cw for implied suicide. i block minors and ageless blogs.
—
Khaslana does not mean to fall in love with a dead woman.
Many cycles burn beneath his skin when he meets you. There is a bonfire inside him, stoked by the kindling of his companions' deaths, their Coreflames the splintered wood. It is an unrelenting flame, and he has begun to think it will always need to be fed.
You have not mattered, those previous cycles. You're one of the many who died at the Imperator's hand.
This time, she dies at yours.
Your blade has bloomed crimson, a flower that has long lived in Khaslana's garden. You set it to the floor gently. The chime of it pieces through the air, rips through the veil, and the court jolts back to life.
The Imperator's chosen swarm you, but your face—moon-calm, tide-steady—does not change.
Khaslana watches. He watches them build the pyre; he watches them strike flint against stone.
He does not interfere.
—
You die young.
It is as familiar to Khaslana as the forest fire that licks beneath his skin. You come to the Imperator's court with a blade hung high above your head, Damocles unnamed. He sees it gleam above you, a sickle-edged crescent moon.
It always falls.
And Khaslana watches.
—
(The children of humanity you swore to save... they are no more than ants to you now, aren't they?)
—
You are melancholy, this cycle.
Khaslana does not know what comes before. He knows only what you have become in the Imperator's court, the molded clay of you. Cerydra's hand has sculpted you unkindly, and in the quiet space behind his ribs, he thinks she has carved too close to bone. You are collapsing, a star folding into itself.
You slip away one night; the sword above your head shines silver, moonlight sharpened.
Khaslana follows.
You perch upon a windowsill, a grounded bird. Beyond the open glass, the golden treetops sway, a shimmering exhale. You do not look at him.
"You followed," you say.
He does not reply.
"One less piece on the board," you murmur to yourself. The wind grasps at your clothes with greedy fingers. "Cerydra will make do."
Khaslana watches.
—
(The children of humanity you swore to save... they are no more than ants to you now, aren't they?)
(Ants, Khaslana thinks.
Phainon used to try not to step on them.)
—
You are different, before.
He finds you in the cradle of the ripening grape vines, nestled on the thin grass that lies between each threading trellis. The air is sun-sweet in this town, laced through with the grassy kiss of the clovers that cover the slope outside your home.
He watches you pluck a grape from a nearby vine, the wine-dark cluster wobbling as you give your claim a vicious little twist. It bursts beneath your teeth. Juice collects on the seam of your lips, shining like a coin.
"You can have some, if you'd like," you say. "You don't have to hide."
Khaslana has never heard you sound content before.
You glance at him, your smile sun-woven, kissed by light. You pat the verdant grass at your side.
"Come sit, stranger who lingers," you say, confident in the kindness that he barely remembers. "I'll show you how to choose the best ones."
It is years before the Imperator's rise, before her tide of golden blood floods the land that nurtures you now. Khaslana knows that you will be whittled down beneath the knife of the Flame Chase Journey.
The sword always falls.
He sits.
—
The rain is warm.
It falls gently, more a kiss than a storm. Your little yelp still rings in Khaslana's ears; it had been a sweet sound. He watches as you leap across the riverbank, scurrying home, weaving a web of laughter in your wake. He follows more sedately, his boots heavy against the mud. The imprints of him will wash away by morning.
You glance over your shoulder, the sun rising over the horizon. You duck beneath a nearby tree—a meager shelter, the leaves trembling beneath the raindrops—and turn back to him.
"Stranger!" you call. "You'll be soaked!"
He continues at his pace.
You dart out from underneath the tree. He watches as you run away from your shelter, from the promise of your warm, dry home. As you run towards him.
He lets you wrap a hand around his wrist, your fingers the kindest shackle he's worn. You tug at him.
"C'mon," you say. "We're almost there!"
(We, you always say. We.)
He lets you lead him. You do not let go of his wrist; your fingers are gentle. Sweet.
Khaslana pretends he can feel the warmth of your skin despite the star-blaze beneath his own.
—
(The children of humanity you swore to save... they are no more than ants to you now, aren't they?)
(An ant is still life, is it not?)
—
He kisses you only once.
It is the first cycle since he has become Khaslana once more. He has not seen you in so long, not since violet flame grew out of the cracks of him. The cracks have mended; he is made flesh again.
But the Coreflames spit sparks inside him; his nerves are cinders, pain just a memory. He is reborn from ash, a phoenix rising, and he devours the Black Tide, leaving death in his wake.
You are weeding in the vegetable patch when he returns to you. Your fingers are clever against the dirt, the scythe of your nails cutting through the tatted roots. There's sweat gleaming on your brow; there's a clover leaf smeared against your cheekbone. Khaslana watches, the embers inside him stirring. That you are a fire poker to his blaze is no longer a surprise. You have always been made of iron.
You glance up. The pile of weeds ends up scattered across the dirt, their leaves ground beneath your feet. He catches you as you barrel into him, his big hands gentle against your skin. You do not cry.
He crosses the threshold of your home for the hundredth time. The thousandth.
The millionth.
You curl up into him that night. Your bed is too small for the two of you; you are poured into the spaces around him.
(In him.)
Khaslana does not sleep often. But he lies with you, listens to the soft song of your breath. It is as gentle as waves upon the sand, and just as steady. The moonlight catches in your eyelashes, spiderwebs them silver.
"I know you're awake," he says.
The corners of your lips curve up. You crack open one gleaming eye, the haze of sleep almost eclipsing it, morning mist.
"Do you always stare when I sleep, Stranger?"
He does not answer.
You hum, a honey-pour sound. You boldly nudge closer to him; your breath is cool against his lips.
"Well, Stranger?"
There are whispers of a Chrysos Heir rising to new heights, kindling catching.
"Khaslana," he says. "My name is Khaslana."
You draw in a sharp breath.
"Khaslana," you say, and he thinks his name a feast when held in your mouth.
Your hand settles on his cheek, a shock of winter chill. You sweep your thumb across his skin. You are not shy when you lean in to kiss him; it is not your way. Despite your surety, the kiss is delicate.
And charred wood will always crumble.
Khaslana surges into the kiss, his hand settling at your nape to bring you closer. His grip is heavy; he thinks it is likely too tight. He does not loosen it.
Your lips part when he licks across the seam of them. He tastes the cool water of your mouth, drinks from you deeply. You cup his cheek and spill into him, quenching something deep inside.
Khaslana settles over you, the weight of him spreading your legs. You hook one around his hip as you press harder into the kiss.
Something gleams above your head. Khaslana closes his eyes.
—
The Black Tide spills faster across Amphoreus in the next cycle, a frothing sea.
The sword falls.
Your town burns before Khaslana reaches it.
—
Phainon holds the crescent sword against his chest.
It will end this time. Khaslana is sure of it. The cycle will shatter, and the true sun will rise over Amphoreus.
The blade sinks into his flesh.
The memory of you will have to be enough for Phainon.
For Amphoreus' true dawn, the sword must always fall.