❝ ... and before i forget, tell the doctor, the one in the raincoat and always drinking coffee... tell them to get some rest. and that i need the report from the last operation by tomorrow. [...] i know you're listening doctor, so if you come across this recording... come do crosswords with me again. the newspaper have missed you. ❞
SYNOPSIS: you have known phainon as the boy who liked to play tag, disliked hide and seek, and a god with great responsibility. unfortunately for you, he hides too many secrets.
𖥔 WORDCOUNT: 3.3k ┆ 𖥔 TAGS. @amorsial @cinerias @shoyosluver @hirokasama @uzxotic @anqelkoz @leafyonz @suyeomiiee @ddurandals @007-archives @officialkatzline -> taglist is being reworked! feel free to send in an ask (off-anon) or comment if you'd like to be tagged in future works ^^
𖥔 WARNINGS: au where the chrysos heirs are actual gods. mentions of blood, violence, and weapons. character death. potential ooc (i haven't written for the guy in a hot minute okay....) not fully proofread; expect mistakes!
♪ FINAL NOTES .ᐟ an order of a blue cup with blood orange & cranberry tea, a splash of lemon juice, and a cheesy vegetable garden tart for TEA99. this has highkey changed from the initial idea but wtv!
It's almost laughable how you painfully want to wrap your fingers around Phainon's neck in a vice grip. Alas, you can't do that—not without any immediate and lasting repercussions, at least, and you'd rather not be the cause of Anaxagoras's headache. As much as you loved annoying the god, Phainon had already taken up that post.
"What's gotten you in such a sour mood?"
And on cue, the pensive expression on your face shifts into a nasty sneer. Without another word, you grip the basket of harvest to your hip just a tad tighter when another pair of footsteps walk with you. You bite your tongue hard. Hard enough to draw blood when steady but scarred hands take the woven thing from your grasp.
"You, if it wasn't obvious enough," you bark out, arms crossing over your chest—unsure what to do with them now.
Phainon only laughs, that bellowing sound that poets would describe as sunlight dripping like molten wax under the summer afternoon. It's an annoying, grating sound you'd much rather avoid. But he's persistent. At being helpful, at being a gentleman, at never knowing when to give you a moment of peace since you've become Cyrene's handmaiden.
For a god bearing the world's responsibilities, Phainon sure had enough time on his hands to come and talk your ear off.
"Well, that's not a nice way to greet a friend."
"We're not friends, my lord."
The formality bleeds in like a familiar habit. When you're at the steps of your goddess's temple, you snatch the basket from his hands with haste, leaving him stunned at the foot of the stairs as you march your way up. You don't look back; you force yourself not to when he shouts.
"Tell Cyrene I said 'hello'!"
You only roll your eyes as you mutter. "Go do it yourself."
The following morning, Phainon is there. Of course he is; he's a god—just not yours. As Cyrene had informed, every ruling divine residing in Amphoreus was cordially invited to a simple get-together. 'To maintain a close bond!' she had explained when you asked. And in a sense, you understood why she does it.
He's seated next to her, perks of being childhood friends before inheriting their titles, you suppose. Romance is to Phainon's left, and Reason is next to her. You hide a smile behind your chalice as Trickery pounces toward your side, already whispering the townsfolk's recent gossip. Strife is across from Phainon, leaning back on his chair as he recounts another tale from his recent escapades in dealing with the Black Tide's army. Death is next to him, silent but not invisible, swirling the drink in her purple palms, laughing with the Sky quietly as Worldbearing is scolded.
Passage is running late, so is Law and the Ocean. Not unknown prospects to you—you were the one to deliver the news to Time after all.
It's such a normal sight, one you didn't and wouldn't have believed even as Cyrene retold the events of the previous gathering. Everyone was lathered in ambrosia, flour, and laughter as they attempted to cook. A very human affair for beings that mortals look to for guidance and protection. If you hadn't taken your goddess's blessings, you'd have remained ignorant of such a strange, familial connection between them.
"And what about you?" Cifera drawls out, yellow-manicured fingers dancing across your arms. You ignore the pin-prickling feeling of another pair of eyes raking over your figure as you try to hide in your own skin.
You can only throw the goddess of trickery a wry smile, "Nothing out of sorts. Definitely paling in comparison to your mischief."
Cifera preens at your unabashed gloating over her name. Her feline-like eyes focus on your own as she tries to make a grab at your chalice. "Oh, don't be like that! Surely something interesting must be going on in your little life."
"If there was, I'd be racing to tell you," you argue. Not necessarily a lie, after becoming a demigod, you find yourself indulging in the presence of your little thief if you aren't running around to finish your duties.
"Cifera, leave the attendant alone." Romance warns.
With a roll of her eyes and a hidden chuckle from you, Cifera bids you farewell and scurries back to her seat next to Strife.
Cyrene beckons you over, having already noticed the clouds obscuring your face. She always has, ever caring for the people that surround her—divine and mortal alike. It delivers a short pang of guilt in your heart as you assure her with a wave of your hand. How lucky you are to have been graced by the blessing of a gentle god like Cyrene. Maybe that's why you leave the scene.
You can't bear to indulge in her charade. No matter how many times she tells you that it will grow easier over time, it has not. It has become painfully difficult to face all of them with the knowledge that you are stuck. Looping in cycles that threaten and bind your existence to one focal point you cannot derive from.
It is cruel; it is unprecedented—it is entirely unlike her. How Time can cradle you so softly, a gentle smile easing your worries and simultaneously forcing all of your cards out of your hands when you least expect it. Cyrene is not a punishing god to attend to, but she is infinitely hard to understand.
"Leaving so soon?" A smooth voice asks just a few feet from where you stand in the balcony overlooking the Temple of Evernight. You sigh heavily when you wait for a few minutes, and Phainon doesn't leave. It seems like he has no plans of leaving you alone.
"Shouldn't you be indulging in honeycakes and ambrosia by now?" You ask with an annoyed lilt to your voice. Much to your horror, Phainon has taken your reply as an invitation to chat as he takes the spot next to you. You ignore how your shoulders are nearly touching.
"Flavour fatigue," he explains. "I still can't believe Mydeimos can down so many plates of those!"
You don't offer him anything—not a word, not even a spared breath in his direction. It's as if you're actively holding your breath when he invades your space. Not one wrong inhale when the air carries the scent of wheatfield and drying sunshine, and you'll forget all that you've worked for.
Phainon clears his throat, failing to keep his composure as the air between you turns awkward. He's started tapping on the marble, eyes unsure where they can and can't land without you snapping. You almost snort at the stupidity of it all. He's a god for goodness' sake! One who holds your entire fate in the palm of his hands. And yet here he is, fixing his chiton, his hair, and shuffling from one foot to another just to appear unbothered.
How has this buffon taken the title of a god when he's like this with you?
"I'm retiring for the night. Enjoy the rest of your evening." You say, cutting through the silence after you couldn't take any more of it. The path of some peace and quiet was so clear in your mind—just a few heavy strides into the temple, turn right, and you're in your quarters—but it can never be that simple when Phainon is involved. It's as if he's allergic to not meddling in affairs he shouldn't.
"One moment, I still want to—"
"My Lord, unhand me."
He glares, not at you. You've noticed he's always done that—avoiding his more divine features from your periphery as if you weren't partially god yourself. It infuriates you, but not in the way it should. Phainon's actions appear arrogant, as if wedging a giant wall between you. A reminder that he is a full god, while you can only scrape off a fraction of it to even stand beside him. Phainon has never done that—never made you feel any lesser; hell, he treats you better—and that's the problem.
"Please," he pleads with you as his other hand envelops yours, bringing it to his lips as his breath ghosts over your skin. He is warm. No, that's not right. For all the words you have used to describe Phainon, it is not 'warm'. Scalding would be much better. "I just need a moment of your time to tell you that I…"
The words catch in his throat. He looked almost in pain, as if someone had stabbed him through the heart with a blade meant to incapacitate him for all eternity. Under the Evernight's glow, where the fireflies have decided to dance and the breeze to go still, Phainon's eyes are shadowed by an emotion you cannot begin to name.
"I…" He tries again, his hold on your hand growing tighter as his teeth catch his bottom lip. No further words escape him, and he takes it as a cue to finally resign himself to his fate.
You grit your teeth. The force is so hard you feel it crack like the earth in your own jaw. You pry your hand away from him, rubbing at the skin of your wrist raw as you glare. Phainon looks defeated; it annoys you. He looks defeated as you spare him no glance when you turn to leave.
Phainon thinks his curse is not that he has to bear the world and all its people. He thinks he's cursed with never having to hold you again.
"Distracted," a gruff voice points out as he cries out in pain. His hands instinctively come to rub at the sore spot on his head as Mydeimos drops the wooden sword in front of him.
"How rude!" Phainon exclaims with faux irritation. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous game," Mydeimos replies, dropping to sit cross-legged in front of Phainon. His chin is propped up against the heart of his gloved palm, the gold of his necklace and bracers catching the morning rays like a dream catcher. "What's gotten you so up in the clouds? I doubt even Hyacinthia can pluck you out of it."
When Phainon doesn't reply, Mydeimos only hums.
"Is it the attendant? The one always at Cyrene's side?"
It's embarrassing how fast the mention of you catches his attention.
Noticing his failure at subtlety, Phainon hides behind a closed fist and clears his throat. The actions do little to stop the sly smirk that breaks out on Strife's face. Suddenly, he is a boy again. In the wheatfields of Aedes Elysiae, hiding behind their pale golden light, he hears your giggles calling out to his sister. It suddenly feels too hot, which is ironic because that's all he's ever felt—after inheriting the coreflame of Worldbearing, Phainon can only run warm.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Mydeimos says, already getting up and dusting down his pants.
Phainon furrows his brows at the comment. "What does that mean?"
"You've been in this dance of hot and cold since I've met you," the prince shrugs. "You're hot, they're cold. You're perpetually a bumbling mess of poetry, while they remain a straight composure. Laughable, really."
"I am not!" Phainon denies, rising from his seat, taking the wooden sword with him.
Mydeimos only laughs. Filled with mirth and youth that neither of them is familiar with. "Oh, please. You can do better than that."
With a glare, Phainon takes up arms. His pretend blade aimed at his companion as he challenges, "Try me then."
A grin breaks out on Mydeimos's face. He stretches his arms in front of him, cracking the sleeping bones in his neck as he beckons Phainon forward.
"Up and at it, Worldbearer."
"I still don't see why you can't just say it openly," Cyrene admits, her fingers drawing lazy patterns over the blanket across her lap. Phainon can only shift in his seat as he peels an apple for her. Normally, it would be you in his position. But Cyrene has sent you away on an errand with Lady Tribbios, and who was he to deny his sister anything when she rarely asked for it?
He only chuckles nervously, placing another skinless piece on the plate of her bedside table, making sure to avoid the cracking of her porcelain skin when she reaches for it. "You know why, Cyrene."
Surprisingly, she doesn't jump to correct him. That she doesn't, in fact, know he's tiptoeing around the subject. All Phainon is met with is a tentative hum, the sound of her coughing, and the falling of his wooden seat as he jumps to rub soothing circles on her back when she coughs.
"We don't have enough time," he murmurs. Cyrene's hands gripping his chiton with frail strength. The sight of her, so weak and unable to stand on her own as the world breaks and becomes anew, never fails to spark that igniting hatred simmering in the pit of his stomach.
How unfair and cruel this world is to Cyrene, who has done nothing but love it wholeheartedly.
Your name falls gently from her lips when Cyrene pulls away, "They can't wait forever, you know? At some point, in some way, they'll learn the truth. I think it would comfort them greatly if it came from you, Phainon."
His throat runs dry. As if on command at the sound of your name, Phainon looks away. The words sit heavily on his tongue, waiting to run loose and find you. But he has never been good at hide-and-seek; he much preferred tag. It's a much simpler game, no rules or limits—he can run wherever and for however long he wishes. And right now, he wants to run. Back into that village hut where blood remains a foreign concept only known in fairytales and ballads, where swords did not break skin, and where you would come find him and take him home when the sun has decided it no longer wished to see the world.
"Why won't you tell them, Phainon?"
"I can't," he says through gritted teeth, his head falling to Cyrene's shoulder as her arms, as weak as they are, come to embrace him. "I mustn't drag another into this mess."
"Oh, Phainon. It isn't your fault."
He wished to believe that, truly, he did.
But how can a God ascend to divinity without blood drying under the beds of his nails?
News travels fast even without Passage's assistance, you realize. Prophecies, divine readings, these are no foreign subjects to you—you've learned to master them after becoming a demigod yourself. What your goddess has not told you is the lingering panic that will settle in your veins when you hear of them.
"Time has fallen!"
It rings and rings, turning your limbs into stone as the people around you start running. They shout, they cry, they look to you and beg for guidance. You are a demigod—a hand-picked attendant to Time herself—but you offer no consolation. You stay rooted in the market's frenzied state. It's as if your mind has turned into a river of uncertainty, before a pebble drops and shatters the silence like glass.
You run.
You've never been good at tag—never as good as him. Your lungs are too greedy; they ask for air even before you take off. Your legs are not strong; they can't hold out for more than a few minutes, nor can they cross miles as they were just numbers being recorded on parchment. You much preferred hide and seek. A set of rules and a limited time. Because when the final grain drops in the hourglass, you'll know the game is done.
Now you know why Phainon didn't like it so much.
The reaction after stagnation is immediate. You barrel into the temple, into Cyrene's private quarters. Weaving between any and every guard that stands in your way. And when you knock down the elaborate gate that separates you two, you are out of breath, and you are tired.
How cruel a game it is—to believe that even time can run out.
"What have you done…?" you ask, voice breaking as you fall to your knees. The cold marble kisses your skin as tears spill from your eyes. "What have you done to her, Phainon?"
He doesn't reply. Phainon just stares—at the blood, then at the blade in his hand, and then at you.
Your name falls from his lips, waking a trail of cold nerves across your arms as you shake your head, refusing to believe the sight in front of you. "You weren't supposed to be here."
"That wasn't my question. Whether I was or wasn't supposed to be here matters not—!"
"You're supposed to be with Lady Tribbion in the market."
"What have you done to her, Phainon!"
"You weren't supposed to see."
"Answer me!"
"It was supposed to be a secret between us two."
You don't know what compelled you to action. Maybe it was the anger, maybe it was something else. Regardless, you run. Dagger obtained from a hidden pocket in your garments, and you charge. Metal point aimed at Phainon's chest as you toppled him off his feet, the ceremonial blade Cyrene would use in rituals clattering loudly as it fell beside him.
A pained cry leaves you, the dagger aimed high before you can attempt to plunge it into his heart. He stops you—of course he does—by seizing your wrists before you can nick his skin. Tears freely flow from your eyes now. They drop one by one like falling stars onto his cheeks. Now only do you realize the lack of light in Phainon's eyes. He looks like a corpse walking on pure instinct.
"What have you done?" you parrot again, your weapon shaking as you struggle against his strength. "What secret have you been hiding that involves her death! Answer me, Phainon!"
Phainon smiles bitterly, "Time runs out."
"Don't start being philosophical on me now, you wrench."
He can only look away at your words. At his reaction, you can only laugh in grief.
"I thought you hated hide and seek. So why now are you hiding from me?"
"Please don't," he pleads, bottom lip shedding golden blood from how harshly Phainon has been biting down on it. Tears spill from his shadowed eyes with his grip still unyielding on your hands. "Please don't look at me. Not now, not when I've done something you cannot forgive."
"You plead with me now?" Disbelief envelops your voice as it cracks. "Do you take me for a fool? An ignorant attendant who hasn't noticed anything wrong? You think so lowly of me, Phainon, despite claiming the opposite."
"You don't understand."
"Then make me! For the love of god Phainon, please, make me understand."
You've known Phainon for a long time. He was the boy you saw with wooden swords and a blue cape, running the fields amok and leading younger children in 'adventures'. You were more involved with his sister, Cyrene, a girl blessed with reading cards.
"Please, Phainon. We can make this work."
You don't recall ever playing with him, though. He liked his freedom—unrestrained by rules and expectations from games. You were the opposite. You liked the certainty and repetition.
"We have to, Phainon."
He liked your difference. It fuelled his fantasy of being the sunshine to your gloom, the knight to your regent. Never in his life did he think his little play of your romance would turn upside down. Because he was never meant to be the sun, Phainon had too much hate in his heart to be that pure. And he couldn't be a knight; he was too guilty for such a role.
"I'm sorry, but we can't."
Because Gods could no longer play games like tag or hide and seek. Those were activities meant for mortal souls. Neither of you was human anymore. But when gods do decide they want to play pretend—blinded by nostalgia for when they were but a speck of dust in the grand cosmos—it always ends the same.
SYNOPSIS: you have known phainon as the boy who liked to play tag, disliked hide and seek, and a god with great responsibility. unfortunately for you, he hides too many secrets.
𖥔 WORDCOUNT: 3.3k ┆ 𖥔 TAGS. @amorsial @cinerias @shoyosluver @hirokasama @uzxotic @anqelkoz @leafyonz @suyeomiiee @ddurandals @007-archives @officialkatzline -> taglist is being reworked! feel free to send in an ask (off-anon) or comment if you'd like to be tagged in future works ^^
𖥔 WARNINGS: au where the chrysos heirs are actual gods. mentions of blood, violence, and weapons. character death. potential ooc (i haven't written for the guy in a hot minute okay....) not fully proofread; expect mistakes!
♪ FINAL NOTES .ᐟ an order of a blue cup with blood orange & cranberry tea, a splash of lemon juice, and a cheesy vegetable garden tart for TEA99. this has highkey changed from the initial idea but wtv!
It's almost laughable how you painfully want to wrap your fingers around Phainon's neck in a vice grip. Alas, you can't do that—not without any immediate and lasting repercussions, at least, and you'd rather not be the cause of Anaxagoras's headache. As much as you loved annoying the god, Phainon had already taken up that post.
"What's gotten you in such a sour mood?"
And on cue, the pensive expression on your face shifts into a nasty sneer. Without another word, you grip the basket of harvest to your hip just a tad tighter when another pair of footsteps walk with you. You bite your tongue hard. Hard enough to draw blood when steady but scarred hands take the woven thing from your grasp.
"You, if it wasn't obvious enough," you bark out, arms crossing over your chest—unsure what to do with them now.
Phainon only laughs, that bellowing sound that poets would describe as sunlight dripping like molten wax under the summer afternoon. It's an annoying, grating sound you'd much rather avoid. But he's persistent. At being helpful, at being a gentleman, at never knowing when to give you a moment of peace since you've become Cyrene's handmaiden.
For a god bearing the world's responsibilities, Phainon sure had enough time on his hands to come and talk your ear off.
"Well, that's not a nice way to greet a friend."
"We're not friends, my lord."
The formality bleeds in like a familiar habit. When you're at the steps of your goddess's temple, you snatch the basket from his hands with haste, leaving him stunned at the foot of the stairs as you march your way up. You don't look back; you force yourself not to when he shouts.
"Tell Cyrene I said 'hello'!"
You only roll your eyes as you mutter. "Go do it yourself."
The following morning, Phainon is there. Of course he is; he's a god—just not yours. As Cyrene had informed, every ruling divine residing in Amphoreus was cordially invited to a simple get-together. 'To maintain a close bond!' she had explained when you asked. And in a sense, you understood why she does it.
He's seated next to her, perks of being childhood friends before inheriting their titles, you suppose. Romance is to Phainon's left, and Reason is next to her. You hide a smile behind your chalice as Trickery pounces toward your side, already whispering the townsfolk's recent gossip. Strife is across from Phainon, leaning back on his chair as he recounts another tale from his recent escapades in dealing with the Black Tide's army. Death is next to him, silent but not invisible, swirling the drink in her purple palms, laughing with the Sky quietly as Worldbearing is scolded.
Passage is running late, so is Law and the Ocean. Not unknown prospects to you—you were the one to deliver the news to Time after all.
It's such a normal sight, one you didn't and wouldn't have believed even as Cyrene retold the events of the previous gathering. Everyone was lathered in ambrosia, flour, and laughter as they attempted to cook. A very human affair for beings that mortals look to for guidance and protection. If you hadn't taken your goddess's blessings, you'd have remained ignorant of such a strange, familial connection between them.
"And what about you?" Cifera drawls out, yellow-manicured fingers dancing across your arms. You ignore the pin-prickling feeling of another pair of eyes raking over your figure as you try to hide in your own skin.
You can only throw the goddess of trickery a wry smile, "Nothing out of sorts. Definitely paling in comparison to your mischief."
Cifera preens at your unabashed gloating over her name. Her feline-like eyes focus on your own as she tries to make a grab at your chalice. "Oh, don't be like that! Surely something interesting must be going on in your little life."
"If there was, I'd be racing to tell you," you argue. Not necessarily a lie, after becoming a demigod, you find yourself indulging in the presence of your little thief if you aren't running around to finish your duties.
"Cifera, leave the attendant alone." Romance warns.
With a roll of her eyes and a hidden chuckle from you, Cifera bids you farewell and scurries back to her seat next to Strife.
Cyrene beckons you over, having already noticed the clouds obscuring your face. She always has, ever caring for the people that surround her—divine and mortal alike. It delivers a short pang of guilt in your heart as you assure her with a wave of your hand. How lucky you are to have been graced by the blessing of a gentle god like Cyrene. Maybe that's why you leave the scene.
You can't bear to indulge in her charade. No matter how many times she tells you that it will grow easier over time, it has not. It has become painfully difficult to face all of them with the knowledge that you are stuck. Looping in cycles that threaten and bind your existence to one focal point you cannot derive from.
It is cruel; it is unprecedented—it is entirely unlike her. How Time can cradle you so softly, a gentle smile easing your worries and simultaneously forcing all of your cards out of your hands when you least expect it. Cyrene is not a punishing god to attend to, but she is infinitely hard to understand.
"Leaving so soon?" A smooth voice asks just a few feet from where you stand in the balcony overlooking the Temple of Evernight. You sigh heavily when you wait for a few minutes, and Phainon doesn't leave. It seems like he has no plans of leaving you alone.
"Shouldn't you be indulging in honeycakes and ambrosia by now?" You ask with an annoyed lilt to your voice. Much to your horror, Phainon has taken your reply as an invitation to chat as he takes the spot next to you. You ignore how your shoulders are nearly touching.
"Flavour fatigue," he explains. "I still can't believe Mydeimos can down so many plates of those!"
You don't offer him anything—not a word, not even a spared breath in his direction. It's as if you're actively holding your breath when he invades your space. Not one wrong inhale when the air carries the scent of wheatfield and drying sunshine, and you'll forget all that you've worked for.
Phainon clears his throat, failing to keep his composure as the air between you turns awkward. He's started tapping on the marble, eyes unsure where they can and can't land without you snapping. You almost snort at the stupidity of it all. He's a god for goodness' sake! One who holds your entire fate in the palm of his hands. And yet here he is, fixing his chiton, his hair, and shuffling from one foot to another just to appear unbothered.
How has this buffon taken the title of a god when he's like this with you?
"I'm retiring for the night. Enjoy the rest of your evening." You say, cutting through the silence after you couldn't take any more of it. The path of some peace and quiet was so clear in your mind—just a few heavy strides into the temple, turn right, and you're in your quarters—but it can never be that simple when Phainon is involved. It's as if he's allergic to not meddling in affairs he shouldn't.
"One moment, I still want to—"
"My Lord, unhand me."
He glares, not at you. You've noticed he's always done that—avoiding his more divine features from your periphery as if you weren't partially god yourself. It infuriates you, but not in the way it should. Phainon's actions appear arrogant, as if wedging a giant wall between you. A reminder that he is a full god, while you can only scrape off a fraction of it to even stand beside him. Phainon has never done that—never made you feel any lesser; hell, he treats you better—and that's the problem.
"Please," he pleads with you as his other hand envelops yours, bringing it to his lips as his breath ghosts over your skin. He is warm. No, that's not right. For all the words you have used to describe Phainon, it is not 'warm'. Scalding would be much better. "I just need a moment of your time to tell you that I…"
The words catch in his throat. He looked almost in pain, as if someone had stabbed him through the heart with a blade meant to incapacitate him for all eternity. Under the Evernight's glow, where the fireflies have decided to dance and the breeze to go still, Phainon's eyes are shadowed by an emotion you cannot begin to name.
"I…" He tries again, his hold on your hand growing tighter as his teeth catch his bottom lip. No further words escape him, and he takes it as a cue to finally resign himself to his fate.
You grit your teeth. The force is so hard you feel it crack like the earth in your own jaw. You pry your hand away from him, rubbing at the skin of your wrist raw as you glare. Phainon looks defeated; it annoys you. He looks defeated as you spare him no glance when you turn to leave.
Phainon thinks his curse is not that he has to bear the world and all its people. He thinks he's cursed with never having to hold you again.
"Distracted," a gruff voice points out as he cries out in pain. His hands instinctively come to rub at the sore spot on his head as Mydeimos drops the wooden sword in front of him.
"How rude!" Phainon exclaims with faux irritation. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous game," Mydeimos replies, dropping to sit cross-legged in front of Phainon. His chin is propped up against the heart of his gloved palm, the gold of his necklace and bracers catching the morning rays like a dream catcher. "What's gotten you so up in the clouds? I doubt even Hyacinthia can pluck you out of it."
When Phainon doesn't reply, Mydeimos only hums.
"Is it the attendant? The one always at Cyrene's side?"
It's embarrassing how fast the mention of you catches his attention.
Noticing his failure at subtlety, Phainon hides behind a closed fist and clears his throat. The actions do little to stop the sly smirk that breaks out on Strife's face. Suddenly, he is a boy again. In the wheatfields of Aedes Elysiae, hiding behind their pale golden light, he hears your giggles calling out to his sister. It suddenly feels too hot, which is ironic because that's all he's ever felt—after inheriting the coreflame of Worldbearing, Phainon can only run warm.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Mydeimos says, already getting up and dusting down his pants.
Phainon furrows his brows at the comment. "What does that mean?"
"You've been in this dance of hot and cold since I've met you," the prince shrugs. "You're hot, they're cold. You're perpetually a bumbling mess of poetry, while they remain a straight composure. Laughable, really."
"I am not!" Phainon denies, rising from his seat, taking the wooden sword with him.
Mydeimos only laughs. Filled with mirth and youth that neither of them is familiar with. "Oh, please. You can do better than that."
With a glare, Phainon takes up arms. His pretend blade aimed at his companion as he challenges, "Try me then."
A grin breaks out on Mydeimos's face. He stretches his arms in front of him, cracking the sleeping bones in his neck as he beckons Phainon forward.
"Up and at it, Worldbearer."
"I still don't see why you can't just say it openly," Cyrene admits, her fingers drawing lazy patterns over the blanket across her lap. Phainon can only shift in his seat as he peels an apple for her. Normally, it would be you in his position. But Cyrene has sent you away on an errand with Lady Tribbios, and who was he to deny his sister anything when she rarely asked for it?
He only chuckles nervously, placing another skinless piece on the plate of her bedside table, making sure to avoid the cracking of her porcelain skin when she reaches for it. "You know why, Cyrene."
Surprisingly, she doesn't jump to correct him. That she doesn't, in fact, know he's tiptoeing around the subject. All Phainon is met with is a tentative hum, the sound of her coughing, and the falling of his wooden seat as he jumps to rub soothing circles on her back when she coughs.
"We don't have enough time," he murmurs. Cyrene's hands gripping his chiton with frail strength. The sight of her, so weak and unable to stand on her own as the world breaks and becomes anew, never fails to spark that igniting hatred simmering in the pit of his stomach.
How unfair and cruel this world is to Cyrene, who has done nothing but love it wholeheartedly.
Your name falls gently from her lips when Cyrene pulls away, "They can't wait forever, you know? At some point, in some way, they'll learn the truth. I think it would comfort them greatly if it came from you, Phainon."
His throat runs dry. As if on command at the sound of your name, Phainon looks away. The words sit heavily on his tongue, waiting to run loose and find you. But he has never been good at hide-and-seek; he much preferred tag. It's a much simpler game, no rules or limits—he can run wherever and for however long he wishes. And right now, he wants to run. Back into that village hut where blood remains a foreign concept only known in fairytales and ballads, where swords did not break skin, and where you would come find him and take him home when the sun has decided it no longer wished to see the world.
"Why won't you tell them, Phainon?"
"I can't," he says through gritted teeth, his head falling to Cyrene's shoulder as her arms, as weak as they are, come to embrace him. "I mustn't drag another into this mess."
"Oh, Phainon. It isn't your fault."
He wished to believe that, truly, he did.
But how can a God ascend to divinity without blood drying under the beds of his nails?
News travels fast even without Passage's assistance, you realize. Prophecies, divine readings, these are no foreign subjects to you—you've learned to master them after becoming a demigod yourself. What your goddess has not told you is the lingering panic that will settle in your veins when you hear of them.
"Time has fallen!"
It rings and rings, turning your limbs into stone as the people around you start running. They shout, they cry, they look to you and beg for guidance. You are a demigod—a hand-picked attendant to Time herself—but you offer no consolation. You stay rooted in the market's frenzied state. It's as if your mind has turned into a river of uncertainty, before a pebble drops and shatters the silence like glass.
You run.
You've never been good at tag—never as good as him. Your lungs are too greedy; they ask for air even before you take off. Your legs are not strong; they can't hold out for more than a few minutes, nor can they cross miles as they were just numbers being recorded on parchment. You much preferred hide and seek. A set of rules and a limited time. Because when the final grain drops in the hourglass, you'll know the game is done.
Now you know why Phainon didn't like it so much.
The reaction after stagnation is immediate. You barrel into the temple, into Cyrene's private quarters. Weaving between any and every guard that stands in your way. And when you knock down the elaborate gate that separates you two, you are out of breath, and you are tired.
How cruel a game it is—to believe that even time can run out.
"What have you done…?" you ask, voice breaking as you fall to your knees. The cold marble kisses your skin as tears spill from your eyes. "What have you done to her, Phainon?"
He doesn't reply. Phainon just stares—at the blood, then at the blade in his hand, and then at you.
Your name falls from his lips, waking a trail of cold nerves across your arms as you shake your head, refusing to believe the sight in front of you. "You weren't supposed to be here."
"That wasn't my question. Whether I was or wasn't supposed to be here matters not—!"
"You're supposed to be with Lady Tribbion in the market."
"What have you done to her, Phainon!"
"You weren't supposed to see."
"Answer me!"
"It was supposed to be a secret between us two."
You don't know what compelled you to action. Maybe it was the anger, maybe it was something else. Regardless, you run. Dagger obtained from a hidden pocket in your garments, and you charge. Metal point aimed at Phainon's chest as you toppled him off his feet, the ceremonial blade Cyrene would use in rituals clattering loudly as it fell beside him.
A pained cry leaves you, the dagger aimed high before you can attempt to plunge it into his heart. He stops you—of course he does—by seizing your wrists before you can nick his skin. Tears freely flow from your eyes now. They drop one by one like falling stars onto his cheeks. Now only do you realize the lack of light in Phainon's eyes. He looks like a corpse walking on pure instinct.
"What have you done?" you parrot again, your weapon shaking as you struggle against his strength. "What secret have you been hiding that involves her death! Answer me, Phainon!"
Phainon smiles bitterly, "Time runs out."
"Don't start being philosophical on me now, you wrench."
He can only look away at your words. At his reaction, you can only laugh in grief.
"I thought you hated hide and seek. So why now are you hiding from me?"
"Please don't," he pleads, bottom lip shedding golden blood from how harshly Phainon has been biting down on it. Tears spill from his shadowed eyes with his grip still unyielding on your hands. "Please don't look at me. Not now, not when I've done something you cannot forgive."
"You plead with me now?" Disbelief envelops your voice as it cracks. "Do you take me for a fool? An ignorant attendant who hasn't noticed anything wrong? You think so lowly of me, Phainon, despite claiming the opposite."
"You don't understand."
"Then make me! For the love of god Phainon, please, make me understand."
You've known Phainon for a long time. He was the boy you saw with wooden swords and a blue cape, running the fields amok and leading younger children in 'adventures'. You were more involved with his sister, Cyrene, a girl blessed with reading cards.
"Please, Phainon. We can make this work."
You don't recall ever playing with him, though. He liked his freedom—unrestrained by rules and expectations from games. You were the opposite. You liked the certainty and repetition.
"We have to, Phainon."
He liked your difference. It fuelled his fantasy of being the sunshine to your gloom, the knight to your regent. Never in his life did he think his little play of your romance would turn upside down. Because he was never meant to be the sun, Phainon had too much hate in his heart to be that pure. And he couldn't be a knight; he was too guilty for such a role.
"I'm sorry, but we can't."
Because Gods could no longer play games like tag or hide and seek. Those were activities meant for mortal souls. Neither of you was human anymore. But when gods do decide they want to play pretend—blinded by nostalgia for when they were but a speck of dust in the grand cosmos—it always ends the same.
ummm, I know this might be a weird question to ask, but it’s regarding one of ur rules :p
question: why do you not want ageless blogs to interact? like, if it’s for safety concerns then that’s understandable, I’m just wondering why :>
if you don’t want to answer this, then that is fine as well, bc this might be teetering on the edge of uncomfortable and I am so sorry about that!!
but if you do answer this, thank you for taking the time to do so :>
hi hi anon!! thank you for asking but i've made this rule just to ensure my comfort and matters of safety as well ^^ i much prefer knowing the age range of whom i'm interacting with just to ensure that i am being appropriate and to not cause any unintentional harm!! i'm not requiring everyone to have their exact age on display, but an age range would be very much appreciated (❁´◡`❁)
SYNOPSIS: you have known phainon as the boy who liked to play tag, disliked hide and seek, and a god with great responsibility. unfortunately for you, he hides too many secrets.
𖥔 WORDCOUNT: 3.3k ┆ 𖥔 TAGS. @amorsial @cinerias @shoyosluver @hirokasama @uzxotic @anqelkoz @leafyonz @suyeomiiee @ddurandals @007-archives @officialkatzline -> taglist is being reworked! feel free to send in an ask (off-anon) or comment if you'd like to be tagged in future works ^^
𖥔 WARNINGS: au where the chrysos heirs are actual gods. mentions of blood, violence, and weapons. character death. potential ooc (i haven't written for the guy in a hot minute okay....) not fully proofread; expect mistakes!
♪ FINAL NOTES .ᐟ an order of a blue cup with blood orange & cranberry tea, a splash of lemon juice, and a cheesy vegetable garden tart for TEA99. this has highkey changed from the initial idea but wtv!
It's almost laughable how you painfully want to wrap your fingers around Phainon's neck in a vice grip. Alas, you can't do that—not without any immediate and lasting repercussions, at least, and you'd rather not be the cause of Anaxagoras's headache. As much as you loved annoying the god, Phainon had already taken up that post.
"What's gotten you in such a sour mood?"
And on cue, the pensive expression on your face shifts into a nasty sneer. Without another word, you grip the basket of harvest to your hip just a tad tighter when another pair of footsteps walk with you. You bite your tongue hard. Hard enough to draw blood when steady but scarred hands take the woven thing from your grasp.
"You, if it wasn't obvious enough," you bark out, arms crossing over your chest—unsure what to do with them now.
Phainon only laughs, that bellowing sound that poets would describe as sunlight dripping like molten wax under the summer afternoon. It's an annoying, grating sound you'd much rather avoid. But he's persistent. At being helpful, at being a gentleman, at never knowing when to give you a moment of peace since you've become Cyrene's handmaiden.
For a god bearing the world's responsibilities, Phainon sure had enough time on his hands to come and talk your ear off.
"Well, that's not a nice way to greet a friend."
"We're not friends, my lord."
The formality bleeds in like a familiar habit. When you're at the steps of your goddess's temple, you snatch the basket from his hands with haste, leaving him stunned at the foot of the stairs as you march your way up. You don't look back; you force yourself not to when he shouts.
"Tell Cyrene I said 'hello'!"
You only roll your eyes as you mutter. "Go do it yourself."
The following morning, Phainon is there. Of course he is; he's a god—just not yours. As Cyrene had informed, every ruling divine residing in Amphoreus was cordially invited to a simple get-together. 'To maintain a close bond!' she had explained when you asked. And in a sense, you understood why she does it.
He's seated next to her, perks of being childhood friends before inheriting their titles, you suppose. Romance is to Phainon's left, and Reason is next to her. You hide a smile behind your chalice as Trickery pounces toward your side, already whispering the townsfolk's recent gossip. Strife is across from Phainon, leaning back on his chair as he recounts another tale from his recent escapades in dealing with the Black Tide's army. Death is next to him, silent but not invisible, swirling the drink in her purple palms, laughing with the Sky quietly as Worldbearing is scolded.
Passage is running late, so is Law and the Ocean. Not unknown prospects to you—you were the one to deliver the news to Time after all.
It's such a normal sight, one you didn't and wouldn't have believed even as Cyrene retold the events of the previous gathering. Everyone was lathered in ambrosia, flour, and laughter as they attempted to cook. A very human affair for beings that mortals look to for guidance and protection. If you hadn't taken your goddess's blessings, you'd have remained ignorant of such a strange, familial connection between them.
"And what about you?" Cifera drawls out, yellow-manicured fingers dancing across your arms. You ignore the pin-prickling feeling of another pair of eyes raking over your figure as you try to hide in your own skin.
You can only throw the goddess of trickery a wry smile, "Nothing out of sorts. Definitely paling in comparison to your mischief."
Cifera preens at your unabashed gloating over her name. Her feline-like eyes focus on your own as she tries to make a grab at your chalice. "Oh, don't be like that! Surely something interesting must be going on in your little life."
"If there was, I'd be racing to tell you," you argue. Not necessarily a lie, after becoming a demigod, you find yourself indulging in the presence of your little thief if you aren't running around to finish your duties.
"Cifera, leave the attendant alone." Romance warns.
With a roll of her eyes and a hidden chuckle from you, Cifera bids you farewell and scurries back to her seat next to Strife.
Cyrene beckons you over, having already noticed the clouds obscuring your face. She always has, ever caring for the people that surround her—divine and mortal alike. It delivers a short pang of guilt in your heart as you assure her with a wave of your hand. How lucky you are to have been graced by the blessing of a gentle god like Cyrene. Maybe that's why you leave the scene.
You can't bear to indulge in her charade. No matter how many times she tells you that it will grow easier over time, it has not. It has become painfully difficult to face all of them with the knowledge that you are stuck. Looping in cycles that threaten and bind your existence to one focal point you cannot derive from.
It is cruel; it is unprecedented—it is entirely unlike her. How Time can cradle you so softly, a gentle smile easing your worries and simultaneously forcing all of your cards out of your hands when you least expect it. Cyrene is not a punishing god to attend to, but she is infinitely hard to understand.
"Leaving so soon?" A smooth voice asks just a few feet from where you stand in the balcony overlooking the Temple of Evernight. You sigh heavily when you wait for a few minutes, and Phainon doesn't leave. It seems like he has no plans of leaving you alone.
"Shouldn't you be indulging in honeycakes and ambrosia by now?" You ask with an annoyed lilt to your voice. Much to your horror, Phainon has taken your reply as an invitation to chat as he takes the spot next to you. You ignore how your shoulders are nearly touching.
"Flavour fatigue," he explains. "I still can't believe Mydeimos can down so many plates of those!"
You don't offer him anything—not a word, not even a spared breath in his direction. It's as if you're actively holding your breath when he invades your space. Not one wrong inhale when the air carries the scent of wheatfield and drying sunshine, and you'll forget all that you've worked for.
Phainon clears his throat, failing to keep his composure as the air between you turns awkward. He's started tapping on the marble, eyes unsure where they can and can't land without you snapping. You almost snort at the stupidity of it all. He's a god for goodness' sake! One who holds your entire fate in the palm of his hands. And yet here he is, fixing his chiton, his hair, and shuffling from one foot to another just to appear unbothered.
How has this buffon taken the title of a god when he's like this with you?
"I'm retiring for the night. Enjoy the rest of your evening." You say, cutting through the silence after you couldn't take any more of it. The path of some peace and quiet was so clear in your mind—just a few heavy strides into the temple, turn right, and you're in your quarters—but it can never be that simple when Phainon is involved. It's as if he's allergic to not meddling in affairs he shouldn't.
"One moment, I still want to—"
"My Lord, unhand me."
He glares, not at you. You've noticed he's always done that—avoiding his more divine features from your periphery as if you weren't partially god yourself. It infuriates you, but not in the way it should. Phainon's actions appear arrogant, as if wedging a giant wall between you. A reminder that he is a full god, while you can only scrape off a fraction of it to even stand beside him. Phainon has never done that—never made you feel any lesser; hell, he treats you better—and that's the problem.
"Please," he pleads with you as his other hand envelops yours, bringing it to his lips as his breath ghosts over your skin. He is warm. No, that's not right. For all the words you have used to describe Phainon, it is not 'warm'. Scalding would be much better. "I just need a moment of your time to tell you that I…"
The words catch in his throat. He looked almost in pain, as if someone had stabbed him through the heart with a blade meant to incapacitate him for all eternity. Under the Evernight's glow, where the fireflies have decided to dance and the breeze to go still, Phainon's eyes are shadowed by an emotion you cannot begin to name.
"I…" He tries again, his hold on your hand growing tighter as his teeth catch his bottom lip. No further words escape him, and he takes it as a cue to finally resign himself to his fate.
You grit your teeth. The force is so hard you feel it crack like the earth in your own jaw. You pry your hand away from him, rubbing at the skin of your wrist raw as you glare. Phainon looks defeated; it annoys you. He looks defeated as you spare him no glance when you turn to leave.
Phainon thinks his curse is not that he has to bear the world and all its people. He thinks he's cursed with never having to hold you again.
"Distracted," a gruff voice points out as he cries out in pain. His hands instinctively come to rub at the sore spot on his head as Mydeimos drops the wooden sword in front of him.
"How rude!" Phainon exclaims with faux irritation. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous game," Mydeimos replies, dropping to sit cross-legged in front of Phainon. His chin is propped up against the heart of his gloved palm, the gold of his necklace and bracers catching the morning rays like a dream catcher. "What's gotten you so up in the clouds? I doubt even Hyacinthia can pluck you out of it."
When Phainon doesn't reply, Mydeimos only hums.
"Is it the attendant? The one always at Cyrene's side?"
It's embarrassing how fast the mention of you catches his attention.
Noticing his failure at subtlety, Phainon hides behind a closed fist and clears his throat. The actions do little to stop the sly smirk that breaks out on Strife's face. Suddenly, he is a boy again. In the wheatfields of Aedes Elysiae, hiding behind their pale golden light, he hears your giggles calling out to his sister. It suddenly feels too hot, which is ironic because that's all he's ever felt—after inheriting the coreflame of Worldbearing, Phainon can only run warm.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Mydeimos says, already getting up and dusting down his pants.
Phainon furrows his brows at the comment. "What does that mean?"
"You've been in this dance of hot and cold since I've met you," the prince shrugs. "You're hot, they're cold. You're perpetually a bumbling mess of poetry, while they remain a straight composure. Laughable, really."
"I am not!" Phainon denies, rising from his seat, taking the wooden sword with him.
Mydeimos only laughs. Filled with mirth and youth that neither of them is familiar with. "Oh, please. You can do better than that."
With a glare, Phainon takes up arms. His pretend blade aimed at his companion as he challenges, "Try me then."
A grin breaks out on Mydeimos's face. He stretches his arms in front of him, cracking the sleeping bones in his neck as he beckons Phainon forward.
"Up and at it, Worldbearer."
"I still don't see why you can't just say it openly," Cyrene admits, her fingers drawing lazy patterns over the blanket across her lap. Phainon can only shift in his seat as he peels an apple for her. Normally, it would be you in his position. But Cyrene has sent you away on an errand with Lady Tribbios, and who was he to deny his sister anything when she rarely asked for it?
He only chuckles nervously, placing another skinless piece on the plate of her bedside table, making sure to avoid the cracking of her porcelain skin when she reaches for it. "You know why, Cyrene."
Surprisingly, she doesn't jump to correct him. That she doesn't, in fact, know he's tiptoeing around the subject. All Phainon is met with is a tentative hum, the sound of her coughing, and the falling of his wooden seat as he jumps to rub soothing circles on her back when she coughs.
"We don't have enough time," he murmurs. Cyrene's hands gripping his chiton with frail strength. The sight of her, so weak and unable to stand on her own as the world breaks and becomes anew, never fails to spark that igniting hatred simmering in the pit of his stomach.
How unfair and cruel this world is to Cyrene, who has done nothing but love it wholeheartedly.
Your name falls gently from her lips when Cyrene pulls away, "They can't wait forever, you know? At some point, in some way, they'll learn the truth. I think it would comfort them greatly if it came from you, Phainon."
His throat runs dry. As if on command at the sound of your name, Phainon looks away. The words sit heavily on his tongue, waiting to run loose and find you. But he has never been good at hide-and-seek; he much preferred tag. It's a much simpler game, no rules or limits—he can run wherever and for however long he wishes. And right now, he wants to run. Back into that village hut where blood remains a foreign concept only known in fairytales and ballads, where swords did not break skin, and where you would come find him and take him home when the sun has decided it no longer wished to see the world.
"Why won't you tell them, Phainon?"
"I can't," he says through gritted teeth, his head falling to Cyrene's shoulder as her arms, as weak as they are, come to embrace him. "I mustn't drag another into this mess."
"Oh, Phainon. It isn't your fault."
He wished to believe that, truly, he did.
But how can a God ascend to divinity without blood drying under the beds of his nails?
News travels fast even without Passage's assistance, you realize. Prophecies, divine readings, these are no foreign subjects to you—you've learned to master them after becoming a demigod yourself. What your goddess has not told you is the lingering panic that will settle in your veins when you hear of them.
"Time has fallen!"
It rings and rings, turning your limbs into stone as the people around you start running. They shout, they cry, they look to you and beg for guidance. You are a demigod—a hand-picked attendant to Time herself—but you offer no consolation. You stay rooted in the market's frenzied state. It's as if your mind has turned into a river of uncertainty, before a pebble drops and shatters the silence like glass.
You run.
You've never been good at tag—never as good as him. Your lungs are too greedy; they ask for air even before you take off. Your legs are not strong; they can't hold out for more than a few minutes, nor can they cross miles as they were just numbers being recorded on parchment. You much preferred hide and seek. A set of rules and a limited time. Because when the final grain drops in the hourglass, you'll know the game is done.
Now you know why Phainon didn't like it so much.
The reaction after stagnation is immediate. You barrel into the temple, into Cyrene's private quarters. Weaving between any and every guard that stands in your way. And when you knock down the elaborate gate that separates you two, you are out of breath, and you are tired.
How cruel a game it is—to believe that even time can run out.
"What have you done…?" you ask, voice breaking as you fall to your knees. The cold marble kisses your skin as tears spill from your eyes. "What have you done to her, Phainon?"
He doesn't reply. Phainon just stares—at the blood, then at the blade in his hand, and then at you.
Your name falls from his lips, waking a trail of cold nerves across your arms as you shake your head, refusing to believe the sight in front of you. "You weren't supposed to be here."
"That wasn't my question. Whether I was or wasn't supposed to be here matters not—!"
"You're supposed to be with Lady Tribbion in the market."
"What have you done to her, Phainon!"
"You weren't supposed to see."
"Answer me!"
"It was supposed to be a secret between us two."
You don't know what compelled you to action. Maybe it was the anger, maybe it was something else. Regardless, you run. Dagger obtained from a hidden pocket in your garments, and you charge. Metal point aimed at Phainon's chest as you toppled him off his feet, the ceremonial blade Cyrene would use in rituals clattering loudly as it fell beside him.
A pained cry leaves you, the dagger aimed high before you can attempt to plunge it into his heart. He stops you—of course he does—by seizing your wrists before you can nick his skin. Tears freely flow from your eyes now. They drop one by one like falling stars onto his cheeks. Now only do you realize the lack of light in Phainon's eyes. He looks like a corpse walking on pure instinct.
"What have you done?" you parrot again, your weapon shaking as you struggle against his strength. "What secret have you been hiding that involves her death! Answer me, Phainon!"
Phainon smiles bitterly, "Time runs out."
"Don't start being philosophical on me now, you wrench."
He can only look away at your words. At his reaction, you can only laugh in grief.
"I thought you hated hide and seek. So why now are you hiding from me?"
"Please don't," he pleads, bottom lip shedding golden blood from how harshly Phainon has been biting down on it. Tears spill from his shadowed eyes with his grip still unyielding on your hands. "Please don't look at me. Not now, not when I've done something you cannot forgive."
"You plead with me now?" Disbelief envelops your voice as it cracks. "Do you take me for a fool? An ignorant attendant who hasn't noticed anything wrong? You think so lowly of me, Phainon, despite claiming the opposite."
"You don't understand."
"Then make me! For the love of god Phainon, please, make me understand."
You've known Phainon for a long time. He was the boy you saw with wooden swords and a blue cape, running the fields amok and leading younger children in 'adventures'. You were more involved with his sister, Cyrene, a girl blessed with reading cards.
"Please, Phainon. We can make this work."
You don't recall ever playing with him, though. He liked his freedom—unrestrained by rules and expectations from games. You were the opposite. You liked the certainty and repetition.
"We have to, Phainon."
He liked your difference. It fuelled his fantasy of being the sunshine to your gloom, the knight to your regent. Never in his life did he think his little play of your romance would turn upside down. Because he was never meant to be the sun, Phainon had too much hate in his heart to be that pure. And he couldn't be a knight; he was too guilty for such a role.
"I'm sorry, but we can't."
Because Gods could no longer play games like tag or hide and seek. Those were activities meant for mortal souls. Neither of you was human anymore. But when gods do decide they want to play pretend—blinded by nostalgia for when they were but a speck of dust in the grand cosmos—it always ends the same.
SYNOPSIS: you have known phainon as the boy who liked to play tag, disliked hide and seek, and a god with great responsibility. unfortunately for you, he hides too many secrets.
𖥔 WORDCOUNT: 3.3k ┆ 𖥔 TAGS. @amorsial @cinerias @shoyosluver @hirokasama @uzxotic @anqelkoz @leafyonz @suyeomiiee @ddurandals @007-archives @officialkatzline -> taglist is being reworked! feel free to send in an ask (off-anon) or comment if you'd like to be tagged in future works ^^
𖥔 WARNINGS: au where the chrysos heirs are actual gods. mentions of blood, violence, and weapons. character death. potential ooc (i haven't written for the guy in a hot minute okay....) not fully proofread; expect mistakes!
♪ FINAL NOTES .ᐟ an order of a blue cup with blood orange & cranberry tea, a splash of lemon juice, and a cheesy vegetable garden tart for TEA99. this has highkey changed from the initial idea but wtv!
It's almost laughable how you painfully want to wrap your fingers around Phainon's neck in a vice grip. Alas, you can't do that—not without any immediate and lasting repercussions, at least, and you'd rather not be the cause of Anaxagoras's headache. As much as you loved annoying the god, Phainon had already taken up that post.
"What's gotten you in such a sour mood?"
And on cue, the pensive expression on your face shifts into a nasty sneer. Without another word, you grip the basket of harvest to your hip just a tad tighter when another pair of footsteps walk with you. You bite your tongue hard. Hard enough to draw blood when steady but scarred hands take the woven thing from your grasp.
"You, if it wasn't obvious enough," you bark out, arms crossing over your chest—unsure what to do with them now.
Phainon only laughs, that bellowing sound that poets would describe as sunlight dripping like molten wax under the summer afternoon. It's an annoying, grating sound you'd much rather avoid. But he's persistent. At being helpful, at being a gentleman, at never knowing when to give you a moment of peace since you've become Cyrene's handmaiden.
For a god bearing the world's responsibilities, Phainon sure had enough time on his hands to come and talk your ear off.
"Well, that's not a nice way to greet a friend."
"We're not friends, my lord."
The formality bleeds in like a familiar habit. When you're at the steps of your goddess's temple, you snatch the basket from his hands with haste, leaving him stunned at the foot of the stairs as you march your way up. You don't look back; you force yourself not to when he shouts.
"Tell Cyrene I said 'hello'!"
You only roll your eyes as you mutter. "Go do it yourself."
The following morning, Phainon is there. Of course he is; he's a god—just not yours. As Cyrene had informed, every ruling divine residing in Amphoreus was cordially invited to a simple get-together. 'To maintain a close bond!' she had explained when you asked. And in a sense, you understood why she does it.
He's seated next to her, perks of being childhood friends before inheriting their titles, you suppose. Romance is to Phainon's left, and Reason is next to her. You hide a smile behind your chalice as Trickery pounces toward your side, already whispering the townsfolk's recent gossip. Strife is across from Phainon, leaning back on his chair as he recounts another tale from his recent escapades in dealing with the Black Tide's army. Death is next to him, silent but not invisible, swirling the drink in her purple palms, laughing with the Sky quietly as Worldbearing is scolded.
Passage is running late, so is Law and the Ocean. Not unknown prospects to you—you were the one to deliver the news to Time after all.
It's such a normal sight, one you didn't and wouldn't have believed even as Cyrene retold the events of the previous gathering. Everyone was lathered in ambrosia, flour, and laughter as they attempted to cook. A very human affair for beings that mortals look to for guidance and protection. If you hadn't taken your goddess's blessings, you'd have remained ignorant of such a strange, familial connection between them.
"And what about you?" Cifera drawls out, yellow-manicured fingers dancing across your arms. You ignore the pin-prickling feeling of another pair of eyes raking over your figure as you try to hide in your own skin.
You can only throw the goddess of trickery a wry smile, "Nothing out of sorts. Definitely paling in comparison to your mischief."
Cifera preens at your unabashed gloating over her name. Her feline-like eyes focus on your own as she tries to make a grab at your chalice. "Oh, don't be like that! Surely something interesting must be going on in your little life."
"If there was, I'd be racing to tell you," you argue. Not necessarily a lie, after becoming a demigod, you find yourself indulging in the presence of your little thief if you aren't running around to finish your duties.
"Cifera, leave the attendant alone." Romance warns.
With a roll of her eyes and a hidden chuckle from you, Cifera bids you farewell and scurries back to her seat next to Strife.
Cyrene beckons you over, having already noticed the clouds obscuring your face. She always has, ever caring for the people that surround her—divine and mortal alike. It delivers a short pang of guilt in your heart as you assure her with a wave of your hand. How lucky you are to have been graced by the blessing of a gentle god like Cyrene. Maybe that's why you leave the scene.
You can't bear to indulge in her charade. No matter how many times she tells you that it will grow easier over time, it has not. It has become painfully difficult to face all of them with the knowledge that you are stuck. Looping in cycles that threaten and bind your existence to one focal point you cannot derive from.
It is cruel; it is unprecedented—it is entirely unlike her. How Time can cradle you so softly, a gentle smile easing your worries and simultaneously forcing all of your cards out of your hands when you least expect it. Cyrene is not a punishing god to attend to, but she is infinitely hard to understand.
"Leaving so soon?" A smooth voice asks just a few feet from where you stand in the balcony overlooking the Temple of Evernight. You sigh heavily when you wait for a few minutes, and Phainon doesn't leave. It seems like he has no plans of leaving you alone.
"Shouldn't you be indulging in honeycakes and ambrosia by now?" You ask with an annoyed lilt to your voice. Much to your horror, Phainon has taken your reply as an invitation to chat as he takes the spot next to you. You ignore how your shoulders are nearly touching.
"Flavour fatigue," he explains. "I still can't believe Mydeimos can down so many plates of those!"
You don't offer him anything—not a word, not even a spared breath in his direction. It's as if you're actively holding your breath when he invades your space. Not one wrong inhale when the air carries the scent of wheatfield and drying sunshine, and you'll forget all that you've worked for.
Phainon clears his throat, failing to keep his composure as the air between you turns awkward. He's started tapping on the marble, eyes unsure where they can and can't land without you snapping. You almost snort at the stupidity of it all. He's a god for goodness' sake! One who holds your entire fate in the palm of his hands. And yet here he is, fixing his chiton, his hair, and shuffling from one foot to another just to appear unbothered.
How has this buffon taken the title of a god when he's like this with you?
"I'm retiring for the night. Enjoy the rest of your evening." You say, cutting through the silence after you couldn't take any more of it. The path of some peace and quiet was so clear in your mind—just a few heavy strides into the temple, turn right, and you're in your quarters—but it can never be that simple when Phainon is involved. It's as if he's allergic to not meddling in affairs he shouldn't.
"One moment, I still want to—"
"My Lord, unhand me."
He glares, not at you. You've noticed he's always done that—avoiding his more divine features from your periphery as if you weren't partially god yourself. It infuriates you, but not in the way it should. Phainon's actions appear arrogant, as if wedging a giant wall between you. A reminder that he is a full god, while you can only scrape off a fraction of it to even stand beside him. Phainon has never done that—never made you feel any lesser; hell, he treats you better—and that's the problem.
"Please," he pleads with you as his other hand envelops yours, bringing it to his lips as his breath ghosts over your skin. He is warm. No, that's not right. For all the words you have used to describe Phainon, it is not 'warm'. Scalding would be much better. "I just need a moment of your time to tell you that I…"
The words catch in his throat. He looked almost in pain, as if someone had stabbed him through the heart with a blade meant to incapacitate him for all eternity. Under the Evernight's glow, where the fireflies have decided to dance and the breeze to go still, Phainon's eyes are shadowed by an emotion you cannot begin to name.
"I…" He tries again, his hold on your hand growing tighter as his teeth catch his bottom lip. No further words escape him, and he takes it as a cue to finally resign himself to his fate.
You grit your teeth. The force is so hard you feel it crack like the earth in your own jaw. You pry your hand away from him, rubbing at the skin of your wrist raw as you glare. Phainon looks defeated; it annoys you. He looks defeated as you spare him no glance when you turn to leave.
Phainon thinks his curse is not that he has to bear the world and all its people. He thinks he's cursed with never having to hold you again.
"Distracted," a gruff voice points out as he cries out in pain. His hands instinctively come to rub at the sore spot on his head as Mydeimos drops the wooden sword in front of him.
"How rude!" Phainon exclaims with faux irritation. "I was thinking."
"Dangerous game," Mydeimos replies, dropping to sit cross-legged in front of Phainon. His chin is propped up against the heart of his gloved palm, the gold of his necklace and bracers catching the morning rays like a dream catcher. "What's gotten you so up in the clouds? I doubt even Hyacinthia can pluck you out of it."
When Phainon doesn't reply, Mydeimos only hums.
"Is it the attendant? The one always at Cyrene's side?"
It's embarrassing how fast the mention of you catches his attention.
Noticing his failure at subtlety, Phainon hides behind a closed fist and clears his throat. The actions do little to stop the sly smirk that breaks out on Strife's face. Suddenly, he is a boy again. In the wheatfields of Aedes Elysiae, hiding behind their pale golden light, he hears your giggles calling out to his sister. It suddenly feels too hot, which is ironic because that's all he's ever felt—after inheriting the coreflame of Worldbearing, Phainon can only run warm.
"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," Mydeimos says, already getting up and dusting down his pants.
Phainon furrows his brows at the comment. "What does that mean?"
"You've been in this dance of hot and cold since I've met you," the prince shrugs. "You're hot, they're cold. You're perpetually a bumbling mess of poetry, while they remain a straight composure. Laughable, really."
"I am not!" Phainon denies, rising from his seat, taking the wooden sword with him.
Mydeimos only laughs. Filled with mirth and youth that neither of them is familiar with. "Oh, please. You can do better than that."
With a glare, Phainon takes up arms. His pretend blade aimed at his companion as he challenges, "Try me then."
A grin breaks out on Mydeimos's face. He stretches his arms in front of him, cracking the sleeping bones in his neck as he beckons Phainon forward.
"Up and at it, Worldbearer."
"I still don't see why you can't just say it openly," Cyrene admits, her fingers drawing lazy patterns over the blanket across her lap. Phainon can only shift in his seat as he peels an apple for her. Normally, it would be you in his position. But Cyrene has sent you away on an errand with Lady Tribbios, and who was he to deny his sister anything when she rarely asked for it?
He only chuckles nervously, placing another skinless piece on the plate of her bedside table, making sure to avoid the cracking of her porcelain skin when she reaches for it. "You know why, Cyrene."
Surprisingly, she doesn't jump to correct him. That she doesn't, in fact, know he's tiptoeing around the subject. All Phainon is met with is a tentative hum, the sound of her coughing, and the falling of his wooden seat as he jumps to rub soothing circles on her back when she coughs.
"We don't have enough time," he murmurs. Cyrene's hands gripping his chiton with frail strength. The sight of her, so weak and unable to stand on her own as the world breaks and becomes anew, never fails to spark that igniting hatred simmering in the pit of his stomach.
How unfair and cruel this world is to Cyrene, who has done nothing but love it wholeheartedly.
Your name falls gently from her lips when Cyrene pulls away, "They can't wait forever, you know? At some point, in some way, they'll learn the truth. I think it would comfort them greatly if it came from you, Phainon."
His throat runs dry. As if on command at the sound of your name, Phainon looks away. The words sit heavily on his tongue, waiting to run loose and find you. But he has never been good at hide-and-seek; he much preferred tag. It's a much simpler game, no rules or limits—he can run wherever and for however long he wishes. And right now, he wants to run. Back into that village hut where blood remains a foreign concept only known in fairytales and ballads, where swords did not break skin, and where you would come find him and take him home when the sun has decided it no longer wished to see the world.
"Why won't you tell them, Phainon?"
"I can't," he says through gritted teeth, his head falling to Cyrene's shoulder as her arms, as weak as they are, come to embrace him. "I mustn't drag another into this mess."
"Oh, Phainon. It isn't your fault."
He wished to believe that, truly, he did.
But how can a God ascend to divinity without blood drying under the beds of his nails?
News travels fast even without Passage's assistance, you realize. Prophecies, divine readings, these are no foreign subjects to you—you've learned to master them after becoming a demigod yourself. What your goddess has not told you is the lingering panic that will settle in your veins when you hear of them.
"Time has fallen!"
It rings and rings, turning your limbs into stone as the people around you start running. They shout, they cry, they look to you and beg for guidance. You are a demigod—a hand-picked attendant to Time herself—but you offer no consolation. You stay rooted in the market's frenzied state. It's as if your mind has turned into a river of uncertainty, before a pebble drops and shatters the silence like glass.
You run.
You've never been good at tag—never as good as him. Your lungs are too greedy; they ask for air even before you take off. Your legs are not strong; they can't hold out for more than a few minutes, nor can they cross miles as they were just numbers being recorded on parchment. You much preferred hide and seek. A set of rules and a limited time. Because when the final grain drops in the hourglass, you'll know the game is done.
Now you know why Phainon didn't like it so much.
The reaction after stagnation is immediate. You barrel into the temple, into Cyrene's private quarters. Weaving between any and every guard that stands in your way. And when you knock down the elaborate gate that separates you two, you are out of breath, and you are tired.
How cruel a game it is—to believe that even time can run out.
"What have you done…?" you ask, voice breaking as you fall to your knees. The cold marble kisses your skin as tears spill from your eyes. "What have you done to her, Phainon?"
He doesn't reply. Phainon just stares—at the blood, then at the blade in his hand, and then at you.
Your name falls from his lips, waking a trail of cold nerves across your arms as you shake your head, refusing to believe the sight in front of you. "You weren't supposed to be here."
"That wasn't my question. Whether I was or wasn't supposed to be here matters not—!"
"You're supposed to be with Lady Tribbion in the market."
"What have you done to her, Phainon!"
"You weren't supposed to see."
"Answer me!"
"It was supposed to be a secret between us two."
You don't know what compelled you to action. Maybe it was the anger, maybe it was something else. Regardless, you run. Dagger obtained from a hidden pocket in your garments, and you charge. Metal point aimed at Phainon's chest as you toppled him off his feet, the ceremonial blade Cyrene would use in rituals clattering loudly as it fell beside him.
A pained cry leaves you, the dagger aimed high before you can attempt to plunge it into his heart. He stops you—of course he does—by seizing your wrists before you can nick his skin. Tears freely flow from your eyes now. They drop one by one like falling stars onto his cheeks. Now only do you realize the lack of light in Phainon's eyes. He looks like a corpse walking on pure instinct.
"What have you done?" you parrot again, your weapon shaking as you struggle against his strength. "What secret have you been hiding that involves her death! Answer me, Phainon!"
Phainon smiles bitterly, "Time runs out."
"Don't start being philosophical on me now, you wrench."
He can only look away at your words. At his reaction, you can only laugh in grief.
"I thought you hated hide and seek. So why now are you hiding from me?"
"Please don't," he pleads, bottom lip shedding golden blood from how harshly Phainon has been biting down on it. Tears spill from his shadowed eyes with his grip still unyielding on your hands. "Please don't look at me. Not now, not when I've done something you cannot forgive."
"You plead with me now?" Disbelief envelops your voice as it cracks. "Do you take me for a fool? An ignorant attendant who hasn't noticed anything wrong? You think so lowly of me, Phainon, despite claiming the opposite."
"You don't understand."
"Then make me! For the love of god Phainon, please, make me understand."
You've known Phainon for a long time. He was the boy you saw with wooden swords and a blue cape, running the fields amok and leading younger children in 'adventures'. You were more involved with his sister, Cyrene, a girl blessed with reading cards.
"Please, Phainon. We can make this work."
You don't recall ever playing with him, though. He liked his freedom—unrestrained by rules and expectations from games. You were the opposite. You liked the certainty and repetition.
"We have to, Phainon."
He liked your difference. It fuelled his fantasy of being the sunshine to your gloom, the knight to your regent. Never in his life did he think his little play of your romance would turn upside down. Because he was never meant to be the sun, Phainon had too much hate in his heart to be that pure. And he couldn't be a knight; he was too guilty for such a role.
"I'm sorry, but we can't."
Because Gods could no longer play games like tag or hide and seek. Those were activities meant for mortal souls. Neither of you was human anymore. But when gods do decide they want to play pretend—blinded by nostalgia for when they were but a speck of dust in the grand cosmos—it always ends the same.
Oglmgmgmgmgmgmg i am absolutely IN LOVE with the lohen x reader arranged marriage ☹️ my heart swells sm when lohen defends reader. I genuinely love how you write lohen’s character. I love how their relationship and dynamic slowly develops throughout the story.
PLSLSLSLSLSLSLSLS give me a part 3 im begging you like the beggiest begger of begdom
i'm still reeling at the fact of how many people ended up enjoying that fic i cooked up with a bunch of tiktok edits HELP ME but thank you 🥹🥹🥹 it warms my heart to know you guys like it so much ueueueue
be not afraid! no begging is needed with me 🙂↕️🙂↕️🙂↕️ if i happen to write a part 3 (which i'm already planning to. it's just a matter of when), i will be sure to tag you 🦢🤍🤍
sua has become such a trademark on this account that whenever i search for pfps, she always appears first and i have to think if i've already used it before 🧘🧘🧘🧘
I really REALLY love your lohen arranged marriage fic!! Add me to the taglist if you make a part 2 plz<33
hello my love i'm so sorry for answering this late 🥹🥹 but i'm very happy to know that you enjoyed that fic !!! part 2 of it has already been posted and you can read it here ^^
