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nepenthic-delirium · 23 days ago

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𝐆𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐈𝐂𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐃𝐒

ᝰ.ᐟ SUMMARY: Once, the Worldbearer was but a boy with the sun in his eyes, foolishly drunk in both love and dreams. But childhood must come to an end, and not all dreams are carried through.

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: PHAINON X GN! READER + PLATONIC CYRENE

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: angst, pure, debilitating angst, hurt no comfort, canon adjacent, dual pov (Phainon + Khaslana), unreliable (?) narrator, khaslana is a warning of itself, mentions of blood + violence, character death, yeah this one is a bundle of joy!

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2k words

𝐀 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑: DID NOT PROOFREAD WE DIE LIKE KINGS. Yeah I wrote this with tears in my eyes how’d you know? Also, for the best reading experience listen to HIJO DE LA LUNA INSTRUMENTAL, trust me. (phainon I would have wrote fluff if you didn’t use up all my dang stellar jades…)

Phainon–no, Khaslana, remembers everything.

The reddish hues of leaves swaying gently in the breeze, the light blue of a sky before dusk, and the golden color of ichor which painted the wheatfields. He remembers Cyrene’s pink hair–the color of a fluffy chimera, his mother petting his hair as his heavy eyes fell shut from slumber, and you.

You’re more striking than any memory. Lips, honey-sweet as you pull him in for a kiss. Eyes, the color of radiance itself, as tears pool at the surface. Hands, that fiddled in your lap as you whispered, “Do you…do you love me, too?”

I adore you. I love you so much that it’s worship.

It was worship, the way he cradled your dead body in his arms, golden ichor mixing into the red of your mortality. It was worship, when you came crying to him over something petty-insignificant, and he wiped the tears away with a reverent hand. It was worship, the way he sometimes wished to die in your arms-to stop his Flame-Chase Journey forever.

He watches you, sometimes.

You’re sitting down on the ground, hands splayed in the dirt as Cyrene swings away. You stick out your tongue when Cyrene teases, “Finally hanging out with me and not him for once, huh?”

“Oh, come on! When are you going to stop teasing me?” You huff as you fall on your back, reclining on soft grass.

“Our little [Name] seems to be growing up, huh?”

…

33,550,336 cycles.

And yet he can still remember one moment-a moment like any other, mundane as life always is when it first blooms.

You’re groaning. A hand upheld with a card of Cyrene’s, a man holding a cup of mead in his hands depicted on it with delicate strokes. “Drunkard, really?” You grouch. “Might as well as hand me a cup, if this is Oronyx’s prediction.”

“Oh, c’mon, maybe it just means that you’re going to be drunk on…uh,” Phainon makes a strained face as he thinks. “...happiness! Or, um, hope…?”

You give Phainon a glare, nudging his hand with yours as you point out, “Don’t you even start. You got the Deliverer card, no fair!”

The boy gives a grin, shrugging as Cyrene chuckles softly and plucks the card out of your hand. “Maybe fate has other plans for you, [Name].”

The soft wind caressed your hair as she said it, the light of midday sun just a bit more brighter as it casts down upon you. You had looked angelic, like a hero from one of the myths Cyrene would always tell. Khaslana remembered how his heart had skipped a beat looking at you then, how he felt his lips tugging into a smile more loving than teasing, how his cheeks felt more warmer, more red.

Fate did have another plan for you.

…

“Why do you want to learn swordplay?”

You had asked once, crossing your arms as you leaned on a tree, eyes watching him as he swung once, then twice. Your voice held a curious lilt to it, a bit strained, and your eyebrows furrowed.

He had answered it simply back then, boyishly grinning. “So I can protect you, and Cyrene, and mom, and dad, and that shopkeeper who always gives us free fruit, and–”

“No.” Your voice cut him off, and he caught the way your fingers digged into the flesh of your arm, your face paling. “That…that isn’t an answer, Phainon.”

He had tilted his head, a quizzical expression on his face as he dropped his wooden sword. “What do you mean?”

“Some heroes do it for…for glory! For fame! Maybe for self-improvement…but heroes that do it for others? Out of fear that they’ll suffer if they don’t do something? That sounds more like a burden than a hope.”

Phainon laughed, smiling as he replied, “You know I don’t see protecting you as a burden.”

You scoffed, eyes filled with hurt. “Of course you’d say that. You’d hold up the sun if it meant that even a singular ant would enjoy the light.”

Khaslana doesn’t think you're wrong. The boy–that naive, childish, hopeful boy would save anyone he could if it meant that they’d be saved. What you didn’t know, and what Phainon didn’t know is that there is no such thing as being “saved” in this world.

You had rushed to leave after that, rubbing your eyes that were filled with unshed tears as Phainon stood there, dumbly. He had lifted his hand, opened his mouth to call out to you, but you were already gone.

…

“Phai!” You call out as you wave a hand, you and Cyrene standing next to a vendor.

Phainon waves back, almost running as he meets up with you two. Cyrene is happily munching on some grapes, while you're struggling to open a pomegranate, your knuckles white as you try to release some force onto it.

“I told you you should have joined Phainon with his pushups~” Cyrene sing-songs as you make an almost comical face as you try to open the damn fruit. “Can’t even open a fruit?”

You scowl, hipchecking her as you retort, “Last time I checked, you couldn’t open this god-cursed thing either!”

“Well, what do you have me for?” Phainon asks sweetly as he holds out his hand expectantly, and you sigh as you drop the ripe fruit into his hand. The boy does it in one swift motion, splitting the pomegranate in two with an air of flourish. Cyrene and you clap, half-teasing, half-awed, but not before Phainon only hands you one of the two pomegranate slices.

“Ex-scuse me?” You huff, placing a hand on your hip.

“Food tax,” He grins, plucking a seed and popping it into his mouth. You roll your eyes, but not before doing the same, the juice leaving a red stain on your fingers.

“The price of being weak,” You bemoan. “Maybe I should start whacking wheat with a stick, just like you do.”

He blushes, rubbing a hand behind his head. “I prefer to call it training…with less resources?”

You giggle, your eyes warm. “I’m just joking, Phai. You’re crazy strong–I bet you could fight a Castrum Kremnos warrior and win!”

Cyrene hums along, nodding her head. “When you head off to Castrum Kremnos, go easy on the soldiers there, huh?” Your face falls a bit at Cyrene’s words, but brightens the next moment.

“You two better send some souvenirs back, oh, and write too! Or you’ll witness my true rage–and trust me, I can be even scarier than Nikador when I want to be.”

Phainon and Cyrene erupt into a fit of laughter.

You smile, but don’t laugh with them.

…

The first time he kissed you, he swore he would never feel such bliss again unless it was with you.

The day had been any other, mundane yet sweet in its normalcy. Cyrene had left you two alone, claiming she was tired even though the sun was only just setting. And although Phainon was sad to see her go, he was also a bit excited.

Today was the day.

“Are you really leaving Aedes Elysia?” Your face was sullen, the setting sun contouring your face and highlighting the melancholy in your eyes.

“You know I have too.” Phainon smiled, although the tips wavered as he gazed at your hands. Restless, your hands were picking at a scab, the tips of your fingernails persistent as you scratched.

He rested a hand on yours, fingers intertwining as he squeezed–just like how his heart did the moment you looked up–as he offered his most sincerest grin.

“You don’t have to do anything. There's plenty of other Chrysos Heirs out there, why do you have to be one of them?” You insisted, voice sharp and shaky.

“So I can protect you!”

His voice was loud-a bit more louder than necessary. He could feel the blood rush in his face, but he couldn’t care less. He could see the way your eyes dimmed, just for a moment. The way your face fell, the way your hands pulled away from his grip–

“Do…do you love me?”

Phainon nodded, just once. And then you let out a breath, and kissed him.

It wasn’t much of a kiss, and more like an act of cannibalism. Teeth, clashing on teeth. The sudden urge to bite your lips, and leave them bruised and a bit bloody. The way you pulled back with a gasp, only for him to reach over and cradle your head before shoving you back towards him.

The next morning, Phainon apologized for his behavior, before you kicked him in the knee and kissed him again.

…

Khaslana remembers the day you died with almost grim clarity.

A day, like any other. Mundane yet sweet in its normalcy.

Always so sweet.

You had bid farewell to them a little earlier than you usually did. You were feeling sick, your stomach aching with what seemed to be nausea after Cyrene had told a somewhat grim tale.

“I hate even hearing about blood.” You feigned puking, and Cyrene had giggled and waved, while Phainon, the ever so courteous gentlemen, had suggested walking you home.

Cyrene giggled even harder, and you embarrassedly had lightly pushed him, pouting as you mumbled, “I’m not that weak, Phai.”

He should have. Should have spent every minute with you, on that day. Should have followed you like a shadow.

Instead, the boy smiled sheepishly, rubbed his head, and muttered apologetically.

Instead, the boy and Cyrene played with fairies, and were warned too late.

Instead, the boy had to watch as those he loved perished.

Khaslana remembers the sickening sound of you choking on blood, the way his tears fell on you and the way you were crying too. You had tried, tried so hard, to wipe his tears, but instead you hand smeared the golden ichor on his cheek.

“I’m…not–” You cough, blood dripping down your lips like pomegranate juice. “-not really…afraid of blood.” You had murmured.

“Please…please, save your breath. Don’t act like this is a goodbye!” Phainon’s grip on your shoulders tightened, blue eyes burning. Or maybe it was the fire reflecting in his eyes?

“I…just never liked…” Your eyes find his’ once more, and you give a weak smile. “...the thought of you bleeding.”

Your eyes had gone blank then, and not even the fires surrounding you both could illuminate them as much as they once were.

Khaslana remembers, and remembers, and remembers.

In later cycles, he drives his sword into Cyrene’s back. Watches as golden ichor spills, watches how the hands that used to split pomegranates for his friends became the hands that drove swords in their back instead.

In later cycles, he kills you last. Makes sure to give you a slow death, just so he can witness you one last time. In all your sickening glory. Watches as you smear the golden poison on Phainon's cheeks, as you whisper, “I never liked the thought of you bleeding.”

…

The ends justify the means. No matter how brutal, no matter how vicious, no matter how dastardly, no matter how cruel.

“Why do you want to learn swordplay?” You had asked once, crossing your arms as you leaned on a tree, eyes watching him as he swung once, then twice. Your voice held a curious lilt to it, a bit strained, and your eyebrows furrowed.

Because sometimes, you must pick up a sword.

“To save our world.” Khaslana says softly. “To save your world.”

@ NEPENTHIC-DELIRIUM. do not plagiarize, claim my work as your own, translate or share my posts on any platform outside of tumblr.

#icymi <3

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nepenthic-delirium · 24 days ago