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Red and gold.
As far as his eyes could see, the young man's world fell apart in flickering shades of red and gold.
The intermingled stench of blood and smoke filled his nostrils and made his stomach turn. He couldn't exactly recall how much time he'd wasted just standing by the outskirts of the village, rooted on the spot in disbelief and utter horror.
Let this be a nightmare. Let this be just one fucked up nightmare, the young man told himself over and over again as his nails dug into his palms—but it was no use, because there's no amount of pain that could possibly jolt him awake from the nightmare called reality.
He'd left the village on an errand for a friend—the pink-haired girl had been rather adamant about her request. If only he'd known that this is what he would come home to, then—
Wait. She's never been that insistent about anything before, which means—
She knew that something like this would happen, and it wasn't coincidence that saved him from witnessing the worst of the carnage. The girl known as Cyrene has been blessed with the gift of foresight, and the young man hopes, desperately hopes that his friend has used her ability to save herself as well.
Once he'd gotten over the initial shock—again, he can't remember how much time he'd wasted just standing there utterly petrified—the young man ran. Not away, but towards the village. Maybe there are still survivors. Maybe she figured out a way to evacuate more people before disaster struck. Maybe he'll find his family among those who survived, along with their other friends.
He ran across the burning wheatfields while trying his best to avoid the bodies of the fallen. He kept on running as fast as his legs could take him, even as the smoke flooding his lungs made it hard for him to breathe. The young man ran and ran, until his vision blurred from fatigue and he stumbled over a pile of corpses.
As he tried to get up, one of the corpses slid down from the pile—it was hunched over protectively on top of another body… which he immediately recognized as his mother. The corpse that had rolled to the side belonged to none other than his father.
Desperately gasping for air as his heart threatened to burst at that very moment, he held both of them close to him. Their bodies are still warm—by how much time did he miss their last breaths? If only he had not been rooted at the spot over the horrifying sight of their village burning down, if only he had not allowed fear to grip his heart down, could he have made it in time?
Is there any world out there where he could have heard their last words, a world where he could have saved them?
Unknowingly though, as he loudly wept and cursed the heavens for forsaking their village, he was already in the process of making another mistake.
By the time he saw it, it was already too late.
A couple hundred paces away from where he cradled the remains of his parents, his friend stood in front of an ominous, towering figure.
Time felt as though it had halted into a complete standstill as he got up and called out his friend's name. She turns around with an astonished expression in her face, which morphed into a sorrowful smile as she mouthed the words—‘I'm sorry’—before, once again, those colors filled his vision—
Red and gold.
The black-cloaked swordsman's weapon was stained a deep red from spilling the blood of everyone he's ever known and cherished.
Then, vibrant gold joined the mix, as that cold, merciless blade cut her down.
___
Everything after that had been a blur to him. The young man could remember the dull sound her body made as it hit the ground. He could also recall swinging his father's blade against the black-cloaked figure, only for his strike to be blocked with one hand. Then, a powerful kick straight to his guts had sent him flying across the burning fields—he was already unconscious before his body crashed against the dirt.
By the time he'd opened his eyes once more, the flames had already consumed everything there was, depriving him of even bodies to bury and remember those people by.
He doesn't know how long he had been wandering around without a clear destination. All he knows is not enough time has passed for him to die of severe starvation nor exhaustion.
His desperate search for survivors yielded no results. Even the scattered settlements outside the village proper had not been spared. The black-cloaked swordsman may not have personally taken the lives of those living beyond the outskirts, but the black tide did—and it was up to the young man to send them off to their graves, before they could do more harm and become one with the cursed anomaly that's threatening to swallow the world.
His days of aimless wandering came to an end when a golden streak of light illuminated the sky—it looked like a shooting star. Shortly after, a red-haired girl appeared before him, speaking of a prophecy that painted him as a glorified hero.
“That's ridiculous,” was the first thing the worn-out young man said in response to the little demigod's words. “I'm not sure how much you know about me, but I lost my village some time ago. I'm the sole survivor of a massacre, because I wasn't even there when they needed me the most. Are you really telling me that I'm destined to save all of Amphoreus, when I couldn't even save a single soul from the land that brought me up?”
For a moment, the little girl was at a complete loss for words. Just as when the young man was about to leave, she called out to him.
“Wait, Snowy!”
Snowy? Oh, right. He hasn't told her his name yet. She doesn't seem to know either, despite the prophecy leading her to him.
The white-haired young man stops on his tracks but does not turn around. The little girl takes the opportunity to voice out her thoughts.
“You don't have anywhere else to go, do you? So in the meantime, why don't you just come with me and give yourself a little more time to think about it?”
…
Under the guidance of the small Chrysos Heir, the young man has embarked on a journey to reach the Holy City of Okhema.
“Snowy?” Tribbie calls out to him as soon as she notices that he'd fallen behind. Following his line of sight, she discovers that her newest companion is staring at the Worldbearing Titan's impressive form, visible even from the ruins of Janusopolis.
“Does Kephale ever get tired of holding up that thing?”
It sounded like a silly question at first, but the blank look in those dulled aquamarine eyes suggested otherwise. The small Chrysos Heir cannot discern the intent behind the question, so she gives him a straightforward answer.
“I don't think so. After all, Kephale is an omnipotent god.”
“An omnipotent god, huh…” the young man repeats her words in a flat tone. She could tell from his expression that her answer had sprouted more questions within the young man's mind, but whatever they were, he'd already chosen not to voice them out.
Can I bear the weight of their expectations? Am I truly the right person for this? If even an ‘omnipotent god’ had fallen into a deep slumber as this world crumbles apart… then how could they possibly place their belief on a failure who couldn't even protect his humble village?
___
Several years had passed ever since he'd embarked on the Flame-Chase Journey. He commemorated his new beginning with a new name, and the white-haired young man from Aedes Elysiae now goes by the name Phainon.
On a surface-level, adjusting to his new life wasn't that hard. It didn't take him that long to master the art of faking a smile and maintaining a sunny facade to mask the hideous pile of insecurities infesting his heart.
Phainon spends most of his days doing a variety of things: honing his swordsmanship, acquiring new knowledge from the more senior Chrysos Heirs, and going on missions to save refugees from distant lands and leading them back to Okhema.
For quite some time, he's lived his life on autopilot, until one day, he sees those colors again—
Red and gold.
Frankly, aside from the fact that they still weren't aware of the Kremnoan detachment's intentions for venturing so close to Okhema's border at that time, part of Phainon's initial hostility towards the prince clad in red and gold—whose hair subtly reminded him of the bloodstained wheatfields of his home—was the fact that he's adorned in the same colors that reminded the hero of the most tragic event in his life so far.
Little did he know at that time that this man—Crown Prince Mydeimos of Castrum Kremnos—would be the one to redefine what those colors meant to him.
They've spent ten days and ten nights engaged in a heated clash. Mydeimos is known across the land for his immortality and unparalleled martial prowess, and getting to prove himself by being on equal footing with this man has done a lot of wonders for the abysmal state of Phainon's self-confidence—but of course, he would never admit that part out loud.
And although at that time neither of them had realized it yet, by the end of those ten days and ten nights, the initial hostility between them had already started to grow into something else entirely.
It would first manifest as a desire to challenge each other, over and over again, under the guise of trying to settle the score and determine the true victor. It didn't take long before the two of them would challenge each other over the most trivial of things, although at some point, they'd already stopped keeping track of the total number of victories they had over each other.
At some point, it was no longer really about winning, but rather the adrenaline rush that they get from competing with each other.
At some point, those challenges had become no more than just convenient excuses for them to be up close and personal with each other, boundaries be damned as banters turned into makeout sessions and strikes turned into needy touches.
At some point, Crown Prince Mydeimos—now fondly known as Mydei to him—had successfully claimed the colors red and gold for himself. Phainon's mind no longer associated those colors with the day he lost everything, and his nightmares had become more infrequent the more intimate he got with his ‘rival’.
Red and gold was no longer the color of tragedy. Ironically enough, it was the future God of Strife who'd turned those colors into the color of love for the future hero of Amphoreus.
…
The hero would often come to the prince's room at the early hours of the Curtain-Fall Hour—not as the esteemed Deliverer who carries the hopes of the masses on his back, but just as who he is beneath his mask of perfection—
Just as Phainon, Mydei's beloved Phainon, the one who has conquered the prince's heart.
He wasn't lying when he told Phainon that the Kremnoan language doesn't have a word for love, although in Mydei's personal lexicon, his name—Phainon—be it as it may that it's not really the white-haired man's true name—already serves the same purpose.
Because Phainon himself is love and everything that the emotion represents. Be it the joy that his mere existence brings to Mydei, or the feeling of security and safety he never thought he'd find himself indulging in whenever he fights alongside him, or the sorrow of having to watch him fall apart in private whenever something goes wrong and he unilaterally places the blame upon himself.
Love isn't always rainbows and butterflies—that much, Mydeimos knows and understands. But the feeling of being needed so deeply, of being the only one who knows of this vulnerable side of him, of having those beautiful eyes look at him as if he were already a god, the only god Phainon could freely confess his perceived shortcomings to—there's something so damn addicting about all of it.
The more rational side of him wishes that one day Phainon would learn to be more forgiving towards himself. But buried within the most secluded depths of his heart lies the more selfish and twisted part of him that doesn't mind if his lover wishes to remain broken for as long as he wanted to—that way, Mydei would never run out of opportunities to put Phainon back together piece by piece, for he will always love this man for all his beautiful imperfections, more than the ‘perfect’ version of himself he keeps on chasing after as the hero of Amphoreus.
On that particular occasion, Phainon came to the room dressed lightly in a silk white robe, complementing Mydei's black sleepwear robe. The hero plops down on his lover's lap with his full weight, making the prince slightly wince in surprise.
“Mmmmydeeeiiii,” his name comes out as a whine as Phainon nuzzles on his neck, “I missed you. Where have you been all day?”
Mydei lets out a sigh. He likes it when Phainon tells him about his troubles, but he'd rather keep his own worries to himself.
“Argued with the Council of Elders all day. Nothing you don't already know about,” the prince answers in a dismissive tone, hoping that Phainon would catch the hint that he doesn't want to waste their precious private time together talking about that unpleasant bunch of crooks.
“Oh, those people,” the words were practically dripping with disdain—it's a tone Phainon won't be caught dead using in public. “Must've been rough, having to fight with words instead of your fists.”
“Not as rough as not getting to see you all day,” he says as he cups Phainon's cheek with one hand, while one hand pulls on the sash of the hero's robe. Phainon leans towards his touch, a contented smile on his lips as he rubs against the prince's calloused hand.
“Where'd you learn how to sweet talk like that?” he asks as he parts his own robe and leads Mydei's hand to hold him where he wants to be held.
“It's not sweet talk.” Mydei gets up into a sitting position, leaning forward to kiss Phainon's jaw. With one hand, he squeezes on the hero's pectoral muscles, and with the other, he guides Phainon's hand underneath his robe to touch his erection. “I mean it.”
A faint blush blooms across Phainon's cheeks as Mydei urges him to stroke his cock. The hero himself would often tease his lover with saccharine words and subtle gestures of affection in public, but he's quite easily flustered whenever the prince does anything similar in private.
Phainon grips his lover's length, lazily stroking it as the prince trails featherlight kisses all over his chest. Mydei bites down on the spot where the hero's neck meets his shoulders, drawing out a sound that's between a moan and a hiss from him.
“Mydei…” the name falls from his lips like an earnest plea as the prince sucks and nibbles around and all over the sun tattoo on his neck. Phainon tightens his hold around Mydei's cock, his strokes growing faster and firmer as he becomes more desperate to get a reaction out of him.
“What?” Mydei asks with a conceited smile. “Why does it feel like you're more restless than I am when I haven't even properly touched you yet?” He slowly starts bucking his hips against Phainon's touch, his expression smug, as though to prove a point. “Oh, right. You've always been like that.”
He would love to hear whatever lame excuse the Deliverer would come up with in response to his provocation, but at the same time, he could no longer hold down the urge to kiss him. Mydei crashes his lips against his lover's, swallowing his words. He withdraws for a brief moment to savor the frustrated look on Phainon's face, chuckling handsomely before kissing him again.
As soon as he feels the build up of an orgasm forming within his core, Mydei pulls away, one hand reaching for Phainon's leaking cock. The prince wanted to say something that would rile up his lover again, but he already knows how petty the hero could get at times, and Mydei is not particularly fond of being denied a proper orgasm, so he refrains from commenting at the moment.
Instead, he indulges in watching the hero of Amphoreus try to win a losing battle—even after his opponent had already given him an advantage in the form of an early start.
Phainon's strokes were deliberate and fast—he could tell from the amount of heat radiating from Mydei's cock that he's close. On the other hand, Mydei's strokes were much slower but firmer—he's always been confident in his ability to win contests of endurance against his lover.
Surprisingly enough, it didn't take more than five seconds after Phainon collapsed forward on him with a strangled cry before Mydei's own orgasm washed over him like a tidal wave.
“Y-You lost,” Mydei boasts his victory in between puffs of breath, his fingers already wiping the cum from their bodies. However, before he could taunt his lover to eat the mixture of their release that he'd collected, Phainon was already licking his fingers, not a single ounce of shame in those aquamarine eyes clouded over with depravity.
Oh, right. I almost forgot you're not really right in the head.
Perhaps Mydei had let his guard down too early though. Without warning, Phainon tackled him down and forcefully kissed him, the hero's tongue intruding upon his mouth and giving him a taste of their cum.
“HKS! You and your dirty little tricks…!” He growled at his lover after he'd successfully pushed him away with brute force. Phainon seemed all too pleased with himself though, clutching his stomach as he laughed at Mydei's affronted expression.
…
“Mydei…” Phainon breaks the silence after they've settled down to get some rest after a long night of carnal indulgence.
“Hmm?” Mydei pulls his lover closer to him. They're laying side-by-side, facing each other.
“I love you.”
“...”
“...You love me too, don't you?”
The prince lets out a sigh. He loves this man more than he loves his own life, but he's always been more fond of expressing his love through his actions.
It's a little-known fact, but the black tide devours the memories of the fallen, conjuring illusions to draw in the living. Mydei's first encounter with the black tide was especially cruel.
Having only heard of his mother from Krateros, the young Mydeimos had always been curious about what life would be like if she was still alive. One evening, during one of his midnight strolls around the perimeter of the fortress, a specter came to him.
It called him its beloved son and showered him with all sorts of comforting words—words that made him wish his mother had lived long enough, so that he could've personally heard it from her. His rationality told him it was all an illusion—that it couldn't be her, but those words, those words of motherly love—it still drew him in as if it were a siren's call.
Who knows how things could've turned out for him if not for Krateros saving him that night?
That's why a part of him had always been afraid and hesitant of saying those words out loud. He didn't want his love to get twisted into a trap that would torment Phainon one day, especially when he's no longer around to be his vanguard.
Mydei dares not entertain the idea of Phainon falling before he does—such a world simply does not exist for him. Phainon will never be a specter.
“...Mydeimos?”
But he knows he can't keep on denying him forever. Not when he looks like he's on the brink of tears. Every now and then, he has to give in and allow himself to say those words.
“Of course I do. I love you.”
Phainon rewards him with a smile—a smile so breathtakingly beautiful—that he knows it'll haunt him on nights they can't be with each other.
“Say it again.”
“I love you.”
“Again and again,” Phainon demands.
“Now you're just acting like a spoiled pup.”
“Please?”
Mydeimos will always be a fool for those eyes.
“...Fine.”
They wrap each other up in a warm embrace, filling the silence between them with whispered words of love.
___
A long time had passed since then.
The man who'd long lost his name observes the scene unfolding below, an indescribable feeling gripping the hollow area where his heart used to be—or did he ever have one?
He could no longer remember, but it matters not.
The Coreflame of Strife has finally found a suitable heir, and the new demigod sits on his crimson throne—but he's not alone.
The white-haired Chrysos Heir, the one who had foiled his initial attempt to take down the one on the throne, had come for a visit—it's quite the regular occurrence. This time, the white-haired one has his head laid on top of the demigod's lap. The demigod is running his gauntleted hand through that silvery-white hair.
The black-cloaked swordsman wonders if there's any significance in the interaction taking place below. Is he witnessing an act of worship? What are they talking about?
He could not understand, but it matters not.
What he needs to do has not changed, and will not change. He knows the same trick won't work twice, and a head-on confrontation right from the get-go wouldn't be the most efficient approach if he wants to seize the Coreflame of Strife.
…
One night, the mask covering his face broke apart. He didn't really think much of it at first—the mask may have always been a part of him, but just like his clones and every other aspect of his existence, he considers it as a disposable part that can be discarded once it has served its purpose. And as for his own purpose, well…
He could no longer remember what exactly it was, but it matters not.
The black-cloaked swordsman lets his instincts guide his actions. But when he catches a glimpse of his reflection on the moonlit waters of a lake…
“...? Why do I…?”
He kneels and leans closer to the surface of the water, observing his reflection. His hair is the same white as the moon, and his face looks completely identical to a certain Chrysos Heir.
The only difference would be their eyes—that man's eyes are reminiscent of daylit skies, while his looked more like the night sky above. Is there any reason why the face beneath the mask looks the same as that one Chrysos Heir who frequents the demigod of Strife?
He does not really know, but it matters not.
Rather, maybe he can take advantage of this unexpected coincidence. He'd already harvested a handful of Coreflames from the weaker demigods—perhaps with enough planning, he can finally take down the strongest one among them.
…
It has been half a year since Phainon's last visit to Castrum Kremnos—the longest it has ever been since Mydei has decided to stay on the moving fortress, vanquishing the forces of the black tide. He thought he was already fully prepared for scenarios like this, for lonely nights when there's nothing to kill, and no Phainon for him to hold.
But as it turns out, not really. He misses him so bad—that he thought he was hallucinating when the man occupying his thoughts suddenly appeared before him. Startled, he instinctively launches a wave of blood crystals against him. ‘Phainon’ dodges it flawlessly. He smiles at him, but there's something so uncanny about that smile that makes the Mydei's heart ache.
“Mydei,” ‘Phainon’ calls out to him. The demigod stands there, rooted in place, trying to figure out why the alarm bells are going off inside his head. It's Phainon—his beloved Phainon—his body shouldn't be reacting like this. But why is it that with every step closer this Phainon takes, Mydei's instincts are screaming for him to attack?
“I missed you. I missed you,” the familiar words make his heart flutter and twist at the same time. From the way he's dressed, down to the way he walks—everything about this man is Phainon. The oddities only start clicking together when this Phainon pulls him in for an embrace.
Cold. This man's body is unbelievably cold. The Phainon he knows runs cold too sometimes, especially when he needs comforting—but not nearly as cold as this Phainon holding him.
“I love you,” the man nuzzles against his neck. “I love you.” The hollow words send a shiver down the demigod's spine.
“...! You…! Who the hell are you?!?”
The first response he got was a cold laughter.
“If I knew it would be this easy to get to you, I would've done this sooner.” But then again, he wouldn't have considered this approach had his mask not broken apart and showed him what his face looked like.
Mydei pushes him away, but his arms remain locked around him. The man tilts his head as he stares at him with deep blue eyes, eyes that reminded him more of the Sea of Souls more than the skies of Okhema.
“Tell me, oh mighty God of Strife. Why didn't you heed your instincts?” The man asks as he slowly dispels the rest of the illusion he'd shrouded himself with. Mydei anxiously awaits for the monster to show his true face, but after a moment wasted waiting in vain, the Flame Reaver is still wearing his beloved Phainon's face.
In lieu of a response, he hurls his fists towards the impostor's face. The Flame Reaver narrowly avoids it, dull gold dripping from the shallow cut on his cheek. He wipes it off and licks it, the gesture reminding Mydei of Phainon's mannerisms.
It hurts. His heart fucking hurts.
The God of Strife jumps out of the unmasked Flame Reaver's range, his body immediately shifting into a fighting stance—still unaware that the victor of this fight had already been decided at the very moment he allowed himself to be held by the wandering specter from a bygone era.
<<<
The first thing he saw when he woke up—and what should logically represent his ‘earliest’ memories of this world, were the golden wheatfields.
“It… it's not… it's not the same as…” Not the same as he remembers? No, that doesn't make any sense. He just woke up after all. How could he possibly have memories of a place that he's seeing for the first time?
Has he forgotten about something important? No, if he'd forgotten about it, then it must be because it's not important at all.
Still, there's something about those tranquil fields that makes him feel uneasy—although he does not understand his own emotions at all, much less what's driving them.
His instincts, twisted by all the past trauma that has been branded into his soul, takes over. Naturally, the message that had been transmitted over countless cycles and failures had been distorted as well.
“Correct… must correct… something's not right…”
He was meant to put an end to this cycle by saving himself from the first tragedy that will plant the first seeds of darkness within his heart. But instead—
“There… it's all correct now.”
He thought, what all that gold needed was red.
>>>
Back in the present, he thought: what all that red needed was gold.
So that's what he did. It took over two weeks for the curse to take full effect, but he's certain that even the mighty demigod has already taken notice by now—his movements are starting to grow sluggish, and the boiling blood coursing through his veins is starting to freeze.
With each strike, the Flame Reaver aimed for the red markings all over Mydei's body, his blade leaving shallow cuts that did not easily heal. He carved a river of gold in the midst of red, and the more he grazed his blade over the markings as they clashed, the more he felt he's getting closer to making things ‘correct’ again.
But when he was about to sink his blade into that spot where his instincts tell him to, a vicious headache assaults him. All the fragmented memories start to converge all at once, forming a clearer picture in his head.
He sends the weakened demigod crashing on the ground below with a powerful kick, trying to give himself a moment of repose as he grappled with the onslaught of madness and memories in his head.
…
A grim sight greets Phainon the moment he arrives at Castrum Kremnos.
Red and gold. Yes, once again, it's all red and gold.
His god, his beloved god, is down on a corner, his back against a wall of red blood crystals, bleeding gold all over—something's not right.
Phainon rushes to his side, cradling the heavily injured demigod in his arms. His heart nearly sank when he felt how cold his body was compared to his normal temperature, but the worst of his fears were immediately dispelled when Mydei lets out a pained grunt. The demigod raises his head, and there's a brief look of hostility in those amber eyes, but they soon soften in recognition.
“Don't… don't start crying on me now, HKS…” his words are barely audible as he wipes the tears falling freely from those cheeks. With shaky hands, he points to the floating black figure in the sky, curled up upon itself as though it were suffering from a form of torment invisible to both of them.
“That bastard… that bastard is not yet dead. We need to k-kill him. He committed a grave s-sin. He d-dared to…!” His angry words were interrupted as he threw up blood.
“But your body feels so cold…! Just what the hell happened here? Can you still really fight in your condition?” A tearful Phainon asks.
Mydeimos hates lying. He feels so cold, he'd willingly throw himself into an open fire if that's what it takes to thaw the frost building up on his muscles and veins. But he can't afford to be a burden now. There's no telling when the monster above them would regain its senses, and Phainon would certainly be left in a vulnerable position while trying to protect him while they flee.
Even worse, he could sense Oronyx's Coreflame on him. The hero has not gained control of it yet, but its mere presence tells Mydeimos one crucial piece of information: the Chrysos Heir previously holding it had just recently died, and Phainon's current state of mind is currently at its worst—he's always blamed their comrades’ deaths on himself after all.
“Hah! Deliverer, have you forgotten who I am?” The demigod gets back on his feet, ignoring the pain gripping his limbs. “I've been fighting that monster for nearly a month now, so I'm guessing it's the main body. Now's our chance to get rid of that thing for good.”
As if on cue, the Flame Reaver seems to have snapped out of its torment at that very moment. With a distorted voice that's more black tide creature than man, it lets out a miserable wail, summoning hundreds of masked clones as it did so. The clones converge upon them from all sides, their attacks frenzied as they try to overwhelm the pair of warriors with sheer numbers.
Phainon does not falter in his position, his back poised against Mydei's back as they take on the clones that swarmed upon them. His stance remains resolute even as he fails to deflect some of the strikes, wounds starting to appear all over his body from the flurry of blades assaulting him.
He does not have the same healing speed as Mydei, but Phainon has already decided that he will endure everything—even if he gets torn into shreds by this ceaseless onslaught—if it means he gets to protect his god, the man that he loves.
Then, seemingly out of nowhere, it comes barreling at him at full speed.
Phainon had failed to notice earlier, but the main body—the true Flame Reaver, had not been wearing its mask. Like waves being parted, the clones fall apart one by one as the strongest among them charges at its target.
The hero attempts to block the meteor-like strike with his greatsword—but it was no use—the twisted blade shatters his weapon and pierces through his defenses—
—and right through his stomach, passing all the way through his body, before its tip reaches and crushes that vital point on the demigod's spine behind him.
The clones disappear one by one as the pair collapses to the ground, the combined noises of their shared anguish a torment to both of them.
“You…! YOU…!” Hatred overflowed from the hero's screams as he glared at the villain who shares the same face as him. The Flame Reaver just stood there, tears streaming down his unmasked face as though he had not personally caused the tragic scene unfolding right in front of him.
Fueled by his anger, Phainon forcefully extracted the blade joining him and his lover together, before forcefully hurling at the Flame Reaver, who did not dodge the attack. It struck him right in the void in his chest, sending him flying at least a hundred paces away from the pair.
After a few seconds of not sensing any movement from his black-cloaked doppelganger, Phainon immediately turns his attention to his lover.
“Mydei…! Mydeimos…!”
…
From that point onwards, the memories have started to fracture again, as day and night began to converge into one once more.
He could vaguely remember Mydeimos offering him the most delicate of touches and words of comfort as his body gradually lost heat, followed by a memory of his sapphire-eyed doppelganger taking Oronyx's Coreflame from where he hid it in his person.
The white-haired man couldn't remember any detail from the conversation that took place after that, but he could vividly remember his lover, bleeding gold against the red backdrop of the blood crystals supporting him. He wore a look that the white-haired man had never seen on his face before—as though he, the almighty god of Strife, was desperately pleading with him.
“...c-can't… let… g-go…!”
[You can't let this cycle go on forever, Phainon!]
“D-don't… m-move… forward…! T-turn back….!”
[Don't do it. Don't use the Coreflame. Move forward, and don't turn back!]
“...never… f-forgive yourself…! Drown…. regret!”
[You'll never reach the end if you don't forgive yourself! Don't drown yourself in regret!]
“I… h-hurt… Please… save m-me!”
[I don't want to see you hurting anymore. Please, Phainon. Put an end to this cycle and stop trying to save me!]
The distorted messages sear into his mangled soul, staying there like an invisible brand, even as he pays for the chance to make things right with his memories and what little was left of his humanity at that time.
___
Gold.
Upon opening his eyes, he could see gold dancing as far as his eyes could see. The wheatfields swayed with the gentle wind, and the man clad in a black cloak couldn't help but feel that there's something wrong with the view before him.
He takes one step forward, and a crunching sound draws his attention to the ground.
Red.
A red flower, its crushed petals resembling blood crystals.
Then, he realized what's ‘wrong’ with the picturesque scene before him, and what he needed to do.