𝕭𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖗 𝖔𝖋 𝕱𝖑𝖆𝖒𝖊𝖘
ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔭𝔱𝔢𝔯 17
phainon x gn!reader wc: 3.41k tw: angst, death, martyrdom, apocalypse, hope v despair, trauma Story Elements taken from Punishing: Gray Raven, The Surviving Lucem Masterlist ☲IN which you are not a Chrysos Heir or a Titan, but a human being who struggles and shall bring the story of the Flame Chasers the grand and spectacular ending it deserves. Previous Chapter
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δ-me13 Experimental Progress: 97%
He watches as the administrative code lights up on a screen that only he can see, going through queries and internal diagnostics on the stability of the simulation. Ever since that first appearance years ago, checking in on the progress δ-me13 had become a habitual thing. He had expected that things would run along smoothly once that man finally buckled under the weight of his own ambition and succumbed to dust.
But it seemed that another factor had come into play.
To think Harmony would intervene during this last recurrence and throw a wrench in his plans. He never deluded himself into thinking he could understand the whims of the Aeons, but it was no matter. So long as this recurrence failed, it would give him the tools to get rid of this malware and set things on the right track.
Yet, he still found himself amused and curious about what this would bring.
He’s interrupted from his musing as a simpering thing comes up and talks to him amidst the chaos.
“Elder Lygus,” Menelaus' eyes dart from the council floor to the ceiling that was blown apart minutes ago. “Why…did you direct us to keep your alias as Theoros?”
“Simply a precaution,” Lygus shrugs with an amused smile. “I’ve had…history from city states outside of Amphoreus and simply wished to safeguard my person and name lest any of those under Esteemed Hestia recognized my name.”
“Ah…I see,” Menelaus rubs his hands together. “But can we count on your support to bar entry from those…refugees?”
“That we’ll merely have to see,” Lygus waves off. His unwillingness to throw his lot with one side or the other puts a face of discouragement on Menelaus’s face. Before Menelaus can try to convince Lygus to vote in favor of his faction, a messenger runs into the chamber in a panic.
“E-Esteemed Elders!” the messenger gasps and catches his breath. “The Black Tide…The Black Tide is being eliminated!”
Almost immediately, there are furious whispers and murmurings. Because even if Project Prometheus was condemned as a work of heresy by many of the council, its truth was displayed. The ability to purify the Black Tide is an incredible boon, blasphemy or not.
Lygus merely smiles as he primly crosses his fingers together. “Interesting. Let’s see the story you so wish to write, Ἑστία.”
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You hold the remains of the dead in your arms. Her body is still, flesh and skin peeled away by the infection of the Black Tide. But somehow, even though death must have been so excruciating in those last seconds, Helena’s expression is one of peace and contentment.
“Helena…”
You are not blind to the fervent reverence that your people hold toward you. At times, it makes you feel uncomfortable and unworthy. You know full well that what runs through your veins is crimson, and you are human just like the rest of them. Just like Phainon has affirmed, the lack of gold thrumming under your veins is a sign that you are not of a grand, divine destiny.
Yet the name Hestia weighs like a heavy crown all the same. And in this moment, you failed to protect people from having to lay down their lives to divert the Black Tide.
If only the people of Okhema accepted your refugees. If only the Council were not so entrapped in their power plays and arrogance. If only you had stayed here, then at least it would’ve been you who fell into twilight instead of these people.
But no prayer will ever reverse the flow of time.
Helena so outwardly brash yet gentle and caring at the same time. Your teacher, your caretaker, your friend, your confidant. You will never be able to hear her words, much less receive her guidance.
Why? Why must the Black Tide take everything away?
Your eyes burn and water as so many things swirl in your throat: grief, anger, sorrow, indignation. Because these deaths could’ve been prevented. No one had to die if others could express some level of empathy.
You shouldn’t have listened to Phainon. You should’ve stayed here.
You don’t know how long you stay there, feeling tears roll over your cheeks and merely holding Helena in your arms, trying to memorize her face for all of eternity. There are so many things clogging up your throat. Whether it is words of fury, a cry of anger, a wail of grief, or anything else. No matter how many times you part your lips, it’s only a hoarse whisper.
“Why don’t we sing instead of crying?”
You remember around that hearth back in Ladon. When grief and despair became too much to bear, the people let loose their grievances by singing.
“...”
“...That which I—hrk—faintly see in your eyes…,” you whisper hoarsely, too quiet and low a sound to be called singing. “An end… endless crim—son swirl of tears…”
You choke up on the lyrics because even these words that release your desolation do nothing but make the ache in your heart even more pronounced. Because what will mere singing do in this reality? But still, even though it feels like your very voice will fall apart, you continue even if it hurts.
“W-We bid farewell to the…grounds of yesterday. And carry what we have been—I can’t… I can’t… ”
Coughs and sobs wrack your body as your voice tapers off weakly into a sound of mourning. Once so bright, not even a dove can find the strength to spread its wings and fly again. No matter how flawless or powerful a person may be, they cannot shoulder the weight of the world by their lonesome.
“~We’re told to pave the way for our future and dream as big as we can dream~”
A deep, sonorous voice, yet full of grief, picks up this song where you have faltered. Looking up, you see Priam standing there. His head is bowed, tears streaming from his eyes, as he takes in Helena’s appearance. He places a hand on your shoulder and continues to sing.
“~Below the path of hope we do walk upon are the footsteps of our forerunners~”
Even his voice falters, but you hear the footsteps of multitudes of people arriving to join you. Craning your neck as far as you can see, many, if not all, the refugees you have saved join this mourning procession and offer their strength and voices. The women sing, voices trembling in soprano that shimmer in the air.
“~Let there be light shining down on us~”
And as if in response, the men sing, timbre and tenor sinking into the soil.
“~Upon past and pain we’ve all been through~”
Then all of them sing in unison, the very world trembling in the face of this harmony.
“~Our faith shall become light pushing us into the sky, now down the road we go as one~”
From a distance, as Phainon and Tribbie descend the mountain. Horror fills their hearts when they see the utter devastation wrought by the Black Tide on the refugee camp. But at the very edge between undisturbed earth and the Black Tide, a shimmering white light begins to form.
“What…what is that?” Phainon asks, eyes focused on this gentle but radiant star.
~In the rain that never ceases weeping…and far beyond the forest’s shadow~
“They’re…singing?” Tribbie blinks in confusion.
~No matter how close we are to giving up once more, our promises will always shine again~
And from that lone star in the abyss, light spreads outward in iridescent ripples with each rhythmic pulse of this star. Deceptively gentle, it pushes against the Black Tide, suppressing its rolling waves and forcing it to recede.
~The stars gaze upon the sea, its embrace holds the sails they left~
~The time it has come to step ahead again. Embrace it now…with outstretched arms~
Amidst the multitude of people, the ensemble of voices hides your weeping and grief. Even when you hold Helena’s body close and muffle your sobs into her chest, you can feel and hear each voice reverberate through your being.
~The pure sword, we hold true, shall pierce the peak~
~Through night and the storm it will soar on high~
Each heartbeat settles the tempo of this hymn, each voice weaves a melody that encapsulates the universe, and each human spirit will illuminate that cold, eternal night. They pat their fists and palms against their hearts as they honor their fellow humans who have taken up arms to confront the doomsday. And they make their promise that they will continue to forge on to that bright future.
~So long as our hearts beat until the time’s end, we will stand again, forward we go~
~So now, carve it out with your own hands~
~So now, from today, we build the future~
~So now, onto the path of tomorrow~
~Tomorrow!~
~Tomorrow!~
~Tomorrow!~
── .✦·········────
The bodies of the deceased are wrapped up in the cloth, preserving their dignity before it is time to send them off. For now, you stand as the vanguard of this somber procession, leading your people up the mountain and to the opulent city of Okhema.
And each step you take makes your grief dim and your anger burn hotter. Why is it that the people of Okhema enjoy luxury while the rest must suffer? And why is it that those same people cruelly and selfishly hoard that prosperity and refuse to help the unfortunate?
They aren’t asking for gold and riches. They’re only asking for sanctuary and safety.
Phainon and the Tribios sit on the Droma, a few paces ahead of this march of people. You don’t have to look directly at him, but you can feel his gaze settling down on you in worry. Stubbornly, you keep your gaze ahead and don’t deign to give him your attention. Right now, your people need you. You can deal with him later.
Intimidated by the sheer number of people marching together, the people of Okhema can only watch on the sidelines in confusion and fear. There are a few stragglers who jeer and riot, trying to provoke and bait reactions.
“Go back to where you came from! You aren’t welcome here!”
One of your people steps forward, but you have been attuned to the shifting moods of your people the whole time.
“Medea,” you say her name firmly before she does anything. Begrudgingly, Antigone steps down from retaliating, and the offenders laugh and jeer mockingly. However, they freeze when they feel pressure crash down on their shoulders and make them instinctively still. They meet your frigid gaze against their will and feel cold sweat run over their backs.
It is not the weight of a predator that has them frozen, but the weight of something so incomprehensibly cosmic that their instinct is screaming in fear of what they can’t understand.
You lead your people to the temples at the feet of Kephale, where the council members are already gathered together as well as Aglaea and, what you assume to be, another Chrysos Heir standing by her side. The scent and aura of death stick pervasively to her, but you pay her no mind.
Instead, your glare sweeps over the Council. They sweat and tremble under the weight of your presence.
“Esteemed Hestia,” Theoros inclines his head in respect. “My condolences and my apologies for your recent loss—”
“I don’t need your lip service,” you cut in, already irritated beyond belief. Wisely, Theoros culls his words, lips quirked in a wry smile as he nods once.
Another Elder coughs, and Caenis lets out a loose smile, drawing out every word as if it physically pained her. “You have shown the merits of your Project Prometheus. Being able to purify the Black Tide is certainly a massive boon. We will reach an accord with you—”
“I’m not giving you Project Prometheus,” you interrupt her. “You had your chance, but you made your power plays, and now you’ve lost it.”
Caenis stops, caught off guard and offended. “I beg your pardon?”
“No amount of begging will change what I’ve said,” you speak firmly and unyielding. “What makes you think that I will trust any of you hypocrites? You value the lives of my people through compensation, so what stops you from throwing out or killing my people once I hand it over?”
At your words, the refugees protest and raise their voices in your support.
“Yeah! What’ll stop you from killing us?!”
“How can we trust people like you?!”
“You’re the scum of the earth!”
“We won’t give anything to people like you!”
“We’d rather die than give you anything!”
The berating from the refugees has some of the council shrinking back in fear, others stewing in their anger, and others barely able to keep their fury in check. Elder Menelaus explodes first. “All of you are here by the grace of the council! You should be lucky that we are even welcoming you here on Okhema?”
“And what does Okhema that the rest of the people don’t?” you step forward and point up at the Dawn Device. “The protection of Kephale? The Dawn Device? If that’s all, then it can easily be taken away.”
You grab the strings of power waiting just right at your fingertips. In a shimmer of iridescent light, that crystalline baton appears in your hand, and you point it directly at Kephale. Those who are not familiar with the weight of ‘Hestia’ tremble and flinch when the sky ripples and the chorus of angels sing out to reverberate the atmosphere. Their holy voices crash down on the shoulders and psyches of those who do not stand against you, inflicting them with a feeling of foreboding: a foreboding that sends chills down to their very bones and makes goosebumps rise over their flesh. Because they can feel something so incomprehensible approaching, and the sheer might of their power threatens to unravel their very existence.
From nothing, 'Elysia' rises like a grand mountain over the dais of the council, making the very world quiver with the might of its presence. Its figure casts a massive shadow over the multitude of people, partly eclipsing the light of the Dawn Device. Though they do not recognize 'Elysia' as one of the twelve Titans, its grandeur and poise rival that of Kephale himself.
The Harmonic String fashions an arrow from holy flame and pulls it back to aim directly at the core of the Dawn Device.
“W-What is that?!”
“Is that a Titan?!”
“Wait, stop them! Don’t aim at the Dawn Device!”
The Chrysos Heir beside Aglaea conjures her scythe in a deluge of purple liquid. She steps forward, but Aglaea raises a hand to stop her.
“Aglaea—”
“Castorice, stand down,” Aglaea says, shaking her head. Begrudgingly, Castorice steps down, which tells both Phainon and the Tribios to stop as well.
“Hestia!” Caenis barks, loud but fearful. “Enough of this!”
“Let me lay down this new accord,” your amplified voice reverberates and shakes the atmosphere itself. “My people and other refugees out there will have sanctuary in Okhema, and I will not destroy the Dawn Device myself.”
A majority of the Council falls silently, sufficiently cowed by your threat. They are unable to say anything, so you turn to Aglaea.
“What say you, Lady Aglaea?” you address you. “Is this accord acceptable?”
“Hestia—!”
“I accept the terms of this accord, Esteemed Hestia,” Aglaea nods. After all, when you first met Aglaea, she made the distinction that the Chrysos Heirs and the Council were to be considered separate. But why make that distinction? Unless, as if to say that the Council was not the sole power of leadership in Okhema?
This observation is also coupled with how the Council reacted to Dr. Hesione’s directive to “Her Majesty Cerydra.” Why would the Council of Elders react so uncomfortably to the name of Cerydra? But you know, thanks to Priam, that Cerydra was a Chrysos Heir. And if the late ruler of Okhema was a Chrysos Heir, logic dictated that the Chrysos Heirs of today still had influence.
This is a decision that has two facets. First, your people will gain entry to Okhema, not through the Council of Elders, but through the approval of the Chrysos Heirs. Secondly, borrowing the name of the Chrysos Heirs will protect your people and make the Council of Elders think twice, lest they incur their wrath.
Negotiations will not work with people as fickle as the Council of Elders. If they could, then Helena would’ve succeeded a long time ago.
These pigs will not get any ‘carrot’ from you, only the ‘stick’. For your people and more that are still wandering Amphoreus, you will have to be the power that threatens to cut the council’s power at the knees.
With Aglaea’s acceptance, you let your baton and Elysia fade into motes of stardust.
“Is that what it is?!” Menelaus roars in accusation. “A Chrysos Heir colluding with their kind?! You may wield power, but you have no right to dictate the lives of humans!”
You scoff. “You accuse me of not being human?”
You procure a pocketknife and flick the blade loose. Without a second thought, you slice it into your palm and let your crimson blood flow freely and splatter all over the ground. Merely slicing your palm doesn’t make you flinch in pain; you’ve already experienced something much worse when you first purified the Black Tide.
Both the Chrysos Heirs and the Council of Elders fall into shocked silence at this revelation. To be able to conjure and command the power to purify the Black Tide as well as threaten Kephale’s Dawn Device, surely it meant that you were of the divine. But the blood that flows in your veins says otherwise.
You are human. And the strength that you possess is not owed to prophecy or the divine.
“I, Hestia, of humanity, condemn you all for your inhumanity.”
The Council of Elders is still unable to say anything as you turn on your heel. The refugees who follow your flame part ways, heads bowed and eyes cast on your visage in reverence. They follow you, just like countless times before.
“This shall conclude matters, no?” Aglaea addresses the Council.
“You—!” Caenis seethes, but she is powerless to say anything else. Today, the Council has been completely and utterly defeated.
“Room will be set aside for Hestia and their people,” Aglaea continues. “You have none to blame but yourselves for squandering this chance that Hestia has provided. After all…the entirety of the Council was not assembled for this decision, no?”
The present members of the Council are silent, caught red-handed in their scheme.
“Just you wait, Aglaea,” Caenis grits her teeth. “Your arrogance and the Flame Chase will see their end at the next citizen’s assembly.”
“I await to see how you will succeed where you haven’t centuries before,” Aglaea remarks mildly. The Council of Elders eventually dissipates as Caenis has no words or ability to make a meaningful comeback.
“Aglaea,” Phainon presses his lips together in confusion as he approaches the demigod. “Why…Why did you tell us not to stop Hestia?”
Phainon isn’t one to berate others, especially someone like you with whom he shares a history. But the importance of Kephale’s Dawn Device cannot be understated. Without it, what chance did humanity have in Amphoreus?
“Indeed,” Castorice agrees with Phainon. “That gamble…was something too heavy to take part in.”
Aglaea merely smiles, mystifying and assured. “There was no need to worry. Hestia had absolutely no intention of destroying the Dawn Device.”
Phainon blinks. “So it was a bluff?”
“Whether Hestia had the power to destroy it or not, we may not know,” Aglaea shakes her head. “But Hestia loves their people too much to do something like that. It was only a tactic to subdue the Council and find the best possible way to grant their people safety.”
If Aglaea said that you had no intention of destroying the Dawn Device, then the others couldn’t do anything but accept it. After all, Aglaea’s perception into the hearts of people through her threads proved scarily accurate. But Phainon had so many questions. Where did your strength come from? And why...why did that thing you conjured look so much like Cyrene?
“Go,” Aglaea tells Phainon, seeing his pensiveness and his overall confusion about what to feel about you. “We’ll handle things here, Phainon. Go talk to Hestia.”
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