Chapter Text
Time is fickle when you’re a demigod. Aglaea can attest to that fact, feeling it both drag slowly and slip through her fingers at various points of her life.
From a simple priestess who does tailoring on the side, to a Chrysos Heir, to a demigod, to the leader of the Flame Chase, Aglaea feels like her life has blurred by. The point in her life where she opened the door to a smiling Tribios announcing her as the Chrysos Heir for Mnestia feels like lifetimes ago. In technical terms, it was true — several generations of mortal human lifespans, that is.
The demigod of romance, despite the frivolous title, actually held a heavy burden. The core of romance is fate and encounters. As the weaver of fates, she is the thread to unite the journey of Flame Chase and ensure it succeeds to the end.
The burden of leading the Flame Chase is a heavy one, a responsibility that she had accepted from Cerydra with immense apprehension. Self-doubt had haunted her every step, even with Tribios on her side, thinking of every way that everything could go wrong — whether she was good enough, whether the choices she made were correct, whether Era Nova was truly the salvation they sought from the ever rising black tide.
The thoughts never truly disappear, but with centuries of being forced to bear them, they sit quietly in the back of her mind. As her humanity slips with the passing years, the worries fade more and more, prioritizing efficiency and end results over anything else.
Aglaea wonders what depth of hell awaits her at the end of her journey, for all the cold and often inhumane choices she had made to benefit the flame chase. To think that her demise would be a pool of gold -
“Agy.”
Aglaea shifts, dull eyes turning to the sound of her teacher. “Teacher, what brings you here? I thought you were helping Castorice today.”
The blurry figure of Tribios greets her sight. From the calm demeanor, she figures it’s Trinnon. “The prophecy… it’s spoken.” she murmurs.
Aglaea purses her lips. She sets down her pen, rounding the table to fully face the other demigod.
Birds chirp merrily outside. The soft murmur of citizens going about their daily life drifts in through the open windows. Amidst the ambience, the air in Aglaea’s office subtly shifts, like someone holding their breath.
Trinnon straightens, her childish voice at odds with her grave tone —
“All shall bid farewell to one, and that person alone will witness the miracle.
Such is destiny.”
.
Aedes Elysiae burns.
Alone, a child stands in a field of burning wheat. A broken sword lays at his feet. His eyes stare unseeingly into the edges of the sky, where darkness encroaches.
He doesn’t know how long he stands there. The air smells acrid, burning flesh, burning wood, burning wheat. His clothes are singed. His hair probably is too. Should he step into the flames? Maybe he can meet Cyrene and his parents.
(“ –there’s a survivor–”
“–a child–”
“–the others, don’t–”)
There had been so many monsters. Some with arrows, some with blades, all carried the stench of rot and destruction. Out of all of them, a black-cloaked figure stood out, disposing of the most important people in his life with three effortless slashes.
For a moment, he had thought he would be next. The hair on the back of his neck had raised when he felt a cold gaze settle on him, looming like a guillotine.
The child had tried to stand against him. The swordsman had ignored him completely, leaving him at the mercy of the Black Tide monsters — which he somehow managed to take down a few of, the chipped sword his father had saved up for months to get him not surviving the ordeal. He doesn't remember much of anything that happened after seeing Cyrene bleeding gold on top of his parents’ bodies, drifting to an eternal, cold sleep.
But he remembers the monsters that spoke.
One of those monsters…. It said his name. Its voice was also familiar. Garbled and inhuman, yet still, some part of it was unmistakable.
“You didn’t protect us. You promised.”
“It hurts! It hurts!”
“How could you?!”
“■■■■!”
“–kid! Hey, can you hear me?”
An adult hand waves in front of his face. Slowly, the child turns to look.
The man in front of him is dressed in some kind of uniform, armor strapped to his body. The cuts that litter his body ooze gold.
“Kid, this place isn’t safe. We have to go before the black tide rises again,” the man continues, seeming to not notice the unresponsiveness from the child as he sheathes his sword. Monster gore is splattered all over the sheath. “Let’s go.”
His hand is big around the child’s wrist. The child wordlessly follows. After three steps, he stops, prompting the man to stop as well.
“What is it, kid?”
“...I want to pack up.”
The man incredulously looks at their burning surroundings, bodies both human and monster littering the ground. But a twinge of pity strikes his heart. He sighs, waving his hand. “Make it quick. And pack light!”
The child trudges off in a seemingly random direction, his footsteps heavy. The ragged clothes on his back seem to swallow up his thin figure, a worn thing made with rough material. It probably served its purpose well for a farming village like this, but he would need to dress in something more appropriate for Okheman standards, the man thinks.
“Hey Artos, any other survivors?” His comrade, Theodoros, calls out to him.
Artos hums, shaking his head. He had searched every nook and cranny of the small village, and only found cold bodies. It didn’t feel right to just leave the bodies to rot in the open, so he had tried to cover them in whatever scraps of cloth he could find, in hopes of giving the departed a sliver of dignity in death. They were short on time and resources and couldn’t stay long.
The other man frowns grimly, eyes drifting briefly to where their temporary ward had gone.
“The prophecy Lady Goldweaver mentioned…” Theodoros murmurs, “It can’t be for that kid, right?”
Artos sighs. “Who knows. Probably is, considering she directed us to this exact village.” Forlorn, he looks in the direction the kid had walked off to. “If we had arrived earlier…”
Perhaps the child wouldn’t have ended up alone. Perhaps he wouldn’t have had to force down the bile rising in his throat at the bodies of innocent people crushed under the dark tide and its creations. Perhaps he would have felt like he actually did something of substance, instead of arriving just in time to pick up the last remaining piece of a broken life.
“Chin up, man. At least we got a survivor. Whether he’s the one the prophecy is about isn’t our business, we just need to get him back to Okhema.” Theodorus claps him on the shoulder, before he continues to sort through their rations.
The kid comes back a short while after. Artos looks at the bundle in his hands.
A loaf of stale bread, a wooden sword, and some kind of card. He frowns. “You sure that’s all, kid?”
The child quietly looks down at his bundle. “It’s all I could find.” His voice is soft, wispy, like a flickering candle flame in a hurricane.
Shit. Artos feels like an asshole now. He groans, shaking his head. “Ah, my stupid mouth. Sorry kid. Here, let’s get you up.”
He brings the child onto the dromas. Usually, children would be giggling in excitement to ride one. In a backwater area like this, he bets they don’t even see dromas often. Yet, the child quietly sits, arms tightly clutching his little bundle like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded.
“Theo, let’s go.” He calls out to his companion, letting him take the reins. As they settle into their seats, he rummages in his bag, before handing an apple to the kid seated behind them.
The kid looks up, eyes blank, but he takes the fruit with a quiet thanks.
Artos eyes him, waiting for the inevitable – and frankly deserved – tantrum. If it were him in his shoes, especially at such a tender age, he would be bawling his eyes till he cried blood. The kid survived a massacre, surely he’s going to start crying soon?
Against his expectations, the child continues to be quiet, eating his apple with a ravenous focus like he hadn’t realized his hunger. No tears, no whines, not a single peep — just a faraway stare, and shaking hands.
How long had he been standing in that field?
Uneasy, he looks away. “If you’re still hungry, just tell me alright?” he says gruffly.
The kid makes a small sound of acknowledgement.
Theodorus gives the kid a glance, curious, but otherwise doesn’t attempt to start any conversation.
Their journey to the next stop is silent. The kid never asks for another apple.
Artos gives one to him anyway.
.
Five days later, they arrive in Okhema.
Artos has never been happier to see the imposing city gates before, and almost hops down to kiss the ground if not for the fact that he has to maintain some kind of dignity in front of the refugee they rescued.
The kid is still quiet. He hasn’t cried once throughout the journey, and Artos’ concern is mounting. He’s never wanted a kid to throw a tantrum more in his life.
“Hey kid, we’ve arrived.” He says as he picks the child up from his seat, and descends from the dromas together. He weighs barely anything, and Artos is tempted to give the kid another dozen apples.
He lets the kid down without a preamble. The kid looks around, eyes still faraway, but he doesn’t look as cold as he did before. If he had been a normal kid, he would’ve been zooming around in excitement, eager to explore a new city. Belatedly, he realizes he’s never asked for the kid’s name.
From afar, he hears a familiar clack of heels and turns to acknowledge the owner, placing a comforting hand on the kid’s shoulder; Lady Goldweaver could be a little intimidating, sometimes, he wouldn’t fault the kid if he got scared.
“Lady Goldweaver, we’ve completed our mission.” He greets her respectfully as she approaches. From behind him, Theo also salutes her.
Aglaea always cuts an imposing figure wherever she goes. The air seems to grow heavier around the weight of her divinity, shimmering gold like Mnestia’s threads, a beautiful poison.
The demigod inclines her head at them, before making her way to the child in front of them. The child stands barely at her hip, looking up to her with undisguised awe.
Their eyes bug slightly when the Goldweaver kneels onto the ground, uncaring of the dirt that gets on her pristine dress as she addresses the child. Any Okheman worth their salt knows how priceless Aglaea’s garments are, spun with gold and the finest silk.
“Hello, little one. I am Aglaea, the Goldweaver. May I know your name?” Aglaea asks him, voice gentle, like she doesn’t want to spook a small animal. Looking at the boy’s rugged appearance, perhaps he’s not far off from a lost critter.
The child, wonderstruck, slowly utters his name with a strange reluctance, like he isn’t sure of it himself. “...Phainon.”
His blank expression has faded, slightly easing the knot in Artos’ chest. Even if it isn’t the tantrum he was expecting, at least some semblance of normalcy has returned to the child, even if it’s just wonder at an otherworldly beauty.
(Distantly, Artos makes note of his name. They might run into each other in the city, after all.)
The Demigod smiles, taking his hand gently as she leads him into the city proper.
“Welcome to Okhema, young Phainon.”
.
The Deliverer of Amphoreus’ fate…. is small.
So small that Aglaea can’t bring it upon herself to tell this frail little waif about his burden of being the savior of humanity. His hand could barely grasp three of her fingers, his face though gaunt from exhaustion and hunger had traces of childishness that reminded her, before he was a child of prophecy, he was just a child.
What could these little hands do for the fate of the world?
The child's hair was matted from the long journey it took from his hometown to Okhema. Aglaea regrets that the prophecy was revealed so late. Perhaps, if she had been more proactive, she could’ve done something to prevent the destruction of his home.
Another doubt quietly drops into the back of her mind, accumulating with all the others she’s been carrying through the millennium. She shakes her head to clear her thoughts, focusing on the task at hand.
“Little one, would you prefer a bath or a meal first?” she asks, as they meander slowly through the streets of Okhema. It’s as busy as ever, people milling about their daily lives, vendors selling their wares, children playing.
Phainon’s eyes seem to follow the latter with a poorly hidden longing. He looks down with a small frown before shaking his head. “I'll follow your lead, miss Aglaea.”
Before she can reply, a rumble comes from his stomach, and she smiles at the blush it pulls from him. “Silly me, we can simply do both at the same time.”
The heroes’ bath is empty when she brings Phainon up, save for Tribbie who’s humming as she sits in one corner of the baths. She lights up when she sees them.
“Agy!” she greets, before her eyes turn to Phainon. “And our deliverer!”
Aglaea shakes her head from behind him, a small frown at her lips. Tribbie covers her mouth with a gasp. Phainon looks in confusion between them.
“Sorry! Agy, you brought a new friend!” Tribbie corrects herself, sheepishly.
Aglaea instructs Phainon to take a shower in one of the nearby stalls and provides him with a simple tunic to wear into the bath. As he showers, she rings for food to be served, making sure there are both light and hearty meals that their newest addition could choose from. He’s so skinny that she worries.
“Agy, you didn't tell him yet?” Tribbie questions once Aglaea’s settled into the bath. Her legs kick gently in the water, causing ripples around them.
Aglaea shakes her head, eyes downcast. She leans her chin on her hand, manifesting a gold thread around her finger. It gleams with the shine all new things have, its trail leading to the shower stalls Phainon’s in. He’s now part of the web she’s woven in the holy city.
“It didn't feel right. The boy’s just lost his home and family, and came to a strange new place on his own.” Golden nail polish catches the light, as she fiddles with the equally golden thread. “I think we should let him get used to life here before we tell him.”
Hearing her explanation, Tribbie giggles. “Hehe, that’s very kind of you, Agy! We agree, let's tell him after he settles into Okhema,” she tilts her head back, her humming providing a soothing white noise along with the gentle ripple of the water.
Phainon soon joins them, his steps a bit wary. Half-cleansed from the dust and grime, he looks especially cute with his big blue eyes and damp white hair. Aglaea notes some of the worse matting in his hair and mentally arranges to get him a haircut later.
He’s still clutching that bundle of items he’s brought on his journey.
“Wow, your hair is really pretty like snow! Come on in, Snowy, the water is really nice.” Tribbie beckons him into the pool, her voice as warm as the bath.
After setting his things a safe distance away from the water, the child slowly makes his way into the pool, eyes darting from Aglaea to Tribbie. In the end, he wades over next to Aglaea. She chuckles as the boy sits next to her, the water almost up to his neck due to his height.
Tribbie notices his curious expression. “Oh, sorry! We forgot to introduce ourself. We are the demigod of Passage, Tribbie!” She laughs when his eyes widen.
“A demigod…?” He shifts to look at Aglaea, who’s calmly sipping at a goblet of wine. "Like Kephale and Oronyx?"
"Not quite. Demigods are humans who obtain divine power by passing a Titan's trials." Aglaea explains succinctly. Phainon's mouth rounds into an adorable 'o' as he slowly nods.
“So you’re a demigod too, Lady Aglaea?” His voice pitches slightly in awe. She rewards his answer with a wave of her hand that summons numerous golden threads, each interweaving and connecting to different parts of Okhema. His delighted gasp earns a short huff of laughter from her.
“Very astute of you, little one. Only demigods and Chrysos Heirs are allowed in the upper baths.” Aglaea’s eyes crinkle in a small smile as she dismisses her threads. He’s taking the news of her identity rather well, she muses.
Phainon looks down at his lap, lip jutting out in a slight pout. “But… I’m not a demigod, though. I shouldn’t be up here.”
“Sure you are!” Tribbie interjects, cheerful. At his questioning look, she continues, “The demigod of cuteness, Snowy is!”
Phainon reddens, shrinking into himself as Tribbie laughs again. Aglaea hides a chuckle behind her hand, not wanting to embarrass him further.
“I can’t say I disagree. But you are always welcome here, Phainon.” Aglaea sets her goblet down, looking at him appraisingly. “You’re one of us.”
“How do you know that?” The young boy asks doubtfully.
“Call it a fateful guess.” Aglaea’s tone is almost playful. “I am the demigod of Romance, after all.”
Phainon, still confused, doesn’t push further for more answers. Instead, he sinks a little further into the water, shoulders loosening.
“Well, does it feel nice?” she asks, a rare indulgence tinting her tone.
“Mhm…” Phainon slowly nods, his eyes drooping. His previous hesitation seems to have melted with the warmth of the water, Tribbie smiling at him with the same indulgence Aglaea feels.
Aglaea runs a hand through his hair, Phainon jumping at first before he leans into it eagerly, cheek mushing into her palm. “You shouldn’t fall asleep here, little one.” She advises gently. “I’ll show you to your room later and you can sleep there, hm?”
Tiredly, Phainon nods. The journey here had to have been tiresome, she muses, continuing to pet his hair. His eagerness for touch and fluffy hair brings to mind the image of a cute puppy, and Aglaea smiles at her own imagination.
Soon, their food arrives as a staff wheels in a cart full of meals. Phainon’s eyes snap open as the scent of freshly cooked food reaches his nose.
“I ordered quite a lot for us. Don't be shy and eat whatever you like,” Aglaea says as the staff plates the food on their table. Phainon practically salivates, looking between her and the food.
“Anything? It’s free?” he asks with disbelief.
Aglaea exchanges a look with Tribbie, and they both nod.
“If you’re ever hungry, come to the heroes’ bath and order food from the staff. Or just go to the market and put it under my tab,” Aglaea says seriously, putting a hand on his shoulder.
Wide-eyed, Phainon nods.
“We’ll show you the best food stalls and restaurants in Okhema, Snowy!” Tribbie pitches in, sounding just as determined. “If there’s one thing you can always count on, it’s food!”
“Plus, growing children should eat a lot. Make sure to eat enough to grow up healthy and strong, hm?” Aglaea adds, leaning forward with a smile.
After that, it doesn’t take much encouragement for him to start eating. First in slow, careful bites, though it gradually turns into a much more enthused pace. Tribbie refills his plate every time it empties, giving her own suggestions on what to eat next.
Content to watch him eat, Aglaea can’t help pinching his puffed out cheek as he eats, earning a muffled hum.
Surprisingly, Phainon manages to clean almost all of the dishes she ordered, except for a bowl of spicy meat soup. He had taken one bite and coughed, turning red in the face much to her concern. The bowl had been immediately taken away, as she poured him a cup of milk to ease the spice.
The boy now sits leaning heavily against her, groaning with a full stomach. His eyes are drooping again. Aglaea smooths his bangs back, careful to avoid the worst of the matting, a softness she hasn’t felt since her last encounter with a kitty thief as a mortal stirring the depths of her divine heart.
“Little one, let’s get you to your room and you can sleep there, yes?” she whispers, careful not to jolt him awake.
Too tired to argue, Phainon agrees and takes the hand she offers, leaning heavily against her as they get up.
Tribbie waves at them as they leave.
“See you tomorrow, Agy and Snowy!”