āā . ā§ CONCORD, PAINT OUR STILLNESS
( somewhere, an elf follows what had been foretold. )
synopsis: the still illustrator finds themselves observing the flame-chase journey from afar. and in their silence, the coreflame of concord pulses with every jolt of their heart; concord beats gently, until it burns and constricts. in front of them, eirenus, the titan of fleeting freedom and peace ā in her hands, in his eyes, on their lips, a hope. hesychia was taught by the blasphemer, anaxagoras himself; they're smart enough to know what that entails.
notes: contains major character death. not proofread. done on a whim. writer has not properly watched amphoreus gameplay in full, but has watched a part of camden sutkowski's playthrough vods. sorry in advance.
you will believe
in concord,
all in spite
of cruelty.
die as you have lived;
silent and fleeting.
the voices that whisper such prophecy will never fail to pull them away from sleep.
what was supposed to be a moment of respite had been cut short. hesychia sits up from marble floors, pulling down their hood, a messy nest of cotton white hair unveiled. the muralist ā the illustrator ā stands up from their mess of limbs with the grace of a young fawn.
all this, just to walk to the smooth balustrade that curved around the balcony they'd hidden in. a place with the perfect angle to watch the journey they knew they couldn't simply meddle in,
for concord is stillness.
it's ever-present, awaiting for when its prominence can unearth itself ā become a moment of quiet for its soothing melodies, breath taken and given all the same in its lines.
hesychia can see the trailblazer and dan heng from where they stand. they're speaking to an antikytheran-esque figure, glowing and blue, but their words don't reach the chrysos heir's ears. pointed ears twitch as they swallow, and the patterns on their cloak pulse softly alongside their heartbeat.
alongside the coreflame.
looking up at the sky, it's orange with fire and destruction. the flame reaver, catastrophe and ichor in tow, had brought down everyone but the deliverer. coreflames taken, an aureate hue spilled. orange, and the gold it illuminates under its haze, is an unforgettable sight. an unforgettable experience.
all the loss left no time for mourning. for grief. for love. nothing at all. they were unsure if their decision to fall back was a wise one, for their eyes had not witnessed their deaths. a part of them holds remorse, but another holds what they believe is a sick sense of relief.
in the end, this is what they were to do, heart guided by mind and feeling, and a gut that could stomach anything ā even the passings of distant friends and beloved pillars.
looking up at the sky, it's orange with fire and destruction.
orange, and the gold it illuminates under its haze,
burns.
...
it burns. it burns.
their chest, it burns, just like the sky.
the golden embroidery in that dirt brown cape burns.
behind their eyes, emerald and yarrow, pain. in front of them, a figure ā three sets of eyes, three sets of arms; a set of hands outstretched to the world, a set of hands gingerly held together, and a set of hands held out to the heir. it had unearthed itself, but not to soothe amphoreus with its presence.
in her eyes, his hands, on their lips; the memories of the world, the cruelty of the living, the trial of concord.
eirenus' gaze is a weight on the heir's shoulders, but still do they stare back, unflinching, albeit uncertain. hesychia knew of the nature of peace, fleeting and fated, but for this to be their doing... were they certain? were any of those hands gentle, any of those eyes observant?
a muralist could wait for paint to dry before painting any further. but they could not wait for a titan to deliberately delay their trial after the acquisition of the coreflame of concord.
"... eirenus," they whisper, delicate and soft, bowing their head. "is it time?"
the wind whistles a melody that only they can understand.
the cotton-haired elf tentatively lifts their gaze, a crease in their brow. "... i understand, i do," comes the response, mumbled as the meek heir straightens up, tugging at their scard. "but the situation had been dire. only the deliverer and i remain, for the masked man has slain and stolen the coreflames of the other heirs."
mismatched hues trail off to the blazing sky, and eirenus' numerous eyes follow, all hands clasped together. "it makes me question... why you waited, even after i got the coreflame."
as the leaves rustle and the dust follows the current, hesychia's expression softens.
"... yes, i remember the prophecy."
silence.
a lax hand, having unfurled from a fist. "i understand, i do," they echo, before turning their head to the titan once more. "then... if you believe that i'm ready for this, i won't let you down."
with those words spoken, eirenus' hands separate, inches away from every angle of hesychia's head. gentle they were, as if cradling something precious. with everything in place, they speak.
you will witness,
you will endure,
and you willā
(behind their eyes, pain. in front of them, everything.
memories of the world, memories of all; things both beautiful and frightful, like an ocean their head was being held under.
hesychia's breath catches in their throat, eyes held open by those divine hands.
memories of the world, memories of all; the blood that soaked the grounds of amphoreus' many lands, and the fleeting winds of silence that whispered the conclusions.
something in them is burning. like the sun and the sky they stood under, something inside them burns, and it is painful.
memories of the world, memories of all; an overwhelming sense of dread, laid bare to the cruelty of life. how can peace emerge in a world like this, plagued by destruction?
things catch in the waterlines of their eyes, but they never fall. nothing crushes them, but their ribcage feels tight, lungs squeezed by the pressure. they can't breathe. they weep with no tears. they mourn alone.
memories of the world, memories of all. with mind, body, heart, and soul, answer with verity: hesychia, still illustrator, child of woe,
do you still believe in concord?)
"... y-yes- yes!" they force the word out of their throat, eyes never drying from unshed drops of their truth. "for even if it's what was writtenā" for even if hesychia felt like they were dyingā "concord is absolute-!"
the moment the illustrator's body was released from the divine hold, they heave for air. behind their eyes, pain; in front of them, the world slowly returning to color, the pale brightness fading.
and yet, their head is still surrounded by those hands.
"at the end of all things... there is silence," hesychia whispers in a breath. "after the war, the winds. after the anger, the stillness. when the paint dries, the picture is complete..."
the winds of georios sing and brush over the leaves, dust off the balustrade, and pull off the curtain that draped over the wall behind the titan and the elf.
an unfinished mural depicts the abstract colors of conord. a broken, colorless orb's cracks spill gold, its shimmer akin to the ichor of the chrysos heirs. and yet, they trickle further down the wall ā form another, far tinier world.
the burn starts to fade.
they dare to steal a breath in front of a divine being, watching their hands slowly pull away, blinking rapidly; crying silently. "and when destruction reigns its terror, peace is what will soothe the amphorean lands, before the next catastrophe that will bring ruin."
emerald and yarrow peer into pale white.
"that is concord."
the silence is delicate as they follow their words. hesychia waits, waits, and waits, until they hear the winds once more. no words, no music, simply silence, as eirenus fades quietly into stardust. their eyes are closed, and a miniscule smile graces their features.
with their disappearance comes absence. the illustrator finds themselves smiling a little, too. a quiet kind of acceptance was all they need, no show or bloodshed, simply pain and perserverance.
looking up at the sky, it's orange with fire and destruction. they had passed the trial of concord, and gingerly held the title of demigod, blood shimmering under their veins in an ochre light. orange, and the gold it illuminates under its haze, is an unforgettable sight. an unforgettable experience.
memories of the world, memories of all; every cycle, every death, every ugly thing, shown within the span of three minutes. they would remember the pain of knowing, the pain of being held so tightly by a titan that simply loved.
looking up at the sky, it's orange with fire and destruction.
memories of the world, memories of all.
orange, and the gold it illuminates under its haze,
so the demigod of concord smiles, ears twitching with the slight movement of their face. as the sun burns, so do they, resting on the balustrade. crossed arms act as a cushion for their heavy head, quiet as they shield their gaze from the glaring light.
maybe we can't escape fate, they think to themselves, eyelids heavy as their body lightens. and maybe this flame-chase journey will always will us to disappear.
they dare to steal one more breath.
but even then, i'm glad that fate brought me here.
they dare to rest in the middle of ruin's silence.
you will witness,
you will endure,
and you willā
believe in concord,
all in spite of cruelty.
the voices that whisper their prophecy ā their fate ā have finally lulled them to rest.
āā . ā§ CONCORD, PAINT OUR STILLNESS
( somewhere, an elf follows what had been foretold. )
synopsis: the still illustrator finds themselves observing the flame-chase journey from afar. and in their silence, the coreflame of concord pulses with every jolt of their heart; concord beats gently, until it burns and constricts. in front of them, eirenus, the titan of fleeting freedom and peace ā in her hands, in his eyes, on their lips, a hope. hesychia was taught by the blasphemer, anaxagoras himself; they're smart enough to know what that entails.
notes: contains major character death. not proofread. done on a whim. writer has not properly watched amphoreus gameplay in full, but has watched a part of camden sutkowski's playthrough vods. sorry in advance.
you will believe
in concord,
all in spite
of cruelty.
die as you have lived;
silent and fleeting.
the voices that whisper such prophecy will never fail to pull them away from sleep.
what was supposed to be a moment of respite had been cut short. hesychia sits up from marble floors, pulling down their hood, a messy nest of cotton white hair unveiled. the muralist ā the illustrator ā stands up from their mess of limbs with the grace of a young fawn.
all this, just to walk to the smooth balustrade that curved around the balcony they'd hidden in. a place with the perfect angle to watch the journey they knew they couldn't simply meddle in,
for concord is stillness.
it's ever-present, awaiting for when its prominence can unearth itself ā become a moment of quiet for its soothing melodies, breath taken and given all the same in its lines.
hesychia can see the trailblazer and dan heng from where they stand. they're speaking to an antikytheran-esque figure, glowing and blue, but their words don't reach the chrysos heir's ears. pointed ears twitch as they swallow, and the patterns on their cloak pulse softly alongside their heartbeat.
alongside the coreflame.
looking up at the sky, it's orange with fire and destruction. the flame reaver, catastrophe and ichor in tow, had brought down everyone but the deliverer. coreflames taken, an aureate hue spilled. orange, and the gold it illuminates under its haze, is an unforgettable sight. an unforgettable experience.
all the loss left no time for mourning. for grief. for love. nothing at all. they were unsure if their decision to fall back was a wise one, for their eyes had not witnessed their deaths. a part of them holds remorse, but another holds what they believe is a sick sense of relief.
in the end, this is what they were to do, heart guided by mind and feeling, and a gut that could stomach anything ā even the passings of distant friends and beloved pillars.
looking up at the sky, it's orange with fire and destruction.
orange, and the gold it illuminates under its haze,
burns.
...
it burns. it burns.
their chest, it burns, just like the sky.
the golden embroidery in that dirt brown cape burns.
behind their eyes, emerald and yarrow, pain. in front of them, a figure ā three sets of eyes, three sets of arms; a set of hands outstretched to the world, a set of hands gingerly held together, and a set of hands held out to the heir. it had unearthed itself, but not to soothe amphoreus with its presence.
in her eyes, his hands, on their lips; the memories of the world, the cruelty of the living, the trial of concord.
eirenus' gaze is a weight on the heir's shoulders, but still do they stare back, unflinching, albeit uncertain. hesychia knew of the nature of peace, fleeting and fated, but for this to be their doing... were they certain? were any of those hands gentle, any of those eyes observant?
a muralist could wait for paint to dry before painting any further. but they could not wait for a titan to deliberately delay their trial after the acquisition of the coreflame of concord.
"... eirenus," they whisper, delicate and soft, bowing their head. "is it time?"
the wind whistles a melody that only they can understand.
the cotton-haired elf tentatively lifts their gaze, a crease in their brow. "... i understand, i do," comes the response, mumbled as the meek heir straightens up, tugging at their scard. "but the situation had been dire. only the deliverer and i remain, for the masked man has slain and stolen the coreflames of the other heirs."
mismatched hues trail off to the blazing sky, and eirenus' numerous eyes follow, all hands clasped together. "it makes me question... why you waited, even after i got the coreflame."
as the leaves rustle and the dust follows the current, hesychia's expression softens.
"... yes, i remember the prophecy."
silence.
a lax hand, having unfurled from a fist. "i understand, i do," they echo, before turning their head to the titan once more. "then... if you believe that i'm ready for this, i won't let you down."
with those words spoken, eirenus' hands separate, inches away from every angle of hesychia's head. gentle they were, as if cradling something precious. with everything in place, they speak.
you will witness,
you will endure,
and you willā
(behind their eyes, pain. in front of them, everything.
memories of the world, memories of all; things both beautiful and frightful, like an ocean their head was being held under.
hesychia's breath catches in their throat, eyes held open by those divine hands.
memories of the world, memories of all; the blood that soaked the grounds of amphoreus' many lands, and the fleeting winds of silence that whispered the conclusions.
something in them is burning. like the sun and the sky they stood under, something inside them burns, and it is painful.
memories of the world, memories of all; an overwhelming sense of dread, laid bare to the cruelty of life. how can peace emerge in a world like this, plagued by destruction?
things catch in the waterlines of their eyes, but they never fall. nothing crushes them, but their ribcage feels tight, lungs squeezed by the pressure. they can't breathe. they weep with no tears. they mourn alone.
memories of the world, memories of all. with mind, body, heart, and soul, answer with verity: hesychia, still illustrator, child of woe,
do you still believe in concord?)
"... y-yes- yes!" they force the word out of their throat, eyes never drying from unshed drops of their truth. "for even if it's what was writtenā" for even if hesychia felt like they were dyingā "concord is absolute-!"
the moment the illustrator's body was released from the divine hold, they heave for air. behind their eyes, pain; in front of them, the world slowly returning to color, the pale brightness fading.
and yet, their head is still surrounded by those hands.
"at the end of all things... there is silence," hesychia whispers in a breath. "after the war, the winds. after the anger, the stillness. when the paint dries, the picture is complete..."
the winds of georios sing and brush over the leaves, dust off the balustrade, and pull off the curtain that draped over the wall behind the titan and the elf.
an unfinished mural depicts the abstract colors of conord. a broken, colorless orb's cracks spill gold, its shimmer akin to the ichor of the chrysos heirs. and yet, they trickle further down the wall ā form another, far tinier world.
the burn starts to fade.
they dare to steal a breath in front of a divine being, watching their hands slowly pull away, blinking rapidly; crying silently. "and when destruction reigns its terror, peace is what will soothe the amphorean lands, before the next catastrophe that will bring ruin."
emerald and yarrow peer into pale white.
"that is concord."
the silence is delicate as they follow their words. hesychia waits, waits, and waits, until they hear the winds once more. no words, no music, simply silence, as eirenus fades quietly into stardust. their eyes are closed, and a miniscule smile graces their features.
with their disappearance comes absence. the illustrator finds themselves smiling a little, too. a quiet kind of acceptance was all they need, no show or bloodshed, simply pain and perserverance.
looking up at the sky, it's orange with fire and destruction. they had passed the trial of concord, and gingerly held the title of demigod, blood shimmering under their veins in an ochre light. orange, and the gold it illuminates under its haze, is an unforgettable sight. an unforgettable experience.
memories of the world, memories of all; every cycle, every death, every ugly thing, shown within the span of three minutes. they would remember the pain of knowing, the pain of being held so tightly by a titan that simply loved.
looking up at the sky, it's orange with fire and destruction.
memories of the world, memories of all.
orange, and the gold it illuminates under its haze,
so the demigod of concord smiles, ears twitching with the slight movement of their face. as the sun burns, so do they, resting on the balustrade. crossed arms act as a cushion for their heavy head, quiet as they shield their gaze from the glaring light.
maybe we can't escape fate, they think to themselves, eyelids heavy as their body lightens. and maybe this flame-chase journey will always will us to disappear.
they dare to steal one more breath.
but even then, i'm glad that fate brought me here.
they dare to rest in the middle of ruin's silence.
you will witness,
you will endure,
and you willā
believe in concord,
all in spite of cruelty.
the voices that whisper their prophecy ā their fate ā have finally lulled them to rest.
āhonor the friendships that allow you to pick up from where you last left off, regardless of how long itās been since you connected. the friendships that survive hiatuses, silences and space. those are the connections that never die.ā
Kurt Vonnegut // Lang Leav // Erica Jong, Becoming Light: Poems New & Selected // @dvoyd // Matt Haig, The Midnight Library // @ojibwa // magazine clipping, on Bronnie Ware's The Top Five Regrets of the Dying // r.h. // F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Basil and Josephine Stories
Caitlin Siehl, "Cut" // i.g.p, "Mama Bore a Girl" // Natalie Wee, Letters from Persephone // Sarah J. Maas, Heir of Fire // @klyukvav // @heavensghost // Carol Ann Duffy, "Medusa" // Aria Aber, "Ideology" // Clementine von Radics, "Vigil" // Ocean Vuong, "Prayer for the Newly Damned"
neurotypicals always say like "oh don't play dumb you know what im talking about/what you did/etc" you misunderstand. i have no idea about anything ever. please explain actually
