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>>>> Eternal Recurrence #37
Castrum Kremnos’ arena remains gloriously illuminated, even under the gloomy veil of Evernight.
Khaslana’s chest dully burns with the weight of 296 Coreflames.
Even after 37 cycles, the sensation is still incredibly jarring. Much of that egregious ache can be attributed to the sheer guilt he carries—guilt that can only come from taking his companion’s lives over, and over.
It doesn’t get any easier. He despises their destroyed looks of betrayal each time he confesses his reasoning and purpose. No matter how pointless, or redundant it may feel to justify his actions just to sacrifice the Chrysos Heirs anyway, he cannot bring himself to stop.
He can’t bring himself to simply murder them without allowing them a fair chance at speaking their thoughts, or challenging him. He always provides them with the chance for mercy—and each time, they decline.
“I…I cannot do that, Lord Khaslana. I must fight to protect this Coreflame; as is my duty,” Castorice says firmly.
“I still believe in you, Deliverer. But now…I can only merge with the sky itself,” says Hyacine dejectedly, but with as much resolve as she can manage.
“Know this: you will never take this Coreflame in peace,” Mydei says with unwavering conviction.
Each time, Khaslana listens; he etches their expressions and passionate words into his mind so that he, too, can remember what that once felt like. To be human, to have flaws, to have wishes.
As he steps out of the shadows, he’s met with the wide expanse of Mydei’s back, who stands a few paces away. His skin is bathed in warm orange light, bringing out the red ends of his hair.
He tilts his head partially to the side, sensing Khaslana’s arrival.
While Mydei’s posture is always graceful and confident, Khaslana sees the tension that lingers under the surface. He wants nothing more than to wash that tension away from Mydei’s bones. He yearns to run the calloused tips of his fingers over those crimson markings—to watch them glow as Mydei unconsciously relaxes into him.
Just as he’d done in that very first cycle, all those hundreds of years ago.
Khaslana remembers his naivety with bitterness—that first life before all the Eternal Recurrences. Without the inevitable deaths and loops, before the concept of Destruction or Irontomb, before Lygus posed a threat.
Back when Khaslana wholeheartedly believed in the prophecy, and strived to Deliver Era Nova.
He halts in his tracks, standing with his fists clenched at his sides.
“Deliverer,” Mydei greets, voice pinched.
“Mydeimos.”
“At least you’ve always been punctual.” Mydei turns towards him. “Speak. You know I will not willingly relinquish Strife’s Coreflame. That being said, you’re never one to do things without reason.”
Khaslana swallows thickly.
Mydei’s gaze is heavy on him, honeyed eyes raking over his form. He looks at Khaslana as if he’s some sort of convoluted puzzle. Khaslana has no doubts that, if that were true, Mydei would undoubtedly be the one to solve him.
To pick him apart and place his pieces back together again.
It’s been 37 cycles since that first time fighting side by side, and for some reason, Khaslana has never been able to let that innocent first love go. His first everything. He’s pursued Mydei, or Mydei has pursued him, in every cycle since.
It’s almost painfully magnetic—the pull he feels between them. But it’s tragically ironic, because he is always destined to forcibly take Strife’s Coreflame and extinguish Mydei’s life in the process. Khaslana is tired of considering it fate; he’s grown bitter of the mere concept.
It’s only been 37 cycles, he’ll often remind himself.
There must be a way to preserve their lives.
Perhaps it’s cruel to keep doing this to both Mydeimos and himself, but it’s the only thing keeping him sane.
“Era Nova is a lie, and must not come to pass,” he answers carefully, his tone earnest. “I have been preventing it for 37 cycles. I have lived through this moment, and this Flame-Chase Journey 37 times. I know what you’ll say, what will happen, everything. Ask me whatever you must; I’ll answer.”
Mydei crosses his arms, his brow twitching as he examines Khaslana for a long moment.
“You don’t think I’ll believe you? That my trust in you is so easily broken?”
“I want nothing more than for you to believe me, Mydeimos—but I’m aware it’s a rather outlandish concept. Even so…I would hope you continue to trust me. If I were to succeed in Delivering Era Nova, it would mean the complete destruction of Amphoreus, and everything outside of it. I have been gathering the Coreflames and resetting this journey for years now.”
Though Mydei clearly wishes to remain impassive, Khaslana knows each and every one of his tells. He’s learned them and grown accustomed to them time and time again. He can see the stutter in rhythm where a gauntleted finger had been silently tapping, belying his indifference.
“...I see.”
Khaslana tentatively steps forward, reaching a hand out.
“We don’t need to fight, Mydeimos. Please. Give Strife’s Coreflame to me. Help me discover that there is a way to preserve your, and every other Heir’s, life. Even if…it has yet to work, I must keep trying.”
At that, Mydei averts his eyes, brows furrowing in concentration.
Unable to help himself, Khaslana begins to close the distance between them. He prepares himself for Mydei to reject him, to spit at him, to push him away. But Mydei never does—not in this cycle, and not in the past ones, either.
He allows Khaslana to approach, running a hand through his hair as he glances up with something deeply conflicted in his eyes.
“Are you aware of what you’re confessing?”
“Yes.”
“That you’ve killed the Chrysos Heirs in each of your past cycles?”
“...Yes. Not always—but yes.”
Mydei’s jaw sets itself as he shakes his head.
“And there is no other recourse?”
Khaslana sighs, extending his hands to cup Mydei’s forearms and bring him closer.
Mydeimos steps into his pull without much fight, eyes dropping back down to Khaslana’s chest. Armored fingertips rise to rest over his heart. How Mydei can still regard him with such compassion and warmth is beyond Khaslana. He doesn’t deserve it.
“No. No matter how much I’ve tried,” he mutters bitterly.
When Mydei looks at him again, it isn’t with fear or disgust—there’s not a trace of pity or patronization, either. Nor is there resignation after understanding his fate. Instead, there is nothing but blazing fire in those golden eyes.
“Then so be it. You’ll have to challenge me for Strife’s Coreflame in a fair duel. But I suspect you already knew that.”
Khaslana’s next words are fond.
“Yeah. You never back down, no matter how many times I plead.”
“Then why do you persist?” Mydei asks, tone a touch softer. He leans in as to convey his sincerity. Their foreheads nearly brush, tufts of hair mixing together.
Khaslana laughs quietly, devoid of real mirth. “Do you expect me to be so cruel, Mydeimos? Do you think I enjoy taking your life?”
“You are the farthest thing from cruel,” Mydei mutters, brushing Khaslana’s bangs out of his eyes. “I merely meant, knowing the outcome never changes, why continue to ask? I can assure you, my answer won’t change.”
“I know it doesn’t. It never will. But that doesn’t make hearing it any easier. Your death shakes me persistently, and your memory haunts me as I reset each cycle. I think of you always, in death or life.”
Mydei releases a short breath, face visibly warming. “That’s enough.”
“Apologies,” Khaslana whispers. “Is my heartfelt confession too much for you? I thought you already knew how I feel.”
“...I do. I suppose I hadn’t considered the…scope of those feelings. I’m inclined to believe we end up like this in every cycle.”
“We do.”
Mydei eyes him.
Khaslana continues softly, “We have. Perhaps at my insistence.”
Mydei huffs out a quiet laugh.
“How desperate you are, Khaslana. One lifetime wasn’t enough for you?”
Khaslana’s lips quirk into a small, yet genuine smile. He raises one of his hands to cup Mydei’s jaw, thumb brushing over the roughness of his skin. His hand is hot—his whole body is internally burning from the heat of Coreflames—but Mydei has never shied away from his touch.
“Never,” he murmurs, leaning in to place a soft kiss to Mydei’s lips. “I’m selfish. If I am destined to crumple to ashes, without flaw or a wish to carry with me, then I at least want to be with you.”
He hears Mydei’s breath hitch quietly.
“A foolish answer, coming from a very foolish man.” Mydei’s breath ghosts over his lips. Armored fingertips grip Khaslana’s wrist, and he watches as Mydei brings it to his lips, brushing faintly over his pulse.
“You are perhaps the most selfless man I know. Sentencing yourself to countless iterations of one journey is far from selfish, Deliverer.”
Khaslana’s hand trembles, and he bites his lip—he can’t find his words.
“What?” Mydei teases. “Never heard that before?”
“...Every cycle is slightly different.” Khaslana inhales, eyes hardening. “I accept your challenge. Your sacrifice will not be in vain.”
Mydei nods once, stepping back from their embrace. Khaslana does the same, summoning his greatsword while Mydei tightens his gauntlets. They circle each other, silently observing.
Their trance is broken as they slip into the familiarity of battle.
“Mydeimos,” Khaslana finds himself saying, “I have one last question.”
“Speak it.”
“If…I had told you sooner—would you still have accepted my affections?”
Mydei tilts his head with a small smile, as if his question is ridiculous. Perhaps, to some extent, it is. Perhaps this entire situation is unimaginable—for them to regard each other with such easy tenderness despite the subject matter at hand.
To anyone else, their ability to so seamlessly transition into battle after a conversation like that may seem ludicrous. But not to them; not when they speak their own language, on their same wavelength.
“Why don’t you find out?” Mydeimos taunts.
Khaslana allows himself to smile for the last time, before they lunge at each other.
Mydeimos dies with a clean stab through his back—just as he’s prophesied to.
Khaslana holds him close to his chest, blazing hot tears staining his cheeks as he silently sobs. He stays with him for what feels like hours, despite knowing he must persist.
Just like every cycle.
Rage wells inside of him, eating away at his bones and skin, only further igniting his desire to prevent these needless killings.
> Admin note: Subject Khaslana’s mental stability remains consistent. Lifecycles of the 12 Chrysos Heirs terminated. Desire to “Avoid sacrifices of past companions” has increased.
>>>> Eternal Recurrence #136
It always ends up here, in Castrum Kremnos.
He’s accompanied by nothing but the scorching sensation eating away at his skin as his body struggles to compensate for so many Coreflames.
Khaslana hasn’t made many attempts to alter the destination of their final battle. He imagines it wouldn’t be too difficult—they could’ve fought anywhere, but with Mydeimos permanently stationed in Kremnos, it only makes sense that it would be here.
Distantly, Khaslana recalls an early wish of his he’d had as a child to travel here, find the greatest craftsman he could possibly find, and commission them to forge him a sword. He yearned to train here some day, honing his swordsmanship to the best of his abilities.
Back then, the concept of Castrum Kremnos held so much novelty.
After sinking the blade of his sword into Mydeimos’ back 135 times, feeling the sticky warmth of golden blood coat his hands, he thinks it’s beginning to lose some of its appeal.
The thought makes his gut churn with guilt and uncertainty with what inevitably awaits him.
After all, it’s only been 136 cycles.
It’s far too early for him to be feeling tired of his mission. His biggest fear remains the concept of feeling numb. He fears for the day he may not be able to feel the blazing fire in his chest. When food and drink begin to lose their taste. When he loses the frisson he feels hearing Hysilens’ music, during a competitive spar with Mydei, or reading one of Castorice’s emotional poems.
If he can just continue to hear their voices and wishes, he can remind himself of his purpose— why he must do this over, and over. Or at least, that’s what he’s been telling himself.
He tries his utmost to create uniqueness within each cycle, so that he does not feel as though his companions are merely programs droning on according to their coded protocols.
There had been one cycle to stand out—one that managed to shake him free of his mental auto-pilot and back into the intensity of the Flame-Chase Journey. It had been cycle 89. His first attempt at explaining everything to Mydeimos.
It was not the first time he’d started from the very beginning, recounting Lygus’ plot for the completion of Irontomb, to the decimation of Aedes Elysiae, to he and Cyrene establishing their pact to place Amphoreus in a constant time loop.
He’d elaborated in even greater detail in an earlier cycle with Anaxa, and he’d rushed straight to Aglaea and Tribbie in a cycle before that. However, discussing the beginning of his Eternal Recurrences with Mydeimos felt different.
Spurred on by the Mydei’s of previous cycles, he exposed himself quite early on.
He and Mydei always have a rocky relationship towards the beginning, predetermined by the original cycle. Their words are all harsh sneers and quips, childish name-calling, and pointless competitions. It takes a significant amount of time for Mydei to regard him with something other than disdain or contempt.
Khaslana himself had taken a fair amount of time in that first cycle to understand Mydeimos and the way he ticked.
Khaslana chose to be strategic about revealing his identity. He told Mydeimos right after learning the secret to the Kremnoan’s immortality. That section of his cycles is always when their relationship is…altering, for lack of a better term.
Longing glances, fleeting touches, excuses to be near each other disguised as friendly spar sessions. Their unspoken thoughts and feelings up until that point begin to fester. Yet they hold themselves back, since Mydeimos is always preparing to undergo Nikador’s trial and leave for Castrum Kremnos.
It’s a very delicate balance managed by two who are so unfamiliar with delicacy to begin with.
He remembers that cycle very well.
“You’ll die to me; with a wound in your back. That’s your prophecy,” Khaslana says carefully.
Mydei merely narrows his eyes.
“You act like that’s a surprising revelation. I entrusted my weakness to you and you alone, Deliverer. There is no one else capable of taking my life.”
“Do you not feel betrayed, Mydeimos? I specified the circumstances. You will die by my hand long before you ever lose yourself to madness.”
“Should I? I’ve grown to know you—and I know you will challenge me fairly and fight honorably. A fitting end in the eyes of a Kremnoan warrior.”
Khaslana averts his gaze, conflicted.
“I see. And…would you allow me to be selfish and ask for your response to my previous question? Regarding my…affections. Do not feel obligated to accept them, even if I’ve shared bits of our previous lives together. The decision is yours.”
Mydei says nothing for a long while, long enough for Khaslana to suspect that for the first time in 88 cycles, he’ll be rejected. Oddly enough, Khaslana thinks he’d find peace with that. The nature of their relationship is what makes this brutal fate so arduous for the both of them to begin with.
It wouldn’t be the first time Khaslana considers letting Mydeimos go.
His train of thought screeches to a halt when Mydei leans forward and hooks a finger under the thinner section of his choker. Mydei’s eyes are like melted gold, leveling him with a stern glare as if to silently reprimand him.
“I’ve never felt an ounce of obligation towards you. I reciprocate because I want to. Do not forget that.”
Khaslana lets Mydei kiss him. He lets the familiar sharpness of gauntlets graze against his waist, holding him in place. In turn, he grounds himself to this moment by raising both his hands to cup Mydei’s face, humming quietly.
“It’s almost pathetic,” Mydei whispers into his lips, “that every iteration always ends up like this. I suspect it will happen regardless of whether or not you inform me of your own feelings.”
Khaslana releases a shaky sigh.
“That goes both ways, Mydeimos. I want as much as you do.”
“Then keep wanting, Deliverer. Do not succumb to fate so easily,” Mydei demands with a burning gaze.
Mydeimos’ death within that particular cycle had seeped deeply into Khaslana’s bones, twirling around his ribs and prodding dangerously at his heart. It stirred that dim fire, igniting it in a way he hadn’t felt since perhaps his first Eternal Recurrence.
He never made the choice to confess that early again. Perhaps Mydeimos would call him cowardly—and in many ways, Khaslana was. He was beginning to run from that tender embrace and easy affection, the kind that tugged his heartstrings and made dealing that decisive blow so much harder than it needed to be.
Approaching the arena, Mydei’s back is exposed to him, as always.
Khaslana hesitates for a moment.
“You’re wavering, Deliverer,” says Mydei in lieu of greeting. “Something plaguing your mind?”
“Don’t jest, Mydeimos. Please.”
He watches as Mydei crosses his arms, shoulders stretching with the movement.
“You should know that I have no fear of death. Should I fall to your blade, I will take it in stride. I have long prepared myself for this.”
Unable to help himself, Khaslana grits out, “You always fall to my blade.”
Mydei’s gaze hardens, lips curling up into a faint sneer.
“Is that so?”
“Yes,” Khaslana says, running a hand through his tangled hair. “So forgive me if I’m not exactly thrilled about my predetermined victory.”
“Do you mean to suggest that this fight is not a challenge for you?”
Khaslana blinks.
He’s used to this battle. He’s able to predict Mydeimos’ habitual style of fighting without much effort. They’ve clashed countless times—whether it be now, or for practice. They spoke with their fists long before they learned to speak with their words.
Despite this fact, Mydei’s own familiarity with Khaslana’s tactics and style of fighting keep them on equal footing. As well as Khaslana knows Mydeimos, he often forgets how well Mydeimos knows him in return.
“...No. It’s a challenge in more ways than one. I…did not intend for it to sound like I was ever downplaying your strength, Mydei. I merely always feel a deep confliction knowing that Dawnmaker is destined to pierce your tenth thoracic vertebra, no matter how our fight goes.”
Mydei huffs out a laugh without a trace of humor.
“Even so, do you expect me to roll over? Never. I don’t care how many times you’ve gone through this; I’ll stand opposed to you no matter what, Deliverer. But I’m sure you’ve heard that a thousand times.”
“Yeah. I have. I’ll still give you the option of surrender, even if I know full well you’ll never take it,” Khaslana says bitterly.
“Wipe that dejected look off your face and battle me with honor, Khaslana,” Mydei growls, flexing his fingers. “Just like old times.”
At those words, and the usage of his name—his real name—Khaslana scrunches his brows as he steadies himself. He clenches and unclenches his fists, Mydeimos’ demand stirring that ever-present fighting spirit hidden beneath the layers of his skin.
“As you wish. I owe you that much.”
When he summons Dawnmaker, closing the distance between himself and Mydei, he does so with renewed conviction. It clearly appeases Mydeimos, who grins wildly like he always does when facing Khaslana.
As if this is just another spar between comrades.
When they lunge, the force of Mydei’s first blow is enough to have Khaslana skidding against the cobbled floor. He parries easily with Dawnmaker, but has to rely on his swiftness to avoid the onslaught of Mydei’s more aggressive attacks.
It’s been many cycles—many years— since Khaslana has felt even remotely as motivated as he feels currently. Not at the prospect of taking Mydei’s life, but at granting his wish, and providing him with an honorable death fit for the prince of Kremnos. Especially by the hand of someone he deeply trusts.
Khaslana makes a decision then, as soon as he spots an opening, to kill Mydeimos as quickly and efficiently as possible. It wasn’t that he’d been prolonging it in his previous cycles by any means, but unfavorable outcomes are unavoidable. Mydei sometimes manages to get a few last words in, or occasionally dies from the blood loss of the wound in his back more so than the immediate impact. He suffers much longer than he needs to.
Khaslana steels his resolve and thrusts Dawnmaker forward.
He tries not to wince at the way Mydei’s golden blood drips down the blade, then the hilt, before seeping into the crevices between his fingers. Mydei’s body falls forward with a heavy thud, and Khaslana stumbles back as he draws his sword away.
He can’t quite hear his own breathing, and he turns away to cover his face.
He feels the tears prickling at his eyes, but wipes at them before they can fall.
> Admin note: Subject Khaslana’s mental stability has seen a slight decrease. Lifecycles of the 12 Chrysos Heirs terminated. Desire to “Avoid sacrifices of past companions” has had a minor decrease.
>>>> Eternal Recurrence #489
The sound is sharp and boisterous—akin to a bark—and simmers into something low and gravelly. Khaslana smooths a hand over his aching lower back, pushing himself back up from where he’d slammed unceremoniously into the row of training dummies.
He’d been busy glaring at them, as if they were at fault for his misstep during his and Mydei’s spar, before he heard the noise.
The sight he beholds takes his breath away.
Mydeimos is laughing. He’s laughing in a way that causes his eyes to crease as he brings a finger to wipe at his tears. He’s laughing in a way that causes his entire chest to shake as he struggles to remain upright. And his bright smile, wide and wolfish in a way that freely displays his sharp teeth, gums peeking through, could rival the sun.
Khaslana’s chest stutters first and foremost before his entire face swells with the heat of embarrassment. He only digs his grave further when his hand slips against his own coattail while attempting to rise to his feet.
“You—You really are something, Deliverer,” Mydeimos struggles to get out between chuckles. “How can such a seasoned warrior be so clumsy?”
“Mydei,” Khaslana pleads, laughing despite himself, “spare me, won’t you?”
“You looked utterly ridiculous.”
Khaslana rubs his hands down his face, uncaring of the sand from the training grounds he must be smearing all over his skin. He’s equal parts flustered at his own show of inadequate footwork and—he’s never seen Mydei laugh before. What a sound.
It’s extremely distinct and contagious, able to be heard from anywhere. Khaslana would trip over himself a hundred more times just to hear that laugh again. The thought alone makes his chest flutter warmly.
When he finally thinks himself prepared to lower his hands from his face and meet the blinding daylight again—along with Mydei’s amused expression at his expense—the Kremnoan prince is already standing in front of him.
Mydei’s tall form casts a shadow over him, and he’s met with an extended hand.
Khaslana blinks owlishly.
Mydei merely rolls his eyes, clawed fingers flexing.
“Come on, Deliverer. I don’t bite.”
That only causes Khaslana to feel his ears redden once more, he clasps Mydei’s hand and allows himself to be hoisted to his feet. Mydei’s face is still flushed from all his laughter, sheening his skin in a pinkish glow.
Before he can think better of it, Khaslana blurts, “You’ve got a great laugh.”
It’s now Mydei’s turn to blink owlishly, clearly caught off guard.
Khaslana clears his throat, rubbing sheepishly at his neck.
“I—just mean…well, I’ve never heard it until now. I hope I can make you laugh again soon. Preferably not at my own expense, though.”
Mydei shakes his head, both exasperated and—fond? “I warn you: you may find that rather difficult.”
Encouraged by their easy banter, Khaslana hums, “Oh? Is that a challenge, Mydeimos?”
“You say the oddest things. Sure, give it your best shot, Deliverer. But before that,” Mydei says, backing a few paces away, “lets go again. And try not to trip this time. I know you can do better.”
Khaslana grins as he summons his greatsword.
“Careful what you wish for.”
Khaslana blinks rapidly, feeling a twinge of pain in his index finger. When he glances down, he realizes he cut himself on Dawnmaker’s edge while attempting to clean the blade.
There’s a pounding sensation against his temple. It almost feels as if his skin is going to crack open and expose whatever is eating away at his mind. Try as he might, Khaslana has long since accepted the futility in trying to banish his thoughts of the Mydeimos from Cycle 0—the original Flame-Case Journey.
Of that life they’d walked side by side, with no understanding of programs and simulations, or Irontomb and the Destruction. When Khaslana wasn’t under the pretense of Phainon— The Deliverer, and hero of the story. When he’d been at his truest, raw self.
He yearns for it in a way that walking beside every other iteration of Mydei simply can’t satiate, because he knows their relationship will be doomed from the very start.
He doesn’t love Mydeimos any less, but it’s so excruciatingly painful to hold years of memories together from different cycles that each new version of Mydei simply cannot have.
Khaslana can’t precisely recall when—or what cycle—but somewhere along the line, he’d stopped actively pursuing Mydei. Instead, he allowed the new Phainon of each cycle to pursue him instead. After all, each Mydeimos’ memories are reset. He’s incapable of knowing the difference between Khaslana—the original—and Phainon.
When he faces Mydeimos now, he’s met with a new sense of contempt.
“Tell me something, Khaslana,” Mydei begins, gaze hard, “when did you decide ambushing was a better course of action than dueling fairly?”
Khaslana frowns, eyes flickering anywhere but Mydei’s expression.
“When I figured out it no longer made a difference. The outcome won’t change. So, what good is there in prolonging the fight? The cycle needs to be reset.”
Mydei glares; the weight of his eyes feels suffocating.
“What right does that give you to deprive them of a chance to defend themselves?”
“I never claimed to have a right to anything,” Khaslana mutters, tired. “I’m merely doing what I have to. There’s no point in arguing, Mydei.”
Mydei’s countenance shifts into something of sheer disbelief as he lets out an incredulous laugh—just shy of hiding his hurt. It’s nothing like the laugh Khaslana always craves to hear from him.
Khaslana watches him pace the arena, gesturing in a way that’s almost uncharacteristic of him.
“Never did I think you’d lose your sense of honor. It’s getting harder to believe that you were ever anything like Phainon,” Mydei spits out.
Khaslana can’t help the bubbling churn of jealousy in his gut. It’s a rather foreign sensation as of late, and he’s ill-equipped at managing it. He’s been trying to shove it down and repress it, but to no avail.
“I know. But I was. Trying to separate us in your head won’t do you any good,” Khaslana says, expression pinched and tone sour. “When you fight alongside him, you’re fighting alongside a past version of me.”
“Enough of this senseless drivel.” Mydei shifts into an offensive stance, shaking his head like he refuses to comprehend Khaslana’s words. “You’re well aware I won’t surrender.”
“Yes. I’m very well aware.” Khaslana summons Dawnmaker, directing the blade towards his opponent.
Their fight doesn’t last. It never lasts anymore.
When he hears Mydei’s pained groan after plunging his sword through his back, Khaslana leaves him to bleed, unable to bear looking at him any longer. The Phainon of the cycle will probably find him eventually, before Khaslana kills him , too.
> Admin note: Subject Khaslana’s mental stability has diminished. Lifecycles of the 12 Chrysos Heirs terminated. Desire to “Avoid sacrifices of past companions” has decreased.
>>>> Eternal Recurrence #2,234
Every movement Khaslana makes feels like he’s expending all of his energy. It takes so much out of him physically—and emotionally—to merely drag himself to Castrum Kremnos to meet Mydeimos.
He recalls Professor Anaxa’s words from a previous cycle.
“But someday…you will burn to the ground. Your mortal form…it’s not equipped to withstand over one thousand Coreflames.”
“...Yet here I am. I’ve made it this far. That’s proof enough.”
“It’s foolishness. You clearly haven’t considered all possible contingencies, and it will lead to your downfall. I thought I taught you better.”
While inevitable, his downfall has yet to come, and so he trudges onward. He sharpens Dawnmaker, consumes the 12 Coreflames, and prevents the birth of Destruction. Along the way, his companion’s departures no longer stir much empathy from him.
His indifference is merely a collateral consequence of the path he’s chosen to tread—the only path he can take. The more Khaslana considers himself as merely a means to an end, the easier it is to dissociate and detach himself from the gravity of the situation. Somewhere in the very distant future, he wants to believe his friends and family are waiting for him.
“Deliverer,” comes Mydei’s voice.
Deliverer. Always Deliverer.
A harsh reminder of Khaslana’s place and destiny, even if he’s sure Mydeimos has never intentionally meant it maliciously. It had always been spoken with sincerity in that first cycle.
So rarely has he heard his true name from Mydeimos’ lips. He hardly ever hears it anymore. Mydeimos knows it—it’s the one detail Khaslana has shared across every single cycle. Though the more Khaslana begins to mentally withdraw, the more he debates sharing his true name with the new Mydeimos of each cycle to begin with.
In his silence, Mydei continues, “At least you’ve always been punctual. Speak. You know I will not willingly relinquish Strife’s Coreflame. That being said, you’re never one to do things without reason.”
Khaslana’s fingers twitch, tired of the same repetitive words.
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
Mydei frowns, eyeing Khaslana from over his shoulder.
“How unusual, coming from you.”
Khaslana can barely muster a shrug. His lack of vigor clearly agitates Mydei, whose expression morphs into a scowl.
“There is nothing that can be said to change the outcome,” says Khaslana.
“...Is that so? Am I simply meant to believe your cryptic words? That there is no other recourse?”
Khaslana unsheathes Dawnmaker, meeting Mydei’s gaze with resignation.
“We’ve never needed words, Mydeimos. I’m tired of talking. I’m tired of hearing the same thing over, and over again.”
Mydeimos frowns, clearly confused—it’s not his fault, since Khaslana has purposefully left him in the dark this time around. He still hasn’t quite decided if it’s easier to kill Mydei when he does know.
Still, Mydeimos conceals his hurt and straightens his shoulders.
“Then so be it. You’ll have to challenge me for Strife’s Coreflame in a fair duel,” he says, eyeing Khaslana’s reactions. “But I suspect you already knew that.”
Khaslana releases a tired sigh, nodding once.
“I’ve heard those words thousands of times.”
Mydei, while evidently perturbed by his uncharacteristic behavior, meets him in the middle when he lunges, metal scraping against metal. It doesn’t take long at all for Khaslana to catch him off guard, to plunge his sword in.
It has been so long since Mydeimos has truly felt equal to him.
It’s a dangerous train of thought, one that only stirs more words of warning from his old Professor.
“Do you hear yourself? Your messiah complex has changed you, Khaslana. You’re no different than the gods you claim to fight against. All the people you’ve sworn to save…are they no different than ants?”
And perhaps, at this point, they’re not so different.
Khaslana hardly needs to lift a finger to trample them beneath his heel.
He never asked for this power, this responsibility—even if Cyrene’s card deemed him the fated Deliverer, he never suspected it would turn out like this. Then again, he doesn’t have the privilege to ask for anything. He only does what he must.
> Admin note: Subject Khaslana’s mental stability has decreased further. Lifecycles of the 12 Chrysos Heirs terminated. Desire to “Avoid sacrifices of past companions” remains decreased.
>>>> Eternal Recurrence #15,678
It isn’t Hyacinthia’s screams of agony that make Khaslana wince, or Castorice’s exhausted exhale of defeat after he’s ripped the Coreflame from her chest—instead, it’s his own lack of reaction. Even despite the warm, heavy sensation of 17,872 Coreflames squeezing at his heart, Khaslana’s body feels cold.
His eyes sting with the wetness of unshed tears.
As he repossesses Castorice’s Coreflame, the sensation now dull and predictable, he can only daydream naively about circumstances being different. He feels incapable of sitting through another needless monologue from one of his companions. It’s completely pointless when his sword will inevitably drive through their bodies regardless.
While there is still truth in that every cycle is slightly different, there is only so much that can feasibly change in a retelling of the same hero’s journey. Mydei may not always phrase his words the same way, but the underlying intention, feelings, and tone remain consistent. Castorice will always fight dutifully even if she assesses him with a quiet coldness now. Hyacine may not always regard him with the same warmth as she did in the very beginning, but her query remains unchanging: what about you?
What about your wishes?
The repetitiveness of it all stirs unpleasant ideas in the deep crevices of Khaslana’s mind. Ideas entailing all the ways he could provoke a different reaction—for something, anything, to change.
He craves it so desperately it makes him sick.
He glances at Castorice’s defeated demigod form, swallowing bile down once before turning away. Waiting for natural causes or the Black Tide to wipe out the Chrysos Heirs is simply inefficient—that’s what he’s been telling himself.
To take their lives quickly—near instantaneously—is doing them a favor.
Khaslana does not make his way to Castrum Kremnos to face Mydeimos. Instead, he waits for the momentary falter in Aglaea’s golden threads, when Titankin and corroded monstrosities slink through Okhema’s city gates. When the city is practically a warzone.
Shamefully, he waits when they are preoccupied by forces beyond their control.
He waits until Mydeimos’ back is turned towards him, defending himself and citizens alike from the onslaughts of attacks. Distantly, Khaslana thinks of the guilt he’ll feel for his actions; he thinks of how far he’s fallen to target Mydei and the remaining Heirs like this.
Numbly, though, he reminds himself that the cycle will inevitably reset.
He will be the only one whose memories carry over.
In the next cycle, before he reveals his intentions, Mydeimos will still come to gaze at him with fondness and warmth. His irritation and witty quips will always soften into playful banter and teases. He will always remain blissfully unaware of whatever atrocities Khaslana committed just a cycle prior.
Khaslana has long since blurred the lines of whether or not he prefers it that way.
He’s quick on his feet as he creeps up behind Mydei; he can see the spit second of recognition—the realization of an approaching enemy—cross the prince’s face. He thrusts Dawnmaker through that weakened spot in Mydei’s back, his face carefully neutral at the wet sound of blood splatting.
“Khas—”
Mydeimos chokes on that golden blood, slumping to the ground beneath his feet.
Against his better judgment, Khaslana does not move to yank his sword back right away. He instead watches with morbid fascination as golden ichor begins to seep from under Mydei’s body. He blinks when he’s met with his own reflection, maskless and tired.
Programs—that’s all they truly are, Khaslana himself included. Yet Mydeimos will always bleed. Khaslana will always catch the moment his chest ceases its steady rise and fall. He has watched Mydeimos die millions of times, and he has also watched that cursed immortality revive and stitch the crown prince back together over, and over again during missions and expeditions.
That very first time he’d resorted to piercing his rival’s weakness, Khaslana had thought he’d be prepared for it, but there was always a certain sense of finality to Mydeimos’ death at his fingertips.
He dies differently to Khaslana’s blade than he does to any other force. Perhaps that was simply the consequence of stabbing through that fabled weak spot. He wonders if death at his sword feels different to Mydeimos in return.
Khaslana crouches down, extending the hand not still gripping the hilt of his sword to brush away a few strands of Mydeimos’ hair with a gentleness he didn’t know he still possessed.
Mydei is still breathing raggedly, the sound gurgling and disgustingly familiar.
“Why—”
“I’m sorry,” Khaslana mutters, finding that he means it.
In this particular cycle, he hadn’t told the Chrysos Heirs anything. Instead, he’d assimilated alongside them like normal. He never gave them any reason to suspect him beyond betraying them towards the end.
So, in Mydei’s eyes, Khaslana is doing this completely unprovoked.
Without reason.
“I—” Khaslana bites his lip hard, sinking down to one knee as he caresses just below Mydei’s eye. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it this way again.”
Mydei’s eyes are filled with nothing but concern, burning anger, and the hurt of betrayal. He gasps, tries to speak, but no words come out. Khaslana feels like he may be sick.
“It won’t happen this way again,” he whispers again, more to himself.
When he resolves to stand again, Khaslana is met by immediate resistance when suddenly, Mydei’s gauntlet shoots out to curl around his throat. It’s his last remaining strength, and while it is undeniably firm, it is not enough to prevent Khaslana from slipping away.
Even still, he stays put with widened eyes.
The sharpness of Mydei’s armor pricks at his skin, drawing blood. Just for a moment, Khaslana finds himself simulating hypotheticals. If he died by Mydei’s hand, right here, right now, he thinks he may be content.
He’d be free.
He knows that thought is selfish coming from the Deliverer. Cyrene would be disappointed—her death would have amounted to nothing if he cannot continue to prevent Era Nova.
But instead, Mydei’s hand—losing its strength as he bleeds out—moves to brush over the sun symbol along Khaslana’s throat. It’s featherlight and grazing, as if Mydei was trying to ensure it was still there in the first place.
It’s here that Khaslana realizes Mydei never intended to kill him with this throw-away gesture at all.
“Mydei—”
Mydei’s hand falls away, exhausted.
The palms of Mydei’s hands without armor are soft and unblemished. Khaslana doesn’t think tracing them feels so different from skimming his hands over the surface of a pool of water. For a man so innately submerged in concepts of war, glory, and honor, to have such gentle hands is dichotomous enough to leave Khaslana visibly surprised.
Before Mydeimos can even remove the bandages wrapped around Khaslana’s torso, he frowns. His sharp eyes scrutinize Khaslana for much too long, enough to leave the latter squirming. He must’ve caught him staring.
“What,” says Mydei.
Blinking slowly, Khaslana parrots, “What?”
“What’s with that look on your face?”
Khaslana swallows, reaching up to trace the corners of his mouth, unaware of the expression Mydei claims he’s been making. It only serves to irritate the prince more, as he flicks Khaslana’s arm.
This back and forth between them has become so familiar as of late. It’s almost frightening. Granted, it’d been an extremely slow progression considering their early distaste for each other. But now, Khaslana often finds himself smacked in the face with the weight of his own feelings for Mydeimos. Mydei now means something to him. He’s become someone Khaslana aims to protect.
“Rude,” Khaslana huffs. “I don’t know, I just…your hands.”
“...What about them, Deliverer?”
Khaslana averts his gaze, smiling sheepishly. Complimenting Mydei in any sense of the word can often feel like pulling teeth depending on the prince’s mood. There are times Khaslana wonders if Mydei is truly dense and unaware of his blatantly obvious feelings. Other times, Mydeimos is the one to leave Khaslana scrambling for words.
“They’re…soft. Softer than I thought they’d be.”
There’s a long moment of silence, long enough for him to glance back up. Mydei jumps ever so slightly at the attention. Khaslana finds himself fighting back a smile at the way Mydeimos pushes his hair back in an attempt to hide his expression.
Mydei recovers just as quickly with a measured scoff.
“Do you think about my hands often?”
Khaslana glances up from beneath white strands of hair, a wry smile still playing on his lips.
“...Would it be so surprising if I said yes?”
Mydeimos stares, his lips parting to provide an answer that never comes. He blinks in succession a few times before clicking his tongue and running a hand over his face. If Khaslana didn’t know any better, he’d think Mydei was hiding away, trying to regain his composure.
He stifles a laugh when he notices the reddened tips of Mydei’s ears, much to his companion’s displeasure.
“I shouldn’t have asked,” Mydei finally answers, his tone strained. “Now sit still. You’ve bled through these and I need to change them.”
Wordlessly, Khaslana obeys, trying not to wince as his bandages are removed. He’d been more reckless than usual during one of their senseless competitions. Being dispatched to clear an area of Titankin is practically a weekly occurrence for himself and Mydei—but, even as the situation had gotten worse, Khaslana hadn’t truly grasped the severity of the situation.
He’d been too busy attempting to keep up with Mydei.
He’d been too busy to notice they were completely surrounded.
Mydei had sacrificed a life, and Khaslana narrowly avoided losing an arm, sustaining a particularly nasty gash into his side instead. Khaslana had insisted he’d be fine to keep going, but Mydeimos stubbornly forced them both to rest before making the journey back to Ohkema.
Here they sit, in the crumbled ruins, Khaslana sucking in a sharp breath as Mydei tends to the worst of his wounds. Mydeimos, to his credit, mumbles a soft apology as he prods around the area to check for inflammation.
Khaslana steadies his breathing, suddenly hyper-aware of the thickening atmosphere; of how close their bodies are, of the pads of Mydei’s fingers against his bare skin, of their mingling breaths.
“Mm. It’s not great, but at least it hasn’t gotten any worse,” Mydei comments, dabbing at the gash with a piece of his own torn clothing. “How do you feel?”
“Honestly?” Khaslana chuckles weakly. “Like hell. But who am I to complain? You died and resurrected, for Titan’s sake.”
A sigh, and then Mydeimos grips his chin, squeezing his jaw.
“HKS. I’m immortal, Deliverer. You are not. The pain you’re experiencing will linger, while mine has already dissipated.”
Khaslana frowns deeply, swatting at Mydei’s hand.
“You still died, Mydeimos.”
“And you were still gravely injured. Must everything be a competition?”
Despite his instinct to snark back, Khaslana concedes easily.
“...Forgive me. I suppose I can’t help it around you. You bring out both the best and worst in me, Mydei.”
At that, surprisingly, Mydeimos smiles faintly.
“So he’s self aware. Good to know.”
Khaslana huffs out a tired laugh, head tipping to the side. He leans further back against the wall, allowing Mydei to rewrap his wounds with what little materials they’d brought with them. He releases a pained groan when Mydei secures the bandages, pulling tight enough to keep the blood at bay.
“Easy,” Mydei says gently, trying to keep him still.
Every sensation feels heightened. His head is still pounding, his lips feel dry and cracked, his side is burning, Mydei’s hands create a soothing contrast against his skin. Those words are spoken low and soft, only for the two of them to hear.
It’s almost too much all at once.
His…complicated feelings for Mydeimos certainly do nothing to help.
Then, as if to add fuel to the flame, Mydei’s hand raises to cup his neck.
Khaslana nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Mydeimos—”
“You’re breathing too quickly,” Mydei mutters between them.
“A-Am I?” Khaslana swallows painfully, placing a hand over his own chest.
“It’s likely just the lingering adrenaline rush. It’s a natural response. You could also be half-delirious from blood loss, but I sincerely hope that’s not the case. I’d rather not have to lug you home.”
Khaslana opens his mouth to goad, to banter, to tease, but nothing comes out.
He feels…frozen.
Mydeimos’ thumb lowers to brush over the symbol at his neck, just in between where his choker separates. Khaslana shivers, body not sure if it should tense or relax.
“Your heart is pounding, Khaslana. You need to calm down.”
Khaslana inhales slowly, then exhales. He must be making a fool of himself. He supposes he’s just unused to the intimacy in a moment of pure vulnerability—while he’s injured and weakened.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, oddly emotional.
Mydeimos sighs, silently leaning forward to gently rest their foreheads together.
Like this, everything else is completely drowned out, replacing Khaslana’s senses with nothing but the inherent security that Mydei provides. He’s always been a pillar; he always seems to know exactly what to do.
Khaslana listens to nothing but the sounds of their breathing slowly synchronizing, and feels nothing but Mydei’s skin against his neck—gentle and reassuring.
Khaslana has never been more relieved than when he ends this cycle.
He promises himself never to succumb to such selfish desires again—hoping for something to change, when he knows nothing will. His saving grace is knowing that none of his companions will remember his ruthlessness.
As The Deliverer, he isn’t allowed dreams, or wishes after all.
> Admin note: Subject Khaslana’s mental stability has raised concern. Lifecycles of the 12 Chrysos Heirs terminated. Desire to “Avoid sacrifices of past companions” has decreased.
>>>> Eternal Recurrence #70,263
Khaslana can’t quite fathom the concept of watching himself—the Phainon of this cycle—experience the Flame-Chase Journey alongside the Chrysos Heirs instead of him. It isn’t the first time Khaslana’s exhaustion has caught up to him. When his vision becomes too hazy, and his body fails him in its growing fragility.
There have been countless times he’s allowed Phainon to stand in for him. Particularly when he feels the Heirs may see right through his facade. Or when he can’t trust himself to say the right things to push the story forward. He doesn’t need to do much of anything to spur Phainon onward; his innate heroism does that for him.
So instead, Khaslana lurks in the shadows, always ready to step in if something goes off script. He’ll secure the Coreflames and kill Phainon —if he opposes him—in due time, but until then, he conserves his dwindling strength.
And he watches—as if peering out from behind a curtain at the grand stage to observe the actors.
Contrary to what Khaslana thought in his earlier cycles, it is not always that he and Mydeimos—or Phainon and Mydeimos—end up together romantically. Those feelings are still there, visible to anyone who observes closely enough, but they are not guaranteed to act on them.
Yet they end up together more often than not.
Khaslana watches Phainon and Mydeimos fall in love over, and over again.
He’s there for their first fateful meeting at Ohkema’s gates, when they clash for 10 days and 10 nights. He trails behind when they’re paired for their first expedition together at Aglaea’s request, and they bicker to no end. He re-experiences Mydei’s immortality bring him back to life for the first time vicariously through Phainon, who silently cries for him.
He tries not to frown when he listens to Mydeimos entrust his weak spot to Phainon again, or when they both confide in each other about their pasts, both shrouded in darkness and loss.
He watches as their hands brush for the first time, fingers tentatively linking together before Mydeimos grows tired of skirting around and simply laces his fingers with Phainon’s.
He’s there to witness Phainon leaving a fleeting kiss at the corner of Mydei’s mouth, hidden away in an alcove of Marmoreal Palace. He has to watch that glint of quiet adoration in Mydei’s eyes as he regards Phainon in the same way he used to look at Khaslana.
It leaves this festering, churning feeling to eat away at his insides.
It doesn’t feel rational to call it jealousy—Khaslana is aware of how utterly absurd the concept is. He chose to watch from the sidelines; he knows that he was once Phainon himself.
But he’s not anymore.
He’s so different from Phainon now, but Mydeimos will always be Mydeimos, unchanging in every cycle. And Mydeimos will always have a love for Phainon—whether it’s ever acted upon or not. So, Khaslana will always be forced to watch the inevitable happen.
“You,” Phainon says—or more accurately— spits, “are being hypocritical.”
Khaslana remains silent.
“You say you care for him, that it’s so painful to watch your past self with him in your place. And yet…you didn’t shed a single tear when you plunged that sword through his back.”
Khaslana rolls his shoulders back, taking a deep breath. He doesn’t think the air quite reaches his lungs. Every inhale is beginning to feel off-putting as his body starts to crack apart like glass.
“I’ve shed many tears. Sorrow has been my lone companion across these endless cycles. But there is no use in continuously getting emotional—it only serves to make things harder.”
“Perhaps things should be harder, if it would preserve our humanity. I wonder if you truly hear how you sound right now—how you talk about them. They were our family. Does that mean nothing to you now? Have they become nothing but insignificant footnotes?” Phainon demands, pleadingly with all his heroism and innocence.
Phainon always wears his heart on his sleeve.
“It’s pointless to argue, because you simply won’t understand,” Khaslana bites, whirling around to face his other self. “You haven’t trudged through this journey over 70,000 times. You don’t bear the weight of 562,104 Coreflames eating away at your skin and bones.”
Phainon scoffs, even if he seems perturbed by the concept. “You think that’s an excuse? You don’t get to talk about Mydeimos the way you do when you don’t even value his life anymore. Or any of their lives, for that matter.”
Khaslana’s fingers twitch at his side.
“I refer to my Mydeimos. The original Mydeimos, who you’ve never met. I will always refer to the original cycle’s Chrysos Heirs—that is where we differ.”
Phainon narrows his eyes, burning with nothing but hatred and anger.
“You’re right. Draw your sword, Executioner. It’s pointless to talk. You shouldn’t have left me alive, or expected me to roll over when you’ve fallen so far from grace.”
“Yes,” Khaslana agrees, sighing. “I realize that now. I won’t make the same mistake again.”
Killing Phainon was the last step to prevent this cycle’s Era Nova, considering he’d already dealt with the other Chrysos Heirs. But killing himself has always left the strangest feeling in his chest—like a part of him is missing.
> Admin note: Subject Khaslana’s mental stability is dwindling rapidly. Lifecycles of the 12 Chrysos Heirs terminated. Desire to “Avoid sacrifices of past companions” has decreased.
>>>> Eternal Occurence #476,984
Warm light from Ohkema’s ever-present Dawn Device seeps in through the cracks in the curtains.
Mydeimos’ chambers are akin to a reflection of the Kremnoan Warrior himself.
Organized to an extent, filled with remnants of his culture and traditions, different kinds of armor and weapons that shimmer with evidence of their upkeep. There are records of early Kremnoan literature and recipe books that make up his shelves. His space is always warm.
There is evidence of the companions Mydei has made lingering in his space. There are hand-made gifts from young Kremnoan children, clothing and garments expertly crafted by Aglaea, and antiques and jewelry from Khaslana himself.
There’s a comfortable sense of familiarity to Mydei’s chambers. In a way, Khaslana finds he prefers them to his own.
There’s a firm hand on Khaslana’s wrist, cool metal contrasting the burn in his skin as he’s dragged inside. Mydeimos shuts the doors without much ceremony behind them, his steps loud with their force.
Khaslana could wrench himself free if he wanted to, but he chooses not to.
“Mydei, I’m fine, really,” he tries, but his voice comes out more broken and raspy than he’d initially hoped for. It clearly does nothing to ease the tension in Mydei’s shoulders.
Mydeimos turns on his heel, sending him a withering glare that would send a lesser man running for the hills. Golden eyes practically blaze a hole into where Khaslana is defensively covering his newfound injury. He’s shielding it from view.
He’d been careless again—he’s always careless, no matter the year or cycle. So different from Mydei’s careful contemplation. With how frail Khaslana’s body is becoming, smoldering with thousands of Coreflames, he should have been more careful.
“Show me your face, Deliverer.”
Khaslana sets his jaw, frowning.
“You’re being unreasonable. It’s just a scratch.”
His words come out wholly unconvincing even to his own ears.
It’s been years since he’s had a completely new experience added into his cycles. He’s grown so used to predicting the words his companions will say, and knowing the safest options to respond with.
But in 400,000 cycles, this has never happened before.
There is a reason he’s preventing Mydei from seeing the full extent of this particular injury, because while his words ring with truth, it’s not a typical ‘scratch.’
While Khaslana could’ve dismissed himself without waiting for permission he doesn’t need, that could’ve yielded even worse results. Mydeimos would’ve tracked him down eventually—or worse, taken him to the Twilight Courtyard, escalating the situation even further.
Mydei will inevitably see what’s underneath. Khaslana can’t let anyone else.
Mydeimos releases a long sigh, clearly summoning all his patience. He steps in to shrink the distance between them. His footfalls are softer now, barely audible.
Khaslana’s head hangs down, hiding his expression. Despite never having lived through this, he knows exactly how this will play out. He can’t bring himself to face Mydei.
Mydei’s hands come to rest at his waist. Khaslana’s breath hitches quietly.
At this angle, he notices Mydei’s fingers twitching, as if fighting the urge to jump away. He must be scorching to touch, and it clearly doesn’t go unnoticed. Khaslana raises a hand to cover his mouth, turning his head away.
Mydei tries to meet his eyes to no avail.
“...You’re burning up. I can feel it beneath your coat.”
“I’m fine. Just…a little warm.”
Mydei’s thumbs begin to rub small circles—and Titan’s it’s been years since they’ve been this close; this intimate. Khaslana wants to melt beneath the attention he’s been craving for so long. He wants to push Mydei away and protect himself. He doesn’t want Mydei to see him like this.
“Odd,” Mydeimos says. “Considering you’re always freezing cold.”
Khaslana blinks, slowly turning his head.
He was always cold. In their original cycle, before retaining hundreds of thousands of Coreflames in his chest. But Mydeimos wouldn’t remember that. He shouldn’t remember that—he shouldn’t remember anything. Does he remember? Maybe only bits and pieces? Fragmented memories? Is that possible?
What if he did remember?
What if he knew everything I’ve done?
Would he still hold me like this?
“You’ve been distant.” Mydei’s hands run up his sides, and it’s enough to knock the wind out of Khaslana’s lungs.
“I don’t appreciate it. You’ve been skirting uselessly around the topic for weeks now, and my patience is running thin.”
“I…”
“Speak.”
“Mydei, I just—”
Khaslana bites down on his finger, unable to pull his hand away from shielding his mouth. Mydei’s face cycles through a few expressions—from ire, to irritation, to utter confusion, and then…slight amusement.
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen you fumble with your words.”
Mydei is so close that Khaslana can feel the heat of his breath against his face. His hands still hold Khaslana in place. He’s driving Khaslana insane. And worst of all, Mydei probably knows it.
“Am I making you nervous, Khaslana?” Mydei asks, voice low.
Amidst the utter silence in the room, Khaslana’s throat audibly clicks when he swallows. His other hand is trembling from where it still covers his injury. Mydei’s hands haven’t ceased their steady, comforting gesture.
It’s hard to get a read on him, Khaslana thinks dizzily. He’s gone so many cycles in a row knowing for certain exactly what Mydeimos will say. Now, it almost feels as though he’s been thrust back onto the stage, an actor once more. Each of Mydei’s words leave him hanging on the edge of his seat in a way they haven’t since that original cycle.
“It’s…it’s been awhile,” Khaslana manages weakly. “Since…we’ve been like this.”
Mydei tilts his head, eyes narrowing.
“That’s what I was implying. However, it carries a different implication when you say it. You’d do well to tell me. This will never resolve if you’re incapable of using your words.”
Khaslana lets the sensation of Mydei’s hands at his waist ground him. He drops his hand away from his face.
“...In a few weeks, you’ll receive your prophecy,” he begins, taking note of the way Mydei immediately straightens up. “And you’ll be told that you will die with a wound in your back. Right in your weak spot, your tenth thoracic vertebra.”
As if emphasizing his point, Khaslana brings his shaky fingers to count down the knobs of Mydei’s spine until he reaches that particular spot. He catches the way Mydei’s eyes widen, but beyond that, all the prince does is lean closer. He studies Khaslana very carefully, eyes scanning his features.
“You entrusted that knowledge to me, in a previous cycle—and you’ll die by my hand, as you wished. But it won’t be on your terms, it’ll be on mine.”
Khaslana tries to steady the shakiness of his own hands.
It’s been ages since he’s explained this.
“I’ve lived through nearly half a million cycles of this same story. All for once purpose: to prevent the destruction of Amphoreus. All I can do…is wait for some unpredictable variable to enter the equation. But until then, I must collect the Coreflames and prevent the lie that is Era Nova.”
Mydei regards him wordlessly, gears evidently shifting in his mind as he processes the information. He doesn’t appear angry—he never has when Khaslana has explained his purpose. Mydei must think him still honorable; what a laughable concept that is.
“If that’s the case, why do you cower as you do now? Has this not happened countless times in your previous cycles? This hesitance is rather uncharacteristic of you.”
“...No. No, this has…never happened before. We’ve—” Khaslana hesitates. “We’ve been together. It’s just been…a very long time.”
Mydei’s touch halts momentarily, before he pulls Khaslana closer, his grip tighter.
“Elaborate.”
“After so many cycles, I stopped chasing after you. I allowed this cycle’s Phainon to pursue you instead, in the cycles where he sometimes takes my place. While I remain here, in the background.”
Khaslana pauses, shaking his head.
“It’s cowardly, I already know you’ll say that. I figured that if I stopped acting on my interest in you romantically, it would make taking your Coreflame easier. I was wrong, and instead I was only left with the memory of the cycles in which we were together.”
Mydeimos’ eyes flicker.
“...What significance does this cycle hold?”
“What?”
“I never met the Phainon belonging to this cycle. I assume you disposed of him rather early on, and you acted as his stand in. Your words imply that, in previous cycles, you stopped resorting to that. So, why did you allow yourself to live through this cycle again without his interference?”
Khaslana blinks, his heart stuttering as Mydei’s hands cease all movement to merely hold him in place. Tentatively, and slow enough to allow Mydei to pull away, Khaslana raises his other hand.
His fingers brush along Mydei’s jaw—so close, but still not touching.
“It’s always been me more often than not living through this story. It’s me who resets the cycles. But there are times when I allow him to stand in, giving me a moment's reprieve.”
“Answer me then,” says Mydei with more insistence.
“...I don’t know. I was…selfish, perhaps.” Khaslana cups Mydei’s jaw, his fingers threading through soft strands of blonde hair. “I missed you, Mydeimos. I thought after so many cycles, I wouldn’t.”
Something in Mydei’s eyes softens, practically invisible to an untrained eye. It’s enough to encourage Khaslana to brush their noses together.
“But here I am, rendered useless under your touch once more,” Khaslana whispers.
Mydeimos’ expression is one Khaslana hasn’t seen in years. Parted lips, red tinted cheeks—and widened eyes that appear confused and lovestruck all at once. He’s missed this gentle intimacy more than he realized.
The silence weighs heavy.
“Mydei, I—”
Then, Mydeimos leans in to close what little distance remained, pressing their lips together. Khaslana’s heart thuds louder than it has in decades; it pounds against the confines of his rib cage, threatening to break free. He has half a mind to rip it out, presenting the beaten bloodied thing to Mydeimos as some sort of peace offering or apology.
His eyes flutter shut as Mydei cups his waist with one hand and raises the other to twist the fabric of his coat, pulling him closer. Mydei’s lips are rough and soft at the same time—and they always have been. His kisses are rather unpredictable, a contrasting push and pull that leaves Khaslana breathless. They’re always a delicate balance between grazing teeth or the fleeting brush of lips.
Khaslana’s own hands, while hesitant, gradually circle around Mydei’s center to hold him tightly in return. Mydei kisses him with a fondness Khaslana hasn’t been privy to since that original cycle. He’s grown so accustomed to disdain and bitter rivalry. He chases Mydei as far as he can, messy and a little desperate. He clings to him like he’s making up for past cycles and lifetimes.
“Slower,” he hears Mydei mutter against his lips, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in epochs, Khaslana thinks he could shed tears again.
His breath trembles faintly as Mydei walks them backwards. His back hits the door with a thud, and he tangles his fingers in Mydei’s hair. Mydei hums at the contact, tilting his head to press deeper—but true to his word, he keeps it achingly slow. It’s something of a re-exploration for two who already know each other so intimately.
Khaslana’s other hand traces Mydei’s back, blunt nails creating divots into bare skin as he pulls him impossibly closer. He wants to ingrain the sound Mydei makes at the touch deep into the crevices of his mind.
He’s terribly afraid that if he dares release him, this moment between them will shatter. Mydei responds by brushing Khaslana’s hair behind his ear, both hands now raising to hold his face. At that motion, Khaslana can’t quite suppress a whimper that gets swallowed up.
Mydeimos breaks their kiss the moment they both begin to taste salt; then Khaslana realizes he’s silently crying. Perhaps he has been since that first point of initial contact. It’s been so long since he’s cried.
“Sorry,” Khaslana whispers breathlessly, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
Mydei is looking at him too intently. There’s a newfound concern to his expression.
“Khaslana,” Mydei responds, his voice hesitant as his finger finally dips down to press over the injury Khaslana had previously been hiding.
Over the startling crack in his skin.
Oh.
Khaslana’s eyes widen, his arm shooting out to grip Mydei’s wrist. Mydei offers no protest, simply staring, frozen in shock.
“You’re…breaking,” Mydei mutters, so quietly.
Khaslana screws his eyes shut.
“You weren’t supposed to see.”
“The Coreflames,” Mydei deduces. “...How many Coreflames do you carry?”
Khaslana sucks in a sharp breath.
“5,723,808.”
Mydei curses quietly in Kremnoan, his fingers twitching as he brushes over Khaslana’s fragile skin.
It’s silent again for a long stretch.
Khaslana steels himself to be pushed away, for the barrage of questions, or for Mydei to berate him for even trying to keep this hidden. Instead, Mydeimos pulls him into his chest, hugging him tightly. Khaslana lets out a broken sound, head slumping onto Mydei’s shoulder.
Mydei’s hand rubs his back soothingly; a comfort Khaslana has long forgotten.
“You mentioned once, that as The Deliverer, you are responsible for holding onto the wishes of the children of humanity.”
Khaslana nods silently.
“...Though it won’t mean much—and I’ve never been particularly adept at comforting—I’d wish nothing but for all my memories. So that you would not have to bear this burden alone.”
Khaslana grasps at Mydei’s back, breaths ragged.
“You’d grow to hate me. If you knew everything I’ve done.”
“I doubt that very much. Allegedly you’ve incessantly wormed your way into my life for countless cycles. I’m convinced I’m incapable of ridding myself of you.”
Khaslana laughs wetly, his shoulders shaking against Mydei’s hands.
“Mydeimos,” he says shakily, pulling back so their eyes meet again, “thank you.”
“What is there to thank me for?”
“For still being here like this with me 400,000 cycles later.”
After a moment, Mydeimos’ eyes soften, and Khaslana thinks he’d destroy worlds just to ensure he can see this small smile again in the next life.
When they clash in Castrum Kremnos this cycle, there is an unfamiliar, wavering hesitance from both parties. Mydei certainly doesn’t make it any easier, but when Khaslana’s sword strikes, his hands shake. Mydei has a quiet sort of conflict permanently etched into his expression as he defends himself.
When Dawnmaker stabs his weak spot, Khaslana almost swears he sees Mydeimos smile. He swears he hears fondness when Mydei wishes him eternal victory and takes his last breath.
But it is this tenderness, and Mydei’s wish, that fuel Khaslana’s fire once more.
> Admin note: Disabled report regarding Subject Khaslana’s mental stability. Lifecycles of the 12 Chrysos Heirs terminated. Desire to “Avoid sacrifices of past companions” fluctuates.
>>>> Eternal Recurrence #13,478,932
Khaslana takes a deep breath before pushing open the kitchen doors of Marmoreal Palace, his untouched plate in hand.
Mydeimos is an excellent chef. It’s a known fact amongst any of his closer companions or acquaintances. Though the man may vehemently deny it, it’s clear he enjoys spoiling those who crave his cooking.
When his hobby—his ‘little secret’—inevitably got out, which certainly had nothing to do with Khaslana loudly singing his praises to all who asked, Aglaea requested Mydei be the one to prepare the Heir’s meals. After a while, it became routine. Mydeimos learned each of their preferences; he knew how they liked their meat cooked, what types of sauces they preferred, and who was allergic to what.
He knew who had a sweet tooth and who preferred savory dishes, he knew how to size everyone’s proportions according to how much they usually ate, Khaslana’s even seen him make honeycake art to appease Trinnon and Trianne.
While Khaslana could wax poetic about Mydeimos’ care and attention to meal prepping, the Kremnoan prince also holds an unreasonable amount of power when he’s the one cooking meals.
It started off small: the lamb Khaslana requested was a little charred, the proportion was a little smaller than he typically ate. Until it escalated into…whatever monstrosity he currently has the displeasure of holding.
Honestly, Khaslana may be rather hopeless in the kitchen, but this dish hardly looks edible in comparison to what the other Chrysos Heirs were eating.
Mydeimos isn’t someone who Khaslana would ever associate with the word ‘petty’ at all; he’s always been straightforward and blunt. However, leave it to Khaslana to push a little too far—to piss him off just enough—and he’s left with this response.
As he enters the kitchen, Mydeimos is wiping down the counters, a stack of freshly washed dishes waiting to be put away at his side. He glances up with an impressively neutral expression for someone who just tried to poison his so-called companion.
No pretenses needed, Khaslana offers, “This is about our argument the other night, isn’t it?”
Mydeimos merely hums.
“Perhaps.”
Khaslana huffs out a defeated little laugh, placing the offending dish on the countertop.
“You could’ve spoken to me, you know. I’m sure it was more effort than it was worth to make…whatever this is.”
“I rather enjoyed watching you try to keep your composure, actually.”
Khaslana leans against the table, meeting Mydei’s eyes more seriously. They eye each other stubbornly.
“Mydeimos,” he says, “I’m not going to apologize for cherishing your life; immortal or not.”
At that, Mydeimos halts in his cleanup, releasing a breath. He braces his arms against the counter across from Khaslana, seemingly weighing his words very carefully. Khaslana watches his eyebrows furrow as he thinks.
It’s almost comical sometimes, how quickly the switch between playful banter and tense conversations can flip when it comes to them.
“I’m well aware of your stance on it by now. That’s not why I’m cross with you.”
“Alright. Then talk to me, Mydei. You’re not one to mince words.”
“You deliberately threw yourself in front of me, Deliverer. You didn’t even stop for a moment to consider what would happen had that hit been fatal,” Mydei explains slowly, lips pulling into a frown.
Khaslana remains silent when it looks like Mydeimos still has more to add, but isn’t sure how to say it.
“There will come a time,” Mydei says, “when you must accept my immortality. There are times when you simply need to step aside and let me utilize it. You must learn how to stomach your own savior-complex, and think about the bigger picture.”
“Protecting someone I care about is not a savior-complex,” Khaslana defends, brow twitching in slight irritation.
“You are Amphoreus’ Deliverer. How, pray tell, do you intend on Delivering Era Nova from your grave? Have you given a moment’s thought to the amount of people depending on you?”
Khaslana pinches the bridge of his nose, then runs his hand down his face.
“Yes, Mydeimos, I have. I just—”
“Just what? Think it’s wise throwing yourself in harm’s way? I thought you were a smarter warrior than that.”
“You speak as if you don’t do the same!”
“I revive from the dead!” Mydei snaps, expression pinching. “You do not. Khaslana, I…appreciate the sentiment—naive as it is at times—of valuing the life of a man who cannot die. That is perhaps one of your strongest qualities as the Deliverer, I concede to that.”
Mydeimos steadies his tone, rounding the counter to stand closer.
“But I will not allow you to die; not when you’re fighting alongside me. I will bear this curse, and put it to good use if it means saving someone like you.”
Khaslana clenches and unclenches his fist against the marbled surface. He drops his head down low, shaking his head. Mydeimos is just as valuable of a Chrysos Heir as he himself is. It will never feel right to let him sacrifice his life over, and over again simply because he bears a curse he did not ask for.
A warm, bare hand rests gently on his forearm.
“It was…unbecoming of me to vent my anger out in such a way. I apologize. But you will not sway me on this matter. So, I must ask: is this going to be a recurring issue between us?”
Us.
What a tentative, foreign concept—something new and budding. They’ve been friends for a few years now, since Mydeimos first came to Okhema, but this more intimate exploration as of late is uncharted territory.
Yet here Mydei is, trying to ensure that this one disagreement won’t completely ruin the foundation they’ve carefully built.
Khaslana finds himself smiling softly. He rests his own hand atop Mydei’s.
“...No. We can agree to disagree, and I still have a difference in opinions but…you are right. I will not be so careless with my own mortal life, not when I have many people depending on me. It would be foolish to meet my end so early into the prophecy,” he offers gently.
Mydeimos nods once, lips quirking faintly.
“That being said,” Khaslana adds, voice firm, “I’ll just have to try harder than ever at ensuring your safety through other means. Just as you wish to have my back, Mydeimos, I want to have yours. You won’t die again so long as you’re fighting alongside me.”
Mydei hums quietly, nodding in approval.
“...Good answer. I can respect that—and…thanks. All that aside, I assume you’re still quite hungry?”
“You take one look at that horrifying dish and tell me if you honestly think I ate any, Mydei,” Khaslana laughs.
“Fair point. I saved a plate for you—and no, it does not have pine nuts on it. Though your vendetta against them is beyond me.”
Khaslana feels his face warm as Mydei shoves the plate into his hands. He decides to simply eat it in the kitchen, much to his companion’s chagrin. But when he offers to help with cleaning up afterwards as compensation for talking Mydei’s ear off, he’s met with an exasperated smile.
Khaslana thinks they’re going to work out just fine.
Khaslana clings to that memory desperately.
Khaslana clings to any memory of Cycle 0 like a lifeline.
After Cycle 4,000,000 Khaslana’s body began truly shattering to pieces. No longer just the minor cracks lining his torso and face. It was as if his body was made of chiseled stone or fragile porcelain, now too delicate to continue onward. Despite his earlier intentions to leave Phainon out of things, he had to ensure the cycles would continue.
He had to have complete and utter confidence that Phainon would always make the same choice he did. It was difficult to relinquish that responsibility, considering how often he and his other self butted heads on their philosophical ideals, or their different concepts of justice.
But Khaslana knew himself, and that was enough.
Phainon made the same decision, and thus Era Nova was continuously prevented.
Khaslana fell into obscurity, becoming nothing but the Flame Reaver.
His true name felt lost to time, never uttered by Phainon freely, and never once used again by any of his past companions. It was Phainon who was the protagonist now, and Khaslana became the very thing he once swore to protect against.
He didn’t need to shield his appearance—not when everyone’s memories would be reset regardless. Yet he couldn’t bear the thought of any of them seeing him in this utterly broken state.
Mydeimos had seen fractions of it in past cycles; but now, broken beyond repair, Khaslana wanted nothing more than to hide. He stepped in when he had to, he became the driving antagonistic force to push Phainon forward again and again.
He hardly spoke anymore, vocal cords strained and rough without use.
His eyes were damaged by the corruption to his body—and he was hardly human anymore. He was merely a vessel to harbor the Coreflames until he could pass them onto the next Phainon and repeat the cycle.
Perhaps, in those previous cycles, Phainon was right to call him a hypocrite.
Deep in those broken crevices, there was still a beating heart—a dim fire pushing him on that did not come from the Coreflames. He yearned for that original cycle every day; for Cyrene, for Aedes Elysiae, for reports given to Aglaea, debates had with Professor Anaxa, spars with Mydei on the rooftops, goofing off with Castorice in their classes, pranks from Cipher, and wisdom from Tribbie.
But from their perspective, he was a monstrous entity hellbent on preventing the completion of the Flame-Chase Journey. And it needed to remain that way, even if he craved for the gentle intimacy amongst family and friends.
It stung more than it should to pierce Mydeimos’ weak spot while cowering behind a mask. It stung even more, subjecting Phainon to watch— when Phainon knew Mydeimos only ever entrusted that knowledge to him.
But somewhere along the line, Khaslana knew that dehumanizing himself was likely the best course of action. He was merely an instigator, the one to incite the necessary violence to keep the Flame-Chase Journey going.
And he had to be okay with that.
> Admin note: Lifecycles of the 12 Chrysos Heirs terminated.
>>>> Eternal Recurrence #30,456,127
Khaslana stirs, breath catching as the weight of persevering through 100,000 cycles suddenly hits him all at once. Every injury, every argument, every murder at his hand, every Coreflame taken, every possible phantom sensation assaults him.
Inhaling shakily, he sits up against his kline. His arms tremble as they wrap around himself, nails clawing at the uncomfortable ache in his back. The extent of his power is killing him so very slowly. Mentally and physically.
Succumbing to his demise is so tantalizing, like a lilting siren’s song whispering against his ear. But he can’t. He can’t have that and he can’t want it. The cycles seem never-ending—but someday they will halt. He must keep pushing forward until that day comes; or it’ll be all for naught.
As his mind whirls with persistent thoughts, Khaslana presumes there will be no possibility of falling back asleep. He rubs roughly at his eyes, grimacing at the scrape of crust against his skin.
A brief glance at the light peeking through his curtains won’t do him any good, considering Ohkema’s constant simulation of daylight. His body, however, tells him it’s a bit before the Entry Hour.
He’s about to swing his legs off the edge of the kline before he feels a warm hand grip his wrist. Khaslana, much to his horror, flinches like a startled animal. His head whips around until his eyes settle on the figure he’d forgotten was next to him.
Oh.
So many cycles, so many years, so many memories, so many dreams—Khaslana often wakes up delirious and unclear of what point of the Flame-Chase Journey he’s in. Everything blends together, and he’s started to forget events that’ve happened in a different order than in the original cycle, or different words his companions have said.
Or…he’ll forget he and Mydeimos fell asleep tangled together.
They do not always become romantically involved—not like they did at first.
But it stings, the way Khaslana often cannot remember how he should be acting around Mydei.
“Khaslana,” Mydeimos whispers, voice rumbling deep in his chest, “it’s not even the first quint of the Entry Hour.”
How many times has this happened?
How many times has he woken up to Mydei beside him?
How many times has Mydei’s thumb tenderly grazed his pulse point?
Khaslana can’t remember anymore.
He opens his mouth to speak—to say something practiced, something rehearsed and safe like he always says—but nothing comes out. Nothing but a scratchy, weak little noise.
He watches the moment the grogginess leaves Mydei’s eyes, replaced with quiet concern. He still can’t utter a word when Mydei presses up against his elbows, his hand trailing up to rest against Khaslana’s bicep.
“You were thrashing in your sleep. I assume it was a nightmare?”
All the energy leaves Khaslana’s body at once, and he falls back against the plush mattress. His hands raise to cover his face, and he chews at the inside of his cheek just to remind himself that this is real. That he needs to say something.
“Yeah,” he finally manages. “Something like that.”
Mydei gazes down at him, fingers moving to thread through Khaslana’s hair. He soothes the sweaty strands back, thumb lowering to brush at evident tear stains.
“Your thoughts never cease, do they? Of your worst worries and fears. Of letting everyone down. You seem incapable of turning them off.”
Khaslana hums tiredly, leaning into Mydei’s touch.
It feels good—being with Mydei again in this cycle.
“I’m always thinking.” He musters a quirk of his lips, genuine and teasing. “Bet you don’t know what that’s like.”
As expected, Mydei yanks at his hair.
It hurts, of course, but there’s also something so grounding about it. It’s as if Khaslana’s drifting subconscious has merged with his body in the here and now once again.
He thinks Mydei will rise to the bait of their familiar banter, but instead, the prince averts his eyes.
“...I don’t need to explain that I’m inept at comforting. If you wish to talk about it, though—”
“No,” Khaslana interrupts far too quickly, tone almost snappish.
Mydei’s eyes narrow more with worry than agitation.
He reaches for Mydei’s hand, brushing their fingers together. “No…that’s okay. Besides…you’ve always been good at turning off those thoughts for me.”
He leaves his tone purposefully vague, if only to watch in amusement as Mydei internally processes whether or not he meant it as an innuendo. But it serves its purpose: merely a distraction. Anything to change the subject from prying into his thoughts and fears.
To his surprise, a curtain of honeyed blonde hair falls to surround his face. Gold eyes meet him from upside down, mirthful and sincere—beautiful. He can’t help the sheepish chuckle that escapes him when Mydei leans down to kiss him.
They both smile into it, hardly a kiss with the way Mydei playfully shushes his incessant laughter. Khaslana reaches a hand up to cup the back of Mydei’s neck and pulls him down closer.
They part after a long moment.
“Mydeimos,” Khaslana mutters.
A hum of acknowledgement.
“Witness Era Nova with me.”
Mydei blinks once before barking out a quiet laugh, pulling away. Khaslana already misses the warmth he always radiates. It’s a different kind of warmth than the thousands of Coreflames burning away in his chest. A kind he can only get from Mydei.
“You’re right about one thing,” Mydei says, “you really don’t stop thinking.”
Khaslana’s lips pull into a slight frown.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I wasn’t aware you were posing a question, Deliverer.”
Deliverer.
Right.
Shoving his doubts away, Khaslana presses, “Alright. Let me rephrase: Mydeimos, will you witness Era Nova with me?”
This attempt doesn’t yield any better results, as Mydei sits up properly and begins to scrutinize him as if he’d said something outrageous. And, well, to Mydei’s credit, perhaps his statement is outrageous.
He’s tried in the past, many cycles before.
He knows what the prophecy says. Khaslana knows he’s doomed to repeat the cycle. But, maybe someday in that new life, when all of them are given a chance at freedom—to live outside of Amphoreus’ simulation—Mydei would come with him.
That is Khaslana’s true Era Nova.
But fear always lingers inside of him. He’s never known a world outside of Amphoreus, let alone been with Mydei in a world outside of Amphoreus. He can’t be certain Mydeimos wants to stay with him in any sense of the word. He can’t be sure Mydeimos would follow him.
If they didn’t have this prophecy linking them together—
“All shall bid farewell to one,” is Mydei’s response. “Or did you forget that?”
“I could never forget that,” Khaslana answers, a bit too forcefully.
“Then why ask in the first place?”
“Why can’t you answer me?”
“I don’t have an answer.”
“That’s not good enough. Don’t sit here and tell me you’ve never thought of it, Mydei.”
Something seems to snap, because Mydei’s hand shoots out to twist in the fabric of Khaslana’s undershirt, pulling him up and twisting him so they’re at eye level. His eyes aren’t angry though—they’re many things. Conflicted, concerned, and hopeful all simultaneously.
“Of course I have. But I’ve committed myself to the Flame-Chase Journey. Everything I do—everything we do—is for you. So that you can Deliver Era Nova to us. I’m prepared to die for you if need be; however many times I need to.”
“What if you don’t have to?” Khaslana exclaims. “Wouldn’t you at least try? Don’t you want to try?”
“...What is this really about, Khaslana,” Mydei demands, voice stern.
Khaslana slumps, all the fight leaving him in a breathless sigh.
“Forget it.”
Fingers shift to grip his jaw, firm but not unkind.
Mydei stares at him for a moment, before his brows furrow together and he bites his lip.
“I would,” he says after some time. “I would come with you. I’ve just never thought of an outcome where that’d be possible. So I’ve forbidden myself from wanting it.”
Khaslana’s breath hitches audibly.
Titans, if he hasn’t been oppressed by that single sentiment for an endless amount of cycles. Not allowing himself to want. And yet wanting so fiercely. Kindred spirits, they are.
“What, are you speechless now? I’ve given you your answer, Deliverer.”
Khaslana surges forward, pressing their lips together once more. Mydei clearly isn’t at all prepared for it, and their teeth clack together uncomfortably. But after a moment, when he relaxes and reciprocates, his harsh grip on Khaslana’s jaw melts into a gentle hold.
“...Keep wanting,” Khaslana whispers. “Just as I keep wanting.”
Mydei knocks their foreheads together, nodding.
“In that next life,” Mydei says, quietly, “you should visit my library.”
Khaslana smiles—he will always smile no matter how many times he’s heard it.
“I will. I promise.”
His mask, his only form of protection, is ripped off and thrown to the side.
Only this time, it isn’t Phainon to do it.
Mydeimos fights to regain his breath beneath him, thrashing until he can elbow Khaslana in the chest and scramble to his feet. Khaslana has always thought that, when threatened, Mydei fights akin to a rabid beast. There is no underhanded tactic he won’t utilize to break free—despite often criticizing Khaslana for his ‘foul play.’
Khaslana lets him. He does not cower or shrink, but he does instinctively raise a hand to cover his shattered features. It won’t do much, and it’s never ideal for him to fight one-handed, but it provides a brief security.
Not for the first time, Khaslana finds himself exhausted and agitated with Mydei’s lack of memories. He’s seen Khaslana at his worst, beaten and broken beyond all recognition; they’ve been through this reveal countless times.
And yet—
“Phainon?”
Khaslana sighs, low, crackly, and distorted.
“No.” He stands back at his full height, trying to remain unbothered by the way Mydei tensely tracks his every movement. “But that isn’t fair to you. I never gave you my true name in this cycle, and neither did he.”
Mydeimos wipes at the blood spilling from his nose, growling—it only reinforces that analogy of a cornered animal. Despite his best efforts at indifference, Mydei fails to fully conceal the shock and betrayal. It doesn’t deter Khaslana, not after having seen it thousands of times.
He stares at Khaslana like he’s something foreign—something corrupt and monstrous, something beyond saving. In many ways, Khaslana bitterly thinks Mydei’s expression mirrors that of his own back in Aedes Elysiae.
“Why?” Mydei spits. “Why do this?”
Khaslana remains still and unmoving. His jagged sword—a far cry from the shiny polish of Dawnmaker—is gripped at his side. Mydei’s scrutiny of his sword doesn’t go unnoticed; the prince likely makes that very same connection.
“What happened?”
Khaslana shakes his head, then settles on something different.
Something new.
“You told me once that if there’s a chance in another life, I should meet you in your library. Do you remember that?”
Mydei blinks slowly before his eyes narrow.
“...I do.”
“Ask me that question again in that next life, and I’ll tell you everything, Mydeimos. I promise.”
Mydei shifts on his feet, brows furrowing. He looks like he can’t quite decide whether to trust a word out of Khaslana’s mouth, or if he should lunge while he still has the chance. But even Mydei can’t conceal that familiarity in his gaze. Khaslana visibly looks like Phainon—he was once Phainon—and that fact is clearly not lost to Mydei.
“You don’t sound so sure of yourself.”
Khaslana scoffs weakly.
“...I’m not. But it’s the only hope left to keep me going.”
There’s a long pause, before Mydeimos nods once.
“Alright,” he concedes, raising his fists. “I’ll hold you to that. In the next life.”
Khaslana wants to laugh at the sentiment as he rips Mydei’s Coreflame away once again. Because he can’t hold Khaslana to that. Mydei won’t remember anything, let alone this feeble conversation.
Even still, Khaslana lets Mydei’s words linger.
He lets himself believe.
Just like he did when he promised the first time.
> Admin note: Lifecycles of the 12 Chrysos Heirs terminated.
>>>> An unexpected error has occurred.
>>>> \User:NeiKos496\Error Code:██████████\Construction:Irontomb Incomplete\
>>>> Reinstalling ████████ may ███ this problem.
>>>> ███████████ ██ ██████████
The outskirts of Ohkema feel inherently different as he sits amongst the tall blades of grass. Now no longer illuminated by Kephale’s Dawn Device, Khaslana is met with the warmth of natural sunlight as it slowly sets above. That fake sky which had tormented him for so long has been abolished; the simulation is finally complete.
His body feels lighter than it has in epochs, no longer collapsing under the collective weight of humanity’s wishes and hopes. He’s no longer falling apart at the seams, having transferred all his memories into the very last cycle’s Phainon. He once again feels strong, and capable, with muscles well trained and a body well cared for.
He tilts his head up to the sky, eyes tracing the stars and constellations that were once kept hidden from anyone on Amphoreus, faintly visible despite the sun’s lingering presence. He can still see all of Ohkema’s grandiose behind him in the distance, still protected by faint golden threads.
With his fellow Chrysos Heirs freed from the simulation—and endless cycles of repetitive death—each of them found their own callings.
Aglaea wished to remain in Ohkema, opening a tailor shop and continuing her work as an esteemed seamstress. Cipher stays with her, helping to advertise and model new patterns—though she still tries her hand at pranks every now and then.
The triplets, Tribbie, Trianne, and Trinnon, all also chose to reside primarily in Ohkema. They share their collective wisdom to chosen students, ensuring the history of Janusopolis continues on.
Hyacine remained with the Twilight Courtyard, opting to take the lead and assist new trainees and practitioners. She also frequently cares for the Garden of Life, nurturing plant life and raising young chimeras for adoption.
Professor Anaxa was gazed upon by—the Trailblazer had called them the ‘Genius Society.’ Though Khaslana personally believes that to be rather pretentious, he thinks it’s a perfect fit for someone of Anaxagoras’ reputation.
Castorice was able to reunite with Pollyxia, the two of them collectively pursuing photography and journalism of sorts. After discovering an entire world beyond the sky, they find passion in providing updates to the citizens of Amphoreus.
Each and every one of them regained their memories.
Memories of 33,550,336 lifetimes.
Naturally, Khaslana had been eager to reach out; to make amends. There were so many apologies he had to extend, so much explaining he still had to do. To his dismay, he was never met with scorn or ambivalence. The Heirs gazed at him as if he’d never changed.
Perhaps it was that very first original cycle—the one where their deep bonds had fully been established—that they all held onto, Khaslana himself included. He was eternally grateful to have been forgiven, nonetheless.
He stares down at his hands, where he fidgets with a small golden ticket.
“Khaslana,” says a soft, lilting voice behind him.
He smiles and releases a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
A pair of arms wrap around his neck, and he leans back into the embrace affectionately. Her presence is familiar and safe. Khaslana has missed it so dearly. Cyrene was practically his sister growing up. She’s family, who’d been lost amongst the millions of cycles.
“Hi, Cyrene,” he greets. “Sorry for wandering off.”
Cyrene pats his shoulder, moving to stand behind him and gaze down.
“No need to apologize, silly. I know what you’re like.”
Neither of them speak for a long moment, but Khaslana is aware of Cyrene’s quiet scrutiny. He’s not being very subtle—not that he really could hide anything with how long she’s known him.
“...You’ve been looking at that for quite awhile. Have you made your decision?” she asks gently.
Khaslana sucks in a sharp breath.
“There’s…still some loose ends I need to tie up here. Believe me, when Stelle first spoke of the concept of Trailblazing, I was enthralled. I told her once that I’d gladly try my hand at it. I meant that.”
Cyrene slowly sits beside him. Her expression is rather serious, and she nods solemnly. She always somehow manages to see right through him.
“I understand. This is about Mydeimos, isn’t it?”
Khaslana brushes a few strands of loose hair out of his eyes, rubbing at his neck in the process.
“Even if he dissolved the nation of Kremnos, his people still look to him for guidance. He’s a natural born leader, whether he admits it or not. Training those younger kids, rebuilding his people’s morale, and keeping their traditions thriving—he can’t do that if he’s not here.”
“...Have you spoken to him about this?”
“Ah…about that.” Khaslana swallows. “I haven’t seen him since the cycles broke.”
Cyrene regards him incredulously.
“You’re kidding.”
“It isn’t as if I haven’t been trying! I can’t find him. Not even his people have caught a glimpse of him. I’m beginning to think he doesn’t wish to be found, Cyrene. I don’t blame him either. After all I did to him? I wouldn’t want to see me either.”
Khaslana shifts to tugs his knees up and bury his face in the crook of his elbow.
“Come on, Khaslana, you’re projecting your own insecurities onto him. The other Chrysos Heirs forgave you— I forgive you. And Mydeimos…well, he was very special, wasn’t he?” Cyrene says, fondly. “What makes you think he won’t?”
“...It’s complicated,” he grumbles, slipping into something vaguely petulant now that he’s with Cyrene.
“You’re being awfully dramatic about this.”
Khaslana huffs out a long sigh, opting not to respond.
“You’re scared,” Cyrene offers, leaning in to meet his eyes. “And that’s alright. But I won’t let you sit here and tell me that you’ve looked everywhere. We both know that’s not true.”
There is one place.
The place Khaslana has pointedly been avoiding.
He’s truly run out of excuses.
“Do you want to reconcile?” Cyrene presses. “Do you miss what you had?”
“Yes,” Khaslana says quickly. “More than anything.”
Her countenance softens as she smiles, placing a hand on his arm.
“Then go! You’ve kept him waiting long enough. I’ve already told you, I’ll be leaving with Stelle. You don’t have to join us now—but the invitation is always there.”
Khaslana stares at her for a long moment, chewing his lip. She’s right, he knows she’s right. She’s always right. He’s been cowardly. He’s been running over every possible outcome of his and Mydei’s inevitable conversation, unable to stomach the ones where things end poorly.
It hasn’t been fair to Mydei, either, to not have a say in anything.
Putting his selfish desires aside, the least Khaslana can do is apologize. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to sleep again until he does. Despite feeling lighter, the guilt of Mydei’s golden blood on his hands plagues his every thought. All of their blood is on his hands; it’s still difficult to believe they forgave him at times.
His calloused thumb brushes over the ticket once more, before he tucks it away in his pocket and pushes up to his feet. Wordlessly, he offers a hand to Cyrene, who takes it and raises an expectant brow. Even though she likely already knows his answer.
“Thank you,” he says, earnestly. “For always knocking some sense into me when I need it most.”
Cyrene laughs softly, beaming. “Well, someone’s got to!”
He pulls her into a hug.
“Stay in touch, okay? Send pictures. I…I hope to eventually at least join for one adventure.”
“Don’t get all sappy on me,” she responds, pulling away with a smile. “Of course I will. You have your own things to take care of here, and like I said, it’s always available to you.”
He mirrors her expression, shifting his shoulders with his mind made up.
He knows exactly where to start looking.
He slips through the ruins of Castrum Kremnos with practiced ease. Whereas before his chest was filled with dread and unease, now it simmers with anticipation and hope. With the eradication of the Black Tide, much of Kremnos is traversable again, making it potentially inhabitable if enough effort goes into restoration.
Though this kingdom belongs to Mydeimos, Khaslana can’t help but feel as though he knows it like the back of his hand. He passes by the large arena, the crystalline throne, the large dining room, Mydei’s old quarters, the training grounds, until he finally stands faced with the grand library.
The walls are still partly collapsed, and he has to trek through rubble to make his way inside, but his gut tells him that if Mydeimos were to be anywhere, it would be here.
He softens his footsteps against the marbled floors, gazing up at the high shelves and columns. Rows and rows of books surround him in both the first and second story. Tables are scattered about, some knocked over in the fray of past evacuations.
Swallowing, Khaslana pads down the hallway, craning his neck every which way in search of that familiar blonde and red. Though he can call out, something about the library’s atmosphere prevents him from doing so.
It’s quiet enough to hear one of Aglaea’s pins drop.
He rounds a corner, making his way towards the back desk when finally, things start to look more organized—no longer in utter disarray. It’s a stark contrast, since the front of the library remains as if untouched by history. Here, there appears to be upkeep and maintenance.
Shelves have been dusted and wiped down, books lay in stacks. Upon further inspection, it looks like they’ve been meticulously sorted. It’s clear an immense amount of care has gone into it.
Khaslana’s heart beats a little quicker.
He’s about to check around the next corner when he hears a noise above him, and suddenly a book is hurling towards him. Reflexively, he moves to the side and catches it before it can hit the ground.
Then, he squints upward. It’s a little dim, the wall sconces providing the only source of illumination, but his eyes catch on those unmistakable crimson markings. They glow faintly in the moonlight as Mydeimos slowly steps down the ladder propped against the shelf.
Their eyes meet, blue and gold.
Mydei looks utterly frozen.
“Hi,” Khaslana says, a tad breathless. He holds the book up, smiling wryly. “This yours?”
Mydeimos, always so casual and composed, tries to hide his momentary stumble down the ladder as he descends. Khaslana strides closer, tentatively reaching a hand out in silent offering as Mydei reaches the bottom.
A moment of hesitance, before that familiar soft hand takes his own.
He helps Mydei down.
They stand there for a long, silent moment, doing nothing but looking at each other.
Sheepishly, Khaslana holds the book out. He expects Mydei to take it and then ask what he’s doing here—like he doesn’t already know. Like Khaslana hadn’t promised this in over a million cycles.
He’s also prepared himself for Mydeimos to meet him with nothing but scorn, considering the amount of times he’s experienced Khaslana’s betrayal. Millions of memories catching up to someone all at once should certainly not be downplayed in the slightest. Khaslana expects bitterness and animosity above all.
What he does not expect is for Mydeimos to grab his arm and pull him into a tight hug. It knocks the breath right out of him as he feels strong arms circle around his back, fingers grasping at his coat. Safe and secure—a hint of protectiveness—like always.
Khaslana doesn’t waste a single moment reciprocating, letting the book hit the ground with a thud as his arms wrap around Mydei’s shoulders. He buries his face into the crook of Mydei’s neck, inhaling the scent of pomegranates and earthy musk. Mydei’s hand cradles the back of his neck, carding through his hair softly enough to leave him shivering.
They hold each other as if letting go was never even a possibility.
It could’ve been seconds, minutes, hours, or days—Khaslana isn’t sure—but eventually, they both reluctantly loosen their hold. One of Mydei’s hands stays threaded in his hair, the other dropping down to rest against the small of his back.
Khaslana’s own arms drop so that his hands rest against Mydei’s shoulderblades.
“I’m…so sorry, Mydeimos,” is the first thing Khaslana mutters. “For everything. I owe you a lifetime of apologies—and even that won’t suffice. I could stand here and lie to you, say that everything I did was necessary to get here, but I won’t.”
Mydei grips him a little tighter, expression slightly pinched.
“I lost more and more of myself along the way, both in mind and humanity. I hurt you, countless times. I don’t expect your forgiveness. I only needed to ensure you knew the extent of my guilt and shame, and how deeply I apologize for my actions.”
They remain like that, silently holding each other for quite some time, before Mydeimos finally glances up to meet his gaze. His eyes are misty, and they crinkle beautifully when he smiles.
“I was beginning to think you’d never honor your promise to me. It sure took you long enough.”
Khaslana’s eyes widen as he shakes his head vigorously.
“Titans, no, Mydei—I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting—”
Mydei presses their foreheads together. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
Khaslana blinks quickly, feeling a few hot tears roll down his cheeks.
“I remember everything. But do you know what I remember first and foremost?” Mydei asks, voice low and soft.
Khaslana mutters, “What?”
“Our first cycle. None of that was a lie. There was no betrayal or malice—you hadn’t yet had the weight of the world on your shoulders. That was you; the real you. You did what you had to, Khaslana.”
Khaslana lets out a small breath, hands trailing down to rest against the center of Mydei’s back. It’s a miracle how Mydei doesn’t flinch or shove him away, everything considered. He lets Khaslana hover there, seemingly content that the knowledge of his weak spot will never leave Khaslana’s mind.
“None of it was a lie,” Khaslana agrees. “I clung to it—to the you from that cycle. And it drove me forward when I could barely find the resolve to continue. Your wish, and my promise, fueled me more than you know.”
“And yet you stand here thinking yourself incapable of forgiveness. Is that what kept you so long, Deliverer? Too busy thinking again?” Mydei prods, amusement lacing his tone.
Khaslana laughs quietly, squeezing him tighter.
“You remember,” he breathes, almost to himself. His words could mean many things from multiple cycles, but Mydei nods regardless.
“Yes. I do.”
“Millions of cycles and—” Khaslana eyes him tentatively. “—you still feel this way? Despite everything?”
Mydei flicks the back of his head, but his eyes are so fond.
“A pointless question. One you already know the answer to.”
Khaslana smiles softly, brushing their noses together.
“Will you still say it for me?”
Mydeimos reaches around for one of Khaslana’s hands, which goes willingly as the prince brings it to his lips. Mydei kisses his knuckles gently, cheeks warm and tinged red as if it’s their very first confession.
“You are my one and only equal, Khaslana,” he says, face reddening. “I love you no matter the cycle or lifetime. I love you despite my language having no word for it. I remember all of your love, and I return it tenfold.”
Khaslana laughs wetly, blinking back more tears threatening to spill.
“Mydeimos,” he whispers, “I love you, too. I have loved you for 30,000,000 cycles—I’ll love you endlessly.”
Mydei smiles, and it’s blinding like the sun.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”