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Khaslana is a person who is deeply loved.
Cyrene tries not to be jealous at how much Aedes Elysiae adores him. The younger children orbit around him, fighting for his attention and hanging onto his every word. The grown-ups coo at his earnest offers to help them out, pinching his cheeks and claiming they'll lose the opportunity when he's a big strong warrior. Khaslana takes it all in stride. He makes up stories for little Livia in one breath, while promising to help Priestess Agathe with passing on messages in the next.
It'd be easier if Khaslana didn't love Aedes Elysiae back just as fiercely, Cyrene thinks. If he wasn't so deeply kind to his core. If he wasn't so obviously and clearly worthy of the adoration he inspires. If Khaslana was lacking in any way, it'd be easier to attribute it to his charisma or his charming smile. Instead it becomes something that has been earnt, something that has been won with effort and pure innate goodness. Cyrene is neither the first nor the last person to watch Khaslana wave his trophy and think, am I not good enough?
Now, to be clear. Nobody in Aedes Elysiae hates Cyrene. She knows this. She's overheard plenty of adults cursing out her parents, whoever they may be, when they've gotten too drunk. Any family would love to have her as a daughter, she remembers overhearing. What kind of scumbags would just run off? She knows that the Priests of Oronyx have high hopes for her, even if she ends up being one of the more ordinary non-prophecy Chrysos Heirs.
But she isn't idolized like Khaslana. She doesn't fit in so effortlessly the way he does. She doesn't belong the way he does.
The more she dwells on it, the worse she feels about herself. The Cyrene she wants to be is incredibly cute and effortlessly charming, this ugliness isn't part of that image. Especially since the subject is Khaslana.
This is the boy who bleeds just as gold as her, who looked at her scraped knee years back and with a gap toothed smile said me too. This is the boy who shares his snacks with her, who taught the fairies alongside her, the boy who looks at her everyday and says we're the same.
Cyrene lightly slaps both of her own cheeks, shaking herself out of her funk.
“Are you okay?” the boy in question asks, from behind her swing. “Did I push too hard?”
“Of course not.” Cyrene shakes her head. “I was just thinking that you've been pushing for a long time now.”
“I'm fine.” Khaslana says. “I'm having lots of fun like this.”
“But it's not fair, right?” Cyrene says, wagging a finger. “We’re best friends, it has to be fair to be fun.”
“But—” Khaslana starts.
“—but I'm older.” Cyrene says with relish. “Remember what Miss Pythias said, older means wiser!”
There was a time when Cyrene thought “Chrysos Heir of Prophecy” meant something glorious. Back then, in their small village, Okhema was more of an idea than a place. Cyrene liked imagining it sometimes, a dazzling glittering city where the streets would be paved of gold. A place filled with all kinds of people, with all kinds of stories. As a child, Cyrene dreamt of herself discovering them all in between her duties as a Chrysos Heir.
Unfortunately, dreams are often just dreams. Cyrene lives in the dreary ruins of Janusopolis, a city enveloped by the night.
Despite being lauded as one of Amphoreus’ saviors, Cyrene is nothing more than a glorified prisoner. She is confined to the Temple during the Entry Hour to the Parting Hour, her small room otherwise. What she eats, when she eats, when she sleeps, all of it is controlled by others.
The priests praise her pink hair, a reoccurring trait of those favored by Oronyx. Her height, or lack thereof, and her childish features that stubbornly refuse to mature, are seen as a sign of her divinity. “Oronyx is but a child,” they say. “Cyrene must have been chosen as one does a playmate.”
There is a level of revulsion she feels at this proclamation. She is a grown woman, an adult. This whole time she's convinced herself that she's just babyfaced, that the reason she's never had her monthly bleed is a hormonal imbalance. When Lady Tribbie visits her, one of the few allowed, Cyrene asks for her story.
Her elder Chrysos Heir hums. “Come sit down, little Reney, and bring the brush. We don't remember all of it but we will tell you what we can.”
Cyrene kneels on the floor. With careful hands her senior Chrysos Heir slowly removes Cyrene's clips and accessories, and starts running the hairbrush through her locks.
“Over a thousand years ago, we used to live in this temple with our mother.” Lady Tribbie starts. Her gentle movements lull Cyrene into a state of calm as she begins a story of heartbreak. She speaks of a lonely prisoner captured, over and over again. She speaks of a young woman resting all of her hopes on a fragile thread, and watching her fragments die and suffer, over and over again, for a world she only just started to discover.
By the end of it all, Cyrene is crying. Lady Tribbie has styled her hair into something beautiful but it's mismatched with the mess her face has become. Cyrene has seen death. She's seen suffering. But try as she might, she can't detail why Lady Tribbie’s story has her in such hysterics.
Her senior hugs her, rubbing circles into her back. All Cyrene can muster is, “I'm so lonely.”
Lady Tribbie's voice turns somber. “We know, little Reney.” she says as she continues her soothing movements. "We know."
The times she gets to speak with Phainon are few and far between.
She snuck out once before, during the confrontation with the Kremnoan Prince, Mydeimos. While was happy to see him again, her dearest friend and only other remnant of Aedes Elysiae, the time they spent was weighted down by Talanton’s trial, the gravidas infecting the mood of everyone there, to the point that Cyrene's original plan to wheedle him into buying honeycakes after laid forgotten and unspoken.
Phainon, at the very least, looked good. He was taller, the years of fighting filling out his muscles and molding him into the warrior he always dreamed of becoming.
Back in her small room, with its gray walls and flickering lamp, Cyrene's nightmares featured a constant loop of different endings for Phainon. There are many things people say of the Council of Okhema and very few of them are kind.
From what Cyrene understood, Phainon was the personification of Lady Aglaea's prayers, a manifestation of her hopes and dreams. To the power hungry nobility that fought tirelessly to end Aglaea's reign, he was a threat. To the assassins they hired, with blades long encrusted in golden blood, he was a target.
To them, it doesn't matter how hard Phainon fights or how much he bleeds for everyone around him.
They throw him into the barracks as a form of humiliation and he comes out a self-made hero. They assign him missions meant to sabotage his standing and he flies triumphant. One day, Cyrene fears they'll succeed at something more permanent.
The one boon Cyrene had gotten that day was the formalization of Phainon's entry into the Flame Chase Journey. Under Lady Aglaea's mentorship, he was protected in ways Cyrene could only dream of before. Along with this protection, his social capital also rose. As a person always eager to learn, Phainon was innately moldable, and mold him to her heart's content, Lady Aglaea did.
Cyrene often spotted magazine covers and interviews featuring Okhema’s Deliverer. The fellow priests-in-training oohed and ah’ed at his long lashes and pretty blue eyes. When they found out that they were childhood friends, they managed to corner her in between mealtimes, distracting the upper echelon of priests who had a lot to say about who “Oronyx’s Chosen” was allowed to interact with.
And it's with these skills that they give her the opportunity to sneak out. Her peers giggle and coo as they encourage her to make the most of her time with Phainon. They'd make wonderful friends, Cyrene thinks, if the Head Priest didn't end up punishing them too hard for insubordination.
Breaking into Phainon's apartment is almost painfully easy. Lady Aglaea gave him lodgings in an upper floor of the Marmoreal Palace as a safety measure. But it came with a large balcony and Cyrene had spent a significant portion of her childhood climbing trees.
The first thing she discovers is that Phainon isn't there. Cyrene knocks at the balcony door insistently, to no response. She can't turn back, she only just got here, she tells herself. He'll be back any moment now, she continues as the hours pass.
In Okhema, the time of day isn't marked by the sun but by the congregation of people. Cyrene hears the market peddle their wares as multiple crowds come and go. Cyrene waits as the shops close for the day, as the chatter peters out into stillness.
She doesn't know when she falls asleep. Sometime between having a staring contest with a cat on the opposite rooftop and the third quint of the Curtain Fall Hour, Cyrene assumes. Either way, it's late enough that when a familiar hand shakes her awake at the middle of the Entry Hour, Cyrene gives it a stink eye.
“I waited so long for you.” Cyrene grumbles. “And this is how you treat me?”
To his credit, Phainon does look remorseful.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “I was out of the city for—well, it's not important but Aglaea pinged me and I rushed back as fast as I could.”
If they were still children, Cyrene would push. She'd say tell me about it anyways and bully Phainon into acquiescing the way only a best friend could.
But they aren't. Life has carved a hollow cavity inside of them that they are desperate for other people not to see. Phainon and Cyrene have been friends for long enough that they've picked up each other's traits. She doesn't know who started the habit of smiling brightly and pretending they're fine but it's become such an integral part of them both as adults. Nobody will ever see all of Phainon but Cyrene will see more than most and it's the same vice versa.
Instead, Cyrene says. “I'll forgive you if you buy me some honeycakes.”
It's a practiced maneuver with them, almost like a well-oiled machine. Phainon feels guilty all of the time, for inconveniencing people, for existing, for living. And Cyrene knows she cannot fix it.
Meanwhile, Cyrene desperately craves affection but can rarely bring herself to ask for it. And so, when Phainon stumbles or shows himself to be too unforgivably human, Cyrene doesn't say it's okay. She says this is how you'll make it up to me and promises to absolve him.
When Cyrene is one small step away from shattering, when it feels like the world is coming down on her, Phainon doesn't say I'm here. He says, I owe you from that thing last week and promises to do whatever she wants.
Things are not okay and the grand Deliverer of Okhema is spread too thin to be present for anybody. Cyrene likes this system because even if they lie to everyone else, they don't have to lie to each other.
Cyrene orders stack after stack of honeycakes, each with different toppings and accompaniments. Despite her pushing, Phainon doesn't order his own, content in finishing off her leftovers.
They take a stroll through the city afterwards. Cyrene makes sure to take a long look at the people, at the crowds, to commit it all into memory. Oronyx cannot truly rewind time but they can relive it, and for her that should be enough.
They come to a stop in front of the Path of Parting, the number of people too few and the stomps of the dromas too heavy for someone to overhear them.
“Cyrene.” Phainon addresses her.
“Phainon,” she responds. It's not the name she immediately reaches for and they both know it.
“You don't have to keep doing this.” Phainon says. “If you want out, just say the word. I'll make it happen.”
“I have duties.” Cyrene says. “To the world, to the Chrysos Heirs, to the temple.”
“And yet you've never owed them anything.” Phainon counters. “You don't need their teachings to be a demigod, nor do you need to become one to begin with.”
“If that's the case,” Cyrene can hear her voice grow colder. “Then run away with me, Deliverer. Abandon all of these people who look to you for salvation and run.”
“Cyrene, I….”
“I have a duty,” she insists. “So do you.”
Phainon runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking so tired. “Cyrene, please, listen.”
“Khaslana rejected the prophecy,” Phainon says. “He hated the idea of performing this grand mission instead of protecting his loved ones at home. When I cut down our people, I felt him die. Khaslana could not bear to part from them so I buried him in Aedes Elysiae.”
“But you, Cyrene, are different.” Phainon talks as if she wasn't the one who faltered the moment she heard a familiar dog-like bark from the body of a black tide creature. As if she didn't drop her slingshot and leave the soul-crushing work to him.
“You're stronger than that, right?” Phainon continues. “You don't need this Flame Chase Journey the way I do. You could go to sleep one day, wake up, and do anything in the world.”
Khaslana talks to her sometimes.
It's a funny little contradiction, you know? Khaslana knows her soul rests in the ceremonial blade but isn't aware that through it, she can see and hear everything he does. He speaks to her as if she's there, not knowing she actually is.
He likes to reminisce mostly. He tells her of what the Chrysos Heirs did in another cycle, of his missions as the Deliverer, of how certain plants only exist in some cycles and not others. His voice is raspy, burnt over and over again by his own flames. Sometimes, parts of him will chip and crack off mid conversation.
But even if Cyrene could be heard, she doesn't think she'd tell him to stop.
This Khaslana will crumble into ash, much like the Khaslanas before him, much like the Khaslanas after. In some ways, his fate is unchangeable.
But his anguish and his worries can still be heard. They are for her ears only. No matter what, they will not be fed to the Demiurge. But instead, be carefully set aside by his loving victim and forever friend.
“I brought it!” A cheerful voice rings out through the Memberance Maze.
At its heels is a human boy, expertly navigating his way between the roots. He raises a hand and waves, showing off a small burlap pouch. “I brought it!” he repeats for emphasis.
Countless fairies swarm around him. “Ooh, what is it?” one says. “What did you bring for us, Snowy?” Another fairy, too excited to wait for an answer, chirps.
The aforementioned Snowy motions them to give him room and slowly unfastens the bag. He pours a little of its contents into his palm and reaches out to show the fairies his bounty. “Seeds!” he says. “Mom says it's the perfect time to plant them!”
Relimem tilts her head. “Is this what you talked about before, Snowy? The vegetables?”
Khaslana nods enthusiastically. “Yep! If we work hard now, we'll have lots of yummy veggies by the Month of Reaping!”
Dolimem smiles good-naturedly. “Thank you,” she says. “That sounds wonderful.”
The other fairies follow her example, giving their thanks but Khaslana waves them off. “Don't worry about it,” he says. “If you really want to thank me, how about you help me plant these seeds first, and then we can have a big feast with all of our friends after the harvest?”
His suggestion is met with cheers and the fairies happily buzz around, leading him to where the nicest soil is.
Friends, the long slumbering Seed of Remembrance thinks. That sounds nice.
Cyrene and Khaslana start out as friends out of necessity.
Aedes Elysiae is a small village with a dwindling population. It does not boast the impossible bounties of lands blessed by Georius, nor does it contain enough land to sustain generations without end.
The people who leave, be it by death or through younger siblings seeking their fortunes elsewhere, are always more than those that are born.
Khaslana is her only agemate. Khaslana doesn't remember this and Cyrene will make sure he never knows it, but when she was younger, Cyrene hated this fact.
Her three year old self, who had gotten over the novelty of seeing someone smaller than her by then, burned at the indignity of being friends with someone a whole two years younger. She wanted to play with Atalante, who was cool and already in her double digits, not stinky little Khaslana who cried all day.
But the problem was that Atalante didn't also think Cyrene was cool. Atalante liked running, the grownups said she was as fast as the wind and for a while, Cyrene believed she could run alongside it.
She challenged Atalante to a race one day, thinking that even if she couldn't beat her, she would definitely impress her. Cyrene wore her new sandals, temple donations that Priestess Korinna spent days making pretty just for her, and scrubbed her face extra nice. But when Atalante yelled go, she rushed off like a rabbit, leaving Cyrene to struggle behind.
Cyrene tried, she really did, but in between waving and calling out to Atalante to slow down, she trips. The buckle of her sandal breaks with a mocking snap, and she tumbles face first into the ground. Mud coats her nicest dress and Cyrene desperately tries to scrub it off so the Head Priestess doesn't yell at her again. She tries to tell Atalante but the girl has already run off, far beyond their agreed goal line, away and away.
And just like little Khaslana, Cyrene cries.
Now if she was older, Cyrene might have learnt a lesson in all this, something about relativism and empathy. Being three years old, Cyrene does not. She cries and she wails, tries to wipe away her tears, but only smears her face with mud in the process. Soon enough her hitching breaths calm and she lifts herself up.
Cyrene follows the road heading to the pier when a familiar head of white hair greets her.
“Cyrene,” Miss Audata says, in that calm way of hers. Pressed up against her chest is Khaslana, sleeping away. “Where are you going?”
Cyrene points at her clothes. “I'm all dirty.” She makes sure to speak softly so the baby doesn't wake up. “I hafta wash off.”
Miss Audata looks at her for a long while. When Cyrene turns around, she's waited long enough to not seem rude, she addresses her.
“You can come with me,” Miss Audata says.
Years later, Cyrene will have a multitude of descriptors for Khaslana's family home. She'll talk about the brightly colored walls that Mister Hieronymus painted because he read they were mentally stimulating for children. She'll detail the complex blend of spices and aromas that came from Miss Audata’s smoked meats. She'll speak of worn flooring and scratched furniture, the victims of a rambunctious little boy and his pet dog.
Cyrene, three years old, can only describe it as warm. Miss Audata addresses her husband as they enter. “Hieronymus,” she says. “Set the table for one extra, okay?”
The man raises his head, turning from his worked dough to look all three of them over. “Of course,” he smiles. “Clean towels are in the basket.”
Miss Audata sets Phainon down in a cradle, then motions Cyrene to follow her. Cyrene steps lightly, trying not to dirty the floor too much, but Miss Audata, without even looking, shakes her head. “No need for that.” she says. “Come, come.”
She leads Cyrene to a large basket, overflowing with towels and clean linens. Miss Audata pulls two towels out. She drapes one over Cyrene, wrapping it around her limbs in the same motions she uses to swaddle her beloved son. The other she holds in her arms.
She points at a door off to the side. “There's a tub and some stools over there. Just wait a bit and I'll bring some hot water.”
Cyrene shakes her head. She remembers what Priestess Agathe said. When someone does nice things for you, you're supposed to say “no” so you don't look selfish. “Cold water is okay.”
Miss Audata laughs. “It's no trouble,” she says. “Khaos gets into so many messes nowadays, we tend to keep some stones heated, just in case.”
And true to her words, it's not long after Cyrene's sat herself down that there's a knock on the door.
Miss Audata carries a large clay pot. Cyrene thinks of offering to help, grown-ups always liked her better when she did that, but changes her mind in the end, pressing herself up against the wall to not get in the way.
Miss Audata pours carefully, filling up the wooden tub while keeping the stones inside. “Take your time, okay?” she says, as she heads back. “It'll take me some time to hem a chiton to your height.”
As Miss Audata leaves, Cyrene can't help but think that being friends with Khaslana might not be so bad.