Chapter Text
"Phainon" woke up.
The distant sound of birdsong reached his ears, carried on a breeze that filled his lungs with fresh air. Above him stretched a bright blue sky, clouds drifting lazily across its expanse.
He laid there for a while, breathing slowly, deeply, taking in the scenery.
How did he get here? The last thing he remembered was fire- streets engulfed in it, citizens screaming as the world burned around them. He remembers the pain, and oh titans he was in so much pain-
Phainon winced, clutching at his chest as if the memory alone reignited the flames across his skin. His heart pounded, his breath quickened, but when he looked down, there were no burns. His hands were whole. His body… untouched.
Below him was a sea of vibrant blossoms, their colors stretching in every direction. Reds, yellows, violets, and blues swayed together in the breeze, filling the meadow with a sweet, dizzying fragrance
Phainon blinked, disoriented as he felt the softness of petals brushing against his hands as he pushed himself upright. He was surrounded, not by smoke, no rubble in sight, and no screams to be heard, there was only a field alive with color and life.
It was beautiful. Almost impossibly so.
It felt like a dream.
“Snowy!”
Three red-haired children came running through the field, carrying cheerful smiles as they rushed to meet him. Their little hands reached for him without hesitation, tugging at his sleeves and clinging to him excitingly.
Not far behind, Hyacine and Castorice sat among the flowers, weaving stems together with nimble fingers. Their voices rose in gentle song as they threaded crown after crown, the meadow brightening with every bloom they touched. Cipher lingered nearby, her usual smirk softening as she traded words with them.
Further off, the Goldweaver and his Professor watched in silence. Aglaea’s expression was distant, wistful, yet softened with something tender in her eyes. She looked relaxed as if there was no longer anything to fear. Beside her, Professor Anaxa stood with arms crossed.
“Deliverer,” a rough, far too familiar voice welcomed him from behind. The Kremnoan Prince, demigod of strife, Mydei, greeted him with a steady gaze. “You’re finally awake.”
“We were waiting for you!” Tribbie cheered, practically bouncing in place. “We made flower crowns and everything!”
Phainon’s chest ached at the sight of them all. So many faces he thought he would never see again. So many familiar voices, the same ones that once haunted him in his dreams.
“What are you sitting there for? Get up,” Mydei’s warm hand nudged his shoulder, firm but gentle. “Everyone is waiting for you, Phainon.”
Phainon blinked up at him, the golden light of the meadow blurring around the prince’s silhouette. For a moment, he almost forgot the fire, the screams, the pain that had brought him here. All he could feel was the warmth of that hand steadying him, grounding him.
He let out a shaky laugh, “You always make it sound so simple.”
Mydei’s lips curved faintly, the smallest flicker of a smile, “That’s because it is. Come on, don’t make them wait any longer.”
His friends gathered around him, their voices bright, their smiles unshaken. Small hands tugged him forward, as a flower crown was pressed into his palms, laughter wrapping around him. And for once, after so long, Phainon felt truly happy.
The weight of his burdens seemed to have lifted from his chest.
Here, in this sea of flowers, surrounded by the people he loved, he felt like he could finally be at peace once again.
Khaslana woke up.
The distant crackle of fire reached his ears, carried on with the acrid scent of smoke that filled his burning lungs. Above him stretched a dark, cloudy sky, thick with smoke that obscured all light above.
He lay there for a while, breathing slowly, deeply, taking in the scenery as his true memories returned to him.
The streets had been engulfed in flames. Corpses had long since turned to ash, and any sign of civilization was being erased. All that remained were ruins, charred and crumbling, swallowed by fire that still consumes what remains of the city.
Khaslana grunted, clutching at his head as if the memory alone reignited something deep within him. His heart pounded, his breath quickened, and as he looked down he was met with bloody hands.
His body could barely be considered human anymore. Even calling him a monster would be too kind for what he has become.
Below them was nothing but a sea of rubble and ash. A conquered land, now completely decimated. They blinked, disoriented as they looked around. Clouds of smoke curled around them, stones shifted and tumbled from the shattered ruins, while fire still clung stubbornly to what little remained, burning without end.
There were no signs of life anywhere. Only ruin. Only silence.
So it really was just a dream…
Khaslana touched their shoulder, fingers brushing against the torn fabric, touching the thin layer of ash resting on their skin. For a moment the pain faded, replaced by the memory of Mydeimos’ hand resting against him. That warmth that spreader through their body. It had been an anchor, feeling like he was engulfed by the warm sunlight on a winter morning, grounding them when everything else had already fallen apart.
They closed their eyes, holding onto the memory for as long as they could. The memory almost chased away the pain clawing at their body, almost made them believe that comfort was still within reach, that this world still has a chance.
But as they lowered their hand, the warmth was gone, and he was faced with the cruel reality of this cold world once more.
Khaslana felt something stir within their chest, an emotion so old, so distant, that they no longer remembered the name of it. It burned hotter than the fires devouring this world, hotter than the ache in their lungs.
They missed that warmth. Missed the weight of that steady hand on their shoulder, the way it had taken the heavy weight off of his chest. They missed those kind, gentle voices, voices that they hadn’t heard in decades, now only echoes in memory. They missed the feeling of peace, fragile and fleeting as it had been.
With a sharp, steady breath, they pushed themselves to their feet. Ash slid from their clothes as they rose, standing tall among the wreckage.
Rubble clattered and shifted underfoot, as they moved through it without without a care.
There was once a time when they were seen as a selfless being, a vessel of others’ hopes. They had turned the wishes of strangers into their own, carried burdens not meant to be theirs, and fought for citizens who had placed their faith in them.
But they knew the truth. They were not as selfless as the world believed. To be selfish was to be human, and despite everything, Khaslana had once been human.
So they left. Step by step, they ventured across the scorched earth, until at last they came upon a quiet place, far from the crumbling ruins and endless fire. It was a pocket of the world, untouched and waiting.
The stories of old spoke about the gods before them, how those gods had shaped humanity from the clay in the ground, how they had blessed mortals with fire, shelter, and life itself.
Khaslana’s hand tightened at their side. If the gods of old could create life, then what stops them from doing it too?
Kephale had once shaped mankind from clay. So Khaslana lowered themself to the ground, pressing their palms into the blackened earth. The soil was warm, dry, and brittle beneath their touch, but still they dug their fingers deep into it, pulling it up in clumps and pressing it together.
Slowly and steadily, they began to mold it. Their hands moved almost without thought. As they carved out the shape of a man, a sharp, proud face forming under their fingers, a strong body and broad-shouldered, muscles chiseled into the hardened clay.
Khaslana stepped back and let their gaze linger on the figure. At first it looked like mere lumps of clay, rough and uneven, but the more they looked, the clearer it became. The face was sharp, familiar, the body tall and muscular, shaped with a care that betrayed something deeper.
They froze.Subconsciously he had made the figure look just like Mydei even down to the smallest detail. Back when they were mortal, they had carried a near obsession with the man’s body, with the sheer strength and oppressive presence Mydei had carried so effortlessly fascinated him.
And now, without meaning to, they had sculpted that memory into form, as if their hands had remembered what their heart had never forgotten.
They paused, their eyes tracing the contours of the clay body. How had Kephale done it, how had the god breathed life into the first of mankind?
They knew death. They had tasted it, drowned in it, carried it in their chest like a second heartbeat. They had felt the agony of dying more times than they could count, had dealt that same fate to millions upon millions.
Death was familiar, a constant in their life. But bringing life into this world? That was a complete mystery to him.
Khaslana lowered their gaze to their hands. Stained, calloused, scarred. Hands that had leveled cities, shattered armies, thrown kingdoms into the grave.
Hands that had never been meant to create life, only to bring destruction. Yet here they were, trembling over clay, daring to try.
They sat there next to the unmoving statue, pondering to themself.
The gods of old had guided humanity step by step . Ceres had given humanity knowledge, while Mnestia had taught them how to love. Was it possible for them to do the same thing?
Slowly, Khaslana reached out, their hand hovering over the clay figure. Their touch was gentle, almost reverent, as they poured into it a fragment of their own knowledge and memories.
For a moment, it seemed to work, the clay hummed faintly beneath their palm, as though it was trying to stir to life. But the vessel was fragile, unready to hold such power.
With a dull sound, the form split down the middle. Cracks raced across the chest and face before the entire body collapsed, tumbling into a shapeless heap of earth at Khaslana’s feet.
Dust clung to their fingers. The body they had shaped so carefully was now no more than broken fragments. All that effort, undone in an instant.
But that did not deter them in the slightest. Failure was only another step forward after all.
Khaslana began again, gathering whatever materials the ruined land offered, splintered wood, fractured stone, scorched pieces of earth, fragments of metal, even the brittle bones left behind in the ash.
Piece by piece, they molded and arranged it all. To recreate the scene in his dream.
The sky priest kneeling to the ground with the hand of death, and the whimsy thief by her side. The hieratic and gold weaver standing to the side. Next to Khaslana was the three little messengers, and not far behind left Mydeimos, watching over them all.
Khaslana stood there, looking at the scene. The figures were rough, uneven, nothing close to the living beings they had once known. Their creations did not breathe, did not move, did not smile. And yet, Khaslana could not look away.
Khaslana tried again and again, but failed each time. The clay collapsed under itself. The wooden frame splintered, the stone shattered, and the dirt slipped away like sand between their fingers.
Each attempt ended the same, lifeless fragments of the torn bodies scattered at their feet. So they kept going, again, and again, and again.
Time no longer mattered. The sun rose and fell over smoke-stained skies, the fires in the distance burned themselves out, and yet Khaslana still remained there.
Their hands never stopped, not even for a moment. When one body crumbled, they reached for more of the earth below and created another. When one form cracked, they fixed it until it was perfect.
They had all the time in the world, after all. Nothing waited for them beyond this place. .
So they stayed there, and they kept trying over and over again.
One day.
One day they would reunite in a field of flowers.
Whether it was in life or death did not matter anymore.