Chapter Text
On Hyacine's suggestion, they call it a day on their investigation not much later. Mem seems glad of the chance to rest, and once they're safely back in their own version of Okhema, they hurry to the Heroes' Bath to discuss matters amongst themselves... except Anaxa, who has apparently had enough of working with them and immediately rushes away to do whatever it is he's been doing in Okhema while avoiding Aglaea.
The Garmentmaker who came with them is still hovering nearby, having grabbed a bolt of lightweight but sturdy periwinkle cloth on the way in from the garden; in a rare example of it practicing its name, it sets about sewing a set of comfortable clothing for Phainon's alternate timeline self.
(Hyacine wants to supervise and make sure that it's balancing the concerns of giving his physical wounds space to breathe and being mindful not to include any elements that seem likely to retraumatize him, but her attention is needed elsewhere for now. She'll just have to trust in Garmentmaker's ability to do its job - not that she doubts it, of course, but... It's hard sometimes, holding back her drive to meddle, to help. After all, that's the only reason she's ever been able to get out of bed and pull herself through the day.)
"Am I to understand that this venture turned up nothing whatsoever of the information you sought?" Aglaea somehow manages to sound at once deeply personally disappointed and not at all surprised by this outcome.
"Not exactly... Oh, but I saw something weird a couple jumps ago!" Stelle's eyes conspicuously flick over to the two Phainons, both standing near the centre of the group. The recently-rescued one from the other world seems on the verge of tears at the mere sight of the baths.
"Is it about Kephale?" asks Trinnon. "We saw something to do with them, too, though we can only guess what it might mean..."
"A sign of Kephale? Now that is a surprise. What was different about this other timeline that they saw fit to break their silence?" Aglaea's question has several people looking ill at ease, especially Mydei.
(Hyacine makes a mental note to seek him out later so she can reiterate that he is in no way responsible for what his other self did. It's not as if any of them blames Phainon for the Flame Reaver's murder of Trianne - except, perhaps, Phainon himself, which they all understand is unwarranted - so why should this be any different? Really.)
The Heir of the Twilight Courtyard clears her throat. "In my professional opinion, some of us definitely need rest more than they need to be here for this debrief. Dannie, Greyie, would you mind sharing your balcony with Other Phai to get some fresh air and still make sure you all have privacy? If that's okay with you, Oth— I mean, Phai."
She'd prefer to attend to him herself, but Anaxa made it clear he's done with helping, and if they're going to make anything out of the scattered pieces they've gathered, they might need more alchemical expertise than Castorice and Phainon - er, Pyrisous? - can manage alone. Based on her diagnostic scan, his case doesn't strike her as one where rushing to urgent care will particularly do him good, anyway; his biggest wounds are of a nature that can only be healed with time and safe space.
...at least, that's her impression, patched together from various documents and diaries dating back to the time of the Chrysos Wars. She's been told (in whispers from an aghast Tribbie) the rough shape of the cruelties inflicted on Phainon, and vaguely knows about what has helped some survivors of such things in the past; in her time, though, the most widespread threats to the people of Amphoreus have always been the black tide and the Titankin. Horrific as their deeds are, there are certain forms of destruction in which those beings simply take no interest - so she has relatively little idea of what to do for the aftermath of an atrocity that's so purely, damningly human.
"I..." Phainon looks heartbreakingly shocked to be asked. "If they're all right with it..."
The Trailblazers share a look that Hyacine isn't quite sure how to read.
"Of course," says Dan Heng. "I'll show you the way - it's just through the public baths here."
"Don't fall in!" Stelle chimes, eliciting a fond sigh from her friend as he and Phainon make their way off into the corridor. Hyacine considers sending Little Ica along to offer Pega-snuggles, but she's concerned that might be too intrusive. Later, though! Later for sure!
*✴︎*ω∞ω*✴︎*
It's the little things that give Phainon the slightest bit of hope that his rescue hasn't been some mad dream. This other version of Okhema is not so perfect as to be entirely unbelievable, but the mere fact that he is here once more, in the city he last saw being reduced to rubble, is overwhelming enough that his eyes grow misty.
He follows Dan Heng, whom his alternate self introduced as one of two heroes from beyond the sky who've come to help this world. He knows better than to judge by appearances - Tribbie and her siblings are proof of that in spades - but he can't help wondering about how very young they both seem.
Would they have been able to spare his own Okhema, had they come to it instead of this one? It feels unfair to ask such a thing of them, even silently.
Mercifully, the route they take to the private room isn't crowded - they pass by the hot bath and two of the smaller pools rather than the central area, so Phainon is able to see some familiar faces, but they're not overwhelmed and certainly no one comes to stop them. The door whirs open at a gesture from Dan Heng, a familiar sound ever so slightly different from the version of the mechanism used in Castrum Kremnos.
The room inside is simple - an alcove on one side with a pair of klinai angled towards each other, a folding screen with a towel haphazardly draped over it, a door at the other end opening onto a balcony, and a tiered plunge bath set around an altar-like fixture framed by elegant stained glass. There's an odd energy to the altarpiece, a siren song that tugs at his mind, but he pushes it down; perhaps later he'll have the wherewithal to wonder more about it, but for now he simply follows Dan Heng's lead to sit by the edge of the bath.
"May I?" Water swirls around the boy's fingers in delicate wisps, sparkling a subtle greenish-gold. "I'm no medic, but I have some experience soothing this type of injury."
He motions to indicate the marks ringing Phainon's wrists, where the manacles left bruises and cuts that are now painting the skin in various lurid shades. Phainon nods - and as Dan Heng's water-wreathed hands approach, his sleeves happen to slide away from his wrists.
It's very faint, but...
"I'm sorry," says Phainon.
Dan Heng tilts his head, a small, curious thing. "What for?"
Maybe he shouldn't have blurted it out like that, but Phainon has never been one to shy away from his actions, so he answers: "For whatever happened to you, to leave scars like that."
"It was a long time ago," Dan Heng assures him, as if that's supposed to make it one iota better - instead, all it does is draw attention to the grisly way the scar tissue stretches, like it's had a lot of growing to do along with the healthy skin around it.
"Are you immortal?" Phainon asks, his impulse control apparently having been left at the door - whether the one that took him to this world or the one they've just entered, he couldn't say.
"Yes and no." Dan Heng hums as the door clicks shut. "Mostly no... but because of the memories I carry, some people would say that I am."
Well. That answers very little...
"How old are you?" Phainon tries again.
Dan Heng frowns. "Because of Aquila's power isolating Amphoreus, we haven't been able to figure out how our system of tracking time lines up with yours. All I can say for certain is that my age should be measured in the thousands of Entry Hours, but I don't believe that's very helpful."
It really isn't: "thousands of Entry Hours" basically just narrows it down to older than a toddler and younger than the Tribios siblings, if Phainon's quick arithmetic is right.
"Of course. Sorry, I... If you're helping us - them - Okhema, then you're a friend. I shouldn't pry," says Phainon.
"Don't worry - if you were, I wouldn't answer, that's all."
Phainon opens his mouth to reply, but pauses as he hears the door whirring in preparation to open. He tenses automatically, less a fighting reflex than one of sheer trepidation - but neither is needed as the opens to reveal a small figure with red hair.
"Snowy!!"
There's an audible squeak of sandals on the tile as Tribbie stops a breath short of launching herself at him; her arms pinwheel, in fact, to stop her falling forward from the momentum of the near-jump. It's a very Trianne thing to do, so much that he wonders for a second whether maybe the sisters have switched hairstyles in this world - but no, her eyes and mien have Tribbie written all over them.
"Lady Tribbie," he says, not quite managing to give her a smile. It's futile to think she might not notice the lack, but he pulls her into a tight hug all the same; even if it doesn't mask a thing, he needs this more than he knew he could. "Is everything all right? Do you need something?"
"Just to see how you're doing, of course! Cinny wants to check on you later, but for now she and Little Cas are working on an alchemical matrix to try and reverse engineer some of the maybe-clues Little Grey collected," Tribbie says. "Trinnon's lending a hand with that. And then Little Grey was coming here too, but she suddenly said something about new treasure chests in the area and ran off..."
Phainon laughs in a way he had begun to think was lost to him - not full laughter by any means, but even a breathless, unsmiling chuckle is more than he dared hoped for as of mere hours ago. "That girl must get along famously with Cipher."
"Cipher?" Dan Heng repeats the name with a puzzled frown. "The demigod heir of Zagreus, right? I don't think we've met her."
"Oh." Phainon looks down, mindful not to accidentally squeeze Tribbie too tightly as he takes it in. He decides to change the subject before he has too much time to think up possible reasons for his comrade's absence. "I haven't seen Trianne. What's she up to?"
The eldest demigod goes tense. "She's... gone."
"Gone?" It comes out almost as a gasp.
"That's why we were investigating other timelines, actually," says Dan Heng, briefly reaching out to pat Tribbie's head before freezing and pulling back.
"She's... Was it Castrum Kremnos? Or the Titankin? The Black Tide?" There are so many possibilities - life across Amphoreus is fraught with danger, and the life of a Chrysos Heir even more so - and he can't figure out which one he fears most. (Wait, Castrum Kremnos and Okhema are allies in this world, aren't they? At least he doesn't have to worry about that, but...)
"None of those." Tribbie's eyes are full of tears, but she reaches up to pat his head comfortingly anyway. "It was the Century Gate. She used it too much protecting us from something else, and... I can take you to visit her later, if you want?"
He nods, feeling numb. So then... this perfect world isn't so perfect after all.
That's almost comforting, though he hates himself for the thought.
*✴︎*ω∞ω*✴︎*
Preoccupied as he is, Mydei doesn't hear Castorice's gentle footfalls until he's beginning to feel the warning crawl of her proximity over his skin and his soul. He turns just in time for her greeting, her voice hesitant as always.
"Lord Mydei?"
"Castorice." He gives her a cursory nod.
"The hour grows late," she says.
"I'm aware."
"Do you not have an early start planned tomorrow?"
"I..." He does. He always does and she knows it.
But...
An impulse overtakes him, guiding his hand to reach for hers. Predictably, she sidesteps his touch, pulling her arms to her chest as if burned. He would think it a deserved reproach if it didn't fit in so well with her constant self-abnegation.
"Death is not a toy," she says with a lightly chiding note.
"I never claimed otherwise."
"Lord Mydei... If it's that sort of comfort you want, you know very well I cannot give it to you."
He huffs. "As you wish."
Would her curse override his? Even as a newborn, it was second nature for Mydei to ride the tides of death through fallen Styxia back to the living realm; he cannot imagine that that would change simply because he willingly took the hand of death's herald.
The feeling will pass, he knows, but right now, he can't quite extinguish the desire to find out.
"I cannot take your hand," Castorice says, to reiterate, "but I can stay here, if you'd like the company."
"Please do."
Neither one of them says another word... nor do they manage to sleep that night.
*✴︎*ω∞ω*✴︎*
"I mean it: no running in the baths!"
One of the first things Phainon hears on waking up is a voice he recognizes all too well, no matter how much he would prefer he'd never heard it before. The same tone he recognizes as "love" - however twisted and corrupt the other man's view of the concept - is there in every gruff laugh and word he isn't quite awake enough to parse, and it almost feels safe from this distance...
But the other thing he hears is shrieking.
He tumbles off the kline, eyes wide and face pale. Has Mydeimos found him, somehow? Is this reprieve about to end, bringing with it disaster on even more innocents just for the misfortune of being near him?
"What's wrong?" asks Dan Heng, already awake and reading.
A yawning Stelle pulls out a large lance from nowhere. With a flick of her wrist, it catches fire.
"That sound - out there - I..." Phainon trails off, his voice growing weak at the realization that much of the screaming he heard has the distinct notes of wild and playful cheer - even laughter. His face heats up and he finds he can't meet the Trailblazers' eyes.
"It is pretty early. Did they wake you up?" Stelle asks, extinguishing her lance but not putting it down even as she rubs the sleep from her eyes with the same hand that's holding it.
A bright, piercing giggle rends the air, followed by a soft but commanding growl.
"They shouldn't be having a splash fight there - that bath's far too shallow and small," says Dan Heng, frowning. "I can try to help herd the children elsewhere."
"The children?" Phainon asks a little faintly. His Okhema had nearly no surviving children, to the point that he and Hyacine were among the youngest present by the time he had arrived in the city.
"Yes, Mydei often... oh." Dan Heng purses his lips. "I'm sorry - you recognized his voice, didn't you?"
"I did," Phainon admits, accepting a glass of water helpfully offered by Mem.
Stelle hums. "Maybe it'll help if you get to know our Mydei a little? He's actually kind of a softy."
Phainon considers this, then offers a tentative nod. He can't quite believe it - still can't quite believe any of this, if he's being honest - but... if there's a way forward, a way to regain the feeling of being who he once was, it probably starts with loosening the grasp of his fear.
*✴︎*ω∞ω*✴︎*
Almost unimaginably far away, a clawed golden gauntlet reaches up from the rubble of the Kremnoan throne room. The hand within is dredged in rock dust and sticky from blood and sweat,
His eyes light up red, and the ring burns its way around him, flaring with twelve spikes. Kephale, warped; Worldbearing turned to Worldcrossing.