sunlightocean - Tumblr blog

sunlightocean · 10 days ago

Text

HALCYON DAYS

pairing khaslana x gender neutral reader

in the quiet between resets, between the halcyon days of wheat fields and the inevitable pull of the vortex, there exists one fragile cycle where things are different. where you, who have always been khaslana's constant, now bear the weight of a coreflame in your chest.

for as long as khaslana can remember, you were there—steady, unwavering, a constant presence by his side. even back when the two of you were just children, playing knights and heroes in the golden wheat fields, pretending to defend a kingdom that hadn’t yet fallen.

you were always the one who took the role of the noble protector, a wandering hero from beyond the so-called kingdom, the one who stood firm even when the game turned too rough, the one who made sure no one got left behind.

and now, years later, as the two of you stand together in the ruins of the holy city of okhema, swords drawn against the relentless black tide that swallowed your home, he realizes some things never change.

and that’s the thing about you—you haven’t changed. not really. yes, you’ve grown taller, stronger, your hands calloused from years of gripping a sword. but at your core, you’re still the same person who would rather throw yourself into a fight for someone else’s sake than walk away. the same person who, even now, stands with your back straight and your shoulders squared, as if you could shield the entire world if you just tried hard enough.

khaslana is grateful for that, more than he could ever say. after aedes elysiae fell, after the three of you—you, him, and cyrene—were left with nothing but ash and survival, everything shifted. cyrene found solace in prayer, in the quiet halls of the temple.

you and khaslana? you picked up blades instead. but where khaslana’s path twisted with uncertainty, yours remained clear, unshaken. you were still the one who laughed a little too loudly at his terrible jokes, still the one who could read him like an open book, still the one who never hesitated to drag him into trouble if it meant doing the right thing.

speaking of trouble—there was that little tradition between the two of you. a deal, of sorts. if one needed help, they had to offer something in return. khaslana swears you invented it just to annoy him, but he can’t bring himself to mind, not when you appear at his side with that familiar glint in your eye, your fingers curling around his wrist before tugging him toward whatever chaos you’ve stumbled into this time.

usually, it’s because you’ve gotten into another fight. not for pride, not for glory��no, it’s always because you saw something unfair and decided someone had to do something about it. and if that meant squaring up against three drunk mercenaries in a back alley or challenging some noble’s spoiled son to a duel for harassing a shopkeeper, well.

you’d do it without a second thought. khaslana sighs every time, but he follows anyway. how could he not? you’ve always been worth following.

and as per tradition, khaslana’s cramped little room in the shared quarters was cluttered with all the trinkets and oddities you’d given him over the years—payment, you called it, for every time he’d helped you.

a chipped porcelain figurine of a knight you’d found half-buried in the mud during patrol, a polished river stone you swore looked like his grumpy morning face, a ridiculously overpriced pocket watch he'd been eyeing from the market that you’d saved up for weeks to buy. each one had a story, a moment where you’d shoved it into his hands with that stubborn look of yours, insisting it was a fair exchange.

khaslana was starting to suspect you made up reasons to ask for his help just so you could give him things. it didn’t matter if the task was as simple as boosting you up to rescue a cat from a tree or as tedious as drilling sword forms with you until your arms shook—you’d still press some little treasure into his palm afterward, your fingers lingering just a second too long.

and at the end of every month, without fail, you’d show up with something extravagant—a leather-bound book, a finely crafted dagger, things far beyond a soldier’s usual budget. he knew you skimped on your own meals to afford them, no matter how many times he scolded you for it.

"you don’t have to do this," he’d grumble, even as he carefully placed each gift on his shelf, arranging them like sacred relics with a smile on his face. but you’d just laugh, that warm, familiar sound, and tug him along to the next absurd adventure. "it’s not enough," you’d say, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "not after everything you’ve done for me, hero."

sometimes, the payment was simpler—his favorite pastries from the market, a steaming bowl of stew after a long march, the way you’d bump your shoulder against his when he was lost in thought. but today, when you perched beside him on the old wooden rails, swinging your legs like a carefree child, the question that tumbled from your lips wasn’t simple at all.

"how do you know if the person you like returns your feelings?"

your voice was light, curious, as if you were asking about the weather. but the words hit khaslana like a blade between the ribs. you were staring up at the sky, completely oblivious to the way his breath stuttered, the way his fingers dug into the wood beneath him. how could you look so perfect like this—sunlight catching in your hair, your brow furrowed in that achingly earnest way—while shattering his heart into a million pieces?

khaslana nearly chokes on his own breath, fingers tightening around the rail as he jerks his head down, staring hard at the ground like it might swallow him whole. think, think— but his mind is a mess of static, his pulse hammering in his ears. "w-well, umm..." he stammers, voice cracking like he’s fifteen again, "do they... talk to you a lot?"

he risks a glance at you from the corner of his eye—just a quick, desperate flicker—but the second you turn to meet his gaze, he flinches away, cheeks burning. stupid. so stupid. why did he say that? of course you talk to them. you talk to everyone, with that easy warmth of yours, but—

"yeah, we talk every day," you muse, swinging your legs idly, completely unaware of the way his stomach plummets. "hmm, but that’s not enough to say whether they like me back or not."

what? his head snaps up, eyes wide. who—who could it be? you weren’t close to anyone outside of him and cyrene, not really. you were too busy hauling recruits out of trouble or lecturing drunk soldiers about honor or—or—oh.

his chest twists. had someone else finally noticed? the way your laughter carried across the training yard, the way you always stood a little taller when defending someone weaker, the way your hands were always so careful when bandaging his wounds—

no, focus. he swallows hard, brain scrambling for an answer. what else… what else did people do when they liked someone? his thoughts spiral, but all he can think of is you—the way he memorizes the curve of your smile, the way he saves the last bite of his meals just in case you’re hungry, the way he’d throw himself into the black tide itself if you asked.

"well," khaslana presses, fingers nervously tapping against his thigh, "do they know your favourite colour?"

"yep."

"favorite food?"

"mhm."

"the way you like your hot chocolate?" his voice pitches slightly higher—too specific, he realizes too late.

you turn to him with one eyebrow arched, the corner of your mouth twitching like you're biting back a laugh. "yes?"

he doesn't back down. if you've been talking daily, then surely those are just... basic facts. right? except—except he'd always thought those were his details to know. the way you prefer your hot chocolate sweet, with a dash of cocoa powder on top. the fact your "favourite colour" changes depending on the season (but you always circle back to a particular shade of blue). even cyrene only knows half these things.

"do they buy you gifts often?" he asks, too quickly.

"actually, yeah."

okay. okay. that's—that's fine. gifts are normal here. polite. he'll just have to find out what they gave you last and get something better. maybe that engraved dagger you'd eyed at the market last week, the one with the ivory hilt. you'd pretend to scold him for spending too much, but your eyes would light up anyway.

"do they buy you food often?" he tries again, voice strained.

"yeah, they actually buy me food a lot."

khaslana's jaw tightens. fine. if they're going to play that game, he'll learn to cook. properly. none of that street-vendor stuff—he'll track down recipes from aedes elysiae's old kitchens, the ones you still sigh about sometimes. he'll burn or tire his fingers a dozen times if it means presenting you with a perfect slice of cheesy garlic pizza, still warm, just like you remember.

(he doesn't realize he's pouting. you do.)

khaslana grits his teeth, fingers curling into his palms hard enough to leave crescent marks. the question sticks in his throat like honey—too sweet, too telling—but he forces it out anyway. "do they... make you laugh often?"

and then he looks at you. really looks at you.

mistake.

because the expression on your face—the way your eyes soften at the corners, the way your lips part just slightly, like you're tasting something wonderful—it punches the air straight from his lungs. he doesn't know whether to fall to his knees and carve this moment into memory or to let the black tide take him now. this is the look of someone in love, and the worst part? it's beautiful. that warm, bright smile he thought was his alone now blooms for someone else, and when you laugh—light, effortless, happy—it feels like a knife between his ribs.

"oh, do they make me laugh, huh?" you muse, tilting your head. and then—

wait.

what was that? that flicker of—of shyness? the way your gaze darts to his, just for a heartbeat, before you look away, cheeks tinged pink? khaslana's throat goes dry. he wants to beg the titans for answers—let me be the one to make you look like this, or strike me down where I stand, he isn't picky—but all he manages is a strangled noise when you add, "but... is there anything else?"

anything else? if his heart wasn't currently shattering into irreparable pieces, maybe he could think straight. but all he has left is the truth, spilling out in a clumsy, desperate rush. "they—they’d notice things," he blurts, too loud, too raw. "little things. like if you’re tired, or if you skipped breakfast, or—or if your sword grip’s off." his voice cracks, shoulders hunching like he can physically shrink away from his own words. "...and they’d try to fix it. even if you didn’t ask."

the silence that follows is agonizing. khaslana wants to fling himself into the nearest chasm. why did he say that? now you’ll know, now you’ll—

but when he risks a glance, you're just... staring. lips slightly parted, eyes wide with something he doesn’t dare name. and then—

"huh," you murmur, that familiar playful smile tugging at your mouth. "didn't think you'd be an expert when it comes to this topic, hero." a pause. a tilt of your head. "and i've noticed that your questions are... well." your voice drops, teasing but soft. "they’re… exactly what you do for me."

khaslana’s entire body goes rigid. if the earth split open beneath him right now, he’d thank it.

oh, he is so cooked. his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, brain scrambling for any excuse, any deflection—anything to avoid acknowledging what you just said.

but as he flounders pathetically, he catches it: the way your eyes crinkle at the corners, soft and fond, like you're looking at something precious. something loved. and just like that, khaslana feels something in his chest snap. his vision blurs—are those tears?—because how dare you look at him like that when he's this close to crumbling?

"but thank you for your help," you say, voice warm with amusement, and oh no, that's worse. "i think i know my answer now."

know your answer? his stomach plummets. are you—are you going to confess? to someone else? no, absolutely not, he forbids it—

but before he can even choke out a protest, you're already turning, hopping off the railing with effortless grace. you stretch, arms arching over your head, completely oblivious to the way his heart is currently attempting to claw its way out of his throat.

and then—then—you have the audacity to take his hand, your fingers slotting between his like it's the most natural thing in the world, tugging him down after you.

"c'mon," you say, like you haven't just shattered his entire existence.

khaslana stumbles after you, legs numb, soul halfway to the afterlife. he's not recovered. he's not okay. and yet here you are, leading him somewhere (to your mystery lover? to rub salt in the wound?), your grip firm and reassuring like you always are, like you haven't just ruined him forever.

you tug him toward one of the pricier food stalls near the square—the one that sells those perfectly golden-brown pastries filled with spiced meat, the ones khaslana never buys for himself because "it's a waste of coin" but always stares at a little too long when you pass by.

right now, he looks like he's just survived a battlefield, shoulders slumped and eyes hollow, while you're already digging into your coin pouch with that determined glint you get when you've decided to spoil him.

"two, please," you tell the vendor, ignoring khaslana's weak noise of protest. the scent of butter and herbs wraps around you both as you shove the still-warm bundle into his hands, your fingers brushing his just long enough to feel how cold they are.

"there you go," you murmur, satisfied when his face finally changes—the way his pupils dilate, the way his throat bobs as he inhales the aroma. "your payment."

he takes a bite, and the way his shoulders relax makes something warm settle in your chest. "thank you..." he mumbles around a mouthful, and you can see the tension leaving him, bite by bite.

"of course," you say, leaning against the stall. "it's only right, since you helped me with such a big question." you watch him devour the pastry, the flakes catching on his lips, and hum. "hmm, but that does look good though."

then—before he can even blink—you're suddenly right there, leaning into his space with that familiar determined glint in your eyes. one hand closes over his wrist to steady it while the other braces against his shoulder for balance, and before khaslana can process what's happening, you're taking a huge, deliberate bite right from the pastry still clutched in his fingers.

your teeth graze his thumb accidentally-on-purpose, warm breath ghosting over his skin as you pull back with the flaky crust crumbling at the corners of your smug smile.

khaslana makes a noise halfway between a gasp and a whine, fingers twitching where they still cradle the now-missing chunk of his snack. his face burns at the proximity—at the way your grip lingers just a second too long—but you're already straightening up with that infuriatingly pleased look you always get when stealing food from his plate.

the golden afternoon light catches in your lashes as you chew triumphantly, and despite himself, khaslana's traitorous heart stutters at the sight.

"how selfish..." he grumbles, but there's no real annoyance in it—just fondness, the same tone he uses when you "accidentally" take the last slice of his dessert.

(you’ve always done this. he’s always let you.)

you know his habits and vice versa, after all. how he’ll buy your favorite skewers on days you’re too busy to eat and "casually" snack on them in front of you until you cave. how he’ll sigh and produce a second portion the moment you reach for his, like he’d been waiting for the excuse to feed you.

now, you just grin, licking salt from your thumb before grabbing his wrist again. "c’mon," you say, and his breath hitches when your fingers slide down to intertwine with his.

khaslana’s chest floods with warmth as he lets you pull him along. this—this—feels right. the weight of your hand in his, the way your steps match his stride, the quiet certainty that you’d always find each other.

but then he remembers.

someone else gets this too.

someone else makes your eyes soften like that. someone else earns your laughter, your stolen bites, your relentless affection. the thought lodges like a splinter in his ribs, sharp enough to make his steps stutter.

(but it’s okay. it has to be. as long as you still reach for him—as long as you still drag him into your light—he’ll survive it. won’t he?)

૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ

fate was cruel. this was cruel. he shouldn't have opened his mouth, shouldn't have let the truth spill from his lips like blood from a fresh wound. he should've let you remain oblivious, let you keep smiling that bright, carefree smile until the cycle reset and wiped everything away again. but he was weak—so terribly weak—and now he had to live with the consequences.

he'd already failed you numerous times. first when you had saved him from being killed during the black tide engulfing okhema in that initial cycle, your body crumbling to the ground before he could even reach you. then again when he found you bleeding out in some forgotten alleyway, your fingers trembling as they brushed his tear-streaked face before going still.

he should've learned his lesson. should've stayed away when he saw you walking home from patrol that day, your armor glinting in the sunlight, completely unaware of the storm raging inside him.

but he didn't. of course he didn't.

he'd crashed into you like a drowning man reaching for shore, his arms locking around your waist with desperate strength. he'd buried his face in the crook of your neck, choking on sobs that wracked his entire body, and you—you'd just held him. like you always did.

your calloused hands had carded through his hair, your steady voice murmuring reassurances against his temple as you guided him home. you didn't even know why he was crying, you knew that he wasn't your khaslana phainon, but that never stopped you from offering comfort.

and then, perhaps because the universe pitied him, the phainon in that cycle wasn't there. some emergency had pulled him away, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet of your shared home. the space between you had felt charged, dangerous, and still he'd let you coax the story from him piece by broken piece.

"tell me," you'd said, your thumb brushing away his tears with that infuriating tenderness. "whatever it is, we'll face it together. we always do."

he shouldn't have listened. shouldn't have confessed everything—the cycles, the resets, your deaths. shouldn't have clung to you like a child, his fingers twisting in your shirt as he begged to stay wrapped in your arms just a little longer.

(it wasn't your fault. it could never be your fault. you were just being you—kind and steadfast and so painfully good. the blame was his alone for being greedy, for craving your warmth after so long without it. for loving you enough to break his own heart over and over.)

but now here he was, facing the consequences. in this cycle, you had chosen to take a coreflame and inherit a titan's divine authority—watching you shoulder burdens with that stubborn resolve of yours just so that you can help alleviate phainon's even if it's just a little bit (you do, a lot in fact), your spine straight even as the weight pressed down. khaslana was a fool. an absolute, wretched fool.

he’d spilled every secret to you that day except the cruelest one: that he was the one who reset the cycles, that he needed to carve the coreflames from your chest to stop "era nova". and now, standing before you, he felt hollow. his eyes, once so bright, were dull as tarnished silver, his expression shattered enough to make your own heart fracture.

"hey there, hero."

your voice was too light, too familiar. you rose from the windowsill—your windowsill, in the home you’d shared, where the sunlight always caught in your hair just so—and offered him that playful smile. but khaslana could see the tension in your jaw, the way your fingers flexed at your sides.

you knew. of course you knew. you’d heard what happened to the other chrysos heirs, and still, still, you stood there like this was just another afternoon. "long time no see. tell me, have you had lunch yet? there’s a new stall in marmoreal market—their skewers are supposed to be—"

"please." his voice cracked like dried parchment. "don’t make this harder than it already is." a shaky breath. your name on his lips tasted like ash. "i just… i need to end this cycle. this is wrong. you’re not supposed to be—i don’t want to—"

"khaslana."

you cut him off, closing the distance with that same confident stride that had always made his pulse stutter. he tensed, pathetic and trembling, but couldn’t look away. not when you stopped mere inches from him, not when your scent—warm leather and the faint tang of steel—wrapped around him like your warm embrace. "i need your help with something."

for a single, treacherous moment, light flickered back into his eyes. warmth pooled in his chest, sweet and fleeting as a summer rain. then reality crashed back in. he exhaled, long and slow, as if breathing could steady the earthquake in his ribs. "i don’t have time to help you right now—"

"oh, come on." you deadpanned, unimpressed, and oh, oh, how cruel you were—acting like this was normal, like he hadn’t memorized the exact cadence of your teasing. "when have you ever refused me?" before he could protest, you grabbed his hands, clasping them between yours. "just help me out one last time! please?"

one last time.

the words lodged in his throat like a blade. it wasn’t the last time—not truly, not when the cycles would reset—and yet it was, because this version of you, not his but is always, would be gone.

he wavered, the ghost of a thousand memories whispering in his ears: your laughter in the wheat fields, your fingers laced with his, the way you’d looked at him like he hung the stars. but mistakes like those had led him here—to this moment, where he’d have to tear out your heart to save a world that meant nothing without you in it.

"in return," you rushed, desperation bleeding into your voice, "i’ll give you the coreflame. no fighting, no pain. i’ll hand it to you myself. so just—help me this once. okay?"

it hurt. it hurt. to see you like this, to know he was the reason your hands shook. but you were right—he could never refuse you. not when you smiled, not when you begged, not even when the cost was his own soul. you were his first and only weakness, the flaw in his resolve, the crack in the foundation of every oath he’d ever sworn.

(and wasn’t that the cruelest joke of all? that love could be both the anchor and the knife?)

khaslana sighs, the sound carrying the weight of a thousand unsaid words, before his lips curve into something small and unbearably tender. "how could i ever refuse you?" his voice comes out softer than he means it to—a whisper meant only for you, fragile as the dandelion seeds you used to blow into the wind as children.

and oh, the way you light up at his words. the desperation in your eyes vanishes like morning mist, replaced by that brilliant spark he'd know anywhere. your posture straightens, shoulders rolling back with renewed purpose, and suddenly that smile—your smile, bright enough to rival the sun—is back where it belongs.

it hits him like a punch to the chest, this dizzying sense of deja vu. for a heartbeat, he's ten years old again, chasing you through golden wheat fields with sticks as swords, your laughter ringing in his ears as you declared yourselves protectors of a kingdom that hadn't yet crumbled.

then your fingers curl around his, warm and calloused and perfectly familiar, and just like in his visions—just like in every lifetime before this one, and in every lifetime after—you tug him forward without hesitation. toward danger, toward destiny, toward whatever adventure awaits. and khaslana follows. he always follows. because even knowing how this ends, even with the weight of countless cycles pressing down on him, being led by you still feels like coming home.

૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ

"two please," you tell the vendor at the new stall, already digging for coins before khaslana can protest. beside you, he tugs his hood lower, the fabric casting shadows over eyes that dart away the moment you glance at him. you roll your own eyes—some things never change—but the smile tugging at your lips is fond.

when you turn back, you catch him staring, that same quiet wonder in his gaze as when you were kids sharing stolen sweets behind the barracks. for a heartbeat, the years melt away. the war, the cycles, the weight of what's to come—none of it exists. there's just you, him, and the sizzle of meat on the grill.

"here you go," you say, pressing one skewer into his hand. the scent of spices and seared fat curls between you, but his fingers barely close around the stick. his expression darkens, that familiar unease settling over his features like stormclouds.

"i... don't feel particularly hungry right now."

you hum, considering, before shrugging. "then i guess i'm not eating either. feels rude to chow down while you just watch."

"no, you should eat," he insists immediately, brows knitting. "you haven't had lunch yet, have you?" the concern in his voice is so him—so painfully earnest—that your smile softens. you really are terrible, aren't you? playing on his worry like this.

"but i want to eat with you," you counter, bumping your shoulder against his. "so if you're not hungry yet, i'll wait."

the look he gives you is downright tragic, all pouting lips and wounded eyes, like a kicked puppy being told he can't go outside yet. you bite your cheek to keep from laughing. "you... this is cheating," he mutters, but there's no real heat behind it. just that same resigned affection he's always had for your antics.

victory is sweet. you laugh, tangling your fingers with his again—his palm warm against yours, his pulse a frantic rabbit-run under your thumb—and tug him toward your usual haunt. he follows, of course. he always does. by the time you reach the wooden rails of your "scheming spot," he's already taken a bite, the way his face lights up at the taste sending a stupid rush of pride and warmth through your chest.

the view of kephale stretches out in front of you both—a fractured masterpiece of stone, where sunlight catches on every jagged edge of the titan. but khaslana's gaze isn't fixed on the ruins. he's drinking in everything: the way the afternoon light turns the city walls golden, the cloudless blue of the sky stretching endlessly above, the distant shrieks of children chasing each other through the plaza.

he catches snippets of gossip floating up from the market, merchants calling out their wares with practiced charm, the rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer. yet his attention keeps circling back to you—always you—as if trying to memorize details his heart hasn't already carved into its walls.

this moment. this stolen breath between tragedies. your shoulder pressed against his, steady as bedrock. the way you hum around a mouthful of food, eyes crinkling at something happening below. the comfortable silence that's always existed between you, needing no words. it's a scene he's replayed countless times behind closed eyelids, when the weight of the world becomes too much and he needs to remember that joy still exists somewhere.

and isn't that the cruelest truth? in every memory worth keeping, in every moment he retreats to when the darkness presses too close—you're there. laughing in the wheat fields. shoving his shoulder after a bad joke. standing vigil beside him when the nightmares come. even now, with the end looming over you both, you remain his constant. his compass. his light. his dawn.

(he doesn't realize he's staring. doesn't realize his fingers have tightened around the skewer until the wood creaks in protest. all he knows is that he wants to remember the exact shade of your smile in this light before he has to wait decades to see you again.)

"it was good, right?" you nudge your shoulder against khaslana's with practiced ease, leaning into his space like you've done a thousand times before—just to tease, just to feel him stiffen before inevitably giving in.

except this time, he doesn't tense. he just... melts into the contact, tilting ever so slightly toward you until your warmth bleeds through the fabric of his cloak. his quiet nod is barely more than a dip of his chin, but you feel it where you're pressed together.

"anyway... what did you need help with?" his voice comes out softer than he means it to, already shifting to accommodate your weight as you slump more comfortably against him, back to his shoulder. it's second nature by now—the way his arm lifts just enough to brace behind you, the angle of his shoulders adjusting to become your support. like his body remembers this dance even when his mind is screaming to pull away before he hurts you.

"oh, right. well," you tip your head back until it rests against his, staring up at the sky where clouds drift lazily across the blue. your arms cross over your chest, fingers tapping an absent rhythm against your elbows. "remember when i asked you that time about how i'd know if someone liked me back? years ago?"

yes. the word lodges in his throat like broken glass. for you, it's only been a few years. for him, it's been decades. decades of two cycles stretching between that conversation and this moment, each one filled with him trying—and failing—to show you what you mean to him without tipping his hand, no matter how desperately he wanted to. he'd spent every day after that question bracing for the moment you'd bring someone home, smiling that proud smile as you introduced them as yours. (it never came. you never mentioned them again. somehow, that was worse.)

"yes," he manages, staring hard at his hands where they've fisted in his pants. the fabric wrinkles under his grip, but he can't make himself let go. not when his chest feels this tight. how could he forget?

"good." you exhale sharply through your nose, a sound he's learned means you're steeling yourself. "because i need you to help me get it through his thick skull that i've liked him for ages."

the deja vu hits like a punch to the gut. his ribs splinter all over again, the ache so familiar he could map its edges in the dark. "why not just tell him?" he mutters, staring at the cracks in the stone beneath your feet. "you don't need my help for that." please. please don't make me watch this.

"it's not that simple." you pull away suddenly, and the loss of your warmth is a physical wound. when he risks a glance up, you're studying the skyline, jaw set in that stubborn line he knows too well. "i don't think that idiot would get it even if i spelled it out for him." your laugh is quiet, almost fond, but it does nothing to ease the knot in his chest.

khaslana swallows around the lump in his throat. "you still haven't told me who it is."

you look at him then—really look at him—and there's something in your eyes he can't name before you turn away with a sigh. "you'll find out when i tell him," you murmur, propping your elbow on your knee and resting your cheek in your palm. the sunlight catches in your lashes, turning them gold. "so? any romantic ideas for confessing to your lifelong crush, oh great hero of mine?"

the title still sends his heart stuttering against his ribs - that foolish, hopeful flutter that never fades no matter how many lifetimes pass, no matter how many variations of your voice calling him "hero" echo in his memories. it's pathetic, really, how his pulse trips over itself every single time, how warmth blooms beneath his skin like the first rays of dawn after a long winter. he ducks his head before you can see the way his lips twitch upward, fingers picking absently at a loose thread on his sleeve as he feigns contemplation.

"i mean," he mumbles, shoulders lifting in a half-hearted shrug, "you could... do the swing method?" the suggestion comes out more question than statement, tinged with the self-deprecating awareness that he's absolutely terrible at this.

your laughter rings out bright and clear, the sound weaving through the air like wind chimes on a summer breeze. khaslana can't help the way his gaze snaps up to watch you, can't stop the smile that tugs at his lips as he commits this moment to memory—the crinkles at the corners of your eyes, the way your nose scrunches up just slightly, the sunlight catching in your hair like liquid gold. if the universe demanded he forget every other memory, he'd cling to this one with both hands until his fingers bled.

"that," you manage between breathless breaths, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand, "sounds exactly like something you'd do." the teasing lilt in your voice is familiar as your own heartbeat, accompanied by that fond look that always makes his chest ache.

(he doesn't mention that he knows exactly how the swing method works because he'd planned to use it himself, once upon a time. doesn't confess that he'd spent weeks practicing the perfect confession speech to deliver while pushing you on a swing he'd have made himself, with ribbons of your favourite colour and little charms attached to it that signified 'happiness' and 'eternal love'. some dreams are better left unspoken.)

"hmm, what else?" you hum, tapping a finger against your chin after your laughter finally subsides. there's a thoughtful pause before you glance at him sideways, that familiar determined glint in your eyes softening into something more hesitant. "what if," you start, watching his reaction carefully, "i tried writing a love note with pomegranate seeds?"

khaslana's eyes flutter shut without thinking. the image comes too easily—you hunched over a table, brow furrowed in concentration as you painstakingly arrange each ruby-red seed, muttering complaints when they refuse to stay in place. he can almost hear the exasperated huff you'd make when the peel tears unevenly, see the way you'd stubbornly start over despite the juice staining your fingertips.

the chuckle slips out before he can stop it, warm and fond. no, he thinks, you shouldn't have to work so hard. if it were him, he'd spend hours crafting the perfect message, carving each word with care until his hands ached—until it was worthy of you.

"not a good idea, huh?" you ask, and when he opens his eyes, you're watching him with that tilted-head look of yours, cheek still cradled in your palm. sunlight filters through the clouds above, dappling patterns across your face that he wants to trace with his fingers.

"i'm sure they'll love whatever you do," he murmurs, but the words taste like ash on his tongue. you make a face, clearly unsatisfied, and before he can say more, you're swinging your legs off the railing with that effortless grace he could never replicate.

your hand finds his automatically, outstretched and waiting like it's the most natural thing in the world. and maybe it is—because despite everything, despite the centuries and cycles between them, some things never change. his fingers slot between yours without hesitation, the callouses on your palm familiar against his skin.

you don't let go once he's standing. instead, your grip tightens just slightly as you tug him forward, already marching toward some new destination with that single-minded determination he's always admired. "oh whatever," you declare, waving your free hand dismissively, "i'm sure we'll find our answers in the grove."

the mention sends a ripple of memories through him—his teacher's voice, the weight of duty, the scent of damp earth and ancient stone. but when he looks at you, at the way your fingers stay tangled with his like an unspoken promise, the shadows recede.

he takes a slow, steadying breath, matching his stride to yours. it doesn't matter where you're leading him. it never has. he'd follow you to the edge of the world and beyond, as long as your hand remains in his.

(always. he'll always follow.)

૮ฅ・ﻌ・აฅ

what had started as research quickly devolved into the two of you curled up side by side, knees bumping together as you passed dog-eared romance novels back and forth. the hours slipped by in a haze of whispered commentary and stifled laughter, your shoulders shaking every time you encountered a particularly cringe-worthy line.

khaslana would never admit it, but he'd memorized the exact pitch of your snort when something was unbearably cheesy—the way you'd elbow him when a scene made you flustered, your cheeks warming even as you mocked it.

and though you teased every over-the-top confession and dramatic gesture, khaslana found himself cataloging them anyway. the way the hero knelt in the rain, the flowery monologues delivered at sunset—he'd recreate each one in a heartbeat if it meant seeing your face light up.

in another life, perhaps. one where his hands weren't stained with the weight of countless resets, where he could press love letters into your palm without fear of the ink bleeding through to something darker.

by the third hour, he noticed your attention waning. not for lack of interest in his company—never that—but the way your fingers tapped restlessly against the pages gave you away. "break time?" he suggested, and the grateful smile you shot him could've powered entire cities.

now, as you stroll through the quiet halls, he watches you stretch with the same careful attention one might give a sacred text. the way your back arches, the satisfied noise you make when your shoulders pop—these are things he hoards like treasure. "so," he asks, bracing himself, "have you thought of any ideas yet?"

"well, actually," you glance down, scuffing your boot against the cobblestones in a rare show of hesitation before meeting his gaze again. "i think i might just tell him." a shrug, casual as anything. "maybe throw in a poem or something."

khaslana stops dead. the world tilts. "so... you were just going to... tell him after all?" the words come out strangled, equal parts disbelief and something painfully close to hope.

you turn to face him fully, and oh—there it is. that smile. the one that crinkles your eyes just so, the one he's convinced exists solely for him. "well," you say, rocking back on your heels, "i originally wanted fireworks or some grand gesture. but after our very productive and very meaningful research session..." you scratch the back of your head, grin turning sheepish. "turns out there's no beating good old-fashioned honesty and pouring your heart out, right?"

khaslana exhales through his nose, the sound equal parts exasperation and helpless affection as a smile tugs at his lips despite himself. his brows lift slightly—this was so perfectly, painfully you. blunt as a hammer to glass, sincere to a fault, charging forward where others might hesitate.

the ache in his chest flares hot and sharp as he imagines some faceless stranger receiving what he's spent lifetimes yearning to give you—every fractured piece of love he's managed to salvage from the ruins of his soul, offered up like broken stained glass catching sunlight.

"alright," he murmurs, leaning into your shoulder with practiced ease, the teasing lilt in his voice belying the way his fingers twitch at his sides. "do you have an idea on how you're gonna go about professing your undying love?"

"actually, i do—"

the words die in your throat as shadow swallows the light above you. khaslana's body moves before his mind catches up—one arm hooking around your waist as he yanks you sideways, the other coming up in a desperate defensive stance. the black tide creature's claws whistle through the air where your head had been just seconds before.

"are you okay?" the words tumble out in a frantic rush as his hands fly over you, checking for injuries he knows aren't there but needs to confirm anyway. his palm cups your jaw without thinking, thumb brushing your cheekbone as his eyes dart across your face. "did you get hurt? was i too rough? i'm sorry—"

"khaslana!"

your voice snaps him back just in time for you to grab his collar and haul him sideways, the blade meant for his ribs slicing empty air instead. the creature shrieks in frustration, the sound like rusted metal grinding against bone, and suddenly the hall isn't empty anymore. creatures detach from the walls, from the rooftops, from the cracked ground beneath your feet—a dozen corrupted forms landing with unnatural grace as their hollow eyes lock onto you both.

"well, won't you look at that," you murmur, that familiar edge of battle-ready excitement coloring your voice as you shift into stance. your sword gleams in the dim light, its edge singing as you give it an experimental twirl. "seems like fate is on my side tonight."

khaslana doesn't need to look to know where you are—his body moves on instinct, shoulders pressing flush against yours as he covers your blind spot. the solid weight of you at his back is as natural as breathing, as steady as the sunrise after a long night.

"why in the titans' name would you possibly want a horde of black tide creatures surrounding us?" he asks, even as his fingers flex around his weapon's hilt. one slash. that's all he'd need to reduce these abominations to ash.

"so i can fight by your side," you say, like it's the simplest truth in the world, "and profess my undying love to you once we claim victory."

the world tilts. khaslana's head whips toward you so fast something in his neck protests, eyes wide enough to hurt. wait—what did you just—

"quit staring at me like that and fight with me, will you?" you snap, but there's no real heat behind it—just that same fond exasperation he's come to know better than his own reflection.

then the creatures surge forward, and there's no more time for questions.

the first one lunges at your exposed side, and khaslana moves without thinking. dawnmaker arcs through the air in a silver flash, severing the creature's arm before it can reach you. you don't even flinch—already pivoting to drive your sword through its chest, trusting him to watch your back as you strike and vice versa.

it's always been like this between you: his precise, calculated strikes tempering your bold, sweeping attacks; your relentless forward momentum covering the split-second openings in his defenses.

another creature leaps from the shadows, and you're already there—stepping into the space he'd just vacated, your elbow brushing his ribs as you move. the familiarity of it aches. how many battles have you fought like this? how many times has he felt the whisper of your cloak against his armor, heard the sharp exhale you always make when you land a killing blow?

too many to count. and yet, never enough.

a particularly large creature swings at you, and khaslana's there before it can connect—his blade meeting yours mid-swing as you both strike simultaneously, the impact sending dark ichor splattering across the stones. you grin at him over crossed swords, breathless and bright-eyed, and something in his chest cracks open.

he's missed this. missed you. the way you fight like every battle is your last, the way you trust him to catch you when you overextend, the way you always seem to know what he needs before he does. it's terrifying. it's perfect.

the last creature falls with a gurgling shriek, and suddenly the alley is quiet again save for the sound of your ragged breathing. you're still pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with him, your warmth seeping through the layers of fabric and armor between you. when you turn to face him properly, there's blood on your cheek and triumph in your eyes, and khaslana has never seen anything more beautiful.

"so," you say, wiping your sword clean with practiced ease, "about that confession—"

"it's really... me?"

the words come out shattered, fractured at the edges like broken glass. khaslana's voice trembles in a way you've never heard before, his eyes wide and shimmering with something dangerously close to hope. the sight makes your breath catch—this legendary deliverer, this man who's faced down titans without flinching, now looking at you like you've hung the stars in the sky just for him.

you can't help the laughter that bubbles up, bright and unrestrained, as you clutch at your stomach. your cheeks burn with equal parts amusement and flustered affection. "see?" you manage between breathless chuckles, "i told you the person i liked was a total idiot."

"but..." he swallows hard, hands hovering uncertainly in the space between you. "since when?"

"since the day you caught me when i fell from that tree."

the memory hits khaslana like a physical blow—sudden and vivid as lightning splitting the sky. a memory from the first cycle.

he sees it all again with perfect clarity: himself as a boy, small and serious, dragging his wooden stick through the dirt after another frustrating 'training' session. the fairies' stories of great heroes still fresh in his mind, their words about courage and destiny spinning through his thoughts as he wandered the outskirts of town.

if only he could acquire a weapon, even if it was just a wooden sword, then he'd be able to train properly. then—movement. a flash of color high in the old oak tree. another child, all reckless energy and stubborn determination, climbing higher than was wise.

he remembers the exact moment your knee slipped. the way time seemed to slow as you teetered on the branch. his body moving before his mind could catch up, feet pounding against the earth as he launched himself forward with arms outstretched. the impact knocked the breath from both of you when you collided, sending you tumbling into the grass in a tangle of limbs.

when the dust settled, he found himself staring down at you—this strange, sunlit child with leaves in your hair and dirt smudged across your cheek. your eyes had gone wide with surprise at first, then softened into something warm and delighted as you took him in. "thanks, hero," you'd said with that first, earth-shattering grin.

neither of you could have known then how that moment would echo across lifetimes. how those two simple words would become a promise, a prayer, an anchor point in the storm of cycles to come. all khaslana knew in that instant was that he wanted—needed—to keep being worthy of that title. worthy of you.

khaslana's heart swells until he thinks it might burst, each frantic beat echoing through his ribs like war drums. his hand flies to his chest, fingers clutching at the fabric over his heart as if he could physically steady the storm inside. tears spill over before he can stop them, tracking hot paths down his cheeks that he's powerless to halt.

"woah, are you okay?" your voice wraps around him like sunlight as you close the distance between you. calloused palms cradle his face with a tenderness that undoes him completely, thumbs brushing away his tears with infinite care. he melts into your touch without hesitation—leaning into your hands like a flower turning toward the sun, his lashes fluttering as he blinks rapidly, desperate to clear his vision.

he needs to see you. needs to memorize every detail of this moment—the way your brows knit together in concern, the soft part of your lips, the warmth of your skin against his. when his fingers find yours, they're trembling, but he holds on tight, anchoring himself to you.

you chuckle, the sound warmer than any hearthfire, and he feels the vibration of it where your foreheads nearly touch. "gosh," you murmur, voice laced with amusement, "i didn't think you'd cry like this. i still haven't even properly confessed yet." your thumb traces the curve of his cheekbone, so gentle it makes his breath catch. "how many cycles were there where we got to confess our feelings?"

the question sends a fresh wave of emotion crashing through him. khaslana ducks his head, suddenly sheepish, peering up at you through damp lashes with the full force of his most devastating puppy-eyed look. "this is the first one..." he admits in a whisper so soft it's nearly lost between you, his fingers tightening around yours like he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go.

your entire body locks up at his confession, muscles tensing like a bowstring drawn too tight. for three heartbeats, the world stops spinning. then—"what?!" the word explodes from your lungs with enough force to startle birds from nearby rooftops, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. "this is the first cycle where we actually confess?!"

khaslana nods, those damn puppy eyes somehow growing even more potent as fresh tears cling to his lashes. the sight would be adorable if your brain wasn't currently short-circuiting with a much more pressing realization. "wait so—" your voice pitches upward, fingers tightening in the fabric of his cloak, "did we die as virgins?!"

the question lands between them like a lit firework. khaslana's breath hitches—once, twice—before his composure shatters completely. laughter bursts from his chest, raw and unfiltered, the kind that makes his ribs ache and his vision blur. he doubles over, shoulders shaking, as centuries—cycles—of tension pour out of him all at once. for the first time in countless lifetimes, the weight of the world doesn't crush him. there's just this moment. just you. just the absurdity of it all.

"khaslana!" you swat at his arm, but there's no real heat behind it. "this is no laughing matter!" your voice cracks on the last syllable, torn between outrage and the infectious joy of hearing him laugh like this. "what do you mean i lived a life of celibacy?!"

he can't answer. not when every time he tries to catch his breath, another wave of giggles overtakes him. instead, he drags you into his arms, burying his face in the curve of your neck as his body continues to tremble with mirth. you keep grumbling, of course—something about romantic incompetence and wasted opportunities—but your hands come up to clutch at his back anyway, holding him just as tight.

and if your grip borders on desperate, if your fingers press hard enough to leave bruises—well. neither of you mention it. not when the alternative is letting go. not when you can still feel the ghost of all those cycles where his eyes held no light at all.

(you'll hold onto this version of him for as long as the universe allows. you just pray it'll be longer than a moment. but a deal is a deal.)

for one fragile, stolen moment, the two of you exist in a world of your own making. his arms around you feel like the only solid thing left in the universe, your foreheads pressed together as if you could fuse your souls through sheer willpower.

the scent of him—steel and something faintly sweet, like sun-warmed honey—fills your lungs as you breathe him in, memorizing the way his heartbeat thrums against your chest. you want to stay like this forever, wrapped in this quiet pocket of time where nothing exists but the warmth of his hands on your back and the soft puffs of his breath against your skin.

but the universe has never been kind to either of you.

your eyes flutter open against your will, drawn upward to the sickly glow of the fractured sky. your jaw clenches so tight it aches as you force out the question that's been clawing at your throat: "how long do we have?"

the silence stretches between you, filled only with the sound of his shaky exhale. you can feel him committing this to memory—the weight of you in his arms, the way your fingers clutch at his shirt, the exact cadence of your breathing. when he finally speaks, his voice is muffled against your neck, lips brushing your skin with every word: "one more day."

of course. one more day. because khaslana has always been too softhearted for his own good, dragging things out until the last possible second, unable to bear the thought of hurting you a moment sooner than necessary. the sigh that escapes you is equal parts fond and resigned.

you pull back just enough to see his face, and your resolve nearly crumbles. his eyes are red-rimmed and shining, lips pressed into a thin line as he tries—and fails—to keep his composure. you're still so close you can kiss his tears away, your hands resting on his waist while his arms remain loosely draped around you, as if he can't bear to let go completely.

(for him. you have to do this for him.)

with every ounce of love burning in your chest—brighter than any coreflame could ever hope to be—you smile at him. that same smile he's carried across countless lifetimes, the one that crinkles your eyes just so and makes his foolish heart stutter against his ribs. "well," you say, voice steadier than your trembling hands, "a deal's a deal. thank you for helping me once again, hero."

you step back before he can protest, palm raised to stop him from following. it shakes—you both know it does—but neither of you acknowledge it. there are a thousand things you want to say, a million promises clawing at your throat, but the time for words has passed.

the chuckle that escapes you is weak, watery, but still so unmistakably you. "just as i promised," you murmur, fingers hovering over your sternum, "i'll hand over the coreflame to you, khaslana." then—before either of you can hesitate—you plunge your hand into your chest with a gut-wrenching groan.

khaslana flinches like the pain is his own, head jerking away on instinct. he's seen this too many times, watched you shatter in too many ways, and yet—he forces himself to look. to memorize the curve of your lips, the stubborn set of your jaw, the way your eyes never leave his even as your body begins to fray at the edges. he owes you that much.

"you know," you gasp, fingers curling around the glow inside your ribs, "i wouldn't mind if you did the swing method on me." golden blood trickles from the corner of your mouth, but your grin never wavers.

something in khaslana breaks. tears spill over without permission, streaking down his cheeks in hot, relentless streams. not now. not when he'd just gotten you back.

"though," you continue, voice growing fainter, "i have a feeling i'll mess it up somehow." the affection in your gaze could power entire kingdoms, could rewrite the stars themselves. then—with one final, shuddering pull—you wrench the coreflame free.

your triumphant smile is the last coherent thought he has before you're shoving the glowing core into his shaking hands. "i hope," you whisper, pressing closer as his sobs fracture the air between you, "in the next cycle, and every one after... you'll kiss me first. and let me have the chance to say 'i love you'."

"i promise," he chokes out, fingers scrambling to clutch at your disintegrating form. "i swear it—every lifetime, every cycle, i'll—" his voice cracks, raw with devotion. "i'll court you properly. take you on dates. read you terrible poetry at sunrise. anything—everything—just—"

"good." your laugh is barely more than a breath, but it settles in his bones all the same. "and since i'm so selfish—"

you surge forward before he can react, one hand fisting in his cloak while the other cradles his jaw with devastating tenderness. the kiss is messy—all clashing teeth and salt-stained lips, your blood on his tongue and his tears on your cheeks. he kisses you like a dying man granted one last miracle, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise if you weren't already slipping through them.

you taste like home. like every sunrise he's ever woken up to, every battlefield he's ever survived, every prayer he's ever whispered into the dark. and when you pull away—too soon, never enough—your lips are still curved in that damnable smile even as your body dissolves into golden embers.

"see you tomorrow, my hero." you murmur against his mouth, and then—

you're gone.

khaslana collapses to his knees, the weight of the coreflame in his hands nothing compared to the crushing absence where you should be. his fingers tremble around its glow, clutching it to his chest like he could somehow press it back into the hollow space beneath his ribs where you belong. the sobs come then—great, heaving things that tear through him with enough force to bruise, his forehead pressing into the dirt still warm from where you'd stood moments before.

"i promise," he chokes out between ragged breaths, the words scraping his throat raw. "i swear on every star, every cycle, every broken piece of this damned world—" his voice cracks, splintering like the earth beneath his knees. "next time, i'll love you properly. no more hiding. no more waiting." the coreflame pulses against his palm, its light catching on the tears dripping steadily onto the ground. "i'll tell you every day. i'll kiss you at every dawn, hold you through every nightmare, fight for you in every lifetime. i promise you that, dawnlight."

a shudder wracks his frame as he presses his lips to the glowing ember, your name a prayer and a plea and a promise all at once. the taste of salt and smoke lingers on his tongue, bitter and sweet in equal measure. somewhere, in some distant future where the cycle begins anew, he'll find you again. he'll love you louder this time. love you enough for all the lifetimes where he was too afraid, too careful, too late.

(and maybe—just maybe—that will be enough.)

i’ll admit, i’m almost afraid to check the word count on this one—turns out it’s 9.9k, which explains why it took me a solid eight hours to finish. it’s currently 7:43 AM, and yes, i did start this at 11 PM last night. maybe i should’ve slept instead, but the amphoreus arc has been living in my head rent-free, and the urge to write something aching and tender got the better of me. i haven’t written proper angst in so long, and my hands just wouldn’t stop until i’d wrung out every last drop of emotion. so, here we are. apologies for the pain—i did say i couldn’t bear to hurt phainon, but i just couldn't take it anymore. i needed to write at least one angst one-shot for him, so here it is. i'm too softhearted when it comes to him, so i tried to end this... not so painfully LOL this was entirely self-indulgent, born from a single daydream that spiraled into something much longer. no outline, no overthinking—just me chasing the feeling of a scene until it became this. that means some moments might feel raw or uneven, like glimpses into a wandering mind rather than a structured story. but that’s how inspiration works sometimes, isn’t it? you cling to it before it slips away, even if it means writing through the night with gethsemane by sleep token on loop. if you made it this far, thank you for indulging me. i hope you found something to love in this mess of emotions, even if it hurt a little (or a lot) <3 and props to the people who got the little references i included in this one-shot hahahah i have to confess—phainon's E6 eidolon has completely captured my heart. there's something about the delicate details in his design, the way the light plays across his features, that makes me want to just... take a BIG CHOMP. it's that perfect blend of ethereal beauty and overwhelming strength that i can't resist. i find myself constantly pausing just to admire the artistry whenever it appears on screen. his entire aesthetic resonates with me on such a deep level—i may have developed a tiny (okay, not so tiny) obsession with how beautifully his character was brought to life.

682 notes · View notes

sunlightocean · 19 days ago

Note

Hiii ଘ(੭*ˊᵕˋ)੭* ੈ♡‧₊˚! May I request an Anaxa, Phainon and Aglaea whit a fellow chryso heir ((reader can be the chryso heir of anything really, passion,abundance ect)) gn Reader that's like the Robin of Amphoreus? Their very beloved and revered for being crowned the best singer of the era, their kindness, Benevolence and cheerfulness even made them more popular . Which made other singers who have one sided rivalry whit reader extremely jealous and envious. So they hired an cleaner ((assassin from the council of elders btw)) to take reader out ꉂ૮(°□°'˶)ა..

So during one of Readers concert, they were watching the idol perfume until reader got shot in the neck😨.. But thankfully reader Survived thanks of hyacinth. Than the guards caught the assassin that tried to kill reader 😱

Anyway have a good day! You don't need to do this request if you dobt wanna. Take care₍ᐢ⑅•ᴗ•⑅ᐢ₎♡!

ʚɞ The cut that always bleeds ʚɞ

Pairings: Anaxa x Reader, Phainon x Reader, Aglaea x Reader

Summary: Being the Chrysos Heir of Dream, you guide the lost ones with your voice to the light of each dream. Your voice lights up the dark but the darkness falls like a drape over the ones who are envious of you. During a concert, your lover watches you with a gaze that speaks love, only to have their hands covered in your blood. Luckily, Hyacine is able to heal you and they take an oath that no blade will touch you ever again.

Tags: Mild angst, mention of blood and death, attempted assassination, Chrysos Heir!Reader, Chrysos Heir of Dream!Reader, Reader sings too, ay, happy ending, Phainon is a sobbing mess, Reader becomes temporarily mute

A/N: TYSM FOR THE REQ! Hey guys, is this angsty enough, ngl i got carried away w Phainon, he is such an angst material, anyways, hope you enjoy!

⚘ Anaxa:

You were more than just the Chrysos Heir of Dream — you were the stillness that made Anaxa’s world bearable. Ever since the fall of his homeland, his nights had been tormented by memories, visions he couldn’t shut out. But your voice? It silenced the noise. It soothed him like it once did his sister. You didn’t just lull the lost into dreams — you gave Anaxa a reason to rest.

He sits far from the stage that day, concealed in the back rows to avoid drawing attention. But even from a distance, his gaze never leaves you — the way your voice spills like golden light, the way your presence seems to command the dream-realm itself.

And then the shot rings out.

Anaxa doesn’t breathe. His body reacts before his mind catches up — he’s already on his feet, calling out for Hyacine in a voice that cuts through the chaos. Then he’s running. Pushing past others. Dropping to his knees beside you.

There’s blood on your throat. Your eyes fluttering, mouth trembling to sing a song that won’t come out.

Anaxa cradles you, his hand pressing over the wound with controlled precision — but his heart is thundering in his chest. He's already making mental calculations, tracing every possible angle: who fired, who ordered it, who knew your schedule.

He was right about the others. The ones envious of your light. And now, they will suffer. Not swiftly. Not cleanly.

Later, in the Twilight Courtyard, you wake to find him at your bedside, reading — not a report, not a strategy memo — but a small, leather-bound book of old lullabies. His voice stops the moment your eyes open.

He closes the book. “Your voice,” he says, “will return. Hyacine’s confirmed it.”

You try to speak. He shakes his head. Not yet.

“They caught the cleaner. The ones behind it will never see daylight again.”

His hand comes to rest above your heart, steady and warm. “I will protect this voice… this life,” he says softly. “Even if I must stand against the gods themselves.”

He leans down, forehead pressed gently to yours. “Until the day I die… no hands will paint themselves in your blood.”

⚘ Aglaea:

To Aglaea, your existence was poetry. A living sculpture carved by Mnestia herself, draped in the essence of dreams. Your voice — ephemeral, divine — was the only thing she couldn’t weave with her golden threads, and so she cherished it all the more.

You were her lover, her muse, the most beautiful thing she had ever known.

During the concert, Aglaea watches from afar. She cannot attend in person, but her threads — thousands of them — wrap around the venue like unseen guardians. Every heartbeat, every breath you take, she knows.

Which is why she knows the instant you’re shot.

Before the crowd even screams, her threads constrict, tightening like a net. Her voice commands the Twilight Courtyard and within moments, an armed escort floods the hall. The assassin doesn’t escape. Nor do those who funded it.

Their punishment is swift — and absolute.

When you wake in the Courtyard, the softest golden light filters through the curtains. Aglaea sits beside you, hands folded on her lap, her posture straight — but her lips quiver slightly with relief.

“Beloved,” she breathes, and her fingers wrap around yours. “You’re awake.”

She tells you everything with a calm, silken voice. The healer’s report. The damage to your throat — shallow, non-fatal. The consequences delivered to your enemies.

“You will sing again,” she assures you, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. Then, with a tenderness few ever see from her, she leans in and presses a kiss to your cheek.

“I will keep my threads around you always. Even if I must wrap the entirety of Amphoreus in gold — I will not let them touch you again.” Her grip on your hand tightens, her blind gaze locking on you as if she sees every part of you still.

“You are my dream,” she whispers. “And I will not let the world wake without you in it.”

⚘ Phainon:

As the Chrysos Heir of Dream, you are beloved by Amphoreus — and all of Okhema. Every soul that has ever wandered through a dream knows your face, if not your name. And among them stands Phainon — fellow Chrysos Heir, Flame-Chaser, and the only one who depends on you not just for peace, but for sanity.

You and Phainon have grown close over the years. You realize just how close the day he opens up to you about his recurring dream — the one where he pushes a boulder up a mountain, only to watch it tumble down again. Over and over. A cycle with no end.

It’s you he turns to for help. Your voice, your songs, the calm you bring — it’s the only thing that lets him rest at night. And so, at every concert, he’s there. Always front row. Always watching you as if you’ve descended from the stars themselves.

They say your voice is a gift that Aquilla forgot to steal — the last angel that slipped through their grasp when the sky sealed shut. When you sing, you guide the lost and the weary through their dreams. And Phainon watches you, drinking it in. Your beauty. Your brilliance. Your strength. All of it.

He doesn’t hide the way he looks at you — like you are the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

That’s why he blames himself for what happens next.

You’re reaching toward him, your voice high and bright — then suddenly, it cuts. Blood stains your clothes. You collapse mid-note.

For a heartbeat, Phainon is frozen. Then he’s sprinting up to the stage, the crowd a blur of screams and panic. He drops to his knees, gathers you in his arms, presses your body close to his chest, his hands shaking as they try to stop the bleeding from your neck.

You’re still breathing — barely. He’s whispering prayers to every Titan he can name, eyes wide and frantic as he scans the crowd. And then he sees them.

Cleaners.

He tightens his hold on you. He will find them. He will make them pay.

The rest is a blur. He remembers yelling. The scent of your blood. The healer’s hands. The cold stone walls of the Twilight Courtyard. He doesn’t leave your side. Not once. He doesn’t sleep, doesn’t speak, just keeps holding your hand like it’s the only thing anchoring him to this plane.

He tells himself if you die, so will he.

But you don’t.

You wake.

Your eyelids flutter open, slow and heavy. Your limbs ache. Even the act of breathing feels strange. Your gaze lifts — and there he is. Phainon. At your bedside. Tear-stained, wide-eyed, his hand wrapped tightly around yours.

“Dawnlight…” he breathes, his voice cracking. “You’re awake.” The tears fall freely. He doesn’t bother hiding them.

You try to speak. Nothing comes out. The panic sets in — have you lost your voice?

Phainon sees it all on your face. His grip on your hand tightens.

“No, no — Hyacine said it’s just the wound. You’ll recover. You’ll sing again, Dawnlight. You will…” His voice breaks into whispers, repeating the words like a prayer.

Then, quieter still: “The culprit’s been caught. The ones behind it — the Council, the Cleaners — they’ve been imprisoned. But if you want more… just say the word. I’ll do whatever you ask. Anything.”

He leans forward, his forehead pressing gently to yours. His voice shudders against your skin.

“I thought I’d lost you. I can’t—” His breath hitches. “Please. Don’t leave me. Stay with me till the end. I need you.”

His tears soak your shoulder as he pulls you into his arms — not as a Flame-Chaser, not as a Chrysos Heir — but simply as Phainon. The boy who once watched his home burn. The man who found light in your dreams. The one who would give the rest of eternity just to hear you sing again.

You were never just his peace. You were — and always will be — his reason.

523 notes · View notes