Archive of Our Own ^beta

It started off with a petty chance.

There wasn’t any prince or princess, no wizards, dragons, or magical swords– but there was a sickle. It was a small one, the kind only used for children seeking to help their parents, but it was Khaslana’s.

That was enough.

The sword was his best friend– not in the way that Cyrene was. Of course, Cyrene was a good friend of his, but the sickle was just different. The sickle was the kind of friend that you would close your eyes with and be transported into a mystical land, far from the wheat fields of Aedes Elysiae.

In this land, his sickle would be a sword resting by his waist. He would be on the road, stopping to smell the grass in the air before running into a group of bandits. They would ask for his money, he would refuse, they would say they had knives, and Khaslana would pull out a bigger one. Then he’d beat up all the bad guys, not enough to kill them but enough to have them scurrying home. He would have saved 3 months or maybe even an eternity worth of travelers that day.

He would be a hero.

And heroes don’t tend to leave their swords behind, especially not by accident.

But Khaslana did.

Maybe it was the buzzing in his ear, maybe his mother’s voice was a little too loud, maybe he was just hungrier that night– whatever the case, he ran home, leaving his sickle in the dust.

He didn’t mean to, of course, he never meant to, and so he concluded he had to fix it. With more courage than his hands could muster, he snuck out of his home through a window after dinner. He felt the breeze tickle his skin, and the youth contemplated falling back into the comfort of his blanket. He could just come back tomorrow, and it would still be there.

The soles of his feet touched the ground.

He could not, no, heroes never back down, and Khaslana would be a hero. He’d just walk a little bit, find the sickle, and return back home. A small, unassuming journey, but it was a journey regardless. Lightning hit his legs, and he ran, dirt kicking off behind him.

Everyone starts small, he reminds himself, everyone does.

It’s hard to see in the dark, nearly impossible, and Khaslana thinks he would die if he had not been here a thousand times before. He knows this place like the back of his hand, for that hand had felt every thistle, every current, every pebble and grain in Aedes Elysiae.

His foot hits something and he winces, but does not scream. Instinctively, he bends down and feels the shape of the object. He feels the curve, the handle, but he doesn’t go to feel the tip because he already knows. Ah, there it is, his best friend.

Khaslana smiles proudly at the stars above him and waits for their praise. The stars only twinkle at him; they flicker a little too brightly, yet he doesn’t mind. It was a familiar sight to him, and it looked like home.

He wonders if the gods are looking at him right now.

Khaslana smells the smoke first.

Fire. Burning red and orange and getting brighter with every life it took. Windows broken, crying, screaming as blood spills over the path he had walked home to earlier. Swords, real swords, run through fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, and all who try to escape. Their hopes are shattered under the tip of the blade.

The world burns before him.

The boy watches, the boy runs into the chaos with nothing but a sickle, the boy fails to do anything. Fails to save anyone.

The boy is no hero.

That night, Khaslana cries his throat raw for a savior.

The stars do not respond.

He’s taken into a temple.

Khaslana doesn’t remember what happened or how he got here, just remembers the earth on his feet as he walked aimlessly into the horizon. The sickle on his waist weighs him down, and he contemplates falling to the ground with it.

Khaslana would not allow it.

Not until he stares up into the statue of Kephale at the god’s temple. The air smells of dawn as the boy, aged 10, looks at the Sunbearer.

He curses at him.

“They deserved to be saved too!” Khaslana screams with whatever strength he has left, only to realize there is none. In its place is hate, a burning hate that sears through his skin and burns his eyes. The kind that was brought to Aedes Elysiae that night.

“My father, my mother, Cyrene–”

The kind that Khaslana inherited from the flames that burnt his world to ashes. It aches throughout his entire body, too strong for him to handle. He drops to his knees.

“If you are so great, then why didn’t you save them!?”

The sky is silent, bothered, unfazed.

The priests find the youth there later, collapsed at the steps, still spewing malice from his lips.

It’s a sanctuary of sorts, Khaslana learns. Secluded from the world and covered in the hope of the trees, it’s a place of quiet worship and rest for devotees and wandering souls.

Dressed in clothes too clean to wear and shoes too new to walk in, Khaslana leaves his sickle in a chest. The chest is in a small room that lies in the west wing of the temple.

It’s there where an older priest meets him, wrinkles soak his skin, and they spell out false pity.

“The neighboring nation,” He speaks slowly, not in a careful sense but rather because he knows that he can take his time.

“Their armies have been pardoned by the royal family; they do not want to risk war.”

“My family.” It leaves his mouth like a dying prayer. All his unsaid words hang thick in the air.

“They are gone, child.” The priest says, eyes cold and looking past him. “But the people will live. You will, too.”

“From this day forth, as a devotee to Kephale, you will live a new life. You shall be named Phainon.”

His protests die as the door shuts, closed.

That night, there is a celebration, a bonfire where priests and nearby townsfolk sing praises for the newfound peace that has settled over the land. Amongst their cheers, not a single one mourns for his hometown– only cheering for the survival of theirs.

Khaslana– now Phainon refuses to look up at the stars. He tucks himself under the warmth of his blanket and shuts his eyes close, pillow over his head. The hate festering in his body will flow out if he doesn’t.

The people of Aedes Elysiae died a meaningless death.

Curse you, Kephale.

They will not be avenged or remembered.

Curse you, those who sit on the throne.

Is your seat so high that you fail to see the blood pooling down below?

And he will live the rest of his life being unable to let it go. How could he when the smell of smoke lingers beneath his nose in wait?

Cinders cover the night air, and he suffocates quietly.

Phainon spends the next years stewing in that hate. No one turns their heads, no one says a thing.

It never went away, no. He just got better at hiding it.

It still seeped out quietly when he breathed a bit too loudly during prayers or when that subtle hesitation strangled his throat as he sang praises.

Sometimes, he feels the need to throw up. He doesn’t; he learned how to stop doing it after the first 4 months, but the bile always reaches the same place– to where his remaining cries lie untouched.

He wonders if they’ll ever get out.

Embers rest at the bottom of his stomach. The hymns to the gods sink down into his gut; they do not soothe the flames. The fire continues to burn.

The royal family is coming to the temple; it was for a pilgrimage of sorts.

Loud whispers flood the forum; Phainon does not react to the announcement. Instead, he smiles along with the crowd before they disperse and go back to whatever they’re doing. Phainon, luckily, doesn’t need to do much.

He’s still a child– they had reasoned, he should have some time to himself. There wasn’t much he could do, though, not when he was the only kid there.

So Phainon heads back to his room and lifts open the chest’s lid. The sickle lies there, untouched.

His fingers twitch; they ask to deliver justice. The voice that tells him so sounds so much like his mother, but he can’t tell anymore. He’s forgotten what home sounded like. He can only recall the cackle of the embers and nothing else.

Phainon is 13 when he sees her for the first time. He had stood by a pillar, sickle in hand, watching the coming and going of travelers on the road.

The king strides forward, paying respect to the statue of Kephale at the temple’s entrance. His wife, the queen, follows behind him with grace. The woman signals to someone still inside their carriage, covered in gold and carvings. It’s much grander than the several ones that follow behind them.

From there, a girl– his age or at least a year younger, gets out, clumsily slipping a step on the way. She lets out a little squeak before grabbing onto the railing, pulling herself back up to stare timidly at Kephale, clearly hesitant to step forward. Regardless of her feelings, her mother ushers her on, and she bows alongside her parents.

It’s the princess.

You.

Your name is [Name], the only one that he knows from the three, albeit not voluntarily. The high priest just mentioned it once or twice in passing, but that shouldn’t matter.

The rulers get down on their knees in joined, whispered prayers, and the grip on his sickle tightens when he remembers what he’s here for.

But then you smile.

The princess, you, smile at him, having spotted him from your place on the ground. It’s a clumsy smile, the kind you’d give when you were caught doing something you shouldn’t. You wave your hand.

Phainon doesn’t realize what he’s doing until he starts waving back.

The queen, swiftly taking notice, slaps your hand away and chastises you, and you go back to praying.

The sickle clatters on the floor.

His fingers tremble. They don’t call for blood this time, they don’t call out for anything in fact.

They are just afraid.

If he killed your parents, as much as he hated them, then he would be no better than the ones who had killed his own, for you were a child like him too.

No child deserves to live through flame.

But he did.

You will not.

Phainon resorts to spending the rest of the day at the edge of the springs that surround the main path. The king, he notes, must only be spending a few hours here at most before moving on if he seeks to visit all the temples across the land so the boy will just wait for him to pass.

Unfortunately, Kephale is not kind.

You, out of all people, are treading the path near the water. You stare at the environment with starry-eyed wonder before bending down to pick up a flower.

He watches you from afar, cursing you in his mind. If it weren’t for you, then he would have no problem running his blade through the king’s neck.

If it weren’t for you, then he wouldn’t be here anymore.

He swallows a sigh and leans against the marble steps. He supposes there is no point in complaining anymore. He should let you be if he is wise.

He does not.

He hears a large splash, and Phainon snaps out of his thoughts to see you flailing in the water.

Quickly, he scans the surroundings for help, but the both of you are completely alone. All the priests must have gone to the main chamber with the king.

If he left you here, then you would die.

If he left you here, then it would look like an accident.

If he left you here, then–

Phainon doesn’t finish that thought. Instead, he dives straight into the water. He’s fast, the way his father taught him to be. He doesn’t know why he’s going after you, he just feels as if he should.

He reaches out for your hand. The kind one that waved at him earlier that morning.

Your pained eyes look up at him with hope.

In the midst of the freezing water, he feels your warmth.

His grip on you tightens, and he pulls the both of you to the surface of the water. Your bare hands touch the ground, coughing desperately as Phainon pants beside you, adrenaline still running in his veins.

“Your highness,” Phainon asks, surprised by his own words. “Are you alright?”

“I am. Thank you,” You breathe out. “Thank you–”

“Phainon.” He says. “Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.”

“Aedes Elysiae,” You test the name on your tongue, speaking of it as if it’s the first time. A twinge of regret creeps up the back of his spine, and Phainon cringes, ready to back away.

“That’s the village out on the north frontier, no?” You speak up, a sense of terror spreading through your face. “The one that was burnt down by–”

“Yes.” The boy swallows heavily; something is stirring in his chest. His thumping heart beats in his ear in anticipation. Aedes Elysiae was a small, obscure place in the farthest parts of the kingdom. No one had mentioned its name in years.

No one but Phainon, for he had never forgotten.

And it seems that you haven’t as well.

“I’m sorry,” Your eyes lower in shame, and you bow your head. His eyes widen– it’s lower than the one you had given the statue of Kephale.

“I’m sorry we didn’t do more for you when we should have,” You apologize, your voice so mournful and genuine that it hurts him too. “We should have rebuilt the land, we should have saved whatever we could.”

“We did not, and on behalf of my– no, of all the royal family,” You tremble before him like you’re an unsightly sinner before a god.

“I’m sorry.”

Phainon watches you wordlessly as you cry for him when he lacks the strength to move. The warmth that you had given him, he realizes, is not of fire or of hate like his– not even of indifference like the gods above.

It’s of love.

Love so raw and human.

The air clears up, it’s never felt this clear in ages, and he can only stare.

Then he cries.

“Thank you, princess,” He chokes up, heart beating into his throat. “Thank you.”

Phainon, for the first time in 3 years, falls in love again. There wasn’t any grand confession, there wasn’t a rosy first encounter, there weren't any gentle touches– but there was warmth in your fingers and it birthed out love that looked like home. The kind that was clumsy, unsteady, and uncertain, but it was Phainon’s.

That was enough.

The last thing that Phainon was celebrated for before the destruction of Aedes Elysiae was his birthday– that of which he’d forgotten already. There was only so much one could keep in mind when one wanted to watch the world burn. 

Ah, and the world was burning alright. 

Just in a way he wasn’t too familiar with outside festivals and feast days for the Titans. 

“Cheers!” The king boasted, clearly drunk as his goblet swung side-to-side, spilling liquor carelessly all over the floor. No one really seemed to care though, all the priests just looked happy to be here. 

“This boy, yes, this boy–” 

His words slurred, and Phainon could only feel a vague sense of disgust creeping up regarding the grown man next to him. His shoulder tenses as the ruler puts his filthy, grubby hands around his shoulder. 

“What was your name again?” 

His eye twitches. 

You cleared your throat, tapping a gentle hand on that man’s arm. “Father, it’s Phainon. Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.” 

The youth’s face can’t help but soften. 

“Right, semantics.” The king scoffed heartily before turning back to the forum and lifting both arms to the sky like he was Kephale holding the world on his shoulders. 

“I present to you the boy who saved my daughter, Pienon!” 

Phainon glances at you with half the mind to grimace, only to find that you’re already doing the same. With a cringed smile, you mouth an apology. He shakes his head in response and gives you a toothy grin. 

It doesn’t feel real, but it’s the closest thing to truth he’s shown in ages. 

The torches continue to flicker under the brush of the night air. They refuse to be snuffed out, even as the celebrations get louder– even if Phainon wished they would. Without much of a choice, he sat on the steps outside the hall. For a celebration in honor of a supposed hero like him, they didn’t seem to mind at all when he disappeared from the crowd. 

The boy supposes that it doesn't really matter anyway if they cared or not. Give it a year, a month, or two even, and then all that fanfare would die down as all things do. Phainon, for as much hate he bears, could not find the strength to protest against it. 

Not knowing what to do, he stares at the sky. It looks like the one that came to him in the wheat field that night. 

His nose twitches at the whiff of smoke. 

How odd. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Phainon jolts forward, legs preparing to run until he hears the laughter. It’s clearer than anything else right now. 

You stand there, studying him curiously with a soft smile. “I scared you, didn’t I? I didn’t mean to.” 

“I’m aware,” The boy scratches the back of his head awkwardly. The darkness of the night hides the red flush creeping up his face and the sheepish smile that creases it. 

“It’s fine, I can just get a bit jumpy at times.” 

His confidence takes about a second and a half to lose steam when you cock your head at him.

“Really?” You look him straight in the eye. “I think you’re quite brave, actually.” 

The remnants of his smile force out a drained laugh. “Is that so?” 

“I mean it!” You shout loudly. The absurdity of your words had finally caught up to you, yet your hands were clenching with passion that Phainon cannot comprehend. Your mouth hangs open like that until the embarrassment fully sets in. 

“I mean, I really do mean it.” Your body turns away from him, but your eyes never leave his face; he has a feeling that you’re trying your hardest to keep it there. 

“You saved me today, Phainon.” You remind him, your voice was just as soft as it’s always been but there was something else underneath it. 

Firmness. 

You wanted him to believe you so desperately that Phainon could drown in your will, and for a moment. He’s taken back to Aedes Elysiae, the land ravaged by blood as hands reach out for a salvation that would never come. 

Fire. 

There was fire everywhere, and there’s fire behind you right now as you speak your heart into existence. Somewhere in that haze, your voice barely makes it through the smog. 

You don’t deserve it. 

“You dove into the water.” You were being selfish.

“You went after me.”

You couldn’t save anyone.

“You saved me.” 

You are no hero. 

“You,” You take his hand in yours, you don’t know why, but something has given you the nerve to do so. Phainon can’t do anything but watch as the world falls apart in your love. 

“You’re my hero, you know that?”

Phainon sees your blushing face flicker in the light, bracing for his reaction. His lips tremble, and suddenly, he’s 10 years old and 13 all the same. “...You think so?” 

“Of course,” You grin, bashful and human. You look so human right now. Like a person he could learn to know like the back of his hand in time. 

If only you had more time. 

It stings like poison on his tongue and softens the corners of his eye. 

“Princess, I–” 

He hears it. 

The blazes of fire. Something shatters on the floor. The sounds of screaming.

No. 

Phainon tightens a protective grip on your hand, ready to leave. Ready to take you far away from this place, far from the danger. He’s seen this before; he knows exactly what’s going to happen. His hands are like ice, his feet burn the ground, and his lungs scream to break free in his chest. He can’t breathe at all, but he can’t leave you here. 

No, never. 

Not when he knows what’s going to happen. 

“We need to go,” is all that Phainon can muster before he starts to run. The sound of your footsteps thumps against the pavement behind him, and he listens to it like a lifeline. 

If I could save someone. 

“Phainon, wait!” 

Even if it was just one person. 

“Where are you taking me–!” 

Then it would be enough. 

“Stop.”

He does not recognize the voice, but it makes the world still; Phainon freezes. 

The head priest walks to the podium, eyes cold and unbothered as always, with the king and queen by his side. The rest of the believers crowd around them and instinctively, Phainon shields whatever he can of your being against their unsightly stares. 

You’re trembling. 

“Phainon of Aedes Elysiae.” 

His hold on your hand tightens. He can’t have that, he can’t let them do this to you, he must–

“A message from the gods has been delivered to us.”

His teeth grit, his eyes sharpen. He couldn't care less about them right now. What do they matter? They had not kept his home safe; they would not keep you either. 

The king holds his gaze elsewhere while the queen solemnly stares straight at the heavens, heaven is watching. Heaven is waiting and for once, it has something to say. 

“Kephale has given you his blessing,” The elderly man announces it like it is a death sentence. “You shall become the knight of our esteemed princess. You will bring justice to those wronged and serve your home with your life.” 

A breath hitches in the youth’s throat. The world is not on fire, there is no blood on the ground, just the warmth from your touch, and everything else melts away. 

“You have been named the Deliverer of Kephale.” 

It’s divine intervention, a miracle sent from the stars, from the gods he had cried blood for in hopes for a savior. Yet in that long-awaited moment, he does not look up to the sky. 

He does not pledge his loyalty to them, not the kingdom, not even to the king. 

Phainon is staring at you instead. 

He opens his mouth and– 

“Do us well, hero.” 

The royal family never finishes their pilgrimage; they rush home instead.

Horses do not trot, they gallop across the road and pull carriages as the statue of Kephale watches from afar. Uneasiness settles at the bottom of Phainon’s stomach, and all the words he had meant to stay sink in there together. Not even the luggage that was bumping into him and every turn could prod it out. 

“That boy mustn't swear that oath.” The queen had insisted. “He cannot be her knight yet. He does not even know how to wield a blade.” 

Phainon steadies his breath.

He did not stand by with strength and vigor; he ran with you. As unfortunate as it is, the queen is right. 

Phainon is not ready. So that night, the country boy, at the back of a compartment filled with the princess’s belongings, swore that he would be one day. 

Until that day comes, he will come up with a better vow. Yes, one deserving of you, if that were possible. 

Everyone starts small after all; everything does. 

The orders were clear: whatever business Kephale had set him up for was to be kept under wraps, and training was to start immediately. 

Phainon wasn’t quite sure of what he was expecting when he entered the capital for the first time, but he was sure that it was better than this. He’s thrown into the barracks, where they did not provide any beds. Thus, he spends his first few hours in the wealthiest place in all the land squished in between men twice his age and thrice his size. 

To put it bluntly: they smell as if they haven’t showered in days. 

The temple, Phainon thinks, was far more accommodating than this. He had never thought of that place as a home, and he doesn’t think he will ever consider this one either. Still, he bites his tongue and counts his blessings. 

The world had taken everything away, but the world has given him kindness tonight. Kindness in the form of you, the princess of a kingdom who couldn't care less about his name. 

But you cared. 

It’s unfair, he thinks, the way you have wormed your way into his heart so easily. In between the flames and broken glass, there is a blank space where your shadow stands. He is left longing for the ghost of your touch, for what is happiness to a heart who had forgotten how to feel it in so long? 

With a faint heartbeat pulsing in his ears, Phainon closes his eyes. He wonders if you’ll have good dreams tonight.

He hopes you do. 

Phainon swings his sword. A wooden one, of course. It’s much heavier than a sickle, and between him and no one else, he preferred the sickle much better. He’ll keep swinging the sword anyway with more resolve than fighting a dragon or anything like that. 

He wanted to make you happy. It was only right when you had given this happiness to him. Phainon wanted you to smile at him again like you did that night. 

It’s becoming a distant memory, but the feelings still run raw across his skin no matter how many days pass. The days turn into weeks, weeks turn into months. He tries to find traces of you behind windows and curtains. 

The only thing he ever found was a trace of your hair as you slipped behind a door and out of sight. 

His arms clench, and for a moment, he thinks he sees the practice dummy start praying. 

He’s doing this for you, he’s doing this for you, he’s doing this for you, but. 

Did you grow to hate him? 

Was he too rough to you? 

Oh, he must have been so rough to you with that stupid grip of his. 

What if it's bruised? What if he hurt you? 

What if you were trembling because of him?

Did you think he was going to hurt you? 

“Phainon!” 

His eyes twitched, half-expecting that the commander or even any of the older guys had come to bother him. The former, especially, as stone-faced as he may seem, had quietly been doting on him. And by doting, Phainon meant scolding. The other soldiers said it was because Phainon was his favorite. There was just something endearing about an orphaned white-haired boy being dropped off at your front door by your boss. This was a love language, apparently. 

Phainon swings again at his target. There are a lot of weird ways to communicate love, it seems. 

“Phainon,” The voice tries again. “Of Aedes Elysiae!” 

Of Aedes Elysiae.

Oh.

Oh.

His head snaps, the Sun blares in his face. It gives him light and a blessing because only one person would ever call him that. 

His sword clatters to the ground. The sound reverberates and sends shivers up his spine and to places his soul he never knew existed. 

“Princess–” His eyes widen; he can’t hide his breathless smile at all. 

There you are, running in your gown towards him. The wind blesses your hair, and a keen look brews in your eye. He’s seen you sincere, he’s seen you kind, but determination looks different. 

It suits you.

And before he knows it, he’s running to you as well. You both meet halfway. 

You pant, taking a brief moment to compose yourself. “Phainon, I’ve been looking for you!” 

“Really?” His voice trails off, full of wonder. It’s a stupid thing to find wonderful but Phainon has a feeling that he’ll just default to being stupid whenever you’re around. 

You nod your head eagerly. “Mother and father don’t trust you quite yet. I’m not even allowed to be here, but.” 

You smile at him sheepishly. You look divine under the light of the azure sky. 

“I thought I should pay you a visit.”

Phainon forgets how to breathe. 

“Admittedly.” You send a subtle glance down to your wrist. You’ve been rubbing it for a while now. “I was a bit scared when you started running last time.” 

The boy gulps, his mouth parting to spill all the apologies that you deserve.

“I don’t know why you did it.” You admit honestly. “But I don’t think you’re a bad person, Phainon.” 

There’s just something in your words that makes him see the Sun itself; there’s a future in your eyes. 

“They said you were sent to me by Kephale as a blessing.”

You raise your pinky to him.

“It’s not something I understand, but with or without that knowledge, I’d like to know you a bit more.” 

His little finger hesitates to be raised, hanging awkwardly in the air as he tries to gather the strength to hook it against yours. Should he even be allowed to touch you again? 

Without words, you answer, nudging your little finger against his own. With a final gulp, he tangles them together with strength as gentle as a flower. 

Your brows furrow as you whisper. “I’ve only seen children do this back in town. Am I doing this right?” 

“Your highness,” Phainon breathes. “It’s perfect.”

It becomes a routine of sorts. 

You sneak out from somewhere, somehow, and make your way to the training grounds, and Phainon is waiting for you there. 

Always. 

Never complaining, not even in the heat and the rain. He holds his wooden sword and waits. Some soldiers call it dedication; most call it stupidity. 

Phainon calls it love. If the commander gets to call his scolding ‘love’ then he could call this love too. Love, after all, had no concrete definition. The emptiness left gaping at his chest, dripping through his chest, and into furious blows. 

“Isn’t that a bit much?” You ask one day, watching him from above. You lean against the railing but your feet look like they’re ready to run. 

“Not at all,” He insists, smiling. He makes a show by weaving it through his entire face because you like it better that way. 

“You wouldn’t want your knight to be anything less than capable, would you, your highness?” 

You laugh. 

“Whatever happens,” You hum, and it’s music to his ears. “I think you’ll come out just fine, right, Mr. Hero?” 

The youth scoffs, but his prideful grin seeps out from his flushed cheeks. “You bet.”

The queen calls him one night with no words, no explanations, no lengthy speeches or orders. It’s a simple: “Come.” 

Next thing he knows, his commander is holding a lamp and walking through the coldness of the night. The older man says nothing. 

Phainon wonders if he’s being led to his doom, if doom could be so quiet anyway. 

He’s led down a path he’s never seen before, and the only direction to go is down, and dread settles in his stomach. Still, he clenches his resolve with the nails dug into his palms and moves on. 

If he cannot brave this, how could he be brave enough to protect you? 

Phainon ignores the rapid heart screaming in his chest; he blames it on the echoes of his footsteps instead. It’s easier to think about it that way; it’s easier to think about you, too. He recalls what you had told him earlier that morning. 

“Do you think I can hold a star?” 

“A what?” Phainon laughed from the sheer absurdity. 

“Don’t laugh,” You tut, crossing your arms. “I just had a dream.” 

“You have a lot of dreams, princess.” 

“But this one was different! It was like,” You grapple for words. “It was like I held the Sun in my hands, not even Kephale could stop me from doing so.” 

Then you pause before softly whispering. 

“I’m glad Kephale didn’t smite me.” 

The commander twists the door open. In the split-second he has, Phainon vows that he will not flinch. 

“If he did, I could always protect you,” He joked. 

You snorted. “Could you even handle that?”

The queen stands there, eyes narrowed, studying him like prey. 

“Phainon.”

The commander, standing by the door, nearly lets out a sigh of relief when the boy instantly gets down on one knee. 

“Yes, your majesty?”

“Are you aware as to why you are here?” 

Perhaps, Phainon thinks, this is a test. 

“No,” He says, voice cool, hard like steel. No fear, he reminds himself, no fears. “I am not, your majesty.” 

The queen does not say anything else for a while before she relents.

“It’s about your relationship with my daughter, the princess.” 

Oh. 

Phainon winces. 

“What of it?” 

“Do not play as a fool.” She snaps her fingers. “My daughter is a precious thing, and I cannot trust her with you. You may be the Deliverer, handpicked by Kephale himself, but you are still you.” 

“I would never hurt her.” He insists, the quietest ounces of desperation grip the corners of his throat. He gulps all his feelings down. 

“But you could,” The queen glares. “I have turned a blind eye to your meetings so far out of leniency, but I cannot let this go on any longer.”

“She is still a princess, you are still a nobody from nowhere.” 

Something is snapping; it hasn’t completely broken off yet, but he can hear the threads pull and the pounding in his head from his barely-concealed restraint.

Curse the throne, curse those who sit upon it, curse them all. 

Phainon bites his lip until he can taste blood. 

“What must I do to prove my loyalty to her highness?” 

Maybe it’s the darkness, maybe it’s the crackling lamp flickering behind him, maybe it’s something else entirely, but the queen looks at him, almost like she’s pleased. 

“I was told you would say that.” She muses, there’s something soft laced with those words. Regret, perhaps, or maybe she is looking at him like a child too. 

A child just like you.

Whatever it was, it came and went as quickly as the frigid wind. 

“Hold him down.” 

Without hesitation, the commander is on him within seconds. Phainon hits the ground face-first. 

“You will be reborn,” The queen speaks. The youth can’t even see her anymore, the only thing he can see is the dirty ground he lies on. 

“You may have had a home somewhere out there.” She continues on, “But you must forget about it, the princess is your home now.” 

The sound of metal clangs in the background. 

“Everything you do will be for her, you will serve her until death. Should you lose your hands, you will use your feet, and if you lose those as well, you will use your body.” 

Sweat covers his skin, and his eyes burn as they shoot around widely like a beast. He hears the flicker of the embers; the commander signs an apology on his back.

“The sign of the Sun, the royal insignia, shall be carved into your skin. Consider it your first of many vows to her.”

His senses scream at him to kick, run, run, and run far away. He’s always been a runner. If he put enough force into it, then he’s sure he could squirm out of his grasp and run out of this damned castle and–

And he’d leave you behind. 

“Your majesty,” His voice quivers, but Phainon has not lost steam yet. Not this time. 

“There is no need to hold me down.” The youth says. “I will endure it.” 

For the princess. 

For the princess, he will not run. 

“Very well.” The queen laughs for the first time. “Proceed.” 

There is a relief in his chest when he feels the weight leave his form, but he can barely feel it. 

The iron strikes fast. It stays there for a long time. 

It burns, burns, he wants to scream for it burns, but Phainon cannot bring himself to do so. The boy is marked by fire, but he does not shudder, for he thinks of you.

He thinks of your warmth and imagines you standing over him, hands around his neck as he is set ablaze. 

And he is okay with it. 

Love is expressed in many weird ways.

This patience, this is love. This is an act of love. 

This is his love. 

In the wake of the blazing embers, a Sun is branded on his neck, telling him exactly what he is. 

A hero– yours.

In the face of the lingering pain, Phainon lets out a wry smile, wide in the way you like it. He realizes he never replied to your question earlier. 

Of course, I can, princess. I’ll protect you from Kephale himself.

He did not pledge to the god after all.

He pledged to you.