enough to make your own heart fracture.
"hey there, hero."
your voice was too light, too familiar. you rose from the windowsill—your windowsill, in the home you’d shared, where the sunlight always caught in your hair just so—and offered him that playful smile. but khaslana could see the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers flexed at your sides.
you knew. of course you knew. you’d heard what happened to the other chrysos heirs, and still, still, you stood there like this was just another afternoon. "long time no see. tell me, have you had lunch yet? there’s a new stall in marmoreal market—their skewers are supposed to be—"
"please." his voice cracked like dried parchment. "don’t make this harder than it already is." a shaky breath. your name on his lips tasted like ash. "i just… i need to end this cycle. this is wrong. you’re not supposed to be—i don’t want to—"
"khaslana."
you cut him off, closing the distance with that same confident stride that had always made his pulse stutter. he tensed, pathetic and trembling, but couldn’t look away. not when you stopped mere inches from him, not when your scent—warm leather and the faint tang of steel—wrapped around him like your warm embrace. "i need your help with something."
for a single, treacherous moment, light flickered back into his eyes. warmth pooled in his chest, sweet and fleeting as a summer rain. then reality crashed back in. he exhaled, long and slow, as if breathing could steady the earthquake in his ribs. "i don’t have time to help you right now—"
"oh, come on." you deadpanned, unimpressed, and oh, oh, how cruel you were—acting like this was normal, like he hadn’t memorized the exact cadence of your teasing. "when have you ever refused me?" before he could protest, you grabbed his hands, clasping them between yours. "just help me out one last time! please?"
one last time.
the words lodged in his throat like a blade. it wasn’t the last time—not truly, not when the cycles would reset—and yet it was, because this version of you, not his but is always, would be gone.
he wavered, the ghost of a thousand memories whispering in his ears: your laughter in the wheat fields, your fingers laced with his, the way you’d looked at him like he hung the stars. but mistakes like those had led him here—to this moment, where he’d have to tear out your heart to save a world that meant nothing without you in it.
"in return," you rushed, desperation bleeding into your voice, "i’ll give you the coreflame. no fighting, no pain. i’ll hand it to you myself. so just—help me this once. okay?"
it hurt. it hurt. to see you like this, to know he was the reason your hands shook. but you were right—he could never refuse you. not when you smiled, not when you begged, not even when the cost was his own soul. you were his first and only weakness, the flaw in his resolve, the crack in the foundation of every oath he’d ever sworn.
(and wasn’t that the cruelest joke of all? that love could be both the anchor and the knife?)
khaslana sighs, the sound carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid words, before his lips curve into something small and unbearably tender. "how could i ever refuse you?" his voice comes out softer than he means it to—a whisper meant only for you, fragile as the dandelion seeds you used to blow into the wind as children.
and oh, the way you light up at his words. the desperation in your eyes vanishes like morning mist, replaced by that brilliant spark he'd know anywhere. your posture straightens, shoulders rolling back with renewed purpose, and suddenly that smile—your smile, bright enough to rival the sun—is back where it belongs.
it hits him like a punch to the chest, this dizzying sense of deja vu. for a heartbeat, he's ten years old again, chasing you through golden wheat fields with sticks as swords, your laughter ringing in his ears as you declared yourselves protectors of a kingdom that hadn't yet crumbled.
then your fingers curl around his, warm and calloused and perfectly familiar, and just like in his visions—just like in every lifetime before this one, and in every lifetime after—you tug him forward without hesitation. toward danger, toward destiny, toward whatever adventure awaits. and khaslana follows. he always follows. because even knowing how this ends, even with the weight of countless cycles pressing down on him, being led by you still feels like coming home.
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"two please," you tell the vendor at the new stall, already digging for coins before khaslana can protest. beside you, he tugs his hood lower, the fabric casting shadows over eyes that dart away the moment you glance at him. you roll your own eyes—some things never change—but the smile tugging at your lips is fond.
when you turn back, you catch him staring, that same quiet wonder in his gaze as when you were kids sharing stolen sweets behind the barracks. for a heartbeat, the years melt away. the war, the cycles, the weight of what's to come—none of it exists. there's just you, him, and the sizzle of meat on the grill.
"here you go," you say, pressing one skewer into his hand. the scent of spices and seared fat curls between you, but his fingers barely close around the stick. his expression darkens, that familiar unease settling over his features like stormclouds.
"i... don't feel particularly hungry right now."
you hum, considering, before shrugging. "then i guess i'm not eating either. feels rude to chow down while you just watch."
"no, you should eat," he insists immediately, brows knitting. "you haven't had lunch yet, have you?" the concern in his voice is so him—so painfully earnest—that your smile softens. you really are terrible, aren't you? playing on his worry like this.
"but i want to eat with you," you counter, bumping your shoulder against his. "so if you're not hungry yet, i'll wait."
the look he gives you is downright tragic, all pouting lips and wounded eyes, like a kicked puppy being told he can't go outside yet. you bite your cheek to keep from laughing. "you... this is cheating," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. just that same resigned affection he's always had for your antics.
victory is sweet. you laugh, tangling your fingers with his again—his palm warm against yours, his pulse a frantic rabbit-run under your thumb—and tug him toward your usual haunt. he follows, of course. he always does. by the time you reach the wooden rails of your "scheming spot," he's already taken a bite, the way his face lights up at the taste sending a stupid rush of pride and warmth through your chest.
the view of kephale stretches out in front of you both—a fractured masterpiece of stone, where sunlight catches on every jagged edge of the titan. but khaslana's gaze isn't fixed on the ruins. he's drinking in everything: the way the afternoon light turns the city walls golden, the cloudless blue of the sky stretching endlessly above, the distant shrieks of children chasing each other through the plaza.
he catches snippets of gossip floating up from the market, merchants calling out their wares with practiced charm, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer. yet his attention keeps circling back to you—always you—as if trying to memorize details his heart hasn't already carved into its walls.
this moment. this stolen breath between tragedies. your shoulder pressed against his, steady as bedrock. the way you hum around a mouthful of food, eyes crinkling at something happening below. the comfortable silence that's always existed between you, needing no words. it's a scene he's replayed countless times behind closed eyelids, when the weight of the world becomes too much and he needs to remember that joy still exists somewhere.
and isn't that the cruelest truth? in every memory worth keeping, in every moment he retreats to when the darkness presses too close—you're there. laughing in the wheat fields. shoving his shoulder after a bad joke. standing vigil beside him when the nightmares come. even now, with the end looming over you both, you remain his constant. his compass. his light. his dawn.
(he doesn't realize he's staring. doesn't realize his fingers have tightened around the skewer until the wood creaks in protest. all he knows is that he wants to remember the exact shade of your smile in this light before he has to wait decades to see you again.)
"it was good, right?" you nudge your shoulder against khaslana's with practiced ease, leaning into his space like you've done a thousand times before—just to tease, just to feel him stiffen before inevitably giving in.
except this time, he doesn't tense. he just... melts into the contact, tilting ever so slightly toward you until your warmth bleeds through the fabric of his cloak. his quiet nod is barely more than a dip of his chin, but you feel it where you're pressed together.
"anyway... what did you need help with?" his voice comes out softer than he means it to, already shifting to accommodate your weight as you slump more comfortably against him, back to his shoulder. it's second nature by now—the way his arm lifts just enough to brace behind you, the angle of his shoulders adjusting to become your support. like his body remembers this dance even when his mind is screaming to pull away before he hurts you.
"oh, right. well," you tip your head back until it rests against his, staring up at the sky where clouds drift lazily across the blue. your arms cross over your chest, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against your elbows. "remember when i asked you that time about how i'd know if someone liked me back? years ago?"
yes. the word lodges in his throat like broken glass. for you, it's only been a few years. for him, it's been decades. decades of two cycles stretching between that conversation and this moment, each one filled with him trying—and failing—to show you what you mean to him without tipping his hand, no matter how desperately he wanted to. he'd spent every day after that question bracing for the moment you'd bring someone home, smiling that proud smile as you introduced them as yours. (it never came. you never mentioned them again. somehow, that was worse.)
"yes," he manages, staring hard at his hands where they've fisted in his pants. the fabric wrinkles under his grip, but he can't make himself let go. not when his chest feels this tight. how could he forget?
"good." you exhale sharply through your nose, a sound he's learned means you're steeling yourself. "because i need you to help me get it through his thick skull that i've liked him for ages."
the deja vu hits like a punch to the gut. his ribs splinter all over again, the ache so familiar he could map its edges in the dark. "why not just tell him?" he mutters, staring at the cracks in the stone beneath your feet. "you don't need my help for that." please. please don't make me watch this.
"it's not that simple." you pull away suddenly, and the loss of your warmth is a physical wound. when he risks a glance up, you're studying the skyline, jaw set in that stubborn line he knows too well. "i don't think that idiot would get it even if i spelled it out for him." your laugh is quiet, almost fond, but it does nothing to ease the knot in his chest.
khaslana swallows around the lump in his throat. "you still haven't told me who it is."
you look at him then—really look at him—and there's something in your eyes he can't name before you turn away with a sigh. "you'll find out when i tell him," you murmur, propping your elbow on your knee and resting your cheek in your palm. the sunlight catches in your lashes, turning them gold. "so? any romantic ideas for confessing to your lifelong crush, oh great hero of mine?"
the title still sends his heart stuttering against his ribs - that foolish, hopeful flutter that never fades no matter how many lifetimes pass, no matter how many variations of your voice calling him "hero" echo in his memories. it's pathetic, really, how his pulse trips over itself every single time, how warmth blooms beneath his skin like the first rays of dawn after a long winter. he ducks his head before you can see the way his lips twitch upward, fingers picking absently at a loose thread on his sleeve as he feigns contemplation.
"i mean," he mumbles, shoulders lifting in a half-hearted shrug, "you could... do the swing method?" the suggestion comes out more question than statement, tinged with the self-deprecating awareness that he's absolutely terrible at this.
your laughter rings out bright and clear, the sound weaving through the air like wind chimes on a summer breeze. khaslana can't help the way his gaze snaps up to watch you, can't stop the smile that tugs at his lips as he commits this moment to memory—the crinkles at the corners of your eyes, the way your nose scrunches up just slightly, the sunlight catching in your hair like liquid gold. if the universe demanded he forget every other memory, he'd cling to this one with both hands until his fingers bled.
"that," you manage between breathless breaths, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand, "sounds exactly like something you'd do." the teasing lilt in your voice is familiar as your own heartbeat, accompanied by that fond look that always makes his chest ache.
(he doesn't mention that he knows exactly how the swing method works because he'd planned to use it himself, once upon a time. doesn't confess that he'd spent weeks practicing the perfect confession speech to deliver while pushing you on a swing he'd have made himself, with ribbons of your favourite colour and little charms attached to it that signified 'happiness' and 'eternal love'. some dreams are better left unspoken.)
"hmm, what else?" you hum, tapping a finger against your chin after your laughter finally subsides. there's a thoughtful pause before you glance at him sideways, that familiar determined glint in your eyes softening into something more hesitant. "what if," you start, watching his reaction carefully, "i tried writing a love note with pomegranate seeds?"
khaslana's eyes flutter shut without thinking. the image comes too easily—you hunched over a table, brow furrowed in concentration as you painstakingly arrange each ruby-red seed, muttering complaints when they refuse to stay in place. he can almost hear the exasperated huff you'd make when the peel tears unevenly, see the way you'd stubbornly start over despite the juice staining your fingertips.
the chuckle slips out before he can stop it, warm and fond. no, he thinks, you shouldn't have to work so hard. if it were him, he'd spend hours crafting the perfect message, carving each word with care until his hands ached—until it was worthy of you.
"not a good idea, huh?" you ask, and when he opens his eyes, you're watching him with that tilted-head look of yours, cheek still cradled in your palm. sunlight filters through the clouds above, dappling patterns across your face that he wants to trace with his fingers.
"i'm sure they'll love whatever you do," he murmurs, but the words taste like ash on his tongue. you make a face, clearly unsatisfied, and before he can say more, you're swinging your legs off the railing with that effortless grace he could never replicate.
your hand finds his automatically, outstretched and waiting like it's the most natural thing in the world. and maybe it is—because despite everything, despite the centuries and cycles between them, some things never change. his fingers slot between yours without hesitation, the callouses on your palm familiar against his skin.
you don't let go once he's standing. instead, your grip tightens just slightly as you tug him forward, already marching toward some new destination with that single-minded determination he's always admired. "oh whatever," you declare, waving your free hand dismissively, "i'm sure we'll find our answers in the grove."
the mention sends a ripple of memories through him—his teacher's voice, the weight of duty, the scent of damp earth and ancient stone. but when he looks at you, at the way your fingers stay tangled with his like an unspoken promise, the shadows recede.
he takes a slow, steadying breath, matching his stride to yours. it doesn't matter where you're leading him. it never has. he'd follow you to the edge of the world and beyond, as long as your hand remains in his.
(always. he'll always follow.)
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what had started as research quickly devolved into the two of you curled up side by side, knees bumping together as you passed dog-eared romance novels back and forth. the hours slipped by in a haze of whispered commentary and stifled laughter, your shoulders shaking every time you encountered a particularly cringe-worthy line.
khaslana would never admit it, but he'd memorized the exact pitch of your snort when something was unbearably cheesy—the way you'd elbow him when a scene made you flustered, your cheeks warming even as you mocked it.
and though you teased every over-the-top confession and dramatic gesture, khaslana found himself cataloging them anyway. the way the hero knelt in the rain, the flowery monologues delivered at sunset—he'd recreate each one in a heartbeat if it meant seeing your face light up.
in another life, perhaps. one where his hands weren't stained with the weight of countless resets, where he could press love letters into your palm without fear of the ink bleeding through to something darker.
by the third hour, he noticed your attention waning. not for lack of interest in his company—never that—but the way your fingers tapped restlessly against the pages gave you away. "break time?" he suggested, and the grateful smile you shot him could've powered entire cities.
now, as you stroll through the quiet halls, he watches you stretch with the same careful attention one might give a sacred text. the way your back arches, the satisfied noise you make when your shoulders pop—these are things he hoards like treasure. "so," he asks, bracing himself, "have you thought of any ideas yet?"
"well, actually," you glance down, scuffing your boot against the cobblestones in a rare show of hesitation before meeting his gaze again. "i think i might just tell him." a shrug, casual as anything. "maybe throw in a poem or something."
khaslana stops dead. the world tilts. "so... you were just going to... tell him after all?" the words come out strangled, equal parts disbelief and something painfully close to hope.
you turn to face him fully, and oh—there it is. that smile. the one that crinkles your eyes just so, the one he's convinced exists solely for him. "well," you say, rocking back on your heels, "i originally wanted fireworks or some grand gesture. but after our very productive and very meaningful research session..." you scratch the back of your head, grin turning sheepish. "turns out there's no beating good old-fashioned honesty and pouring your heart out, right?"
khaslana exhales through his nose, the sound equal parts exasperation and helpless affection as a smile tugs at his lips despite himself. his brows lift slightly—this was so perfectly, painfully you. blunt as a hammer to glass, sincere to a fault, charging forward where others might hesitate.
the ache in his chest flares hot and sharp as he imagines some faceless stranger receiving what he's spent lifetimes yearning to give you—every fractured piece of love he's managed to salvage from the ruins of his soul, offered up like broken stained glass catching sunlight.
"alright," he murmurs, leaning into your shoulder with practiced ease, the teasing lilt in his voice belying the way his fingers twitch at his sides. "do you have an idea on how you're gonna go about professing your undying love?"
"actually, i do—"
the words die in your throat as shadow swallows the light above you. khaslana's body moves before his mind catches up—one arm hooking around your waist as he yanks you sideways, the other coming up in a desperate defensive stance. the black tide creature's claws whistle through the air where your head had been just seconds before.
"are you okay?" the words tumble out in a frantic rush as his hands fly over you, checking for injuries he knows aren't there but needs to confirm anyway. his palm cups your jaw without thinking, thumb brushing your cheekbone as his eyes dart across your face. "did you get hurt? was i too rough? i'm sorry—"
"khaslana!"
your voice snaps him back just in time for you to grab his collar and haul him sideways, the blade meant for his ribs slicing empty air instead. the creature shrieks in frustration, the sound like rusted metal grinding against bone, and suddenly the hall isn't empty anymore. creatures detach from the walls, from the rooftops, from the cracked ground beneath your feet—a dozen corrupted forms landing with unnatural grace as their hollow eyes lock onto you both.
"well, won't you look at that," you murmur, that familiar edge of battle-ready excitement coloring your voice as you shift into stance. your sword gleams in the dim light, its edge singing as you give it an experimental twirl. "seems like fate is on my side tonight."
khaslana doesn't need to look to know where you are—his body moves on instinct, shoulders pressing flush against yours as he covers your blind spot. the solid weight of you at his back is as natural as breathing, as steady as the sunrise after a long night.
"why in the titans' name would you possibly want a horde of black tide creatures surrounding us?" he asks, even as his fingers flex around his weapon's hilt. one slash. that's all he'd need to reduce these abominations to ash.
"so i can fight by your side," you say, like it's the simplest truth in the world, "and profess my undying love to you once we claim victory."
the world tilts. khaslana's head whips toward you so fast something in his neck protests, eyes wide enough to hurt. wait—what did you just—
"quit staring at me like that and fight with me, will you?" you snap, but there's no real heat behind it—just that same fond exasperation he's come to know better than his own reflection.
then the creatures surge forward, and there's no more time for questions.
the first one lunges at your exposed side, and khaslana moves without thinking. dawnmaker arcs through the air in a silver flash, severing the creature's arm before it can reach you. you don't even flinch—already pivoting to drive your sword through its chest, trusting him to watch your back as you strike and vice versa.
it's always been like this between you: his precise, calculated strikes tempering your bold, sweeping attacks; your relentless forward momentum covering the split-second openings in his defenses.
another creature leaps from the shadows, and you're already there—stepping into the space he'd just vacated, your elbow brushing his ribs as you move. the familiarity of it aches. how many battles have you fought like this? how many times has he felt the whisper of your cloak against his armor, heard the sharp exhale you always make when you land a killing blow?
too many to count. and yet, never enough.
a particularly large creature swings at you, and khaslana's there before it can connect—his blade meeting yours mid-swing as you both strike simultaneously, the impact sending dark ichor splattering across the stones. you grin at him over crossed swords, breathless and bright-eyed, and something in his chest cracks open.
he's missed this. missed you. the way you fight like every battle is your last, the way you trust him to catch you when you overextend, the way you always seem to know what he needs before he does. it's terrifying. it's perfect.
the last creature falls with a gurgling shriek, and suddenly the alley is quiet again save for the sound of your ragged breathing. you're still pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with him, your warmth seeping through the layers of fabric and armor between you. when you turn to face him properly, there's blood on your cheek and triumph in your eyes, and khaslana has never seen anything more beautiful.
"so," you say, wiping your sword clean with practiced ease, "about that confession—"
"it's really... me?"
the words come out shattered, fractured at the edges like broken glass. khaslana's voice trembles in a way you've never heard before, his eyes wide and shimmering with something dangerously close to hope. the sight makes your breath catch—this legendary deliverer, this man who's faced down titans without flinching, now looking at you like you've hung the stars in the sky just for him.
you can't help the laughter that bubbles up, bright and unrestrained, as you clutch at your stomach. your cheeks burn with equal parts amusement and flustered affection. "see?" you manage between breathless chuckles, "i told you the person i liked was a total idiot."
"but..." he swallows hard, hands hovering uncertainly in the space between you. "since when?"
"since the day you caught me when i fell from that tree."
the memory hits khaslana like a physical blow—sudden and vivid as lightning splitting the sky. a memory from the first cycle.
he sees it all again with perfect clarity: himself as a boy, small and serious, dragging his wooden stick through the dirt after another frustrating 'training' session. the fairies' stories of great heroes still fresh in his mind, their words about courage and destiny spinning through his thoughts as he wandered the outskirts of town.
if only he could acquire a weapon, even if it was just a wooden sword, then he'd be able to train properly. then—movement. a flash of color high in the old oak tree. another child, all reckless energy and stubborn determination, climbing higher than was wise.
he remembers the exact moment your knee slipped. the way time seemed to slow as you teetered on the branch. his body moving before his mind could catch up, feet pounding against the earth as he launched himself forward with arms outstretched. the impact knocked the breath from both of you when you collided, sending you tumbling into the grass in a tangle of limbs.
when the dust settled, he found himself staring down at you—this strange, sunlit child with leaves in your hair and dirt smudged across your cheek. your eyes had gone wide with surprise at first, then softened into something warm and delighted as you took him in. "thanks, hero," you'd said with that first, earth-shattering grin.
neither of you could have known then how that moment would echo across lifetimes. how those two simple words would become a promise, a prayer, an anchor point in the storm of cycles to come. all khaslana knew in that instant was that he wanted—needed—to keep being worthy of that title. worthy of you.
khaslana's heart swells until he thinks it might burst, each frantic beat echoing through his ribs like war drums. his hand flies to his chest, fingers clutching at the fabric over his heart as if he could physically steady the storm inside. tears spill over before he can stop them, tracking hot paths down his cheeks that he's powerless to halt.
"woah, are you okay?" your voice wraps around him like sunlight as you close the distance between you. calloused palms cradle his face with a tenderness that undoes him completely, thumbs brushing away his tears with infinite care. he melts into your touch without hesitation—leaning into your hands like a flower turning toward the sun, his lashes fluttering as he blinks rapidly, desperate to clear his vision.
he needs to see you. needs to memorize every detail of this moment—the way your brows knit together in concern, the soft part of your lips, the warmth of your skin against his. when his fingers find yours, they're trembling, but he holds on tight, anchoring himself to you.
you chuckle, the sound warmer than any hearthfire, and he feels the vibration of it where your foreheads nearly touch. "gosh," you murmur, voice laced with amusement, "i didn't think you'd cry like this. i still haven't even properly confessed yet." your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, so gentle it makes his breath catch. "how many cycles were there where we got to confess our feelings?"
the question sends a fresh wave of emotion crashing through him. khaslana ducks his head, suddenly sheepish, peering up at you through damp lashes with the full force of his most devastating puppy-eyed look. "this is the first one..." he admits in a whisper so soft it's nearly lost between you, his fingers tightening around yours like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go.
your entire body locks up at his confession, muscles tensing like a bowstring drawn too tight. for three heartbeats, the world stops spinning. then—"what?!" the word explodes from your lungs with enough force to startle birds from nearby rooftops, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. "this is the first cycle where we actually confess?!"
khaslana nods, those damn puppy eyes somehow growing even more potent as fresh tears cling to his lashes. the sight would be adorable if your brain wasn't currently short-circuiting with a much more pressing realization. "wait so—" your voice pitches upward, fingers tightening in the fabric of his cloak, "did we die as virgins?!"
the question lands between them like a lit firework. khaslana's breath hitches—once, twice—before his composure shatters completely. laughter bursts from his chest, raw and unfiltered, the kind that makes his ribs ache and his vision blur. he doubles over, shoulders shaking, as centuries—cycles—of tension pour out of him all at once. for the first time in countless lifetimes, the weight of the world doesn't crush him. there's just this moment. just you. just the absurdity of it all.
"khaslana!" you swat at his arm, but there's no real heat behind it. "this is no laughing matter!" your voice cracks on the last syllable, torn between outrage and the infectious joy of hearing him laugh like this. "what do you mean i lived a life of celibacy?!"
he can't answer. not when every time he tries to catch his breath, another wave of giggles overtakes him. instead, he drags you into his arms, burying his face in the curve of your neck as his body continues to tremble with mirth. you keep grumbling, of course—something about romantic incompetence and wasted opportunities—but your hands come up to clutch at his back anyway, holding him just as tight.
and if your grip borders on desperate, if your fingers press hard enough to leave bruises—well. neither of you mention it. not when the alternative is letting go. not when you can still feel the ghost of all those cycles where his eyes held no light at all.
(you'll hold onto this version of him for as long as the universe allows. you just pray it'll be longer than a moment. but a deal is a deal.)
for one fragile, stolen moment, the two of you exist in a world of your own making. his arms around you feel like the only solid thing left in the universe, your foreheads pressed together as if you could fuse your souls through sheer willpower.
the scent of him—steel and something faintly sweet, like sun-warmed honey—fills your lungs as you breathe him in, memorizing the way his heartbeat thrums against your chest. you want to stay like this forever, wrapped in this quiet pocket of time where nothing exists but the warmth of his hands on your back and the soft puffs of his breath against your skin.
but the universe has never been kind to either of you.
your eyes flutter open against your will, drawn upward to the sickly glow of the fractured sky. your jaw clenches so tight it aches as you force out the question that's been clawing at your throat: "how long do we have?"
the silence stretches between you, filled only with the sound of his shaky exhale. you can feel him committing this to memory—the weight of you in his arms, the way your fingers clutch at his shirt, the exact cadence of your breathing. when he finally speaks, his voice is muffled against your neck, lips brushing your skin with every word: "one more day."
of course. one more day. because khaslana has always been too softhearted for his own good, dragging things out until the last possible second, unable to bear the thought of hurting you a moment sooner than necessary. the sigh that escapes you is equal parts fond and resigned.
you pull back just enough to see his face, and your resolve nearly crumbles. his eyes are red-rimmed and shining, lips pressed into a thin line as he tries—and fails—to keep his composure. you're still so close you can kiss his tears away, your hands resting on his waist while his arms remain loosely draped around you, as if he can't bear to let go completely.
(for him. you have to do this for him.)
with every ounce of love burning in your chest—brighter than any coreflame could ever hope to be—you smile at him. that same smile he's carried across countless lifetimes, the one that crinkles your eyes just so and makes his foolish heart stutter against his ribs. "well," you say, voice steadier than your trembling hands, "a deal's a deal. thank you for helping me once again, hero."
you step back before he can protest, palm raised to stop him from following. it shakes—you both know it does—but neither of you acknowledge it. there are a thousand things you want to say, a million promises clawing at your throat, but the time for words has passed.
the chuckle that escapes you is weak, watery, but still so unmistakably you. "just as i promised," you murmur, fingers hovering over your sternum, "i'll hand over the coreflame to you, khaslana." then—before either of you can hesitate—you plunge your hand into your chest with a gut-wrenching groan.
khaslana flinches like the pain is his own, head jerking away on instinct. he's seen this too many times, watched you shatter in too many ways, and yet—he forces himself to look. to memorize the curve of your lips, the stubborn set of your jaw, the way your eyes never leave his even as your body begins to fray at the edges. he owes you that much.
"you know," you gasp, fingers curling around the glow inside your ribs, "i wouldn't mind if you did the swing method on me." golden blood trickles from the corner of your mouth, but your grin never wavers.
something in khaslana breaks. tears spill over without permission, streaking down his cheeks in hot, relentless streams. not now. not when he'd just gotten you back.
"though," you continue, voice growing fainter, "i have a feeling i'll mess it up somehow." the affection in your gaze could power entire kingdoms, could rewrite the stars themselves. then—with one final, shuddering pull—you wrench the coreflame free.
your triumphant smile is the last coherent thought he has before you're shoving the glowing core into his shaking hands. "i hope," you whisper, pressing closer as his sobs fracture the air between you, "in the next cycle, and every one after... you'll kiss me first. and let me have the chance to say 'i love you'."
"i promise," he chokes out, fingers scrambling to clutch at your disintegrating form. "i swear it—every lifetime, every cycle, i'll—" his voice cracks, raw with devotion. "i'll court you properly. take you on dates. read you terrible poetry at sunrise. anything—everything—just—"
"good." your laugh is barely more than a breath, but it settles in his bones all the same. "and since i'm so selfish—"
you surge forward before he can react, one hand fisting in his cloak while the other cradles his jaw with devastating tenderness. the kiss is messy—all clashing teeth and salt-stained lips, your blood on his tongue and his tears on your cheeks. he kisses you like a dying man granted one last miracle, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise if you weren't already slipping through them.
you taste like home. like every sunrise he's ever woken up to, every battlefield he's ever survived, every prayer he's ever whispered into the dark. and when you pull away—too soon, never enough—your lips are still curved in that damnable smile even as your body dissolves into golden embers.
"see you tomorrow, my hero." you murmur against his mouth, and then—
you're gone.
khaslana collapses to his knees, the weight of the coreflame in his hands nothing compared to the crushing absence where you should be. his fingers tremble around its glow, clutching it to his chest like he could somehow press it back into the hollow space beneath his ribs where you belong. the sobs come then—great, heaving things that tear through him with enough force to bruise, his forehead pressing into the dirt still warm from where you'd stood moments before.
"i promise," he chokes out between ragged breaths, the words scraping his throat raw. "i swear on every star, every cycle, every broken piece of this damned world—" his voice cracks, splintering like the earth beneath his knees. "next time, i'll love you properly. no more hiding. no more waiting." the coreflame pulses against his palm, its light catching on the tears dripping steadily onto the ground. "i'll tell you every day. i'll kiss you at every dawn, hold you through every nightmare, fight for you in every lifetime. i promise you that, dawnlight."
a shudder wracks his frame as he presses his lips to the glowing ember, your name a prayer and a plea and a promise all at once. the taste of salt and smoke lingers on his tongue, bitter and sweet in equal measure. somewhere, in some distant future where the cycle begins anew, he'll find you again. he'll love you louder this time. love you enough for all the lifetimes where he was too afraid, too careful, too late.
(and maybe—just maybe—that will be enough.)
i’ll admit, i’m almost afraid to check the word count on this one—turns out it’s 9.9k, which explains why it took me a solid eight hours to finish. it’s currently 7:43 AM, and yes, i did start this at 11 PM last night. maybe i should’ve slept instead, but the amphoreus arc has been living in my head rent-free, and the urge to write something aching and tender got the better of me. i haven’t written proper angst in so long, and my hands just wouldn’t stop until i’d wrung out every last drop of emotion. so, here we are. apologies for the pain—i did say i couldn’t bear to hurt phainon, but i just couldn't take it anymore. i needed to write at least one angst one-shot for him, so here it is.
i'm too softhearted when it comes to him, so i tried to end this... not so painfully LOL
this was entirely self-indulgent, born from a single daydream that spiraled into something much longer. no outline, no overthinking—just me chasing the feeling of a scene until it became this. that means some moments might feel raw or uneven, like glimpses into a wandering mind rather than a structured story. but that’s how inspiration works sometimes, isn’t it? you cling to it before it slips away, even if it means writing through the night with gethsemane by sleep token on loop.
if you made it this far, thank you for indulging me. i hope you found something to love in this mess of emotions, even if it hurt a little (or a lot) <3 and props to the people who got the little references i included in this one-shot hahahah
i have to confess—phainon's E6 eidolon has completely captured my heart. there's something about the delicate details in his design, the way the light plays across his features, that makes me want to just... take a BIG CHOMP. it's that perfect blend of ethereal beauty and overwhelming strength that i can't resist. i find myself constantly pausing just to admire the artistry whenever it appears on screen.
his entire aesthetic resonates with me on such a deep level—i may have developed a tiny (okay, not so tiny) obsession with how beautifully his character was brought to life.